by C. K. Brooke
Eventually, he became desensitized to even the most unsavory tasks, and slowly regained his appetite. And did it ever return with a vengeance. His stomach moaned and curdled plaintively for the duration of each day until, by the evenings, he devoured every morsel and shred of gristle left over by the tribe after they ate. If the royal family could see him now, licking clean the used bowls of barbarians….
He could only wonder how the others were faring. Did they stay close, or continue their exploration? Ludwig had promised they would free him of his sentence, but Drew didn’t see how they could without starting a battle.
On his countless trips to the forest lake to collect water, he had contemplated escaping. But the Køvi were always watching, and their nets and animal traps were scattered, camouflaged throughout the woods. Even if he did manage to evade every last one, Drew had nothing on his person—no compass, no drinking skins, not a bite of food. All he had, hidden in his jerkin, was the parchment with the maps he’d drawn, but they were fairly incomplete, full of mining ideas rather than actual logistics. It would lead him nowhere.
He felt a dull sense of shock to notice the moon waning. Had a fortnight passed? He lowered the blunt club from the rug he was supposed to be beating and squinted up to gauge the moon phase. It was certainly thinner, on its way to becoming new.
A searing pain lashed his right side, over his ribcage. The club fell to the ground as he keeled over, clutching his raw skin. The brute who’d whipped him stood over him, his gaze unforgiving. He pointed to the rug with a long finger. Drew didn’t need words of any tongue to hear his unspoken command: Back to work.
The Køvi slaver turned, his waist-length hair swaying as he stalked away, leaving Drew bleeding. He gasped as he tried to stand again, but the pain was too sharp. He had to resume though, or else he was sure to meet more lashes. He took hold of the club and forced himself upright, wincing.
Pound. His wound smarted. Pound. A knife may well have been twisting into his flesh. Pound. Blood was slowly seeping through his shirt. Pound. Something was going to tear if he didn’t stop.
His club met the rug again, and dust billowed from it. He moaned in agony, wiping a profuse layer of perspiration from his brow and swatting little flies from his face. “Oh, God,” he breathed, for a moment forgetting the rule of cosh. But he was quite sure that no Køvi—or god—could hear him.
His stomach growled like a tiger, and he could feel his muscles growing weak from perpetual hunger. Even so, he had no regrets. If he had to spend five years like this, so be it.
At least Catja would be safe, and free.
For days, they waited among the Bonghee. To their hosts’ credit, it seemed the tribe found something to celebrate every night, easing the Jordinians’ worries. Whether it was a feast, music, or stories by the fire, they worked to keep their guests’ spirits high. Or maybe that was how they always were. In any case, Ludwig still fretted inside, but it had become more controlled. The Oca are coming, he tried to reassure himself. And the Bonghee will help us.
Another matter was his sister. He’d taken to watching Johanna more closely, and indeed, Kya was right. From the proper angles, her stomach did bulge, and she wore an expression of discomfort when walking. Ludwig also noticed she was stationary much of the time, no longer the same active young woman who loved to dance and socialize. Confounded, he wished to confront her, but Kya forbade him. “It’s her business,” his wife had insisted. “She’ll tell you when she wants to.”
The morning was bright on the mountain’s plateau as he ran the bow over his violin strings, trying to capture his fears and sorrows, along with the mountain’s majesty, into the music. The natives’ songs were a challenge to replicate with an instrument like his. But he was forming a new style, borrowing elements of their rhythms and repetitiveness, and blending them into something uniquely his. He closed his eyes, feeling the sun on his face. Play the warmth on your skin, he told himself. Play the slopes, the valleys beneath you.
Commotion erupted in the village behind him, and while he was capable of ignoring it, Ludwig set the instrument down. He heard horses snorting, their hooves over rock. He leapt up and hurried to the others, his forced calm instantly gone.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Catja exclaimed. The woman darted past him, and Ludwig followed her to see what looked like a small army ascending the path. In grateful disbelief, he laughed. What had to be every man from the Oca tribe, and even a few women, rode powerful stallions up the mountain range. He recognized every face.
Kya whooped and twirled at his side. She called down to them, speaking so rapidly Ludwig couldn’t keep up with her words. The women called back to her, and she laughed again.
The Bonghee gathered to receive them. Even Johanna approached, looking overwhelmed at the sight of so many warriors ready for battle. Watching them climb, Ludwig could see that their faces were painted with clay. They wore tough-looking buckskins and carried spears, bows, and loaded quivers.
The chief rode in the middle; Ludwig had spotted the feathered headdress before anything else. Zuri rode in his wake, wearing a determined scowl, followed by Junha. Dag greeted them from the plateau amid the Bonghee, beaming.
Drums sounded by the fire. Kya joined the Bonghee maidens in a welcoming dance while the elder women prepared food and jewelry for their guests. When at last, the horses reached the plateau, cheering broke out and voices babbled as the Oca dismounted.
Their reception was blur of exchanged tokens, face-and hand-painting, feasting and embracing. The jovial Bonghee chief removed the largest and most colorful of the necklaces he wore, and offered it to the Oca chief. The old man accepted it, smiling more than usual beneath his war paint.
Johanna stood beside Ludwig. “All of this,” she whispered, “for our idiot brother?”
“They would do the same for you,” Ludwig replied. He indicated the guards. “For any of us.”
The men of both tribes spent the day in strategy and discussion while the women waited on them, serving the Bonghee’s favored green beverage. Ludwig accepted a cup politely, but wouldn’t drink; the stuff made him too jittery. Without Kya or Catja to translate, much of the conversation was lost upon him. He caught some of the Oca’s words, but otherwise, they spoke too quickly, not slowly like Kya did for his benefit. Not to mention, the Bonghee’s dialect differed slightly from Ocanese.
He was relieved when Catja came to sit beside him, through with her chores. “Do you know what they’re saying?” he murmured.
She nodded, not wanting to miss what the chiefs were saying to one another. When they paused to drink, she leaned in. “Tonight, they rest from their travels. They’ll all descend tomorrow, with plans to invade the Køvi camp after sundown.”
“You called it a camp,” Ludwig pointed out. “Is it not their permanent home?”
“It’s believed the Køvi were displaced from their city generations ago. They’ve been nomads since.”
“Nomads?” He gripped her sleeve. “What if they aren’t where we left them? How will we find—?”
“It’s all right,” she said. “They’ll stay in one place for at least a few seasons. Think of all the work it takes to pack up and leave, then set up elsewhere.” She paused to listen again, and lowered her voice. “No matter what, we’ll find your brother. We’ll rescue him.” She seemed not to notice Ludwig anymore, speaking as though only to reassure herself.
He could barely sleep that night. He would be going with the others in the morning, of course. But he didn’t fancy the idea of making the Oca confront an enemy or subjecting the affable Bonghee to danger. Yet, to Kya, his concerns were silly.
“You family now,” she whispered in Halvean, stroking his hair sleepily as they lay beneath the stars. “Is what family do.”
Sunrise found the men prepared, weapons mounted at their backs, their horses rested and eager to work. Ludwig kissed his wife goodbye and she thum
bed her heart at him.
“You know why we do?” She repeated the motion, her gaze soft over him.
Ludwig shook his head. “Why?”
“Because it mean, my heart go with you.”
He smiled at her, her round cheeks aglow, her hair a silhouette against the rising sun. “And with you,” he kissed her brow a final time, “I leave mine.”
The women stayed behind, though not without weapons of their own. Bonghee husbands shared parting words with their wives, who kissed them. Johanna and Catja waved, the former looking wan, as though she’d rather go back to sleep, and the latter visibly tense, her face desperate as she watched the men mount their animals.
Ludwig nodded at them, and joined his fellows. It was time to get his brother back.
For a northern summer, the heat was unbearable. Or perhaps it only felt that way because he was never permitted to sit still. Drew toiled silently under the baking sun, sweat streaming down his brow and into his budding beard.
Damn, how his face itched. The Køvi would give him not even the smallest blade to shave with, probably for fear that he’d use it as a weapon against them. And truth be told, by that point, he wouldn’t have been beyond trying.
The tribe worked him like an animal, charging him with the least pleasant and most monotonous tasks. That day, it was tanning hide. He’d hung a stretch of deerskin on a stick grid and was given only a dull instrument for scraping off every bit of flesh and fat. It was endless work, not improved by the humid air and the rancid, fishy stench coming from the creek nearby. Not even the shade of the trees provided relief; the relentless sun still found a way to beam through the leaves, burning his neck.
He swatted a swarm of hinga away, swearing under his breath. His voice felt dry in his throat. He wondered if the lack of use would render him mute by the time his sentence was over. In an odd way, it was like he’d joined a monastery. A monastery in which he was overworked, and beaten instead of fed. But one in which he kept his monastic silence all the same.
He eyed the fresh lash on his arm. The whip hadn’t been wielded too hard, and it hadn’t cut deep. It was intended as more of a warning for him to move faster. He wondered if it would leave a scar, like the one on his side invariably would.
When he lumbered to the creek for a drink, he barely recognized his reflection in the water. Bland eyes rippled back at him, as did disheveled hair riddled with bits of leaf. Ash colored his cheeks. He splashed muddy water over his face, coughing.
He moved about the site after the evening meal, collecting bowls and consuming whatever remained. Most were empty. But one small bowl had been left untouched.
He looked up to see a small girl watching him from the mouth of her family’s tent. She couldn’t have been more than seven years old. Her eyes were large and doleful.
Carefully, he picked up the bowl and dug his fingers into the soft grounds. Her gaze didn’t waver as he fed himself, savoring what would be his only meal for the next twenty-four hours. She waited to see him scoop out and swallow one last helping before disappearing into her tent.
He’d thought his face was moist from sweat, but was startled to realize the stream drifting down his cheek had come from his eye. It settled into his beard, and he didn’t bother to brush it away. A child had given up her dinner for a slave.
Maybe not all was lost.
Eventually, someone came to corral him into a tent. Drew followed, every bone in his body aching. He lay down in the crowded, sweltering tent, the air barely circulating. The hinga had found their way inside, and Drew stifled a groan. If only they’d give him some of that vanga extract, like Catja had.
Catja.
He closed his eyes, his back already plastered to the dusty animal skin on the ground. He pictured her, the way her blue eyes sparkled behind her spectacles as her gentle fingers swirled oil onto his throat, so soothing, hypnotic. The way her hand had felt on his back as she laughed at him, her grin stretching wider than he’d thought possible and illuminating her entire, beautiful face…. Somehow, only memories of that singular woman brought him any semblance of solace. With her face on his mind, he drifted off.
It wasn’t long before torchlight and raised voices awoke him.
For two tribes of men on horseback, Ludwig was impressed by their stealth. Even the horses somehow knew to keep quiet as they approached the enemy camp, a single torchbearer lighting the way for their small army.
They followed smoke trails from the Køvi’s dimly glowing campfires. When the dark, silent tents came into view, the pair of chiefs held out their arms, stopping the procession. Voices whispered at the front of the line, the chiefs pointing and directing riders into various positions.
Ludwig nodded at Miko, the Bonghee man with whom he rode. Miko leaned forward, allowing Ludwig to slide down from the horse. His heart hammered as he moved into the shadows. He eyed the tents in the limited torchlight, counting them in his head. He had no idea which one Drew would be in. But finding him was the task he’d volunteered for, and Ludwig would have it no other way.
The Køvi weren’t oblivious. He guessed it was their torch, meager though it was, that alerted the closest shelter to their presence.
A tent flap lifted. A Køvi woman appeared and disappeared in rapid succession, and her husband took her place with his bow. He began to shout. Soon, torches were lit and more Køvi emerged, weapons at the ready, as though they expected this sort of ambush every night. Ludwig held his breath, backing into the tree behind him.
A stooped, old man with a stout crone at his side appeared, their faces grim. They spoke up to the Oca and Bonghee chiefs, their voices as withered as their faces. Ludwig only understood a fraction of their words.
The Oca chief responded. Ludwig recognized words like relation and guest, and something about belonging, which, in Ocanese, was the same term for fitting together. A voice spoke in his ear, and Ludwig clutched his heart. He turned, only to see Dag. The man had dismounted his steed to join him, a spear in his grip like a staff.
“He explain,” whispered the chief’s son, “that your brother our brother and our guest. What Køvi do insult Oca honor.”
The leaders argued, the warriors on either side tensing. “What are they saying now?” Ludwig breathed.
Dag’s mouth straightened, and he adjusted the spear in his hand. “Not good.”
The Køvi elders shook their gray heads, eyes narrowing with malice.
“Go,” Dag urged Ludwig. And not a moment too soon, for all hell broke loose in that instant.
Ludwig raced headlong into the camp, ducking beneath flying arrows, covering his ears against the screams of women and the thundering shouts of men. An enormous thud met the ground as someone was knocked from a horse behind him, but he couldn’t spare a glance to see who it was. He only kept running, calling his brother’s name. Please be here, he begged inwardly. Don’t be sold. Don’t be dead….
A league of barefoot women traipsed off, escorting a string of sleepy children from the scene and into the safety of the woods. A long-haired man grabbed at him, but Ludwig swerved out of his reach, colliding with an empty tent. He pushed off from it, crying out for his brother again. “Andrew, where are you?” He hardly recognized the quality of his own voice, coarse and intent as mayhem escalated behind him.
A hand tugged the tail of his tunic. Ludwig swiveled around fiercely, aiming his knife at a potential attacker…and found himself staring into a stunned, semi-bearded face. He sucked in a breath. The man blinked back at him in shock.
“Drew!” Ludwig gasped. You’re all right, he wanted to exclaim, but the words wouldn’t form.
There was no time to embrace him. Though his heart palpitated with unspeakable relief, the battle had only just begun. He’d found his brother; now, he had to escape with him. Alive.
The Køvi blew darts through what looked like straight wooden pipes. A horse squeal
ed as its hip was struck. The creature trembled precariously, threatening to topple its Bonghee rider. The rider fired a retaliatory arrow, and it lodged in the dart blower’s foot, incapacitating him.
Drew barely kept up as they wove behind tents and away from the women and children throwing stones at them from the sidelines. Heavy circles underlined his brother’s eyes, as though he hadn’t shut them once throughout the duration of his captivity.
“Ought I to carry you?” Ludwig teased, hoping to rile him into action.
“That would be nice,” the man panted.
“You aren’t serious?” He pulled Drew down, narrowly avoiding another rock hurled at his temple. He pointed to the camp’s entry, where a lone horse shuffled its hooves, spooked by all the flashing torchlight and commotion. “Think you can make it to Miko’s horse up there?”
Drew’s unusually gaunt features hardened with determination. “I don’t know, but I’ll try my damnedest.”
Ludwig swatted his back, and his brother winced. “Oh.” He frowned. “Sorry.” He gripped his hand instead. “On go. Ready?”
Drew took a breath as a spear flung into the grass just a foot in front of them.
“Go,” said Ludwig. The pair pounded the ground, hunched over to avoid the smattering of darts the Køvi shot after them. Miko’s horse kicked up its hooves, whinnying. Don’t retreat, Ludwig begged it silently. For heaven’s sake….
He thanked the stars that the horse bravely remained, loyally awaiting its masters as they tried to catch up to it. But he had focused on the creature up ahead for too long. Drew shouted his name in a strangled voice. Before he knew what was happening, Ludwig was knocked to the ground, the wind whacked out of his lungs.
Drew fell atop him, rolling Ludwig out of the way as a whip cracked down, narrowly missing both of them. A forbidding-looking man with a black plait hanging to his waist wielded the weapon after them again. The brothers scrambled to their feet and dashed out of his reach.