Vol.4, Ch.3, P.3
“Who are you, woman? And what? Out with it!”
Foot angrily stamped unto stone. The racket rocked the very air in the room. Sat in a dim corner was a young woman, shackled behind at the wrists. Flame-like was her hair, steadfast were her eyes, and Frieda was her name.
Encircling her were her captors, each ready to wring answers out of her, whether by word, or wickedness if need be. Yet they were neither guards nor brigands, no. Where was this but the bowels of the Tallien abode, and who were they but officers to the 3rd Order.
Indeed, the Viscount Bartt had, by wisdom or cowardice, bidden a number of the knights be his bodyguards. His erstwhile watchmen, meanwhile, were posted to the outside premises, and had they been the sole hurdles in her way, why, certainly would our freelance remain yet unseen and untouched. Only, in stealing past them and penetrating the manor walls had Frieda crossed the keen knights therein. And numerous and mighty as they were, our freelance could but surrender to them.
Still, against their enquiry did Frieda remain quiet, cutting back at them with a cold stare. Fortifying her defiance was a simple missive, one sent beforehand to beg aid from Rolf the renegade ungraced. She trusted to his answer, of course, though not to the “when” of it. And it was that precise uncertainty that had spurred her to action.
Who might blame her? She was a seasoned mercenary, after all; sneaking and skulking were well-used tools on her belt. Blunting them, then, was perhaps both impatience and a pressing concern for Ina and Carola when, in her haste, our freelance had entangled herself in the net of a knightly patrol.
How it irked her to commit yet another misstep, much less be sighted and seized, especially after the Albeck incident. Frieda clenched her teeth, scarce able to contain her self-frustration.
“Best lay it bare, you tyke,” barked a knight, drawing near. “Or we’ll have you bare and broken ‘fore dawn, we will.”
He had reason enough for the rough words. War whirled about them, yet what did this woman think to do but sneak into the eye of it all. Passing suspicious, to be sure. But what might have escaped his and his knightly fellows’ ken was that this very fiefdom was long a breeding ground for brigands and gangrels. Little had the Tallien line ever done to provide for their provincial poor. And with lordly sloth no more nourishing than a dream of slivers and scraps, many such Tallieners turned to thievery to have their daily bread—sustenance not seldomly stolen from the locks and larders of the nobility.
And what of our freelance? To be sure, she looked the part, at the least. But even absent any intent for thievery, Frieda was, at the end of the day, very much a daughter of Man, not some Nafílim vanguard out for some sabotage before the big battle. That much was plain. Nevertheless, the knights would have none of it.
“…Just fancy’d a li’l fishin’ in troubled waters, as they say. Pinch me a few purses, nick me some nosh. You know the deal,” answered Frieda. The front of a filching ne’er-do-well was admittedly a mite flimsy, but there was nothing for it. That she was in league with the Rolanders, let alone Rolf himself, was not to be discovered under any circumstance.
“Hmph. An anvil up the arse is what you are,” a knight scowled.
Frigid was his voice, yet also pregnant with displeasure. The very walls and wardens of Londosius did he and his fellows fancy themselves—to the point of fanaticism, in fact, now that battle was brewing at the border. Hence why humouring this fly-in-the-face of a pilferer was bruising their bosoms so. And as each of them were increasingly fain to return to their patrols at the soonest, a knock played upon the door.
And there did a crack of light pierce the dark. Stately steps sounded as in came another woman: to wit, an associate adviser, newly assigned to the viscount and 3rd Order both.
“Why, Lady Sheila!” cooed a knight.
“Business, madame?” asked another.
“Indeed. I bring orders from His Excellency, my dear sirs,” answered the adviser. “He wishes to speak in private with our trespasser. Pray, then, return to your posts.”
“Ah, does he now? Very well.”
“By your leave, my Lady.”
With each displaying his gratitude, the knights summarily filed out of the room. The door shut. The dark returned, punctured only by a single, bright candle. Frieda felt a gaze turn upon her. Lovely it was, and yet loathsome in a way she could not quite explain.
“Thought to thieve now of all times, have you?” said the adviser. “My, my. You are as brazen as you are nuisible.” She approached the tight-lipped mercenary, and there looked down upon her. “A lone larcener of a woman, matching blades with many a knight—oh yes, much of your mettle have I heard from the men,” she said on. “Rather impressive for a common crook. What did you say you were, again?”
“…A crook,” was Frieda’s curt answer. Futile, yes, such defiance, detained and defenceless as she was. But in spite of herself, our freelance could but beware the woman smiling faintly down upon her.
“Passing curious,” this “Sheila” mused, “that a shackled crook can keep so calm. Any other would be white and wailing by now. Indeed, you seem more… ‘special’ than you let on, my dear crook.” Frieda maintained her silence, as did Sheila the sure glint in her gaze. “Trespassing on lordly property, moving by motives unknown—you do not expect to escape unscathed, now do you?” Sheila continued. “Come, now. From one woman to another. Tell me your tale in full, and I may yet requite you a kindness.”
Like honeyed milk was the adviser’s voice and visage. Few are they who can resist flair and figure so fair. But fellow woman that she was, and a seasoned mercenary besides, Frieda knew better. For her eyes gleaned a ghastliness hiding inside Sheila’s own. Yes, there it was: the nature of a sadist, titillated and enticed by the sight of so helpless a prisoner.
The realisation was nearly enough to make our freelance vomit.
“…The tale’s full-told ’ready,” Frieda insisted. “Times be hard. An’ yet the lord’s croft an’ coffers be fulsome still. I thought to lighten the load, that’s all.”
“Did you, now?” Sheila said, cocking her head. “Yet here you squeal so little, as though you value more the prince’s purse than your own life.”
A prisoner, stubbornly unperturbed and unbegging of mercy—such resistance, such resolve was a sourness upon this sadist’s tongue, that ever so slightly did her otherwise unbreakable brows bend.
“Nay… You expect to be saved,” Sheila slowly and flatly guessed. Frieda responded not. “Never would our Deiva deign to deliver some crook, you ought know.”
“I scarce recall ever beggin’ ‘ny divine favours,” Frieda bit back.
“Oh?” Sheila’s eyes shimmered anew. “Well, if not Her, then whom?” Frieda again gave no answer. But with a stare serene and searching, Sheila ventured another guess. “A friend. A confederate. That is whom. No?”
Confederate. Friend.
A helping hand.
Now flickering in Frieda’s mind was a figure of a man, tall and broad, with hair as black as soot and blade as sure as stone. Into the dark of the Albecks’ dungeon had he delved. When all dignity was denied and all hope seemed hollow had he offered his helping hand. And with it, delivered Ina and Carola—and Frieda herself. A saviour he was, one sadly too seldom in these sullied lands.
It shamed Frieda to so idly abide the coming of rescue. But in such dire straits, her heart could not help but pine for his appearance.
And their reunion withal.
“My! You yearn much for this friend—this man,” Sheila veritably sang, delighted at the forlorn longing writ on Frieda’s face—and the speed at which it disappeared upon discovery. Softly, she laughed. “He must be mighty, your man,” she prodded, “if so strong a woman as you would trust to his strength.”
“…There’s no such man,” Frieda maintained. “I wait for no one.”
Sheila giggled again. “Dear little crook. Mark my words,” said she. “However mighty, however trustworthy he may be, we shall hear your man howling for mercy soon enough.” The adviser raised her chin and curled up the corners of her smile further still. Oh, how it ever pleased her to stand on the side of the Deiva—on the side of victors, clear and uncontestable. “For knights, many more than you have seen, make a stronghold of this manor,” Sheila explained to the quiet captive. “Knights, all mighty in their own right. And counted amongst them…” she paused, and widening her grim and gracious grin, “…is yours truly.”
A cup overflowing. Such was the confidence in her declaration. Fast would fly the head of any who dares molest the manor—to Sheila, this was as a decree from the Deiva Herself.
“Oh? No less a pain in the arse yourself, then, ain’t ya?” Frieda said back sardonically.
“Indeed,” Sheila humoured her. “You have seen it in their softened eyes, certainly? Their blushing cheeks? How the men fawn upon a woman of merit as I?”
Of all this was Frieda acutely aware. That from the look of her gait and garb was this wiley woman, without question, a weaver of many magicks. That by the conduct of the knightly claque was Sheila their high superior, capable and calculating. Yet in spite of it, Frieda remained defiant.
“Merit?” our freelance scoffed. “’Tis more your milkers they fawn ’pon, I reckon.”
“My,” Sheila almost laughed. “Honest at last, I see.”
Frieda glared back at the beaming, buxom beauty afore her, full-realising just how hotly she hated her very presence. Why, even had they met under merrier circumstances, still would she have detested this adviser no less.
“…Hmph.”
Our freelance looked away in repulsion, one reserved not just for Sheila, but for how compellingly the lady’s words rang. For sure enough, this adviser seemed every bit as competent as she let on. Her confidence, as well, showed nary a crack in its façade. ‘However mighty, however trustworthy he may be, we shall hear your man howling for mercy soon enough’—no bluff these words were.
Still.
Still, to belief did Frieda hold fast.
Belief in his unbuckling strength.
“…S’pose I did ’ave me a ‘friend’, as you say,” Frieda muttered.
Sheila’s ears pricked up. “Go on.”
Eyes shot sharply back. “I scarce reckon ‘e’ll keel over to scum like you.”
“…Faith,” Sheila whispered in wonder. “Is that so?”
And there did she laugh in undulating delight, a melody amidst all the mirk and misery of the room. And writ upon the vixen’s visage was pleasured pity for the maunderings of the fool woman afore her.
At length, the laughter lilted to a stop. “Well, I am sure His Excellency would very much like to hear more of what you have to say. But for now, I must take my leave,” said Sheila with cheer. “A shame. I quite enjoyed our charming little chit-chat.”
With that, the adviser took the candle in the room and made her way to the door. But before making her full exit, she turned one more time to our freelance. There, against the gleam of candle and corridor both, did curl a victor’s smile, sure and shimmering. Frieda scowled back, watching Sheila vanish from sight and the door creak to a close.
Locks rattled and latched, as though mocking our freelance as she sat in lightless isolation.
───────── ♰ ─────────
Comment (0)