Penelope Must Die: The Villainess Fakes Her Death

I could feel my hands shaking, and his posture had me wondering if these would indeed become my last moments in this hellish second life. I might be about to get beaten to death by this rabid dog.

"Please be calm, sir." A voice broke me out of the 101 thoughts that were about to send me spiraling. I looked up at the man standing in front of the commander, catching a cold, piercing, disdainful golden gaze directed right at me. "She was not escaping. I bore witness to it all."

The commander furrowed a brow, still hunched over me. He turned sideways to look up at his golden-eyed soldier. "What?"

I spat out the blood pond that had formed inside my mouth, sitting up despite the numbness in my joints.

"I never tried to escape," I stated, glaring back at the golden-eyed knight with as much, if not more disdain than he held for me. "I'm here…" I couldn't fully open my mouth; my voice was barely audible. "To take a piss." A rush of blood urged me to spit it out again.

I wiped the blood trickling down my nose.

A scoff left the lips of one of the riders still on their horses. He had a distinct scar instead of his right eyebrow, a firm and rubbery-looking lesion. Looks like a keloid scar.

"Quite the lady you are." He muttered.

"... Is this true, Truman?" The commander turned to the golden-eyed man.

"Yes, sir."

"I woke up very early with a sick stomach and needed to go to the restroom. Everybody seemed to have passed out for some strange reason. I was honestly quite afraid… Some knights were even sleeping outside, in the mud!" I made sure my tone was confused, and not too dramatic. "I met a coachman who was suffering from a hangover, or was drunk, I'm not sure. I asked him for the keys to my shackles, and he brought them over, bless him. He entrusted me to Truman, this gentleman knight, who kindly escorted me out here to, uh," I threw a sheepish look at the rider who laughed earlier. "go to the toilet."

I can't think of a better way to put this.

"… Soldier?" The commander glanced at Truman again, eyebrow furrowed.

"It is all true, Commander." Truman nodded.

The commander's skeptical air lasted only a moment.

"Right!" He sighed as his tense stance melted into a slouch, and a smirk formed on his lips. "Our security is not so frail that a woman can escape through everyone and reach this meadow without a single person on her trail!" He laughed, looking for approval from his subordinates.

"That's what I was saying all morning!" With a receding hairline and a missing tooth, the other rider giggled, wearing a proud look.

"Truman, your shift must be over now." The scarred rider stated.

"I'm glad it finally is." Truman's eyes were droopy again.

"You have such shit luck, my friend." The scarred rider said, grabbing the reins of his horse.

"All of the night shifts always end up within Truman's fortune. In a way, it is amazing luck." The toothless rider laughed.

"I shouldn't have played boulder, parchment, shears to settle the matter again..." Truman said, making everyone chuckle.

While they conversed within themselves, I stood back up (barely) and gently helped my jaw into place.

I breathed in and out, ignored the relief that I wasn't facing breathing problems, and stopped moving my tongue in fear of touching one of the several bleeding injuries inside my mouth. I used my free hand to dust my disgusting clothes and comb my hair back down. I stretched a few strands above my shoulder so I could check them out again, and as expected, the barely golden strands from a day ago had turned an even dirtier, duller shade of grey.

"Well then," The leader put a hand on both sides of his body. "Let us go back and load." He ordered.

He mounted his horse and gestured for Truman to follow along with me.

Quietly, I did as they demanded.

The fact that no further questions were asked about the matter, despite the degree of anger with which the leader knight approached me, could only be explained by these men's humongous pride and their it hurt by the thought that I could have succeeded in leaving the campsite unnoticed.

I can't believe the day has come when I am grateful for a man's inflated ego.

But I can't believe I'm dead, either, so…

"You deserved it," Truman said, walking to my side.

I kept looking forward, discounting his words.

No, I didn't. I didn't fucking deserve to be beaten. I don't deserve to be in this situation.

Before I realized it, my palm was bleeding from the pressure of my nails digging into its flesh.

More injuries to treat. This is ridiculous...

"Yeah," I simply muttered, gently holding onto my jaw, suppressing the tears rushing to my eyes at the surging pain shooting from my face down my throat and up to my forehead.

It feels like my face will fall off.

 ______________________ . ______________________

Commander Blert Blach was no fool.

Every inch of his body itched to deny it, and in the end, he couldn't help but pretend to have been convinced, but he was no idiot. That woman was too suspicious for his liking. Her words weren't believable in the slightest.

It hurt his very core, yes, but he had a legal duty to discover the truth.

Was that black knight a traitor? Was she indeed planning to escape? Could he finally fire that foreigner and kill that spoiled-bitch off?

The commander had to find out.

The muddy trail led to a yellowish meadow completing the one that stretched to their right, and there, the riders could see khaki-colored tents, extinguished bonfires' smoke drawing white, vague lines that reached into the bluish sky and distant figures walking back and forth, carrying things, taking down tents, collecting clothes...

Once Brett and his company came within sight range of the rest of the soldiers, the handful of knights who were rounded up next to the extinguished bonfire sprang up. Some of the servants stopped amidst their chores to spread the word, 'What a relief! The Commander is back!'

The campsite was a mess, just like Blert had left it.

Most of the tents set up the night before had collapsed within themselves, leaving their fabric dragging on the ground for the hounds, the horses, and the people to stomp on.

The maids were running around, barely in uniform, collecting the scattered alcohol bottles, clothing, armor, and food, hoping to tidy things up before it was time to leave.

Half the order of knights was within the forest, still looking for Penelope Ashdown, while the other half, who were left to guard the campsite, were now running downhill to join the found prisoner, their companions, and most importantly, Blert, their Commander.

"Commander!"

"Commander Blert, sir!"

Blert's little minions approached him and his riders with open arms.

Blert held back a grin to save face. He couldn't show how proud he was of himself. He had a reputation to uphold as the stoic, monster of a leader that he was.

Instead, he held up an arm, signaling the soldiers to halt before they scared the horses.

"Yes, yes, we found her," Blert nodded. "Now calm your ti-"

"Commander, we're so fucked!" Holison — the dumbest knight under his charge — cried out.

This statement was a call back to reality for Blert.

After realizing he was snickering from ear to ear despite his mental effort not to do so, he only now saw that the knights' expressions weren't filled with relief and joy at his sight, but with panic and worry instead.

"What is it?" Blert frowned, dismounting his horse and walking up to his armored subordinates.

"Commander Blert, Sir,—" Holison was out of breath, his scarce mustache hair dripping with sweat, eyes trembling in panic. "A man burst into camp some twenty minutes past, claiming to hail from the Merchant Guild. He declared—he declared that their Head Merchant collapsed and now draws no breath!"

Blert's glare softened to let the information simmer.

"Was his pulse examined?" The woman spoke out.

"I cannot say," Hollison replied. "I was told they sought aid the moment he was found."

"Does he have a record of any illnesses in—"

"Who gave you leave to speak?" Blert snapped, making her raise her eyebrows, seemingly taken aback at his as well as her own words.

Her voice was melodic to most ears, but not to his. He needed her to keep her useless mouth shut so he could figure the situation out.

"Holison, fuck are we to do, put him out of his misery?" Fars, Blert's toothless subordinate, wrinkled his nose with distaste, resting both hands on his hips and one on the hilt of his sword.

"They require medical aid," Holison swallowed. "They asked—pleaded, rather—for assistance. But—"

"Our medic is presently incapacitated," Fars chimed in. "He was crawling on the ground, uttering nonsense, the last I saw of him. Which was, I believe, an hour ago."

"... He will get what he is due once he is sober," Blert said, then turned to Holison.

"We can send Melissa," Fars—curse his lineage—suggested. "Her connection to the Korpian order may yet prove useful. Though her talents are modest, they may suffice."

"Sending Melissa to serve a stranger? Utter folly. We're not a fucking temple," Blert pushed Fars from his shoulder, sending the man a few steps away. "Inform them of our regrets and send them away, Holison."

"Well..." Holison trailed off, catching Blert's attention. "The patient is unfortunately not someone to be dismissed, Commander, sir. The afflicted gentleman is none other than the eldest son of His Grace, Duke Kimberlye." Holison cringed.

A gasp rippled through the onlookers.

"No!" Two riders chorused.

Blert's eyes flew wide. "What—! Forget everything I just said, send Melissa, AT ONCE! If he dies?!" He yelled out, stepping towards the camp. "In fact, I shall accompany her mys—!"

"Oh, we really are screwed..." Truman muttered to no one in particular, eyes wide as plates. "Melissa drank yesterday."

Silence descended.

"Huuh!? What do you mean, she drank?!" Blert's eyes were protruding out of his skull. "Is this true? HOLISON!" Blert fixed the lad with a deadly glare.

"YES, COMMANDER SIR, BLERT!" Holison snapped to attention. "Clergywoman Melissa was found unconscious an hour ago. She is awake now and has confessed, under duress, to the grave offense of drinking last night, SIR!"

A heavy silence fell over the group. The knights behind Holison exchanged pained looks, the riders near Truman whispered among themselves, and Truman felt lightheaded from the turmoil. Then, a whisper caught Blert's ear, pulling him from his thoughts of death.

Now Melissa's holy powers would no longer work, not until she repented at Suttone.

"Ow..." A feminine voice murmured.

Blert's gaze shifted to his prisoner, who observed the scene with a calculating expression, hand on her reddened jaw.

It's because of her... His head throbbed. I'll deal with that woman... in due time.

"Holison, escort her back to her carriage," he said, gesturing toward Penelope with a flick of his chin.

"Yes, sir!"

Holison grabbed the prisoner by the arm, but she shook him off with a sneer and started walking on her own, followed by the awkward little knight.

Once the two were out of earshot, Blert began.

"If word of last night's merrymaking reaches the ears of the clergy, consider your lives forfeit." He pointed to the group. "I'll see it done myself. If the temple finds out about our clergywoman's little... Indiscretion." He whispered. "Your heads shall adorn spikes by week's end."

His would, too.

"FURTHERMORE!" Everyone listening jumped. "If the honourable Fourth Division of the Penalty Forces fails to save its most generous patron—the young Lord Robert Kimberlye—what do you think will become of us?!" His eyes wandered from one paling soldier to another. "The Korpians, no, the Edvins will make us wish for the sweet mercy of death!"

"The commander speaks true," one of the knights said grimly. "It is fortunate the messenger did not accept Holison's offer to accompany him to camp. The clergywoman was rather... vocal regarding her lapse."

"He invited him?" Fars quirked his lips in disbelief.

"It is only proper," Truman nodded, making the rest of the party unsure whether or not he was being sarcastic.

"No matter," Blert said, "Holison, fetch the knights wandering the woods. Apprise them of the situation, and have them return post-haste to join in the final preparations for our departure."

"Depart, sir?" Fars interjected. "But how are we to explain our failure to render assistance?"

Blert allowed a thin smile. "I know of quite the tragic solution."

The only excuse to explain the medic and cleric's absence, one not even a Kimberlye could complain about.

Blert's hand was already itching for it.