He was still alive, he felt that much.
The wheels cracklings upon the rugged path managed to awaken his hearing. His body was jumping with every slope cracking the unstable carriage wheels, hitting against another's body, the man the man thrown next to him. Though blurry, his eyes could see the huge trees of the forest, but they were not the familiar trees he spent hours beneath their shade. There was no sign of anything familiar; not the sceneries, not the voices, not the language, not even the weak condition he found himself in. He took a hazy look at himself; something was put on his wounds, an ointment that smelled strange, it was probably a medicine. However, his injuries still hurt and looked gruesome through the carelessly wrapped bandages, so whomever did this merely wanted to make sure the life is kept, but it did not matter what shape that life was in.
Then came the most unfamiliar thing of all of the latter; that ugly sensation of metal nipping around his wrists and ankles, biting his scratched skin like a wild snake, hissing amidst the foreign languages surrounding him and poisoning his mind with the thought that he was chained, he was a prisoner! Adding to his belief and anger was another tormenting proof coming to his tired sight. With eyes filled with sore he recognized his two spears, the constant companions through his journey of battles and love, clutched by a hand other than his own.
They were taken as a battle loot… was he really defeated? Unfortunately, everything around him proved this.
A sigh escaped his lips, one of pain and loss.
Noticing the bronze eyes open wearily, the man wedged next to the lance exclaimed in relief:
"Diarmuid! Thank the gods you are still alive! I was so worried!"
Now this voice was without doubt familiar, and hearing it terrorized the lancer as his eyes flew wide – open to see his young blond companion also captured and held a prisoner.
"Oscar?! You did not manage to escape?!"
Diarmuid's eyes now fully open and clear, stared painfully at the poor lad. Young Oscar protested in a childish anger:
"What are you saying? Did we not learn to fight until the end?!"
"Idiot…"
Diarmuid turned his face away unable to face the excruciating scene of you his
chained beaten young trainee.
"Is not this why you are here as well? Because you were fighting to the bitter end?"
Oscar insisted defending himself against the look of sympathy the lancer was giving him.
"I remained at the battlefield to defend the likes of you."
Diarmuid stated in an irritated tone, unable to picture what possible outcome had befell their village and the people whom they had left there.
"I may be still far from your level, Dia, but do not ridicule me…"
Oscar replied curling on himself while leaning his chin on his crossed elbows, smiling with trembling lips. His act of courage and pride already collapsing. He was afraid, rather terrified and at some grim moments even regretting setting a foot on that damn battlefield… he was already missing his family, his house, his friends and the same black idea that filled the lancer's head started trickling into his own mind. Having the two spears wielder beside him was the only comfort he was fortunate to have as he was waiting to face the unknown. Although it was a selfish thought, a betrayal to love and admiration, he was glad to have someone close to him, sharing his same mysterious fate. Ashamed of this feeling he could never show, he buried his head between his knees.
"You will not manage to survive if you started weeping already."
The lancer said trying to give the boy back his courage and self - confidence but how would these help him against what to come? In their current circumstances, only luck could help them. The injured warrior looked at the other faces surrounding him and recognized none, some of them were Celts like himself, but the others seemed to be from different regions. They were no longer prisoners of the Roman army; they were now prisoners for salve traders. Just how long have he been unconscious? Seemingly long enough to have the prisoners convoy ending at some Roman colony where they were sold to different slave traders, and luckily he ended up together with Oscar. Perhaps now they were heading toward a larger city, a more thriving one where they will be properly sold this time but that did not explain the few Roman soldiers riding behind the convoy. They were not numerous enough to protect the it, and the merchants probably had their own protection and guards. Were they so proud in their victory that they wanted to tell everyone the story of these slaves? The lancer bit his lips angrily, determined that he will never submit to such fate and that he has to find a way out of this, and save his young friend too. The thoughts occupying his mind clearly drew themselves across his face expressions for Oscar commented raising his head again and staring at his hero's face:
"You know, it was that Roman leader who ordered your wounds to be taken care of. I could not understand what he was saying but after he finished speaking the soldiers approached you… I was so afraid they were going to kill you but they put that instead they tended hastily to your wounds. Forgive me, but I was glad to see you still breathing…"
The lancer flipped his lips in disdain, joining his lofty eyebrows in a frown; just what does that Roman general want with him anyway? Obviously, he wants to humiliate him the same way he humiliated his soldiers… such thought added even more bright to the warrior's pride but also filled his heart with bitterness and shame. Such ending, such fate… he will never allow that arrogant general to inflict this humiliation upon him, Diarmuid, the dual spear wielder, the first knight in his tribe and one among the elite of the entire island.
***
The night quickly came. Fire was lit where the convoy camped and the journey came to a momentary rest. The other prisoners remained in the same position they were in since the morning; silent and motionless like stones. They only let out few sore sighs every now and then. Scorning at the weakness of their spirits, the lancer thought he was not obliged to help weak - hearted people like them giving up already, bowing in fear to their guards and accepting gratefully the scarps of food thrown to them like obedient dogs. Diarmuid turned at his fellow announcing:
"When they open the carriage door to serve us food, this is our only chance!"
The lad's eyes widened in fear, he replied with shivering lips:
"But it is impossible! There is so many of them, they will rip us apart with their swords!"
"Is not this better than what is in store for us?"
The lancer said harshly, irritated for the first time by the boy's wavering.
"But… your wounds…"
Oscar said with honest concern, but the lancer interrupted him in the same harsh tone; there was no time for hesitation, their plan, or their reckless attempt to put in a more suitable description, needed resolve and the readiness to sacrifice everything, not that they were left with anything really. Realizing this, the boy nodded without words.
Diarmuid leaned his head on the bars forming the carriage walls and closed his eyes, faking sleep while waiting for the right moment. He heard the door being roughly opened, he thought he will have to barge forward and attack the entering man, but he heard footsteps approaching him. This was different from the lunch time, back then the man stood at the door and threw the food, he didn't attempt to get in but now this one was coming forth him. From the sound of clattering metal, Diarmuid guessed he was a soldier, all the better.
Oscar held his breath following the soldier's movements with growing uneasiness as the latter grasped the seemingly sleeping man from his hair and had a look at his face. The lancer did look half dead with his torn clothes revealing the various wounds he had received from the last battle and the soldier was making sure his prisoner was still alive. The reason for all that care about his life did not matter at that moment; it was his chance.
While the soldier was busy monitoring the prisoner's breaths, his sword was pulled by a brisk hand, and drowned in his flesh and blood. The other prisoners gasped at the scene of the Roman soldier collapsing, his armor making the unnecessary sound that dragged the attention of the others. Like a beam of flash, the lancer gripped his comrade's arm and dashed forward after taking they key from the dead man's corpse and freeing his hands and legs with his younger companion's help. Unfortunately though, the key did not fit Oscar's chains but the lancer was willing to drag or even carry him if he needed. The other soldiers and the merchandise guards quickly rose up interrupting their dinner to unsheathe their swords. Diarmuid, dragging the boy behind him, kicked the unlocked door and jumped of the carriage. The remaining prisoners didn't know whether to follow or to stay but the disdainful look given to them by the bronze eyes answered that question. They all grasped their chains ready to follow the brave handsome Celtic, but once their eyes fell on the enraged soldiers running after the two escapees, the last ounce of courage they had diminished.
Diarmuid and his young comrade were still in the camp when the guards caught up with them. The lancer cursed, he did not view numbers as a disadvantage but he was he was not in the most perfect shape, and he had to extra task of protecting his roped friend. As the soldiers and guards barged at him, Diarmuid yelled at Oscar to run away, as fast as he can, assuring him he will follow but he deep down he knew he had to create a long distraction till the boy get far enough. Oscar wanted to protest but was stopped and urged with his teacher's determined look. So he poured his entire strength into his legs and dashed away.