“Hope the ride isn't too rough, Lady Ferene.”
There it was again. The wagon's driver, a middle-aged farmer covered in as much dirt as Ferene herself was, somehow looked at her and saw someone better than him. For no reason other than her ears being pointed and sticking out at the wrong angle, a sign of her mixed blood. Ferene sighed. “Just Ferene is fine, and don't worry about the bumps. Stick to the plan, and try to ignore the fact that I'm here.”
Probably better to deal with someone who placed her above them, than to have to make this journey with a driver that constantly scowled at her, mistrusting her differences. Someone like that wouldn't have gone along with Ferene's plan to begin with. Ferene clutched her sword tighter to her body, the weight of it her only comfort. She lay flat in the bed of the wagon, a layer of wood above her, keeping her out of sight. Her plan involved her moving her feet off the footholds and sliding out the back, onto the road. Ferene's legs hurt, now entering the third hour of holding herself in this position.
News of a group of bandits targeting wagons on this road left the population of the nearby town scared. Ferene, following any rumors of bandits she heard, offered a solution – send an empty wagon, with a volunteer driver, down the road as bait. When someone appeared to rob it, the driver would make a break for it, and Ferene would slide out and start fighting. With no actual cargo the driver should be able to get away safely, and Ferene would either kill all the brigands, or die trying but make any survivors think twice about preying on this particular roadway again. Maybe. She wasn't entirely sure about that part of the plan – she just hated a certain kind of individual.
From her hiding spot, she heard voices, and felt the wagon slowing. The driver was talking to someone, but the wood made it hard to hear both sides of the conversation. Pinpricks of light shone through the boards that had been lazily nailed together to create the ruse, but none of the gaps were big enough for her to see. Her only way of knowing it was time for her to exit was if the wagon suddenly accelerated, and when that happened she had to hit the ground and immediately prepare for a fight – or to get filled with arrows from a distance. Perhaps farmers weren't the best tacticians. She certainly did not care – the only thing Ferene needed to do was cut down a group of completely horrible people that didn't deserve to keep living, and if she died in the process, then her previous crimes as a member of a very similar group would be paid for. Self hate made things easy, that way.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
She heard the driver shout, and the wagon jolted forward, loud thumps echoing around her. Wrapping one hand around her sword, Ferene pulled her feet in, shoved her other hand against the board over her head, and pushed. Just as planned, and practiced once, she slid out of the back of the wagon, hitting the ground boots first, tumbling forward. Tucking her knees to her chest, she turned her sword sideways and rolled, springing to her feet as she drew, tossing the leather sheath to the side. Five feet of sharpened steel held in front of her, Ferene spun, her green eyes searching for a target.
A man stood almost directly beside her, holding a long knife in one hand. She slammed her sword into him immediately, still turning to look for anyone else. There, she spotted two on the side of the road, holding crossbows. Both were empty, likely fired at the wagon when the driver bolted. The man beside her fell to the ground, bleeding, and Ferene ran.
Ferene specialized in running. The two bandits turned to look at her, one reaching for a knife, but she was already on them, swinging her sword with both hands. She dropped one, carrying her momentum around to attack the next. Blood splattered the dirt of the road, and she turned around, looking back across. Ferene saw no bandits on the opposite side. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself, feeling her heart pounding in her chest as she walked back to her discarded leather sheath. Picking it up, Ferene stared at it, holding her sword in her other hand.
The sheath was filthy. Her sword was filthy.
She was filthy.
What a “Lady Ferene” she was, a filthy, blood covered, former bandit. Noble Blood of Watchers flowed through her veins, and she stood in the middle of a back road, connecting one insignificant town to another equally insignificant town, her weapon covered in dirt, blood, and scratches and notches from too much use and too little maintenance. Ferene frowned, wiped the blood off her sword, and shoved it back in the sheath, slinging it over her shoulder. There was no Lady Ferene. There was no noble blood.
Pushing her hair out of her eyes, Ferene started walking down the road, following the wagon tracks. She felt only anger. Anger at her fallen foes, anger at herself, anger at her human mother for letting bandits raise her, anger at her father, that she never met, for leaving her mother. Anger at the world.