The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

  By Charissa Dufour

  © 2014 by Charissa Dufour

  All rights reserved.

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  Torn

  Chapter One

  Bethany squatted in the tiny cell. It wasn't anything more than a small, stone box with a tiny drain, and an access point in the ceiling, which was securely fastened from the outside. The cell was too short for her to stand up, and too narrow to lie down. She shifted to a new position, trying to stretch out her cold, aching body in small segments without causing any further pain to the throbbing mark on her thigh.

  Solitary confinement wasn't enough for a runaway slave. She had been branded—discreetly of course. The wealthy didn't like ugly slaves. Granted, she knew if she were caught running again, she would be branded on the neck. A third offense would mean her death.

  She leaned her head back against the wall and flinched away from the cold stones pressing against her bare flesh. Bethany had lost track of the hours since she'd been placed in the cell, though she suspected it had been about two days. Twice she had received a cup of water and a leftover scrap of food.

  The first had been maggot infested bread, which she refused to eat. The lump still sat in the far corner, as far away from her as she could place it. The second offering had been some charred meat, which she'd eaten mostly out of desperation.

  Bethany never said thank you when they dropped the food and lowered the cup of water. They didn't expect her to, and she hadn't been taught such manners. Then again, she hadn't been born a slave, either.

  No one was. Slaves were people who either had been unable to pay their debts or unable to protect themselves from the dreaded slavers. Bethany was the latter. She tried not to think about her life before slavery, but it was difficult, nigh impossible. The two lives were so very different.

  Bethany had been born the daughter of a king. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to remember the tall walls that surrounded her family's keep or the sprawling city encompassing it. The only thought that kept her calm was the knowledge that her home still existed, that her family continued to live. She knew because she'd often heard King Wolfric, the father of her new master, complaining about their continued defiance. Of course, he didn't know she was the youngest daughter of his enemy, Middin, King of Tokë.

  She had been returning from Garrul, near the border of her family's shrinking land, when they were attacked. Her large caravan was traveling through the winding mountain pass. Bethany squeezed her eyes tighter, but the memory invaded her senses unbidden.

  “Are you comfortable, my lady?” her lady-in-waiting, Nuala, had asked.

  Bethany nodded, keeping her thoughts to herself. She hated traveling through the steep mountains, even in spring, when the forest was alive with new growth and noisy birds. The jostle of the large wagon gave her a pounding headache and a rolling stomach. Those were more than ample reason to not want to visit Uncle Lord Elias in Garrul. The fact that the old man was completely inept at entertaining a young woman was just salt in an open wound. He was gouty and lazy in general, but he was family and her father had insisted she make the visit. There had been peace between him and Wolfric for nearly two years, so there seemed little chance of an attack. Well, a lack of fighting, if not actual peace. Besides, her uncle was sickly and in need of encouragement—what better occupation for the youngest daughter of a king than lightening the heart of a war-weary man?

  Finally, after a long and lonely month, Bethany was finally returning home.

  The first hint of trouble came when the cumbersome wagon came to a stop. Such an event only happened at high noon or at the end of the day's traveling; it took too much time and energy to get the six enormous horses moving again. The men often rode ahead to clear fallen branches from the road or lay gravel on muddier portions, and sometimes the forerunners would even turn aside other travelers, forcing them to wait until her caravan had passed. Of course, seeing the wagon of a princess was a form of entertainment to the lowly bystanders. Occasionally, Bethany would even condescend to waive at them from the small window.

  Bethany was just about to send one of her three maids out to see what the delay was when she heard shouts, followed by a piercing cry of pain. The clanking of swords and yelling of men quickly followed. Bethany shrank into the fur lined bench. The other women in the wagon followed her example. All, but one. Her lady-in-waiting, Nuala, jumped to the tiny window and tweaked the thick drape aside to peer out. She quickly ducked back as something thudded against the wagon, jostling the heavy wooden frame. Nuala's eyes had grown in fright, but she kept her wits about her while Bethany quivered in her seat.

  Nuala yanked the fur covering from the floor to reveal the tiny trap door. “You have to run,” she ordered, staring at the princess.

  Bethany understood the words, but couldn't grasp their meaning. Fear deadened her limbs and slowed her mind to a crawl. More out of shock than obedience, she moved towards her lady-in-waiting and the small opening in the floor, which permitted the sounds of battle to fill their plush sanctuary.

  “Where do I go?” she wailed, as though the other women would have some hidden insight.

  “Anywhere! Just run and hide. And don't come back until you know the battle is over,” Nuala said before unceremoniously pushing the princess through the trap door. Bethany didn't fight her, though she barked her shins against the axel and smacked her forehead on the opening. Before she could respond, Nuala closed the hatch and locked it. For a fleeting moment, Bethany wondered if Nuala had sent the princess into the forest to save those still in the wagon. Would they spare the women if they didn't find royalty? It didn't make sense. Then again, the entire attack didn't make sense.

  Bethany didn't wait to figure it out. She inched her way to the edge of the wagon closest to the lining forest, glanced in both directions to be sure no one was too close, and bolted for the surrounding trees. Three steps from the wagon she found herself dancing around a frantic horse's backend. Thankfully, the rider didn't notice her, his whole attention on his frantic mount. Just a few feet from the nearest tree, her soft leather slippers sank into the deep mud and disappeared. Bethany hesitated, wanting to stop to dig them free from the mire, but the screech of an injured horse sent her flying.

  She tottered up the incline and into the forest. The trees were close together where large slabs of granite didn't interrupt their growth. Some even twisted around the protruding rocks, determined to grow despite nature’s obstruction. The rocks and pine needles defaced her feet as she scrambled through the forest. She stumbled a few times, adding new bruises to her legs and hands while the branches reached out, clutching at her dress and hair.

  A few minutes into her headlong run, Bethany vaulted over a rock, right into a river. The water was slow, but icy cold. Her long gown quickly grew so heavy she could barely keep her head above water as she paddled towards the other side. At the opposite edge, she dragged herself out, using the thick branches of wild berry bushes to keep herself from slipping back into the water. The banks were covered in spring mud, and by the time she reached solid ground, Bethany
's elegant, green dress was caked in black sludge. She almost wanted to jump back into the river to cleanse herself, but a gust of wind reminded her just how cold the water was. Another dip in the river would only make her colder; besides, she'd just have to climb through the mud again.

  For the first time, Bethany stopped to take stock of her surroundings. She stood next to a wide river that came from a short waterfall a half dozen yards away. Enormous fir trees grew in splotches around the river. The ground was covered with last winter's pine needles that pricked her bare feet. Through a clearing, she thought she spotted a road. Had she doubled back on herself or was it a different road? She wasn't even sure which direction she'd run. As the princess forced herself to think about it, she had a sneaking suspicion she'd run in the general direction of King Wolfric's lands.

  Bethany shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest in an effort to conserve body heat. She belatedly realized that her plush cloak had been torn off at some point. She reached up and touched her head; the simple ring of gold had fallen off, too. Bethany wanted to go back and search for it, but that would require another dunking in the river.

  Not really worth it, she realized as she considered her predicament.

  Another guest of wind set her teeth to rattling. From the distant clearing she heard men's voices and horse's hooves.

  Bethany forced herself to move and find some cover. The only thing she could find was a large bush, much closer to the road than wisdom promoted. Other than that one dead bush, every other piece of ground cover was too thin or small to hide her entire body. In retrospect, Bethany had one moment of wisdom that day; following a sudden instinct, she pulled her small gold signet ring from her pinky and slipped it into her mouth, hoping she wouldn't swallow it in her fright.

  “What's that?” a man’s voice called out.

  Thinking she'd been discovered, Bethany stepped out from her bush. “P-please, h-help m-m-me,” she asked, her teeth clattering together and making it difficult to speak. She felt the ring pressed between her gums and her cheek.

  The man smiled, showing the many gaps in his teeth. Bethany glanced at the rest of his caravan and realized just what a mistake she had made. Trailing behind the smiling man was a row of men and women connected by a rope twined around their necks.

  She had just asked for help from a slaver.

  Bethany didn't think she had any energy left, but fear gave her strength, and forced her legs to move again. She ran along the river, towards the small waterfall, hoping to find a fordable stretch farther upstream. Of course, the hope was fruitless. Faster than she thought possible, she heard the sound of hooves gaining on her. Bethany didn't waste time looking over her shoulder, but turned to jump back into the icy water. Just as she did, two hands reached under her armpits and yanked her off her feet. She cried out as she tried to break free from his grasp, but before she could, he had her lying on her stomach across his lap.

  The slaver turned the horse and pushed him into an excruciating trot, the saddle and his legs digging ruthlessly into her stomach. The horse took a sudden turn forcing her body into the saddle at an awkward angle. Her side erupted with fire. The slaver jerked his horse to a stop, and Bethany let out a gasp of pain.

  Another man yanked her from her perch, and dumped her on the ground near the end of the line of pathetic individuals. Without being told, Bethany scrambled to her feet with as much dignity as she could, which wasn't much, considering she tripped over her sodden dress twice. Once on her feet, Bethany tried to take a deep, calming breath. The movement sent a fresh stab of agony through her side. She clutched it as she bent forward, doubled over with the pain. It was nearly enough to make her forget the importance of the ring hidden in her mouth.

  The man grabbed her by the hair, and jerked her back into a standing position while quickly slipping a loop of rope over her head and tightening it around her neck. Despite the pain in her side and scalp, Bethany felt as though a large rock had been thrown at her stomach—the rope sliding into place around her neck felt very final.

  There was no escape now.

  The next four days, Bethany had walked behind the other slaves, her once beautiful gown slowly turning into rags. When they made their way out of the dense mountains and into the rolling valleys, Bethany knew without a doubt they were truly and completely in Wolfric's territory.

  Though slavery was not something her father, King Middin, condoned, he did not actively battle the issue. He had worse enemies to fight. Bethany considered, time and again, telling the traders who she was and showing them her signet ring, but she had a strong suspicion that they would just laugh at her and take the gold. They would probably beat her too. She had already received a few harsh blows for small indiscretions such as talking or looking them in the eye. Bethany quickly learned to emulate the other slaves. As a child she had learned the art of imitation in an effort to get the same treatment as her older siblings. She finally decided to bide her time, and only tell someone who might have the ability to help her return home.

  But on the tenth day, when they met up with the rest of the larger slaving caravan, she lost hope of that ever happening. They had traveled so far and no rescue had arrived; how could she possibly hope to make it home again?

  The other slavers had not been as successful, hauling only three miserable souls behind their horses. Bethany recognized one as a Lurran; her teak skin stood out in contrast to the pale people around her. The girl's cheeks were stained with rivers of tears. The Lurran people dwelled in the fiercest part of the tall mountains that lined the Narrow Sea. It wasn't really a sea, but rather an incredibly wide river. Even from the tops of the tall trees, a person could barely make out the distant shore. Nonetheless, it was freshwater.

  Bethany eyed the foreign girl. She had heard of the Lurran from her tutors, but had never actually met one. The girl did more than live up to her expectations. Though Bethany suspected her to be no more than eleven or twelve, she was just as tall as Bethany, and far slimmer. Even the very structure of her bones appeared more inclined towards height than mass. Her eyes were an abnormal silvery color. Bethany wanted to hound her with the many questions about her reclusive culture, but couldn't remember if the Lurran people spoke her language. It didn't really matter; the slavers would have beaten her had she spoken anyway.

  The next day, a third group of slavers met them in a small valley where they pushed and prodded the slaves into an enormous wagon with thick drapes to block out any light. And there they remained.

  Bethany had lost count of the days and nights, marked by the slow change of temperature in the wagon.

  Now, as Bethany sat in her cell, she realized she couldn't remember much of those horrible days. They were all blackness and putrid odor. The slaves quickly learned it did them no good to hold their bladders. They had no idea when they would be let out of the wagon. Bethany was one of the last to relieve themselves on that first miserable day in the wagon. When she had finally given in to her body's needs, she'd almost cried, but her body was too dehydrated to produce more than a few tears and a short stream of foul urine.

  That day had been her twentieth birthday, Bethany remembered as she sat in her tiny cell, and did the same deed. At least in the cell there was a drain so that she didn't have to sit in it, but it still smelled. Now, after three months of slavery, she had little dignity left; there was too much reality in her life to remember the fairytale.

  Of course, everything had changed abruptly when the slavers reached their destination, nearly a month later. The heavy wagon began to slow and take sharp turns. From within the wagon, they could hear the sounds of a prosperous city. She tried to remember how many lefts and rights they had taken, again hoping to escape, but it was pointless. Finally, when Bethany was fully turned around and confused, the wagon came to a stop. The tailgate dropped and harsh voices began urging them to climb out. Bethany crawled out after the others, too weak to stand. They had been given small portions each day, but often Bethany received her meag
er hunk of bread with a few bites already taken out by those who had passed it through the mob of starving slaves.

  It was in those instances that her hatred had begun to burn. The fiery passion was all that helped her stand outside the wagon, while her weak muscles shook with the effort.

  She was in a small court surrounded by high walls topped with spikes. The other captives were shaking in the heavy wind that whirled down among the walls. A gust of frigid air hit her from the side, causing her to tumble into the mud.

  “Get up,” demanded one of the slavers while giving her a blow from some sort of staff, which forced her to scramble back to her feet. Evidently, the slaver had no desire to touch her. She couldn't blame him; she didn't want to touch herself, either.

  “Get them cleaned up,” ordered the same man to a plump woman in a warm shawl and a heavy skirt that jerked around her thick ankles in the fierce wind.

  Bethany was ushered into a small room with a long trough of water and thin towels. The women prodded them into position with her own staff.

  “Off wiff 'em rags,” she ordered.

  Bethany glanced around, seeing the others begin to pull their clothing off. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She had been raised to be a modest, private person, as all her siblings had. Even those not of royal blood in Tokë were modest. No one was permitted to see her naked, not even her maids. That honor was saved for her spouse.

  “What'd Ah jes say?” slurred the woman as she jabbed Bethany in the back with her stick.

  “Please, ma'am,” Bethany begged, trying to put as much deference into her voice as she could, desperation forcing her to be diplomatic. “May I have some privacy?”

  Bethany glanced at the other slaves, hoping for their support. They had stopped in their efforts and were watching the confrontation. Their eyes grew wide, just as Bethany felt a blow to her side hard enough to knock the air from her lunges. She doubled over, wrapping her arms around her filthy stomach.