They appeared to be like feral beasts, smeared with mud all over their nearly nude bodies, clad with the skins of animals for loincloths but not much else. Their weapons were crude, carved from bone or hewn from wood without much care. Yet, they had moved with a preternatural swiftness, and silence, when they had set upon the camp. Leaves had cursed, assuming the bowmen had abandoned them without warning, as he had whipped out his blade to fend off the attackers.

He was much stronger than he appeared, holding his own for a few moments but he was quickly overwhelmed. At least a dozen of the attackers had overrun them. Senua had managed to come awake only in time to be captured immediately. She had shouted something but everyone had ignored her as she had uselessly struggled against the brutes grasping her. In the melee, Abe had come free from his bindings in order to struggle with the man-beast who was going for Piro.

Abe had seen stars in his eyes from a blow across his head. In the scuffle, he was thrown down the embankment which may have saved him from being finished off by the burly man with the bone axe who had struck him.

In the flickering campfire light, moments before he had fallen, Abe had the visage of the attacker etched into his memory: a thick, square skull with flat features and a lantern jaw; a mouth, twisted in glee, with a hint of fang-like teeth; small, piggish eyes under thick brows; and a wide neck adorned with finger-bones and trinkets. His oily hair had been tied back, missing only a bone in his topknot to complete the stereotypical image of a primitive savage.

One word had come to Abe’s mind: troll.

Dazed, Abe had struggled in the thick brush, attempting to climb back up but the blow had disoriented him. Blood dripping from the wound, he had blindly crashed through the darkness until consciousness had escaped him.

The next morning he managed to wake, somehow still alive despite the chill and the head wound. He had vomited at some point. He probably had a concussion but Abe considered himself lucky that his skull hadn’t been split open like a melon. It must have been a glancing strike, he guessed.

He half-crawled, stumbled, back to the campsite, or what was left of it. The firewood was scattered and their possessions looted. He saw no signs of any corpses, which gave him some small hope.

The attackers had carried off their prizes, dead or alive.

Abe wasn’t surprised that they had not considered him worth taking. He wondered if these trolls were the type to eat people, but he shook the thought from his head.

Abe had no illusions of being able to track them in the mountains. This was their territory, and he presumed he would have a slim chance of following them if they did not wish to be followed. The suddenness of the attack meant that their skills were even sharper than the scout, Leaves, not that an earlier warning might have helped much against such a force.

Abe also presumed that, per Leaves exclamation, the three bowmen had saved their own skins instead of defending the hopeless position. They were probably long gone by now, he thought. They clearly did not get along with the other two, and presumably, would have no interest in rescuing them against such odds.

Abe did not dwell on the complacency of Senua Gong despite the warnings from the others that had predicted this turn of events. He presumed that the various allegiances of the region were fickle, and he hoped, that there still remained some form of leverage he could use to save Piro, assuming she still lived. Perhaps play off one faction against another, although he had no idea how.

Through gritted teeth, Abe breathed, “I ain’t a quitter, at least.” Abe washed the matted blood from his head in the grotto, cursing at the freezing temperature. He had no idea if he needed stitches over the lump in his cranium but the bleeding seemed to have slowed to a slow ooze. Otherwise, he was actually no worse for wear, in terms of bodily contusions or broken bones, despite his tumble.

“Well, I still got my clothes at least, so I won’t freeze to death outright, but I have no supplies or weapons,” Abe spoke into the air. “I’m pretty much fucked.”

He took a long draught of water, as he had no means of carrying more and he had a feeling he should stay hydrated despite the loss of heat. His fingers and toes felt numb but he had no idea how close, or far, he was from actual hypothermia. Either way, he felt pretty miserable.

“Damn it. Why didn’t I study wilderness survival?”

Abe picked a direction and began walking.

It did not take long for him to get lost. Downhill should have lead him to the river, he supposed, but the furrows of the hills confused him and when he thought that he had been losing elevation he saw that he was even deeper into the wood. Abe could not conceive how this was possible since he recalled that they had easily climbed above it during their earlier flight from the Company men.

Abe stopped to rub his head. Above should be the spires of the mountains, exposed and rocky while below should be the river. The whole valley wound north to south and was fairly narrow from what he recalled.

“Why the fuck is this hard?” He wondered aloud. Looking around, he recognized nothing, although some of the trees seemed to resemble ones he had passed before. “Shit, I should have marked the trunks with a rock or something.”

Thirsty again, he sat down to take a break. It must have been midday by that point, as the sun was high in the sky. He could figure that out at least.

The wind rushed through the branches of the trees as he sat for a long moment. A sound gave him a flash of hope: water. When he found the source of the noise, Abe was disappointed that it wasn’t a river, only a tiny creek trickling down from some higher point. He had no clue, as usual, if it was potable but he drank anyway. It seemed clear enough, and quite refreshing.

It should also lead him down to the main river, he hoped.

The creek meandered until it met a bigger tributary, one big enough to wade in. Abe wondered how they had missed this before as it was a significant flow. Wouldn’t they have crossed it going south? Or perhaps he had ended up in a different valley somehow? But that seemed unlikely as well. They couldn’t have travelled that far, could they?

His meandering thoughts were forgotten as soon as he saw the women.

Excerpt from the Trials of Margret Beatrice of the First Ward by her second, Warren Viro Quantelle.

I remember the jeers, the hot sun on our backs, the smell of fear in the air in those days of our despair. My commander never changed expression. She stood tall throughout, of that I promise.

Oh, this is bitter to recall, and worse to write, but for they say history is written by victors. For this instance, the loser puts to record for some small future to read. Curse me, if you think I am a liar. I do not care. My sisters, lost to all. In memory, I write, for them.

They tried to diminish us the entire ride to the capital, the walls of the city strung with the bodies of our fallen, but when we stood in formation on that hard packed earth of the old plaza we showed them all what we of the Sacred Regiment of the Mystic Order were made of. All we had was our pride in the end, and even that could not save us. But it did not matter, for with Margret we all stood.

It is true that the so called Virgin Guard was to protect the honor of the high Princess Rosaline, but in reality, we had pledged to the First Ward. Offal was thrown at us, but she stood tall. She joined us as we were stripped of our armor and raiment. Our dignity was in her approval of us.

The Princess herself, we could see little, but we heard her torment as she was put to the whip. She took it well, for that we were proud.

To further humiliate us, these events unfolded in the grand plaza of the Matriarchs where dignitaries of old once held court in that amphitheater with the old order. Now, the hated one, the Black Lord, came to oversee our fate, sitting under an awning with his court of vipers, fanned by his slave attendants. He was too far away to note any detail, but his voice still echoes in my ears.

I could see the eyes of the troopers pressed to guard us. We could have overtaken them easily, but we stood firm to our own promise. We had surrendered in full, and had to accept any torment and punishment, no matter how foul. Such was our honor, our duty.

Still, the horror of it still shakes me to my bones.

“I am pleased. Your offering is a good one,” the Emperor spoke at last. “The Royal Overseer shall assess the prize.”

The Overseer was a giant man, full of rolls of fat, and sporting a comical codpiece as offensive as his countenance. He examined the Princess as she stood shivering in her stocks. He assessed, “She is worth a small sum of silver on the market. Perhaps to be used as a toilet scrubber.”

The audience that had gathered for our humiliation laughed. Already, barkers were selling food and drink as their entertainment unfolded.

“Surely,” the Emperor mused. “A Princess Matriarch would raise much more in a special auction, with proper training, of course.”

The Overseer bowed, “Of course, My Lord.”

The Emperor waved the fat man away, saying, “Now, for more serious business. I am hard, but just. As promised, you have surrendered yourselves, sparing your provinces from the sword. However, justice requires punishment for rebellious factions such as yourselves. Once, long ago in a foreign land, there were a people called Romans who punished their soldiers with a concept called decimation. It means the summary execution of a tenth of a military unit.”

Rosaline’s reply was difficult to hear, but firm, “I do no know of such cruel people, or how such a cruelty could ever be called just. But we are at your mercy, great lord.”

“Regardless, my judgement is final. You will choose one out of every ten in your regiment for immediate execution. Be grateful that the rest shall be spared, for the moment.”

Margret stepped forward, “I volunteer.” All of us followed, of course.

“No,” the Emperor had rebuked. “Choose a tenth, by lot if you must. Out of graciousness, you may choose the method of disposal. My patience grows thin. Decide.”

And so we chose lots. To my misfortune, and Margrets, we were not elected.