Page 3 of King's Warrior

A blade slipped past his defenses, scoring a hit on his thigh. Fire raced up Rufe’s leg. Maybe they were only toying with him and had implied they were keeping him alive to give false hope.

Rallying his flagging strength, Rufe let out a battle cry. “Yahhh!” He charged into the midst of the men. While they had the advantage of numbers, he’d been better trained, even if he’d only recently been tried in combat.

He parried, he thrusted, letting seasons of training guide him. The leaves beneath the snow slid underfoot, but he stayed upright,bringing his sword crashing down. A man screamed, reeling away, clutching his cheek.

The wound in Rufe’s thigh burned, but he couldn’t worry about non-fatal injuries now. He likely had more cuts he’d feel in the morning—if he lived to see a new day.

More fighters left the fray, but he didn’t flatter himself that they fled a superior fighter. They were flanking him. Minutes were all that remained of his life. His limbs grew heavy. He could barely lift his sword.

Rufe collapsed onto his knees, skin sweat-slicked despite the cold, fighting hard to breathe. His exhales steamed in the frosty air. He dropped his sword, hanging his head in defeat, and braced for the killing blow.

The leader squatted in front of Rufe. “You’re a good fighter, lad. If I didn’t already have plans for you, I’d ask you to join us. But this…” he nodded toward the fallen sword, “tells me you have value to the Cormiran Empire, and I am a man who knows the use of valuable things.” He stood, commanding, “Bind his hands and bring him.” He took Rufe’s sword, which might’ve been more painful than the leg wound. As long as Rufe had his sword, hope remained.

Hope walked away with his sword.

Two men wrenched Rufe’s arms behind him. Damnation that hurt his aching shoulders. Rufe bit into his lip, drawing blood, trying not to cry out. The brutes bound his wrists together, leather cords biting into his skin. Captured by the enemy. At least he was better off than his comrades, but for how long? Stories came backto him of the horrible treatment survivors endured, tales of brutality beyond most people’s beliefs. He could endure torture—or worse—at the hands of these brigands and remain alive.

They laughed, running their hands over his body, claiming his daggers. One leered, running his hand up the inside of Rufe’s thigh. He struggled. The man grinned, moved his hand to Rufe’s biceps, and nearly dragged him back to the burned-out village.

All his company most likely dead, Rufe alone remaining. Even if he survived and returned home, his life would forever be changed. Or maybe the shame would send him to another land to live as a mercenary, taking the memories of the fallen with him. Certainly, he’d never again be the Rufe Ferund who’d sought adventure on this mission.

Rufe shivered, sitting on the floor in the corner of the hovel where he’d taken sanctuary the previous night, leg wound and smaller cuts aching, ankles bound, and hands still secured behind him. If the wounds weren’t properly cleaned soon, the brigands wouldn’t have to kill him; he’d die of fever. Had the outlaws killed the owners of this house? The other villagers? What about Rufe made the brigands want to keep him alive? His gaze fell on the sword lying on a low table across the room. The sword! A gift from Dray, also known as Prince Draylon Aravaid, second son of Emperor Soland Aravaid, imprinted with the imperial seal. To these men, from akingdom long ago cut off from the empire, all Cormirans likely looked the same. Did they mistake Rufe for Draylon, a known great fighter with dark hair and eyes, because of the nobleman's sword he carried?

They would likely kill him in a fit of anger when they realized their mistake, but maybe the wait would allow Rufe time to plan an escape.

He had to live. See his mother, father, and brother again. Had to see Draylon again. Was the horrid pressure in his chest, the churning of his guts, despair?

The men who’d accosted him stood outside around a campfire, drinking, perhaps twenty or twenty-five in all. From the number of glass bottles, they must’ve raided the tavern before they’d burned the wooden structure to the ground. The scent of roasted meat made Rufe’s stomach growl in protest. He’d not eaten since the few bites from the discarded saddlebags. The sun would soon set, and thirst battled with hunger for priority in his mind.

If they planned to keep him alive, they’d give him food and water, wouldn’t they? Of course, they weren’t very smart. Why burn the town, sending villagers running, drawing attention to themselves, and depriving themselves of a warm, comfortable place to stay?

One man staggered into the ruined hovel, laughing when he saw Rufe. He sauntered closer, wobbling on his feet. The stench of his unwashed body assaulted Rufe's senses long before the man reached his corner. The asshole grinned, showing several missing teeth. He dropped to his knees, fumbling with his belt.

Oh, Goddess, no! So Rufe was to be abused, after all. The man opened his pants to reveal a rather small cock, but fully erect. Even a small one could do damage. The man wove his fingers into Rufe’s hair, pulling cruelly. He hissed something Rufe couldn’t understand and pulled again.

Would help come if Rufe cried out? What if the men planned to take turns with him, and this was only the first? He’d heard such horrific stories in the barracks. The man thrust, grinding his rancid cock against Rufe’s face.

Rufe screamed, drawing his legs up. He kicked with all his might to dislodge his attacker. The man slapped Rufe across the face, snapping Rufe’s head back. Oww! The impact with the wall would leave a lump on his already injured head.

Footsteps pounded into the house, and the leader shouted in anger. Rufe’s assailant suddenly flew backward. Sounds came of flesh hitting flesh, and the man screamed.

The leader—the only one Rufe noticed who appeared to speak Cormiran—kneeled, genuine concern in his eyes, wearing Rufe’s bearskin on his back as a prize. He lifted Rufe’s chin with surprisingly gentle fingers, turning his face right and left. “Are you hurt?” he murmured, his tones gentle.

Rufe shook his head. “You got here in time.”

The man let out a relieved-sounding sigh. “I apologize for one of my men attacking you.” He growled, raising his voice to be heard over punches and whimpers as his men continued the beating. “I promise it will not happen again.”

Rufe noticed a tattoo on the man’s right wrist. His heart stuttered, and he couldn’t hide his shock. “You’re from the empire!”

The man shook his grizzled head, a bitter smile on his lips deepening the lines around his mouth, barely visible beneath a week’s worth of scruff. He must have had some military training based on his stocky build and authority. “I used to be Dragan, but not anymore, lad. Craician soldiers captured my family. We escaped, only to be marked and treated as traitors. Neighbors who’d once been kind grew cruel. I came home one day to find my house burned to the ground with all my family. The neighbors even boasted to each other about killing them, not knowing I survived.”

Rufe had to ask, “What did you do?”

The man met Rufe’s gaze. “I found out who was responsible, killed them, then fled to Craice, which welcomes any trained soldiers with no love of the empire. I’ve served Craice ever since. How sad when my family’s kidnappers were more merciful than my neighbors. Name’s Lars, but I no longer use a family name. I long ago lost the right to associate with my kin. They’d be ashamed of the things I’ve done.” The words sounded remorseful, but Lars didn’t turn away.

Rufe recognized the look of a man resigned to his fate. “You know the same might happen to me, right?”

Lars wrinkled his nose in distaste and spat, “Those barbarians still do that awful practice of marking anyonecaptured by an enemy as traitors?”

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