Stormlord rising s-2

by Glenda Larke

  "You've been to the Gibber?"

  "Oh, yes," he said grimly.

  Watergiver help me, she thought, he was one of the Reduner raiders. Probably been at it since he was old enough to own a pede. One of the marauders who pillaged and razed Gibber villages and stole their youngsters for slaves and warriors. No wonder he spoke the language of the Scarpen so well.

  "If this burnt man is a mere lowlife as you say, why do your men treat him as if he is somehow special? As though they are half-afraid of him? Why is he not chained like the others?"

  "None of your withering business," he growled. "And let me make one thing clear, woman. You have certain privileges 'cause you're my chosen bed mate. Abuse the freedom you got, then you'll be roped like the rest of the men till we get t'Dune Watergatherer. Understand?"

  So much for the goodness of slavery. "What did I do wrong?"

  His grip tightened on her arm. "If men see you wander off like that, they'll think you want t'escape and they'll bring you back for punishment, and I'll have t'order your lashing. Or they'll think you're off t'meet a lover. And I'll have t'order your death. Understand?" He stopped dead, his grip swinging her into his chest. "I would have t'do it, or lose the respect of my men. I can't have you mock me."

  She could feel the heat coming from him as clearly as she felt his need to hurt her. He was angry and he knew no other way to handle his ire. And side by side with the anger was a hot-blooded desire he found difficult to control. He lusted after her. He was so weeping young.

  She nodded, placating, then wasn't sure he would see the movement in the dark, so she raised her hand and pressed her fingers gently to his mouth, as if she could keep his rage within. "I understand. I won't do it again. But remember this: to be a leader of men, you must first learn to lead your own passions, not to be led by them," she said.

  "Gods, woman, you're lucky I don't break your bleeding neck!"

  "I meant to advise-"

  "You are a slave! Slaves obey, nothing else. I am no child t'be advised by a woman."

  "And I am no slave. You can put me in chains, but you can't make me a slave."

  "I could break you into a hundred pieces and make you come groveling t'my feet!"

  "Perhaps, if you want the wreckage of a woman in your bed. But even so, my mind will always be free. You can never rope my thoughts, Kher Ravard. Or my spirit."

  For a moment he stayed still and silent. Then, sounding more exasperated than furious, he asked, "You sun-fried female, have you no fear?"

  "You gave your word. You said you would protect the child I carry. You may be young, but you are a man of your word." She had no idea if that was true, but something told her he was fond of the idea of honor.

  He kissed her then, grabbing her and pressing her to him, his mouth roughly plundering, his hands roving over her back and buttocks. Her response was muted, poised somewhere between acquiescence and passivity.

  Stung, he flung her from him. "Go get your meal," he snarled and strode off to join the other Reduners at the fires.

  She sighed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and went to join the other slave women.

  The following day they rode on toward Qanatend-what was left of it. The small free-standing hill, separated from the last of the northern slopes of the Warthago Range by a mile or two of grassy plains, was covered by buildings. Qanatend: a city that tumbled down the slopes to the encircling bastion walls and its external ring of bab groves, liveries and iron works. Connecting Qanatend to its mother cistern in the Warthago, the water tunnel left its spoor of brick towers, one at each inspection shaft. The caravan trail ran parallel to the tunnel. Both plunged in straight lines into the bab groves.

  Once inside the groves, the Scarpen slaves stared in horror at the sight of trees wantonly hacked to death. The ancient irrigation system was in ruins, deliberately destroyed. Patches of heaped bab charcoal scattered throughout the groves marked the remains of funeral pyres and when Ryka obtained a better look at one, it was to see charred remains of bones protruding from the ashes.

  She thought of Iani, with his limp and his sagging mouth and crippled hand; of his wife Moiqa, Highlord of Qanatend, mother of the kidnapped Lyneth. She remembered other rainlords she had known who had served the city, and who had probably perished when it had fallen.

  These are their bones, she thought, her stomach roiling. And they died knowing they were defeated and we Breccians had failed them. How Kaneth had hated that! He'd longed to ride to help the rainlords of Qanatend, and only direct orders from the Cloudmaster had stopped him.

  "The bastards. The bastards. The sunblighted bastards," Junial muttered from behind her. "Watergiver save us, did they leave anyone alive?" Junial, the middle-aged woman chosen for her baking skills, was the plump widow of a baker from Level Fifteen of Breccia City.

  As they rode through the gates they saw much of the city had been fired. House gates hung on broken hinges, shutters and doors were burned, roofs had collapsed, mud-brick walls were blackened where flames had licked upward. Occasionally they glimpsed city dwellers going about their business: a fish-farmer selling his wares; a blacksmith sharpening Reduner scimitars; street whores with haunted eyes flaunting grubby bodies; an old woman spinning bab fibre on her spindle, her gnarled fingers sliding up and down the thread in unceasing labor.

  "They all look hungry," Junial muttered. "The bastards, those bleeding red bastards."

  Ryka turned to whisper a warning. "Hush. The pede driver may understand you. Some speak the Quartern tongue, especially the ones who were trade caravanners before."

  "Don't care if he does, the spitless wretch," the woman said, but she had lowered her voice.

  Sandblast it, I too am so sick of being careful, Ryka thought as they entered the city and began to climb the steep streets.

  When she looked upward, she could see that the windmills drawing the water up to the highest levels were still operating, but if she glanced back at the roof gardens of the levels they had passed, she saw most of the potted trees and plants were dying. No one had enough water, then. Small wonder, with the whole system disintegrating, no storms being sent to the gullies around their mother wells, and the Reduners carting as much water to the dunes as they could load on their packpedes.

  A diseased city, she thought. Damn these Reduners to a waterless death!

  Ravard led them to the Level Three Sun Temple and the slaves were herded into what had once been the forecourt for public religious services. There was not much room, and the women and men were bunched together, the men still roped. Most of the guards retreated to the curved viewing balcony overlooking the court, with the exception of the two men doling out water to the slaves. Ravard disappeared altogether.

  Ryka looked around for Kaneth. With a soft smile and gentle words, he was bandaging the arm of a man who had suffered a wound earlier. She let him be and sought out Elmar Waggoner. He was at the end of his row of roped captives and had managed to ease out a bit of slack to sit back comfortably, his back to the outer wall. She came and sat as close to him as she dared, but didn't look his way. When she spoke she turned her face away and barely moved her lips.

  "Is he any better, do you think?" she asked.

  "A little. At least he speaks more. And he has started helping, instead of being off in a fog of his own all the time."

  "Sometimes-sometimes I can't believe it's him. He has no passion anymore. Sandblast it, Elmar, where is Kaneth Carnelian?"

  He shot an anxious look sideways to make sure no one had heard. "Listen, Garnet, his passivity is what keeps him alive. Look on it as a blessing. The real him would be dead several times over by now, and he'd have taken half the bloody Reduner bastards with him onto the pyre."

  One of the guards up on the balcony had spotted her and was staring her way. She rested her head back against the wall as if tired and half-closed her eyes. Stealing a few drops of water from the water jar the guards were using, she brought them over to where they sat, and wrote what she wa
nted to say by using her power to form wet letters on the stone paving. She placed them in between their bodies, where no one but themselves would see. The air was still and dry and hot, the stones warm, so the letters vanished almost as soon as each word was written.

  Who they think he is? she wrote. Why respect?

  Elmar leaned forward over his bent knees to disguise the movement of his lips. "I don't really understand it. They call him lord, and they use another name when they speak of him. Uthardim. At least I think that's what it is. But I don't understand much of their cursed tongue. They do seem to mention their dune god a lot when he is around."

  Ryka stilled, shocked. Uthardim? She knew the name from her studies. He was mentioned in the old myths and legends of the dune dwellers. Uthardim, one of their ancient heroes. She remembered a description of him: blue-eyed, with flowing locks of red-gold, he smote those who came upon him, his thews and sinews as strong as the trees of the rock plains… Uthar. It meant iron in the language of the dunes. And "dim" was a common suffix, meaning son of the sand or sands. Uthardim: Iron Son of the Sands. She thought, but did not write the words, Oh, Kaneth. What is it they would make of you?

  She cracked open her eyes to make sure no one was taking an undue interest in her or in Elmar, before continuing to write. Why Uthardim? she asked.

  "It started right after he was pulled off the pyre. There was a couple of Reduner guards there, and one of them kept saying 'Uthardim, Uthardim,' and a whole lot of other stuff I couldn't understand. And then one of the head drovers pushed his way through with his underlings to take a look. The Warrior Son, I think. 'Uthardim!' one of the guards told him, and pointed.

  "And right then, the pyre went out. One moment it had been blazing away, and then-whoosh-it was gone. And at exactly that same moment Ka-he sat up, sudden like, his face all red and peeling, and said, 'Uthardim.' Startled me, I can tell you, but what it did to those Reduners was just plain freakish. The drover leader went as white as a 'Baster. Couple of the guards fell to their knees like they was praying or something.

  "Me-well, I reckon he was out of his head right then. He couldn't have found the sky if you'd told him which way was up. He was just repeating a word everyone was saying, probably wanting in his befuddlement to ask what it meant. And as for the fire, well, those Breccians had been throwing buckets of water around, and I reckon they'd wet the wood. When the dry stuff burned out, the fire went out. But that's not the way they saw it."

  Then?

  "The Warrior Son gave orders for him to be put on a pede and brought up to Breccia Hall, for the sandmaster to take a look at. He was in a sorry state, though, so I volunteered to look after him. Didn't let on I knew him, of course. Not long after we'd been settled into the stable, Kher Ravard shows up, to see what all the fuss was about. The Warrior Son and the Master Son, the bastards. What I wouldn't have done to have had my sword right then! They had a long conversation. I stood there, as confused as a spindevil, and he was drifting in and out of dreamland, moaning. As far as I could make out, Kher Ravard didn't like what he was told one little bit, but the Warrior Son stood his ground and kept referring to Ka-him as 'Uthardim.' Ravard questioned me, too, but I said I'd never seen this Uthardim fellow before in my life and no one knew who he was. In the end, they left.

  "Ravard came again when our friend there was awake, and spoke to him at length. The Kher did most of the talking, and our friend answered, smiling politely, mostly just 'I don't know' or 'I don't remember.' He was so blasted guileless, there wasn't much Ravard could do. Then on the day before we left Breccia, Davim asked to speak to him on the steps in front of the main door of the hall. I don't know what they said, but Ravard wasn't happy with it.

  "After that, though, 'Uthardim' got better treatment. They even gave me a sort of lotion every night to wash his burn and his wound with. Dunno what's in it, but I reckon it works. He's healing real nice now."

  Elmar stirred restlessly, and Ryka risked a glance in his direction.

  He looked around to make sure no one was taking an interest in them. "Does this name Uthardim mean anything to you?" he asked.

  Mythical red hero. Old story. She stopped writing, aware someone was pushing their way through the crowd of slaves. She evaporated the last of the water and raised her head to watch the guard coming toward her.

  "Kher Ravard," the man said, jerking his head in a gesture that was clear enough: Ravard wanted her.

  Without looking at Elmar, she stood and followed the guard. They were halfway across the courtyard when a commotion along the side wall brought the guard to a halt. Another guard had one of the female slaves pinned up against the wall, her skirts rucked high. When she screamed and struggled, he hit her with his fist in the center of her face. Blood spurted and the woman's head lolled. Half-senseless, she sagged, all the fight drained out of her.

  And then, suddenly, Kaneth was there. He wrenched the guard away and held him by the neck, feet off the ground, like a sandgrouse about to be plucked. The woman crumpled to the ground, unheeded.

  Ryka tensed, every muscle in her body screaming at her to go to Kaneth's aid even as her mind cautioned her against moving. She squinted around the courtyard, relying on her knowledge of water as much as on her eyesight: four Reduner warriors, including the guard who had come to fetch her. And above, on the viewing balcony, five or six others, several now grabbing up their lances. She touched her power, ready to kill the first who looked like trying to spear Kaneth.

  He dropped the Reduner, who-half-choked-fell in a heap at his feet. He looked down at the man and spoke to him. In the now hushed silence of the courtyard, his voice carried to everyone. His words contained no anger, but they were implacable. "A man does not take from a woman what is not his to plunder. He shares. And gives. And asks. A man who does otherwise is no man."

  A ripple of open horror crossed the faces of the slaves. They expected Kaneth to die then. So did Ryka. Yet none of the Reduners moved. They stayed poised, as if awaiting orders, but no one gave them.

  I wonder if they understood? Ryka asked herself.

  And then Kaneth did something she had not known was within his capability. He repeated the words in Reduner. His grammar was poor, his accent atrocious, but the meaning was clear enough.

  Oh blast, she thought. Damn it all, Kaneth, you picked a wonderful time to remember what you know of the Reduner tongue.

  And yet still nothing drastic happened and it was Kaneth who broke the tension. He held out a hand to the Reduner at his feet. The man, fear flaring in his eyes, refused it and scrambled up unaided. Ryka's guard stirred then and went to him. He murmured something to the man, who turned and left the courtyard without saying a word.

  "What the shit's going on?" one of the chained slave lads asked Ryka, as if she could supply an answer. "They seem frightened of this Uthardim."

  "I don't know," she replied. "But they are not exactly frightened, they are more… respectful."

  The lad gave a half-laugh of released tension. "So am I, lady, so am I."

  The older man roped next to him scowled. "We should all have his guts! Watergiver be my witness, if I get me a knife, I'll kill one of them bastards, prefer'bly that spitless bastard Ravard."

  "Keep your tongue behind your teeth, Whetstone!" the lad told him in alarm. He looked up at Ryka, anguished. "He's mad. Wants to attack everyone!"

  The guard came back and gestured her to follow. As she left the courtyard, she glanced back over her shoulder at Kaneth. He smiled.

  There was so much fear in her chest, it hurt. Ravard had found a decent room in one of the Level Three houses next to the Temple. The bed was made up with clean linen and the bath water was warm in the adjoining water-room. A hot meal was set upon the table, a bottle of bab amber open on the table next to two glasses.

  "I thought you'd like a bath after the traveling," Ravard said, having dismissed the servers, all Scarpen women. "And a little luxury. Which would you like first-t'eat or bathe?"

  "Bathe, plea
se."

  He grinned at her, that flashing white smile of his turning him from a warrior to a young man of boyish charm.

  I wish he wouldn't do that, she thought sourly. It makes me forget to fear him. She couldn't afford to do that. She'd end up dead.

  "Shall I scrub your back?"

  Under her breastbone the baby stirred, his little foot-or was it his head?-pushing up into a noticeable bump. She had been about to snap at Ravard, to refuse any concession, to continue her policy of cold disdain. To let him know that every time he would have to take, for she would never, ever, give. But the safety of her son? She placed a hand on her abdomen to feel him move beneath her palm.

  He's all that matters. Not my pride. Not Kaneth's, either. And certainly not Ravard's stolen pleasures. Remember, Ryka, since the beginning of time, women have done for their children what you are about to do for yours.

  "No," she said with a soft smile, and stifled the sigh rising within, in spite of her resolution. "No, thank you, I prefer to bathe alone, but I will scrub your back if you wish."

  His face lit up.

  Oh, blighted eyes, she thought. He's such a child!

  And yet she wondered, for when she washed his back she saw what she had felt but not seen in the dark of the tent on the previous nights: the crisscrossing of the long scars of whippings too numerous to count. There was not one piece of skin free of scars or puckers. She stared in horror, unable to consider how much pain he must have endured.

  A child? No one who had ever endured such pain could ever be anything but a man.

  He pulled her into the bath to kiss her, swamping water everywhere, and laughed when she squealed in shock. And then, just before he covered her lips with his own, he whispered, "Love me, Garnet. Even if you do it just for your child, just this once, love me."