Fortune Favors the Brave
Wezley Bennett sat, one hand toying with Nathans', light, ashen hair by the fireside. "I'm sick of the sight of you all." He said somewhat vehemently. Ice-cold gaze leveled at the real object of his distaste and dilemma, Carlos. As the captives were shuffled by him in chains.
He was tired of the struggle after owning such a compliant and clever slave in Nathan, and close to abandoning his project of many years. However, he could never quite find it in himself to completely just give up. He gazed long and hard at Carlos' retreating back, he looked taller, prouder, or was he simply imagining this? He shrugged and turned back to the boy at his feet, he probably was.
With the onset of finer weather, Bennett felt a weight lift from his shoulders, at least in part, for he had many ongoing concerns. Perhaps the lumber they had stockpiled would last for a time after all, and their exodus could be delayed. He was thankful because he was not remotely ready. In the vicious cold, the tribe had been burning fuel in copious quantities in recent weeks. While they had waited for news from the north.
With the realization the extreme weather had abated, he had ordered the three male captives removed from the cave. He grew tired of them in his living space, with all the clan so tightly quartered, and had his men inter them, fettered in chains to the prison of the cattle trailer. He had plans for Renard. He just as yet had not formulated them. Though he was really not so sure what he would do with the others when the time came to leave.
He was at that moment remembering television, as he watched the coals and the blackened vessel simmering heating water before him. That far distant time of his childhood. He did not choose to revisit those moments in his life often. These memories were for the most part very unpleasant. The plethora of Hollywood shows and movies all glorifying violence, and yet no man in real society was allowed to be that way inclined. Instead, the endless procession of pumped-up fakes of actors, pretending to the masses they were special. He had not found them convincing then, and he scoffed at the idea of them now.
These action flicks he had clamored to watch as a youth, he was always the bad guy in his mind, rooting for the villain to win. It was an era of foolish ideals he reflected. The social climate of that time was strange to him, people not knowing if they were even men or women. Ridiculous all of it, and he was glad it was long done with.
Bennett as an individual had only really begun to exist after the war. The time he had truly come into his own, born of blood and fire. He tugged on the mop of pretty platinum hair in his careless grasp, pulling the boy's face up to look into his own. Nathan's eyes shone with repressed longing. Bennett felt powerful, invincible, the emotion swelled inside him. Followed by burgeoning lust. Later, he mused, later. There were other matters, that must as always come first.
The vicious leader hoped that his three men would soon return from their foray north and with them some inspiration as to how they could move forward. Despite that Bennett was seeing shadows. What would happen if they never returned? The idea that they may not appear worried at the big man, dampening his heady feelings of the moment prior. He was emotionless on the exterior, but quietly that was his biggest fear.
So few men he ruminated, capable, but so few. It seemed his options grew less with each passing season. Only seven fighting men left, and of those he was not sure he could completely count on Sven. The big man seemed to have lost his lust for blood completely, unlike the others. Perhaps he should just leave him behind with his small family when they departed, Bennett conceded. There was Gareth and Dwayne, presuming they returned, and Will, Pig, and Todd. They were the only survivors of a very difficult year. It would do no good to be leader soon if there was no one left to lead.
How could his fighting force be replenished? He chafed at this hurdle that he must overcome. In recent years there had been no one worthy to join them, and attrition had taken its toll. The only tried fighting force he was aware of was housed in the Wolf Lord's fortress. The chances of them joining him were none. Not in his present capacity. He must find leverage, some power of impossible persuasion. He knew he grasped at straws. But a good leader never gave up, he knew this. Perhaps there would be some good men to be had from the farmlands of Renard's Father as a possible ransom for his son. Yet he was unsure how this deal would even bear fruit.
What did he have that could persuade anyone to join him? Gone were the heady days of discord and strife. People were now trying to rebuild. Were his days numbered like the dinosaurs of his past? A War Lord was nothing without followers, without the rudiments of war. He could feel his grip slipping and it left a bitter taste. He would hold on to the idea that Gareth would indeed return and bring him something of worth, something to rally his clan.
*****
The three men didn't know exactly how they would plan to escape, but since their relocation, the task would be easier. They would be less observed here, and they could even confer and plan some, without the ever prying eyes of their captors. Renard still had secreted in his possession the cutthroat razor that Raissa had in her fright overlooked to return. It was not much of a weapon, but beggars could not be choosers.
Carlos likewise had hidden the valuable stainless steel pin, pushed into the hem fabric of his torn shirt. The sundry item was so pivotal to their escape, and in the darkness later that evening while everyone was engaged in eating the evening meal. He attempted to pick the padlock that closed the gate of the trailer. The other two men held their breath as they watched on. Again in his skilled hands, he had it open in seconds. Renard and Darius nodded in approval, carefully they closed it once more to wait for the opportune moment.
Lissa knew she must assist Renard, yet she was unsure how she could be of any real help. Growing up in the farmlands of her people though, she had learned a thing or two about plants and their uses. She was no apothecary, but she had learned many facts about the plants that grew locally and their properties, thanks to her mother. Probably not as much as Raissa did healing-wise, but she knew enough to be dangerous.
There was a small ragged tree growing near the well she recalled. The goats did not eat it for a reason, and she knew why. The leaves were when the weather had been warm a feathery, lush green, and the pretty sprays of pea flowers white, that smelled heavily of honey in the late spring. Black Locust, Lissa knew all parts of the plant were poisonous. A dose would not be life-threatening but could be debilitating if ingested. She felt she had her answer. Now to employ her plan.
With this thought, Lissa had been down to visit the gnarled little tree earlier in the day, on the endless errand to fetch yet more water. A well-worn path had been etched into the hard-packed earth by the women's feet as they went on this errand many times a day.
