Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  A job. I have a job. I have no name, but I do have a job. He looked down. And I have new clothes. He sniffed. Clothes that don’t stink.

  A noise made him look up. Ileki stood just outside his door looking uncomfortable, afraid. Slave stared at him, unsure what to do. His sense of betrayal may have been misplaced, yet the man had deceived him. There was no doubt Ileki had known where he was going and what was likely to happen, but he had not said anything or warned him. How should Slave react? Nothing in his life up to now had prepared him for how to respond to a situation like this.

  Why did I attack him, rather than Vyndde?

  And why did I deliberately miss him?

  Slave looked away from Ileki, turning his attention to the Warrior’s Claw, and heard himleave. It had been his constant companion since he found it buried so far beneath the city, and its weight was oddly comforting. He gripped it tightly in the centre where the three blades met and raised it to examine it closely. The blades radiated outward from the centre, evenly spaced, like the curved spokes of a small wheel. For the first half of their length they had hilts like normal daggers before revealing the glinting, enchanted cutting edges that narrowed to needle-sharp points.

  Slave noticed the hilts were covered in tiny markings — like writing, but in no letters he had seen; his master had taught him to read three different types of script, but this one was unlike any of them. Indeed, he was not sure it was even writing. Certainly it had no discernible structure, nor any obvious repeating patterns that might suggest words or sentences. He turned the weapon over in his hands, feeling the smooth metal, noting the exquisite craftsmanship in the shaping of the hilts, the mastery in the honing of the blades and the near perfect fit to his own left hand.

  The hilt section of each spoke ended with the likeness of a different animal, each a hunter: a wyvern, a julle and a spurre. The wyvern, a winged reptile said to have inhabited the great mountain ranges, was known for its ferocity and tenacity in battle, often described as fighting to its own death in the face of impossible odds. Unlike the other two, the wyvern was more legendary than real. He had read of people who claimed to have seen them, but such reports were generally treated with suspicion.

  The julle was a huge wolf-like creature with massive jaws that inhabited the trackless northern wilderness and hunted in small, tight-knit packs. They were believed to range far and wide throughout the northern wasteland hunting anything that crossed their paths.

  The spurre was a different beast entirely. A creature more known for its cunning and stealth than for its ferocity, it lived in the deserts to the south and hunted unwary travellers, be they man or beast. With its three-horned head and vaguely feline shape, the spurre was a skilled and feared predator. It hunted alone, only briefly sharing its territory with another to mate, then ranging on its own once more.

  Each creature was almost iconic, worshipped or at least revered by several of the more primitive tribes said to still inhabit the wildernesses to the far north and far south. Slave wondered at the reason for the likeness of each one on the Claw and what, if any, could be the connection between them.

  He spun the Claw on his palm, marvelling at its perfect balance, then gripped it by the arm marked with a wyvern. It felt uncomfortable in his hand, so he shifted his grip to the spurre, but that was no better. When he gripped the julle, it felt right, it matched. Gripping the pack hunter, Slave felt a brief tingle, like a connection had been made.

  The Claw was a thing of beauty, a tool designed for the warrior; elegance designed for the killer. There was no possible way this thing of steel and gold could be mistaken for anything other than adevice to end lives. It troubled Slave that he could feel an attachment with an implement of death. He put the Claw beside him on the bed and lay back.

  The softness of the mattress, the warmth of the blanket, were new feelings, and ones he did not find to his liking at first, but slowly sleep crept upon him, and then he appreciated the comfort, and the dreamless sleep.

  He was rudely awakened by a jab to the chest with a sharp object. He was alert instantly. His hand, still grasping the Warrior’s Claw, shot out with a perfect flick of the wrist, but just as it was about to leave his fingers, Slave reconsidered. Instead of the weapon striking home, it slammed into the wall behind the man who had woken him. The man’s eyes went wide in shock and he hurriedly stepped back.

  ‘I imagine next time, whoever I send to fetch you will knock first,’ Vyndde observed dryly from the open doorway.

  Slave looked towards Vyndde and narrowed his eyes. I could have killed one of his men, and he makes jokes?

  ‘Yes,’ continued Vyndde, ‘I will warn people not to come in without knocking. But now, I have a job for you.’

  Slave tugged his Claw out of the wall and tucked it under his jerkin as he left the room, following Vyndde back out into the crowded labyrinth.

  Vyndde led him deeper into the vorbyndjaarge. The two of them were alone, but Vyndde walkedahead without ever looking back at Slave, as if expecting him to follow without question. The light changed as they walked, becoming dimmer, more fitful and threatening. Everywhere he looked, Slave saw flickers of motion, half seen in the shadows, teasing at the edge of his vision. Sounds of movement echoed around him, tantalisingly brief and distracting.

  Slave walked a few steps behind Vyndde. The word ‘bodyguard’ had been explained to him and he could understand why someone might want one. Why Vyndde wanted one was another question, but having a job was better than being a slave — so far. Slave was willing to wait and see what would eventuate.

  Vyndde stopped by a door and rapped firmly. The door was nondescript, as far as Slave could make out in the dim, inconstant light. Yet, there was something awry here. Slave could sense something … wrong. He slipped his Claw out from under his jerkin, the movement catching Vyndde’s eye.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Slave shook his head, not wanting to say anything in case his words interfered with the building tension, the steady increase he felt in their surroundings. Despite the dim light, the smell, the low hum of noise, Slave felt as if his every sense had suddenly come alive. He became aware of all around him at a level he had not experienced before. It was as if he had abruptly developed new eyes, ears and skin. He could smell more as well, and the clearest scent was coming from behind the door Vyndde was about to knock on again.

  Before his fist could rap sharply on the discoloured wood, Slave threw himself forwards. Vyndde did not have time to cry out, or even blink in surprise, as he was driven to the ground under Slave’s charge. The air was driven out of his lungs with a gasp, but Slave rolled off him to spring back to his feet to face the door as it exploded outwards.

  A man clad in black leather with a mask over his face stood where the door had been. He held a sword in each hand and was ready for battle. Slave raised his Claw and stepped up to meet the challenge.

  At the first swing of the blades, Slave was driven back as he weaved and dodged them. Sparks lit the alley when swirling swords met Claw. Slave ducked low under one slashing blade as it sliced the air in a savage blow aimed at his head, then slammed his fist upwards into his opponent’s groin. The man in black gasped in shock and pain. He staggered slightly, which was all Slave needed.

  Rising quickly, he set his shoulder to smash into the other man’s jaw. With a crack, the bone broke. The man’s eyes went glassy and he slumped to the ground.

  Vyndde stared blankly at Slave, then switched his gaze back to the door, from which another man was emerging.

  ‘Vyndde,’ the man said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want you dead,’ Vyndde replied conversationally.

  The man in the doorway laughed humourlessly. ‘I know.’ He looked down to where his door and his bodyguard lay. ‘Which is why I takeprecautions,’ he added. He looked back up to Vyndde, then flicked a glance at Slave, who stood prepared for violence. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Slave,’ Vyndde answered. ‘He works for me.’<
br />
  ‘You need to pay him more.’ The man gestured down at the body on the ground. ‘Do you know who that is?’

  Vyndde shook his head.

  ‘Yerouve. You remember him.’

  Vyndde raised his eyebrows to acknowledge the name. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘He’s the best.’

  ‘Was.’

  Slave ignored the exchange, preferring to size up the man in the doorway. He was not large, about the same height as Ileki, but broader, with long dark hair streaked with grey. His face was lumpy, as if bruised, with a series of jagged scars running across one cheek. Seeing them, Slave felt his hand rise to touch his own scars, wondering if this man’s came with as much pain. The man saw the movement and fixed Slave with a hard glare.

  ‘My name is Holvan,’ he said. ‘And I will pay you double what he is paying you.’

  ‘I don’t need two rooms,’ Slave replied.

  Holvan laughed as if Slave had made a huge joke before looking back to Vyndde. ‘What do you want?’ he repeated, all trace of humour vanishing from his voice.

  ‘Slaaj,’ Vyndde said.

  ‘Ah, that’s bad. Come in and we can talk.’ Holvan stepped aside to usher Vyndde in, but frowned when Vyndde remained motionless.

  ‘We can talk right here,’ Vyndde said.

  ‘Then talk.’

  ‘We share information and when, if, he gets this far in, we fight side by side. Honour sealed.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘Done. And if you bring that,’ Holvan jabbed a finger towards Slave, ‘near me again, I will kill you and him. Honour sealed.’

  Vyndde grinned. ‘You can try, Holvan. You are free to try.’ Without another word, he turned and walked away. Slave followed, but the tension he had been feeling before the attack had not diminished. In addition to the half heard and almost seen, the low hum he had heard before was still there. He tried to recall when he had first started hearing it, but was unable to pinpoint any time or location.

  Vyndde strode ahead through the dim alleys back towards his own fiefdom and Slave had to move quickly to keep up. Once they had crossed some boundary between the two areas, not clearly defined, the tension faded and Vyndde slowed his pace. He looked over his shoulder at Slave.

  ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘About the door.’

  ‘Myele powder. I smelled it.’

  ‘Myele powder?’ Vyndde repeated thoughtfully. ‘So Holvan’s the one using it.’

  Slave shook his head. ‘Same powder, but different batch. The smell was not quite the same.’

  ‘You can tell that, just from the smell?’

  ‘You can’t?’

  Vyndde scowled briefly, as if deciding whether Slave was being funny or disrespectful, before grinning broadly.

  ‘That’s what I pay you for,’ he said.

  Again, Slave was confronted by the realisation that he could do things that others could not. The difference in the scents of the two powders was pronounced, yet not only could Vyndde not smell the powder in the first place, but he did not know there was a difference between two batches of a powder. Had his master’s training been exceptional? Were his own skills unusual?

  He needed to talk to someone, to find answers, but the only person he felt he could ask was Ileki. And Ileki had betrayed him.

  Or had he?

  To take his mind off that question, Slave spoke to Vyndde.

  ‘Tell me about Slaaj,’ he said.

  ‘Slaaj is a hunter. He sometimes comes into the vorbyndjaarge to collect for his teams.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of that,’ Slave admitted.

  ‘Slaaj runs a small private army, for hire to anyone who wants his services. He offers people as bodyguards, mercenary guards, even as entertainment fights. From time to time he sends his people in here to find likely new recruits.’

  ‘And why do you want to stop him?’

  ‘Anyone he gathers in his sweeps who doesn’t want to join his company is either murdered outright or sold as a slave. I won’t allow that to happen to any of my people. Neither will Holvan.’

  Slave grunted in agreement. ‘So you will fight side by side on this issue?’

  ‘We will. Honour sealed.’

  ‘Why do you normally fight each other?’

  Vyndde did not answer. Instead, he walked on faster. Behind him, Slave followed, neither upset nor disappointed by the rudeness. A question asked is not always a question answered, he reminded himself, as my master often said.

  The low humming stayed with Slave for the rest of the day and into the night as he went about the various tasks Vyndde set for him. None of the tasks was difficult, and they kept him busy until it was time for the evening meal. He planned to eat alone in his room but Ileki came and stood at his doorway again. This time Slave acknowledged him.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  Ileki shrugged. ‘Company.’

  ‘Go find some.’

  ‘I like yours.’

  Slave snorted derisively. ‘You don’t know anything about me, so how can you say you like my company?’

  Ileki pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘That man you met today, Holvan. Would you like to share a meal with him?’

  Slave shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t like him.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about him, so how can you say you don’t like him?’ Ileki asked, echoing Slave’s own words.

  Slave pondered Ileki’s response before nodding in assent. ‘Come in,’ he said.

  Ileki entered, carrying his steaming bowl of stew and mug of hot enar. He sat on the room’s only chair while Slave sat cross-legged on the floor. They ate in silence until Ileki put down his spoon.

  ‘What happened today?’ he asked.

  Slave did not look up from his meal as he answered. ‘We went to meet Holvan. Vyndde and Holvan talked.’

  ‘What did they talk about?’

  ‘Slaaj.’

  ‘Slaaj? What is he doing?’

  ‘Vyndde says he is moving into the vorbyndjaarge to take people to work for him. Holvan and Vyndde agreed to fight together if they had to.’

  ‘Honour sealed?’

  ‘Yes, they did say that. What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s an old expression meaning they have sealed the bargain with their honour.’

  ‘Do they have any honour?’

  Ileki laughed. ‘It depends what you mean by honour. By their standards, yes they are honourable. By most people’s standards, they have the honour of swamp rats.’

  ‘What is that humming noise?’ Slave asked suddenly. ‘I have been hearing it all day.’

  Ileki’s smile vanished. ‘Humming? You can hear humming?’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  Ileki stood up. ‘Has it been following you?’

  ‘Yes. What is it?’

  ‘Sondelle.’

  Slave’s blood ran cold. In an instant, everything changed. His life shifted. Once again he felt the despair, the pain of slavery. His master would track him down with his mysterious skills and take him back into his cell. He would be punished again. The training, the brutal harsh training, would start all over again. The agony that followed failure would be his again as it had been so often in his life. In his mind he could see the dim cell, smell the dankness, and feel the chill of the ever-present moisture. The terror, the misery, stole back into his heart, unmanning him, reducing him to a whimpering child. He curled himself up into a ball, gripping his legs tight to his chest and rocking as he sobbed in the depths of dejection.

  He did not hear Ileki approach him, did not feel the arms that encircled him, did not notice the blanket that was wrapped around him, so lost did he feel. Not even Ileki’s words broke through the sudden assault of desolation, but nevertheless, Ileki spoke.

  ‘He is tracking you magically,’ Ileki murmured. ‘The spell I cast on you yesterday is blocking him, so he cannot f
ind you. That hum is a good sign. It is telling you that you are safe.’ Ileki spoke softly, slowly, as one would to a child.

  But Slave had never seen a child.

  13

  How long she slept no longer worried her. Myrrhini had seen the end of the world, what did it matter if she did nothing?

  Onaven could jab her as much as she wanted with that hard, pointed fingernail. Koslea could make all the veiled threats he cared to. What could he do to her?

  Her only hope was in leaving this place and finding a scarred, dark-skinned man. Could she leave? Was that even possible? Myrrhini opened her eyes and stared up at her ceiling, wondering. A glimmer of hope stirred.

  Leave? Seek out this man? How?

  There were many obstacles in her way — not least of which being the simple fact that she did not really know where she was. She knew she was far to the north of the Silvered Sea, somewhere in the Forest of the Tundra. Beyond that, her knowledge of the outside world was sketchy at best.

  A map. I need a map.

  Am I planning to run away?

  Did I really see what I think I saw?

  The Seeings were not prophecies, only possible futures — or pasts. What if she had seen the past? Certainly there had been similar happenings in the past; dark evils had plunged the world into chaos on several occasions. And yet, this Seeing had been so much more, so powerful, so immediate that …

  No. She had seen it, it was real and it would happen.

  Unless she could find the scarred man.

  Unless she could somehow find him and convince him to act.

  And that would not be easy if she had read him right.

  Myrrhini sat up in bed, suddenly aware that she knew more about this man than she had realised. She had a feel for how he thought, what he felt, how he might react. Never before had a Seeing given her so much information.

  But then again, she had never spent nine days in preparation before either. The memory of those awful days almost made her lie back down again. She made herself get up and dressed. No matter what might happen, she would try to make a difference.

  ‘Now what?’ she asked herself. She needed information; a map at the very least.