Sorceress of the Second Sphere

8. The Chevalier Des Serres - Peyton

Peyton studied the man as he walked past him eager to unburden himself of shield and sword.

"Jeffords, see to it that this man is fed and watered," ordered Peyton.

"Aye milord, and for you?"

By offering the prisoner substance, Peyton had squandered any chance to feed himself. To eat now would cause the Chevalier to starve, to allow the Chevalier to eat, meant Peyton's growling stomach would crescendo more.

"Just water for me, and Jeffords?"

"Aye, milord?" Jeffords replied, angrily towering over the prisoner of war.

"Make sure men are guarding my tent at all times. Make sure that no harm comes to the Chevalier whilst in my custody."

Peyton could see Jefford's eyes twitch furiously at the request, but with a quick nod, he exited without a word of dissent.

With only the two knights left within the tent, Peyton slumped to the floor, resting his back against the chest in which his sword lay. As his gaze returned to the chevalier, it was not returned in kind. The chevalier's green eyes refused to look at him, instead, they flitted around the room, studying every section of Peyton's makeshift home.

"Escape is futile," the tired Peyton commented, "but this is also the safest place for you within the camp, you have my word."

The chevalier appeared to frown at the comment.

"You name, sir, what shall I call you?" Peyton asked, still on edge despite the exhaustion washing over his body.

The chevalier remained solemn and quiet, staring at his captor with contempt.

It was the first time that Peyton had looked at the Ruvian knight. Despite his armour being removed, the chevalier was still stocky, and his curly mousy coloured bushy beard and hair couldn't hide the fact that he was likely twice his age.

Peyton knew that Ruvians were a proud people and the chevalier wouldn't have taken kindly to being defeated, let alone by someone who could barely grow whiskers on his freckled ginger face.

"While I understand your hesitation to speak, my lord, I must encourage you to do so. While you remain in this tent, you will be treated with courtesy and dignity. As soon as you are removed from here, both of those will be forfeited. At some point, the Earl of Caernleigh will request an update, and if I can not provide him one, he will take you and he will break you."

The chevalier snorted in a brief bout of laughter.

Peyton looked at him emotionless. "Do not think you can withstand his torture. I have seen men walk into his dungeons and bags of meat rolled out. His methods are brutal and degrading."

As his eyes drifted away from Peyton's, the young knight knew his captive was not taking him seriously. Peyton just hoped that the Ruvian would see sense before it was too late. He knew that it did not matter that he was a noble, Sir Emhyr Renfry would use any means necessary to gather information from the man in front of him. As fantastic a commander as the Earl of Caernleigh was, his moral compass was almost the opposite of Peyton's, and sometimes, Peyton felt his superior took exceeding pleasure in delivering pain.

He had no desire to begin a war of wits with the captive and instinctively rested his head backward on the chest, briefly allowing his thoughts to settle his troubled mine.

"Milord?"

"Milord?"

As the voice could be heard, breaking through his thoughts, he instinctively reached for a dagger strapped to his waist, resting it forcefully on the man speaking to him. As he opened his eyes, his focus, dim at first, settled on his trusted friend Jeffords, whose neck appeared slightly red as the dagger rested upon it.