allowed to kill me, or I would already be dead for attacking Seiger. Whatever reason I am a B, is the same reason they can’t kill me. Instead the guards take chase trying to drag their dismounted horses after them, but even with my hands tied, I’m too nimble and in my element for them to stand a chance of catching me. Even without the stubborn equines holding them back I doubt they would have stood a chance. I leap over a snow-frosted log in my path. Eucalypt leaves slap at my face as I search the bushland for some cover. There are trees everywhere but no trunks big enough to hide behind, and the undergrowth isn’t tall enough to take cover in. I just have to run. Luckily, I am fast.
I’m just not as fast as Seiger. It only takes him a few seconds to catch me. His hand clamps on my wrist like a steel vice, and he pulls me to a halt that almost rips my arms from their sockets. With a scream, I fall backwards into the snow with a thud that leaves me winded.
I gaze up, dazed, and Seiger’s shadow falls over me. Reaching down, he hauls me to my feet by the front of my jacket like I weigh no more than a feather. I glare at him and feel tears of pain working their way into my eyes, but he just smiles that same nonchalant smile that he gave when I attacked him; like my trying to escape was a great show to watch. One of his huge, hairy-backed hands snatches the rope between my wrists. While I writhe violently against his grip, he begins towing me back towards the caravan, making the rope bindings cut into my skin. I can’t attack him with my hands tied, and I know there isn’t a point trying to escape. They will either catch me or perhaps kill me if I truly threaten the lieutenant. There is no point having the will to live if you’re dead. Regardless, I hate this man touching me and forcing me to do his will. At the same time, I’m somewhat grateful that Seiger doesn’t seem to enjoy physical violence. I could have a womanising, violent man who would strike me for trying to escape towing me along, but Seiger never moves to hurt me aggressively. He just drags me along, ignoring my thrashing and snarling. I hate Seiger, but I don’t fear him.
“I said you would be released,” Seiger mutters as we go. “You didn’t have to take off.”
It occurs to me that he is right but my every instinct tells me to flee. I am not thinking logically at all. Something about being here in the mountains with these people has turned me into an animal that uses its instincts to survive—not its brain.
The closer we get to the caravan, the more I take in. There are two doors in the caravan, both now hanging open. The cell Whil was in is the mirror image of mine: small, rectangular, and dank. The guards have all mounted their impressive horses again, realising they shouldn’t have dismounted in the first place. Did they expect me to exit the holding cell quietly and calmly and not make a run for it? I suppose they are all just stupid army drones with no brains.
As we draw closer to the caravan and my strength slowly seeps away, I get my first real look at Whil. I was right about him. He could be out of a black and white movie from the ‘50s; though he must only be a year or two older than me. He looks like he should be wearing smart black pants and a crisp white shirt with suspenders. Of course, he isn’t wearing that. He wears faded blue jeans, dirty work boots, a black tee, and an olive green jacket pushed up at the sleeves. He is tall, probably a full head higher than me, and lean. He doesn’t have that naturally bulky build like my father or brother, but I can see ripples of muscles in his forearms. His hair is near black but with the sun striking him it has a dark auburn sheen. His eyebrows are low over his eyes, and there are a few freckles scattered on his nose.
I find myself staring at him, and he stares back. I’m probably not what he imagined. He was probably picturing a beautiful, wild amazon-style girl sitting in the
I’m just not as fast as Seiger. It only takes him a few seconds to catch me. His hand clamps on my wrist like a steel vice, and he pulls me to a halt that almost rips my arms from their sockets. With a scream, I fall backwards into the snow with a thud that leaves me winded.
I gaze up, dazed, and Seiger’s shadow falls over me. Reaching down, he hauls me to my feet by the front of my jacket like I weigh no more than a feather. I glare at him and feel tears of pain working their way into my eyes, but he just smiles that same nonchalant smile that he gave when I attacked him; like my trying to escape was a great show to watch. One of his huge, hairy-backed hands snatches the rope between my wrists. While I writhe violently against his grip, he begins towing me back towards the caravan, making the rope bindings cut into my skin. I can’t attack him with my hands tied, and I know there isn’t a point trying to escape. They will either catch me or perhaps kill me if I truly threaten the lieutenant. There is no point having the will to live if you’re dead. Regardless, I hate this man touching me and forcing me to do his will. At the same time, I’m somewhat grateful that Seiger doesn’t seem to enjoy physical violence. I could have a womanising, violent man who would strike me for trying to escape towing me along, but Seiger never moves to hurt me aggressively. He just drags me along, ignoring my thrashing and snarling. I hate Seiger, but I don’t fear him.
“I said you would be released,” Seiger mutters as we go. “You didn’t have to take off.”
It occurs to me that he is right but my every instinct tells me to flee. I am not thinking logically at all. Something about being here in the mountains with these people has turned me into an animal that uses its instincts to survive—not its brain.
The closer we get to the caravan, the more I take in. There are two doors in the caravan, both now hanging open. The cell Whil was in is the mirror image of mine: small, rectangular, and dank. The guards have all mounted their impressive horses again, realising they shouldn’t have dismounted in the first place. Did they expect me to exit the holding cell quietly and calmly and not make a run for it? I suppose they are all just stupid army drones with no brains.
As we draw closer to the caravan and my strength slowly seeps away, I get my first real look at Whil. I was right about him. He could be out of a black and white movie from the ‘50s; though he must only be a year or two older than me. He looks like he should be wearing smart black pants and a crisp white shirt with suspenders. Of course, he isn’t wearing that. He wears faded blue jeans, dirty work boots, a black tee, and an olive green jacket pushed up at the sleeves. He is tall, probably a full head higher than me, and lean. He doesn’t have that naturally bulky build like my father or brother, but I can see ripples of muscles in his forearms. His hair is near black but with the sun striking him it has a dark auburn sheen. His eyebrows are low over his eyes, and there are a few freckles scattered on his nose.
I find myself staring at him, and he stares back. I’m probably not what he imagined. He was probably picturing a beautiful, wild amazon-style girl sitting in the
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