CHAPTER 2- Slaves of Dragsholm
Take my hands,
And let me lead.
Let my notes,
Be your daily prayer.
~ Medusa
It was quiet and dark. The cold breeze whooping and rustling the dead leaves from the surface, letting it dance to the rhythm of its dreadful music. With the sky dull and lightning flashing across it, sending an unpleasant and sad air with the notes of the dead. One could imagine the painful history the atmosphere weighed at the sights of the skeletons scattered around the place leaving no lengths and breadths untouched.
But soon, a black raven emerged from the dead sky, baring its wings with an intensity of its own, scotched in promises of an unspeakable sins it brought. It surfed around the sky, taking turns in different directions until it finally flew in speed at a steady pace, into the woods.
After few minutes, it eventually reduced its pace and rested on a branch of a dead tree, twisting and turning its beak in a hypnotizing manner. Exactly the second a minute clocked, the sky let down its painful tears mixed with burning furiousness, making the trees in the forest thrash and snap.
The black raven sat at its spot, seemingly unfazed by the emotions the wind wielded, until it eventually croaked in an ear deafening manner and flew away.
NEIGH!
The heavy rumble of the rolling wheels pulled by the horses in accordance into a path of the shadows of the forest. The firm yet relaxed subtle flick of the reins by the coachman made the horses flick their ears, picking up their short-walk pace a bit as the traces creaked quietly in effort of taking up the weight of the carriage.
The coachman guided the carriage in hustle, mannerly creating wrath for the blindfolded young captives whom were also being tied with cloth at their mouth to prevent them from talking. Three armored guards on each horses rode at the edge, two at the sides and one behind the captives, all chained to a single manacle at their wrists southwards as they stride in a row.
Along their journey, any who stumbled to the ground received harsh lashes of whip, so hard that the victim will cause imbalance to the others to fall with the latter. Another guard will dismount his horse, whipping the slaves brutally for their bodies to weaken but enough to leave minimum energy to continue their journey to the unknown.
Fate always play its course in a cruel manner. Once upon a time, to happily ever after, but it wasn't so for these young captives rather it was a dangerous ending. Few hours ago, some armored guards broke into a once peaceful village, taking away the young ones, both males and females of barely sixteen to eighteen of age away from their homes.
No one could dare stop them, because they knew the insignia it represented. Soldiers of Dragsholm. The land of the cursed of the curse. Immortals gathered as souvenirs in the kingdom of Dragsholm, where the Lord were rumored to have high taste of blood after he had awaken from his slumber, for over hundreds of years. They call it Hibernation. It was when the Angels had punished him for the sins he committed upon humanity and against God. And of course, with the new existence of creatures apart from humans that fed on blood, it were only the humans and vampires that was a common knowledge for all.
As the rain kept striking the surface with full pressure giving no intentions and less probability of stopping anytime soon, leaving the captives and the soldiers under the mercy of the unmerciful rage it bared.
Nevertheless, the journey continued and after much struggle, the carriage suddenly came to halt. "Sire, I think we have a problem." A man said, after jumping off his seat and landing harshly on the soily ground with his eyes fixed on the brunette haired man that approached him on his horse.
"What happened?" The man asked hoarsely, gracefully landing to the ground without much effort. Giving a small pat to his horse, he walked a few steps to where the coachman stood.
"The wheels are stuck and at this point, if we keep moving, the possibility of the wheels damaging more than this is high. With the weather condition, the mud will cause the wheels to break down and we have no spare left. Consider the time wasted taking another route to a neighboring village to fix and we need to cross the border before another twilight."
The brunette haired man gazed up at the sky that released harsh strike of thunder and the warnings it whispered. Locking his hands into his pocket, "Pack the carriage at a tree big and might enough to camp for the night. The horses should be tied as well, fed and hydrated. We don't want any more obstacle before dawn. Ariel," He shouted, and a man with a bulk body approached him. "Keep eyes on the captives while I go scan the perimeters. No mistakes." He warned with utmost seriousness. The coachman bowed before leaving to carry out the orders given while the man called Ariel nodded slightly at the instructions. And without a word, he left hopping on his horse into the forest.
The journey to Dragsholm was five days by land but it has only been a day but seemed forever. As night flashed faster, the soldiers retired for the day. A small fire was set at the middle of the forest where the camps laid.
They ate, drank, laughed and joked leaving the captives starved and exhausted, thirsty and tired.
Among these captives, a pair of blue eyes watched them intensely, like a hawk gauging its prey. Under the dark night, her silver blonde hair was clearly visible. Those enticing ocean blue eyes gazed with naked promises of the deeds she carried. Her pencil thin eyebrows eased down gently to her shadow-black velvety eyelashes as it blinked and reckoned in a expressionless manner.
It was past midnight when a soldier brought the left over to the young captives. The strong wafting pungent lingered around as they devoured the food hungrily. But only one didn't. Her face was blank.
Medusa, a lady with cursed soul. A disgraceful body that existed on their land. The villagers caused her. They threw stones and pelted her with rotten fruits and vegetables when she passed through their roads.
The woman shoved her footsteps with broom, and cursed her out of their store. The fishermen uses their rod to push her away, saying to never return. The children mocked her presence wearily and their parent told awful stories of her.
"When you see the witch, keep mute and run," they will always warn, intimated.
A day came when she was dragged out of her home as it appeared her father sold her off the the soldiers of Dragsholm as their captives. In a world of no faith and full deceit, Medusa is bonded in that world. A kingdom were sunlight rarely grace the land. A kingdom punished with rainfall.
"If i were you, i would eat to preserve my strength for another day." Someone muttered besides her, as she munched the food in her hands. Few soldiers had retired for the night while two were left patrolling the arena.
"The journey to Dragsholm is a hectic one. You should know things like these appears once in a blue moon." She folded her arms to support her head on the ground. Her eyes observed Medusa, but she remained silent. Those lifeless eyes lingering the dancing flames and the burning logs that cackled with particles produced from the fire could be fathomed.
"I have heard about you. The witch that fed her mother's womb." She gave a light shrug. "Such stories are hard to make up, but easier to believe. Strange such things has never occurred in any history i know of."
Still Medusa spared no glance.
"You are indeed a silent one. My name is Esther and I'm guessing yours is Medusa. Not to worry, your popularity is known by few, not all. Good luck. The journey would be difficult by sunrise." She concluded, twisting her body to her back facing Medusa.
A sudden breeze blew with force, turning the forest entirely dark. The decaying air and stifling atmosphere provided the perfect abode for those who worshiped the darkness rather than the light. And she did.