• Mature • [Warrick] Another King Burns

[Malcolm]

The Wolf of Krome

18 Ashan 717

“Rise and shine, asshole.”
Malcolm gasped as he was pulled backwards out of the trough, icy water pouring down over his bare chest to soak his pants. He was on his knees, teeth chattering and wrists bound so tightly that he couldn't feel his fingers. They dunked him again, and not prepared or still in shock, the warden choked on a mouthful of water that had gone down the wrong way.
The thin man laughed, while his tall, rather stocky friend smirked, amused by the rude awakening. “Nasty bump you got there,” the tall one pressed his knuckle against Malcolm’s left cheekbone, causing the knight to suck in a sharp gasp of air. Something was broken, the skin split and black with bruising and possible infection. “Took us a long time to catch up to you. Do you know who I am?” He crouched down in front of the warden, shaggy hair pinned back with a rake of his fingers. “No, I don't suppose you do.”
Malcolm was busting for a piss, and as tempting as it was to go where he sat, if only to enjoy the brief warmth it would bring him, he knew in these conditions, he was only bound to aid hypothermia or worse. “Can I stand?”
The tall man stepped back and held out his hands as if to say ‘be my guest,’ but as soon as Malcolm got to his feet, a swift elbow to the ribs saw him bent over in the mud and snow again. He rolled onto his side and coughed, every muscle in his chest and arms tense with pain, the area of impact burning, even with the snow beneath him.
Again the men laughed. “Goes down like a sack of shit he does.”
“Should we warm him up?” The thin one grinned, his teeth yellow with rot. He picked a hot iron up out of the fire, a branding rod they had used to mark socks on the rump, and held the orange glowing metal an inch from the warden’s face.
Malcolm pressed himself hard against the ground, saturated locks going stiff in the snow.
“Mark your face up good and proper I will.”
The edge of the iron rod caught Malcolm’s cheek, and despite his best efforts to remain silent, a long, low hiss escaped him before a mighty roar of pain was torn from his throat.
“That's enough,” the tall one said, “he needs to remain recognisable. A head in a sack is no good if they don't know whose head it is. Up we get,” he pulled Malcolm to his feet and walked him through the snow towards the tent they had put up.
His feet were numb but hot, and he shook violently with the cold. The tall man grabbed him by the scruff and pushed him inside the tent. “Eat, dress, we have a long ride still ahead of us, warden.”
“Vilhelm,” his sidekick approached.
“What?”
“Our scout hasn't returned yet.”
“And of his hawk?”
“No sign yet, boss.”
“Then let us head north tonight, we’ll make camp come dawn, and hand him over to Verel. Oh and Viyan?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Watch him, he’s worth five large alive. Dead and you might as well kiss your ass goodbye. No more marks,” Vilhelm winked.
“Right you are.”

[Malcolm]

Malcolm threw his face against the snow in an attempt to ease the burning sensation in his cheek, which radiated through the flesh and made his left eye sting. The thin one, Viyan, kick him.
“Move it!”
The warden stumbled into the tent and was cut loose. “If I so much as see a glint of hope in your eye, or any ideas about escape, I'll cut your fucking cock off, knight.”
Malcolm pulled off his trousers in trade for a dry pair. “And by the looks of it, you ain't working with much as it is,” Viyan sniggered.
Frozen, Malcolm ignored the man's taunts and dressed as quickly as he could, sitting down to rub his feet and encourage the blood to circulate before frostbite could set in. He put on a pair of socks and accepted a cloak to go over the leather tabard they had left for him. A pair of worn boots did little to fight the chill he felt in the pads of his feet and toes, but it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.
“Go on, eat up, can't have you falling off your horse again once we hit the forest.”
Viyan watched Malcolm like a hungry dog, standing at the door with his sword in hand, and a filthy grin on his face Malcolm wouldn’t have minded knocking into next season. He picked up the stale bread and chewed until it was soft enough to go down. It wasn't a five star meal, but Malcolm would have happily eaten his own toes had he gone another day without food.
There wasn't any time to rest or catch his breath, and before he knew it, his hands were bound and he was on the back of a horse again. But there was hope. Viyan had mentioned a forest, and Malcolm knew if he had any hope of escape, it was in there.

[Malcolm]

The snow was thick amongst the trees, and though Malcolm couldn't determine what forest they were in, he suspected they were heading north due to the changing landscape and thick snow. The horses were covered with light blankets, and made to carry only the men on their backs. A sled team of four dogs pulled the camp gear, and while Vilhelm travelled in front, Viyan took up the rear, leaving Malcolm trapped between the two where he could be watched.
Two hours into the ride and not a house in sight. Malcolm had warmed up a little, but the burn on his face had caused his left eye to water profusely, and each time he tried to rub it with his shoulder, he caught the burnt flesh and hissed at the searing pain. A weeping wound was the last thing he needed, and having experience with burns, Malcolm knew that was exactly what was in store.
With the light of day quickly fading, Malcolm put himself on the west side of the mountains of Venora. An attempt to escape now, without a horse, was an idea only a madman could commit to, and Malcolm sat and weighed up his courage. He had survived in the wilds before, the knights were trained for extreme weather and situations like this, but without a weapon, even Malcolm didn't fancy his chances.
Still.

He ran down the path, it was the first they had come across in the woods, and in the dying light, he had taken his chance, leapt from his horse, and committed to the insane thought of escape. Viyan had followed until his horse would go no further, the low hanging trees stopping his mount from making any progress, but it hadn't stopped the dogs. They had been released just as Malcolm was making ground. The snow would lead the riders right to him if they could find a way to traverse it and follow his tracks. The dogs on the other hand, would soon have a harder time of it.
He had come across a dip in the landscape that fed a small pond, not yet iced over with new snow. Malcolm took a deep breath and ran into the water. Every hurt, and his heart punched hard in his chest as the wind was knocked out of his lungs by the cold, icy sludge he couldn't quite call water. He hadn't judged the depth of the pond right, and soon was submerged, kicking hard, all the while suffering the frustration of having his hands tied behind his back, rendered useless by the biting ropes.
By the time he had climbed out on the other side, he could barely breathe, his clothes sticking to his skin, flooded boots weighing him down. The warden struggled up the embankment and carried on into the woods, driving his body forward through the snow. His life depended on it.

Exhaustion set in, followed by disorientation. Malcolm knew he was cold, frozen to the bone, and yet his skin was fire. He looked about, furiously searching for a direction in which the sound of barking did not meet him, and chose to crawl up another incline, his fingers claws, arms weightless.
Teeth sunk into his calf and another set dug into his right arm, both pulling in different directions. A loud thud threw him forwards, and as he came to the realisation that he had been struck on the back of the head, there wasn't much time to gather his bearings before the world went dark once more.