Donovan worked his way south along the creek, searching for any sign of the cave opening. He pushed aside marsh grasses and water-strewn branches along the creek banks, not really certain of what he was looking for, but with an eye out for anything that might reveal a hidden entrance. He hoped he would not disturb any poisonous snakes in the reeds, or worse, alert the guards at the encampment. Mostly, he hoped he wasn’t wasting his time on a futile search. It was possible, after all, that the slave had fed him a story and that there was no tunnel. But…something about the man had seemed trustworthy. He’d have to go with his instinct and hope he hadn’t been duped.
The creek banks became steeper as the wide, deep stream meandered nearer to the encampment. At one particularly steep incline, Donovan suddenly noticed an odd crescent shape in the muddy bank. Had he not been looking specifically, he would have walked right past it, thinking it nothing more than a pattern in the soil from a recent rise in the water level. But something about it caught his attention and he waded over for a closer look. Sure enough, a closer inspection revealed half-submerged boards of wood supporting and covering a rough archway. The whole structure had been covered in mud in an attempt to disguise the presence of whatever lay behind.
Donovan felt around the board structure and noticed a cool draft coming from between the wood planks. This had to be some sort of entrance! Donovan pulled the dagger from its strap on his leg, and began to pry the iron nails from the boards with determined strength.
Moments later, he pulled the first board free and peered into the darkness. He was right. The morning light revealed a low, shallow opening—a cave of sorts—and, at the back, a tunnel, half submerged in water, running deep into the embankment. He pulled another plank free and could see that the tunnel was supported by wooden beams and planks along the top and sides, and that it was very low and narrow.
Donovan impatiently yanked two more planks off the entrance and crawled into the cave. The space was dank and cramped and he knew this would be a long, uncomfortable exploration. He chuckled, thinking about how hard it would be for Akenji to move his much larger frame through this space and the colorful language the attempt would likely produce. It was no picnic for him, but he was thankful for his more slender build at that moment.
As he moved into the tunnel, crawling through the muddy water, he found himself chuckling again at the thought of high Lord Aden’s daughter, who was probably a sheltered, bratty Elven lady, crawling ahead of him in her fine dress on the way back out. The image was so amusing that Donovan laughed out loud. He could see her in his mind, floundering in the mud, hiking up her skirt to free her legs, grimacing, protesting, pouting, but having no choice except to obey him and move forward into the darkness. Oh, Akenji would have enjoyed this part, he thought, still smiling.
The smile was long gone three hours later when Donovan finally came to what appeared to be the tunnel’s end. The air and the water were cold, making his limbs numb and his teeth chatter. The air was dank and humid and he had been moving through darkness so dense and complete that it came close to unnerving him more than once. His body ached from the cold and from being so long in such a cramped position. The impulse to go back was very strong at times. He put Alayna in his mind and kept her there, hearing her voice urging him on, replaying the scene of her death and using it to motivate himself to keep moving. He had no idea how far this tunnel would go, and time seemed to have lost all meaning. He began to wonder if the princess would even survive such a trip.
Suddenly, the overwhelming smell of decaying flesh filled the narrow passage, and Donovan fought his way forward, struggling for fresh air and light. He thought of what the slave had told him about the men who had built the tunnel being killed and buried within it. He knew he was passing through the burial site now; and, through the darkness, he could sense the presence of the dead all around him—in the water he crawled through, in the walls his shoulders brushed against. It took all of his mental strength to stay calm and keep moving forward.
His relief was great when, suddenly, the walls around him widened and he found himself in a well of sorts, able to stand and stretch. This was, he guessed, the end of the tunnel. He looked up and saw narrow slivers of light shining through what looked to be planked boards above him. Had anything ever looked so inviting? he wondered.
Donovan judged the distance to the light above his head to be roughly fifteen feet. Without a rope, he would have to find a way to climb the sides of the walls. He began to feel around the walls and discovered that the space was rounded, smoothed with mud and sorely lacking in anything that might serve as foot and handholds. He cursed softly. There has to be a way, he thought. I have no intention of going back now!
Then his hand brushed against something rough. He groped through the darkness until he felt it again and his fingers wrapped firmly around a thick, knotted rope. He held his breath and gave the rope a strong tug. It held. He did it again, throwing all of his weight onto it. Again, it held, and he let out his breath slowly, relieved.
Donovan climbed the rope with relative ease. When he had reached the top, he held his body weight with his feet and felt along the boarded roof of the well with his hands. There was no latch or hinge to indicate a door. The opening had been boarded over. With a sigh, Donovan reached for his dagger. This certainly wasn’t turning out to be easy!
After listening carefully for any sign of activity, Donovan slipped his blade between the planks and began working it back and forth like a saw. When he had cut completely through the end of one of the boards, he pushed up with all his strength and felt the nail give loose. Again, he stopped and listened, all senses on alert for danger, but no one came. He eased the board back into position and began working on the one beside it. It took over an hour to lift three boards in that way, giving him just enough space to squeeze through and lift himself out of the tunnel, at last.
The slave had told him that he thought the tunnel came up underneath the armory and, as Donovan looked around now, he saw that the man had been correct. Weapons of nearly every kind lined the walls. He lightly touched the long swords and the spears, then picked up one of the long swords and balanced it in his hand. This may prove to be very useful, he thought.
Donovan turned back to the opening in the floor. From above, it was easier to pry the planks free, and within a few minutes he had widened the gap by two more planks. This would make it easier if he had to convince the princess to descend later. He carefully placed the planks back in position and began to investigate the rest of the building.
Torchlight glowed at the far end of the long room and, as he approached, he saw that the torch was positioned near a door. He listened intently. Hearing nothing, he turned the door latch as quietly as he could. The door was not locked and silently swung open under his hand, revealing a hallway with torches set about every ten feet along the right wall.
With his newly acquired long sword in one hand and his dagger at the ready in the other, Donovan moved cautiously down the hall until he reached the end. Here, it split in a T-intersection, and from the left, the voices of two soldiers drifted to him, clear and close. Donovan moved into the shadowy right entrance and listened.
At first the men chatted and laughed over recent conquests of an intimate nature, but soon the conversation grew more serious, and Donovan listened intently, hoping for something that would help him decide his next move.
“I’ll be glad when the new shift comes to relieve us. It’s pointless to guard the armory now that we have way more weapons than we do men to use them, thanks to our fearless leader getting so many of us killed,” growled one of the soldiers sarcastically.
“Quiet,” warned the other. “If Garock heard you talking like that, he’d hang you upside down naked and skin you with a hot knife like he did that last guy.”
“Don’t remind me,” answered the first soldier. “It took me a week to get the smell of burnt flesh out of my nose. It was disgusting. I wanted to walk away from it after about five seconds, but he actually made the whole army stay and watch it all.”
“Ya, poor bugger. Tough way to go.”
After a long silence, one of the men began to speak again. “Have you had a chance to get a look at that Elven prisoner we got from the last raid?”
“You get caught lookin’ at that one, and you’ll be hung up for sure. But, yes, when she was first brought in, I saw her. She’s a real looker!”
The first guard laughed and replied, “She had better be, considering the losses we took getting her here.”
“I’ve heard that she’s a princess of the Wood Elves,” said the second soldier. “We ought to be able to ransom her back for at least her weight in gold.”
The first guard snorted. “You can forget that notion. Garock is pretty worried about the suppliers. Chances are, he’ll probably offer her to them to save his own skin.”
“That’s a shame. The money she would’ve brought in would’ve of made the raid all worthwhile. And she is a beauty. I wouldn’t mind having a turn at her myself,” laughed the other guard.
The first soldier joined in the laughter and said, “It’d be a nice change from the useless whores we have around here. They just lay there like corpses. It’s no fun when they’re not afraid anymore. I’ll bet that princess has still got plenty of fight in her!”
“I know what you mean,” agreed the second man, “but we couldn’t get near her, even if we dared to disobey Garock’s orders. He’s got her locked up so tight in the main building that it’s hard to get as much as a glimpse of her, let alone getting a chance to work some of that devilish charm you’re so well known for.”
The first guard laughed again and said, “Well, the ladies do love a man who knows what he wants.”
Donovan frowned. So Garock was not going to ransom the princess back to pay off his suppliers. If he handed her over directly to the Shadow Elves, as it seemed that he was planning, then the princess’ chances of survival were much slimmer. The Shadow Elves would likely not bother with her ransom. They would keep her as a political hostage until her usefulness ran out. After that, only the Elders knew what would happen to her. The Shadow Elves were not known for releasing prisoners.
Donovan knew that he had to work quickly. He was pleased to hear that the princess was still there and that he was not too late. But there was no telling when Garock’s suppliers would come to collect. He needed to find some way of making it to the main facility where she was being held prisoner and hole up until darkness.
Princess Brandela stared at the locked door of her prison, wishing, more than anything at that moment, for a chance to get out and stretch her legs. It had been months since she had last seen her homeland and she really missed her people, especially her mother. The whole coming-of-age ceremony seemed like a strange nightmare; she could hardly believe the way things turned out. She had been disbelieving at first, then terrified. But as the weeks had gone by, and no real harm had come to her, her fear had turned to watchfulness and planning. She had no idea what the Barbarians were planning to do with her, but she knew she would need to call on all of her strengths to survive this ordeal. She was young and fragile in appearance, but she had over eighty years of training behind her and she would not go down without a fight. For now, all she could do was stay observant and bide her time.
The bruises on her face had healed, and the long daily marches, which had been so exhausting at first, had eventually served to make her stronger. She had feared the men at first, but to her surprise, they didn’t touch or harass her at all. In fact, most of them seemed to go out of their way to avoid even looking at her. She thought that strange, considering all of the stories she had heard as a child about the nomadic slavers living in the Wildlands. It made her nervous, wondering just what, or who, she was being saved for.
Or, perhaps it was simply because she was a princess, she reasoned. She knew enough about politics to know that members of the royal family were sometimes kidnapped and held for enormous ransoms. Maybe they would ransom her. Maybe that’s why her father hadn’t sent an army outside of the forest to rescue her. He was waiting and would pay whatever he must to get her back. This was just another test to get through. She told herself these hopeful tales over and over each day; sometimes they were all that she had to comfort herself.
All of Brandela’s life had felt like a test to her. Being judged on the standards of the high princesses was a way of life for her. Whenever she had failed to live up to these standards, her mother, Lady Alousia, would correct her with critical remarks, such as, “The Barbarian women in the Wildlands are likely more elegant and refined then you.” She was constantly reminding Brandela, “You must always strive to do your best. As a high princess of the House of Oendale, you will always be judged by a different standard than others. It is not enough for you to do well at what you attempt; you must be the best at everything you do.”
Brandela had tried her hardest, in the social arts, in magical studies, and in the political arts, but she always felt inadequate, especially when compared to her two brothers and six sisters. She prayed now that something of that training would help her somehow. She was slowly losing hope of being rescued. It might come down to her own cunning and skill in the end. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would have what she needed when the opportunity came.
How much of a ransom would they demand for her, she wondered. How much would her father be willing to pay? The question disturbed her. Surely, he would be willing to pay anything or do anything to get her back. But he hadn’t come after her. He had sent no army. Were they even missing her? Was she so important to them? Her mother hadn’t come to her coming-of-age ceremony. Her father had left her in the hands of the Barbarians. She fought these thoughts of doubt, but they always crept back to her, insidious and painful.
Within Elven family units of the nobility, the youngest children are considered political pawns, used to strengthen alliances and forge new ones with potential foes. She knew it was an important role that she held within her family, but was it important enough? It was based mainly around arranged marriages and bonding rituals, and she had always questioned the custom. Perhaps her protests had made her too risky and not worth the bother of getting back. Self-doubt plagued her every waking moment, and she turned her thoughts, now, to marriage—one of the highest goals of an Elven female—to try to lighten her spirits.
She knew that if she ever made it back to her people she would be forced into an arranged marriage. A ransom of a different kind, she thought wryly.
“Force” was not exactly accurate within Elven customs and culture, as it was impossible to force an unwilling participant to take part in the bonding spell. Brandela didn’t know the specifics of it, but she knew it had something to do with the heart of both participants. The bonding spell could be forcefully activated using rune crystal artifacts, but not forcefully applied. That came only with a willing supplicant, which was how most Elven households of the nobility operated when dealing with marriage. The bonding spells would be activated on both the male and female and they would be expected to do their part by willingly embracing each other and sealing the bond. It was not necessary for them to know each other, for once the bonding spell had taken effect, all desire to know others would disappear and they were left with the desire to know only their mate.
Brandela understood that even if she did not know her future husband, once the bonding spell had been activated and accepted, she would find herself deeply and emotionally committed to her chosen mate. Brandela had questioned her mother about this practice repeatedly. “Shouldn’t love be a matter of free choice and free will?” she had insisted.
Her mother had laughed at her naïve thoughts and had tried to guide her to a wiser path. “Child, whether you believe it is free will or slavery, it is all merely personal perception that separates the two. After all, is the person that says they freely choose because of an emotional impulse really superior to the person who makes a logical, sound choice based on reason, intellect, and guidance? Of course not. More often, the opposite is true. It is when we stray from the path of reason and intellect that questionable choices are made. No matter how the decision comes about, it becomes the participant’s responsibility to work through the inevitable difficulties that will arise throughout a bonded pair’s life journey, and the reasoning partner will almost always be better able to deal with these issues than his emotional counterpart. “
Her mother’s words made sense, but still something kept Bran-dela from buying in completely. During her studies, she had come across research that told of how the Elven Elders had once married amongst each other, but rarely used the rune crystals to forcefully activate the bonding spell. Brandela had not fully comprehended the accounts then, and she wasn’t sure she understood them even now, but they had drawn her and made her wonder if things could be different.
The account had spoken about how the bonding spell was supposed to work naturally—that when two willing participant’s hearts cried out to one another, the bond would seal naturally and was much more powerful than when activated by force. What did that mean, though? Did hearts really cry out for each other? And was her mother right—was a bond based on intellect better than an emotional bond of the heart?
She had given up on her sweet, romantic notions long ago, accepting her mother’s more practical approach as she had grown older and seen the limits of an Elven lifetime. Marriage amongst the nobility was not about emotional fondness, after all, but was used to form proper political alliances and unions, and to strengthen and stabilize society in general. There was a part of her, though, that still liked the idea of finding that someone whose heart cried out for hers, and she wondered if she’d ever have the chance to find him before a mate was chosen for her.
Brandela was drawn from her daydream by the click of the lock. Someone was coming in. It would most likely be the guard who brought her all of her meals, but she rose and watched, alert and tense, as the lock turned and the door swung open. It was the usual guard—a large, ugly man—who came in and leered at her while speaking to her in the strange human tongue that was commonly spoken throughout the Wildlands. She mentally reprimanded herself for not including this language as part of her early studies. Most of the Wood Elven houses did not negotiate or engage in diplomacy with any non-Elves, and on the rare occasion that they did, it was easy enough to find a translator among the lower classes.
Brandela may not have understood his words, but his tone and his vulgar grin made his message clear enough. She felt exposed and naked when he looked at her like that and more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life. Nothing in her previous experiences equipped her to know what he wanted, exactly, or how she could best protect herself, but instinct told her that the man did not have good intentions and was not to be trusted. In the Wood Elven kingdom, it was considered a serious crime for a commoner to make unwanted advances toward someone of the nobility, and in her sheltered world, she had never had to deal with the problem before now. No one from her people would ever dare such a transgression because to do so would mean their death.
The guard stepped toward her, and she moved away, frowning and shaking her head vigorously. The ugly soldier stopped, glanced over his shoulder quickly, then turned his eyes back on her. He glowered at her, frustrated and angry, and then purposely dropped her bowl of food on the ground and walked away.
Brandela sighed with relief and knelt to gather the precious morsels of food. I need to get out of here, she thought, before that creature chooses to disregard whatever order is restraining him altogether. Because once she wasn’t able to stop him anymore, only the Elven Elders knew what might happen!