As Faymia crouched behind a large, fallen tree trunk, she could see archers stationed along the top of the wall around Ocmallum’s estate.
“How many do you see?” Dulnear asked, squinting to make out what she was seeing.
“Three,” she said. “But we have no idea what lies behind the wall.”
“Hell,” Tcharron said from behind. “Hell is what lies behind that wall.”
“What do you mean?” Son asked, kneeling next to the man.
“I mean that Ocmallum has warriors from all over Aun guarding that place. Malitae from the southern islands, swordsmen from the north, and others that come from parts unknown.”
Faymia’s angst caused a ringing in her ears. The sound made it difficult for her to focus fully. She took a deep breath, turned to sit leaning against the log, and looked at Tcharron. As she did, the memories of being the man’s property pressed down on her neck and she recalled the abuse, the shame, and the violation she’d suffered by him. An angry tear formed in the corner of her eye and the surrounding woods seemed to appear out of focus.
The slaver pushed his eyebrows down and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She wiped the tear away, swallowed, and said, “I only have one thing to say. I forgive you.” Perhaps it was the distress of their predicament, or maybe it was the fatigue of carrying bitterness, she did not know. She only knew that, in that moment, she needed to say those words.
“What??” the man sputtered.
“I forgive you,” she said again, this time more clearly.
Tcharron looked away for a moment, then met her eyes again, “You made a choice,” he began.
“I know. I have no one but myself to blame,” she replied. “But I need you to know that I release you.”
The man’s crouched legs seemed to give out and he fell back, sitting on the ground. His face softened, and the harshness faded from his eyes. He stared at the woman with an expression that suggested he was searching for words to say. Eventually, he murmured, “Thank you,” and he turned his eyes toward the tops of the trees.
The woman felt awkward for saying the words, but relieved of the burden of holding them in. Holding her eyes on the upward-gazing slaver, she said, “Thank you for helping us find our friend.”
“Well, I suppose—” the slaver began.
“If Tcharron’s plan fails,” Dulnear interrupted, “we will need to find a way into that turret without rousing everyone.”
Faymia blinked and looked at her husband, shaken from her conversation. “What do you suggest?”
“Perhaps we can use the cover of night,” Son said.
The man from the north raised an eyebrow and kept his eyes on Ocmallum’s castle. “I think you might have something there, Son.” He then turned and sat next to his wife on the ground. “How many ways are there into that turret?” he asked Tcharron.
The slaver brought his eyes back down from the treetops and thought for a moment. “Outside of Ocmallum’s chamber is a vestibule, and there is only one staircase that leads up to it. However, the staircase lies at the end of a long hall which can be reached from three different doors from the inner courtyard. Since many of the men are drunk or otherwise preoccupied at night, you may have a chance of making it to the staircase without encountering too much trouble.”
“And what about the wall?” Faymia asked.
“We would need to scale the side furthest from the road,” Tcharron answered. “He is obsessed with every bit of activity that happens along it. If he is awake at that time, his focus will be there.”
The woman was comforted that the slaver included himself when talking about scaling the wall. She asked, “And what kind of defenses lie along the wall at night?”
“Four or five swordsmen,” he answered. “Mostly locals working off debts. The real metal is inside.”
“Fine,” Dulnear said, returning to a crouching position. “We shall go back to the village to buy hooks, ropes, and any other supplies we need. Then, we will return tomorrow to see if Ocmallum is willing to speak to you.”
Faymia turned to survey the estate one last time. Her mouth was dry and her pulse pounded loudly in her ears. She thought about the man whom she had just extended forgiveness to and prayed a silent prayer that she and her friends were not being betrayed.
“Faymia and I will visit the blacksmith,” the man from the north said. “Son, you and Tcharron will purchase some rope.”
Son nodded in agreement but did not like the idea of being alone with the slaver. He set the boy on edge and brought upon him a feeling that could only be described as contaminated. “I saw a shop right over there,” he said, pointing across the town square.
“Lead the way,” Tcharron murmured, and the four of them parted for their particular tasks.
Walking over to the shop, Son noticed that the man was lagging behind, but he did not slow his pace. He entered the store and immediately began searching for a suitable length of rope.
Finding some, he grabbed it and turned to walk toward the counter. As he did, he nearly ran into Tcharron, who had silently caught up and was standing over him.
“Are you sure that’s enough?” the slaver asked.
“I’m sure,” Son answered with a start.
“Well, I’m going to grab another coil of rope.”
“As you please,” Son answered as he continued toward the counter.
“Hey, boy,” Tcharron rasped.
“What?”
There was a pause, and the slaver continued, “You don’t like me, do you?”
The young man turned around. He tried to measure his words carefully. He couldn’t stand the man, but he knew that he was needed to find Maren. However, he could not lie. “I suppose I don’t,” he answered
