Marshalling all the disciplines his master had taught him, he calmed his pounding heart, slowed his breathing and focused his mind once more on the task of leaving this underground maze. With head bowed and eyes closed, the man concentrated every available sense on the physical world around him, seeking any clue, however slight. He stood motionless as he assessed his situation. Slowly, the awareness of a faintly metallic scent infiltrated his mind.
Blood.
He smelled blood.
The man started to move towards the scent when his foot made contact with something hard and metallic. He stooped and picked up the softly glowing Claw. The creature had left it behind for him. With some misgiving, the man gripped the Claw and continued to walk towards the scent of blood.
Beneath his feet, the ground was less smooth, more strewn with dirt and small pebbles, less used than the area around the xath lizard’s lair. The slave took some comfort from this. The xath lizard had not ranged this far.
The man stopped. A sound. Talking? Perhaps. It was harsh and guttural, not human. He almost smiled as he considered the options. Gaeblin, possible. More likely Dureg. Either way, he continued his approach, now with voices to guide him.
He came upon four underground dwellers in a natural cave. It seemed that the cave had been extended at some stage and the diggers had broken into the maze. The man stepped through the hole in the maze wall and blinked in the flickering light of a simple torch held aloft by a Dureg female.
‘I know you can’t understand me,’ he said conversationally, ‘but do you know the way out of here? I think I am lost.’
The female shrieked and dropped the torch. It flared briefly when it hit the ground, then guttered and went out. Before its light died, the man was able to make out the other three Duregs in the cave. They were all male and armed with what looked like spears, standing by a dead Dureg on the floor. It was his blood, now pooling around his head, that the man had smelled.
He dropped into a crouch as the first spear whistled through the air above him. It shattered into the wall behind him as he focused on the thrower. As the Dureg released the spear he lurched forwards, thrown slightly off balance by poor technique. His short stumble was all the man needed. He sprang forwards, making for the way out. In the sudden darkness, the Duregs were momentarily disoriented and clearly not expecting the human to move as quickly as he did. He waspast them, out of the room and into the cave beyond before the female’s scream had ended.
Once in natural caves, the travelling was much easier. Caves, for all their meanderings, were never going to be as labyrinthine as the maze he had just left. Caves tended to open at some stage onto the outside world, which meant air currents and so the smells, for one thing, were much more varied.
With so much information, the man moved confidently through the dark, keeping away from the Duregs. From his reading, he had learned that the powerfully built, human-like subterranean creatures were notoriously timid of humans and would avoid him if they knew of his presence.
Despite his keenness to leave, the man found himself spending time observing the lives of the Duregs as he slipped unnoticed through their demesne. To his eyes, theirs was a miserable existence. They fed on fungi that grew in carefully tended gardens in designated caves. While the women carried water, worked on the gardens and looked after the sturdy infants, the bigger, heavier males dug incessantly at the walls. Despite being naturally subterranean dwelling, the Duregs lit their tunnels with sputtering torches at regular intervals which surprised the man as he had never read of them using lights.
Now that they had broken through into the ancient maze, the man wondered what would become of their small society. Would they expand into the tunnels and grow, or would they pull away, uncomfortable with unnatural caverns? Heconsidered staying to observe them, but decided against it, moving swiftly through the small Dureg enclave towards what he hoped would be outside the city walls.
The man followed the Dureg caves as they wound their way slowly upwards. Soon after he left the area where the Duregs lived, he came upon another man-made cavern. The Duregs’ realm ended abruptly at a crumbled wall separating the natural caverns from an ancient dungeon.
That it had been a dungeon, the man had no doubt. It consisted of a long, straight passage with dozens of small rooms lining each side. The rotting remains of wooden doors littered the doorways and his questing fingers detected iron numbers fixed to the walls. There were wall sconces at regular intervals, but the torches that once cast fitful light on this wretched place had long since gone.
Out of curiosity, the man went into a few of the empty cells, and in each one he found the skeleton of the erstwhile inhabitant. He shuddered as he thought of the last days of these poor sufferers — left to die in this utter blackness. Did the jailers simply not come down with the daily meal one day? Or had they told their charges of their fate? Could they have been so cruel? In his mind he heard the despairing cries, the screams of anger and horror as the truth of their situation slowly dawned on the prisoners. How long did it take for them to realise what had happened? The man moved as quickly as he could through that dark, awful place.
At the end of the long corridor a flight of stairs rose up to a landing. When he reached it, he paused, sensing three corridors stretching away from him. Each seemed to be level and, from their smell, they all contained the remnants of something long dead, but less ancient than the rest of this area.
Left, right or straight ahead? The man pondered his choice. None seemed to offer anything different or interesting and any one was as likely as the others to take him out of here. With a shrug, he went straight ahead.
Had he the mind to do so, the man could have spent days exploring the ancient dungeons, for there was a complex construction buried here, but he had only a mind to leave, to escape. In addition, he was getting hungry. It was now two days since he had eaten and almost a day since he had drunk. All his life he had experienced hunger and thirst, so a couple of days without food was not a major trial, but the lack of water would become serious soon.
He continued moving straight ahead, but stopped at a scuttling sound coming from near the wall to his left. A rat. The man grinned in the dark. Rats meant food and food meant people were not far, and had been near recently. He was nearly out. Soon he would see sunlight.
The corridor came to an end at a wooden door. Unlike everything else down here, it was in good condition. It was also locked, from the other side.
The man cursed. He had been trained in many skills, but picking locks was not one of them. Hismaster would hardly have been likely to teach him that particular skill, given that he had been locked in a cell every day of his life. The irony nearly made him laugh aloud.
Was there another exit? Had to be, somewhere. But did he have enough time to hunt it down? The hunger was starting to bite and the thirst was becoming dangerous. Soon he would start to slow down and become careless from the pain.
A flash of light caught his eye. He approached the door and kneeled, running his hands over the wood. It was rough, as if hastily made, with heavy planks and large nails holding it together. The man felt for the lock and found the keyhole. He pressed his eye to it and peered through. Sure enough, he could just make out a figure, silhouetted by the lantern it was carrying, walking away from the door.
He hammered on the door. The figure paused and turned. The sudden glare stung the man’s eye and he pulled away from the keyhole. He blinked in pain before peering through once more. The person carrying the light had advanced towards the door and was fumbling at his belt for a set of keys. In the light of the lantern, he saw the person was a man with pale skin, a full black beard and dark eyes.
When the key slid into the lock, the man pulled back into the darkness so when the door opened, he was hidden. A head and raised lantern poked through the door. The man withdrew a little deeper into the shadows as the light brushed over him. The lantern-bearer saw the movement andtook a step closer as his free hand shifted to gri
p the hilt of his sword.
Beyond the open door, the man could see light flickering as someone else approached. If he didn’t move now, he might stay trapped in here. With a deep breath, he sprang forwards. He sped past the man with the lantern and out through the open door.
The lantern’s flame flickered with the wind of his passage and the man holding it gasped in surprise. The stranger was three paces out of the door before there was a cry of alert.
The man could see the corridor he was in came to a T-junction and the light of the second lantern approaching from the left. Despite his misgivings, he turned left and drew out his Warrior’s Claw. The ruddy glow of the lantern gave him enough light to assess his attacker. The person carrying the torch held it in front of his face and light glinted from the sword he carried in his left hand. The blade was low, suggesting he was unready for an attack, so the man threw himself forwards into a roll. The momentum of the roll took him to his assailant’s right, causing him to swing across his body. This delay gave him enough time to slash across the guard’s upper thigh with the blade of the Claw.
With a scream of pain, the guard dropped his torch and slumped to the ground. The man did not hesitate. He sprang back to his feet and sprinted away down the corridor.
He ran, always heading away from those he had left behind, always taking passages that slopedupwards, always taking stairs up. Unlike in the total dark of the maze, he did not count his steps or pay much attention to every opening. There, he knew his life would depend on his mental map, here he had light to go by.
When he reached the top of the third set of stairs, he stopped. In front of him was a door, behind which was sunlight. The light that seeped through the crack beneath and at either side was unmistakeably day. He pressed his ear to the door and listened to the sounds of life beyond the door.
It occurred to him that he had never been among people. To be sure, his master had had guests whom he had met, but never more than two or three at a time. Once past this simple slab of wood, he would be confronted by a city full of people.
People about whom he knew next to nothing.
People who would neither know nor care about him.
People who would talk loudly, jostle past him on the street, make contact with him, look at him, expect him to talk to them.
A moment of near panic seized him. He found himself breathing heavily, almost panting. He pushed himself back from the door and leaned against the wall. He gripped his chest while inside his rib cage his heart raced, pounding hard. He could feel every beat, and pain radiated out from the centre of his chest. Sweat poured down his face while lights started to flash behind his eyes.
Is this how it ends? he thought. Panic? Is that what will kill me?
‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘Not like this.’ He called upon the training his master had given him to slow his breathing and regain control of his racing heart. Slowly, his body responded and he was able to stand upright. He walked back to the door and gripped the handle. In what was possibly the bravest act of his life, Slave of Sondelle pushed open the door and stepped out into the light.
4
‘Wake up, Myrrhini!’
The voice was low, insistent and accompanied by a sharp jab from a pointed fingernail. Myrrhini knew both the voice and the fingernail well. Onaven, the young Bane who would not leave until her charge awoke.
‘Go away,’ Myrrhini grumbled.
‘The sun is almost above the trees, Myrri,’ Onaven persisted. ‘You know what Koslea will do if you sleep in again.’
Myrrhini ignored the use of the familiar diminutive of her name as she rolled over and swung her legs out of her warm, comfortable bed. She tensed as she put her feet onto the cold stone floor. As always, the shock jolted her awake. Onaven stepped back out of respect as Myrrhini stood up and stretched.
‘Another perfect day dawns for the Acolytes of Varuun,’ Myrrhini muttered.
‘Indeed, Myrrhini, a perfect day,’ intoned a voice from just inside the door of her bedroom.
Myrrhini’s eyes snapped to where Koslea, the Key Yielder, stood watching her. She snatched up the blanket to cover herself more modestly, but Koslea seemed not to notice.
‘Your Bane is wise, young Eye of Varuun,’ he went on. ‘Another sluggardly start to a perfect day would not go unnoticed.’
‘I was awake, Koslea,’ Myrrhini protested.
‘Indeed,’ Koslea said softly. He turned to leave, but paused with his hand on the door handle. ‘The Key Wielder wishes to see you when you are fed and have completed the day’s preparations.’
Myrrhini swallowed hard and bowed her acceptance of the Key Yielder’s instructions, but he had already swept out of her room. In his wake tiny motes of dust danced in the shaft of golden light that announced the sun’s arrival over the trees.
‘Ice and wind,’ Myrrhini hissed.
‘Language, Myrrhini,’ Onaven chided. ‘You mustn’t let the Arms hear you speak thus.’
Myrrhini bowed her head as if accepting the Bane’s reprimand, although inwardly she repeated the common invocation of the twin weapons wielded by the ancient enemies of her people.
Myrrhini quickly stripped off her nightdress and stood in the tub of warm water. Her pale skin glistened in the morning sun as Onaven scrubbed her with the same vigour Myrrhini assumed she would use on a horse.
Myrrhini stood, naked in her chilly room, trying not to think about the Key Wielder or why he would want to see her. At the thought of the strange and menacing Wielder, she shuddered. He frightened her, despite the fact that as the Eye, shestood above him in eminence. There was something disturbing about him, something vaguely reptilian in the way he looked at her.
Onaven stepped back from Myrrhini.
‘Right, Myrri,’ she said. ‘Now the hair.’ She tied back Myrrhini’s thick black hair ready for the complex braiding required for the presentation to the Key Wielder.
Myrrhini sighed as she stepped out of the water and walked to stand in front of the large polished-silver mirror. She looked at her reflection in its surface and wondered again who she was. She ran her hands over her skin, feeling the smooth softness of a protected, even pampered, young woman. Tall and slender — or skinny and bony, as she had heard often enough — she was physically entirely human but the way she was treated often made her doubt it.
Onaven slapped Myrrhini’s hands away before busying herself with the lengthy task of preparing Myrrhini for a formal presentation to the Key Wielder. The rituals required for such a presentation, despite Koslea’s casual summons, were extensive and onerous, starting with the intricate braiding of her hair. Six separate, thin, four-strand braids that started from the top of her head were interweaved into a single tight braid at the base of her skull, followed by more small braids that hung from the sides of her head. Underneath all the braiding, the rest of her hair tumbled in its natural curls over her shoulders, its beauty all the more evident in contrast to the orderly arrangement of the braiding.
Onaven hummed as she always did while her nimble fingers worked. It was an ancient song, often sung as a lullaby to children, but Myrrhini trembled every time she heard it. The words referred to the times before the Mertian-Varuun alliance was struck and told of a raid by a Scaren war party. Like so many children’s songs and tales, when closely examined, the words hid dark times and violence with cheerful smiles or happy tunes.
Hush, child, go to sleep,
The wolves are outside,
The snow is deep.
The claws are sharpened,
All is quiet, it will not last.
Night has fallen the dark
Is upon us, is upon us.
The wolves will howl
The men will weep
Hush, child, go to sleep.
The door opened and another young Bane entered without knocking. It was Koude, carrying Myrrhini’s simple morning meal on a tray. He stopped short as he saw Myrrhini standing naked before the mirror and smiled as he looked her up and down. ‘Good
morning, Myrrhini,’ he drawled. Myrrhini stared at him with contempt. ‘No wonder you spend so much time in the stables,’ she snapped. She stood straight, making no attempt to cover herself or shift from his view. At her words, Koude frowned, not understanding. It was Myrrhini’s turn to smile at his confusion. ‘Haven’tyou heard?’ she said. ‘They say I am not human. And if you like to stare at animals so much …’ She let the sentence trail away, allowing Koude to complete it for himself.
His smile vanished and a flush slowly crept up his neck into his cheeks. Anger replaced arrogance. He dropped the tray onto the table and stalked from the room.
‘Tut, tut, Myrri,’ Onaven scolded. ‘Koude may be an arrogant son of an ice bear, but he is very popular. A lot of people give him heed.’
Myrrhini shrugged. ‘What do I care about popular? The man’s a rodent, with the intelligence of an icicle.’
‘Maybe so, maybe so,’ Onaven agreed. ‘But nevertheless, be careful. Now, let’s get something on you before you freeze, and then we’ll eat.’
The ritual clothing required for an Eye of Varuun to meet with the Key Wielder had one main advantage — it was warm. Multi-layered skirts flowed down and out from a tight bodice. The outermost skirt was rich blue, covered in complex gold and silver embroidery depicting the history of the Mertian-Varuun alliance, as told by the Acolytes of Varuun.
Like the ravening wolves depicted on their banners, the Scarens had swept down from the frozen northlands and fallen on the Mertians. For centuries they raided the Mertian villages and cities with claw and sorcery until an alliance was struck with the mystics of Varuun.
The combined forces of the alliance drove the Scarens back into their wilderness and harriedthem until no more could be found to slaughter. When the battle was done, the Varuun mystics extracted their price from the Mertians until they too were as much a memory as the Scarens. Few Mertians now lived to fulfil their blood oath to the Acolytes.
Each of Myrrhini’s five inner skirts was a different colour — dark grey, green, silver, gold and red moving outwards from her skin in that order. The colours signified periods of time in Mertian history from the earliest dark age of primitive nomadic life through to the desperate final stages of the Scaren destruction of their cities.
Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms Page 3