Druid's Bane

by Phillip Henderson

  “Truth indeed. It seems my father rejected the petition out of hand. You know how persuasive Danielle can be.”

  “I can only say that I’m pleased I’m no longer competing, and I don’t know what you have to be so smug about. The woman moves with the agility of a wasp, and stings as hard, many are saying.”

  “I’m rather looking forward to this little competition.”

  “I’ll remind you of that when she takes your title away.”

  Kane laughed heartily. “It’s one thing to swing a blunt training sword about in the royal reserve, even with the agility she possesses, but it’s quite another to step into a public arena, as you very well know. Speed and endurance alone won’t win her the title. You place her in armour and put a heavy blunted broadsword in her hands, and she’ll be lucky to win a match, particularly after her slight frame has taken a few dozen blows.”

  “Galloway will have thought of all that.”

  “Certainly. But thinking and doing are two very different things, old friend; and as we both know, Faith, just like Danielle, has never set foot in a tournament ring. My sister has been trained by someone who herself is inexperienced in tournament fighting.”

  “This may be true, but she is Corenbald’s First Sword, and she’s seen battle before—real battle. Believe me, I’ve seen her kill, and if your sister is her equal as some are saying, you’d be a fool to underestimate her.”

  “Oh, I have no intention of underestimating her. However, if I get the chance, and no one else has already done the business for me, I’m going to see to it that she doesn’t leave the ring alive.”

  Frowning, Orson drew his horse to a halt. “Are you mad?”

  Kane shrugged dismissively and glanced back over his shoulder as he slowed and stopped. “It wouldn’t be the first time a competitor has been tragically killed in the ring. It’s a dangerous pastime, and we all know the risks. If I can bloody her face with a fist, imagine what I can do with a well-weighted broadsword.”

  “You’ll get yourself bloody-well hanged—that’s what you’ll get—and all this hard work will be for nothing. Are you willing to throw away a prosperous future just for this nonsensical hatred you harbour toward your sister? You were lucky to get away so lightly after that beating you gave her last year. And perhaps if you hadn’t provoked her so, she wouldn’t have sort your father’s dispensation to compete.”

  “I’m afraid there is much more at stake here than my pride and honour, Orson. Danielle holds values that could turn our future on its head. You need to remember that.”

  “A host of other reformist Goddians, your father among them, hold the same values. They’re all advocates of free republicanism at heart. Frankly, I think you hate her because she’s a lovely bit of work and the law forbids you from having your way with her. Not that she’d let you even if you weren’t kin, chaste as she is.”

  “Chaste? Not according to what I have heard. And that’s exactly the problem, Orson.”

  “Oh, really? Pray tell.”

  “You all see her as nothing more than a pretty diversion,” Kane said as he coaxed his horse forward again. His friend’s pessimism was beginning to annoy him, and he added testily, “Well, I know her better than that. Unlike most reformists, Danielle puts her beliefs and principles into action, and mark my words, if she isn’t stopped, Arkaelyon will be a free republic inside a decade. The peasantry will have been emancipated, she will have established this governing senate of elected representatives she speaks of, and commoners will be determining the future of this realm. And you can certainly forget about legalizing slavery. By all the bloody furies, the common riffraff can see this outcome plain as day, yet the nobility, the pack of spineless fools that they are, continue to turn a blind eye and hope the problem will go away. No, it’s actually worse than that,” Kane said, correcting himself as they rode along. “They hand her power on a bleeding plate! First she’s allowed to sit on Arkaelyon’s General and High Councils as an equal, and then they sit by and do nothing when Father appoints her as Arkaelyon’s chief ambassador to Amthenium. And everyone knows she practically controls the High Council and carries a lot of weight among the members of my father’s Inner Council.”

  “She advances because she has extraordinary talent in such things, and the majority of your nobility recognize it, despite her sex and her radical views about what constitutes good governance,” Orson countered. “More to the point, they see the benefits she brings to the realm and to their purses even if they must tolerate some of her reforms in turn. My father tells me that, if it hadn’t been for her prowess at the last round of trade negotiations with North Surlemia, Abeian and Themia, your nobility could have lost as much as twenty percent of their wine quota to the Black Isles. Instead, they enjoyed a five percent increase. Further still, if she is a doer as you say, isn’t it best that she’s co-opted into the political process rather than left to her own devices, particularly with the popular support she enjoys. Working within the General and High Councils will teach her the meaning of compromise. Just as it’s reined in your father over the years, so, too, it’ll rein her in, I’ll wager.”

  “Be that as it may, Orson, I really don’t care. If she gives me the opportunity, I’m still going to silence her for good.”

  “Well, for the sake of the rest of us, make sure you do it by the rules, because I, for one, want to be around long enough to enjoy the fruits of my labour.”

  Kane reined his mount in and sat still. Orson stopped a short way up the track and looked back at him, clearly puzzled. “What?”

  There was something in the air. “You smell that?”

  The burly Surlemian sniffed and frowned. “Smells like burning flesh.”

  That was Kane’s thought, too. For as long as he could remember, the High Church of Arkaelyon and its Council of Order had seen to it that Illandia’s city square gave off that very smell on the last Friday of each month. That was the day those condemned to die were hung or beheaded depending on the crime and then their corpses were burned in a purifying bonfire that freed the soul of its evil or taint as the peasantry called it. Why that same stench of burning flesh should reach them here, he could not guess, but it had him more than a little worried, particularly since the smell seemed to be coming from the direction of the slave keep.

  Kane buried his heels in the horse’s flanks, sending it forward at a gallop.

  “It could be anything, Kane, a funeral pyre perhaps,” Orson said as he charged after him down the forest track.

  Kane couldn’t explain how, but he knew better. Something wasn’t right—not right at all.

  It was impossible to see anything through the trees, particularly at the speed they were travelling, but as they moved up the track toward the top of the ridge and the sea breeze hit them, the smell became nearly overpowering. Half an hour later they reached the brow of the forested ridge overlooking the coast and broke out of the wood onto a rocky, wind swept bluff. Kane reined his mount up sharply as he found his worst nightmare realized before him. Half a mile down the bush-covered slope below them, thick white smoke billowed into the clear blue sky from five large bonfires on the white sand beach. Forty or so mercenaries and sailors were picking up the corpses of slaves from a pile by the shoreline, carrying them up the beach and throwing them onto the flames. More men were unloading bodies from a fleet of beached longboats, and from what Kane could see, a great many more dead were being ferried ashore from the three battered and listing ships that stood moored in the tranquil waters of the cove.

  Orson drew up beside Kane, his horse whinnying in protest. “Looks like bloody ship fever. Stinks like it, too.”

  Kane nodded grimly. They had expected losses on that account, but nothing on this scale, and with an anticipated return of fifteen Arkaelyon sovereigns per head, this was a significant blow to the venture. He hated to think how Helidon had taken the news. Yet there was nothing to do but push on. Stoically, Kane reined his horse for the track that led down the wooded sand d
unes to the keep.

  In accordance with his design the slave keep had been built in a hollow between the forested ridge and the undulating sand dunes so that it could not be spotted from a vessel that might use the cove for a sheltered mooring. While many of the ancient trees in the hollow had been felled to build the numerous storage sheds, dormitories, and dwellings necessary to see to the welfare of this most valuable merchandise, many more had been left standing to help conceal the structures. Three palisades of twenty-foot-high pickets surrounded the complex, and archers’ towers had been strategically erected among the remaining trees around the perimeter at fifty-yard intervals.

  As the two riders approached the rear entrance of the sprawling complex, two mercenaries moved quickly to swing open the gates. Orson riding beside him, Kane cantered into the grounds of the keep. His attention settled on the activity at the gate across a wide grassy clearing that served as the camp’s mustering ground. The slaves who had survived the three-month voyage across the Tel-tar were being herded through that entry point by a troop of mercenaries armed with spears and whips. Captain Irwin was shouting orders from his horse, and all around the squat little captain, mercenaries made ready to process the camp’s first arrivals. Translators and scribes were gathered around a row of benches that had been placed in the sun. Beyond them a series of small campfires had been set, and several men were checking the branding irons that glowed among the embers. Off to one side, men were throwing branches onto another large bonfire, which, Kane knew, would be used to incinerate the slaves’ filthy animal skins before they were forced into the stream to wash off the accumulated filth and grime of months chained in the dark, cramped hold of a ship.

  Drawing up at the edge of the mustering ground, Kane stopped to watch how the work was going and to gather his thoughts and rethink how he should face his partners on this matter, for certainly he expected mutiny.

  Much planning had gone into this camp and its operation, and that at least appeared to be working smoothly.

  The mercenaries and their captives had reached the centre of the mustering ground and the former were forcing the slaves to kneel. A Surlemian sergeant fluent in the Zemithian tongue stepped onto a crate and began to explain the nature of their predicament. The slaves were silent, though their expressions spoke contempt and brooding malice, which was hardly surprising, given what the sergeant was saying.

  Orson whistled softly. “You can see why they called them the ‘lost children of the gods.’”

  Kane didn’t offer a reply, though he knew the old Amthenium mythology well enough and understood what his friend intended. It was said that the five tribes of man had issued from the sons and daughters of the First Mother’s five children: Amus, Olus, Trarck, Surlai, and Zemin. According to one tale, Zemin was the fairest of them all and most loved by his mother. The First Mother’s other children, driven by jealousy, stole the young boy from his bed one night and placed him in a boat. Then, with the aid of a wind conjured up by their mother’s dark sister, Maig, goddess of death, the young boy was sent across the ocean of Tel-tar to the wilds of the unknown continent. There, the legend went, fairies found and raised the boy, and on reaching manhood, he wedded a princess of stunning beauty from a local tribe. Their union gave birth to the most magnificent of all the descendants of the First Mother—Zemithians.

  While Kane had no patience for the night tales of wet nurses or the myths and fables such old women drew upon in the telling, he could not deny the physical perfection he saw before him. Although their foul smelling animal skins filled the air with a nauseous stench and their hair was matted and filthy, every slave before him was beautiful and well proportioned of face and limb. Their skin was olive in shade and well touched by the sun and where most of Arkaelyon’s population had dark hair, this small group of slaves had hair colour as diverse as any Kane had seen. The average man stood nearly a foot taller than their Surlemian guards, who, for the most part, looked like ugly, stunted trolls in comparison to their regal-looking slaves. The women, though somewhat shorter, were every bit the vision of beauty portrayed in the legends.

  “What a wonder. Damned shame there aren’t more of them. Why, we could sell this lot a dozen times over and still have buyers queuing up from here to Illandia,” Kane said bitterly. He felt robbed and more than a little bitter because of it.

  Captain Irwin, who had noticed their arrival, rode over to greet them. He was grinning from ear to ear despite the disaster the day had brought them. “Amazing lot, aren’t they? Not often you get to see a full-blooded Zemithian on this side of the Tel-tar.”

  “Indeed,” Kane said absently as he gazed at a young woman who glared back at him with open contempt, her tousled, wheat-coloured hair blowing lightly in the breeze, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of breasts as perfect as any he had ever seen.

  Irwin chuckled at the mesmerized expression on Kane’s face. “Don’t be fooled by their beauty. They’re vicious, conniving rascals, every one. I know. I’ve fought at the walls of Amthenium against the men of Vafusolum and their allies, and in Noren against the peasant uprising, yet I’ve seen nothing fiercer than what I encountered during the insurrectionist wars in New Arkaelyon. Bloody good thing your father ended that war and ceded sovereignty to the colonists. More of those animals out there were joining Fairfax and his rebel army by the day, and by all the gods, can they fight! And the women are some o’ the worst. A little slip of a girl just like that one staring through you killed two of my men with a wooden spear before I tickled her guts with my blade.”

  “At fifteen gold pieces a head, Mr. Irwin, you’d best keep your blade in its scabbard,” Kane said pointedly. He’d never liked this fellow, who was always too familiar for one of common birth. “Now, do you know how many survived the voyage?”

  “Of course, Milord. According to the various ship manifests, there should be four hundred twenty-seven slaves here.”

  Kane swore quietly. He’d guessed his losses to be heavy just by looking at the meagre group before him, but not this bad. “The rest taken by the fever, I assume?”

  “Yes. The Sea Sprite was a floating coffin when she arrived last night—not a single slave left alive—and the Golden Marlin wasn’t much better. Most of these you see here are off the Red Dragon—she only lost three men and two women during the entire voyage. Arrived this morning, she did.”

  “And the other ships in the fleet?”

  Irwin shrugged. “I don’t know, except that they haven’t arrived yet. You’ll have to talk to Lord Helidon about that.”

  Kane was looking forward to that like a mule kick to the head, and now he was even wondering where the Archbishop might stand in relation to the continuance of the venture. His Eminence had been more understanding and tolerant than Helidon, but even he had limits. “Where is he exactly?”

  “The lord and his captains went directly to the lodge,” Irwin said, nodding toward the large stone and timber structure that stood on the wooded ridge-top above the keep.

  “Yes, and I see Mr. Pelton is here, also.”

  “Arrived half an hour ago, and in quite a hurry he was, too.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “Also, you should know that his Eminence wishes to speak with you before you go to the lodge.”

  “Where?”

  “The dinner hall, yonder, sir.”

  Kane looked where Irwin pointed and spotted the tall frame of the Archbishop standing on the veranda across the compound, his personal black robed guards around him. “Very well. Just make sure you keep any slaves who might show signs of the fever sequestered well away from the healthy ones.” Kane brought his horse around and glanced at Orson. “I expect you to ensure that the merchandise is not bruised unnecessarily. Any man who is overzealous with the whip or takes liberties with the women is to feel the whip himself. Am I clear?”

  Orson nodded. “Quite.”

  Kane glanced back at the girl, who was still glaring daggers at him. “Oh, and since I imagine most of
these lovely nymphs are going to end up in the beds of the nobility, don’t brand them on the breasts.”

  “Where, then?” Irwin asked sounding a little disappointed.

  “On the back of the left shoulder. And when they’re cleaned up, make sure they’re well fed. It’s important that this consignment look as good as possible.”

  At that, he turned his mount and rode away to face the music, as uninviting as that prospect was.

  ***

  “Afternoon to you, young sir,” the Archbishop said as Kane dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting groom. As usual the man’s face was unreadable.

  “Indeed.” Kane pulled off his gloves as he climbed the stairs to the porch.

  The Archbishop gestured toward the activity on the mustering ground with his glass of wine. “Not exactly the best of news, is it?”

  “Almost two-thirds lost,” Kane replied bitterly. He had decided that the direct approach was best and glanced sideways at his colleague. “Should I be worried about the church’s investment in this venture?”

  The Archbishop smiled knowingly, as if he had been expecting this. Though his attention remained fixed on the marshalling yard where Captain Irwin was now shouting orders from the saddle. Mercenaries were rousing the slaves to their feet and forcing them into queues in front of the tables. Translators began to ask questions about lineage while a scribe took the information down. Waiting for an answer he dreaded, Kane watched as the first of the slaves were dragged forward from the benches and forced to the ground. The closest was a young woman, and as three mercenaries cut and ripped away her dirty skin garb, a fourth came forward with a glowing red iron in his hand. The woman screamed and writhed wildly as the iron was pressed to her shoulder. A healing ointment was applied, and then she was pulled to her feet again and herded toward the stream to wash as another was brought forward to take her place.