She sat in the ruins of the wagon where she had been chained for over a month. Two months? More? She didn’t know. Only that it had been too long. These last few nights of freedom she experienced had been almost as nightmarish as those months chained and bloody. Sleep had been scarce, fitful, and plagued with horrors.

Now, she was unbound.

…undone…?

She sat wrapped in the self enforced silence of staring out at the world around her and contemplating her next moves; whatever those may be. Long shadows cast by the setting sun stretched out from her caravan wagon to the trees that surrounded the well they had stopped by for an evening’s rest last night.

The roof above her had a large hole broken through it; One hadn’t remembered doing that. She would readily admit that most of this last month had been a pain and blood soaked blur, so the state of this wagon’s roof was an unfortunate mystery. Big, flashy magic was not One’s specialty, and the idea of using a large, kinetic energy spell, or some kind of galvanic spell like Three through Six were prone to producing was not likely. But, the wagon now had a large hole in the roof and part of its back wall leading into the upper left corner of the door.

They had more horses now.

And two camels.

Feed for the beasts might become an issue. But, she realized, she was more interested in keeping the animals fed and watered than she did about the remaining men in her charge.

Not optimal… she thought, squinting up at the jagged edges of the hole where it outlined a bite taken from the oncoming night sky.

One had finally broken the enchanted manacles as her captors had rolled to a stop by the last travelers’ watering hole. She supposed it had been an oasis of some kind. After shattering the manacles, and the chattel wagon, One had taken charge of the men who had intended to sell her. Who had caged her. Abused her.

Once under her firm control, they had moved from the last oasis to this one. One had made the men leave the dark, broken wagon that now smelled of her own sweat, blood and rage in which she had been hauled in up to that point back at that last oasis. As a much more harmonious group, they had then ridden out from the wreckage left behind in what had originally been her own caravan wagon; though it now had come to smell of the desperation and sweat of these abusive morons.

A new well of fresh water had then been their chief need, and so they had then left for the next stop on the desert route. The last one’s waters had now been befouled by some of her more exuberant efforts, and One thought the stone bottom of the spring fed basin may have been cracked. She had smirked at that; let that jumped-up peasant, Six, be jealous of her power for once!

One had never believed the stories of how strong SIx had been; to One, it all seemed like bragging and nonsense. Certainly ANY wizard worth their education could do such things, if they committed themselves to it. Shouldn’t they?

Things were confused, and her thoughts were hazy as the day came to an end. More food, and especially more water, were needed.

Was it morning? One wondered.

She looked down, and noticed she now held a cup of water in one hand, and a few dried figs in the other. She could see through the green silk of her torn robe that her left leg had been bandaged.

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She blinked.

The bodies of two of her former captors lay on the ground outside, in the sun, where they had killed one another. It had been simple, once One had gotten the Weeping Wives from around her wrists and ankles, she had found some other sets of galvanic enchanted manacles. She knew how much effort they would take to come off. Or to break.

As two of the men had dragged her from the wagon for her nightly watering and feeding, she had touched each man in turn, whispering to them both a sibilant spell, making each man place a manacle set upon the other.

Gathering up, and gaining control over the others had been difficult work, but, as in all things of late, One had been driven.

It had been a fight. One she would never have undertaken in her life as a Pride member. She thought she may have broken that other well at that oasis. Knowing One would have been blamed, she had made certain that no witnesses lived to tell anyone who had done the deed. She was more than willing to let this become a thing of legends and myths amongst the caravans of the Glass Sea, talked about by travelers for however long they wanted; just as long as none of them could blame her for it.

One had come to this new watering hole with the intent of taking stock, healing, and possibly joining another caravan. First she had intended to thin out her “staff” further by having the two least useful remove each other. She stood unsteadily and watched as the two oafs drew their daggers and began viciously slicing into each other. One had known she should be doing something else, when she had been grabbed from behind by someone.

Things had gotten confusing after that, or, MORE confusing, and now she sat on the tail board at the back of this broken wagon, resting against what had been a decorative railing, sipping from a canteen. The red edged fabric of her yellow robe fluttered about her bare feet as they dangled and swung beneath her.

The third body lay near her in the back of the wagon, his chest slowly rising and falling. The others had called him Anuish, or something similar; she didn’t really care that much what exactly she should call him, he was now “Her’s.” In all ways that mattered, he was now her’s, just as up until this afternoon… a few nights ago… she had been “His’.”

From the well came the muted sobbing sounds of what she could guess was the fourth living man, a fat, sweaty fool, the others had called Ty, or Tie. Possibly they called him Taigh, One didn’t care.

Her mouth felt funny. Something was broken on the right side of her jaw. The pain of moving her jaw was a constant ache. And her tongue was in so much pain, she couldn’t move it, nor really feel where it was in her mouth; it was all a strobing, sunburst of agony. Each tip of the canteen to her lips brought her a measure of relief, but blood kept welling up from within her mouth, and dribbling down her chin. Some of it spattered against her black robe.

It must be evening.

She stared dully at the shadows on the ground as she sipped. Tried to swallow, then dribbled. The smell of her own sweat, and bodily waste shrouded her in the confines of that little wagon for months now, and while that wagon had been left behind, this wagon now also felt too tight for her, and she would spend no more than ten minutes in it before One wanted out again. She wanted to clean herself up. She wanted to wear something other than the tattered rags she had purchased the day before the caravan had set out from Northbridge.

Months.

More than a season, maybe two full seasons at this point.

These slavers had tried to make One into a slave, a product. A thing to be used as a tool, or as a disgusting doll for her future owner’s pleasures. A Less-Than-Nothing, to be discarded after too many uses left her broken, and either dead or as good as dead.

One gathered her Will together, and reached out with it to ensure the… obedience… of her new employees. She spat out a short, sharp, word that fled from between her teeth in a spray of bloody spittle. A word unassisted by a tongue that no longer lay in the mouth delivering it.

Of the four men who still lived, two standing cuffed by the back of the wagon, one on the driver’s bench, his face in a rictus smile, and the fourth shuddering in tears by the mouth of the well, none now moved. None could move, even were they brave enough to attempt it.

Tomorrow may bring another caravan to this well. One thought.

Tomorrow.