The Gloomcatcher

03: The Walking Trouble

N E R I A T H

   

    Viltarin Bethcrow sat on the heavy throne as though, ostensibly, he had every right to claim it. The smugness on his face was still prevalent as a healer stitched the wound on his forearm.

    "What's your name, girl?" he asked in his gravelly voice.

    Woman. Men, they all seem to forget.

    "Neriath."

    "Family?"

    He clamped his teeth together to suppress the pain shooting through his limbs. She could see them shaking, and shivering and maybe the healer too noticed because frightened, her hands halted and she hesitantly proposed, "Would you like the liquid of Black Plum, Your Grace?"

    "No fucking Swooners," he growled at her.

    "Not a Swooner, only an Anodyne, Your Grace."

    "Just stitch it up, wench. I can bear the bloody pain."

    Her head dipped back down, resuming her work. "As you say, Your Grace."

    "You,"—he pointed at her with his other hand—"I asked you something. What of your family?"

    "Dead," Neriath responded passively.

    He hummed. "You know what you've done today? You saved my life and you did the job of these useless, scummy faggots." He motioned towards his rogue men, spitting. "You're a fierce little thing. Strong and demarcated. How old are you, lass?"

    Woman. She ground her teeth hard. "Never calculated."

    "You look young. Womanly if I'm not erroneous," he admitted, frowning as his dark orbs moved around shamelessly to take in all of her features.

    She wasn't curvy. Her breasts were like two-fisted balls and her arse hidden under the cloak was almost flat, if not slightly round. She surmised nothing could ever go amiss in Viltarin's eyes—not even her insignificant cleavage. Men never found her attractive but it was only her long, coal-black hair that caught their attention.

    "Not very handsome but you have got the brain and strong guts, I must say. A fierce little thing, like I said. Be my Queen and I'd give you all you could ever dream of."

    She wanted to be no Queen. It was no silk, gold, or glimmer, no soft mattresses, no fine clothes, no serving maids that fascinated her, it was the dream she would see with open eyes—of revenge and vengeance that beheld her mind.

    "I will have to decline your offer," she said, stiffly, adding, "Your Grace."

    His eyes, just as quick as they were smoldered, were quenched. "Nobody denies the King. I'm the King now, aren't I? And any woman would die to be my Queen. You are a puzzle, Little Fierce." He grunted, the dislike prominent on his face but he had to succumb, she knew it. He would succumb.

    "Since you have saved my life, I would not ignore your words. However, I'd give you the privilege to demand what you want and you'll be gifted for what you've done."

    Neriath had been waiting for this precise opportunity—the opportunity to escape unscathed—as she watched the healer take her leave after aptly swathing the wound in bandages of fair, soft linen.

    When the doors of the throne room were shut again, she commenced, "I need an armor tailored to my measurements with a baldric to place weapons—yes weapons, several weapons I would need and that would include a bow and arrows, swords at least two, daggers, small knives, and a catapult—slingshot, I mean. I would also need a gelded horse and I would require a safe place on a ship going on a voyage to Tethoris and your word that no men boarded should bring harm upon me. And oh, food. I need food, I'm starving."