Kugun’s upper lip curled and he raised one eyebrow sharply. “I know how you boys work,” he snorted. “In a few days you won’t be here, an’ I’ll be stuck wit ’er.”
“Oh, no,” the man with the long, gray hair assured. “We will be in this same place for the next fourteen days. I promise.”
Maren continued to look down at the ground, hoping the man from Ahmcathare would decide to leave by himself. She could hear him rub his whiskery jowls as he considered whether or not to take her. She wanted to reach up to massage her ear for comfort, but she resisted.
“Fourteen days, ye say,” Kugun considered. “I suppose. Load ’er pen up on my cart and we’ll see how it goes.”
“Excellent. You’ll be very happy with this one,” the man assured as he motioned to his associates to do as his customer instructed.
Within a few short moments, Maren was sitting in her cage on Kugun’s wagon and they were making their way toward the path that led in and out of the camp. She scanned the circle to grab one last glance of her friend Micah, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Feeling alone and vulnerable, she sat against the back of her pen and wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking forward and back as the camp fell into the distance.
“You’re a lunatic,” Tcharron groaned as he lay on the ground, glancing around the campsite.
“Be still!” Faymia ordered. The sky was gradually fading to darker shades of gray, and it was becoming more difficult for her to see what she was doing as she attempted to patch up the wounds she recently gave to the slaver. Dulnear and Son were nearby building up a fire, but it did little to provide the necessary light for proper first aid.
“Honestly, the three of you are complete nutters,” he said.
“Pull your arm out of the sleeve!” the woman barked as she tugged at the coat opening.
Grimacing from pain, Tcharron grunted, “I can’t. You cut too deep.” He bared his teeth and went on, “Why are you even helping me?”
“Try this,” Dulnear said from the other side of the fire as he tossed a full whisky bottle over to his bride.
“No!” the man shouted, and he reached over with his left hand to cover the deep wound on his underarm.
Faymia was amused by the air of helplessness Tcharron exhibited. After being under his total control for so many years, it was a guilty pleasure to see him in such a state. She suppressed a smile and picked up the bottle. Pulling off the cork, she handed it to him and offered, “Drink some. It will make this more bearable for both of us.”
The slaver sighed with relief before grabbing the bottle and swigging down several mouthfuls. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said as he wiped the whisky from his bearded chin. “Why are you helping me?”
Helping him sit up, the former slave gently removed his coat and winced as she was able to more clearly see the damage she had inflicted on him. “Dulnear thought it was a good idea,” she explained.
“Oh, the giant goat,” Tcharron sneered. “He is a walking bad idea.”
Faymia didn’t appreciate hearing her husband spoken about that way. She released her support and allowed the man’s shoulders to drop to the ground. “Sorry about that,” she said insincerely.
The slaver let out another groan and coughed, “You did that on purpose.”
“Yes, I did,” the woman admitted. “Here, drink some more while I cut your shirt sleeve off.”
The man tipped the bottle for another drink, then looked away from his wound while Faymia cut his shirt open to gain greater access to it. “You deserve him,” he said. “How does it feel to be owned by a northern brute?”
Amused by his question, Faymia smiled and answered, “He doesn’t own me.”
“What?! But he purchased you from me—with an obscene amount of gold, I might add.”
“Yes, and he immediately set me free,” she explained as her smile grew larger.
“Why, in all of Aun, would anyone do such a foolish thing?” Tcharron asked. “Especially for an old, worn-out whore.”
The words he spoke should have offended Faymia, but they didn’t. She paused for a moment and thought about them. “He loves me,” she finally answered. “And I love him. And true love is free to run away but chooses to stay.”
Tcharron swallowed and for the first time, his face was missing its usual air of contempt. “A fine sentiment, but a fiscally foolish one,” he stated.
“Says the man who has never loved,” the woman rebutted with a sharp grin.
“Okay, so he loves you,” Tcharron said. “But why does he think it’s such a good idea to bring me along on this ridiculous chase?”
“He believes that you will lead us to Ocmallum’s estate and help us get the information we seek,” she said.
“The estate is not difficult to find,” the slaver blurted out. With an amused expression, he continued, “Every peasant in Dorcadas knows of it. It is one of the grandest castles in the south of Aun.”
Faymia squinted as she struggled to clearly examine the man’s deep gash in the fading light, and the firelight dancing to the left of her seemed to be more of a hinderance than a help. “I’m afraid I may not be able to sew this shut,” she explained.
“Wonderful,” the wounded slaver snorted as he drank from the whisky bottle. “I’m going to bleed to death overnight.”
From the other side of the fire, Dulnear called out, “You will be just fine.” He then stood up and fetched a sword from the ground. He had been resting its tip in the flames until it was fully glowing red. “I will close up the wound for you.” He then walked over, took to one knee, and joined his wife by her side.
“There’s no way!” Tcharron exclaimed.
“It will not be as bad as you suppose,”
