The horse stopped. Boots landed heavy in the gravel, and the wide door to the stables slid open with a rasping sound. Rebecca walked inside with her faithful steed. It was an elegant animal, tall and completely black like the night itself. Natta was by far the most valuable horse in town, and Rebecca prided herself on being the stallion’s owner. Natta was bred from her father’s warhorse and a sturdy black mare from the EvaKristijan family. When the Fri came knocking, she would ride out on a little excursion to avoid anyone exchanging the gorgeous animal for coin. It was not worth the risk to let them see Natta, no matter how much they might offer.
“Hey there, Bookworm.”
Sylvia looked up as through she had only just noticed Rebecca's arrival. “Good day, My Lady.”, she teased.
Shaking her head, Rebecca led Natta into the paddock. Petting the steed lovingly, she took the bridle off, before retreating back into the shade of the building. Draping her riding jacket across one of the half walls, she looked around the stables to make sure they were truly alone. Then she sank into the hay beside Sylvia.
Putting her book aside, Sylvia turned to her beautiful Rebecca. How she loved these quiet Sunday mornings, and how she loved those dreamy green eyes. What had she ever done for them to focus on her with such tender care? It was something out of a tragic romance, the scribe’s daughter, infatuated with the young aristocrat, a union that would never be.
“I dreamt about you last night”, Rebecca said.
Before Sylvia could ask, Rebecca placed one warm hand on Sylvia's cheek and leaned in for a kiss. Gaining a hum, she parted her lips to deepen the contact, demanding all of Sylvia’s attention. Sylvia felt her soul reach out in answer.
“You are sure enthusiastic today”, Sylvia teased.
“I was amazed to see you read that letter last week.”
“You have seen me read plenty before.”
“Yes, from books you know by heart. But this was new, and you were so quick. It was very impressive. It would take me a week to make sense of all that.”
“Do not underestimate yourself.”
Rebecca snorted. “Not even your father reads that fast!”
Feeling her heart beat a little faster at the compliment, Sylvia shrugged. “I sure hope I read better than an old man. Besides, he is out of practice with all the work around the farm this year. As thin as the crops grow, we mostly planted bitterleaf.”
Rebecca stuck her tongue out in disgust.
“It is not that bad”, Sylvia laughed.
“It is disgusting! It is absolutely vile.”
“Spoiled”, Sylvia teased.
Rebecca did not contest it. She exhaled hard. “Things are that bad, huh? At this rate there will not be a village left for me to inherit.”
Sylvia's face fell.
“Oh, come on. I am just joking”, Rebecca grinned. It was forced, her lips curving and teeth showing, but her eyes lacking the same shine of amusement.
“Are you really going to marry Miles?”, Sylvia asked.
Rebecca sighed and sunk back into the hay. She stared up at the high ceiling. “I have little choice, now do I?”
“He is a creep and an idiot”, Sylvia complained.
“Luckily! Could you imagine if he were actually clever? As much as he lurks after me, he would know about all this in a heartbeat”, Rebecca jested, motioning around their little hiding place.
While it was accompanied by a genuine smile, the joke did not lighten Sylvia’s mood. Thoughts of the future had occupied her more and more as of late. Even her father had begun nudging her out of the nest.
“You do not have to do it, you know. You could come with me.”
“Where to? Haunting libraries in Eshein?”, Rebecca mocked.
“You could find work oversees. I heard they always have work for strong women”, Sylvia said seriously.
At that, Rebecca dropped the act. “Do not be ridiculous. Life is not a book. We have obligations. There are things greater than me and you. There is family. There is Nyberg.”
Sitting up, Rebecca met the curious brown eyes and spoke sincerely. “You know I would want to, but you might also have noticed that I do not have siblings, as you do. My parents never had that luck. So if not me, then who?”
“Someone else can marry him. They would give him the town anyway.”
“But who will provide for my parents?”, Rebecca reasoned.
“The millers would surely—”, Sylvia began, but Rebecca cut her off with a huff.
“They would, sure, as long as there is plenty to go around. There has not been plenty in years. I know we welcome you with meat and milk, but even my mother is skipping deserts these days.”
Visibly upset, Sylvia fell silent.
Rebecca pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “If I could, believe me, love of mine, I would in a heartbeat. If you had more, or I had an older sibling, you know I would take you as my wife. I would ask for your hand right here and now among hay and hoove. I would leave with you, travel all across Sev with you. I would even cross the ocean and explore Eshein with you. But we both have to face reality. I will be providing for my family.” Pausing every so briefly, she added, “And be unfaithful to my husband.”
Sylvia could not help a huff of amusement.
Rebecca took her hands, squeezing them for emphasis, and calmed her voice again. “And you will find another woman who is not as tied down, who will go explore dusty libraries with you to your heart’s content. You will go wherever the wind takes you. In the end, we will both be okay.”
“I guess”, Sylvia sighed.
Stroking a hand over Sylvia’s cheek, Rebecca forced another smile. “Do not be so gloomy. We still have a few years to enjoy before he turns twenty.” Wiggling her eyebrows, she added, “And after the wedding, you can be my secret mistress.”
Sylvia huffed a laugh. “I am pretty sure I already am.”
“I am sure Klara would be happy to have a less secretive lover”, Rebecca teased further.
Sylvia shook her head. “It is not like I am planning to stay with her.”
“That is cold. You love her, do you not?”
“Of course I do. She is sweet and smart, and incredibly skilled, but I doubt she feels the same. Honestly, I am not sure she is even that interested in women. I think she just enjoys it when I go down on her.”
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“Who can blame her?”
A smile ghosted over Sylvia’s face. “What I mean is, I do not hope for a future there. I just…” She inhaled slowly, collecting her thoughts. “Sometimes, it is nice to be affectionate with someone special without having to worry, you know?”
Rebecca nodded solemnly. “Yea. But you know I love you, right? Even if I do not show it as often, I do.”
“No, I know. I get it. You are scared that Miles will see.”
“Yea”, Rebecca nodded. A huff escaped her. “He really does not like you.”
“The feeling is mutual, I assure you”, Sylvia scowled.
Tiring of the subject, she met Rebecca's eyes with a mischievous smirk. “Shall I write my secret lover letters?”
“I would prefer a good love poem. Maybe a raunchy note once in a while to keep my husband jealous”, Rebecca responded, a twinkle in her eye.
“Whenever I am in town, we will ride out to the silverwood tree”, Sylvia said softly. Waving a hand, she added, “Not that it is special. Just to spend some time and catch up, of course.”
“Naturally. Completely innocent”, Rebecca agreed. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Until it is not and I find myself between your delicious thighs again.”
“You are the one who should be writing notes.”
Grinning in victory, Rebecca came closer still, so close their noses nearly touched. While she found the stories and depravities of Sylvia’s books fascinating, herself, she was more proficient with actions than words. She let those speak for her, and she let them speak loud and clear. Kissing Sylvia, she reached for the loose braid and undid it. She tangled her hands in the thick, dark brown hair.
Sylvia closed her eyes for a brief moment, allowing herself to be coaxed onto her back. Grabbing a hold of Rebecca’s firm hips, she tugged, happy to have the entirety of that warm body resting atop her own, to feel Rebecca’s presence in her soul again. With practised ease, their hands found clasps and knots, slipping under cloth and roaming over warm skin. Rebecca ran her tongue along Sylvia’s neck and nipped at her earlobe, before manoeuvring her hand from the soft breasts, down across the slender stomach and hips, past Sylvia’s waistline, and between the tawny beige legs.
Arching up, Sylvia freed herself of the obstructing tunic, leaving her belt hanging loosely around her naked waist. She sank back into the scratchy hay with pleased sighs. Rebecca’s lips ghosted over her breasts. Warm fingers dipped between her folds, drawing moans, and one strong hand reached up to grab her throat and heighten the thrill. Sylvia relaxed entirely into the care of those safe hands. The pressure on her throat was not a threat, but a caress by an experienced lover who knew her body like the back of their own hand.
Lost in pleasure, it took Sylvia a moment to realise the yapping of the dogs had gone from playful to alarmed. Soon, the sound was accompanied by galloping hooves. A scream echoed from the east and Sylvia sat up with a start.
Rebecca sprung to her feet in an instant, refastened her belt, and peered out through the open stable door. Before Sylvia could ask who was coming, or even pick up her clothes, Rebecca grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the hay. Her green eyes were wide and wild.
“Come!”
Staggering after Rebecca, Sylvia turned her head to see what was causing the commotion. Two horses were speeding up the road from town, but it was not Miles, nor any other villager who had decided to rise early. The horses wore metal shaffrons, and on their backs sat two armoured figures with swords at their belts. These riders were not wearing the blue and green of the Fri. Their armours were not shined for a parading caravan. They did not carry a leaf crown emblem. These were bandits. Wolves.
Urging the closest horse out of its stall, Rebecca mounted without saddle or reins, and pulled Sylvia up behind her. Grabbing a hold of Rebecca’s waist, Sylvia held on tight as the horse hurried out of the stable door, and sprung into a gallop around the paddock. Rebecca steered straight for the protection of the trees. Before they had reached the edge of the woods, a twang rang though the air and the horse collapsed underneath them. Sylvia fell and rolled over her shoulder, landing in the dirt. Rebecca landed in a heap with the injured animal. Legs kicking wildly, the horse twisted and rolled atop her. Rebecca let out a shrill scream. Scrambling to her feet, Sylvia grabbed a hold of Rebecca, trying to pull her leg free, but the horse was heavy and panicking. One dangerous hoof nearly struck Sylvia across the face.
“No! Run! Run!”, Rebecca urged, pushing her away.
Without a coherent thought in her head, Sylvia did as she was told, and ran. She ran as fast as her legs would bear her. She heard the screams, the pleas, heard hooves leaving the gravel path, and her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears. The first trees offered her protection from any arrows, but the drumming of branches against metal behind her made her adrenaline spike further. Despite her best efforts, she could not outrun a horse. This fact, she was painfully aware of even now.
Suddenly faced with the side of a brown steed, she ran straight into it. Narrowly avoiding to topple over, she pushed herself away from the animal, but before she could sort her feet into a change of direction, a firm hand grabbed her hair. Sylvia screamed as her hair was yanked and pulled out of her scalp. She tried to wring free, but it only earned her a second firm grip, this one catching a hold of her belt and tugging her off her feet.
Swung over the horse's back in front of its rider, Sylvia thrashed and screamed. She tried hitting the bandit, tried pushing herself back down, but to no avail. A metal clad elbow buried itself in her back, until she finally stilled in another pained cry. Fearing her spine might break, Sylvia held perfectly still. Her breathing was so erratic, it hurt in the back of her throat.
“Hold still”, a dark voice commanded. “Run again and I will kill you, you hear me, Girl?”
Sylvia did not respond, but she did not move, either. The horse slowly trotted back out of the woods and she could see Rebecca on the ground. The other man had killed the panicked horse and pulled Rebecca out from underneath.
“Get up!”, he screamed, tugging at her arm.
Rebecca tried, but her legs gave in under her weight. She sobbed in pain.
“Her leg looks broken”, Sylvia’s captor pointed out.
The man stopped to inspect his catch.
Rebecca’s right leg lay at an ungodly angle, and blood was beginning to pool through her clothes. The strain on her leg must have caused the broken bone to move and poke around. Sylvia felt sick at the sight.
The man holding Rebecca clicked his tongue. “Typical.”
Grabbing a hold of her long brown hair with one hand, he used the other to retrieve a knife from his belt. He tugged her head up, and with one swift motion cut her throat. Sylvia watched Rebecca's fearful eyes cloud over and still in the span of a second. Blood gushed from the cut, and Sylvia could feel a stinging pain in her chest, as though she had been stabbed herself. It was hard to breathe. A crack like glass striking a table rang in her ears. The limp body fell to the ground. Rebecca's blood ran together with that of the dead horse.
The man wiped the blood off his knife before sheathing it. Nodding toward his comrade, he asked, “And what do you want with her? She is little more than skin and bone. I doubt she will be of much use.”
“She is pretty enough. I am sure she can make a few gold.”
“Right then. Let us see what else we have got”, the man with the knife said conversationally, and turned to inspect the stables.
Sylvia was bound and tossed over the back of a plough horse, along with two sacks of grain. The other horses were tied into a row behind her, and the men took turns leading the group further west and through the woods, distancing their loot from the fight now raging in the village.
Closing her eyes, Sylvia prayed the others make it out alive. Fuck the village. Fuck the goods. Just survive! She pleaded with Gaia itself. Just please, let them survive.
Sylvia was so angry, she was shaking. If she had had a hand free, she would have used it, her life be damned. The calm banter of the bandits made her clench her jaw so hard her teeth began to hurt. They acted as though this was a day like any other, like they were just travelling the lands without a worry in the world. If thoughts could kill, she would have seen their corpses fall off the backs of their horses. Especially the man riding beside her with his calm, sickening smile deserved a slow death. Rebecca's murderer. Sylvia glared at him until her neck began to hurt.
As they rode on, more bandits joined them, with wagons of looted goods and other animals. They brought oxen and cows, and even a few pigs were herded along. Sylvia entertained the hope that her family lived far enough from Nyberg to have been spared, until the moment she saw their two oxen and the old wagon join the gathering. The wagon was loaded with her mother’s pottery, the farm tools, and her father’s books, all their personal treasures tossed into a heap. Sylvia clenched her jaw again. Even their clothes had been taken. The fine dresses they would wear when visiting the mayor were sticking out from a sack dangling off the edge. The pigs her father had slaughtered this morning were tied onto a different cart. They were freshly cleaned, all bristles loosened with hot water. Sylvia hoped at least the cat had run off. It struck her how small a comfort it would be, but this hope was all she had.
The Wolves took a curious path. They steered along the edge of the woods, their carts wobbling dangerously across the landscape. Setting a determined pace, they soon reached the road, right where a shallow bridge led it cross the river. The Nyberg Trickle was more dramatic than ever as it ran red with blood. Wolves in stained armour joined them at the crossing of water and stone, jumping up on wagons or taking a spare horse. Crossing the bridge, they shouted excitedly about their loot, discussing prices and waxing lyrical about their horrible deeds.
They spoke of a broad man with a thick beard, wielding a large hammer. They spoke of a woman with long silken legs and flowing hair, defended by her husband until death. She slit her throat when they broke down the door, bleeding out over finest cloth. They spoke of a young boy who rode an oxen by the mill, waving a rake at them. They spoke of an old priest standing at the steps of the temple, watching the battle unfold in silence.
Sylvia let her head lull off the side of the horse, listening while the Wolves went on and on, speculating about what was to come. How much would the second caravan bring back? What would yield the best loot today, the quick removal of valuables, before it could be sullied, or the thorough search once every man and woman lay dead? The market would tell.