The summons at the door of their cottage was so abrupt, so fierce a demand, that it startled Lady Mariel Champlain. She jerked reflexively, burning her hand on the pot she'd been on the point of pulling from the cook fire. Whirling, she glanced fearfully at her father, wondering if he knew who it might be, or if he would deal with whomever it was. He had been drinking steadily for days now, though, and scarcely seemed to register the pounding, even when it came again.
Realizing that she would have to deal with whatever the situation was, she turned to look at the pot of thin stew and quickly moved it away from the fire, setting it on the hearth. It was all they had to eat and, regardless of what calamity might wait on the other side of the door, she couldn't bear to allow the little food it held to go to ruin while she was distracted.
Sucking the burn on the side of her palm, she set her spoon and the folded cloths aside and hurried to the door before whoever stood on the other side broke it down, fearful that it might be more creditors that she would have to try to fend off.
The setting sun dazzled her for several moments, making it difficult to make out the dark figure who stood upon the threshold. Slowly, her eyes focused upon him, however. A debilitating wave of shock went through her as her mind registered who, or rather what, he was.
A Trull--a demon soldier of the dark Lord Valdamer, the warlock who ruled Daeksould. Once they had been human, but the demons who inhabited their bodies had erased all traces of humanity from them beyond the human shell they inhabited. They were not evil so much as they were soulless creatures, without pity, without remorse, without emotion of any kind, but they were the minions of Lord Valdamer and they did as they were commanded without question.
As numb as if she had suddenly been frozen and separated from thought, emotion, and even physical feeling, she fell back instinctively as he stepped into the tiny cottage she had shared with her father since they had fallen upon hard times and lost all that they had once had.
Closing the door behind him, the Trull folded his arms over his broad, muscular chest, his stance wide, his back guarding the door as he glanced around at the stark furnishings. "I am here to see Lord Champlain."
Swallowing with an effort, unable to speak, Mariel glanced at her father again. He'd roused from his drunken stupor enough, she saw, to look around. The look of terror on his face mirrored what should have been her own, except that she could feel nothing at all. He seemed paralyzed by his fear, for he made no effort to rise. "I am Lord Champlain," he responded hoarsely.
The Trull nodded. Stepping forward, he grasped Mariel's arm. "I am Behsart, sent by Lord Valdamer to accept your offering. Is this the female?"
Weakness washed through Mariel as she stared at her father uncomprehendingly.
For perhaps a second, their eyes locked and then he looked away from her. "Aye."
Without a word, the Trull pulled a set of manacles from his belt. Fastening one to the wrist of the arm he held, he grasped her other arm and manacled it, as well. Pulling a bag from his belt, he tossed it to Lord Champlain. "Your pay for your offering."
The bag landed in her father's lap, jingling. He grabbed it up with shaking hands and pulled the tie from it, pouring the contents into his lap--a pile of golden coins.
Mariel was still staring at him blankly, in complete disbelief, when the Trull pulled on the chain attached to her manacles and turned toward the door once more. She stumbled as she was dragged across the threshold. Instinctively, she righted herself once more, struggling to keep pace with the man who led her away. As he tugged her through the gate that fronted the tiny yard, she glanced back at the cottage, still unable to accept that her father had sold her for coin, hoping that she would at least see denial in his face, concern, shame--but there was no sign of her father.
Catching her around her waist, the Trull lifted her up onto the black fire steed he had tied at the gate and climbed up behind her. Holding the prancing beast to a walk, he urged it along the road and through the streets of the village. Some of Mariel's numbness began to wear off as they rode. A flicker of thought here and there entered her mind.
She had been sold by her father as sacrifice to the demons the warlock Valdamer owed his powers to.
She was going to die. She had not even lived yet. She was only twenty. She had never been courted, never gone beyond the village, never wed--though she should have long since and would have if her father had not squandered their fortune. Now she would not get the chance of any kind of future at all.
She shied away from that thought.
)
