Battle/Slavemaster
The scream that ripped through the night ended in a whispered gasp, followed by the muffled thud of a body falling to the carpet. The others in the room stiffened and turned towards the offender, shooting him scathing looks that could not be seen in the dark. The faint sound of metal rubbing over metal as he shrugged an apology, and then they are moving again, going from room to room and slaughtering people in the night.
But it is too late, someone has heard, and they hear a shout go up as a guard finds the body of one of his fellows. Soon torches are blazing and the noise of steel hitting steel rings through the night.
The lord of the castle rolls out of his bed, sleep still in his eyes. He rips his door open to find his guards standing there, swords drawn and eyes scanning the darkness surrounding them.
"What are you doing standing here?" He roars. "Go and join in the fight! I will be there shortly."
"But my lord," one guard starts to protest, but this is no pansy lordling who stands before him, and the guards scurry away before they can be clouted for their procrastination. The king of this castle turns and runs to his wife's room, to find her already awake with their newborn son in her arms.
"My love," he says, drawing her close and holding them both tight. "You know what to do."
"I know," the queen responds, tears in her young eyes. They had been married for barely a year, and although he was much older than her she loved him dearly. "I did not think I would ever actually have to run, though," she says as she starts to throw on her riding clothes.
"Nor did I," he says, tenderly wrapping his son up in warm blankets. He kisses her soulfully, for he loves her too, and hands over his only child. "Be swift and safe, dear heart."
"Be swift and strong," she responds, then ducks down the hallway and into the night.
If he were a lesser man, he would cry, for he hears the slaughter in his castle and knows he will not survive. Grabbing the sword off the wall, he leaves the room to fight for his honor, if not for his life.
The cry seemed almost to be a trick of the wind, but it was the second time that the Slavemaster had heard it in the last ten seconds, so he knew it to be real. He dismounted from his horse and beckoned his bodyguard to follow him into the surrounding hills, knowing he could catch up in a moment if it were nothing. They were carrying a fat load, and that meant slow travel.
The lord of Nytheam had been good enough to inform him that he was planning on raiding the neighboring kingdom of Dillea, so his camp had followed a day behind the war party and arrived just in time to pick up the survivors. Many had been killed, but he still had been given quite a few able bodies, and he would make quite a profit off of them.
"I hear it, sir," his bodyguard said. "I believe it's coming from inside the bracken."
The Slavemaster heard it as well. "Is that a babe I hear, Brint?"
Brint nodded. "Seems to be, sir." Taking his sword, he hacked a path towards the noise, closely followed by his master. It didn't take long to find the clearing, in inside lay a young woman with an arrow in her thigh, holding a babe barely one moon old to her chest. She looked up at them with fear in her eyes.
"Please," she whispered. "Help us."
He studied her for a moment. The wound was not fatal, but she would most likely be unable to walk for some time. His wagons were already full. He would just leave her, then.
"Sir," Brint said, staring at her with a calculating look in his eyes. "I recognize her. She's the Dillean queen. Must've escaped last night somehow."
The Slavemaster looked at her closer. He swore liberally as he realized that Brint was right. "Not you're lucky night, woman," he said, drawing his sword as he advanced on her.
"But why?" she cried, trying to crawl away from him, babe clutched tight to her bosom. "I have done you no harm this night!"
"Because if you live, and it comes to the new lords attention that I allowed it, I will suffer more than you shall," he responded.
And then he gutted her, for she held the babe to close for him to give her a clean death. He picked up the squalling child and practically tossed him to his bodyguard.
Brint looked at the squirming mass in his hands as if it were going to catch flame at any moment. "What do you want with this thing? I'll kill it if you don't want to."
He shook his head. "I can sell it for a pretty penny to Madam Renta. She'll raise it like one of her whore's children and sell it to the first interested buyer." And with a whistle he headed back, determined to catch up with the caravan before they got too far ahead.