Underestimate Me

Rowen could still feel the imprint of her boot in his stomach. He would have taken the pain a hundred times over if that woman would speak again. The voice she possessed was soft yet powerful. That voice always held the power to bring him to his knees if it desired. The probability of the woman who possessed the voice being the same woman he knew must be nonexistent. His father swore to him…

“Take him prisoner; kill the rest…save that one.” The precious voice turned vicious. “Send him back to Elrik with the news of his son’s captured status.” The soldier that saved his life in battle stood after the woman who held him down moved away. He sprinted as fast as he could toward the village.

“No!” Rowen hissed. His men might have done some stupid things, but none of those soldiers deserved to be butchered, and the man running toward the village was sure to get worse than any of the men who were being slain in front of him.

The woman with long blond hair wiped her barely visible brow. Her sword pointed at Rowen’s heart turned in her hand. She brought the hilt down hard on the back of his skull. Darkness overtook his senses as did his hatred for the slaughterers that spread nothing more than fear across the lands.



When Rowen awoke, the lingering smell of dust filled his nose. Birds hummed in the canopies high above, and thunder echoed in the distance. Thunder often reminded him a great deal of the familiar and horrid sounds of a cracking whip crashing against bare skin. Rowen felt his body tremble with the memories. Long thin fingers clung to his armor, dragging him to wherever they were going, and laughing at the thought of his fearing them.

He wanted to fight for his life, his freedom, but knew the point was moot. The skilled swordswoman, with long blond hair, walked too close for him to make a decent attack. Visions of her blade slitting his throat swirled through his thoughts, which forced any idea of escape from his hopes.

Rowen learned two years ago that in situations like the one he found himself in now, quiet was key. His lips stayed sealed while his dark eyes observed everything they could take in, which was very little considering the position of the hands grasping and dragging his armor. Four sets of hands dropped his body at once. He wanted to regain footing and run if possible, but again that woman with the deadly sword lurked too close for his tastes.

The swordswoman drew her blade, a nice light weight double-edged sword; she must have stolen it during their tragic raids. Her blade found Rowen’s heart in such an easy motion that his heartbeat sped up in his broad chest. “On your knees,” she ordered. Rowen stared at her frozen blue eyes for a moment too long. Her sword tip pressed against his skin. “I shall not repeat myself again,” she hissed. Rowen followed the given instructions without hesitation on this instance. Her sword pushed him back until he was sitting on his calf muscles.

“Move your arms back.” Her voice was as cold as the iron that she held against him; her eyes looked even colder in the melting heat. Rowen circled his left arm around his back easily, but groaned and winced in pain as he maneuvered his right. The action of pain coming from his face and lips produced a small smile, almost a smirk, from the swordswoman’s stony features.

He felt the splinters of a pole bare into his back while someone pulled him backward. Rowen wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but he would not give these vixens the pleasure. He would endure his pain, both past and present, in silence. A familiar shock of electricity ran through his veins when a small calloused hand pushed his wrists together and knotted their trap.

“I want a guard on him day and night. Do not let him escape us, Sisters,” the voice presented itself again. He wanted to hear more. That sound could drive the pain of the present away, but he feared the pain it drudged from deep within his soul.

A tall woman with tanned skin and round eyes stepped forward. “I will volunteer first watch,” she spoke beautifully, much better than most of Rowen’s soldiers. She stood tall, with pride and confidence. Rowen knew as soon as he saw the bow and quiver strewn across her back that she was the one that struck him. He waited until he could see most of the women standing before him, speaking of schedules and priorities, until he began wiggling his hands. Hope failed once again when he realized he could not break the bounded rope wrapped around his wrists.

Why do you forsake me, Balor? Have I not been a good son?

The woman with the bow stood beside Rowen’s post. All she lacked to appear as the executioner were the infamous battle axe and a stone slab to collect her victim’s blood. He loathed this woman standing next to him for the simple purpose that she reminded him of the man who killed someone most dear to his heart. She would not be forgiven for her appearance, nor would the executioner be forgiven for his actions.

Rowen sat on his knees wrapped backward around a pole for hours in the summer heat. When he closed his eyes for a moment’s rest the thunder cracked and echoed around him, through him. He almost felt the whip that made his skin crawl. The storm was still far off in the distance, but the likelihood of his spending at least one day, or night, in the pouring rain was inevitable. The woman next to him tried to cover her increasing yawns, which only grew in number as the sky grew darker. Rowen nearly cringed when he saw who walked forward out of the shadows of the camp to replace his guard for the night.

The swordswoman brought a torch with her, though he doubted she needed it. She secured it to another, smaller, pole near Rowen before she sat next to him. A whetstone in one hand and her blade in the other. Rowen paused for a moment and watched carefully as she slowly dragged the stone across the iron pulling a low pitched screech from the metal.

He wanted to pay her a compliment, a compliment he would pay anyone who was as handy with a blade as the creature before him, but he dared not say a word for fear of being misunderstood. Instead, he watched the camp change in the fading light. Women passed by him with water buckets; some even passed by just to look at him. Word spread quickly amongst these people that he was the son of Elrik.

Rowen closed his eyes, bowed his head and whispered, “Balor, God of blood and war, I have failed you today. I ask that you protect my family, my home, and most of all the people in the village. Please, Balor, God of blood and war, do not forsake us as I have failed you.”

Snickers filled his ears as the sense of being watched dwelled on his skin. He moved his wrists slightly bringing pain to his right shoulders and memories of iron shackles around his hands. His eyes opened slowly to several laughing women. The frustration in his chest building again he half shouted, “I do not enter your chambers and laugh at the prayers you give your Maa; why should you have the right to laugh at mine to Balor!” He felt the swordswoman’s eyes on him, but he could not stop. “Leave me! Condemn me to the peace of solitude now, Wretches."

The woman in charge of him for the moment, locking her frozen eyes onto his, stated, "Parts of your wish shall be granted; they will leave, and you will not be mocked aloud, but you will not be granted solitude for a guard will always be at your side." She turned to the women who once laughed, and with a haughty shake of her head they moved on without a grin on their faces.

“Thank you,” Rowen whispered.

“Do not mistake me, Rowen son of Elrik. I do this not for you and your pride, but because I believe you have the right to choose whomever you wish to worship, as we do here.” Her voice no longer seemed cold, but passionate about her beliefs. He respected her for that.

“I mean to pay you a compliment if you will have it,” he spoke a little stronger. “You bested me on the battlefield, which not many men do, let alone a woman. I give you my praise, that blade suits you well, Madam.” She smirked, but said nothing more as she went back to stroking her weapon with the whetstone until the sound lulled Rowen into a restless, uncomfortable sleep.