Dion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

The next couple of weeks were a beautiful mess for Najla, and though it was a chaotic assortment of tears and reunions, she had loved every moment. As soon as her father had brought her into the palace, Najla had received less of a ‘hero’s welcome’ as the slavers had joked about, and instead had been that of a beloved family. She found friends among guards, wealthy merchants, and the noblemen and women of the castle, all of who stopped her briefly, expressing their surprise and excitement. Her family would have been found everywhere, but her father first took her to the hall he resided in, a small wing of the castle dedicated purely to the rooms of Ali ibn-la-Wahad and his wives and children. Here, she was brought into her mother’s room, and saw her laying on the bed.

She had become frailer since Najla’s disappearance. Najla’s father had always told them of how his wife had been described as a ‘jewel of the desert’, and Najla had once been thrilled at how much she resembled the tribal beauty. Now, age and stress had made their marks where they had not on Najla. Jamile bint Nasir had been a tribal woman before, and thus should have been more accustomed to hardships, but here, her life had been her children. It hurt Najla to see her mother like this, weak and suffering, though she could not imagine she looked much better to her. Whatever they looked like, their reunion had been tearful, and Najla did not move from her bed as the rest of her family poured in. First her youngest brother Bassim was brought in, then Iffra, and slowly the rest trickled in, each taking a seat somewhere on her mother’s bed. Harith came too, and Najla swore she had never smiled wider than when she saw little Mehmet holding his hand as he walked in. Najla greeted Harith by holding him to her tightly, and upon releasing him, Harith would place his son onto the bed.

Mehmet paused when Najla reached a hand to him, trying to turn back into his father’s arms. Harith ordered him to go forward, to say hi to his aunt, and the smile on Najla’s face dropped at the sudden realization.

<“You don’t recognize me, Mehmet dear?”> The little boy shook his head, and Najla forced herself to smile again for his sake. <“I’m your aunt, Najla. I’m your father’s sister.”> She would try to convince the child some more, but upon seeing that he was nervous, simply stopped trying. Harith reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it tightly as he tried to soothe her.

<“It’s alright Najla, he will come to remember you once more.”>

<“I saw him at his birth. I was there, and he’s not even three and he’s already forgotten me.”>

<“They took much from you, Najla. Don’t let them take your life here too.”>

Najla nodded at that, squeezing his hand before she released it. For a long time, Ali ibn-la-Wahad and all his children but Jalil and Nura, who would return to the capital within a few days, simply sat around their mother on her bed. They traded stories and tears long into the night, and even as everyone retired to their rooms for the night, Najla and her sister slept beside their mother, still unwilling to let go.

She would forget Ketill for the next two weeks. Najla would not be able to forget his name, for nearly every conversation she had would involve the Servant that enslaved her. Time and time again, she’d read the shock on their faces when she held that he hadn’t touched or hurt her, and after a couple of weeks of this, it had begun to wear on Najla. Her life here would continue without Ketill, in a manner most could only dream of, but her conscience could not be free of him. The thought of Ketill in the dungeons gnawed at her in the moments where they asked, and yet, in the moments where they didn’t, Ketill would be forgotten entirely, lost among the multitudes of well-wishers.

---

She would come to him after a couple of weeks. While Najla likely would have forgotten about him for far longer, one of the Sultan’s advisors had come to her, and asked her forgiveness before asking what she’d like to do, as he wanted to decide before the slavers had left. Clearly, they were enjoying the hospitality of the Sultan, though it would be over quite soon. Najla had heard of Ketill’s actions in the court, as her uncle had told her of the insult he had spit at him. As the Sultan, the youngest son of a powerful family, Kamil was a man with little worry in the world, and he had not seemed too upset at the insult, and had even laughed when she mentioned that it was the same he had spit at Uzeyir.

It did not mean the insult had been forgotten. The Sultan was somewhat uncaring as to his fate, but some of his advisors had asked her to consider the year-long sentence. Najla could not bring herself to do so. Regardless of the pain it brought for Ketill, it meant a year where she’d spend every day beating a man to death slowly. Surely, this couldn’t be a just death? Their God has always preached mercy, especially to those weaker than oneself, and Najla knew that in this instance, Ketill was weaker. When it had been her, he had done as her God would have commanded. Did that mean she was less than a Servant in the eyes of her God then?

Najla had told the advisor that she would give her decision within a few days, and retreated to the temple. Those that had been in the women’s section cleared out somewhat quickly upon her arrival, and Najla set up guards at the door to make sure no others came, though it was unlikely at this time of night. She would spend most of her night praying there, and for the first time since she’d been in the capital, Najla spent the night alone, only to come to Ketill the next day.

As if Najla didn’t look out of place in the dungeons already, the guards would quickly escort her to Ketill’s cell, at which point the disparity had become even more obvious. While Ketill had suffered in a dungeon for weeks, Najla had been reunited with her family, her friends, and all the luxuries she had abandoned. She was dressed finely, in a thin blue dress with a plunging neckline, her hair done up elegantly, and gold jewelry wrapped around her wrists, fingers, and neck. She looked healthier than Ketill would have ever seen her, already having gained back some of the weight she had lost, and her eyes were bright and lined with kohl. Her appearance aside, even Najla herself seemed more confident and cheerful, and she dismissed the guards with a wave of her hand. There was a canteen in her other hand, and she would throw it in between the bars of the cell, allowing it to fall on the floor. Ketill would likely hear sounds of a liquid sloshing around in there, not the water that the guards so sparingly gave him, but a wine she’d been told not to waste on him.

“You are so fucking stupid.”

It was a strange sentence to hear from a Sultana’s mouth, but the anger in her gaze made it clear that she meant it. Her night in the temple had eased her thoughts somewhat, but Ketill had insulted her uncle. The Sultan may not have minded too much, but Najla was furious, not at the words themselves but the consequences he had brought on himself by speaking them. While there were plenty of thoughts swimming in her head as of now, Najla would not care to pick through them before speaking, instead unleashing her anger on Ketill at once.

“I offered you a concession. A favor. I was going to let you die as a man, instead of as a dog. Now you’re going to die as something lower than either. You are so fucking stupid!” She stepped closer to the bars, glaring at him through them as she spoke. “Do you have any sense in that thick skull of yours? You can’t insult uncle like that! He’s the Sultan, you donkey! What were you trying to do?! Did you extend your death for a year just so I would have to perform it?”

She stopped speaking then, allowing herself a deep breath. She wouldn’t look at him for some time, turning her gaze to another end of the dungeon, but when she brought her gaze back to his, the anger in her expression had not softened, neither had her voice, though she had managed to reel in the volume of her voice somewhat.

“Do you have any idea what they’re asking for? You’re going to be lashed, every day for a year, then hung. Tell me the truth Ketill, did you want this? Did you do this on purpose so that I’d have to do it, or because you thought I couldn’t?”

Whatever his response, it would not temper her anger. The Sultan’s family seemed to share this temper, especially the spoiled princes and princesses that wandered the halls and courtyards, and while it certainly made their politics more interesting, for those that crossed their paths, it was a danger they needed to maneuver carefully.

“I’ll do it, Ketill. Did you think I was incapable of dirtying my hands? I have taken better men from this earth, you think a dog would give me pause? For that which your people have made me suffer, this would be a small retribution.” She would wait again, trying to steady her anger as she looked upon him. She could feel her irritation rising the longer she was trapped down here, speaking to Ketill in a dirty dungeon instead of lounging with her family. She had spent the day playing with Mehmet in the pools, and was looking forward to sharing some wine with her sister Nura and some of her cousins before bed. In between this, Ketill was less of a person, and more like an unpleasant task.

Yet when she looked upon him, Najla wondered if she was wrong for treating him as such. Perhaps he hadn’t been too pleasant to her, but when she studied him, Najla wondered if he was capable of anything more. The kindnesses he had shown her had been enormous, however, and Najla found herself glancing at his finger as she thought of these. She had been reminded of them often during the past weeks, as many had asked her how she had managed to make it back unharmed, and Najla could hardly tell that story without mentioning Ketill. Therefore, though the anger had not left her, it seemed as if Najla had made a decision.

“I’d do it, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend the next year of my life lashing you every day, not when it has just now been returned to me. So I’ve come with a bargain.” She stepped forward at that, wrapping a hand around the dirty bars as she looked down at Ketill. “I’ll give you a swift, painless death. But if you want it, you will apologize to my uncle tomorrow. You will prostate yourself before him and offer the sincerest apologies you can manage for how you spoke to the Sultan. If you do that, I will trade the leather for steel, this I promise.”

Before he would react, perhaps embarrassed at the thought of having to make a fool of himself in front of his enemies, Najla would continue to speak. Her voice grew far softer here, and her gaze made it clear that she was not trying to bargain with him or ease her way out of anything, but offering him a true gesture. Her night in the temple had given her this much, and she had spent much of it recalling Jalil’s face, remembering her pain when she was forced to leave him.

“Where do you want your body sent?” She paused here, briefly remembering the sight of Jalil’s face again before she explained herself further. “I will not have them feed your body to the dogs. Servant or not, you deserve better than that, at least. I do not know how your people are buried, but if you tell me, I will see it happen.”

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

Ketill did not resist, nor speak, when Najla approached him and spoke to him. He simply looked at her with weary eyes, when she spoke of making demands, following the voices of God and the Sultan. Meaningless words to him – but she called him a Monarchist dog which earned a faint smile from him. It had been a Monarchist dog that had saved her from rape, after all. But he didn’t speak, only giving her that smile, a sign that he did not care for what she had to say. He was dead as far as he knew, and even then, he continued to press his throat against the cold of the blades. He lacked the movement space to end it now, but soon enough he would try.

Upon the notice that she would indeed carry out his execution if it came to it, he stopped pushing himself into the blade and seemed satisfied. He was quite sure she could not do it, if it came to it. Then again, she had killed her assailant in Coedwin. But he would see what happened. “Then I hope to die a thousand deaths at your hand, that you might come to understand what it takes to swing the sword,” he replied, but he knew that in the end his words were worth less than sand in a desert.

Najla said something about his ‘false idols’ which provoked some anger, but immediately after she spoke in Sawarim, and the two guards would move to grab him. Before they could, Najla interrupted them once more with her words. He heard her words, but paid no mind. Perhaps she’d found her Sawarim servants were easy to manipulate, but he was a strong man, who even now showed no signs of wanting to surrender. He would call her what he wanted to call her. But, he was also smart enough to realize that now would be a bad time to torment her further.

When that was done, the guards would continue. It was now that Ketill began to struggle, pressing his feet into the sand and attempting to move forwards towards Najla and the slavers. “It was me, a Monarchist dog, that saved you from the clutches of your would-be rapist. It was a holy man of these ‘fake idols’ that saved your life in Coedwin after you took a Monarchist life! You have every reason to be dead right now, but you live on! You have abused the trust of his holiness, the bishop! You will p-”

At that moment he was forced outside, and once outside, one of the guards lifted his hand and punched Ketill in the face, forcing him unconscious once again. <‘’He’s got such a big mouth,’’> he commented, before the two dragged him off to another tent where the Sultana’s wishes to have him taken care of medically would be followed up on.

---

The Arrival

Even from afar, Ketill had saved a breath when he saw ‘the city of Gold’. It was quite a sight to behold after all, and even more so for someone who was not used to it. Not even the tales of the city of Gold could do this city any honour. That was his first thought, but his mind was swiftly changed when they came through the front gates.

Immediately he felt the piercing eyes of the Sawarim resting on his face, the eyes spotting his three dots with ease. Though they did little more than whisper and point, or some yelling, it still felt uncomfortable. Never the less, he stood tall. His bloody wound had been covered, but the dried blood still remained on his face – they had seen no reason to waste valuable water on washing him.

But what stuck with Ketill the most was the nagging feeling that the city of Gold was not quite as golden as it had been made out to be. The shining rooftops of the holy buildings of the Sawarim quickly made way for stinking alleyways, with hovels made of mudbricks and, in some cases, various random materials. It was almost like these people were less well off than Broacien people, which was surprising considering the amount of wealth Ketill supposed they had. And, ultimately, he was not wrong about that. It was just that the nobles and religious controlled even more gold than the Broacien nobles and religious did. Perhaps not surprising. And despite the squalor of the city, it seemed like most people were, in general, not too unhappy.

They passed by a bazaar or market of some sorts, and while they passed, Ketill got a short glimpse past the large amounts of people that stood to watch the caravan of slavers. Perhaps they did not see slavers like these everyday – they were generally considered plunderers and savages, though perhaps they were treated with some respect as long as they behaved within the city. Or perhaps most people were just interested in looking at a Servant. Very few Servants ever lived to make their way to the Sultanate capital, after all.

The bazaar was stocked with people – rich and poor – and along the outer edges of the bazaar Ketill made out the shapes of cages. Iron cages, obviously owned by professionals that had made an investment into them. It seemed the slave trade was alive and well here despite the slavers being confined to the outer edges of the bazaar. Perhaps that was to become his faith. Momentarily he slowed down to get a better look, but he was quickly put on the right tempo once more when a slaver pushed him in the back and ordered him to walk. He did little more than grumble back. His feet moved on and soon enough he could no longer see the bazaar. Instead, they were headed for the large walls, with a similarly large gate. Perhaps they had not lied when they had spoken of offering him to the Sultan – a single promise that Najla would make good on. And perhaps the one promise that he had no wanted her to fulfil.

As the caravan came to a halt, Ketill was left standing still next to a dark skinned man. He looked similar to the Sawarim, but seemed nervous and uncomfortable all the same. Surely, a Sawarim man would survive the slavers, and make off becoming a house slave of sorts. If not that, he would be bought by some blacksmith and used as labour force. Ketill looked at the man with wary eyes, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man, but against better judgement struck up a conversation with him anyway, hoping the man would understand the common tongue of Broacien.

“You seem nervous,’’ Ketill said, looking the man directly in the eyes. The man’s eyes shifted left to right and didn’t look at Ketill directly, only past him.

“I will die. I will die,’’ the man repeated several times while continuing to fuss about, not making much sense.

“How so? A Sawarim like yourself would be well off, regardless, right?’’

Without saying a word the man lowered his tattered tunic slightly, showing his right shoulder. On it was a burn mark of a hot iron, shaped like a Monarchist cross. It was the sign of a convert – a voluntary one, too. Although most Sawarim men and women would simply ‘swear off’ the faith, and maintain it in secret, there were very few that voluntarily converted. And, while you could swear off the Sawarim faith without any real mark, and go through your business as a temporary atheist, the converts were branded for life.

“So you joined as a pilgrim then, not as a slave?’’

The man nodded, dragging the tunic back over his shoulder and continuing to look around like a madman. Ketill had seen it before – in Coedwin, when they were preparing to fight a large Sawarim army when they had threatened to cross the pass. The younger recruits would begin becoming fearful at the thought of death. Back then it had only taken some inspiring words from the captain or the Hochmeister. But this man didn’t answer to the Servitude of the Monarch.

“In the holy books it is written that the Monarch favors those who go in His name. You have nothing to fear – if you die, you will die in the mortal realm and pass to His side. You have travelled in His name? Always done your best to honour His name, and done your best to do good?’’

“Y-yes, Servant,’’ the man answered, slowly looking up at Ketill. The sight of Ketill’s face – stark, unwavering, even in the face of an almost certain death, seemed to calm him.

“Then none shall say you do not have a right to your place in the Heavens. And if you do not die today, but you are sold as a slave, then remember that you must remain in His light. Do not stray. Do what you must to survive – and once you have done so, do what you can to honor His name like before.’’

The man slowly nodded, seemingly calming himself with the thought that he would enter heaven.

“I see now why they spoke so highly of the Servants in the Hoffburgt. Before I came to Broacien, I lived in the Sultanate, near the border. I was in Coedwin when the Servants captured it. They… were not unkind. I was terrified of the repercussions of being a Sawarim follower, so I swore off my faith. But I noticed they did not kill the local Sawarims, nor demand an extra tax. They just… let them live. When I asked about that, they explained that they answered to the Monarch – both Him in the heavens, and the king of Broacien, the embodiment of the Monarch on earth.”

Before he could continue, Ketill filled in the rest of the story. It was a famous one, but it was strange to talk to someone that was there when it happened. “Because it is not in the interest of a Servant of the Monarch to kill innocents. The very definition of a Servant is to carry out the will of the Monarch. Our only goal in life is to obtain salvation and access to heaven. Killing innocents would shatter that goal. We would be unworthy.”

“I decided then that I would convert to Monarchism. My family hated me, and in this moment I understood. I doubted my choice now, knowing I might die. But..”

“These are wasted words, friend. Even a Servant is a man. I understand. I was merely telling you that the Monarch also favours the brave. Do not fear. The Monarch hates cowards.”

Again the man nodded. It seemed the message was clear. “I am Jonesy, by the way. Uh, well, I suppose I look more like my Sawarim name – Ta’iq. Nobody but the bishop that converted me calls me Jonesy.”

“I can see why. I’m Ketill – though, I assume you already knew that.”

The man nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything the caravan was to continue moving, the gates opening for them and the large train of people moving once again. Within the few moments of chaos, Ketill lost Ta’iq to the masses. He knew that Ta’iq would die – much like him, there was little chance. But where Ketill had a chance of becoming a slave to serve as a trophy, to show Broacien that their Servants were not undefeatable... Ta’iq was a convert, and to the Sawarim faith there was no worse insult than converting. Even one that swore off the faith might be given amnesty in rare cases – for converts this would never happen. The Sultanate would collapse before that happened.

Not much later, Ketill was introduced to the dungeon. He was stripped of all he had – though his sword and shield had been taken long ago, his clothes were now also taken and exchanged for some rough spun tunic, which made him look about as poor as a beggar. For Ketill it was like a blessing to finally get out of those bloodied, dirtied clothes.

He stayed there for what felt like an eternity. At first he had stood at the metal bars, watching the guards pass by with slaves. Most were taken out of the dungeons and never came back. At first it was the women – Ketill had no question about why they were taken. Then were the men – the able bodied first. The Sultan had first pick, and the rest would be given back to the slavers to sell on their own accord. Naturally, it was better to sell to the Sultan. But not all men were created equal, and therefore not all men were worth anything to the Sultan.

Then it was the converts. They were all going to die. There weren’t many of them – some five, perhaps ten. It seemed the Monarchists were saved for last. Some twenty militiamen had survived and were now waiting for their fates. Most would follow similar fates as the converts. Some might become labourers. None would return to Broacien.

After two days Ketill no longer managed to stand at the bars. The near constant stream of slaves was something he was used to by now, and he felt like his legs could no longer carry him as he stood there. He had sat down next to the bars at first, then slowly moved towards the corner, and eventually fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

He woke up at the clank of the doors being opened, two guards stepping in immediately. They walked towards him, ready to grab him. Ketill got up, however, and promptly stepped towards them. His hands curled into a fist, and with one swing he managed to knock the first guard on his helmet. The feeling of hitting metal was painful, but it was some sort of reminder that he was still alive and fighting. The guard reeled back but quickly returned, pushing onto Ketill’s chest and ramming him into the wall.

Ketill continued to struggle, wrestling the guards and trying to punch them, kick them, hit them where ever he could. But ultimately his waning strength and stamina caught up with him, and he was wrestled to the ground.

<“Ya Sawarim, this guy. Why do they always insist on fighting.”>

<“What manner of beasts calmly walks to the butcher?”>

<“Ahaha, a sheep, you’re right.”>

“Shut… the hell… up...”

The response to Ketill’s remark was a firm kick in the side, to which he reacted by rolling over and holding onto the sore spot. With a powerful move they lifted him and escorted him towards the main hall, through the dungeon halls. The walk seemed to take longer than needed, as Ketill came under the impression that he was being paraded around the large halls of the Sultan’s palace. For a moment he thought that he was being given a tour of the palace to impress him, but soon enough a crowd of noble men and women found themselves along the path.

It became clear that Ketill was only being paraded around like a trophy. And he had not even been ordered to death yet. He slowly walked alongside the guards, despite the rather cruel treatment. As they passed the crowd of noblemen- and women, he made a rather large gesture towards them, as if he was about to attack them. The guards were quick to restrain him, and the crowd stepped back in fear of this apparent savage. Their opinion of him would be quickly lowered as Ketill found he couldn’t reach them with his fists, and thus would resort to spitting at them. The guards were quick to correct this however as they both punched him in the side.

As soon as they dragged him further, the crowd of noblemen and women began laughing. Ketill felt, for the first time since his arrival, defeated. But the Monarch would help him, surely. He would not keep Ketill alive this long for no reason – only to let him die in a cruel manner? He did not deserve that, did he?

After a few more rounds they had finally entered the main hall, where a large throne room had been constructed. Or rather, one of the many. There were layers to the hall, with steps to go with them. On the first level, the lowest, there were guards and some girls – laying around on cushions. All of them seemed foreign, non Sawarim girls. On the second layer, more guards and more girls, all of them Sawarim. And on the third layer of the hall, there were only seven women. His extra wives, Ketill guessed. There were guards too – but these were all somewhat different. A different armor, different weaponry, more ornate... possibly eunuchs, or something like that. Ketill was not in the right state to pay attention to it, or guess as to what it was.

Instead, he focused on the fourth layer – a large throne with a similarly imposing man on it. The Sultan, most probably, and to his side some of the advisors. As he was brought before him, the guards stopped him on the third layer – probably to prevent the already violent Ketill from trying anything. The guards let go of his arms but remained close, very close.

<“Kneel,”> one of them ordered him, in a tongue he did not understand, obviously.

When Ketill did not follow the order, the other guard yelled loudly into his ear. <“KNEEL!”> And again, Ketill didn’t follow the order. He did not even look at the guards, his eyes remaining focused on the sultan in a challenging and brave way. But despite his attempts at remaining stoic, it was clearly visible in everything Ketill was that he was not the same man as before.

His clothes like a slave, his face, sunken and unfed, his eyes grey and somber, not the lively blue they were once.

Ketill felt the boot of the guard in the back of his knee and only then did he kneel – when he was forced to, not out of free will. <“Sultan, we present to you the capture of the slavers, a Servant of the Monarchist order of Broacien,”> one of them spoke, bowing lightly at the end of his introduction.

<“What is his story? Why are we not just executing him.”> One of the advisors had spoken for the Sultan, who didn’t seem quite as interested. Perhaps because this was boring, and he had seen enough slaves to know what would happen with a Servant – an execution.

<“The slavers claim he was the one that had unrightfully enslaved your cousin, Najla ibnat Ali al-ibn-Wahad.”>

The Sultan appeared slightly more interested now, but still did not speak. Instead, his other advisor answered. The charges only seemed to become more heavy.

<“Then he dies not by regular execution, but by lashing. His body will be exposed in the central market for three days after that, and then we feed him to the dogs.”>

The guards nodded, and went on to try and pick Ketill up. But Ketill did not seem satisfied, struggling against the grip of the guards. When he was grabbed by one of them, he broke free and got up, stumbling forwards. Immediately, he heard the drawing of swords behind him, as well as the guards on the fourth level of the palace hall moving towards the stairs and drawing their swords.

“You have lost your tongue?” Ketill brazenly asked. He stumbled forwards even more, coming closer to the stairs.

<“Stop now!”> one of the guards yelled, to no avail.

“Surely, you have a word to spare for the Servant, the Monarchist dog as Najla called me, who enslaved her?” Thud, thud, thud. His footsteps came closer to the stairs, and then one of them stood on the first step. “I don’t know what your men said, but I will die. So spare me a word.”

The Sultan smiled and slowly stood up, folding his hands behind his back as he watched Ketill attempt to step up the stairs. <“When did Servants become so brazen and ruthless?”> he asked one of his advisors with a humoured and entertained tone in his voice, while looking back at him.

Ketill saw this as his chance, to perhaps show that he was not some weak Monarchist peasant-farmer, that was scared out of his mind. <“Your father fuc-”> he spoke, the first few words of his only known insult in the Sawarim language. Before he could even finish it, the two guards behind him had reached him and pulled him back, holding onto his shoulders and pulling him down the stairs. As he fell down, he could feel the cold iron that he was so familiar with, touching his neck.

The insult had not gone unnoticed, and the Sultan remained stoic, while the advisors covered their mouths and gasped. Such a thing was unthinkable – Ketill knew, he would not stand for it if someone told his own king that. But the Sultan was not his king.

<“The punishment will be graver. Such an insult cannot be forgiven. He will receive lashing every day, until he passes out, for the next year. We will lash him publicly, every day, in the central market. After a year, we will hang him slowly.”>

The order came from an advisor again, as the Sultan did not wish to bother with this it seemed. It seemed like everything was said and done. But, as per Ketill’s desire to always have the last word, he spoke up again, the iron of the guards’ sword still printed on his neck. “Whatever it is you have sentenced me to, Najla promised me that she would be the one that performed the sentence! She promised!”

The sudden mention of Najla’s name, as well as the shouting, seemed to make the Sultan curious, who gestured to one of the advisors. After a brief moment the advisor seemed to translate the words Ketill had spoken, which caused the Sultan to nod and cross his arms, thinking about what to do. <“Then, we will ask Najla what to do. Besides… she was his victim – so therefore, why shouldn’t she decide what his fate is? Throw him back in the dungeons for now, and we will see what Najla thinks. Once she has returned to her family and they have settled back in, of course. She does not need to be bothered with this man right now.”>

It seemed that the sentence had been overturned – for now. Ketill was raised up and under the threat of the blades, escorted back to the dungeons, where he would be tossed back in and forced to wait until Najla had seen fit to give him a moment of her time.

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

She had only been treated like royalty again for a brief time, but Najla was already returning to the woman she’d been before she was Saina. She did not enjoy the parade of slaves they brought in, deciding what to do with each, and tried not to look upon them. Instead, she focused her attentions upon Uzeyir, who had proven to be a far better companion than Ghalid, or the slaver who had been stupid enough to ask for a Sultana. Uzeyir told her of the times he traded in the Sultan’s court, and she devoured this information, eager for any news of her family.

<“You said you saw Harith upon your last visit? How is he?”>

<“Well, Sultana. I provided the Sultan and Adina with a few gifts there, and I saw your nephew with them as well.”>

<“Little Mehmet?!”>

<“He’s not quite so little anymore, Sultana. He’s almost three, and his father has already taught him not to hide behind his mother’s skirts.”>

Najla laughed at that, for she had been gone for nearly two years now, and could not remember a Mehmet beyond the small baby who couldn’t stop crying. He was the pride of her family, and Najla had missed the boy dearly, though she remembered only a handsome infant with skin as dark as his mothers and Harith’s flashing hazel eyes, which she had always been envious of as a child.

<“He’s going to be a warrior, that one.”>

Even as the pair talked cheerfully regarding Najla’s nephew, another slave was dragged out of the tent, and they went to grab the next one. Though she did not enjoy it, it did not seem to bother her too much. After all, Najla had spent her entire life being served by people, and she knew those who were sent to the Sultan were treated well. Those who were outside the tent were another matter, and knowing how easily it could have been her, Najla found it easier on her conscience to focus on Uzeyir and the future ahead of her, instead of the rather dirty present.

When the next capture was brought in, Najla was forced to pay attention, no longer able to distract herself by focusing on Uzeyir. She watched as they brought Ketill through the tent flap, her eyes on the wound in his head, the shock easily read for a brief moment before it was hidden again. She thought he was dead. He should’ve been dead. How did a man survive a blow like that? Though she could hear that Uzeyir was speaking to her, a careful whisper in her ear, she could not hear what he was saying. She should have figured he’d be harder to kill, but as he spoke, Najla bristled, her shock giving way to anger. Perhaps his mouth would kill him before a mace would.

When Uzeyir bellowed out an order, cutting off Ghalid, Najla kept her eyes firmly on Ketill. When he belted out another, she watched wordlessly as Ketill was shoved to the ground, and did not react to the sight of his wound reopening when he looked at her again. In fact, she would look bored and haughty as their eyes met, an expression she had perfected long before she was ever Saina. It was a gaze that hid emotion well, though in Ketill’s case, it might not have been entirely necessary. His words would not visibly move her, nor would the wound on his head. It was the mention of her previous name that drew the first reaction from her, as she tensed slightly and frowned.

Yet, she remained silent and merely watched as Uzeyir stood and walked towards Ketill, stopping before him on one of the steps. Despite the slight anger that the name Saina had brought, a small smile crossed her lips as Ketill cursed in the little Sawarim he knew. Clearly it had been amusing to Najla, whether it was the insult itself or the man that spoke it, but her smile faded instantly when the guards placed their swords against his throat. Ketill’s roar had stilled the tent for a moment, and though no one spoke, it was clear that his desperation for death had garnered some surprise, if not respect, from the Sawarim around him. The Sawarim were a people used to the harsh nature of the desert and the cruelties it came with, both of which required a certain ferocity simply to survive. Thus, while his insults and presence may have irritated the Sawarim, It was a trait they respected.

Yet, even as Ketill spoke, Najla looked bored. The longer he spoke, the more difficult it was for Najla to maintain this expression, but she did nonetheless. Betraying her emotions was little issue for a slave, but Najla would rarely allow herself to do it when she was a Sultana, and would never show that his words had moved her, not in front of a group of Sawarim.

He had not treated her well. He had not been exceedingly kind to her, and had done little to endear himself to her. Ketill had not treated her poorly either. He had never hurt her, and though she remembered his harsh words in the dungeons well, she remembered how he had controlled himself, how close his hand was to her face before he had stopped. He had given her little reason to fear him, and had even protected her on more than one occasion, though Najla knew his actions had never been for her.

Did that mean she needed to save him? There was a part of her that pitied him, certainly, but she buried this quickly. He had never pitied her. Was he speaking to her out of some sense of duty then? He had saved her life, neither Ketill nor Najla would deny that, but Najla would feel no obligation as a result. He had to know that she could not release him, she’d be called a traitor to her faith. Never to her face of course, but a ‘Servant’s whore’ wouldn’t live long in court. Even if she did, Najla could not imagine he’d make it back to Coedwin with that wound, and that’d be a death worse than what he was demanding of her now. Perhaps it would be easiest to cut his throat right here, prove her devotion to her faith and satisfy his demands in a single swipe. Perhaps it would be better to take him, to remove the decision out of her hands entirely and let God and the Sultan decide as they wished.

A thick, heavy silence fell over the tent as they waited for her to respond, but Najla made no attempts to cut through this. Her eyes never left Ketill’s even as the blood poured over his face, making him quite frightening to look upon. She would not look away though, not here, not surrounded by her people. “I have forgotten nothing, my lord.” She spoke the words mockingly, a sentence quite similar to how she had responded to Ketill as they left Coedwin. Then, his presence had still protected her from the clutches of the man who sat near her. Now, it was little more than an unpleasant reminder. “But you have forgotten the company you are in. If you think any of those insults would be answered with a swift death, you’re a fool.” Her eyes flitted back to Ghalid briefly, as if her explanation to Ketill was meant to be a warning to the slaver as well. “If you had ever put your hands on me, I’d have you tied behind a horse and dragged to the capital.”

She pushed herself off the cushions and stood. One hand gathered her skirts as she moved to walk down the steps, and the other reached out to take Uzeyir’s as it was offered to her. She had only been treated as royalty again for a short time, but Najla had slipped back into the role with ease. She moved gracefully even in the tent, and when she reached the bottom, thanked Uzeyir with a polite nod of her head as she released his hand. <“Allow me a moment to speak with him.”> He nodded and stepped back, but the guards did not draw their swords from Ketill’s throat. Her eyes looked almost bored when they trained upon Ketill, but perhaps he’d see some anger in them when she began to speak.

“You won’t spit on me too, will you?”

It was a rhetorical question, for she moved forward even as she asked it. He’d be a fool to do so now, she’d have little choice but to kill him after such an insult. Najla did not move too close to him however, stopping while there was still a few paces between them. She did not order the guards to pull their swords from his throat either, only watching him with that same bored expression, her eyes revealing none of the doubts in her mind.

Finally, she continued to speak. It was a voice she had never spoken in to or around Ketill, but a voice she fell into naturally. Najla’s voice was calm, and even her threats were spoken without anger, but allowed to sit as they were, carried by the confidence in her tone. It was the voice of someone who was used to people listening when she spoke, no longer that of a slave who needed to bargain, but that of a Sultana.

“Do not fool yourself into thinking that your deeds make you a good man, for it won’t fool me. Remember who you make demands of now, Servant. I follow no will but that of God and the Great Sultan, not even my own, and certainly not that of a Monarchist dog. But, I will offer you a concession.” She stepped forward then, taking Ketill’s chin into her hand softly. It seemed as if she did not notice how his blood spilled down his face, creeping towards her hand, and she would not draw her hand even as it threatened to stain it. Her touch was light and gentle as she turned his head to study the wound from another angle, seemingly taking great care to make sure she did not hurt him farther. Finally, her gaze went down to his eyes, and she remembered how he had handed her the reins. Had he been helping her to flee? He hadn’t been able to finish his words before they had given him this wound, and so perhaps she’d never know.

“If you wish for me to kill you, I will. Whatever manner of death is decided for you, I will be the one to execute it. You will face no death I cannot carry out.”

Perhaps it should have been a comfort. It might have meant a swift death for her own sake, a quick swipe of the blade so she would not be forced to make him suffer. But Najla had chosen her words carefully, and she had meant for the threat of being dragged behind a horse to linger, both for Ketill and Ghalid. Ketill knew little of her, and thus, no clue as to what she was capable of or be willing to enact. Even beyond her threats, there was a more frightening promise in her words: she would not be the one to decide his fate.

“Go and pray to your false idols that you die swiftly, but remember that it will be my God that decides.”

She released him then, stepping back to look at Uzeyir again.

<“Bring him with us to the capital. You may present him as a token, proof of what you have done for me and for your Sultan. It will not be forgotten.”>

Uzeyir nodded at her command, pleased by her hint that she would speak highly of him in the Sultan’s court. The guards moved to take Ketill out of the room again, and though Najla would not explain his fate to him, perhaps he had heard the word Sultan, or would understand when the men took their swords from his throat. Uzeyir offered her his hand again, and she took it with her unbloodied hand, once again stepping up the platform delicately. As they pulled Ketill up, she turned back to look at him once more, and finally, some anger came out in her words, rather than the controlled tone she’d been using.

“If I ever hear you refer to me as Saina again, I will have your tongue ripped out. Or I’ll do it myself, if you so prefer.”

Before he could respond however, her eyes went to the two guards who had been ready to drag him out. <“He’ll never make it in this condition. Have his wound treated before we leave.”> They bowed their heads at her order, and though they might have repeated her title, she had already returned to her seat among the cushions. She sat down gently, but would not look upon Ketill as they dragged him out once more, her mind swimming.

She had prolonged his life by a few more days, at least, if the wound did not take him first. Perhaps it was a mistake to keep him alive, and perhaps it had been a greater mistake to promise that she would be the one to take his life. In that matter, she had little choice, Najla could not sentence him to death if she would not be willing to enact it. She could bring a blade on his neck, but what if they sentenced him to death by lashing? She would have no chance to hesitate if it was the former, but if his death was prolonged, Najla worried she might find a reason to pause. Ketill certainly wasn’t her favorite person, but he had given her little reason to hate him beyond the three marks on his forehead. Najla supposed it didn’t matter, those marks would be more than enough to sentence him to a public death, and they’d have to be enough for her to carry it out.

<“Sultana.”> The word drew her out of her thoughts, and she looked up at Uzeyir once more. They’d dragged Ketill from the tent, seemingly having gone to fetch the next few slaves, and Uzeyir climbed up the stairs after her, joining her on the cushions before he spoke.

<“Sultana, you are generous for allowing us this token, but I worry that the Servant will threaten you. I will spare no effort to return you safely, but if you should ever wish for me to take the dog’s life-”>

<“You are kind for worrying, but it is a worry without reason. The Servant will not hurt me.”>

---

Al-Tirazi had been referred to as ‘the Golden City’ before, which would come as a surprise both to those who had never seen it, and those who had never left it. Those who made the treacherous journey across the Sawarim lands would see the name for all it was worth, as the golden domes of their temples glinted under the heavy light of the sun from a distance, announcing the capital on the horizon. To those who lived within it, it was a dusty and sweltering home, but to those who traveled to it, it was a beacon of relief in an empty desert.

The capital was built deep into the desert, just where the sands began to turn to stone, allowing them to build the seat of an empire. The land was less flat here, and with clever enough irrigation, they had managed to find a land they could actually grow in. It had first been built around an enormous oasis, and the city had grown from there, first as a trading site, and then as the seat of the Sultanate. Now, the city was sprawling, contained only by its massive walls. They could no longer rely purely on the oasis, but if the Sawarim understood one thing, it was water. They had quickly learned how to irrigate the land around them enough to grow some food, nowhere near enough to support the city alone, but it allowed some patches of green in between the Sawarim settlements that lay in the stone. The city also had enormous water reserves, prepared for any crisis. These rarely came however, for the city was a beacon of trade and no man would be foolish enough to try and lay a siege on the capital, knowing they’d have to bring their army across the desert to do so. Thus, the city and the far poorer settlements that were allowed some distance from the wall were some of the safest areas of the Sultanate, and one of the few pockets without raiders.

Nevertheless, the large walls of the city were heavily guarded, and any who wished to cross into the gates were watched closely by archers atop the walls and guards beneath it. The slavers would have little trouble getting through, as many of their kind crossed through these walls daily, joining the multitudes of traders and Sawarim who made the treacherous journey. Upon entering, they’d be greeted with a noisy city, bustling with people on every corner. They were mostly Sawarim, but it was not odd to see Broaciens as well, mostly in the form of slaves. While all the Sawarim preferred clothing that was loose-fitting and brightly colored, the Sawarim people in the capital came from all over the Sultanate, and their dress styles varied according to this. Some women covered their heads and bodies, some wore the thinnest dresses, bearing a great deal of skin. Similarly, some of the men were bare-chested, some in the long robes that kept the skin from the heat of the desert, and some with long, elegantly tailored tunics. It was a city bustling with noise, the people called from stalls and homes to each other, and at certain moments during the day, the sounds of prayer rang out from the tops of the temples, spreading across the city.

The city was built around its main structures, meaning that major areas of the city had wide, open streets that allowed for its public to gather and trade. Here, stalls were set up along roads and within markets. The bazaar in front of the great temple was the most largest and most carefully sorted of all, and the stalls near the temple were those selling books or religious ornaments. It was only at a certain distance from the temple that merchants were allowed to sell anything beyond these items, and slave merchants were banished to the edges of this market entirely. There were other markets around the city, but none quite so large, and far more haphazardly sorted. As the roads moved further away from these areas, they grew tighter, narrower, and more winding, some even covered to protect those who lived beneath from the blazing sun. While some merchants lived in homes just beside the markets or above their shops, if they were wealthy enough to own stores, most of the city lived within these streets. Most of the houses were made of mudbrick and of varying sizes and styles. Some were small, meant for a single family, but some were large messes of structures patched together for multiple families to live in together.

The city was crafted of the few materials they had, and the mudbrick houses looked similar to the desert surrounding the capital, almost as if the city rose from the sand around it. The quality of these houses depended on the neighborhood, and the neighborhood depended on their position. Those near markets and the palace of the Sultan were often those of wealthier merchants, and these houses were far larger, with walls, gardens, and courtyards, built with a far more solid material and often guarded. A great majority of the city did not live in these groupings, but in the neighborhoods around it, where the mudbrick houses would be small and poorly built, and would sometimes give way to tents and shacks when the houses turned to slums.

Unlike the other cities in the Sultanate, which housed their leaders near their largest temples, the Sultan’s palace was separated from the markets and Great temple entirely. Here, the walls rose nearly as high as they did around the city, separating the opulence of their rulers from their people. The gates would open to a splendid palace, which sat high above the rest of the city, gleaming in the desert sun. This was the home of the Sultan, his family, and his court, and where the Sultanate conducted all its imperial business from. It was restricted for most of the locals of the city, and for good reason, for while the outside was magnificent in comparison to the city, the interior was an exercise in opulence unlike any before.

The palace was divided into separate sections by four courtyards. The courtyards had been placed so that the largest was in the middle, the other three situated around it. The Sultan and his family spent most of their days within these enormous courtyards, surrounded by more green than most of the Sawarim people had ever seen. Their gardens were lush and exquisite, their fountains massive, a clear indicator of their position in a society where every drop of water meant life, and they were spending their drops in fountains for children to play in.

The halls inside would be just as splendid, as the Sultan lived surrounded by high walls, arched doorways, and decorated rooms, as each room often had splendid colors and paintings drawn on the walls themselves. The audience hall, where the slavers would be received, was the most lavish of all, decorated with a mosaic made of shattered mirrors, soaking the entrance in a golden light before they were brought in to approach the Sultan. Those who lived and worked within these lavish rooms were not blind to the disparity, one only had to look out the palace windows to see the rest of the city and the harsh land beyond it, and they would see how differently Sultanate royalty lived.

---

Najla had kept her face covered as they moved through the city, the small group of slaves escorted through the main streets slowly, parting through the crowd with difficulty. The slavers had joked about her making a ‘hero’s return’ but Najla wanted no trouble before she reached her family. While she was able to keep her face covered, hiding herself from any who might have recognized her, the captures had not been granted such a luxury, and thus Ketill was facing a great deal of attention. He’d get a lot of stares and whispers, and perhaps some calls, but none would seek to harm him, not willing to risk the retribution of the slavers for harming a capture. Najla would keep her eyes on the palace ahead, ignoring any attention placed upon Ketill, her heart racing at how close she was to home.

They approached the gates of the palace, and it was at one of these gates that the slavers were stopped by guards, and asked to identify themselves and their business. While the slavers talked, Najla peeked in through the gates, studying the castle guard for any familiar faces. Their conversation was drowned out at the sight of one, and she nearly raced through the gates herself before they were allowed in at all. He was closer than he’d been in a year, and though the slavers conversation with the guard lasted a brief moment, it felt like a lifetime. Finally, when the guards had allowed them to pass, she was the first of their train to do so, and had only made it in a few steps on her horse before she dismounted eagerly, pulling the scarf off her face.

“Papa!” The call rang loudly, drawing the attention of many of the guard, but Najla’s eyes were focused on one. He was in his late fifties, with bright hazel eyes, dark skin and hair, though white had started to pepper his deep black hair. Najla would have sworn she had not seen so much before. He was speaking hurriedly to a small group of guards, but her call had drawn his attention, and he turned to look at the source, only to pause. She did not give him a chance to take in what was happening, and gave no care as to who was watching, but closed the short distance between them in a brief run. She practically jumped onto him, wrapping her arms around him and pulled him to her tightly, even as she felt his arms wrap around her too, clutching her so fiercely she thought she might break. For a long moment they simply held each other, and Najla would feel her father’s shoulders begin to move under her arms, as if he were crying. When they would finally pull away, no tears had spilled down his cheeks yet, but Najla’s were wet with them. They held on to each other even as they pulled apart enough to speak.

<”My child, my blood, daughter, I don’t believe it. Ya Sawarim, he has answered all my prayers, I don’t believe it! You must be a ghost-”>

Najla laughed even as she reached up a hand to wipe her tears, looking up at her father, who still had not moved from his shock.

<“I am no ghost, papa, I missed you so much-”>

<“My daughter, I-Jalil. Do you have news of your brother?”>

There was a silence then, and Najla could not bring herself to say the words. Her vision blurred as tears returned to her eyes, and though she would not see it, her father would react as well. She shook her head softly, and buried her face in her father’s chest when he pulled her to him once more.

<“Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?”>

<“I’m unhurt.”> She replied, never releasing him even as she did. <“No one hurt me, papa. No one laid a hand on me.”>

She could feel her father’s relief at those words, and knew that she had dispelled months of fearful worrying as to her treatment. When they parted after a long moment, Najla could see that the guards were looking upon them in awe, and a brief glance showed some familiar faces, though none she cared to speak to now.

<“How did you return? How did you survive unharmed?”>

<“Luck, the mercy of God, I don’t know. These men brought me home.”> She turned back to indicate Uzeyir and the other slavers that had returned with them, ignoring Ketill in her count. They continued to speak briefly, but as soon as she had readied herself, they were both eager to return to the palace and spread the news. Grasping her father’s hand, they returned to thank the slavers.

<“You have my eternal gratitude and thanks, may you be blessed forever for bringing my daughter to me. You shall have every hospitality we can afford you.”>

<“It is merely a pleasure to serve the Sultan.”>

<“I will speak with you later Uzeyir, you have done my family a great service.”>

<“Of course Sultana, go and see your family.”>

With that, everything behind her had been forgotten. She would thank the slavers formally later, and her father would return to finish his command. Ketill and the other slaves would be dealt with, and she’d have to explain Jalil’s fate, but none of that mattered now. Even her horse had simply been abandoned in the road, and she grasped at her father’s arm as they began walking towards to the palace together.

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

As Ketill came back to consciousness, he found himself being dragged through the sand by two figures. Either one of them held on to one of his wrists, while they drug him back to what seemed to be their camp. His vision faded slightly, and he closed his eyes preparing to lose consciousness again. He merely focused on their words. He couldn’t understand them, but perhaps he could hear a single word that he knew, to figure out what would happen.

<‘’They are always so heavy. How did we get stuck with haul-duty? We don’t even know if this one will make it. Look at the bump on his head – whoever did him did a good job of mashing his face in.’’>

<‘’Yeah.. seems that way. And while we’re dragging this ugly guy around, they’re having fun with the slaves in the camp. I swear, if I find out Nasir touched that girl I found..’’>

<‘’Calm down. We’ll just drop this guy off, kill him when we’re given the order, and then we’ll go find your girl.’’>

Ketill couldn’t understand much of it. He was obviously not well versed in the Sawarim tongue nor was he intending to learn it at any point in his life. He was too old for that, and had too little use for it. Well, that’s what he thought. He also figured that he wished he’d spent more time trying to learn that language. But one word stood out to him. Kill. He would be killed. At least, that’s what he understood.. and knowing the Sawarim feelings towards Servants and his obvious mark as a Servant, it would be the first thing they’d consider for him.

As they dragged him towards the ‘slave’ area, he simply let them carry on, not resisting or showing signs of life. It would be wasted effort. If only he had a knife – he’d show them the Monarchists would die before capture all the same. Perhaps there would have been some more dignity in suicide than in the cruel death the Sawarim had planned for him. Or perhaps that would’ve been the cowards way out.

With a sudden thud, he was dropped into the sand. He laid there for a bit, listening to the sounds around him. After a few seconds, he put his hands next to his head, and slowly pushed himself up, blood dropping down from his head. It stained the sand, reminding him precisely what a battlefield would look like, or perhaps ten times worse.

<‘’Seems he’s alive. Let’s leave him for now. Did you bind his legs?’’>

<‘’Of course. There’s always one that tries to run, and it always looks so funny. Let’s hope it’s him. I’d love to see a Servant run for his life.’’>

Ketill continued to push himself up and managed to get himself to sit up, before he would look around and see what had happened. There were plenty of survivors – of course.. they would see to it that people survived their wounds. A dead slave was not worth selling. He looked around for Najla, but found no such luck. He then looked for anyone else he might know. Again, no such luck.
So he sighed, and looked around, his blood stained hair sticking to his forehead. His head hurt badly, like someone was taking a battering ram to his brain. ‘The Siege of Ketill’s Head.’ That would make for a great poem one day, he thought briefly, before a sharp pain forced him to shake that thought. Humour would be a bad idea right now.. no time for it, nor the pain-resistance.

He managed to form a slight grin as he looked at the major tent in the center. It was only a matter of time before they sent for him. Among the fifty Broacien men and women around him, he would’ve felt like he could blend in. But for once in his life, the three marks on his head felt more like a curse than a sign of service.

From the tent, a man stepped, holding on to a set of chains. Shortly behind him a blonde woman followed. With his eyesight fuzzy from the blow to his head, he could not quite make out who it was. That was, until she came closer. The slaver guided her and she followed with a bowed head, before she was set down next to Ketill. Only when she sat there, did he recognize her.

‘’Anne,’’ he said. His tone was remarkably casual for the situation they were in and it seemed to catch Anne off guard. He looked her up and down, and noticed that her clothes were still intact. So, at least she had not been raped. Yet. One single glance around him would show off just how many camp followers had been captured. They were defenceless and fragile, so it made sense they were the main victim of the slavers when it came to slaves.

Just to the left of them, not even two meters further, a woman was on her back, her legs spread out as the Sawarim man saw fit to take her. Whereas she might have resisted at first, it seemed she had seen quickly how futile it was, and now merely laid there. Whether she enjoyed it or not was a question Ketill did not dare ask himself. Several more men had already lined up to be next.

‘’Ketill, I thought they killed you,’’ Anne said in a hushed voice, careful not to anger the guards.

‘’So did I. But, rest easy. I know they will come for me soon. Servants don’t live long in the company of Sawarim.’’

‘’I didn’t mean to say I wanted you to..’’

‘’I know, but it is the truth. I will be dead by the end of the night. Before morning, my body will be the sole mark of a fight here.’’

‘’That is.. probably true.’’ Her reply was slow and drawn out – perhaps she had come to the realization that she herself might not live too long either.

‘’Did you see Najla?’’ Ketill then asked, though he realized too late that nobody knew the name Najla.

‘’Who?’’

‘’Saina.’’

‘’Yes, they had brought her inside shortly after I was brought in. I’m not sure what they wanted, but they kept me out of the clutches of.. well, you’ve seen what they’re doing.’’

Ketill knew they were probably saving her for one of the more important slavers. He decided not to tell her. It would only make the situation worse at this point.

‘’Did they treat her like they treated you?’’

‘’Uh..’’ she slowly said, looking back at the scene before her. Slowly she opened her mouth, only to change her mind and think for a moment more. ‘’No, they questioned her. It was in her own language, so I didn’t understand. She just mentioned the word ‘Sultan’ and then one of the men said the word ‘Sultana’. That’s about it.’’

Ketill grinned as he stared at the tent, waiting for the moment some more slavers would arrive. He did not even blink, wanting to see the exact moment they came for him. If they knew Najla was royalty, then surely, they’d kill him for enslaving her.

‘’I see. They know then.’’

Anne’s eyes widened slightly as she saw the slaver that held her chain earlier approaching again. It seemed her time, too, had come. ‘’Know what, Ketill?’’

‘’She’s a niece of the Sultan.’’

‘’What? Why didn’t you say that earlier? Whose idea was it to bring the niece of the Sultan on this expedition? As a slave?’’

‘’I only knew the night we left Coedwin, after the Archbishop rescued her from the Commanders’ clutches. If you did not understand why I would die before, then now you know. If they don’t kill me here, the Sultan will make a public display of my death.’’

His voice was remarkably calm – much like how he’d usually speak to Saina, stern, stoic, giving her orders, speaking like a man. A warm voice but commanding. He’d usually reserved that voice for serious moments, or moments that he didn’t like. Perhaps this was both of those.

‘’That’s..’’ The chain clanked lightly when the slaver grabbed it, pulling it softly. Anne’s head jerked forwards as the chain around her neck was pulled. ‘’I.. Ketill! You.. have to do something at least!’’

Ketill didn’t answer, only looking down finally when he saw two men appear from the tent. First Anne’s time had come, and now his. Shortly he looked at his hands – the blood still marked them. He raised them up in front of his face and put them together, saying a prayer of the Servants. ‘’Ketill! Do something! Ask Najla to help us, surely she remembers we saved her from the com-’’ The slaver jerked the chain harder and began pulling the woman away. Ketill did not look up, focussing on his prayer.

‘’Broacien Tessera omni Armatura Fortior. Amen.’’

<‘’Get up, you pig.‘’> With a rough grasp at his arms, the two men grabbed him, and pulled him with them. As they pulled him upright he got his footing, and with whatever amount of manoeuvrability the bindings allowed him, he shuffled along. The two dragged him past the women being raped, the men being beaten or humiliated, and into the tent. At least he’d be spared that suffering – though, was it truly lucky to be forced in here instead?

As he was pulled into the tent, the two man dragged him closer to the center and then shoved him forwards, causing Ketill to stumble towards the center of the tent. When he stopped, he stood there and looked around. There were slaves – women, all of them – and slavers. In front of him was a dark skinned slaver, whom was then promptly joined again by the two that had caught him. Ghalid, and some unknown nobody. Of course, it would be Ghalid. The sight of Ghalid caused a slight grin to appear on his face.

‘’I see you’ve taken great measures to make sure any rumours of honest Sawarim men have been dispelled adequately today, Ghalid.’’

The backhanded comment about the Sawarim would’ve been sure to anger the Sawarim, if they could’ve understood him. But now, it seemed like only Najla and Ghalid would’ve been able to understand him, and perhaps those that hid their knowledge of the common Broacien tongue.

‘’This is not about my faith, Servant. This is about money… which you will provide us wi-’’ Ghalid attempted to answer, before he was harshly interrupted by the dark skinned individual. Najla was sitting close to him – seemingly enjoying the comfort.

<‘’Silence. I will not have you two speak in this foreign language, when our Sultana is sitting right here.’’>

Whether the words were meant or not was not clear, but Ketill did not even understand them. His angered look at the dark skinned man explained that much. <‘’And show some respect for the Sultana. Bow!’’>

Again Ketill did not understand, but the issue was clarified when two guards appeared from behind, grabbing onto his neck and pushing their boots into the backs of his knees, forcing him forwards onto his knees. He caught himself with his hands, looking down slightly as the headache came back, booming in his head carelessly, as if he needed that at the moment. Slowly he’d look up again as a dried line of blood down his forehead became red and wet again, the wound reopening.

‘’I see you’re taking to the new found luxury well,’’ Ketill said to Najla, his eyes resting on hers as he stared into her very being – or at least attempted to. He felt angry at her for betraying him so easily, for turning her back at him and the others simply to save her own skin. But above that, he felt stupid for not cutting her down earlier when he had the chance. ‘’Will you be sharing your cushions with the women that are being raped outside, or is that a pleasure solely reserved for those around us right now, that are to be sent off to the Sultan as his slaves?’’

‘’Or did you forget who you were, Saina?’’ He purposefully used her slave-name to remind her of what she’d been through so far. He did not wish to change her at this point – he knew it was too late to beg her to help him. No, he wanted to make sure she remembered that he had been the one that prevented her from getting raped, and that he had been the one that almost lost a finger for her. He had been the one that voted in the chamber of the Hochmeister. He had given her clothes, and a horse. He wanted to make sure she remembered, now, that she owed her life to a Monarchist of all things.

‘’I know I will die. I just ask that you swing the sword yourself Saina.’’

Again, the dark-skinned slaver interrupted him. <‘’Speak in our language, you Broacien pigfaced fool!’’> The man rose from his seating and stepped closer, down some wooden steps of the raised platform he sat on, towards Ketill. He put his hands in his side and looked at Ketill, who must’ve looked quite bruised at the moment.

Bruised, beaten, near-death, and possibly broken. But he did not look scared, nor did he look like he’d give up.

Gathering some of the bloody saliva in his mouth, Ketill spat out the only Sawarim insult he knew. <‘’Your father fucked a horse to conceive you, you horse-fucker.’’> Following his insult, he spat his bloody spit at the man, having it land on his pants. Ketill grinned victoriously, as the two guards grabbed his shoulders and pressed their blades against his neck. They would not pressure him, but rather, they would feel him pressing himself into the blades edge, as if he were trying to cut himself.

‘’Do it then!’’ he bellowed, his strength and power raging through his voice. Despite how bloodied he’d looked, he still made a strong impression, as if he could jump up at any moment and begin beating people. But the dark skinned slaver looked back at Najla, offering her a questioning look.

<‘’Sultana, what should we do with this Broacien pig?’’>

Ketill smiled eerily, looking at Najla with weary eyes. The blood streamed down from his head now, smearing itself over his nose and cheeks, and messing up his vision as it came into his eyes.

‘’Tell him I raped you, so that he will kill me quickly. Tell him I was not a good man. Tell him I let others rape you, and that I sold you to other men. Tell him that I beat you, like a whore. All of these things I never did, because I am a good man. But you have the power, ‘o Sultana’. Show me how quickly you turn your back on those that help you. That is what you’ll do, so at least offer me a swift death, like I have offered you. Or did you forget about that?’’

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

The heat of the desert was a familiar discomfort, and at first, Najla did not mind it. In her time at Barren Flats, she had prayed for the way the sun beat down without mercy upon the sand, begging for any change from the biting cold. She had missed the rolling golden dunes of her home, and the way they seemed to stretch on forever, a devastating sight to a lost traveler, but an inspiring sight to someone who felt these lands belonged to them.

As the red sand of the valley slowly began to give way to that which she was familiar with, Najla slowly remembered why her home was so treacherous. She had been reluctant to cover her head as the Sawarim were known to do, as she knew that to most of those she had angered in Coedwin, and likely before, altering her appearance to look more like the Sawarim would only anger them more. However, once she saw Ketill reach back, taking a piece of cloth from his bag, Najla felt more comfortable following suit.

She had already dressed for desert travel, wearing the lightest colored dress Ketill had bought for her, and had made certain the cloth covered nearly every bit of her skin, leaving nothing exposed for the sun. Najla tied her hair up first, relieving her neck from the heat her hair trapped, then covered her head with a light cloth. For some time, she rode with just her head covered, but the dust of the desert, kicked up by both men and horses, forced her to look more like her people than she wanted to. She undid the cloth and retied it so it covered all but her eyes, protecting her mouth from the drying dust of the desert. It made travelling far easier, but it brought no comfort beyond that: Najla could only worry about whether her new attire would anger the men on the expedition.

Despite all her worrying, Najla had managed to note that Ketill had been the first to cover his head, and thus, clearly had some experience travelling through the desert. From what she had seen and heard of the Servants at Coedwin, most of their travels into the Sultanate were spent fighting, and so Najla was at a loss to understand why he would instinctively reach for a cloth. Perhaps he was simply copying the attire of the Sawarim he had seen, or perhaps he had travelled farther into the desert than she had assumed. Whatever the reason, Najla was distracted from her attempts to understand it as the Servants began to return, some stopping to wish her master well. Though she listened to their interactions closely, she would otherwise avoid drawing any more attention to herself, for if the cloth had not covered her expression, every approaching Servant would see the uneasiness on her face all too well.

Clearly, Najla had expected them to despise her as the others did. Even if she had not caused even more problems by trying to free Inaya, she had killed a Monarchist. Therefore, even though her expression was covered, her eyes gave away her surprise as the Servant that caught her gaze nodded at her as he rode away. Frozen by her shock, she would have no time to respond as he rode away, but returned her gaze to the endless stretches in front of her.

It did not take long after the Servants departed for Najla to notice a new presence. She had expected that scouts would appear at some point. In fact, she had been counting on it. Najla had never been involved with the positions and training of scouts, as that was reserved for those who operated the Sultan’s army. Still, she had a close familiarity with the movements of the scouts. She had learned how to find the barest traces of their presence among the shifting sands, both from previous experience in the desert, and the teachings of her family. When she was younger, she had even begged her father to allow her to watch the scouts train as Jalil was allowed to do, and was finally allowed to ride into the desert with her father. Then, she had pointed at every scout she spotted, shouting out their positions with glee as if it were a game. Now, she marked their positions silently, and would only admit she was aware of their presence when Ketill did.

When he leaned in to speak to her, she pulled the cloth down from her mouth and nose, readying herself to reply to his words. Instead, she followed his gaze, noting the scout he was referring to. It was not surprising to her that Ketill would be able to notice Sultanate scouts, as she assumed he had become adept at it during his time in the Servants. However, Najla was slightly surprised to see that the other leaders seemed to take no notice, or simply did not care. She had assumed that they would be more worried by the appearance of scouts, for though she knew that being tracked was not always an indication of an attack, the Sultanate would not allow the expedition to continue on forever unchallenged.

“Yes, my lord.” There was nothing else to say. The trackers did not worry Najla. If anything, they presented an opportunity, a chance for one to recognize her among the vast expedition and tell the others. It was a slim chance, but she would offer up no further observations to Ketill in the fear that he could use that information to keep the trackers at bay. Despite the dust of the desert, Najla did not pull the cloth to cover her face again, leaving her face exposed for the slim chance that one of the trackers might recognize her.

------------------------------------------------------

Sleep came easily for Najla. The days ride had exhausted her, and she had forgotten how a day spent under this blinding heat served to sap one of their energy. As the exhaustion of the day settled over the camp, it settled over Najla as well, and she fell asleep moments after she laid her head down.

The screaming did not wake her, not instantly at least. First it punctured her unconscious, and Najla would only stir as if she were entering the beginnings of a nightmare, turning in her bed. They grew louder in these dreams, more realistic, until they pulled her from her sleep and she felt her eyes open, only to realize the screaming hadn’t stopped when her dreams did.
Najla sat up in her bed then, waking just as Ketill walked over to the tent flap. She watched him anxiously from her bed, fear begging her to both shut up and ask what was happening. Instead, she watched helplessly as the two men tumbled through the tent entrance, one tackling Ketill to the floor. While Ketill wrestled with one, Najla’s attention was quickly drawn to the one who stood, now approaching her with a grin. She knew what that sort of grin meant.

Before he could fall upon her, Najla glanced around hurriedly, desperately seeking for anything to use as a weapon. It had never occurred to her that these were not Sultanate soldiers, but there would be no time to reason with this one. She had found none when he reached her, and his free hand grabbed at her, finding her arm and pulling her up and towards him. Najla used her other hand to try and pull his grip away, but he was far stronger.

<“Get up and I won’t hurt you!”> The man threatened, but a sudden burst of flames from the corner of the tent drew both their attentions. Both Najla and the slaver stopped for the briefest of moments, frozen by the horror before them. Before Ketill could stand to kill his friend, Najla recovered, kicking her attacker in his knee. He only stumbled slightly, and just as it caused his grip to loosen enough for her to slip her arm out of it, she watched his expression contort into a cry of pain as Ketill’s sword raked across his back. Once more, she found herself frozen as she watched Ketill drive his sword deep into the man’s neck. Perhaps any other day she would have cringed as his blood fell onto her, but Najla could barely think, and only gripped his hand in return as Ketill grabbed for hers. Without looking back at the bodies in the sand, Najla could only watch as Ketill killed a third man before her. She followed closely when he dragged her through the camp after him, her eyes on the carnage around her. It was at Ketill’s words that she began to understand what was truly happening around her, and even among the horror, she felt her heart sink when she realized the truth.

He’s not lying to me. She thought even as she struggled to keep up with his pace, following along as quickly as she could. He’s right.

Sand made it difficult to flee, and Najla trekked through it as fast as she could, rushing to run instead of allowing Ketill to drag her. It became more difficult when he began to pull her up the dune, and she felt the sand slip from under her feet, tumbling down the hill and threatening to loosen her footing. Najla continued nonetheless, only to feel Ketill release her and shove her up the hill in front of him. At his command, she looked back to see him draw his blade as the horses drew nearer, and she needed nothing further. Najla turned her back to the slaughter behind her and forced herself to the top of the dune, at which she turned to see Ketill fighting below her.

She had only ever seen the aftermath of such a raid before, and was unused to the sheer terror of being caught within one. Najla could only watch as tents rose up in flames or died down, and it seemed the screaming had not stopped since she awoke, and would never stop again. When Ketill reached the top to hand her the reins, she took them quickly, only to hear herself cry out for the first time when a rider approached, knocking Ketill into the sand. She did not watch as he fell away from her, only turning to the horse, her only intention being to leave Ketill and the slavers behind. The command pierced this intention however, and Najla looked around wildly as the slavers circled her, leaving no path for escape.

She heard the command clearly, but acted as if she hadn’t, only gripping the reins tighter in her hand. The noise of the camp seemed to fade as she watched them point their weapons at her, waiting for her to move. They did not want to kill her, Najla knew, but if she ran they’d run her down. Her gaze went to Ketill’s body for a moment, and she saw his sword glinting in the sand.

She released the reins then, allowing them to slip through her fingers as she stepped away from the horse, stepping closer to Ketill’s body carefully even as one of the men on foot moved closer to her, ready to grab her. She wouldn’t be able to fight them off, both the slavers and Najla knew that, but they knew she wouldn’t try to. She was a Sawarim woman after all, and as slavers they had likely seen many like her, ready to risk slitting their throats before the chance was stolen from them for good. She had not forgotten her name and title, but Ketill’s words had not been forgotten either. Seeing the man edging closer to her, even as the others aimed their weapons at her, Najla ran for the sword. Her path was cut off by pounding hooves as one of the slavers rode in between her and the weapon, and Najla let out another cry as she jumped back from the horse on instinct, only to be tackled to the ground by the man behind her before the sand could settle.

<“Thought you would slit your throat before I fucked it?”> The man taunted loudly, even as Najla struggled under him. She tried to push his hands off of her, but he was far stronger than her and had knocked her down quite harshly under his weight. She could not fight him off for long, but it would be long enough.

<“Don’t touch me! I’m the Sultan’s niece, let go!”> It seemed her title had been her last resort, a desperate attempt even below a sword at her throat, but she tried regardless. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, one hand of his now pinning both of hers down onto the sand. <“I’m Najla ibn-la-Wahad, I swear!”>

<“Prove it.”> He spat down at her, his other hand now reaching for the front of her dress.

<“I-”>

<“You’re not fucking anything yet Karib, bring her back!”> The order came from a man sitting atop his horse, and the man on top of her hesitated again. It did not take him long to make up his mind, and he moved off of her, taking a fistful of her hair and yanking her off the sand harshly as he did. The slaver led her towards the man on the horse, and Najla glanced around to see that most of those that had gathered to threaten her had left, either to rejoin the fighting or find their own spoils. The master on his horse looked down at her as the slaver stopped in front of him.

<“She’s saying she’s part of the Sultan’s family, master.”>

The man on his horse looked down at her and grinned.

<“Funny how she didn’t tell us that before we got the sword away from her throat. Even if she was telling the truth, who cares, she’s probably one of their ten thousand bastards.”>

<“I’m no bastard, my name is Najla ibn-la-Wahad, I am the Great Sultan’s niece!”>

The slaver on the horse just shook his head, but turned his horse anyways. <“Bring her, she won’t be ours to deal with.”>

--------------------------------------------------

The slavers had only set up a few tents, likely for the masters, though as the others continued to ride into their makeshift settlement, it seemed they did not desire such privacy. She could hear the cries of women from all around her, pleading or sobbing as men threw them down into the sand. She’d be there soon, Najla knew, and she tried desperately not to look at her future. The men leading her seemed eager to get her there however, and sped up their pace, forcing Najla to come along, hoping they’d be allowed to reward themselves for this capture. The resistance of the militiamen captured came through in threats and insults but they were silenced quickly as the slavers retaliated, laughing and returning insults as the men were thrown into the sand.

The tent they pushed her through was large, and many populated the tent, far calmer than those who had done the work outside. Both slavers and their new slaves, or at least any of them that they did not want subjected to those outside, either sat or stood around the tent. Najla’s eyes widened when she spotted a blonde woman among them, a rare sight this far south, but her attention was quickly called away as someone called for her.

<“Saina! Where is your master?”>

Najla’s gaze darted from a familiar face to another, and she froze when her eyes met Ghalid’s. He sat between two other slavers, one bare-chested with olive skin and dark hair, and another. The other was even darker than most Sawarim men, with a pointed beard and eyes that studied her thoughtfully. Even in her shock, Najla recalled that she had only seen men as dark as him in her brief dealings with the Rabi’ah people.

Uzeyir the Slaver

<“A rider took the Servant out. She was about to slit her throat when we caught her, master. She keeps saying she’s royalty.”> The man holding her had answered for her, as Najla’s surprise had left her without words to reply. He released her at that, and Najla glanced back at him briefly before turning again to look at Ghalid, who had found her death wish amusing.

<“You really do hate living don’t you? Or else you’re not very good at it.”>

She did not respond to his taunting, only watching him silently. There was no fear on her expression, only a frown that told of both distaste and confusion. Najla supposed she understood why he had wished to join the expedition at all, and pledge his own slaves for such a cause. Had he lied about abandoning his God as well? He had done the Sultanate a service, she supposed, whether it was for his own greed or for a purpose. Yet, whatever favors he had done did little to temper her distaste.

<“Speak up.”>

<“My name is Najla al-ibn-Wahad. I am the niece of the Great Sultan. Release me and I’ll make you rich, hurt me and you’ll regret it.”>

She would sound nothing like the slave Ghalid had heard before, she was not trying to lie or pull pity from him. Her voice was clear and confident, and she spoke no words beyond what she needed to. Her words drew a pause, but it was broken by the man behind her within moments.

<“She’s been spitting that lie since we got ahold of her. She didn’t want to tell us that before she tried to slit her throat though.”>

<“It’s no lie. I am the second daughter of Ali ibn-la-Wahad. I was travelling north when I was captured, then given to that Servant before the expedition began. Ya Sawarim, I swear it upon my life and that of my mothers, I am Najla. I will make you rich if you return me unharmed.”>

Ghalid looked upon her with disbelief, even as the other slaver laughed, less convinced than he was. However, the dark man leaned forward slightly, and Najla’s attention was brought onto him when he spoke to her, his voice far calmer than Ghalid’s.

<“Tell me, where is your brother then?”>

Najla’s eyes snapped to him now, and she frowned. He certainly possessed more tact than Ketill had, but even so, Najla studied his face carefully.

<“Dead, he rides alongside his God now.”> A lie, he was unburied, but she did not want to say it now.

The others said nothing, but the dark man bowed his head at that, reciting the standard <“May his journey be swift.”> He moved to say something else then, but was interrupted by Ghalid, who motioned her closer. The man who had been holding her pushed her forward slightly, until she was just close enough to for the slavers to touch.

<“You really are more trouble than you’re worth. I know you’re lying to me, girl. The most you ever were before this was a Servant’s whore, and he is not here to protect you again. I should just give you to my men and be rid of you.”>

Najla wanted to speak up in protest, but she soon found she did not need to. While the other slaver sitting beside Ghalid had not said a word, but only laughed at her claims, the dark slaver waved his hand at Ghalid, dismissing his words even though his eyes never left Najla.

<“Have you ever visited the Zanj?”>

When Najla looked upon the man again, she felt herself smile softly, and nodded. <“I knew you were of the Rabi’ah. I was there when my brother Harith was promised to his wife Adina.”>

She recalled the Zanj well, a place even more treacherous than the desert, where sand gave way to harsh stone. Nothing grew, but Rabi’ah were raiders at their core, and their ability to hide within the treacherous cliffs of their home was a danger to any of the Sultanate who wished to pass through it. Bringing them under the banner of the Sultanate had been difficult, yet necessary, and promising one of their women to a prince had been yet another way to keep the Rabi’ah satisfied. It made sense that one of them would come so far to profit as a slaver, but Najla did not tell him that.

The slaver turned to Ghalid then, and she could see the beginnings of a grin on his lips. <“She’s not lying. I know her face, I have seen it before.”> She could see Ghalid’s shock as the dark man stood, still speaking as he walked towards her. <“Don’t look so disappointed Ghalid. We are about to be rich men.”>

He took her hand then, softly, and bowed his head towards her. <“Sultana.”> His attitude seemed almost mocking, but Najla did not want to chide him for it. She was simply relieved that it seemed someone would believe her, even as the other slaver finally spoke up.

<“Even if you’re right Uzeyir, it doesn’t mean you get her first.”>

Uzeyir turned to glare at the slaver, then looked back at Najla, his expression softening. <“My apologies, Sultana.”> He looked back at the slaver then, his tone annoyed and sharp. <“Think with your mind instead of your cock for once. If we try to give her for ransom, they’ll have our heads if they find out we’ve touched her. Go find yourself another girl.”> He hesitated for a moment, then turned to look at Ghalid as well. <"I have dealt with the royal family, this is no light matter to them. Any insult is repaid a hundred times over, remember that.">

The slaver stood, angry, but did not argue. Ghalid was still silent, clearly displeased, but he did not want to argue. The profit they’d get from taking Najla to the capital seemed enough to quiet him, and even this made Najla dislike him more. Despite thinking that she should be grateful they preferred profit over pleasures, it did little to help her image of his character. The other slaver walked out of the tent, and she heard a voice call out her name just before he did. It was a familiar voice, but when Najla turned to look at the source, it was gone. Nevertheless, when she turned back to look at Ghalid, she knew, but said nothing more.

She could have asked them to release Anne, or at least not touch her until they reached the capital. It seemed Uzeyir had enough sense to understand that royal captives needed to be treated as guests, and Najla had already proven that she’d be willing to slit her throat. She would only need to threaten it again. However, she turned back to look up at Uzeyir as he spoke again, and the woman was forgotten entirely.

<“Do you know if the Servant is alive or dead?”> Najla shrugged slightly. It seemed that just as with Anne, Ketill had been forgotten within moments. <“Dead, I assume. At least he looked dead, it was a harsh blow.”>

Uzeyir turned to two of the other slavers in the room, commanding them swiftly. <“Go out and see if anyone’s seen the Servant. Bring his head if you can find it.”> They nodded and left as well, while the slaver looked down upon Najla again. <“Come, sit and rest. We will begin transporting tonight, just after the last are rounded up. You will need your strength.”>

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

Her eyes never left his during the silence. She could not tell what he was thinking, but was clearly desperate to know. Telling him the truth had been a move born out of desperation, but Najla had nothing left to bargain with. Her title was all she had, Najla had lived off of it, cultivated a network of spies through it, had pulled herself into the most important reaches of the Sultan’s court with it, and now, was left praying it’d be enough for her life. The smile on his face unnerved her, and Najla bit her lip nervously as he began to speak, only able to hope.

At first, it seemed as if there was a chance he could believe her. At least Ketill had heard the rumors, and Najla was already trying to find a reason for her to have ended up in Broacien when he mentioned her brother. Regardless of the excuse she dreamt up, Najla figured she’d be safer so long as Ketill did not know what Jalil had attempted.

The mention of her brother was enough to snap her out of this brief line of thought. Her body tensed up at the way he spoke of him, her fists clenching slightly as her eyes narrowed. The indignities she had suffered in Broacien had humbled her somewhat, but only in regards to her own image. Jalil had suffered too much at the hands of the Monarchists, and continued to suffer from their treatment, to watch Ketill speak of him with so little regard for her pain was far more infuriating that it was hurtful.

“Worse.”

He was not dead. His body had been mutilated after death, he was separated from his family, and so long as his head remained on a spike, he would be forced to suffer. Najla knew how vital it was for a Sawarim faithful to be buried decently, to be offered the chance to present themselves in front of their God as they were in life, to honor those who came before and to keep a family united even in the depths of death. They had always been able to bury their family, and though Najla had never had to know what happened to an unburied Sawarim, she knew death was better.

The thought left her somewhat distracted as Ketill started speaking, though she was at least relieved to hear he wouldn’t sell her. She had accomplished her goal then. It should have felt miraculous, to have narrowly avoided death, or worse, so often within the past night. However, when Ketill gave her a few final orders and left, Najla did not feel victorious.

For a moment, she simply stared after him. She had grown used to being ordered around in Ketill’s nonchalant manner, but it seemed to hold a fresh humiliation now, one she had forgotten since her capture. Pride was a small thing to abandon when her life was at stake, but even then, the humiliation had not been Najla’s, but Saina’s. Now, she had outed herself as Najla, only to be told to pack a Servant’s bags. Perhaps a small price to have been saved from death, but Najla could not forget it so easily now.

Regardless of her pride, she obeyed. Najla packed up Ketill’s things, taking care to fold them neatly and place them in his bags carefully, as if avoiding any detail that could anger him now, though she knew there was little need. So long as there was any chance she was Najla, selling her would be a mistake. It was somewhat of a struggle to balance his bags, even though they were mostly clothes, but it was not long before she had cleaned out his room and was heading down to where she had slept.

---

She had prayed not to see Qamar’s face, and it was a slight relief to see that the girl was not among the slaves who were scurrying to pack their things. As she moved towards the mattress they had shared, the relief vanished. She should not have been surprised that the slaver was nearby, after all, he’d want to keep an eye on his slaves as they packed up. He looked angry, however, and was speaking rapidly to a male slave. Upon seeing her approach for her bag, the slave was dismissed, and Najla pretended she could not see the slaver approaching, hoping he would leave her alone, until he was standing above her.

<“You’re lucky.”>

Upon hearing his voice, Najla abandoned the bag and stood, looking up at him only briefly before moving her gaze back to the ground.

<“Your friend is not.”> Her gaze snapped up to the slaver then, and his eyes bore into hers, as if looking for anything beyond the confusion and worry she was showing him now.

<“My friend?”> She looked down at the mattress they had shared, as if just realizing what he meant, then back up at the slaver. <“You mean Qamar? Is she hurt?”>

She’s been caught. That idiot, that stupid, simpering fool she’s been caught. If she does not keep her mouth shut long enough for us to leave-

<“She will stay here.”> Najla’s eyes widened at that, and she moved to ask another question but he cut her off before she could speak. <“Don’t plead for her, I will not hear it. I will not risk angering the Servants for a whore, even though your master seems eager to do so.”>

Najla eyed the slaver carefully, as if she was just beginning to understand him. Perhaps her hatred of him had blocked his sight before, but Najla had paid little attention to a shrewd man, which could always become a fatal mistake. She had already known that he was smart enough to deny his faith for profit, perhaps smarter than her for that reason. He had to have been clever in order to become part of this expedition in the first place, given the lack of trust Broacieniens had in the Sawarim. And now she knew that he was smart enough to abandon Qamar, and was ruthless enough not to care, so long as he thought she’d be replaced easily. Defending a pleasure slave against the Servants was a foolish endeavor for a Sawarim slavemaster, but to let them take her life for trying to escape, while scouting out her replacement was the mark of a man who wanted only to move upwards in the world.

<“Not everyone is like your master, who shows such…faith in his slaves.”>

Najla looked away at that, as if ashamed. She bit her lip nervously, this time, a calculated gesture on her part. For a moment, there was silence, and she only returned her gaze to him when he spoke again, only to see the beginning of a smile form on his lips.

<“He has lost his faith in you. Does he want to be rid of you yet?”>

Najla shook her head, crossing her arms across her body. <“H-he is angry with me now, but I know he does not mean it. I’ve been loyal to him-”>

<“Stupidly loyal. To him, and to your gods. You’re a fool to think either will protect you.”> He stepped forward again then, taking Najla’s chin in his grasp gently. Najla flinched at the touch, but did not move as he examined her face.

<“Someone will have to protect you from these men now. You rejected my help before, but because I am a generous man, I will offer it again. Go to your master, tell him my offer stands, though he will understand if I lower your price now.”>

<“You promise to protect me, but you will not tell me why you will not do the same for my friend?”>

The slaver leaned in closer then, and Najla could see a flash of anger in his eyes, despite the smile on his lips. <“You will not be foolish enough to sell yourself out for coin and run, will you?”>

Her fears confirmed, Najla tried to read his gaze, tried desperately to see what he knew. Clearly he knew they were friends, but did he really believe Qamar had sold herself out for the coin? What did it even matter what he believed? The Servants would be the ones to impart the judgement on Qamar it seemed, for despite the fact that Ghalid was her master, he had abandoned her to maintain whatever burgeoning relationship he had with the Servants. Would it even matter if Qamar talked? They would be gone. Her thoughts were frantic, but Najla knew only one thing for certain: She’d left Coedwin full of loose ends, threads that threatened to wrap around her neck if she didn’t leave soon. She shook her head then, finally answering the slavers question.

He released her then, and turned away from her, moving to herd his other slaves out of the hall as quickly as he could. Najla immediately returned to her things, eager to leave Coedwin before her luck ran dry. She’d lied to the slaver deliberately, made herself out to be just as silly as some of the pleasure slaves in the Sultanate, who had believed their masters had developed an attachment to them. It seemed to have worked as well as she had hoped, for now the slaver was satisfied, and would dig no further into Qamar’s story to save an investment. Najla knew she’d be a great source of profit to the slaver, Ketill would have been willing to be rid of her for rather cheap, and after last night, the men would be lining up to exact ‘revenge’ on the Sawarim that had killed their friend. All Najla wanted was to be out of Coedwin before the slaver realized she was lying, before Qamar or Suhayb were made to confess her name, before anyone here could realize who she was.

Coedwin had been a failure, one Najla was lucky to have survived. She had placed her trust in people swiftly, in a girl who knew too little and in a poor source of her cousin’s. Saving Inaya had been her downfall, Najla saw this now, for if she had not tried to save the girl, she would have left Coedwin with nothing but a guilty conscience.

It was a sobering experience, and Najla could only worry about her future as she gathered her things quickly. There was not much to collect, she had not been able to unpack, and it gave her little time for the sheer number of thoughts.

She had been an excellent spymaster. Then again, Najla had been able to give or take much from people. She’d never had to build up the resources herself, and her title and name was often enough to convince others of her promises long before they heard them. She’d been able to convince people to come under the fold of her network with promises of reuniting families, gold, horses, power, safety, anything they had wanted, she could grant. Now, Najla had none of that. She hardly had the resources to convince Ketill of her position, let alone have the power to cull potential threats like Qamar before they could talk.

I’m not powerless, not really, but I’m pretty close. I’ve got nothing to bargain with that they couldn’t just take. I’ve got a title no one would believe, and some empty promises. Whatever happens, I can’t fail again, whatever I do, I won’t live if I fail again.

She had little to pack, as she had little chance to get settled, and it was not long before she had stuffed her clothes into the bag rather carelessly. Walking through the halls and courtyard of Coedwin, struggling to lift bags with little more than clothes in them, followed by the sting of whispers, both clear and hidden, Najla was once again faced with the realization at what had been snatched from her when she had hidden her title. She had always considered herself a proud woman, proud of her faith, her title, her family, but she had never considered that she would be useless without these.

When she approached Ketill at the front of the castle, she handed him his bags as he hooked them to the horse’s saddle, her eyes on him as he spoke. His words drew a small, humorless smile, likely a confusing sight to Ketill, but Najla’s failure had humbled her far more than his words could.

“I have not forgotten, my lord.”

She would be somber as they joined the expedition, clearly worried about something. There were multiple possibilities for the source of this worry, and depending on who saw her expression, they would imagine something different. Being able to ride was a small comfort, though the fact that she was able to hold the reins and ride along on her own gave Najla some semblance of control. She was running. Suhayb would not confess, not if he had a semblance of intelligence, but she estimated that Qamar would instantly upon learning that Saina had been released along with the expedition. Despite the heightened pace of the expedition, and the knowledge that at least, there was a few days before Qamar would learn of this and speak, she felt she couldn’t run fast enough.

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

“Is that so?” Ketill mused as she answered him about the decision between life and death for her, her surrender to the slaver implying she'd die much the same way. “You haven't seemed to be too preoccupied with your own health. I have little reason to care for yours more than I have already,” he'd add, and found himself believing the words despite heir harshness. If she was hellbent on getting into situations that nearly killed her, why was he expected to suddenly care? And if what she said was true - that she could give him more - then the question was just how much. But, that would imply also that Ketill was looking for wealth. In fact, he found himself caring very little for that. It was worthless on the day of judgement in the eyes of the Monarch. That was all he cared for - not for any amount of money in the world would he have entered in this expedition, but for the Monarch? Anything for the Monarch, even his life.

Her next words, however, were very telling. That she was not a merchants' daughter was not news - she had no skills, knowledge or mannerisms that a merchant would have. He had assumed it was a cover for herself, a way to make herself seem more important and avoid being captured. Despite it not working, he'd assumed that she kept up appearances despite that. But it being a cover for something like this was unexpected. His eyes rested on her as he processed the information, what it meant, and how it'd affect him and the expedition. She was an asset - no, she was also a danger. If anyone else knew, there'd be trouble.

As she finished her speech, he remained quiet, looking her in the eyes while he crossed his hands over each other, more or less holding onto his own hand. Tension filled the air slowly with every passing moment of silence before he finally spoke up. His lips slowly formed the hint of a smile, looking at her with slight disbelief playing in his eyes. “There were rumours,” he slowly said, thinking back to his time in Coedwin. They'd heard that the niece and cousin of the sultan were missing. He'd not expected them to end up in Broacien, though. They just expected them to.. have found the sharp end up a sword in the political intrigues of the Sultanate. “Though why you would enter Broacien is beyond me. You never swore off your faith, that much I know, because you do not act like the slaver.”

Though it seemed unremarkable, Ketill knew full well that a Sawarim that didn't swear off the faith would, ultimately, end up dead in Broacien. If not worse, captured. Perhaps that part had been true. Looking back, she might have been lucky to end up with the expedition - under his command, even. She was in the desert again. If she was lucky she'd find her way back home - if he allowed it, at least. She seemed more trouble than she was worth at this point and perhaps, out of pure logistical reasons, he'd have let her go. But now that it was revealed she was in fact, more or less a princess of the Sultanate, well, it'd be harder than that.

“Your brother is not with us. Unless you lied about that, too, though I'd find little reason for that. He is.. somewhere else then. Still in Broacien? Dead? Worse?” The question was without tact, but she had given him little reason to warrant any tact whatsoever. She did not seem the kind that cared for that - much rather, she'd probably demand tact from him if she was given the chance. But she was a slave, and thus without such a power.

“But you're right, after all, you can not convince me. We will see how the wheel turns, and when it does, we will find out who you are. We leave the fort today. I will not sell you, but you have some explaining to do - to me. None else might hear of who you are, or rather, claim to be. Get ready to travel. I have arranged a horse for you, so you can ride yourself. We will travel fast, and we will use one of the slaves from the slaver as a guide. Furthermore, we will avoid any Sultanate soldiers that we find. We're here for a banner, not a war. So, I am sure you can imagine why I want to keep your supposed identity a secret. We'd hardly want to have the sultan find out that his beloved niece was degraded to nothing less than a slave. That would hardly be a convincing argument for you, however. So I'll let you go then with the knowledge that, if anyone finds out you're a princess of the sultanate, you'd be dead before nightfall, if not by the hands of the commander, then by the hands of the Servants. Not all of them are as understanding as the Hochmeister, nor the bishop. Your kind is not loved here. Go, pack your things.”

In truth he had had half a mind to stab her down where she stood - she was adding piles upon piles of trouble on his already troubled mind. Two trials, one for murder, and then she turns out to be a princess. None would question why he did it - perhaps the bishop would. If it had not been for the bishops order, he'd strongly have considered it. But alas.

“Pack my bags too, and meet me outside by the stables. I'll prepare our horses.” He immediately left without saying anything more - an inconclusive ending perhaps to her revelation, but he'd found little else to say. Was he to believe her, or not? Was she spinning a trick to avoid being sold? The more Ketill thought about this the more he realized that, perhaps it didn't matter. Regardless of her previous position, she was a slave now, and regardless of how she felt about it, she would do as commanded, or die a lonely death in the desert.

Perhaps that was a savage way of thought. But Ketill was taken out of the North, the North still remained in him. Death was a fact of life - Najla now had her own choices to make. She could obey and live, or resist and see the bishops' order overturned in the desert at her next mistake. Time would tell.

He went down to the stables and saddled his own horse, while ordering a stableboy to find an extra free horse. He returned with a very dark, brown horse. It was obviously a Broacien breed, more strong and muscular than most Sawarim horses but obviously lacking in speed. The expedition would not be speedy, so this was not so much a drawback. The stableboy saddled the horse with a rather cheap saddle and then handed the reins to Ketill, who would lead the horses to the front of the castle, where he'd wait for Najla. Once she'd arrive, he'd take his bags and hook them to his saddle before looking at her one last time.

“Do not think your 'position' in the sultanate will earn you many favors. You are still a slave. Best to remind yourself of that.. set your expectations low.”

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

No wonder these dungeons drive people mad.

Najla had only been made to wait for a night, but that night had taken a toll on her. She was exhausted from the lack of sleep, and was either too proud or too repulsed to lay down on the floor of the dungeons, so any sleep she managed to obtain happened sitting up, in the brief moments between her fears and prayers. Beyond exhaustion, she could still feel the man’s hands on her, in her, and each time she remembered his touch she wanted nothing more than to scrub her skin clean of it. It was an exhausting night, and though the heavy footsteps startled her, they were a welcome change.

Her gaze was at the bars long before Ketill appeared behind them. He didn’t seem angry with her, annoyed perhaps, but it was no consolation. She found herself frowning slightly at his words, and for a moment, she wondered if they had even told him what she was here for.

She finally looked away from him as he opened the door, listening to the clinking of the door and the sound of his footsteps when he entered, standing before her. Taking his hand gently, Najla pulled herself off the floor, meeting Ketill’s gaze for a brief moment before she felt his hand coming towards her face and flinched.

No strike came, and Najla looked up once more, first to the hand that hovered mere inches from her face, then to the eyes of the man it belonged to. She wanted to whimper at the way he crushed her hand in his. He was far stronger than her, and she felt as if her hand would break under his. Somehow, Najla restrained herself, keeping her gaze firmly on Ketill, studying him. She could read nothing in his icy gaze, but he would be able to read hers easily: she was fearful, in pain from his grasp, and above all, confused. When he finally let her go, he’d be able to read relief in them, but only for a brief moment.

His words should have been frightening, but Najla had already felt them as the truth. It was his blade that frightened her again, and she backed up against the wall as the point was thrust into her chest. She hadn’t even seen him pull it out, and while it was certainly a showing of skill, Najla had no time to appreciate it. As he spoke, she tried to back away from the point of the sword but found she could back no further into the wall. Her unharmed hand grasped at the damp brick, and she winced as the tip pierced her skin. The droplet of blood ran down her chest, and her frightened gaze remained on him, waiting for him to push the rest through. It was not a pleasant notion, but Najla had expected little better. When he mentioned that he would pray for her, the confusion set into her expression again, lasting only seconds before it was replaced with relief as he lowered his blade. She exhaled, realizing that she had been holding her breath to keep the sword away from her, yet had no time to bask in this small relief before grabbed her arm, forcing her to face the mercy of the trial.

As they walked into the room of familiar faces, Najla made eye contact with none of them as Ketill shoved her towards the table. His words were stern, and Najla kept her head down as he spoke. He’d been right, she knew that, there was little point to this. She opened her mouth, ready to speak, ready to give a final defense before they took her life, when another voice filled the room. Before she could see who it was, she noticed that Ketill had dropped to kneel, and turned around to see who he had kneeled for, who would have asked him to treat her kindly.

Najla did not know he was a bishop, the rankings of the Monarchist church were confusing to her and she could hardly tell from his clothing, but anyone who was referred to as ‘your holiness’ must have been of great importance to their faith. Why he’d be asking a Servant to treat a Sawarim more kindly was confusing, and his next words to her even more so.

She shook her head softly when he asked if he’d seen her before, though the notion startled her for a moment. Najla studied his face, his mannerisms, his clothes, all of it, trying to find the slightest memory that might have procured something. He was far older than her, and so it was unlikely that she had seen him among her travels, and she could not imagine he had been brought to the court. When he shook his head, Najla was both relieved and worried, and began to think about what would have happened if he recognized her. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been the worst thing to happen, after all, they would have far more qualms about killing Najla than Saina.

Najla watched the bishop curiously as he advocated for her to speak, clearly surprised by the kindness he was showing her. Her time among Monarchists had done little to convince her of the gentleness of their faith, and to hear a man who was clearly so high up in their church advocate for her was surprising, and welcome.

Perhaps if they had all been so kind, I would have been more open to their faith.

Najla knew it wasn’t true. If they had all been so kind she would have been home among her family by now, still worshipping the same God she always had. At Ketill’s question however, Najla finally looked away from the bishop, first at Ketill, then at all those standing around the table, before she answered his question.

“I could not sleep, my lord. I only hoped to clear my thoughts.” She paused for a moment, then continued again. “It does not sound believable, I know, but I would not offer a lie to make it so.”

“Who was the man you killed?” Najla closed her eyes for a moment at that, as if she was still comprehending the fact that she had killed a man. “I never knew his name. He had tried to hurt me, before. The same man we had a trial for, the one with a broken nose.” She looked up at Ketill at that, adding more as if she were directly speaking to him. “His friend, the one that had held me before, he was with them too.”

“Why did you kill him?” Najla took a deep breath at that, then launched into the full story, answering their questions as she went.

“I was returning to the castle when they found me. They said many things I don’t care to repeat, then told me they would help me repent.” She glanced up at the bishop when she said that, hoping a perversion of his faith would begin to turn him against the dead man, though she was not foolish enough to believe it would be enough on its own. With anyone else perhaps, but not with her.

“I fought and I screamed, but no one could hear. They took me to the warehouse then, and pushed me up against the pole. Two of them tied my hands…” Her words drifted off, and she lifted her wrists for them to see. They were red, sore from the way she had rubbed them against the rough rope to escape. It would heal soon, but it was the only proof she had that they had held her as she described. “Then he told them to get out. He said they’d ‘have their turns’ later. He kept saying he was going to show me what good Monarchists do.”

She looked down then, no trace of the anger she felt in her voice. She seemed ashamed of the words she’d speak, horrified by the notion that she had hurt him. “Then… he started to touch me. I-I begged him not to, but he didn’t stop! He just kept touching me, and hurting me, until my ropes got loose and I…”

She trailed off here, and looked up at the group again. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. It would not be enough to arouse their sympathy, she could not count on sympathy for these people. But whatever miniscule chance at life she had would not come if she showed remorse, and Najla felt none. She played the part, as if suffering over her actions, and it was only when they asked of his friends that she spoke up again.

“His friends were outside. I could still hear their laughter, but I was scared they would come too. So I left.”

At the mention of his purse, she shook her head. “No, my lord.” She had wanted her explanation to stop there, but she could see that they did not believe her. “My lord, I promise you! Check my person, my bags, anything. I only wanted to live, I had no use for his purse!”
When they asked about her return to the castle, Najla took in another breath, trying to steady herself before she spoke. “I don’t know. I-I didn’t know what to do. I knew I’d never be able to run from justice, but all I wanted was to be away from them. I thought I’d be safe here. I think it took some time for me to understand it.” Her voice grew soft, almost a whisper, though she knew they’d be able to hear it. “I’ve never taken a life before.”

If anything, Najla was good at playing a part. She was not even ashamed of her actions, but she spoke as if she was frightened, both of herself and what she had done. She never shed a tear, yet her eyes were watery and large, as if she’d start crying at any moment. Najla knew she was not likely to arouse much sympathy with these people, who were indifferent towards her at best. But to show remorse, to convince them she wished she hadn’t acted, was her only option. She couldn’t tell them how she had spat in his face, or how she wished she had been able to do it a hundred times over. She had to show sympathy for that ugly man to get any for herself.

It seemed she would have none anyways.

The first vote was expected. Ignoring the words the commander spewed at her, her eyes went instead to the next man ready to decide her fate. His vote was expected as well, but as he spoke to her in their tongue, an angry frown appeared on her face. Najla did not know that the Hochmeister could speak the language as well, and in that moment she wanted nothing more than to return his words with venom. She wanted to tell him he’d end up no differently than the man in the warehouse, but luckily, the next voice silenced her before she could say anything and prove to these people how savage her people truly were.

At the female quartermaster’s vote, Najla glanced up at her, and met her gaze for a brief moment. Her expression had softened severely, a marked change from the way she looked at the slavedriver, and even seemed to show gratitude despite her worry. As the others voted to let her live, Najla looked around the table anxiously, trying to read what it meant on their faces before anyone could speak it. At the Hochmeister’s words, Najla felt her heart sink. Some small relief came when Ketill announced he would do it right away, but it was little comparison to the fear that engulfed her now.

Should I tell them? Will they kill me if they know? At the least, if I tell Ketill he might send my body back-

Her morbid thoughts were interrupted by a new voice, and Najla turned to look at the bishop as he spoke. Her thoughts froze entirely at his words, and she looked over the table quickly, only to see Ketill and the Hochmeister nodding. Was it true? Could it be so easy? She looked at the bishop with an expression akin to wonder, only glancing away when the commander began yelling again.

The rush of thoughts in her head would not stop. She felt as if she were dreaming, for earlier Najla had been ready to pierce herself on the end of Ketill’s sword. Death had seemed inevitable, a relief even, and now, she was going to walk free. As the bishop took her arm, Najla barely registered who was pulling her away, and simply stepped to his side. His touch felt almost protective, the way her father would pull her back when she’d watch the guards train as a child. It seemed a strange thing to remember when she had just been inches from death, but it was the greatest comfort besides her execution she had known in the past day.

When the men before her quieted down, Najla looked up again at the bishop. “Thank you, my-” She stopped, realizing suddenly that she didn’t know his title. Ketill had referred to him as ‘your holiness’ but he was not holy to her, though perhaps he should have been, considering he had granted her life. In place of a proper title, she offered him a small smile, only to be dragged away by Ketill.

She felt as if she were in a daze even as he pushed her into his room, unable to comprehend the sheer range of emotions the night had brought upon her. She had killed a man, a Monarchist, under the roof of the Servants, and they had let her off for it. She was going to continue the expedition. Someone besides her would soon find out about Jalil, and Inaya would tell the Sultanate that Najla was alive and at Coedwin.

I’m not going to die. Ya Sawarim I’m not going to die.

She only wanted to fall to her knees and begin praying, but Ketill’s harsh voice pulled her out of her spell rather abruptly. The sharp fear pulled her out of the haze, and Najla’s frantic thoughts began again. The slavedrivers threat echoed in these thoughts, and Najla knew that he meant it, though she had never considered that Ketill would agree.

“Your holy man just gave you my life, and you would sentence me to death again?” Her use of the term holy man might have been humorous, had her life not been at stake again, though it was certainly a strange deviation from her usual manner of speaking. She spoke the Broacien tongue well, and somewhat formally, as she had first been familiarized with it through the work of tutors, yet she stumbled over the titles of their religion.

He’ll kill me. If not the slavedriver, then one of the men he rents me to. The commander will be among them, and without Ketill he’d gladly slit my throat after he’s had his. They all would. I’d have lived only to get fucked before death.

“My lord, please! I did not want to kill him, I had no choice, you know what he would have done to me! The slaver will only do worse, the men will-”

My suffering won’t matter to him.

Her words stopped abruptly, as the realization silenced her pleading. He was not the bishop who had saved her, nor was he the commander that so desperately wished to see her dead. Ketill did not care if she lived or died beyond how it affected him. She’d known this before, but Najla could not understand how a man would try to save her from death while condemning her to a fate worse. There was a long pause, and for Najla it was tainted heavily with fear.

Pleading didn’t matter to Ketill. Nothing about her did beyond what she was to him. She provided no skills he did not possess, or that would aid him, and beyond her knowledge of the Sawarim language, he’d likely have an easier time without her. She needed him far more than he needed her during this expedition, and if it hadn’t been apparent to her before, it was now.

She broke the silence, finally, and while her voice wavered slightly, there was a fierce determination in it now, none of the morbid resolve or begging for pity he would have heard before. Her expression might have been familiar to Ketill, it seemed to hold the same bravery Sawarim warriors conjured when they were about to slit their throats, and were forced to pretend they did not fear death.

“Giving me to the slaver would be a mistake. No matter how much gold he offers you, I can give you more. Whatever he offers you, I can give you more.”

She stepped forward, ready to answer Ketill’s disbelief at her statement, whether it came through his eyes or his words. Part of her told her to stop, to hold her tongue. She’d made it this far on the blessing of the Sawarim, surely she would make it farther on this blessing? Perhaps a year ago, Najla would have been brave enough to hold her tongue and take this risk, but that Najla had been captured and her life had been given over to a Servant twice now.

“My name is not Saina. I’m not a merchant’s daughter.” She paused after that, but only briefly, assessing his reaction before she continued. “My father is Ali al-ibn Wahad, brother to the Great Sultan and a commander in his army.” She hesitated again, knowing that he would not believe her, but there was no fear in her expression now. She only studied him carefully, waiting to see what he believed.

“Were there ever rumors in the south of Najla al-ibn Wahad and her brother, Jalil? So few knew where we were going, but the Servants of all people are not blind to the goings-on of the Sultanate. Some Sawarim here must know, at least. Ask, they will tell you, Najla and her brother disappeared over a year ago from the Sultan’s court, and have not returned since. I was a lord’s captive for a year before they gave me to you.”

She did not mention what happened to her brother, though he might have assumed on his own. Najla would not be able to say his name again, both out of sadness and the fear that Ketill would hurt her if he knew her brother had tried to murder a lord.

“I gave them the name Saina when they took me, but believe that I am telling you the truth now. On my God, I swear it. My name is Najla, I am the niece of the Great Sultan. Do not give me to the slaver. Keep me, ransom me, I could give you whatever you want. Ketill, I could hand you that fucking banner you’re after. But I will never let another man touch me as that beast did. If you give me to the slaver, I will slit my throat before he lays a hand on me, and you will be left with nothing.”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again, meeting Ketill’s gaze once more. “I don’t know how to convince you of my identity, I lost all I had during my time in captivity. I have lied to you before, but I am telling you the truth when I say that if you condemn me to death you will have lost a valuable captive.”

@persianversion

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

“Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini Tuo da gloriam.”

The prayer came early in the morrow, before even the crack of dawn had sounded, and before the sun had raised itself above the red desert sands. In the large church hall, there were approximately four Servant knights, heads bent in prayer, their swords not at their side but at the entrance to the hall. It would be one of the few times you'd find a Servant without his blade - either asleep, or in church. Among them was Ketill, similarly with his head bent in prayer, his characterizing beard being an easy way to spot him. For once, he was dressed in naught more than his tunic - no armor, no shield at his side, only a tunic, belt and linen trousers, as well as leather boots. The weather would not allow him to go around in his armor constantly - though one might get accustomed to the desert heat, Ketill had been gone long enough to lose that trait.

While he was praying, the sounds of footsteps approaching behind the men was obvious, and though it bothered Ketill, he did not stir from his position. Finish the prayer first, he thought, then ask who dares disturb a prayer. Though he might not have looked the part - except perhaps for the iron monarchistic cross around his neck at times, hidden underneath his tunic mostly - Ketill was very much a zealous, devout believer, and while he was a man that took offense to little, disturbing his prayers was something he found most insulting.

Though, for the reason that the Servants had done so, it might have been excused. “Sir Ketill, sir,” a voice rang, deep and bold, brazen like a bull. Ketill did not look back, continuing to mumble his prayers. He would listen - not answer - as was expected of him. “Your slave has been captured after a murder last night. She seems to be complicit, and the Servants that found her said that she had blood on her hands when they found her. The Hochmeister has requested your presence, that you might defend her.”

Again, once more, he did not stir from his crouched position, mumbling his words ever on - inaudible, but louder - and the man seemed to finally get the message. He crossed his arms and waited for Ketill to finish. After a few more words, a clear finish rang. “In the name of the Monarch and his children, amen.” Slowly Ketill would get up and turn around, looking to face towards the man - he was a giant, larger than Ketill, taller than a mountain perhaps. He was strong, and clearly not of noble birth - his face was riddled with cuts and crooks, his nose bent in multiple places. Perhaps a criminal, looking for repentance. Ketill was not one to judge. All Servants were brothers, and all of them forgot their past when they joined. That was the commitment.

“I will come with you. Defending her.. I am not so sure. Lead the way,” Ketill answered him, his blue eyes matching the green ones of the giant in front of him. The man nodded and uncrossed his arm, heading for the exit. The church was built into the castle - a converted Sawarim prayer hall that over time had been retrofit for Monarchist prayer. They had even brought in one of the arch bishops, to hallow and sanctify the grounds and purge the remains of whatever Sawarim rituals and prayers had took place here. The Monarchists took their religion seriously.

When he passed by the four swords leaning against the wall near the exit, he took his, and attached the sheath to his belt again. He tugged it once or twice, making sure the thing was attached full and proper. Nothing worse than a blade falling off in the middle of a ride - or worse, a battle. They continued onward, first to the room of the hochmeister.

Ketill stepped in and already found himself in the company of some familiar faces. The two quartermasters, the young lord that lead the expedition, the slave master, and of course, the militia commander. Joined with them was the hochmeister of the Servants, who was leaning on his table, and seemed to be rather concerned. The burly man that had fetched Ketill stepped forward, bowing deeply for the men and women in the room, before he spoke up. “Presenting sir Ketill, lord Hochmeister.” It seemed like Ketill had been expected, then again, it was customary to involve the master of a slave.

Ketill stepped forward exchanging positions with the burly man, who now left the room. “What is the issue now?” Ketill asked, standing at the edge of the table, placing himself between the slavedriver and the female quartermaster. It seemed like those two were the ones that were least likely to stab him in the neck, at this point. Frankly, Ketill was surprised that the slavedriver was even allowed into the castle, but that was another matter entirely. “She murdered someone, from what I had gathered?”

“Yes, she did,” spoke the Hochmeister, solemn in his voice.

“Then there is no doubt, we are certain she did it?” It seemed there was no doubt about the situation, but Ketill saw fit to ask anyway. A confirming nod from the Hochmeister affirmed his suspicions. “Who did she kill?”

The face of the militia commander contorted in anger as he leaned in to the table, looking at Ketill angrily. “The same man whose face you bashed in, you fucking imbecile!”

The words came paired with spit and visible anger, which gave Ketill a reason to lift his eyebrow ever so slightly. “I see. He had not learned his lesson the last time?”

The militia commander was going to retort - perhaps by drawing a blade, we would never know - but was stopped by the Hochmeister. “They have history?”

“Yes, he attacked her and tried to rape her. I stopped him, and broke his nose. The weregild has been paid, so I had assumed he'd learned not to be so hedonistic.”

“Not all men are as pious as you, Ketill. Sawarims have no rights here - you of all people ought to know that. Perhaps you acted right as a person, but in the eyes of the laws of men, you had no right to intervene with violence - even as her master.”

“Are we savages then, Hochmeister? Does the holy book of our Monarch not say that we must remain civil in the face of heathens, infidels and the occult, lest we become worse than them?”

The militia leader now interrupted again, less angry perhaps, but still quite upset that one of his men had died at the hands of a Sawarim - or a Sawarim whore, as he'd have called her given the chance. “Worse than a Sawarim? Hochmeister, when did you start allowing pansies like this sore excuse for a man into the Servants? Worse than a bloody Sawarim, pfah, those charlatans and infidels are not good for much more than serving us, proper Broacienien Monarchists.”

Suddenly the slavedriver would speak up, a mischievous look in his eyes as he looked at the commander. “Serving you, personally, late at night in your tent, I take it, lord commander..? You have requested many of my girls - and I agreed, because you paid me.” Before the commander could interject, the slavedriver turned to the Hochmeister and spoke in that foreign Sawarim language that nobody seemed to understand - except the Hochmeister, apparently. <“He's a fan of our finest girls - the ones with slim bodies and nice features. Pays good money for them, and treats them nicely as long as he gets what he wants. As for the girls that he doesn't get, well, if they are Sawarim he'd probably crush them under his boot.”>

“.. yes, be that as it may be, lord, there is still the issue at hand here as to what to do with the woman. Whatever your thoughts may be about the Sawarim, in the end, she is a murderer, and must be dealt with accordingly.” The Hochmeister seemed to be ever the voice of reason, though Ketill would have had no problem with it if they decided her fate without him.

“I will retrieve her then. She deserves to hear her fate from our lips, at the very least.”

“Pfah, you're just stalling. But fine, go get her, get this bloody process over with, so that we can leave at the end of the day.”

“Leave?”

“Yes, we've waited here long enough. I'm ready to get going.”

“But we have offered you a few more days of hospitality, surely you would wish to-”

“We are leaving. We are here for the banner, not to repair ties with the Servants.”

Ketill shook his head and walked away while the Hochmeister and the militia commander had their discussion. It wasn't worthwhile to listen to that, not while the woman he had been appointed by Lord Jachsen was apparently going out at night and murdering the militiamen. He was sure there was more to it - but that did not quite matter. She was a murderer and she would pay for it - it seemed like it, anyway.

He walked down to the dungeons, down the twirling round staircase and then into the cell block. There were many, many cells. Coedwin had a history of being a primary slavery settlement, where slaves were offloaded and bought and sold, and as such, the dungeons were huge. Finding her was an easy task however - there were only two cell blocks in use in these times. Slavery trade had settled down after slavers started engaging in slave wars over territory. It would die down in a year or two, and then the trade would pick up again.

She would hear Ketill approaching long before he saw her, his footsteps echoing in the halls. Dim lit corridors were occasionally lit with torches, but mostly you had to rely on your eyes. When he finally found her, he looked at her through the grates of the cell. “Saina,” he'd say, looking at her with a hint of annoyance in his eyes. “I should let you rot here. You've been nothing but trouble so far. Look at you. This morning I wanted to find my white linen tunic, but found you hadn't stitched it. What use are you, if not something as simple as that?”

It seemed almost humorous that he forewent the process of even mentioning the murder. He didn't seem to care - well, a fellow Monarchist was dead, but he was a savage, and he paid the price. Hopefully the Monarch did not punish him too hard for his deed, for he was a mere man after all.

He reached to the right and grabbed the keys hanging from a pin on the wall, unlocking the cell door. He stepped inside, and stood closer to her. He offered her his left hand, helping her up, but when she would grab it and step up, she could suddenly see his right hand flying towards her with an open hand. Whether she braced or not, the hit would not come. His open hand had stopped mere inches from her cheek, his hand that had grabbed hers now violently squeezing hers in an effort to calm himself. He looked her in her eyes with his deep blue eyes, reminiscent of ice, or snow. It was silent and the silence was deafening. Ketill did not know that such a saying could be true but he finally understood it. After a few more seconds of silence, he'd let go of her hand, and lower his open palm that had hovered before her cheek. Then, he spoke, his voice calm as ever, as if he had not been taken over by anger moments before. “You will die today,” he said, ominously.

He stepped away, but turned back and drew his blade. The motion had been rapid and it was visible just how skilled Ketill was with his sword. And this was merely a one handed blade - imagine the damage he could do with a two handed blade. With a swift movement of the arm, he placed the tip of his blade against her chest, aiming directly between her breasts, slightly under the collarbones. She would feel the sting of his blade, piercing through the fabric of her dress slightly and poking at her chest. “I ought to kill you now, and settle the stain on my honor you have caused me by myself.” He seemed serious, as if he would really kill her. The pressure of the blade on her chest would slowly increase, until he drew blood, the tip puncturing her skin softly, not more than a needle would have. “That is what I would have done, were I not a man of the Monarch, or had I not taken my vows to him seriously. Instead, I will deliver you onto the mercy of the trial and I will pray for you that you survive. But the Monarch cannot help you. I will pray that your death is swift.” Even that would not be happening, he knew.

He removed the blade and sheathed it again, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her with him. Somehow he had managed to hold her by the same area where she had bruised at the very start of the trip - though, the bruises would have healed by now. He pulled her with him, towards the staircase, and headed back up.

They headed all the way to the Hochmeisters room, where he would step in and somehow land himself in another discussion. The slavemaster was seemingly arguing with the young leader of the expedition.

“I don't think we can do that. Raid Sawarim villages for slaves, I mean. We are here on an expedition, not to make war.”

“Nobody would know.”

“The villagers would - the sultan would. Much as my hatred for that man is, he is a sultan, and we do not wish to incite another war. Coedwin has held this long, we can hold longer. But an offensive war in the desert-”

“Is suicide. I am not asking you to go to war, I am asking you to raid villages with me.”

“You do not understand. It's im- oh, it seems Ketill has returned.”

With a forceful shove, Ketill would push Saina towards the table. He did not seem angry, mostly annoyed perhaps. He did not care for his honor, name or prestige too much. Perhaps he cared for the inconvenience she had caused him time and time again. He would not cut his finger for her this time.

“Yes, it seems that way, young lord,” he replied, his eyes never leaving Saina's back. “Go on Saina. Tell them what happened, why you were out late at night without my orders, and murdered a man. Your fate is sealed, but you might find some compassion left in these men.” His words were stern, sterner than ever before, and it was because Ketill realized the futility of the entire discussion. She would die - why prolong her suffering and make her hope for even the faintest glimpse of hope? It would not come. Not now, not tomorrow - she did not live to see tomorrow. If possible he would offer her some final soothing by swinging the blade on her neck himself - that way it would be gentle and swift.

Most likely she would be left in the dungeon, and those men that had enough influence or persuasion could visit her, have their way with her, before she would be executed at the fall of the evening before the expedition moved on. It was little she could do for that.

Fate was a fickle thing.

Perhaps the next voice was a reason to believe in that.

“Now, Ketill, treat her more kindly. This is not what I taught you.” The voice was older than any voice in the room, and it caused Ketill to look back. When he saw who it was, he dropped on one knee and bowed his head.

“Your holiness,” was all Ketill said. The other men and women in the room looked at the man, who was dressed in fine black clothes of the Church, a golden rod - a staff of sorts - in his hands that he used to hold himself upright. There was a look of compassion in his eyes when he looked around the room to inspect who was there. The only other person to lower his head was the Hochmeister, who also uttered something like 'your holiness' when the man appeared.

“Get up, Ketill. I am no longer the young bishop I was once. I've come to realize that the whole process of having people kneel for me is rather tiresome. I'd rather see your face, so that I can tell whether you are being sincere.”

Slowly Ketill would rise, looking up at the man. His demeanor did not change. “Yes, of course, your holiness. Your will is my command.”

The old man smiled at Saina, seemingly intrigued by her. “You look familiar - have I seen you before?” He looked at her a few seconds more before shaking his head. “Sorry, so many Sawarim girls visit the castle, I must be confused. I hope you enjoyed your stay here for so long, and I hope that we might find a way to prolong it.” His voice was one of genuine kindness, which perhaps Saina would not be expecting to find from a bishop of the Monarchist church.

“Your holiness, she is being trialed for murder, the evidence is here, and as you know Sawarim have no-” The Hochmeister had tried to speak but was interrupted with a wave of the staff from the priest.

“Nonsense. I will hear what she has to say. I overheard what Ketill said earlier - ah, see, I was waiting outside to visit one of my friends in the room across the hall. Lord-commander Davis, I'm sure you know. Nice man. Makes nice stews, too. Ah, I digress. Ketill was right. The Sawarim have no rights here - that much is true, and I do not stand to argue with that, for the will of the Monarch be done. But lest we turn to savages, I propose we hear to what she has to say. If I recall correctly, from what lord-commander Davis told me, the militia man was found murdered in a warehouse, found by his three friends.. with a rope behind the pillar he was found close to? Sounds to me like perhaps this man was not as innocent as the Monarch would have liked him to be.”

“A-absolutely, your holiness.” The Hochmeister was convinced, and similarly, the young leader also nodded, his chin grasped by his index finger and thumb. He would've felt his stubble - had he had any.

Ketill bowed his head to the man, whispering a soft 'thank you' before turning to Saina. “Very well, speak Saina, tell us what happened. Why were you out this late?”

He would ask her questions, as well as some of the other members of the trial. She would be allowed to tell her story, answer the questions, and if she had had any evidence, she would've been allowed to present it - though, given she was put in jail, it was unlikely she could procure anything like that just that easily.

“Who was the man you killed?”

“Why did you kill him?”

“What of his friends?”

“What did you do after you murdered him?”

“His purse was missing - did you take it?”

“Why did you return to the castle at first, and not turn yourself in?”

At the end of the trial, it seemed that the men had come to a conclusion. A vote was to be held. Each would state their position and would rule in favor of execution, or in favor of innocence. The hochmeister was exempted from the vote - he was only there to exact the punishment if they had decided on one. First to speak was the militia commander.

“I vote for execution. This whore just admitted she killed one of my men - she's a Sawarim! I don't care if she did it for a just reason or not. She deserves death.”

“I vote for execution too,” the slave driver said, looking at Saina. He spoke to her in his language, though only the Hochmeister and herself would understand. <“You should've taken my offer when you had the chance. I can't help you now - you were stubborn to continue to believe in our gods. If you survive, I'll come to see you. We should talk. Maybe your master will sell you to me now.”>

The first quartermaster was next, the male merchant that took care of the weaponry, armor and such. “Execute her. We need to consider practicality. This is the second hearing we've had for her, and we can't keep slowing down. So, either execute her, or leave her in the dungeons here. Sell her, if you must.”

Then, the female quartermaster. “She deserves a chance at life. It was obvious the man was.. looking for revenge. I paid his weregild - he should have been satisfied. Greediness is not a trait of a good Monarchist.” The bishop nodded at that remark, but remained silent.

Next, the young lord spoke, his chin still firmly between his index finger and thumb. “I would have voted to execute her, but the bishop is right. We are men of the Monarch, not savages. We must not lower ourselves to their standards, lest we lose our holy favor. She can live.”

Finally, it was Ketill's turn to vote. His vote was expected, and not surprising. “Live.” He needn't say more - his reasons were his own, and the grasp of the bishops hand on his shoulder affirmed his choice.

“Well. It seems we are tied.. that means that the choice defaults to execution,” the Hochmeister said. “Ketill, you will.. exact the punishment, I take it?”

Ketill answered honestly. “Yes. Right away.” He did not wish to prolong the trial, and he did not wish to prolong her suffering at the hands of other men. But the bishop stepped in, righteously so.

“Very well, it seems it has to come to this - I exact the right of holy intervention. The Monarch is not here, but I am. I will tell you what I believe the monarch would do - he'd spare this woman on the grounds of self defense, and he would indenture her to his servitude. As I have no need for a slave, I will indenture her to Ketill, as she was before, and so the status quo remains. That is my will.”

Ketill and the Hochmeister - two Servants, of course, indentured to the holy man himself - bowed their heads. “Thy will be done, your holiness,” they added, and so it seemed to be decided that his will was to be exacted. The militia commander did not seem to agree, however.

“You, y-you will let her go? That's idiotic! IMBECILES! Seize her and execute her! What are you, mad? DO IT AT ONCE. I COMMAND IT, HOCH-”

Suddenly, Ketills voice was raised, sharp as ever, but more brazen, strong like before, his hand immediately resting on his blade. The Hochmeister similarly rested his hand on his blade, getting ready for whatever might follow. “You would not go against the wish of the bishop. You are in the home of the Servants, and we serve the faith, not your whims and desires. I suggest you treat the bishop with respect, as well as his choice. I have broken your mans' nose, and he is dead now. I wish not to threaten you, but me and the Hochmeister, as is every Servant in this castle, are indentured to the service of the faith, and that means the bishop too. Go against his wishes, and you will find yourself on the end of my blade, good lord.”

The bishop looked upon the scene with squinting eyes, awaiting what would happen. Slowly he reached for Saina, grabbing her arm and pulling her closer to him - and thus, away from the table and the scene that was playing out there.

The militia commander reached for his blade at first, looking to challenge Ketill and the Hochmeister but his hand was firmly grasped by the young lord. “Stay your blade. We do not wish to fight Servants - I will not fight them. If you wish to do so, do it on your own. We will not stand for it.” The militia commander grumbled and ultimately submitted, mumbling a 'fine'.

And so, with the trial over, Ketill would turn to Saina and the bishop, bow his head for the bishop, and usher a soft 'thank you, your holiness' before taking control of Saina's arm again. He pushed her into the hall and ushered her down the hall towards his own room.

Once they arrived, he pushed her inside and closed the door behind them. His face spelled anger, but he did not feel that way. “You survived. You are..” He did not finish his sentence immediately, only sighing. “.. touched by divine grace, it would seem. But I cannot stand for this. Murder is murder. You have stained my honor and name. I would not sell you to anyone, but I am considering it now. There is no reason not to sell you to the slavedriver, is there?”

@Odin

ℰxpedition for the ℬanner of St. ℱriedrich

The whispers were hushed, but cut through the quiet of the night like steel. She had been happy as she walked back, nervous perhaps, but mostly eager for the night to end so they could take Inaya and be another day closer to freedom. Now a rush of fear came over her, and she reached down to grab a handful of her dress, picking the skirt up in her hand before darting.

It did not last long. She was only able to move a few paces before the sound of boots behind her grew impossible to ignore, and she felt the rough grasp around her wrist as they pulled her back. She wanted to protest, to beg, to tell them that she wasn’t a whore and that they’d be caught, but before she could, she felt herself being swept up and carried away.

Najla never stopped struggling, but the man had locked his arms around her, and he was far stronger and larger than she was. She even cried out for help, but where the deserted marketplace had been her friend before, it was no help here. No one heard her, and as they took her into the warehouse, Najla knew what was going to happen. What part of her hadn’t been consumed by fear before certainly felt it now, but she kept squirming and struggling as they pulled her arms back. The rope was rough, and felt as if it cut against her wrists painfully as she moved, but Najla didn’t seem to feel it. She kept pulling at the rope, trying desperately to loosen it, only to freeze for a brief moment before a familiar face came before hers.

The hands that had been tying her left, and her fearful protests ceased as the man began talking. Even here, tied up and surrounded by five men who hated her, Najla’s anger at this man was easily apparent. She recoiled as he brought his face closer to hers, utterly repulsed both by his appearance and his words.

He grabbed her shoulder harshly and Najla winced as he dug his nails into the skin. It would likely break and bleed, but that was hardly her concern now. She shook her head at his words, still squirming at the ropes, still trying to pull away with the little space allotted to her, still trying to push the words of protest out. She tried to threaten him, to demand him to stop, to beg him to stop, but when he ordered the men out, Najla knew what was next. No amount of words could stop them, they would use her throughout the night and hopefully she’d be around to recall the trauma in the morning.

The hand on her crotch confirmed this, and though she tried to kick out at him, it was pointless. As he continued to touch her, his grimy hands doing as they pleased, she felt the ropes around her wrist loosen slightly. Najla used her fingers to pull the rope apart, and a wrist slipped out, followed by the other. She kept them firmly behind her, still squirming as if she was tied, but the rough rope around her wrists was held up at her will now. The gleam of the dagger at his hip was tempting, especially as his touch grew bolder, but she did not move.

He brought his face closer to hers, and Najla maintained eye contact with him. He was an ugly creature, and his smile contorted his now-broken face unpleasantly. His face moved closer towards her, as if he meant to kiss her, and Najla whimpered again and kicked out as she felt his finger move inside her.

“I knew you’d like it.”

Finally, his eyes closed as his lips met hers, and Najla was free to end the indignity.

Her hand moved in a flash, and she reached for the dagger at his hip, unsheathing it and bringing just past her own neck. She slid the dagger into his throat, pulling her lips from his at the last moment and replacing it with her hand. The dagger did not pierce all the way through, she was not strong enough for it, but she pulled it out and stabbed it in again. She could hear him choking on his blood beneath her hand, and felt the warm blood being coughed up against it, but the sound was muffled, overridden by the heavy laughter behind the door. Najla pulled the dagger out again, swiftly, and he fell to his knees in front of her as he tried to grasp at his throat, his eyes wide and bulging in their panic. No screams could come now, only gargles as the blood pushed through the holes in his throat, and past his lips, falling out over his body. Najla watched angrily as he fell to the ground, her body still burning where he had touched her. She watched as he collapsed, choking on his own blood for another brief moment before his body stilled. Najla kneeled beside his body, resting the dagger gently on the floor. For a moment, she considered closing his eyes, but chose instead to spit into his face, before digging into his pockets, trying to calm herself and understand her new position.

Her mind raced furiously, her thoughts pouring out in a steady stream of panic, which Najla was barely managing to pick through.

If I go to the trader, they follow, we both die. If I go free Inaya, they follow, we both die. If I return to the castle, I could live, but Inaya will not be freed. She is the only one who knows where I am, she has to go.

Najla scrounged through his pockets as she continued to think on what to do, situation after situation playing in her head. It did not take long, Najla had few options and fewer still she trusted, but it felt like years to her.

I’ve got to get Inaya out. Either her or me.

The thought made her heart sink, and Najla paused for a brief moment, as the sorrow of the realization took over her actions. She wouldn’t be leaving. It was too dangerous, if she ran, they’d know she tried to escape justice. They’d hunt her, as Ketill had threatened, especially if she left a body in her trail. She couldn’t leave now.

I was so close. One more day. I would’ve been free tomorrow.

He had ruined everything. She looked at the man under her, the blood still oozing from his throat and onto the floor beneath them. He was uglier in death, most were, but the thought that such a hideous creatures hands had been on her made her shudder. The thought that he had taken her freedom from her made her angry. Yet, there was nothing she could do, there was nothing left to take from him.

Najla observed him for a moment, the anger quieting her panicked stream of thoughts. She was not repulsed by the scene in front of her. She had lifted her dress in her hand, and stepped around the pools of blood lightly, so as not to let it stain. Her hands searched through his pockets, uncaring as to how quickly the skin against it was turning cold. His expression was contorted and painful, and the wounds on his neck were ugly, open, and leaking, yet Najla showed no disgust as she observed him. Only anger for what he had taken from her and the frustration that she had nothing more to take from him.

Finding the purse where he kept his money, she opened it with her clean hand. The coins clinked softly as she counted them, but she could not count more than a few before she grew wary of the noise. Though the men were laughing beyond the door, she worried that they would be listening closely, anticipating their turn. Najla glanced over the coins quickly, estimating that he had kept about 50, if not more, of the silver with him. He was an idiot to leave any of it in the dormitory, but she was hardly concerned about that now. Picking up the rope they had used to tie her hands together, Najla tied the purse to the inside of her leg securely, taking a few steps and rearranging it to make sure it wouldn’t jingle about as she walked. Guards would see her walking back with a full purse in her hands, and she didn’t want them sitting around guessing how much she had been worth.

Najla hesitated another moment, listening to the crass laughter behind the door. She knew she couldn’t exit through that door, but these warehouses had a number of entrances. Perhaps she could have waited, and taken them one by one as they walked in, and though she would have loved to bring justice to those who had wanted to hurt her so badly, she knew she couldn’t. She’d have to pray that the Sawarim brought it to them someday.

The dim light the man had molested her by proved just enough to move to the other end of the large warehouse, where Najla felt along the wall carefully until she found a door, smaller than the one they had brought her through, which was likely used for the larger goods in. It opened without complaint, thankfully, and Najla slipped out onto the streets. The sounds of the laughter had not left her ears, and it felt as if the man’s touch was still upon her, so Najla did not hesitate. She picked up her skirts again and moved as far away from their voices as she could before she made her way through the castle.

----

She had learned from her mistake. She gave herself a glance-over as best as she could in the light of a torch, making sure there were no visible bloodstains. The hand she had kept over his mouth had been cleaned as best as she could, but she held up the hem of her dress in that hand, trying to cover up the bloodstain with the fabric. A red mark remained smeared on her neck, and Najla could not wipe it off completely, so she let her hair cover it, smoothing it down. Her dress, she had pulled back up over her shoulder, and she smoothed that down as well, checking it over for visible bloodstains. Surely, there were some, but none that any would see in the dimly lit halls of Coedwin now.

She wanted to sprint through the empty streets of the market, pound upon the trader’s warehouse, and demand that he take her home now. Reason forced her to return to the keep, along with the knowledge that the men would be seeking her shortly. It wouldn’t take long for one to grow impatient and storm in for his turn, and she had only the span of their patience to act. It was reason that pushed her through the streets to the keep, through the courtyard and the halls, and back to her bed. The guards looked at her, a curious glance here and there, but a Sawarim woman walking back through the castle at this hour seemed to be a common sight. She had taken care to clean up her appearance to pass the necessary glances, and so it seemed none knew of the silver strapped to her calf or the body she had left in her wake.

They will, tomorrow. And I’m leaving myself at their mercy, like a fool.

She had seen their trials, and it frightened Najla to think she might be subject to one. Ketill had been about to give part of his finger for breaking a man’s nose, she could not imagine the price for the same man’s life. For a Sawarim woman, likely nothing short of her own. The only alternative was that she leave with the trader and die when they caught up to her. She had played with her own life many times over, and perhaps it would have been a gamble she was willing to take, but Najla was the only one who knew where Jalil remained. That information couldn’t die with her.

She threaded carefully through the host of slaves sleeping on cots and the ground. It seemed getting to the cot she had shared with Qamar took longer than the rest of her walk, as Najla was forced to tread carefully to avoid stepping on anyone in the dim light of the torch. Finally, she could see Qamar sleeping soundly on the cot, and Najla moved beside her carefully. Ever so gently, she shook the girl awake, leaving a hand over her mouth to prevent her from gasping or making a noise if she were to wake up suddenly.

Qamar startled awake, and it was lucky that Najla had her hand over the girl’s mouth, for she let out a sharp gasp that was instantly muffled. Once Qamar saw her, Najla lifted the hand, gently moving a single finger to her own lips, to indicate she was to be quiet.

<“Qamar, I need you to listen. You’re my friend, right?”> Qamar nodded, confused. She was a sweet girl, and Najla took her hand softly. <“If you trust anything I say, trust this. I can get you out of here.”>

Qamar’s eyes widened, and she seemed about to speak, when Najla held another finger to her lips. <“Ya Sawarim, on my life I promise this. Do you trust me?”>

Qamar nodded again, and Najla continued to speak, her voice soft and low, though as gentle as she could manage in her panic. <“Then I need you to listen. Tomorrow, go to a trader in the market. Address him as Suhayb and give him this.”> Najla explained how to find him and his warehouse, as she reached under her dress and swiftly untied the rope that had been chafing her leg. The bag fell onto the cot with a clink, and Najla gripped it tightly so it made no more noise as she picked it up and handed it to Qamar. Qamar took it in her hand as gently if Najla was handing her a miraculous child, mesmerized by the gift.

<“There’s 50 silvers in there. He must use it and whatever else he has to purchase another.”> This time, Najla explained who Inaya was. Not her personality, or her background, but every identifying marker Najla could remember about the girl, to make sure she freed no one on accident. Clearly this was a task she wished she could do herself, but Najla knew she would never be allowed to wander Coedwin with the freedom to do so again, at least not in the brief week before she left. Even if she wasn’t relegated to a dungeon, even if they decided her cause was just, the crowd would watch her now, every movement she made.

Qamar looked confused, and Najla squeezed her hand tightly. <“Please tell me you were listening.”> Her words were spoken with a smile, almost as a joke, despite the fear that was about to come running down the hall to take her.

<“I am, I just-what about you? Why her?”>

<“Don’t worry about me, I will see you soon. Someone has to stay behind and make sure no one follows you, right?”> Najla paused again, before continuing. <“Whatever you hear about me. Wherever I am. Nothing should stop you from taking that money to the market tomorrow and do as I’m telling you. I know what’s going to happen to me, and I will see you again.”>

<“What’s going to happen to you?”>

Najla paused, then smiled again, hoping Najla could hear the confidence in her words. <“It’ll sound scarier than it is. Trust that I will be fine. So long as you do everything I’ve asked of you, I will not be in trouble for long. If you fail, I will too.”>

They spoke longer, in whispers so quietly the bodies snoring beside them would never hear. But Najla made certain Qamar had. She comforted the girl, telling her that her past as a merchant had connected her to this particular trader, that Qamar should have no fears. She laughed with the girl gently, as if they were sisters gossiping underneath a blanket, and Najla knew she would miss Qamar. Inaya and Qamar would become fast friends however, and Najla was soon heartened when she saw that their talking had caused Qamar to become bolder in her role, more trusting of her friend, and hopeful that she’d be let free soon.

<“What will I do, when I’m free? I have few talents…and I don’t want to do that again.”>

<“You won’t ever have to. Never again. We’ll work as merchants and get so rich we’ll never have to touch a man we don’t want again.”>

They whispered these dreams to each other, and the dreams grew larger and larger, to fancy houses and fine husbands, before Najla said her goodbye. For a moment, she hugged the girl tightly, then released her just as quickly.

<“When you find the girl, tell her that his skull remains on a spike where it was taken.”>

<“Whose?”> <“No ones, it’s a code. But you must tell her that, she will know what it means.”> Qamar nodded again, and Najla smiled once more.

<“Ya Sawarim, stay safe. He will return me to you within a fortnight.”>

With this, Najla picked her way through the crowd again. She had far less patience this time, knowing that the men were likely scouring the marketplace for her, or had run back to the castle to alert the Servants. She could wait until they found her among the slaves, but Najla had no assurances of her safety. What if they stormed in and just slit her throat in front of these slaves? They wouldn’t do anything to stop it.

Once again, she left the room. Night would be over soon, and Najla knew what came for her when the day broke. She walked through the halls of Coedwin with her shoulders back, no longer slinking about, no intent to hide what she had done.

I wish I could find Ketill. At least he’d kill me himself, instead of handing me over to those brutes.

It’d be a preferable death, certainly, as she simply wanted to keep the pleasure away from those cowards. Yet she did not trust that she’d make it to Ketill’s room alive, she was sure that the men would find her soon. So, Najla moved to the front entrance of the castle keep.

It would not take her long to find what she was looking for. Apparently the men had seen the body and had already started to search for her in the night, alerting the guards at some point during the process. They had responded with sending out more patrols to look for her, assuming she must have escaped or remained hiding in the marketplace. Najla only had to get to the courtyard before she was stopped by a pair of unfamiliar Servants, clearly on the way to join the search.

“Come here and identify yourself.”

Najla walked towards them, her eyes on the ground. She opened her mouth to speak, but it seemed they had seen the bloodstains on her hand, or realized somehow who she was. One moved to pull out a sword, and Najla raised her hands, one clean and one stained red, to show they were empty.

“No need, my lord, I am unarmed and submit myself to your mercy.” There was no fear in her voice, and though Najla felt her heart pounding furiously, she would not have been able to identify herself as frightened if anyone asked. There was a sense of relief in her actions, knowing that even if she were to die, someone besides her knew where Jalil was buried. Soon, the Sultanate would know and her brother could rest.

While visibly confused, the Servants were not about to argue with her. One marched forward and grabbed her wrist, while the other let go of his sword.

“I’ll let them know we found her.” The one holding onto her nodded and she was left alone with him as his friend marched off. This should have frightened her more, but he seemed eager to be rid of her, and wasted no time in marching her towards the dungeons.

“You’re really ser Ketill's slave?”

“Yes, my lord.” He seemed surprised, but it was not hard to understand why. Her master seemed to be respected around Coedwin, if not most of Broacien, rather highly. She was going to be a stain on his reputation, but Najla did not care what the others thought of Ketill, so long as they didn’t try to hurt her for it.

“He’s not going to like this.” “No, my lord.”

He had meant it threateningly, but Najla would not let herself by frightened by him. As horrible of a notion it was, Ketill was the safest option she had. At least he wouldn’t rape her for what she had done.

He marched her to the dungeons, quickly handing her off to the Servants that guarded it. It was the second time she’d find her home in a Brocienien cell, and Najla was finding that she liked them less each time around. It was far better than being tied to a pole in a warehouse however, even as they wrapped her wrists with chains and tossed in into a cell. It was damp, cramped, but thankfully empty, though the various cells of the dungeons had been populated with Sawarim prisoners. Najla found the less damp part of the cell and sat down, her back against the wall. With nothing to do, she prayed, and would continue to do so intermittently until her master came to fetch her.

@persianversion