Chapter 6 Durvla #2
When she comes to an abrupt halt, I dig my heels into the dirt to stop.
My body protests, muscles aching, dizziness setting in.
More soldiers in charcoal stand on either side of the entrance to the building.
They salute Sergeant Angharad as I hurry in behind her, my threadbare socks catching on the stony floor.
Unfinished red brick surrounds us, and the only furniture in sight is a long wooden table bearing a pitcher and tankard, and a rickety wooden chair in the center of the room.
I’m suddenly, staggeringly aware of how much my mouth feels coated with sand.
Sergeant Angharad regards me with apathy when I face her again. We stop in the center of the room, and she says, “Remove your clothing.”
I blink at her. “What?”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “Remove. Your. Clothing.”
At that moment, a young soldier steps into the room. He’s slight and fair-skinned with a bald head. Though he doesn’t appear older than sixteen, his brown-black eyes are severe. I turn to Sergeant Angharad again.
“Make haste!” she says.
I flinch. In front of … him? My focus shifts back and forth between them.
“Or do you want me to remove them for you?”
“No, I can do it,” I mumble.
With shaky hands, I unlace my tunic and pull it off over my head.
My skirt joins it on the floor, followed by my undershirt and my socks.
With each layer, I lose another splinter of dignity, until at last, I’m naked as the day I was born.
Humiliated, I cross my arms over my breasts, grateful for once that there’s not much to hide.
Sergeant Angharad towers over me, her asymmetrical leer boring right through me.
“Remove your hands.”
My cheeks burn as I let my hands fall away from my breasts. I want so much to turn away from the woman, but I need to pay attention to her face in case she gives more orders.
Her callous glare darts over my body, appraising me like I’m livestock. An unpleasant shiver dances across my skin. “Take off the bracelet.”
My stomach dips. I never take it off. “My mother gave this to me,” I explain. “Please. It’s the last thing I have to remember her by.”
“Take it off or I will.”
I fumble with the ties of the leather bracelet.
With reluctance, I remove and relinquish it, struggling to draw a breath without tears spilling down my cheeks.
I’m left both bereft and overcome all at once.
Like every emotion is trying to cram its way into an already crowded vessel.
Ice and heat simultaneously flood my veins, thrumming through my temples.
It takes everything within me to remain standing as Sergeant Angharad tucks my bracelet into her pocket.
She steps closer as the boy approaches.
I stop breathing for a heartbeat as he marches toward me, an iron stick in his hand. It glows an angry orange on one end.
Sergeant Angharad grabs my left arm, immobilizing it in her beefy hands at my elbow and wrist where a band of lighter brown skin is the only evidence of the bracelet I once wore.
Before I can register what’s happening, searing pain shoots from my forearm straight up to my shoulder.
I can’t stop the scream that escapes me as the soldier continues to hold the metal rod against my flesh.
My knees wobble, cold sweat breaks out on my skin, and my breaths come in shallow pants as I turn my head away.
Sergeant Angharad releases me. I stumble but somehow keep to my feet.
Aghast, I stare down at the raw flesh of my forearm.
Bright red against my tawny skin, the royal insignia stares back at me.
I’ve been branded.
I stare at the soldier’s back as he walks out of the room. The air chills me, reminding me of my nudity, and I clutch my branded arm to my chest.
I’m shivering uncontrollably now, but not just from the cold. Everything aches, my throat is like the Wastelands. My legs wobble; I’m not sure how much longer I can remain standing.
Sergeant Angharad appears at my side again, shoving clean clothes against my chest. “Get dressed,” she says.
I nod, biting back a cry of pain from the fresh burn on my forearm as I slip the tunic over my head and gingerly guide my injured arm through the first sleeve.
The excess fabric hangs off me, rubbing against my raw skin with each movement.
The trousers prove to be more difficult than I imagined to don; my balance is way off kilter, my toes are still numb, and every movement of my left arms is agonizing.
The incessant whistling in my ear only worsens things.
I get one leg in and my foot catches on the inside of the other pant leg.
Sergeant Angharad throws her arm out to keep me from toppling over.
“Thank you,” I say, but she just folds her burly arms across her chest.
“Cadet Bronn,” she calls. I follow her line of sight to where the young soldier has returned with two others in charcoal uniforms.
Immediately, my pulse skitters. They march toward me, manacles in hand. I’m shackled at the wrists in front of my body and flanked by the other two guards. Dizziness swoops in with a vengeance. I’m kept upright only by the grip of the soldiers.
“Please,” I beg. I don’t even know why I’ve been brought here.
I haven’t done anything! The words remain locked in my mind, and Sergeant Angharad turns to walk away.
“Please! I can’t …” I can’t what? Logical words abandon me as bright light flares in my vision.
I blink forcibly, clinging to consciousness.
I can’t faint. Not now. Not when I have no clue what’s about to happen to me.
My ears are agonizing, and nausea has my stomach in a chokehold. Which would be worse: vomiting all over these soldiers or collapsing? The absurdity of it forces a sharp, bitter laugh out of me.
Cadet Bronn stands in front of me again, his face distorted with annoyance. I open my mouth to plead again, all the while fighting the darkness that threatens to pull me down. But it’s clear my fight is in vain as soon as he lifts his fist.
I hardly feel the strike before the darkness welcomes me back in its embrace.