Author's Note: I think this is longer then what I usually write for these challenges, but still I think it is a good read. So put your feet up (on a table) and grab your cup of hot chocolate, or cool glass of orange juice. grins

A Fighter’s Freedom
By: Henred5

Pigeons could be heard cooing with the wind, they were hungry, just as the rebel troops were. They all ached for warm food, for thick gloves, and brand new chain mail, but that was a luxury they did not have.

“When should we strike mistress?” A young maiden bowed her head to her mistress, both young women were dressed in armour and held curved swords, swords that could easily cut along the back and rake out your insides.

“When the siege weapons get here, until then we must hold up our place.” The princess held what looked like a finger, behind her was a collection of fingers, fingers of fighters, enemies, even a finger of her own father – it was her strange and scary obsession.

The maiden shook her head in earnest. “We can’t last that long, they are too many,” her faith in her mistress was failing, as was her trust.

“We hold up,” the princess growled fiercely, her hands clenched so hard on her sword’s hilt that her knuckles turned white.

The servant flinched away from her mistress, although the woman before her had promised never to harm her again, she still wasn’t sure if she should trust the bloodthirsty princess. She turned to leave the tent, unsure of what to tell the general who had sent her in.

He watched her as she walked calmly into the tent, her sword was safe in her sheath, and she looked calm and in good health, but he could still see that sharp scar along her bare right arm. It hadn’t healed properly since the battle they had only just managed to win. He had tried to persuade her to see the healer, but she knew she couldn’t afford to. Even though she was the protector of the princess, a royal woman who didn’t even trust her general, she was still a slave – who didn’t get paid for her work. He was disgusted at the ruthless young princess, who had once been the heir to the throne of Yate-Vale, he had thought she would begin to pay Saleema when she had seen how well and much the young slave was willing to fight for her princess and mistress.

“What did she say,” he spoke coldly and sourly. The cold was setting into his bones, his clothes were worn out and not thick enough to keep him warm, even with the chain mail armour on.

She looked around; her eyes seemed to touch the eyes of everyone else in the room gently and silently, as if acknowledging their presence. She took a seat opposite the general. “She said to hold up, until the siege weapons that were promised arrive.” She spoke with obvious tiredness, her weary eyes drooped closed, and her breathing became quiet.

“Is that all?”

She opened her eyes instantly, “of course!” She snapped. She stood up quite abruptly, knocking the chair from standing – it fell down with a loud bang. “Just because I am her slave doesn’t mean she tells me everything, it doesn’t mean she trusts me.” She snapped viciously, thinking that everyone thought she was withholding information. She turned and stomped out of the tent with her curved sword swinging at her side.

Her hands picked up a mug of water and consumed its contents within seconds, her ashen face seemed so feverish, but she didn’t seem to take the time to worry or care. She strode over to the small mirror, inspecting her armour carefully, it had a few small holes in places, but she couldn’t afford to mend them. There was a large dent in her breastplate, where the metal spike chain had hit her during the last battle. As she took off the plating, her body tensed up, feeling the bruising tinge in pain. “It could be worse,” she thought as she took off the plating, inspecting the dent carefully. She placed it onto the makeshift table that held the mirror in place.

She was dressed in a top that went down to her knees, with two splits along the sides that went up a few centimetres below her hips. Her trousers were loose and comfortable, surprisingly warm too. Her light brown skin looked clean for once; normally she had grubby stains on her face thanks to the fights. As she carefully pressed into the bruise area she heard a tap at the wooden plank that served as a tap board for people who wished to enter.

“Enter,” She spoke clearly, even through the wince of the bruise.

The general strode into the room, his high stature seemed to almost own the room. He frowned at her clothes that she wore.

“That time of the month again?” He asked, smiling sweetly at her.
She covered her embarrassment well, nodding, she would have though he of all people would find it difficult to talk about such things – but then again he had apparently grown up in a family of five children, where he was the only boy and the eldest.

“You may be Asian, but there is no need to wear those clothes here Saleema.”

“These are more comfortable sir, they are stronger in battle then anything the other female worriers wear here.”

He shook his head, approaching her from behind. “Let me take a look at your bruise…”

“No, I’m fine sir.” She still insisted on calling him sir even after all of the soldiers called him Leo.

He frowned as she picked up her chain mail. It was obviously dented and looked like it wouldn’t take any more hits. “Why not buy another one,” he pointed to it.

Saleema shrugged, “I’m a slave if you remember correctly, I don’t have any money to buy, or to get something mended or healed,” she pointed out. The word ‘slave’ seemed to burn her tongue.

“Let me help then.”

“I don’t accept charity.” Saleema stated, her pride had already been hurt when he had saved her life twice, “just a shame I’ve only saved his live once,” she thought dryly.

His right hand touched her cheek gently, “it’s not charity,” he whispered. He wanted to take her in his arms and keep her well away from the battleground, the woman he secretly loved but knew he could never have. She was so different from the other flirtatious women he had often courted; she could look after herself and could wield a sword nearly as well as he could.

She stayed still for a moment, unable to place what the gesture was about, but then blushed and moved away from him, back towards the table. She wasn’t very experienced in emotions, or in feelings, but could tell he felt something for her, “maybe its just friendship,” she thought shakily putting the chain mail back down.

He looked at her forlornly. In an instant he was snapped out of his dazed feelings. He strode up to her.

She turned around to ask him to leave but he refused to, “let me see the bruise, then I’ll go,” he insisted.

She sighed, decidedly letting him win, she didn’t want to have another mood swing anytime soon when he was around. Unsure of what he would do, she carefully took off her top, trying not to wince under the pain of the bruise. Under her top she was relieved to remember she had put on a cotton shirt that came down just above her bruise, it added extra warmth. Yet she still blushed in embarrassment.

“Obviously a very modest person,” he thought, peering closely at the bruise; it was quite purple, looked like quite a few blood vessels had been punctured. Luckily they didn’t seem to be very important ones, he placed his hand over the bruise gently and began to concentrate on healing.

She felt slightly dizzy, clutching on the table behind her. The healing felt like a cool wave had splashed her. In an instant it was finished, though she could tell it wasn’t completely healed, the bruise was still there. “Its funny how its easy to heal pains inside the body but bruises on the skin are impossible to heal.”

“Not impossible Saleema, just much harder, I don’t really know enough to be able to heal it for you.”

She nodded, watching as he turned to leave, “thank you.”

He looked behind and waved at her, a gesture that it was nothing, though they both knew it was something.

She stood fighting on the front field, already her joints were weary, her hands sweaty and her right arm had began to ach fiercely. She cut down a man in front of her with a swift strike, her back against a fellow soldier and continued hacking down the opponent soldiers. She heard the agonising cry of the solider that had stood back to back with her, the sound of his sword hitting the ground was painful to her ears. She was now undefended behind on the field, fighting for life. An arrow grazed her helmet, and she smiled absent-mindedly; glad she had decided to put on the old thing.

She ducked an axe that had swung at her and rolled to the side, picking up the sword of the dead soldier. Both weapons sliced and cut into a few more soldiers before her shoulder was sliced into from behind. A straight edged sword caused so much pain, it had made her head spin in agony as she fell, stumbling on the countless bodies that she had hacked down. As she turned so that her face could see her attacker she felt the pain in her right arm worsen, it was burning as if on fire. She looked to her left, seeing the chain that was lashed out, aimed at her. It forced her to jump up – avoiding the chain with inches to spare.

As she stood up in the crowd of the enemy there were only a handful of her band alive.

“Soldiers together,” she barked fiercely, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. She backed into the centre of the fight, as the other remaining soldiers did. Even as a slave, as a guardian of the princess she was respected.

They all stood together, back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder, with their swords, axes, spears and pikes battling for dear life. She shouted the odd occasional encouragement to her remaining band of fighters, though inside she knew they were dead.

She almost stumbled into a large pit, a pit she thought had been dug especially for the dead, she noticed an extinct animal down in it, and its bones lay there. “A mammoth,” she thought sadly. Even she could tell it was only a baby mammoth. A species that only a few years ago had been striped from the planet.

The band was finally whittled down to three fighters, Saleema, another female fighter and a male, who had once been a guard of the palace. She watched in awe out of the corner of her eye as the two soldiers lay down their weapons, surrendering.

“NO!” She screamed hoarsely. A chain had lashed her leg, forcing her into stumbling onto the ground. She looked up, all blurry eyed, with only her curved sword to defend. As an axe brazed down on her sword swung up to defend the blow. Just as she was about to stand she felt someone punch her in the face. She succumbed to darkness.

She woke up chained to a stage, she looked around – still blurry eyed. All she could see were figures, holding onto weapons of some kind, they were all aimed at her. “Oh God,” she murmured, knowing she was about to be executed.

“You are a prisoner of war, you have a chance of a quick death or torture, though it depends on what your general and princess say.” A herald spoke clearly, his voice filled with malice.

She flinched at the word ‘torture,’ she had seen torture before, the type that the currant king had done was particular nasty.

“Princess, have you heard?”

The princess stood up from her table of fine food, her eyes were glazed with anger. “How dare you disturb me know.”

The general stamped his feet impatiently, waiting until the princess had shut up. “Saleema has been captured, she’s a prisoner of war.”

The princess shrugged shrewdly. “So?” She took her seat and picked up a glass of wine, taking slow sips of it, watching the general closely.

He shook the message on the piece of paper, “it says we must retreat to the bridge if we don’t want her to be tortured.”

“I refuse then, I won’t back down.” She shrugged her shoulders loosely.

He took a seat opposite her on the table, smashing his empty fist down on the table. “She’ll be tortured if we don’t.”

“Losses must be made if we are to win general, surly you now that.”

“Tortured, the king’s way. She might not even die till next week that way. At least this way she will have a…”

“Does the general have some sort of a crush on my slave?” She teased him, giggling like a schoolgirl.

“I…I…” He turned and glared at the guards, it was a silent command for them to leave, and they both bowed their heads and left silently. Leo turned back to face the princess. He pushed a plate of fruit aside, letting it smash onto the ground and not wincing – unlike the princess, who seemed less calm without her own guards in the room.

“If you are going to try and…”

“How many times has Saleema saved your life?”

“I don’t know. I’ve lost track.”

He smashed his right fist on the table, as if thumping an imaginary foe. “Over a twelve times since this battle expedition. She has suffered her fair share over this all. Don’t you at least owe her a straight and swift death instead of torture at your father’s hands?”

“She’s a slave, I don’t owe her anything.”

“She is a human, you owe her everything.” He turned to leave the tent to let the princess make her decision by herself.

She screamed under the burning pain of the lighted torch as it was scored across her chest. The long and arduous torture had already lasted four days, she couldn’t cope, and she just wanted to die, die quietly, without feeling so much pain all at once.

She could hardly remember how she was captured. What she had been fighting for, and the name of the man she kept dreaming of night after night. His cooling and soothing touch on a bruise she used to have. Her hands were completely burned; they hadn’t been bandaged to keep them protected, but left to the cold vicious air and yet more burnings.

It was a good thing she was chained onto the table, for if she wasn’t she would have properly received more shocking torture for lashing out and attacking the masked woman.

Her eyesight went blurry when a heated up iron stick was stabbed into her already wounded arm; she began to grow even dizzier, till she eventually blacked out. “Am I dieing?” She wondered silently, hoping for an answer.

“I’m amazed your still alive marm,” a strong accented voice spoke up, as if trying to wake her. “I don’t suppose your friends are going to arrive any second to end our misery?”

“Friends?” Then she remembered, the reason she was trapped in the hovel. “I doubt it,” she murmured painstakingly, her lips were chapped and slightly burned.

“No my dear don’t force yourself to move or speak, you’ll just make the pain worse.” He advised kindly.

She sighed painfully. Breathing had become quite difficult, thanks to her burnt lungs. “How long?” She forced herself to speak, trying to take her mind off the pain.

“A day or two, they must be laying off you now. Speaking of which I haven’t heard much for a while, I heard some screaming and some battle cried the other night, but I guess they must be torturing a new fighter.”

She didn’t reply, or even try to, her eyes were already closed and she was asleep,.

“I told you that we would win the battle and the war my fighters, even if we had to make sacrifices,” she stared long and hard at the general, his stone cold face seem full of suppressed anger.

The speech was finished and the troops clapped, cheering their princess on. As she walked off the stage the general grabbed her wrist that was in mid air, waving graciously. “If she is still alive, what will happen?”

“She’ll stay as my guardian slave,” she retorted, “I doubt she is still alive, especially since she was captured a week ago.

He let go of her wrist and walked off the stage, pushing her aside in anger.

“You were her fellow prisoner then?”

“Of course sir, she was a brave young one, even when she was being burned.” The old man answered back, he stood by his old home, which was being rebuilt as he spoke.

“Where is she?” He asked quietly, trying not to draw any attention from the workers.

“I’ll show you,” he bowed neatly and beckoned Leo to follow him.

He stood by the grave solemnly. “You made this grave for her?”

“I thought it was owed to her, a prisoner of war. She told me the first day I met her who she was, she seemed to accept her fate.”

“I can’t believe she died.” He knelt down by the grave and leaned his head on the stone. “I thought she would have survived, I hoped. I know I should have hoped she’d die quick but I wanted her to hang on, I thought we would get in within less then a week.” Tears formed and slowly ran down his face.

“You loved her?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He thought. He nodded. “She didn’t know…or maybe she didn’t feel the same.” His fingers touched her engraved name, “no surname,” he murmured.

“She kept mentioning someone, insisted he would come, he would save us both.”

His eyes alighted, “she knew then?”

“Probably, but maybe she also knew she couldn’t ever be with you. She knew she was a slave and wouldn’t be allowed to court someone so high up.” He watched Leon, “I don’t know if I can trust you with this information.”

“You can trust me, I might be fighting on the princess’s side, but it doesn’t mean I favour her.”

There were minutes of silence before the old man spoke. “There was no body.”

His head looked up at the old man, “your sure.”

“Of course,” he snapped impatiently. He shook his head and continued to speak. “She told me before her disappearance that she didn’t want to go back into slavery, that she didn’t want to be kicked and spat at again. She said she was leaving, I thought she meant she was dying at first. But she didn’t mean that.”

“Should I try to find her?”

“You need to think about that, your answer will come in time. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any more help.”

He nodded desolately. “Thank you.” His hands traced her father’s and mother’s name, they too had been slaves, just as the whole of her family had been. “At least your free.”