Culling of the Blood

Chapter 4-Sleight of Hand

Waking up in strange places was nothing new to Quadir, not after spending fifteen years in foster care, group homes, and brief stints in juvenile detention. Waking up in pain wasn't new to him either, especially after a bad fall from a horse or getting his ass kicked in a sword fight with one of the knights. Waking up in the arms of a beautiful girl—that was new. If he was going to die, he could not think of a better way to go. 

    Breathing in the scent of lavender, he opened his eyes to a flash of lightning that illuminated the inside of the prison wagon. He heard rain falling, heavily, driven by the wind, but felt no moisture on his cheeks, save for a cold sweat. A tarp had been thrown over the ceiling and sides of the cage, sparing the occupants the worst of the weather. The sporadic bursts of lightning came through slits in the oilskin cover.

    Looking straight up into those vibrant green eyes, Quadir whispered, "Did they hurt you?"

    Despite the limited mobility of her hands, she caressed his feverish forehead and solemnly shook her head. Eyes glistening with unshed tears, she flinched at the sound of heavy footsteps tramping through mud.

    Quadir closed his eyes and pretended to be unconscious as the oilskin on the side of the cage was drawn back.

    "Get back from him, you leaf-earred bitch!" Ferghus reached through the bars and shoved her into the straw. Grabbing Quadir by the arm, the mercenary dragged him closer to the edge of the cage wall. "He's still warm, Neills! Strapping buck like him should fetch a fair price in the pits." He released Quadir's arm and yanked the cover back down. "Or the brothels maybe. Pretty face like his."

    "Do you fancy him, Ferghus?" Neills asked from somewhere beyond the darkness. "Might try your luck at plugging his ass, since you failed so miserably to plug the she-elf." Despite the miserable weather punishing them from the skies, there was an exuberant burst of laughter for the crude remark.

    "Still says you should let me gut him."

    "Patience, Ferghus, you'll be a rich man come the morning," Neills said. "The pay from this job will set us all up for life. No more sleeping on the road, relying on the paltry hospitality of peasants and their empty cupboards."

    "What if we gets bored, captain?"

    "Then we'll take to the road to rape and pillage for the sheer pleasure of it. Now what say you, men? Camp in this muck or keep moving? Our rendezvous with Mirkesh is only a three-hour ride."

    "Four with these bleeding wagons," Ferghus complained. "Oh aye, aye, stop looking at me like that. I'm as miserable as any of you lot. Drive on." The wagon lurched forward into the storm.

    Quadir slowly opened one eye, and then the other. "We've got to get out of here."

    Although he was injured, the mercenaries had tied his hands together. The rope coiled tightly around his wrists, cutting into his skin. He slid his hands across the chest of his gambeson and winced as his fingers bumped the dressing over his wound. Reaching beneath the left fold, he managed to lift the padded shirt and felt around for an irregular lump in the chainmail where the links had separated. Unable to afford a repair, he had used a bobby pin to temporarily hold the rings in place. He clasped pin between his index and middle fingers, straining to unwind it. After retrieving the pin, his arms felt heavy, and he let them fall to his abdomen, exhausted.

    It hurt to breathe too deeply, so with a half breath in his chest, Quadir reached for the lock on the pillory. She brushed his hands away, fervently shaking her head. "I won't hurt you. Just trying to pick the lock."

    She nodded her understanding of his intentions and lowered her head over his face. Her hair fell in waves over his neck and chest, smelling of lavender. Quadir could feel her breath, warm on his neck. "You want me to open this one first? Okay."