The Silent Tempest (Book 2)

by Michael G. Manning

  “Put them in the wagon,” Tyrion ordered, directing his words to the other teens who huddled beside and under the sides of the heavy cart.

  Two of the boys, Jack and David, lifted Gabriel and carried him. Brigid didn’t need to be carried, but Emma Philips helped her find her way since she still seemed dazed.

  Through all of this, Kate watched Tyrion. What happened to his injuries?

  ***

  Gwaeri led the young girl back toward the wooden cell that housed her. He was in a quandary. He had been ordered to whip her. Ordinarily that would have been a pleasant task, but his neck still burned in the place where Tyrion had placed his tattoo.

  Will a simple whipping trigger it? he wondered.

  He had never felt so impotent as he did then. Tyrion’s abuse, and the mark he had left on Gwaeri, had wounded his pride, and pride was one of the few things the old warden prized. He had fought, brawled, and beaten his way to the top of Sabortrea’s slave hierarchy over a period of decades. Now he was supposed to bow to the whims of one tender girl?

  He stopped, motioning her to walk ahead of him, so that he could study her with his eyes as well as his magesight. The first thing that stood out was her skin, smooth and unbroken. She looked as though she had never been in a fight. A few freckles, a tiny scar or two, but nothing else.

  Her hips were round too, swelling with the promise of her youth. Gwaeri’s heart sped up a bit as he watched her walk, a reaction that surprised him. He was no celibate, but at his age he was not as commonly bothered by such urges as he had once been. The collar at his throat prevented him from engaging in any action that might lead to pregnancy, but there were many other ways to find pleasure.

  He refocused his thoughts, pulling them back from that path. He was very sure that Tyrion’s warning would include sexual coercion as well as physical abuse. That thought made him even angrier.

  They stopped when they reached her hut, and Haley looked up at him, fear in her eyes. She had already been whipped a few times, but only briefly. She wasn’t sure what the old warden would do now.

  Gwaeri frowned and then made his choice. He would rather die than live like one of the nameless. His thoughts moved, and a glowing red whip appeared, stretching like a living thing between his hands.

  “Remember what my father told you!” said Haley in a voice that was even higher pitched than normal. Her heart was leaping, causing her nerves to vibrate with its staccato beat.

  “Fuck him,” swore the warden. “I’d rather die. We’ll see how far I can go before his damned mark kills me.”

  Panic drove Haley to flight, but before she had gone two paces the red whip swept out, coiling around her left leg and sending a sensation like fire racing along her nerves, from her thigh to her spine. She collapsed with a shriek that ended in a croak as the ground knocked the wind from her lungs.

  The pain vanished, and her vision cleared. Gwaeri stood above her now, looking down thoughtfully. “Looks like one stroke isn’t enough to trigger this thing,” he said, fingering the sore place at his throat before smiling. “Let’s try again.” The red whip leapt out, curling around her throat and trailing down her spine.

  Haley knew she was screaming, but the agony was so great she couldn’t hear herself. She writhed for what seemed an eternity, until at last the whip withdrew again, leaving her shaking on the hard packed earth. Gwaeri was licking his lips now, one hand on his groin, massaging himself through his trousers.

  Not again, thought Haley, remembering what had happened before Tyrion had arrived. She felt sick thinking about it, and then relieved when she thought of the whip. That chain of thoughts led to an even greater sense of disgust and self-loathing.

  The warden opened the door to her wooden prison. “You’re learning,” he said, reading the expressions that were passing across her face. “There’s nothing as bad as the pain.” The whip undulated in his hands, moving like a snake. “You should be grateful I’m offering you a lesser punishment. It’s not something I do much these days.”

  She darted inside, hating herself for giving in to her fear so quickly, but the sight of the whip robbed her of all reason or thought of resistance. Gwaeri followed her in, closing the door behind himself before opening the front of his trousers. “Get on your knees, girl.”

  She knelt as he drew closer, displaying himself proudly. The dark musky smell made her want to gag before he had even touched her. For a second she forgot the whip, and anger took the place of her fear. She had teeth, and she would make him pay—in blood.

  Gwaeri saw the defiance in her eyes even as she opened her mouth, and he responded to her pretense at submission with a heavy fist.

  Haley found herself on the floor, blinking away tears and unable to feel her cheek. There was pain, but the blow had left her stunned. Before she could recover her wits, he had her by the arm, dragging her up and twisting it behind her painfully before shoving her face down toward the raised pallet that served as her sleeping place.

  “Obviously you need to be broken before you can be properly trained, girl,” said the old man gleefully. “Now, straighten your legs and hold still, or I’ll break this arm.”

  She did as she was told, closing her eyes as she felt his hands groping at her. Focusing on her magesight, she considered raising a shield. He hadn’t used the whip and her mental balance was returning. She searched along his neck, trying to resolve the symbols beneath his collar, the strange pattern that Tyrion had tattooed onto the vile old man’s skin.

  In her mind she remembered the strange symbol that Tyrion had scratched into the dirt floor, a triangle enclosing an odd wavy line. “This is the final line of the enchantment I put on him. The tattoo is designed to be activated only when complete. You have to visualize this symbol before pushing a small part of your energy into the tattoo itself. The enchantment will take care of the rest after that.” He had drawn the rest of it out then, showing her where the imagined symbol should connect to the ones he had inked on Gwaeri.

  He was pressing against her now, pushing.

  No! Haley’s mind latched onto the tattoo, and in a moment of vivid clarity she completed the pattern, firing it with her aythar. A tiny blade of force surged outward from it, severing the collar around her tormentor’s neck.

  Gwaeri stepped back, his eyes bulging, and then quickly folded into himself. He twitched on the ground as the blood within his body bubbled and boiled. He lost consciousness almost instantly, and death followed after no more than a minute.

  Two men dead in the space of a few hours, she thought. And I don’t feel sorry for either one.

  That wasn’t entirely true. Killing the one in the arena had been awful, although she knew he was merely a younger, cruder version of the old man who lay at her feet now. She hadn’t wanted to kill him, but now she thought perhaps she had done him a favor.

  “If this is the sort of man you would have become, you’re better off dead,” she told herself, completing the thought.

  The pain, terror, and adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a coldness, an empty relief. She was alive. In spite of her resolve to die rather than kill, she couldn’t bring herself to regret what she had done. She had failed, but she was certain that when Dalleth discovered her murder, he would give her the death she wanted.

  “I will not live like this,” she said to the empty room, “but neither will I let them abuse me.”

  Chapter 15

  The forest that had been around them was gone. Some of it remained, of course, broken and toppled trunks along with scattered limbs and heavy roots. All of it was horizontal, though, and much of it looked to be missing completely, carried away by the monstrous winds.

  Everything had been flattened for nearly a mile in every direction. The gigantic god trees still stood in the distance, but a few of those at the edge were tilted at odd angles. Kate and the others stared out in awe at the destruction. One of the boys, David Brown, looked back at Tyrion, “How?”

  “It was a freak storm,” said T
yrion. “We got lucky.”

  The sky was clear, and sunshine beat down on them now that there was no tree cover, making them warm despite the chill winter breeze. Kate said nothing, although she knew very well that Tyrion was lying.

  Ashley Morris spoke then, “Weren’t you injured?”

  “It was worse than it looked,” responded Tyrion. “It was mostly fatigue. The nap has me feeling like a new man.”

  “But there was blood and…” she began.

  He gave her a menacing look, “I was tired. Remember that when they question you.”

  Tyrion used his magic to clear the ground ahead of the wagon, moving tree trunks and other heavy debris so the horses could pick their way through. Another hour and they had reached the edge of the god-trees, the border of the Illeniel Grove. A large party waited to greet them there.

  Party might have been a poor description, however, several hundred of the strangest looking She’Har that Tyrion had ever seen were standing, crawling, and climbing just within the edge of the tree line. Krytek, he noted.

  The krytek were the warriors of the She’Har, soldiers produced by the father-trees. They were born with all the knowledge the She’Har possessed about fighting, giving them battle-wisdom far beyond their short lives. The krytek were sterile, unable to grow into trees, and they lived only a few months. In his fifteen years among the She’Har, Tyrion had seen them only rarely, most notably when he had been forced to fight one in the arena.

  Someone’s worried.

  “Halt,” said one of them, riding out to meet the small group of humans before they had approached within fifty yards of the trees. On closer inspection he saw that it wasn’t riding, this krytek had a quadrupedal body connected to a humanoid torso and arms above it. It spoke in Erollith, the language of the She’Har. “You will come no closer until the baratti have been secured.”

  “Where is Lyralliantha?” asked Tyrion.

  “Listrius is in command here,” said the krytek. “He will collar them.”

  “Lyralliantha is my owner,” stated Tyrion. “No one will approach us until I have spoken with her.” He didn’t bother with threats, regular She’Har were largely unemotional, but the krytek took that trait to an entirely new level. Most of them were inhuman in their ‘design’, and their short lifespans insured they had little fear of dying.

  “My orders are to keep the grove safe and to secure the baratti whom you have with you. Listrius approaches now to collar them,” said the krytek.

  Tyrion could see a silver haired man approaching and recognized Listrius, one of the She’Har lore-wardens. The Illeniel She’Har was still thirty yards distant, so Tyrion raised his voice to make certain both he and the krytek could hear his answer, “The baratti I have brought with me are valuable. Any one of the five groves would be pleased to have them, and I will gladly surrender them to you, but not until I have spoken with Lyralliantha.”

  “You will submit to my authority,” insisted the soldier.

  Tyrion sighed, one misstep and everything would be over, but he refused to give up. If a conflict started now, he and his children would wind up dead—or worse, but he would take that possibility over the alternative. “I will gladly submit, once Lyralliantha is here. You will endanger the well-being of the grove if you are impatient.”

  He hoped that couching the refusal in neutral language while calling upon the soldier’s greater duty would accomplish what an outright threat could not.

  The soldier looked back, and Listrius nodded at him.

  “Very well, your mistress will be brought here. Until she arrives you are to remain still,” ordered the She’Har warrior.

  Tyrion bowed his head in acquiescence, but otherwise remained motionless. “As you command.”

  Lyralliantha appeared in somewhat less than half an hour, walking across the ripped and torn ground with grace and serenity. The long dress she wore hid her legs, but it never seemed to snag on the many limbs and roots that stood up from the ground. It made her movement look as though she were gliding, weightless, across the damaged earth.

  That was quick, thought Tyrion.

  The silver haired woman looked at him with a placid face that might have been cut from stone. Her gaze drifted across the children in and around the wagon, pausing only a moment longer when it reached Catherine Tolburn. She had seen that face often enough, in the visions that Tyrion had shared with her.

  “You have been busy, my pet,” she said quietly. “It was unwise of you to resist the authority of Listrius, however.”

  “I apologize mistress,” responded Tyrion, filling his voice with the closest approximation of honest contrition that he could manage. “I only sought to please you.”

  “The krytek were called to defend the Grove,” she added. “It seemed that we were under attack.” Her eyes held a silent warning.

  “A freak storm, mistress,” lied Tyrion. “I had nothing to do with it, although the timing was fortunate. The Centyr were waiting at the border to claim your prizes.”

  “I am glad you and your offspring weren’t damaged,” responded Lyralliantha. “Now you must submit and allow them to be collared, or your efforts will have been for naught.”

  Tyrion leaned closer, pitching his voice so low it was almost inaudible, “Only you may collar them.”

  She gave him a startled glance, but the look in his eyes warned her. Reacting with her usual mental agility, she responded without hesitation, “Stand aside that I may inspect what you have brought me.” She moved to examine the first of his children, and without waiting immediately began the spellweave that would produce a collar.

  Without looking back he raised his voice, speaking now in Barion, the human tongue, “When she comes to you, accept the necklace that she offers you. Keep your thoughts submissive, and if you can feel the magic, do not resist it.”

  The spellweaving that produced a slave collar was peculiar in that it required the initial acceptance of whomever it was placed upon. In individual cases if the human tried to resist, it was futile, the red whips would rapidly assure submission, but today, with a small army staring at them, any defiance could result in a disaster.

  Listrius called out from where he stood, some thirty yards distant, “Lyralliantha, what are you doing?”

  “Claiming what is mine,” she replied without stopping. She had completed three collars already and was now moving to place a fourth around Abigail Moore’s neck.

  “The elders ordered me to secure them,” insisted the lore-warden.

  Lyralliantha ignored his protest, moving to collar Brigid next. When that was done she replied, “We are both children of the same grove, Listrius, the end result is the same, but it was my servant who brought us this prize, and I will be the one to claim it.” Then she whispered in Brigid’s ear before moving to the next of the teens from Colne, “Wake the boy, I cannot put the collar on him unless he is conscious.”

  Brigid was still unsteady from her recent ordeal, but she knew that shouting or shaking wouldn’t be sufficient to rouse Gabriel. She went to the water barrel at the front of the wagon and drew a ladle full of the icy liquid. The shock of the cold water on his face brought Gabriel to a semblance of being awake. His eyes rolled in his head while his eyelids fluttered.

  Lyralliantha finished the collar for Ryan Carter and then went to Gabriel. Working quickly she produced another spellweave, but the semi-conscious boy resisted when she tried to join the ends. She sighed in frustration.

  Gabriel was groaning, his eyes not quite able to focus. Brigid spoke directly into his ear, “Say ‘yes’. When you feel it again, just say yes, with your mind. Please, Gabriel… there’s no time.”

  Lyralliantha tried again, and this time the spellweave fused properly. Gabriel’s eyes closed almost immediately as his awareness faded. Brigid lowered his head to the wagon bed, then sat down. She was finding it hard to remain awake too. Nausea threatened to overwhelm her, and the world was pulsing with new energies and new visions. She could barely und
erstand what her mind was sensing now.

  Kate looked down on her half-sister, “Just relax, Brigid. He said it was normal to feel sick after your power comes. You’ve done enough.”

  Tyrion kept his attention firmly on the krytek and the She’Har lore-warden standing yards behind him. Listrius was positively anxious, pacing back and forth as Lyralliantha worked to collar the human children. The She’Har knew he had been outmaneuvered, but he couldn’t see a better option.

  The last to accept the collar was Kate. The alien seeming silver-haired woman who approached her was a stranger, but she knew, with the deeper intuition that women often have, that this was the woman. The one who had stolen her Daniel away. The one who had chained him, the one who loved him in some bizarre fashion. She was her enemy and her ally, the woman who had taken him and yet who had also kept him alive.

  Kate’s blazing green eyes met Lyralliantha’s icy blue, and the two stared at one another, communicating on some level that lay beneath consciousness, or even magic. Neither blinked for a moment, and then without warning the She’Har woman leaned forward and softly brushed her lips across Kate’s cheek.

  Straightening Lyralliantha began to produce the spellweave that would create a new slave collar.

  “What was that for?” asked Kate.

  “I am not sure,” responded the Illeniel She’Har. “I think it is because you are a part of him.”

  “Ordinarily that creates a different feeling between women,” said Kate.

  Lyralliantha spread her hands apart and stretched the necklace’s ends wide while Kate ducked her head forward. She said a few words in Erollith, and Kate felt a straining within herself, a tension. Yes, she told herself mentally, and the strain eased. The two ends of the collar clicked into place, and it was done.