The Redmark camp was arranged in a flower shape, and as I was frog-marched into the area, I could see the layout was quite intentional. There were eight large pavilions in each compartmentalized section surrounded by various smaller tents. I noticed that the littler structures seemed more utilitarian—likely for the more common soldiers—and were a wide variety of styles, colors, and materials in what I imagined was likely based more on ability to acquire rather than preference.

The pavilions, however, were all the same color: a stark red that practically glowed in the torchlight, with an eight-petaled flower emblazoned in black on the flaps of their entrances. If this was in any way similar to the movies I’d seen, these would be the officer quarters, probably captains or whatever the rank was in this world.

There were men and women milling about, most staring at me and judging with raised brows or smirks. I despised it. Each face had a look of interest and disgust at my presence, and I adopted my best sneer in return. There were a few hushed comments between men-at-arms, as well as a few louder oaths of approval. A couple men approached near enough to whistle at me, but Chessit turned to glare at them, and they immediately returned to their original places of respectful contempt. It looked as though it was dinner time, as many of the soldiers were dressed-down in more casual attire and carried heaping tankards of sloshing liquid, heels of bread, and bowls overladen with steaming contents.

As we moved, I could see the sundry of sleeping areas were organized very neatly. Crates and supply sacks marked the borders of each section, and no two areas were closer than eight feet apart. This allowed pathways between the sub-camps that led to a substantial center section where soldiers sat around cookfires or busied themselves with crafts. There was a metric fuckton of people here enjoying themselves, and each individual looked hardened and severe.

Well, this is bad news.

It would be very difficult to escape from here, not that I’d have had a shot regardless. I hadn’t been able to secure myself against one miserable old cus, let alone an entire regiment of them. Even if I’d been—what’s the word… unfettered? That sounds right. Even if that weren’t the case, I had no idea how strong any of these medieval morons were. I was not a skilled fighter when I had a full range of motion. Now, my wrists and ankles were bound with rope and chain. I’d never been much for mathematical pursuits, but even I knew that my odds were supremely fucked.

I took note of a brawny, bald dude with a gigantic burn on the left side of his face who looked up from pounding a sword out against an anvil. He watched silently, with no emotion that I could see. As Chessit pushed me past his station, they shared a nod, and the man returned to his work without a word.

“Friend of yours?” I asked, and Chessit grunted.

“Pay that no mind, lad,” he said roughly. “You’re my charge, now. Ain’t a piece to be worryin’ about interpersonal relationships in your condition.”

“What’s my condition?” I asked.

“I’d wager it’s gallows-bound, but I’ve been wrong before.”

“I don’t suppose ‘gallows’ are a cute nickname for the pleasure tents, are they?” I asked.

“It’ll be someone’s pleasure, most like,” Chessit said. “But, I imagine you’re goin’ to be a wee peeved by the prospects.”

I sighed and tried testing the strength of the binding keeping my hands together. They hardly moved.

Yep. Still captured.

Chessit seemed to be leading me to the middle of the camp, and more specifically, a large yurt-like building around which the diners had congregated. It was different in composition than the others, being at least three-times the height of the officer tents and twice as wide. Rather than the red cloth, this one seemed designed out of furs, leather and maybe whatever the hell canvas was. Instead of the black flower pattern on the entrance flap, this structure had two large posts on either side of it, with red flags fluttering in the misty evening wind. Each also had the crest in black, and it was clear these had been given more attention than the other ragtag emblems as it was expertly patterned in stitching.

“Cute floral,” I said as we neared the entrance. “How come you guys are the Redmarks if the symbol is in black? Isn’t that kind of a misnomer?”

Chessit stopped, and turned my body so that I was facing him.

“Your candor was amusing earlier, but I’d be a bit more strict with my tongue if’n I were you,” Chessit said dryly. “She’s not gonna have the level of appreciation for humor you’ve come to expect from my whimsical nature.”

“Yeah, you’re just a super fun-time guy, Chessit,” I said, before wondering, “who’s she?”

“Commander Fawn,” he said quietly. “Runs this outfit.”

“Interesting,” I said. “Is that her first name, or last?”

“It’ll definitely be the last name ye hear if ye think you can open your maw and crack wise in her presence, lad. Mind the mouth.”

“If it’s all the same,” I said, borrowing his phrase, “you said I’m on death row, so, does it really matter how I speak to her?”

“That depends,” Chessit said.

“On?”

“Whether you like slow deaths, or quick’ns.”

I chuckled.

“Your comedic timing is really well-developed, Chessit. Have you ever considered not being a kidnapping dick bag?”

Chessit grunted.

“Aye. In my youth I dreamed of finer things,” he said. “Painting, mayhaps.”

“Well, what changed?” I asked, worried there was a sad story attached to his comment that I’d be forced to listen to.

“Dick bags get paid better,” he said. “In ye go.”

...and with that, I was shoved into the opening of the yurt.