Rising

Methaniel was awake and about before her, leaving Ahma to wake to a cold, empty bed. Her heart froze. She trembled, feeling a strange panic and ache inside, then calmed suddenly as her eyes fell upon his beloved sword propped up against the wall. He would never have left without it.

The Wingling rose and tried to dispel the wave of panic fully. She quickly donned the new light gray wool britches and soft green tunic that they’d bought. They complimented the lovely shade of her wings. She brushed and re-braided her hair before arranging her wings neatly, preening the feathers into place. Then she softly sang her morning prayers, doing her best to keep her voice down enough so she didn’t bring any of the other patron’s attention. She took simple pleasure in this ritual and allowed it to relax and energize her for the day to come.

She began to walk outside when the door swung open.

“Master,” she breathed, and she suddenly realized just how badly she had been crushed by the thought of him being gone.

Methaniel gazed on her in silent wonder. Though he was no stranger to the sight of her, he found himself amazed by her all the same. Her rich hair drawn into a thick, tight chestnut braid, sliding down her back and between her wings and down to her buttocks, the light emerald of the underside of her wings facing him, their brilliant colors fully settled into the soft feathers. Her flawless face stared up at him, her huge, beautiful chocolate eyes shining softly. Her pursed lips suddenly seemed so soft, so welcoming, so inviting…

He smiled at her, warm and sincere. The girl filled him with a feeling of life and vitality he’d never known with any other. She was a marvel in his eyes.

She smiled back, “Good morning, Master Merie. Did you sleep well?”

“Very well,” he nodded. “And you?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“I picked up a few last minute supplies and had the stable prepare Lanion,” he told her. He handed her two thick scarves. “Your brothers told me once that Winglings use things like these to keep the base of their wings warm.”

“Yes, thank you,” Ahma smiled widely. “I’ll definitely use these.”

“I also stocked a lot of salt for us, and some bread. I bought some extra travel rations should hunting be thin. Are you ready to leave?”

“Yes, Master,” she nodded.

But she wasn’t. Even he could tell. She didn’t want to travel to the next city. Since he told her of his plans to find her a place to work and stay in the next city, she’d grown quiet. Something plagued her mind, even if she tried to remain cheerful. Methaniel guessed that she was worried about the same thing he was: her safety. Finding a decent place to live for her would be difficult. He would never be sure her new Master wouldn’t prostitute her or possibly rape her, or any other myriad abuses. Life for a servant in Rojinla was grim at best. But they would find something, he was sure, perhaps a church, or one of the rare households who cared for their servants and workers properly.

Outside they found two stable hands trying to keep Lanion from bolting. Methaniel called to his horse. Lanion snorted at him.

The Master loaded their supplies onto the horse while Ahma adjusted her cloak. She watched the animal defy the man at every turn. The normally obedient horse could be very stubborn and rebellious when the mood struck him, apparently. As Methaniel moved to place a bag of dried provisions onto the horse’s back, Lanion side stepped into him, almost knocking him over.

Annoyance burned on Methaniel’s face, but he managed to load the goods. He turned to Ahma, “Are you ready?”

“Hold on a minute!” a voice called out.

They turned to see a rolly merchant approaching them. He was middle aged and seemed to have some level of wealth, judging by the cut of his clothes, but not stunningly so.

“The stable hands informed me this horse coupled with my mare yesterday!” the man exclaimed.

Methaniel gave Lanion a dirty look. Lanion stared out of one equine eye at him, and nickered softly. Ahma tried not to giggle.

“She’s my finest horse! I demand compensation for this!” the merchant huffed.

Methaniel turned his gaze to the pudgy man, staring him down. “I apologize, sir, for my horse’s behavior. But I’m afraid I won’t be paying you. If anything, I believe you owe me a stud fee.”

“I wasn’t trying to get my horse pregnant!” the merchant snapped. “Oh, this will cause me great trouble!”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have her around the male horses when she’s in heat. I’m not discussing this further. If your mare does have a foal, you’ll make up greatly in profit with such a horse,” Methaniel told him.

The merchant continued to argue, but Methaniel mounted his steed, then helped Ahma up in front of him. As they rode off, they could hear the merchant turn his anger on the stable hand for their ‘carelessness’.

Methaniel patted the Lanion’s neck, grinning widely. “You old bastard.”

The horse, already seeming in a better mood after getting out of the cramped stable, neighed loudly.

“Ah, I almost forgot,” Methaniel said, glancing down at the girl sitting before him. He reached behind him and ruffled briefly through their supplies, then put an item in the Wingling’s lap. Her eyes widened. It was a sheathed blade, a short sword if she guessed correctly.

“Unsheath it,” Methaniel instructed. He smiled proudly as she reverently slid the blade free. It was a fairly wide blade with a wicked, gleaming edge. It was smooth, unused and unmarred, but undoubtedly keen. It tapered into a fine point, perfect for stabbing and thrusting, though the blade was made to be a cutting weapon. The hilt was comfortable and easy to grasp, and a wide crossguard swept slightly upward.

“Th-this is mine?” she stuttered, gaping at the blade. Methaniel smiled and without even realizing his actions, reach with one large hand to brush back a stray lock of hair from her face. He absently marveled at the silken softness of the strands.

Ahma stared at the weapon for a long moment before she realized he’d touched her hair. She smiled softly. “Thank you, Master. I’ll do my best to learn how to use this well.”

Inwardly, she was somewhat nervous. The sword was so sharp it could probably slice through bone. It also thrilled her, as she hoped this meant he planned to keep her with him some time longer. He

did

have to teach her how to use the sword, after all.

They rode on through the day, traveling south. Methaniel had bought a crude but functional map before they’d left. He planned to travel through the plain lands and into the hillier regions, avoiding the major roads just in case any eyes were looking for them. About two weeks from Sefar was the major city of Fernum.

It was a mostly eventless journey. Methaniel hunted as they rested the horse, and occasionally at night as Ahma prepared the fire. Prey fluctuated in this area, both in variety and number, mainly consisting of small game such as raccoon, hare, and wild squirrels. They ate a steady mix of the kills Methaniel brought in and the travel rations they’d bought.

During the two weeks of travel Ahma’s training became more intense. They used the scarves to bind her breasts tightly down to her chest. It wasn’t comfortable at all, and made it a bit hard to breath at first, but it kept her bosom out of the way and securely pressed to her body. That, combined with her new trousers and tunics, allowed her to move much more freely and without worry.

Methaniel began training her in stamina and conditioning exercises. In the afternoons they ran for some time, working and traveling all at once. By the third day, Ahma was exhausted, and her body ached all over. It was a strenuous, hard, uncomfortable regiment and she plummeted into sleep each night. Methaniel pushed her and insisted that she give it her all. He was never cruel but always stern, making her go beyond what she imagined she could every day. He became somewhat gruff when he trained her, though not unkind; he simply slipped back into his role as a soldier when they trained. He was tireless, always demanding more, and if Ahma hadn’t had an appreciation for his fitness before, she did now.

In addition to her conditioning exercises, Ahma’s strength exercise continued every night after they’d made camp and before they ate. It was more intense than ever. They found rocks for her to lift and carry, working to make her muscles stronger and tougher. She trained in blade maneuvers in the evening as well with both her dagger and her short sword. She was able to practice with them in a more active and mobile manner. Her sword arm became heavy and exhausted day by day.

She was, however, showing definite progress. Methaniel drilled her through her sword maneuvers, and after the first week of running, she was able to keep pace with him for almost twice as she initially could before having to rest from shortness of breath.

Through it all, Ahma felt such a mix of emotions it was near overwhelming. She was proud of how well she was doing in her training; it was difficult, and painful, but she knew it would serve her well in the future. She was also happy, truly happy. She was so close to Master Methaniel and able to spend time with him, to learn more about him. The more she knew him, the deeper in love with him she fell. She had accepted this; there was really no way she could deny that she loved him, not to herself, at least.

This love brought pain as well, however. She knew it would never be reciprocated. Oh, Methaniel cared for her, she knew. He showed his own form of kindness and caring to her every day.

But it didn’t matter. They were too different; their stations made any relationship unacceptable, and their race would make things difficult as well. Ahma had no problem with the thought of mating with a Human; she wasn’t so sure Methaniel felt the same about Winglings. And besides, he cared for her, yes, but she highly doubted he felt the feelings beyond caring that she was experiencing for him.

And he was leaving her. Though she hoped he would let her stay with him for some time further, he spoke gently but firmly about finding her a peaceful, safe place to live in Fernum. She understood, of course; he was trying to protect her. In a way, that warmed her heart, that he would care enough to try to ensure her safety. But that warmth did nothing to sooth the ache at the separation looming just ahead.

The days passed, one fading into the next. They were filled with tough hours and times of learning. When Ahma wasn’t training, she occasionally rode astride Lanion’s back, sitting in front of Master Methaniel, but most often she flew overhead, scouting for any sign of life around them. Methaniel still feared possible pursuit, and she was keenly searching for any hint of hunters trailing them. She also helped Methaniel search out suitable camping sights, and watched for any sign of settlement or habitation along their way to Fernum.

They came upon the city a few days later than Methaniel had estimated, but given their early camping each day in order for Ahma to train and Lanion to rest, it wasn’t a great surprise. They arrived late in the afternoon, as the sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon and gradually turn the sky a brilliant orange.

Fernum wasn’t as large a city as Durinum, but it was massive compared to Sefar. It was walled in, though its walls were much more modest than those of their home city. The buildings were tall and largely made of rock. It was a tough, rough town, and it’d obviously seen some battle waged on its soil before. Many buildings still bore scars from past wars, and some were entirely abandoned. A shell of a building, crumbled and broken into half formed ruin was not an entirely uncommon sight. The town had a relatively developed guard force, though they seemed more interested in putting pressure on people for bribes and causing whatever trouble they could to break their boredom than actually upholding anything passing for a law. Not one of them looked at Methaniel and Ahma twice as they entered through the north gate, Methaniel on foot beside Lanion, who carried Ahma upon his back, their façade roles put up for the public to see.

The city was a cramped place full of closed spaces with buildings bunched together. The roads were crowded with people and branched off into narrow and waste cluttered alleys. Shops were set up and scattered around, but they bypassed these, searching for a favorable inn. The folk here were even less friendly than those at Sefar, and Ahma felt her heart tightening in her chest at the thought of living in this grim and oppressive place.

It only became worse the further into the town they went. The slave trade was strong in Fernum. Men, women, and even children were shackled and led along, poked and prodded and beaten in broad daylight by Nobles and Masters. They hurried by a market square on one side of the city, where Humans and other races sat miserable and pain filled in cages, taken out to be sold on the auction block. The sight turned Ahma’s stomach. There were prostitutes frequenting the streets, their work unhidden and advertised. But these prostitutes were not free people; all of them, mostly women and young girls, were shackled and wore slave collars, and were branded. While Ahma bore a servants mark, these slaves had been scalded by metal, leaving scarring burns in whatever pattern their owners chose. They were much more clearly shown, marking the slave’s arm, chest, and even face.

They found an inn on the west side of town, a simple district of the city that was neither slum nor upscale. The inn looked favorable, but it had no stables. Ahma was fighting to hold her tears back by the time they reached it.

“I’ll go arrange our room,” Methaniel nodded. He jerked his head toward a stable yard down the street. “Take Lanion to the stables over there and get him comfortable. I’ll be by momentarily to help you settle the payment.”

“Yes, Master,” Ahma said softly. Distracted by Ahma’s distraught and wishing to get her settled away from the ugly streets as soon as possible, Methaniel walked briskly to the inn.

The Wingling steered Lanion toward the stables with a sigh. She was horrified at the wide spread cruelty that filled this city. She couldn’t imagine staying in this place. It seemed even more horrible than Sefar. She put the horse up in the stables, making sure he was as comfortable as possible. She made sure he had plenty of hay and oats to eat and rubbed his thick neck.

“They’ll take care of you,” she told him as she caressed and rubbed at his shining coat. A stable hand stood in the corner, ignoring her; he’d been more pleasant that the one in Sefar, likely because she had followed their plan and claimed she was a Lady, and the owner of the horse.

A few moments later a man came sauntering into the stable yard. He was clad in a worn leather hauberk and thick trousers, and heavy wool gloves. He had a rough look about him, and his features were hawkish and sharp. A blade was strapped to his hip and his hand rested on it firmly.

He glanced around the area, his eyes falling on Ahma. He stared at her for several moments, then gave a smirk and walked over to the stable hand. The two exchanged hushed words, then the stable hand shrugged, accepted a handful of coins, and left.

Ahma tensed as the rough man approached her, smiling widely.

“Nice horse,” he commented, glancing at Lanion in his pen. The horse neighed sharply and tossed his head.

“Um…th-thank you,” Ahma stuttered. She did not like this man.

He stepped closer still, making her take a step back. Her wings fluttered nervously. He smelled of state sweat and unwashed flesh.

“Where you come from?” he asked conversationally as he reach a hand out to pat Lanion. The horse made to bite him, his blunt teeth snapping quickly for the man’s fingers. He cursed under his breath and snatched his hand away, glaring at the horse for a moment before grinning even wider.

“Sefar,” Ahma lied quickly. She tried to subtly edge away from him, but it seemed as if he shifted with her, keeping her trapped against the pen fence.

“Huh,” he chuckled. “And here I thought you were a runaway servant from Durinum.”

Ahma’s eyes flew open in alarm. She lunged to the side, trying to slip past him and run, but as soon as she moved he pounced on her, shoving her back against the fence and pinning her arms to her side.

“Let me go,” Ahma gasped, trying to push him away.

“Hah!” the man laughed, “I don’t think so, girlie. You’ve got a

big

bounty on your head…enough to set this merc up for the rest of his days. I dunno who wants you so bad, little bird, but I plan to deliver.”

Ahma was cold inside. She knew what this meant. Those who sought Master Methaniel knew of her, apparently, and now they wanted her as well.

She was being hunted.

“You’re mistaken, sir,” Ahma said, forcing her voice to a firm but neutral tone. “I’m not a servant, and I’m certainly not wanted by anyone.”

The man grabbed her hand and held it up, smirking and showing her the betraying marking that labeled her as a servant. She cursed silently; they’d been careless.

“That’s the mark they described, all right. Wanted posters are around, you know, for a Wingling woman with a servant mark on her hand, a house symbol of a Dragon crouched with its wings spread.

Ahma was in trouble.

“I remembered the whole thing because of how much money was bein’ offered. But I never thought I’d actually find you!”

“My Master will not be pleased by this,” Ahma said desperately. “He’ll kill you.”

“Your Master?” the mercenary gawked, then broke out laughing. “What are you talking about? You killed him! You killed them all, and burned that place down, too! It’s all on the poster!”

“No,” Ahma whispered in horror.

She

was being blamed for that tragedy?

The man suddenly yanked her forward, leering down at her, his hot breath against her face. “You’re lucky, y’know. The poster says they want you alive. I’d kill you, otherwise. It’s much easier to carry you back that way.”

“Unhand me. You can still walk away,” Ahma said through gritted teeth, her voice more steady and determined than she felt.

“Walk away from what?” he barked, his grip bruising her arms. “The reward? The good life? A chance to finally get off the gods damned road and have somethin’ to call my own? I don’t think so.”

He began to drag her away. She screamed, thrashing against him and trying to slip free, but no one was about to aid her, and his grip was like a vice. She lashed at him with her wings, smacking him with them, but he shrugged such blows off and only laughed at her. He smirked down at her and released one of her arms, reaching up to run his dirty hands through her hair.

“Poster says you’re to be alive. But it doesn’t say anything about being…unspoiled.” His eyes bore into her, lustful and predatory, as his hand reached down to close around her breast.

But he’d made a mistake, a stupid mistake, in releasing one of her arms. Ahma used her free hand to reach into a small slit she’d cut in the side of her skirts, and grabbed the dagger strapped to her thigh. She wrenched it free from its sheath and slashed out, dragging the blade down the length of the man’s forearm.

He howled and released her. Ahma stumbled back and raised her dagger into a ready position. The man clutched his bleeding forearm for a moment, then snarled cruelly and pulled the long sword at his hip free. Ahma trembled. She knew her dagger would do little good against a sword such as that. Her new shortsword was still with the goods Methaniel had carried into the inn with him. She couldn’t believe, after all the caution and forethought they’d used up till this point, they’d stumbled so badly.

“Looks like you’ll have to be spoiled

and

scarred!” the man growled.