The Dove and the Hawk Pt. 05

Many thanks to my advance readers, including Not_E and happyyy_, as well as to my editor LaRascasse.

Content warning: depictions of war, depictions of death, depictions of sexual assault, depictions of torture, depictions of violence against a pregnant person

***

Bethaer smoothed his hand down over his days-old shave. He was studying the battle plan laid out before him, one that he must convince his generals of agreeing to. Less seasoned men might have been quick to follow his suggestion, but the war-hardened commanders his father had picked to protect his last surviving heir would need convincing that it wouldn't backfire, as Bethaer knew it would.

He palmed his face again, growing weary of the stubble. Should he just give up on it altogether and grow it out? The idle thought kept him distracted long enough for a herald to come and bow at the open flap of his tent.

"My lord prince!" he said, saluting.

"Speak," Bethaer replied.

"We have captured enemy spies seeking to infiltrate the ranks of our prisoners."

This again. It wasn't a bad tactic, swapping out one starved, ragged Berelthian for another. His father's reliance on prisoners for their workforce was a weak point of the Anderthan army. Bethaer used to argue against it, in the times before Igandrion stole his way into Lamath and attacked the Berelthian royal palace, kidnapping Endorran's eldest daughter.

He winced at the memory and turned to the present. Whether or not the men were truly spies, or escaped prisoners, or even just refugees from the borderlands, they would all be put to the sword. But first he would have to inspect them, choose a few to torture, listen to whatever gibberish the poor souls excreted in their death throes, then return to his tent to vomit in his chamber pot.

This was the duty that suited him least, a fact that only his closest commanders knew. To the rest he would have to harden his face and mind and act as unbothered as possible. He couldn't falsify the enjoyment that Igandrion had held, the delight his father partook in it. But he could muster boredom. Already he felt the mask coming over his face, the impassive shield he hid behind.

Walking out to the cells on wheels they used to cart about prisoners, he appraised each man. Some were scared shitless, some confused, some resigned. One crouched in the back of the wagon, arms crossed, almost as if he were napping.

"You, in the back!" he barked. "Come forward!"

Languidly the man unhooked his arms, crawled over, leaning forward to make his face visible in the bright spring sun.

Bethaer's heart skipped a beat. He recognized this man.

Leaning down, he changed his demeanor, softening it to cheerful. "Markas, what are you doing here, you old rascal?" he said lightly, tapping against the nearest bar rhythmically.

"What else but that I got caught, my lord prince," replied the so-called sempster. No wonder the man could read.

Bethaer snorted in response, tapping again at the bars. "Clearly, old man. Losing your edge?"

The erstwhile sempster glanced about the cage, whether to signal danger or point out his comrades, Bethaer couldn't tell.

"Don't worry about them blathering your name," he continued congenially. "They'll all be dead by sundown." One of men moaned, clutching at his knees.

Bethaer spared only a moment to pity him. There were but a few hours between noon and nightfall, only so much pain any of them could endure before reaching their end. Though he'd have to ensure none of them talked.

Tapping at the bars again, he asked, "Any of these men know anything useful?

"Not a word," the sempster replied with a toothy grin. "Two days we've been traveling, and they though this way was north!"

Bethaer chuckled along with him. Two of the men, then. He couldn't risk it. "Hang them all but this one," he directed the soldier nearest him, pointing to the newly christened Markas.

"My lord prince?" the man replied, confused.

"You heard me. None of them is worth the fire it takes to brand them into talking."

"Yes, my lord prince." The young soldier saluted and opened the cage to haul out the man who had moaned earlier.

Bethaer watched as the men, bound together, were one by one pulled from the cart to walk to their deaths. Markas was last in line, and Bethaer signaled for him to be cut free. He motioned to the man to follow him, then turned about and stalked back to his tent. He walked away from the sounds of men pleading for mercy, though they would find none here.

One of his generals was waiting for him in his tent, studying the plan laid out on the table. He frowned as Markas slipped in behind the prince, following him warily with his eyes.

"Is that not one of the spies we caught trying to infiltrate our prisoners?" he asked.

"Indeed, but he's one of ours," Bethaer lied, trying to sound nonchalant.

"I see," the older man murmured, his tone doubtful.

"Signal this month's code," Bethaer directed Markas, hoping the man had taken his earlier hints. If not, he might have to see him hang after all.

Slowly the man came forward to the desk, holding out his fist. He rapped his knuckles on the solid wood, rhythmically beating out the pattern of the secret code only the most trusted men knew even existed.

Bethaer felt his knees weaken with relief and sat down behind his desk.

The old general nodded in greeting, his demeanor warming. Markas returned the gruff salutation and stood at attention.

"What did you wish to tell me?" Bethaer asked his general.

"I came to discuss our next battle plan, but if you must speak privately then I shall wait."

Bethaer nodded. "Please do. It's most sensitive information. Have the men keep away from my tent until this man leaves."

His general saluted him and left, barking orders to the soldiers nearby.

Bethaer motioned to the chair across from him, and Markas sat down.

"Report," Bethaer said shortly, louder than necessary.

"Yes, my lord prince," the man replied, then dropped his voice. "I thank you for your aid, my lord."

"Consider it a debt," Bethaer murmured, and the man raised his brows.

"I had to leave her alone in Jashil," he said, and the man nodded grimly. "I've had no word of her, nor can I ask. But you," he continued, "have already walked back into the lion's mouth for your king."

Markas said nothing, and Bethaer waited. Would the man abandon his mission for his princess? Or was his princess perhaps his mission in the first place?

"If it is to help her, then I shall do as you command, my lord."

Bethaer nodded solemnly, relieved. "Find out where she is, protect her as much as you can. And if possible, get her out."

The man snapped to attention and saluted, to Bethaer's surprise. "Yes, my lord prince!" he said loudly, face serious.

"Dismissed," Bethaer commanded, waving him off. "Go find some food," he added, and the man bowed out of the tent.

Bethaer sat back, a small grain of hope starting to build in his heart. Markas, whoever he was, seemed a capable spy, although he had been caught once. Still, he was the princess' best hope. He could only imagine what she was suffering at the hands of his men, or his father, back in the palace.

***

Litheian dug her nails into her palms as she was jerked back rhythmically in time by the large man above her. She bit her lip against the pain, praying the man's seed held no diseases that could harm her or her child.

It had been a month since the prince had left, and his supposedly loyal guards looked the other way every so often as one of their own slinked inside the royal apartments to violate her. Or perhaps they were taking bribes from those who could still afford it.

She had tried to fight the first time, but relented when the man had dug his hands into her abdomen. She'd remembered how Igandrion had made her lose her first child and sagged limply against the soldier. Her child, this child she had made with her husband's seed, was the only thing more precious to her than her pride. So she let them take her.

The burly soldier inside her this time jerked and moaned, filling her with his disgusting cum. He patted her cheek and pulled himself off her, laughing. "Our prince broke you in nicely, you little whore."

She stared off into the distance, waiting for him to leave. She would bathe herself and scoop out as much of his seed as she could, wipe away the sticky memory of his skin and breath.

But she hadn't the chance, today. The door opened and a voice said, "Gerin, hide quick, the king's guard is comin'!"

The other man swore and made for the exit. Litheian sat up carefully from where she'd been shoved to the floor, a dark feeling rising in her chest. Why would the king's guard come here, but to escort Olandrion himself?

She stood heavily. Had the king of Anderar finally come to claim her?

The loud sounds of booted feet grew closer, and soon the door burst open again, short-cloaked men with long swords filing in. Olandrion entered last, and she could smell the wine on him.

"You bitch!" he snarled, stepping forward. His hand leapt out and hit her across the face, and she fell onto the floor. Instinctively she curled up, protecting her child as he kicked at her arms and legs.

"You!" Kick. "Little!" Kick. "Cunt!" Kick. He rolled her over and pulled her up by her hair, spitting in her face. "I bet you feel so proud right now, that your whelp of a brother stole Kiridas from me!" he roared, naming the second largest city in Anderar.

She hadn't known the war was going so poorly and tightened her lips against a smile. She was indeed proud of her older brother, and relieved. He was coming to rescue her.

"He'll never get his hands on you alive, I promise you that!" the king shouted, shaking her like a rag doll as she held herself tightly. "Guards! Take her to the rashd!"

Litheian shivered. She had never been there, but the deepest pit of Olandrion's dungeons was infamous. After Igandrion died she had been sent to the level above, and the screams of the men being tortured below haunted her in her sleep.

Olandrion let go of her and she flopped to the floor, patting her chest where the gold ring sat under her clothes, looped on the leather thong the prince had given her. She'd hidden it there in case they ransacked her room. Their marriage contract was inconspicuously shelved at the top of the honeycombed stacks in the library. She had braved the tall, creaky ladder to place it there once she realized the prince's men wouldn't leave her alone, day or night. She couldn't risk anyone discovering that Bethaer Andertha and Litheian Bereltha had bound themselves in marriage.

Two guards came forward and dragged her up by the arms, shoving her toward the door. She righted herself and walked willingly, for there was nothing else to do.

Outside it was warm and the sky was a clear blue. The sunlight was beautiful, and she turned her face toward it, soaking up the rays. Before too long she was pushed inside again and down, down into the dungeons carved from the cliff on which the royal palace was built, looking over the city below.

Underground was dank and chilly, worsening as they walked one, two, three levels down. She swallowed as the door was opened. No one came out of this place alive and in one piece. She prayed to Hamin to watch over her and her child, in this dark place surrounded by her element, the earth. She would make it out, she promised herself. Even if she died, it wouldn't be here. It would be facing the sun.

For a few days nothing more happened than the rats trying to steal her food, which she slurped up greedily, ever hungry. One of them bit her, and in her fury she grabbed it somehow, throwing it against the wall. It had limped off and since then they had waited for her scraps, letting her finish first.

She prayed Olandrion had forgotten about her, but a fresh defeat must have spurred him into a frenzy of anger once again, for he marched down to the rashd himself. When the guards brought her out, he was waiting for her next to a wall stinking of blood and piss. They chained here there, facing the dirty stones, and only then did she truly begin to know fear.

Someone tore open the back of her thin dress, and she froze, worried they would discover the ring. But no words were spoken, and her skin began to crawl. A crack in the air was her only warning, and then a white-hot pain sliced at her back. She screamed.

"Yes, you bitch!" Olandrion laughed manically from behind her. "This is what you deserve, you cunt!"

Another crack. Another streak of agony. Another crack....

He continued until she could no longer stand, until she could feel the blood running down her legs, then he turned away in disgust. She was freed and carried bodily to her cell. Olandrion must have worried he'd injured his prize captive too greatly, for out of the haze of her mind she soon found herself faced with an old woman smelling of herbs and brine.

Litheian blinked as the woman spoke to her, but the words made no sense. She shook her head. The woman sighed and reached into the basket by her side, bringing out cloths and bottles. Suddenly she felt a sharp sting in her back and whimpered. The woman was tending her wounds, she realized. She shut her eyes against her tears, but they came anyway, dripping down her face.

When she was done, the woman wrapped great cloth bandages about her torso, staying silent at the sight of her ring, her swollen breasts. She tied a sash about Litheian's dress to cover her as best she could and then departed. As she watched the woman go, a face appeared at her side, and she blinked. Was that the sempster who had made her gown? But the image swam away from her as her vision darkened.

Litheian awoke to the sound of rats squealing and rose instantly toward the meager bowl of gruel, gasping at the pain. She must have passed out earlier, after the old woman tended to her. The bandages felt stiff with dried blood and should probably be replaced soon, though she doubted that would happen. She was losing track of time, she realized. There was no day or night down here, only meals and the space between them.

Twice more she was summoned from her cell to be whipped at Olandrion's hand. Twice more the woman came and tended her wounds as best she could. Litheian yearned to speak to her, but she was always too weak to talk.

And she was getting weaker. She could feel it. It wasn't just the lack of food and water. Her back began to ooze and smell, infection sapping her body's energy. She was starting to feel surprised each time she awoke. How much longer could she last? At least death itself would be painless, she hoped.

Her memory of the sunlight was fading when, one day, a great commotion sounded above her. She lifted her head weakly, watched as the guards milled about, then hastened from their posts. She lay her head down, wondering if her father's army had reached the city gates. Had her brother finally come for her? Or was he, too, dead? Just like her mother. Just like she would be, soon, and her baby with her.

She clutched her belly, where against all odds her child continued growing.

"I'm so sorry, my child," she whispered. "I wanted so much to meet you."

She shut her eyes, welcoming the dark, but was ripped from the comfort of sleep by someone shaking her roughly.

"--cess. My princess!" he was saying, and she opened her eyes.

It was the sempster, knelt before her, keeping her from rest. Was she hallucinating?

"My princess, you must leave, now!" he said. "The city has fallen, and the soldiers have left their posts. We haven't any time!"

It took her a moment to understand what he was saying, and then a stab of urgency lit her to the core.

Litheian sat up and clutched at his arm, wincing with pain. "Is it true? My brother's here?"

"Your royal father's army crossed the city gates but an hour ago," he answered. "We must go, my princess. Your royal husband sent me to fetch you."

She wept. Of course he had. But was he safe?

"Where is he?" she asked, digging her ragged nails into his flesh. "I must tell him --" She put a hand to her belly, but he interrupted her.

"It isn't safe here, my princess. We must go, now!"

She shook her head. "I can't walk."

"You can," he urged her, putting his arm around her and helping her stand. She bit her lip as he brushed her tender wounds, but forced herself to move. She took a shaky step, then another. She was walking.

Slowly they went, up one flight of stairs, then another, until finally there were no more steps. She looked up at the weak summer sun, glowing through the dark clouds threatening rain.

"Come, my princess," he said, "we must leave the palace."

"No," she said, stopping where she stood. "We have to get the marriage contract, before it's lost."

"We can't, my princess!" he protested, pressing his hand against her shoulder, and she yelped at the fresh pain. "Forgive me, my princess, but we must go. Your life is more important."

She turned behind her, looking for the great windows of his library, but all she could see were dark walls.

"I'll retrieve it once I've delivered you to safety," he promised. "But his highness ordered me to save you, not anything else."

Biting her lip, she nodded, hobbling forward, and they proceeded as he half-carried her.

The grounds were eerily silent, empty of but a few people here and there who paid them no mind. They were headed toward a gate, she saw. It was so far away, too far to walk, but she must, she had to.

They were at the door, he was opening it. She was stumbling now, barely able to continue, wishing he would decide that it was safe so they could stop.

All of a sudden his form stiffened against her, and he unwound his arm from her, holding her up by her shoulders.

"You must run, my princess! Go!"

He shoved her toward the forest stretching wide across her vision, and she fell backwards.

Behind him, a man in Anderthan armor was unsheathing his sword.

Litheian looked no further. With a mighty effort, she stood and ran.

***

Bethaer urged his horse onward, thundering at full gallop. Berelthia's forces had feinted, attacking from the south and west, just as he'd predicted. But he had no time to savor being correct, for he knew his father would be leading one last charge down the cliff. He had to reach Jashil before they realized he'd left his army in the dust. He had to find her first.

He approached the east gate of the city, which still stood but was barred shut.

"Who goes there?" called a soldier.

Bethaer raised the Anderthan flag from his lap. "A message for the king!"

"Open the gate!" the man cried out, and the great doors slowly creaked open. As soon as there was space enough he kicked his horse, which he'd stolen from a herald. The steed set off at full canter, and he streaked through, down the road and toward the cliff jutting out over the city.

As he neared the chaos, he unsheathed his sword, though the soldiers he met were Anderthan. They were running away, weapons abandoned.

"What news have you?" he shouted to any who would answer.

"The king is dead!" came the reply. Bethaer's heart raced, blood pumping through his body. Was it true? Was his father truly, finally dead?

He set the horse into a trot, making for the nearest signs of order. There was the Anderthan flag still standing, protected by a lone commander and his dwindling men.

There was a lull in the fighting, and he approached the line. The commander heard him, saw the Anderthan colors on his saddle, and pulled back.

"What news of the prince?" he asked, breathing hard. "Is he close?"

"The army won't arrive in time!" Bethaer yelled. "Your prince orders you to surrender!"

"Surely not!" the man replied, but already the men around him were wavering.

"Is the king not dead?" Bethaer roared back. "His heir orders you to surrender!"

The man cursed and spit on the ground, throwing his weapon aside. Bethaer set the horse into a trot again, heading for the switchback road up the cliffside. Every unit he encountered, he gave the same order: surrender.

Finally he reached the bottom of the road and turned, seeing the Berelthian pennants shining in the distance. Once more he goaded his exhausted horse into movement, taking the hairpin turns almost too fast.

The front gates of the palace were abandoned, with no men left after his father's desperate final move. His horse spent, he jumped down and ran. He made for the north gate, the place that first secret note so long ago had directed him.

The door was hanging open, swinging eerily on its hinges. He walked through slowly, sword in hand, then stopped at the sight of a man lying prone on the ground. Reaching forward, he felt the man still breathing and turned him over.

His stomach fell at the sight of Markas' pale face. He ripped open the man's shirt, finding a gaping wound. He'd been stabbed with a sword and wouldn't last long.

Markas was trying to speak, moving his mouth, breathing erratically. Bethaer leaned in to hear him.

"Go... north... east," he said, voice weak and strained. "She's... alive...."

Bethaer had no time to react, barely absorbing his words before the man coughed blood, spitting out his dying words.

"She's... waiting... go!"

He stood and pointed himself northeast, away from the road and into the forest. He saw a broken branch here, an overturned rock there. Quickly as he could, he tracked the clumsy path, until he saw another body.

No, there were two. The solider wasn't lying on the ground, he was covering another figure, moving back and forth --

With a roar he charged forward, and the man looked up. Hastily he pulled off the unmoving figure below, raising his trousers, stumbling back as Bethaer reached the sight of his wife lying on the ground, skirt above her hips.

"What, you want a go, too?" the man shouted, paces away.

Bethaer snarled. "You beast!"

"Oh, well, I guess not," he said, shrugging as he walked backwards.

Bethaer lunged and the man pulled his short sword. He was good, but not good enough, not angry enough, or perhaps just ill-fated. He slipped on a rock and went down hard, Bethaer right behind to deliver the death blow.

Pulling his sword from the man's neck, he turned and raced back to her, his wife, lying in the dirt.

He dropped his sword and fell at her side, feeling for her pulse. There it was, slow and weak, but still there. But she was cold, too cold. He removed his jacket and covered her, pulling down her skirt.

"Im-uvnya," he said softly. "I'm here, I have you. You're safe."

She breathed but did not move.

"Open your eyes for me, please," he begged.

Still nothing.

"Litheian," he called, holding her face. "My love, come back to me."

Her eyes opened, and she smiled.

"Im-uvnyan," she croaked, and he smiled back, taking her hand in his.

"I'm so sorry, im-uvnya," he said, kissing her hand. "I should never have left you."

She held onto him tightly. "I must tell you, im-uvnyan," she murmured.

"Tell me what?" he asked, caressing her face with his other hand.

"I... I am carrying your child. Our child."

His heart constricted, in fear, in sorrow, in joy. He had no words, and kissed her hand again.

"Forgive me," he told her, "for leaving the both of you."

She shook her head, reaching up to him, but sighed and dropped her hand.

"Are you ill?" he asked her. Why was she so weak?

"My back," she mumbled, then closed her eyes again.

He dropped her hand, shook her by the shoulders. "Wake up!" he said, and she opened her eyes again.

"You mustn't fall asleep," he told her. "Let me look."

He pulled her up by the shoulders, feeling them sticky with blood. Had the soldier slashed her before forcing himself on her?

Turning to look, he gasped. Her back was crisscrossed with long, deep gashes. Some were half-healed, some nearly fresh. And the smell. He knew it instantly.

She moaned in pain. "Hold on, im-uvnya," he told her, grabbing his jacket and covering her back with it. "Here, your arms," he said, guiding them through the sleeves.

Carefully he set her back down, though she cried out when her back touched the ground.

"I'm so tired," she murmured.

"No," he told her, no longer able to hold back his tears. "Stay with me, my love."

She smiled at him again, a single teardrop falling from her eye. "Just let me sleep, im-uvnyan."

"Please, don't," he begged her. He'd only just found her again. How could she leave him so soon?

"It's alright," she whispered. "We'll see you again soon." And then her eyes shut.

"No," he moaned, "wake up. Wake up!" But she wouldn't.

Why, why had he prayed that she not bear his child? He should have prayed for her safety above all else! How cruel were the gods, answering his prayers like this!

He shook his head, blinking away tears. This wasn't the time. Shaking, he felt for her pulse. It was still there.

He pushed his arms under her shoulders, her knees, lifting her thin frame, and began walking back toward the palace. He would take her to the apothecary's, where he would find medicine and bandages for her, he was sure.

The road came into view, and he turned south, seeing the north gate up ahead.

"We're almost there," he told her, told himself.

He passed Markas' dead body, then through the gate, into the empty yard.

"There!" came a shout, and he turned. "You there! On your knees!"

The man walking towards him spoke in a Berelthian accent, and Bethaer sighed in relief. But this was short-lived, for a moment later he felt a knife at his throat.

"Put. Her. Down." The voice hissed in his ear.

"She's wounded," he replied. "She needs a physician."

"You think I don't know that, you bastard?" came the reply. "Put my sister down, now."

Bethaer's blood froze in his veins. The voice could belong to none other than her older brother, Leitham. He swallowed and slowly knelt down, the knife never moving from his neck. He reached the ground and lay her down as gently as he could.

"Now get up and back away from her," the other man snarled, and Bethaer did so, raising his arms.

"I ordered my men to surrender," he began, but never finished.

He felt a hand around his neck, and then everything went black.