She knew not when she had fallen asleep, though it felt as if she had not slept at all. Grest woke her with a kick to the ribs. It did not bother her much, for she was often greeted by the air being whisked from her lungs, leaving her wriggling for breath. She threw on her brown wool gown and moved to the kitchen to help prepare the morning meal. Selene felt like a ghost as she went about her duties. It was not until mid-morning that she noticed the frightened eyes of the other girls, and then she noticed the absence of Tira.
"Where is Tira?" She asked Marge as she scuffled by with a few loaves of bread.
Marge stopped and looked around cautiously. "She was visited by that man, the Butcher, last night, tis why old Grest is in a foul mood this morning. He is out a serving girl. Mopped her up from the floor is what I heard, though it seems near impossible to be true," Marge said with a shrug.
She left Selene standing there, fear trembling through her body. It should have been me, she thought. It was true that she had not cared much for Tira, but she never wished for her to endure something like that. No one deserved the gracious company of the Butcher. Selene spent the rest of the morning trying to be invisible. She had yet to see Sir Veran, but it was possible he had not moved on down the long road. He had a large host riding with him and the stables were still full. So, as the day went on, she decided that the less visible she was the better.
The day moved by at a ponderous rate, making the mundane tasks seem even more so. In everything she did she found her eyes wandering, all the while praying that she did not see his face or those evil black eyes. It was nearly half-day when she finally saw him, and it felt as though her heart was going to beat out of her chest. The Butcher rode in from the east with a party of eight, deer and other smaller mammals hanging from the back of their mounts. If there was one thing the knights loved to do more than drink, it was hunt. But what prey did they enjoy the most? Selene knew that it was not always the animals of the forest.
She shrunk behind a barrel and watched as the knight dismounted and barked orders to his squires. He had removed his leather gloves and was yelling for wine when a young squire of another knight—whose name she could not remember—ran to him and immediately went to a knee. Sir Veran looked down at the squire, who was no more than a boy, and motioned for him to rise. The boy rose and began telling the Butcher a great something. It seemed most important because once he was done talking, Sir Veran bellowed towards the stable. He jumped back onto his horse and succeeded in rousing most of the village. Horses were brought, knights gathered, and the inn was vacated before Selene even knew what happened.
The stable hand, Kritt, was shoveling straw thick with manure out of the stable as she walked up. "What happened? Why did they all leave?"
Kritt looked up and smiled timidly. He had always liked her, she knew. "Something about him, the Prince, they sent out raiding parties to track him down."
Stories of mystery and wonder filled her head at the mention of the Lost Prince. It was said that many years ago the Silent King had wed the most beautiful lady in the continent, Queen Somara of Panthos, in order to unite the two great kingdoms. Panthos was always an unruly nation of mixed religions and questionable laws. The Silent King meant for the people of the realm to believe that the marriage would bring peace, but the people knew the truth. There was thought to be no warriors more fierce than those from Panthos, and the Vint would do anything to avoid open war on Panthosi terms. The king tricked the Panthosi Queen and brought his host of thousands of men into the great city of Lilanth in the middle of the night. They slew countless thousands in the sleeping city. It took only a day for the Silent King to proclaim victory over the City of the Moon. The rest of his army had waited outside of the borders, and once the attack commenced, he raided every town in the small kingdom, killing and burning everything and everyone.
King Maras's reason for hating Panthos was never truly known, though it is said that the fighting people had betrayed him at one time and cut out his tongue. Hence his nickname, but to most that is simply a rumor. It is known that even hinting that the King is without voice carried a penalty of death. Regardless, he slaughtered the southern kingdom without mercy. It was said that his beautiful wife was with child, and because she and her unborn child were of Panthosi blood, they were to die along the rest of her people. But, despite his efforts, she escaped his grasp and birthed her child in some unknown location, outside of his reach.
The Lost Prince went by many names. He was the Night Terror, the Prince of Blades, and the Whispering Prince. He was the Dreamslayer, the Moon Prince, and the Shadowdancer. By his birth he was Kareth, a name only whispered throughout the realm. The tales of his adventures had reached every inch of the empire. Even the Trypt and the Isles knew the stories, or so she had heard. The word had been that he was slain by one of the Vint Enforcers some ten years past, though everyone thought it a grave lie. Death could not visit the great Kareth, it was thought, for the Children of the Shadows were ever elusive. Nonetheless, no new stories of the famous prince had been heard in near a decade. The empire knew not what to think of his untimely exit. However, the last few weeks had been very interesting as news of his return was met with increasing excitement.
"They think that the Lost Prince is near?" It was the best news she had ever heard. The prospect of catching a glimpse of the prince was beyond anything she ever thought possible.
Kritt only shrugged. "They do not tell poor Kritt much, but by the commotion, he can't be far, that's for certain."
"Then the story may just be true about Sir Fenley..." It only made sense that it would have been the Lost Prince himself to slay the King's Hand of Justice. If the stories were true, Sir Fenley was the best swordsman in the Vint, but Selene knew that no one alive was a match for Kareth. Butterflies filled her belly as she went about her morning duties. There was not much to be done due to the raiding party's absence, so Grest released her early.
The small town was not much to look at, but she got out about as much as she ate chocolate, so she welcomed the freedom. Despite the absence of the knights and their men, the town was active. Mid-supper had just ended and those that did not have fields to tend were starting their afternoon duties. It took her only a few minutes to walk past the smiths and then to old man Pallor's barn. She continued out into the flowered trees lacking flowers that separated the forest and the small village. It was quiet in the trees, and if there was one thing she missed more than anything, it was quiet. She walked slowly through the thicket of trees, savoring the wind as it kissed her face and ruffled her hair.
Her serenity was not meant to be, for it faded as quickly as it had come when she heard the shouts. By the time she made it back to the inn, chaos had taken over. Horses bayed and men bellowed as squires and hands alike pulled the wounded and dead to the ground. Selene looked on in horror at the scene in front of her. There were a few knights that she recognized riding in, and many she did not, but the only knight she was worried about was not among them—at least not yet. After a moment she saw Kritt running around towing horses to the stable. He saw her almost at once. "Safer in the inn if you asked Kritt, yes yes."
"What has happened?" She moved out of the way of a braying horse and dodged a wounded knight as he raced into the small opening. "Has the Lost Prince attacked the raiding parties?"
"Not the Prince I think, but a battle nonetheless. Run along, Kritt knows that old Grest will be in a foul mood, yes yes."
Selene hurried into the old inn and made her way through the throngs of people and to the kitchen where Grest was barking orders at the servers and squires alike. He noticed her a moment after she walked in, his face flushed red and his eyes bloodshot. "Wench, grab a pale of water and go tend to the wounded."
The pail was heavy, but she grabbed a ladle and went to each man one by one and gave them a swallow. Those that could drank graciously. The feelings she felt towards these knights were unusual, for they were the men that she had despised her whole life, but as they wept and gargled, spewed blood and moaned in agony, they were something different. She felt a weird sense of compassion, though she knew that it would be short lived. The second they were fit and able they would rape and murder her with the rest of the peasants, and smile while they did it. These suits of trust would soon be replaced with those of power, and then she would be expected to bend the knee once again.
She was offering a ladle to a young knight who could have been no more than fifteen when she overheard to men talking about the battle. They were both covered in dirt and blood and the stench of battle.
"What do you mean it was Tristos? Lord Went is pledged to the King, same as the rest of the empire." The voice was matter-of-fact.
The smaller knight was tightening his armor as if he were preparing to go back into battle. "I know what I saw, sir. It was the black and green of Tristos, I am sure of it. They rode in as our friends and attacked once they were through our lines. Cowards! The main guard is here, but Sir Veran is mopping up the rest of the force with the van, he will be back within the hour."
"Then you should be on your way to Harrendom. Take eight men and ride with haste, the King will want to know what happened."
"Send a pigeon," the short one replied with a frown.
"I will send you with a letter marked by mine own hand. I do not trust fowl with news such as this. Fetch your men, sir, and get on the road at once. See my squire, Jeb, before you set off and he will give you the letter. Make sure it lands directly in the King's hands, and his alone."
Reluctantly, the smaller knight nodded and, with a grumble, stalked off towards the stable yelling for his squire as he walked. The remaining knight brushed a hand through his dark black hair. He was easily over six feet, and was well-muscled, apparent even under his armor. The armor spoke to his wealth. It was inlaid with silver and gold, his crest sat large on the breastplate, though she did not know what house he belonged to. He looked over at her. Startled by his gaze, she looked away and started to move to another wounded.
"You, girl, wait." He moved to her, his armor clinging with every step. He had a longsword on his hip with a hilt that looked to be made out of some precious metal unbeknownst to her. "A sip of water would be appreciated," he said through an easy smile.
Selene nodded at once. "Of course, sir..." She did not know his name.
He took the ladle from her and swallowed the entire cup, followed by another. "It is Sir Lyros Regal," he said after wiping a fist across his mouth.
"Of course, Sir Lyros. May I retrieve anything else for you?" She hated the courtesies.
He smiled a genuine smile. "I have men requiring your aid. I trust that you will take care of them?"
"Of course, sir." She displayed her best bow.
"Good good, I will see to it that Sir Veran knows of your willingness to serve," he said with a nod of his head before turning off towards the stable.
Her stomach dropped to her feet. Did he know who she was? A fear grew in her that she did not know existed. Surely this Sir Lyros had no idea what had been said to her by the Butcher. His smile was so sincere, so pure. No, he was simply being courteous. Selene could not bear thinking about what was standing against her. The knight left her trembling and numb. Her only thoughts were that she would die tonight, and it would not be an honorable death. It would be the death of a peasant, the death of a wench. She would be punished for being born and then die in agony.
After spending the rest of the evening feeding and watering what seemed like every knight and fighting man in the town, Selene was exhausted. She stumbled through her nightly duties and finally, Grest shooed her off to her quarters. The word was that the Butcher was on his way in, and that in the morning he would move his force to the pass and try to cut off the Lost Prince's escape. Though, news of the Prince's attempt to flee was met with open doubt. Some were adamant that the Lost Prince had never shown his face, and all was but a ruse, something too big to understand. Regardless, Selene crept to her small cubby and tried to get some sleep.
Selene was met with dreams, terrible dreams. In them she died over and again in the vilest and degrading ways. She woke drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably, but she dared not leave her small quarters and risk being seen, the constant fear of reminding the Butcher about her was terrifying. Eventually, sleep took her, and once again she was met with night terrors.
Her legs were moving as fast as they could, burning with fire, but it was not fast enough. She willed them on, through the burn, through the fatigue. If she stopped she knew she would die. The world was a fog around her and the smell was terrible. It was his breath, coated with the stench of blood and flesh and mead and death. She cringed as she ran, bile creeping its way up her throat, threatening to escape. And then, she could no longer move. Something had her, immobile and weary, she felt tears stream down her face as she cried for help through vocal chords that emitted no sound. The eyes came first; she saw them in front of her—those terrible, black eyes.
"I have been waiting for you, my pretty." A voice snaked through her head and she smelled another vile scent, though this one unfamiliar.
Her eyes opened and she realized it was no dream. There, above her, stood the Butcher himself. Already poised and ready, he smiled a wicked smile. "I told you I would have you, my little muse."
Selene screamed in terror, a scream that could wake the town and send chills through the bones of every resident. The scream did not chill him though. He only smiled wider and reached for her. Dread enveloped her entire body, yet somehow she found the strength to kick. She found his manhood and he crumpled over with a grumble. She rolled off the bed and ran to the door, but the Butcher shot out a hand and grabbed her foot, sending her sprawling to the ground.
He was so strong!
His hand on her leg was so powerful that she thought the bone would snap. She wriggled and screamed, panic taut on her voice. He growled something unintelligible and moved up, grabbed a handful of her hair, and tossed her back against the wall. She hit with enough force to crack the thin, wood barrier. Dazed, she tried to run again, but he blocked the way and caught her with a devastating back hand. The world spun and the next thing she knew she was on the ground. He grabbed a handful of her hair again and wrenched her from the floor.
"Up here, my little muse, the ground is where the dogs do it. Perhaps I should take you like a dog, what do you think? I took your little friend like a dog, mistook her room for yours. It only ripened the peach more though, I can see." He laughed a horrible laugh and pulled her head back. His tongue snaked across her neck, her ear. A shudder shook her body and she nearly wretched. She reached her free hand back and jabbed a finger into his open eye as hard as she could.
With a yelp of pain he fell back and threw her against the other wall, taking a tuft of her hair with him. Selene crashed into the wall, but found her footing quickly and made for the door. As she pushed through it she looked back and saw him coming after her, one eye shut, blood trickling down his face. In all of her life she had never ran so fast. The world around her disappeared as she ran. She had not the slightest idea which direction she was going, but she ran nonetheless. Her legs took her forward, step after step, despite the pain that coursed through her body. Behind her, she heard him bellow something over and again, but she only ran harder and faster into the woods.
After a few minutes she heard dogs and she knew that she would not make it. She was on foot being tracked by dogs and men on horseback. It did not matter, she would rather die fleeing than suffer the hands of the Butcher. Farther into the woods her legs took her, the moonlight laid out a path and she followed it, darting this way and that, hoping to lose her pursuers. She risked a look back to see if she could glimpse any lights and never saw the large piece of wood slash through the night and smash into her face.