WIP Post #3

It's been awhile since I posted. Enjoy the next installment!

She slept most of the day, and neither soldier bothered her until they stopped to camp for the night. Pittar shook her awake. She climbed out of the wagon, and he bound her to a tree. She sat in the dirt, and shivered. The donkey was tied to the same tree. She couldn’t help feeling grateful for his presence, small comfort though it was. Moss was a stupid, stubborn animal, but he was familiar. He didn’t hate her.

            She watched them start a fire, arguing a little as they did so. It was of no consequence. They pulled tin plates out of their bags along with dried meat and biscuits. Her mouth watered. She couldn’t remember the last time she had meat, or anything close to bread. But they ignored her, so she tried to ignore them. The fire was too far away for her to feel the warmth, so she leaned against the rough trunk of the tree, rubbing her arms. She dozed off and on as they ate and talked, but became more alert when the timber of their voices changed. “We ought to give her something, Sergeant,” Pittar was saying. “They won’t take her if she’s starved.”

            “You’re right. Throw her your crusts.”

            Moments later, two half chewed bread crusts landed in the dirt next to her. She was starving, but she didn’t want to look too eager. She picked up a crust, stared angrily at Pittar. He looked away, and the Sergeant laughed. “It’s all you’ll get, girl.”

            She ate both crusts, wincing at the taste of Pittar’s saliva. They left her mouth uncomfortably dry.

            “Um, excuse me.” Talking risked punishment. The older soldier glared at her, but he seemed willing to hear her. “Might I have some water?” The older man nodded at Pittar, who filled a tin cup from his canteen and walked it over to her. She swigged it down. “Thank you.” Pittar walked back to the fire and they ignored her for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t long before they were snoring under their blankets. The fact that they were sleeping filled her with a sense of relief. She had heard the terrible things soldiers did to the female slaves they acquired.

            Moss had lain down in the dirt, so she huddled next to him, but even his body wasn’t enough to warm the chill that seemed to penetrate her bones. She folded her hands inside of her dress—her only dress, now, she realized—and tried to relax. She tried to determine how far they had traveled, and in what direction. She had never traveled very far past her village, which didn’t even have a name it was so insignificant, so landmarks meant little to her. From where the sun had dipped below the trees, she figured they had traveled a few miles west of her village. Where they were ultimately headed she could only guess.

            All she knew about the world outside her village was what directly affected her, and what she had gleaned from market day gossip. Her fellow villagers were themselves poor, barely educated, and many, like Azya, were illiterate. But they knew some things. Everyone knew that the Emperor was cruel, selfish, and kept his kingdom under a tight rule. Everyone knew he wasted enormous amounts of coin on lavish feasts and his harem of a rumored hundreds of women. Everyone knew the children this produced required an ever-expanding palace that cost even more coin. The villagers’ favorite pastime, especially in the frigid winter months when food was scarce and everyone was hovering just near the edge of starvation, was discussing how warm and grand the palace must be, and the taste of the food that was consumed at those feasts.

            Of course, a palace that enormous required countless slaves, free labor since the Emperor couldn’t possibly afford to pay everyone. Azya knew only the most beautiful women were added to the harem and she had already been eliminated for that fate. If it was to the palace she was headed, she could be mucking out horse stalls for all she knew.

            Azya felt her eyes grow heavy. She folded into herself and tried to surrender to weariness. She was just at the edge of sleep when she heard something near her. Thinking it was just Moss, she opened her eyes and jumped back. It was the Sergeant. He was on his hands and knees in the ground next to her, and he covered her mouth with his dirty hand just as she cried out.

            “Don’t make a sound, girl. It’ll be over before you know it.”

            She squirmed away from him and tried to scream but his hand over her nose made it hard to take in a breath. Pittar didn’t stir. He either slept soundly or purposefully ignored the struggle. She bit the Sergeant’s hand and he jumped back with a cry. Her bound hands made it impossible for her to get away, and he overpowered her once again.

            “Make me angry and it won’t go well for you, girl. Let this happen, and I’ll sell you to someone decent.” Azya felt his arms push her dress up. With strength she didn’t know she possessed she kicked him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Her blood pounded through her veins, hot with fear and anger. Recovering, and with an angry growl, the Sergeant lunged at her again. Suddenly Azya felt hot and ill, as if a sudden fever overtook her. In the next moment, in a flash of light, he fell backwards to the dirt as if he hit a brick wall that stood between them. He didn’t stir. But Pittar did. Her suspicions were right. He was not asleep. He rushed over and knelt beside his commander and looked at her with white-faced shock. “He’s dead. You…you’ve killed him.”

            “What?” The word came out in breath. The fever had left as quickly as it came, replaced with a cold sweat that made her shiver in the freezing air. Pittar was staring at her, fear in his eyes.

            “How did…how did you…”

            “I didn’t!” The words came out in a stammer. Her breaths came in fast succession and she scrambled backward as close to the tree as she could get. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t do anything. He was attacking me, then, he just…fell. I don’t know!”

            Pittar stared at her. He looked at the Sergeant, then back at her.

            “Do you have weapons?”

            “No! You searched me, you know I don’t!”

            “Did you use his?”

            Azya shook her head, and nodded towards the body. The dead man’s sword was still in its sheath. “And there’s no blood. Honest! I did nothing!” But she knew she did. But how?

            Pittar stared at her. He looked back, thin lipped, at his commander. With no words, he brought over his commander’s blanket and threw it over his head. When he looked at Azya, his face was gray and mottled green. His chin shook. He pointed a skinny finger at her. “We leave at first light. You try anything on me, I kill you. Got it?” She nodded, and tears broke from her eyes. “And if I get in trouble, I blame you.” He walked back to the dying fire and sat huddled under his blanket, his eyes narrowed and fixed on her. Azya shifted so that her back was to his gaze, and her shoulders shook with sobs. What had she done?