WIP Post #8...After a LONG Hiatus!

Tried to find an artist name to credit the image.
Feel free to enlighten me!

Hello amazing beta readers. Actually, I think you really ought to be considered alpha readers, because I don't even have a finished product for you yet.

I'm sorry I've been so long in posting another installment. And what I'm posting today will probably be mildly disappointing if you were looking forward to finding out "what happens next." Today I'm posting an excerpt I wrote just a few days ago as I'm going back through my unfinished manuscript and trying to fill in some plot holes that will be harder to fix if I just finish the draft without addressing them (at least, this is my diagnosis on the matter; I know many writers say to just keep writing, plot holes and mistakes be cursed and saved for the revision phase, but that is, unfortunately, not the way my brain works).

So below is a short little incident in Azya's life, as she is with the man, Jarta, who bought her as a slave and is planning to take her to the Emperor's palace to serve as a slave there.

One revision I made before this that you haven't read was that Teldon and Azya planned on marrying each other. It was a marriage of practicality between two good friends who cared for one another (at least in Azya's mind) but not one of undying passion or "true love."

In my mind, Azya is pretty plucky and brash. Throughout the novel, you will find her taking lots of dumb risks as she tries to sort out her mess of a life (not that we can blame her for that, right?). And this is one of those times.

Let me know what you think!

Happy reading! And THANK YOU!

            The third night, her belly uncomfortably full from the greasy inn food, Azya found it difficult to sleep. A low rumple of voices, laughter, raucous singing, and clanging dishes sounded through the floorboards where she slept. Jarta had passed out an hour before, having imbibed too much mead at dinner.

            She rolled over onto her back, wincing at the floorboards poking her spine and shoulder blades. The wooden ceiling of the inn was knotted and twisted and stained dark with age. It looked to be the sort of ceiling that would leak in a bad storm. Thankfully, it had been a dry, if cold, autumn thus far. She sighed, rubbing her wrists where the rope had rubbed them raw all day. She fought down the anger at her family that had gotten her to this place. Had sold her. All because her dolt of a father wasn’t smart enough to save money for taxes instead of ale.

            She couldn’t find it within herself to miss them though. She guessed she ought to feel guilty about that, but she didn’t, so it wasn’t worth trying. Both her parents had been distant, cruel, and cold her whole life. Her father beat her. Her mother lashed at her relentlessly with her words. She was relieved to be rid of them.

            She couldn’t miss Kellen either. Four years her senior, he had joined in his parents’ abuse since he was young. But he was a coward. Even his beatings had stopped of late, after Azya won a fight with him and scared him off. No, she was rid of him too, and glad for it.

            The thought of Morda came with a pang of regret. They had not been close, not like friends, but he didn’t beat or belittle her. Occasionally he had snuck her food when she was being punished with starvation. He had even tried, if not very hard, to keep her parents from selling her. She wouldn’t forget that.

            Tears stung Azya’s eyes as she thought of the one person she did miss: Teldon. Marrying him would have been an escape, if not from the hardship of life that was inherent to their village, then from her family. Teldon was good and safe. He was unremarkable and plain, but he was steadfast and loyal. He had enough sense to not throw away his meager earnings on drink. He cared for his young sister diligently when their parents died. He was as ignorant as she of the outside world, but he was the kindest person she had ever known. And now he was gone too, with little chance of ever seeing him again.

            Azya furiously wiped her eyes and sniffed, more loudly than she had intended. The noise caused Jarta to shift in his bed, the frame creaking beneath his weight. She froze, worried he’d wake and be angry with her, but the alcohol in his bloodstream kept him sound asleep, snoring loudly. She watched him for a moment, barely daring to breathe, when she noticed the leather cord around his neck that fell beneath his shirt.

            His key.

            That was the key to the inn room. A chance to escape the life of a slave. To return to Teldon?

            Her heartbeat quickened at the thought and her mind raced. She was miles from the village, she knew. And her ignorance of the geography around her meant she had no way of returning on her own. Even if she could find her way out of the maze-like streets of Pelborne, it was unlikely that she would set forth in the right direction on the roads. And then there was the danger of exposure, wild animals, bandits, rogue soldiers…

            But what other choice did she have? Slaves did not live very long, often dying from disease, malnutrition, or at their hands of their masters. Better to die free than to die a slave, right? Better taking the chance, the only chance, she had been given to control her own life than to surrender to her captors?

            Resolved, Azya eased herself to a sitting position. The floorboards creaked as her weight shifted, and she paused, watching Jarta, but he didn’t stir. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, and as quietly as she could manage, she crawled over to his bed. Soon, she was close enough to smell the sweat on his body and the mead on his breath. She reached out a tentative hand, her fingers shaking from nerves, and paused just before she touched his neck. He hadn’t moved. Grimacing, his breath hot in her face, she gently slipped her forefinger under the leather cord, her knuckle barely brushing his skin. Still, he did not move.

            She released a quiet, tense breath of air, then slipped two more fingers under the cord, lifting it from his neck. When he still didn’t move, she took her other hand on the other side of his head, slipped her fingers under the cord there, and slowly, ever so slowly, pulled the cord over his neck.

            He continued to snore as the key made its appearance at his shirt collar as she pulled it out. It caught briefly on a button; she clenched her teeth and jerked it free. His breathing changed then, and she stopped. She held her breath, trying to be still as death, watching for his eyes to shoot open and to find her hovering near him. But he merely smacked his lips a couple times, and snored on.

            But still she didn’t breathe. She had four, three, two, one more inch…and the key and cord were free from his neck.  What took a mere minute felt like a lifetime. She clutched the key in her fist, watched him for a moment more, and then as quietly as she could, tiptoed to the door and slid the key in the lock.

            The click sounded as loud to her ears as a shout. She whipped her head around to find that Jarta moved. She froze, watching him, but to her great relief, he had only flopped onto his stomach, facing the wall, his beefy arm dangling off the side of the bed. The door opened quietly, blessedly so, and Azya slipped out.

            She made it this far, and she was unsure what to do now. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and stood in the dark hallway for a moment. The inn dining room was still noisy downstairs. It was likely crowded. She could probably just walk out and no one would notice her. Just in case though, she threw her shawl over her head and pulled it as far down her face as she could and still be able to see. She made her way to the stairwell, and feeling as if she should waste no more time, she slipped down.

            Just as she expected, the dining room was a chaotic scene of bright lamplight, strong smells of food, the mealy smell of ale, and just an acidic hint of vomit and urine. Mostly men crowded the tables, yelling over one another, playing various games of chance, and flirting with big-breasted bar maids and prostitutes that hovered near.

            No one so much as glanced at her as she entered, but the exit was on the far side of the room, so she had a ways to go. She kept her head down and tried to walk in as straight a line towards the door as possible, which was difficult considering the arrangement of the tables and chairs and people crammed around them.

            “Hey lass, I’ll pay you a pretty penny for a romp upstairs!” She couldn’t see the owner of the gruff voice, but she felt a grab on her bottom and she jumped up with a cry.

            “No, sorry,” she managed to say, and thankfully her response was followed only by drunken laughter. A few more hands reached for slaps and grabs, but no one really tried to stop her and with a release of breath, she made it outside into the cold autumn air.

            Azya vaguely knew the street that the inn was on, considering they walked it every day, and had a notion, nothing more than a hunch, that the city gate was to her right. She glanced once more at the inn, hoping Jarta still slept, and ran to the right.

            The streets were relatively quiet this late; a few passersby, lovers arm and arm, a prostitute or beggar here and there. They paid her no mind. She stayed in the shadows as best she could, trying to move quickly enough that she could distance herself from the inn but not so quickly that she drew undue attention to herself. She made it to an alleyway and stopped, dimly recalling that Jarta had used it as a shortcut once to make it to the main square of the town, where most of the upscale shops and banks conducted their business. With a brief glance to make sure she wasn’t being followed, she turned into the alleyway and broke into a full out run. Panting, she reached the end after five minutes, and was just about to enter the openness of the square when she saw two uniformed soldiers step into her field of vision.

            She stopped with a gasp, sure they had seen her and rose on the balls of her feet, prepared to run back in the direction she had come. But their backs were to her, and their stances, while formal, were not tense. She heard one of them say something in heavily accented [language], and the other burst into loud laughter. She sighed with relief. They had not seen her. But they blocked her exit from the alleyway, and didn’t look like they were moving any time soon.

            Azya had only been walking for twenty minutes. That put barely any distance between herself and Jarta. She felt the weight of his key in her pocket and her wrists stung with the memory of his ropes. She was not safe. Not yet. Not even close.

            She bounced impatiently, willing the soldiers to move with her mind. But they didn’t. Their conversation lagged, and one turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. It was dark enough that she was probably not visible, but nevertheless she darted behind a pile of crates, slipping in some wet refuse. Crouching down, she tried not to think about what she could be sitting in and peered around the corner of her hiding place at the soldiers.

            One of them pointed to his left, and they both straightened, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Azya couldn’t see what they had seen, but she heard the faint rhythmic marching of boots on gravel. Sure enough, a small troupe of soldiers, just six, marched in formation towards the two who blocked her path. Her heart sank. Now she was up against eight fully armed soldiers.

            The first two saluted and one solider broke away from the detachment of six to approach them. Even in the dim light, she could see from his uniform that he ranked much higher than the two.  He spoke loudly, unnecessarily so, she thought.

            “Evening, privates. How long have you been waiting?”

            “Thirty minutes, sir,” one of the soldiers answered.

            “Any unusual activity?”

            “None, sir. All quiet, sir.”

            “Good. Well, we’ve cleared the square. The shops are shut down and we’ve instructed any residents to close their blinds until morning, upon penalty of execution. This should go smoothly tonight.”

            “Very good, sir.”

            “Corporal Eldrat,” said the high ranking soldier. A man behind him stepped forward. “Please give the signal for the prisoners to be brought out.”

            The man saluted, then gave three stiff arm waves above his head. At the risk of giving her presence away, Azya rose just a little to get a better look at what was going on. A line of about twenty people, some dressed shabbily, others in very rich clothes, came shuffling into the square. They were all so different in age, appearance, and height, but their one similarity was the bend in their spines, the hunch of their shoulders, their downcast eyes. Upon closer inspection, she saw they were roped together at their waists, their feet and arms bound by heavy chains.

            More slaves? Azya wondered. She ducked down again, even more fearful that she would be discovered. The prisoners shuffled into a horizontal line, facing the alleyway. In the moonlight, Azya could see dark bruises and cuts on each of their faces.

            “He’s late again,” the high-ranking soldier said, this time so only the two waiting could hear.

            “We gave him the time, sir,” one replied. “You know how he is.”

            “Unfortunately, I do.”

            For what seemed like an eternity, but was perhaps only ten minutes, nothing happened. Azya’s feet began to grow numb from her crouch. But the soldiers and prisoners were so still, so quiet, so expectant, that she dared not shift her weight and make any sort of noise. She would’ve stopped breathing if she were able.

            Finally, one of the soldiers looked up, and nodded to the others with satisfaction. Soon, Azya could see another man enter the square. Expecting another soldier, she was surprised at what she saw. The man wore dark clothes and a long heavy cloak around his shoulders. A black cloth was wrapped around his head, leaving slits just wide enough to expose his eyes, which glinted threateningly in the moonlight. The soldiers’ postures became even more stiff and straight, while the prisoners cowered even lower. A few even fell to their knees in fear.

            “Gentlemen.” The newcomer’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet its tone made it strangely audible. It was deep and rough, like a boulder rolling over gravel. He acknowledged the soldiers with a condescending nod, then turned his back towards Azya’s hiding place, facing the line of prisoners.

            “There are fewer than I expected.”

            The highest ranking soldier, who seemed so controlled before, cleared his throat nervously. “Our initial intelligence about their numbers were off, sir.”

            “My master will not be pleased.”

            “No, sir. We apologize, sir.”

            Who was this man that the highest ranking soldier Azya had ever seen called “sir?”

            “None escaped?”

            “Nothing like that, sir.”

            “Hmm.” The dark-clothed man stood with his feet far apart, and crossed his arms in front of him. For long moments, he made no movement or sound. The lead soldier cleared his throat again.

            “Are you considering keeping any alive, sir?”

            Azya felt the blood drain from her head. She whipped her head around, back into the relative safety of the dark alleyway. Could she escape without being noticed? She doubted it. She was not that stealthy a runner. She sat down in the garbage, completely unconcerned now about what she sat in, and tried to become as small as possible. She could no longer see what was going on, she could only hear. She forced herself to breathe evenly, and felt fever rise to her cheeks.

            It was happening again.

            “Not this time,” came the low voice of the dark-cloaked man. “I have determined that none would suit that purpose.”

            Two heartbeats space of time passed, and then, through her closed eyelids, Azya sensed a bright light. She opened her eyes, only to shield them again when blinded. Shaking, tears springing from her eyes, she scooted towards the wall and pressed herself low to the ground behind the crates.

            Then the screaming began.

            Torturous screaming lasted for what seemed like long minutes. Azya felt the heat of her body intensify, so much so that she wondered if a drop of water would sizzle to steam on her skin. Nausea threatened to overtake her, and she clenched an arm around her stomach, fighting for control. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the screaming stopped. There was silence. She didn’t dare peer over her hiding spot. But she soon heard the shuffling of feet and low murmurs.

            “The collection is complete,” came the voice of the dark-cloaked man. “It’s not as much as my master will be expecting, but it will do. Clear the bodies. Continue your work. Report to me this time next month.”

            “Yes sir,” the high-ranking solider said. His voice was thin and strained sounding. Azya tried not to imagine what he must’ve witnessed.

            Soon, the footsteps retreated, and Azya felt her body cool and her nausea abate. She slumped against the wall, finally allowing herself to breathe. She waited until she was sure no one would witness her retreat, and jumped up. She had intended a quiet, stealthy escape, but as soon as she left the safety of the crates, every nerve in her body forced her into a full-out run, away from the square. She wasn’t sure how she’d get out of the city now, but she’d find a way.

            She ran into something solid and fell backwards. When she regained her senses, she found Jarta standing over her, his face purple with rage. They were back on the street where the inn was, not far from it.

            “The law allows me to kill you for such disobedience!” He yanked her to her feet and bound her hands again, so tight her fingers started to tingle from lack of circulation almost immediately. He pushed her to a sitting position and lashed her feet as well, then hefted her over his shoulder. Weak, frightened, and most of all angry that her escape attempt had gone so wrong, Azya could put up little fight.

            “Please…” she managed to croak out through the tears she was ashamed of, “please don’t kill me.”

            Jarta snorted. “You’re lucky I’ve already secured your position, wench. If I don’t deliver you as promised, my head will be on the guillotine.” He shook her for emphasis. “But don’t think you’re something special. Try something like this again, and I’ll have you executed. I may even do it myself.”