A short detour brought him to Ileki’s room. He eased open the door and stepped inside. The room was smaller than Slave’s and lit by a flickering oil lamp. Ileki was sleeping, but his eyes snapped open when Slave clamped his hand over his mouth.
Slave raised his finger to his lips and then tapped his ear. Ileki frowned as he concentrated on hearing what Slave had heard. When he shook his head, Slave sighed softly.
‘We are about to be attacked,’ Slave whispered. ‘Go and warn anyone you want to. I’ll go and see who it is.’
He was about to leave, but Ileki clamped his hand on Slave’s arm and pulled him back.
‘You are Vyndde’s bodyguard,’ he whispered. ‘You should warn him first. Leave me to warn the others.’
Slave hesitated but Ileki’s words made sense. He moved away on silent feet.
The vorbyndjaarge was never silent, but as Slave slid through the darkness, it felt different — expectant. Slave knew his every sense was alert, picking up sounds, smells, sights that would all merge to give him a feel of things. He trusted his senses; something was going to happen.
Vyndde’s room was dark, but Slave made his way across the floor silently. He stood beside Vyndde’s bed, listening to the rhythm of the big man’s breathing: it was that of sleep. Satisfied, Slave retreated to stand in the area of deepest shadow, where he waited and listened.
Somewhere, the fight started. Slave heard muffled cries, shouts, the clash of weaponry. At a particularly loud cry, Vyndde awoke. He sat up in bed.
‘What’s that?’ he asked groggily. Slave did not speak.
Vyndde swung his legs out of his bed and stood. For a moment he fumbled with something and a spark flared before catching. A yellow flame rose up, driving some of the room’s darkness away. Slave eased himself back, further into the shadow where the lamp’s poor illumination would not reach him.
Vyndde stood with the lamp held in front of him, the light bringing his body into view. He was an old fighter, that much was immediately apparent. The muscle was fading, but the evidence was still there — his arms and chest were strong, his belly used to be hard, but life had been better recently and softness was creeping in. Scars, some red and livid, others fine and white, gave testimony to a life lived in violence.
He lifted his head, listening to the sounds of battle.
‘Ice and wind,’ Vyndde grumbled. ‘Slaaj.’
He put the lamp down and dressed hurriedly. When he was done, he buckled on his sword and made for the door but before he laid his hand on the knob, Slave reached out and grabbed his wrist.
‘You should stay here, Vyndde,’ Slave whispered.
Vyndde jerked his hand free and lurched back in shock.
‘You! What are you doing here?’
‘I am your bodyguard. I am guarding your body.’
‘How did you get in here? That door is locked.’
Slave lifted his Claw. One blade caught the flickering light and reflected it into Vyndde’s eyes.
‘Not any more,’ Slave said.
Vyndde narrowed his eyes and looked down at the lock on his door. It was ruined, most of it ripped from the wood.
‘How did you do that without me hearing you?’
‘You sleep heavily.’
Instead of replying, Vyndde cocked his head to one side to listen to the sounds of the fight outside. ‘Are we winning?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Slave said. ‘They came at us from two directions, but without enough men to split their force that way. If they had been quiet, they might have caught us by surprise, but they weren’t.’ Slave ended with an expressive shrug.
‘You could work all that out by sound alone?’
Slave shrugged again. ‘They were noisy enough to wake me up,’ was all the explanation he offered.
‘I need to know more about you, Slave,’ Vyndde said.
‘There is little to know and less to tell.’
Vyndde shook his head. ‘There is much to know, but I have a feeling you may not know what to tell me. Perhaps you could answer my questions.’
‘A question asked is not always a question answered.’
‘That is one thing: how does a man who has been a slave all his life know the parables of Deveraar?’
‘Deveraar?’
‘A philosopher from these parts. His sayings have gone into our language.’
Slave shook his head. ‘It just was something my master used to say.’
‘What else did your master teach you, apart from philosophy?’
‘How to fight.’
‘Did he give you that weapon?’ Vyndde asked, pointing at the Warrior’s Claw.
‘No.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I found it.’
‘You are beginning to annoy me, Slave,’ Vyndde cautioned.
Slave was mystified. I am answering the man’s questions, what more can he want? He suddenly leaped to his feet, inexplicably afraid. His Warrior’s Claw was in his hand and he scoured the room for whatever it was that had sent a thrill of fear through him. Then he realised — the hum that had become his constant companion had suddenly ceased. The hair on his arms rose and his skin tingled. At first, he thought this was a reaction to the fear, but the tingling became worse. It became painful, then agonising. He cried out as the pain became intense.
Vyndde sprang up out of his chair and shouted: ‘Lijke, get in here!’
The door burst open and a man ran in, sword drawn, but he skidded to a halt when he saw Slave. Steam was billowing off his body, his skin glowing as if heated from within, and he was screamingwhile attempting to beat out the flames that suddenly erupted from his clothes.
‘Ice and wind!’ Lijke exclaimed.
‘Put him out before he sets fire to everything,’ shouted Vyndde.
Lijke looked around and his gaze fell on a decanter on a table. He snatched it up and tossed the contents at Slave. Unfortunately, it contained a strong liquor. The alcohol caught fire and splashed tongues of flame across the room. In an instant, the room was alight. Vyndde bellowed in anger, Lijke cried out in alarm, and Slave screamed as he continued to beat at the flames that licked all over his body.
Even in his near-panic, Slave noticed that although the flames now engulfed him, the pain was not very severe. Indeed, it seemed to be lessening. He forced himself to stand still, and the pain ebbed away entirely, leaving him standing in a now-burning room, swathed in flame, but little more than comfortably warm.
SLAVE! The voice boomed through his mind. He clamped his hands to his ears, but to no avail as the voice continued. SLAVE! RETURN TO ME!
Even covered in flame, Slave recognised that voice.
Sondelle had broken through Ileki’s protection and found him.
What must I do, master? Slave replied. He was utterly powerless in the face of the massive assault on his will. Sondelle’s mind trampled over his, obliterating any hint of dissent or freedom.
LEAVE THIS PLACE AND RETURN TO ME.
Still engulfed in roaring flame, Slave turned and walked out of Vyndde’s rooms, leaving behind the fire that was already threatening the rooms around Vyndde’s destroyed quarters. He left Vyndde and Lijke to their fates without a thought.
Slave made his way steadily through the vorbyndjaarge, spreading panic and flame in equal amounts, unable to turn aside from his master’s command. The screams of those around him, the pounding of feet as people fled before him were as whispers to him while his master’s voice ripped through his mind, pummelling him into submission, beating his will down and reducing him to what he truly was — a simpering slave.
When he emerged from the vorbyndjaarge at the same place he first met Ileki, he paused. Approaching him purposefully from his left was a squat, burly man with a large, shaved head. He was clad in fighting leathers and had a sword at his hip. Behind him was a tall, ascetic man who twitched as if perpetually terrified.
‘You there,’ the burly man cried out. ‘Are you the one they call Slave?’
<
br /> Slave was about to answer when he became aware of another presence, a massive darkness that loomed up from over the houses. Deep within the dark, tiny motes of light swirled and danced, forming patterns and images that hovered on the edge of understanding. Fear, new fear, a fear he had only known a few times in his life, threatened to overcome Slave utterly as he stood motionless and watched the swirling lights. His knees gaveway and he dropped to the ground, falling prostrate before his master.
Thoughts and feelings that were not his own swarmed into Slave’s mind, filling him utterly, driving out any hint of his own will. He lay on the warm stone slabs that covered the ground and awaited his death. His master’s fury howled through the empty cavern of Slave’s mind. The flames that covered Slave’s body flared up under Sondelle’s onslaught, in accord with the sorcerer’s emotions.
GET UP! the voice in his head thundered. Slave started to rise, but as he got to his knees, a feeling of coolness, of peace, swept over him. The flames gave a startled flicker before dying away completely. The presence in his mind vanished. Slave looked up.
The burly man with his taller companion stood in front of him.
‘You are shielded for the moment,’ the squat man said. ‘My name is Slaaj, and I offer you a choice.’
‘Hurry, Slaaj, the shield cannot hold him back for long,’ the tall man muttered. Slaaj waved him aside impatiently.
‘Your choice is simple: come with me or,’ he stepped aside and gestured at the huge, shapeless presence that still loomed above them, ‘go with that.’
Slave’s mind, now his own again, gave the choice less than a heartbeat’s consideration. He experienced a moment of utter clarity. He looked up at the magical presence of Sondelle. Slave knew him. He could identify him anywhere and with that knowledge came the long hard memories of abuse, of fear, of slavery. No matter what Slaaj was, or what he stood for, he was offering work, not slavery.
The choice in the end was simple. Slave took a step towards Slaaj.
‘Fool,’ Sondelle called. His voice was older, and weaker than Slave remembered. ‘You don’t know what you are giving up!’
Slave turned to face his master. He summoned his courage and all his discipline to keep himself falling to the ground to beg forgiveness as he said, ‘Yes, master, I think I do.’
15
The vorbyndjaarge burned for many days, the smoke staining the skies above Vogel like a bruise. People streamed out of the stinking slums like ants, carrying their few miserable possessions, eyes wide in terror, children grasped in dirt-stained hands. The Talons did their best to prevent the flames spreading out into the finer, more wealthy areas of the city but they were stretched to the limit dealing with the panicked population as well as the opportunists who always moved in at such times.
Opportunists like the mercenary groups, such as Slaaj’s. They hovered at the edge of the flames, selecting from those fleeing for their lives. Like starving men at a banquet, they snatched up everyone who looked likely, leaving women and children wailing in their wake as husbands, sons and brothers were taken.
Ileki, who had followed Slave as he made his flaming way out of the vorbyndjaarge, made sure he was taken by Slaaj’s minions. It wasn’t difficult. After Slave was hustled away by Slaaj, the fires took hold rapidly and the hunters started to gather.
Ileki cast a simple charm to protect himself from the heat of the rapidly building fire and watched until he recognised a group bearing Slaaj’s symbol. He dropped the charm and ran screaming towards them. They were only too happy to club him senseless and drag him away.
Ileki came to in a dungeon, chained to the wall by his ankle. Slowly, he raised himself to a seated position to look around. His head ached, his body was protesting from the thugs’ mistreatment and he tasted blood in his mouth. He spat blood out onto the floor.
Groans and muttered curses came from numerous places around him, but in the dark, he could not see how many unfortunates shared his plight. He guessed at more than ten.
‘What am I doing here?’ he asked himself.
‘Dying, like the rest of us,’ came a reply from close at his left.
Ileki turned to the sound. ‘How long have we been here?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘When you were taken.’
‘When were you taken?’
‘Just after the fires started. You?’
‘Same,’ said Ileki. ‘How did they start?’
‘Sorcery, I heard.’
A number of grunts of agreement followed this statement as the others in the dungeon added their own voices to the conversation.
‘I heard a man was burned alive.’
‘I heard Slaaj set the fires himself.’
‘No, it was the Talons. They’ve hated the freaks forever.’
‘It was the underdwellers,’ said another.
‘Pah,’ spat the man to Ileki’s left. ‘A tale to frighten children.’
‘No, I seen them. Honour sealed.’
‘Yar, and they climbed up from the sewers, eyes big as plates, fists like hammers, skin like a corpse.’
‘Yar, that’s right.’
‘And I’ll bet …’ the man began, but stopped when the door flew open, flooding the room with harsh light.
Slaaj stood in the opening, silhouetted by the light. His heavy body and bull-like head cast a menacing shadow over them. He descended the three steps to bring him to their level. When he was standing in the middle of the room, he stopped and turned slowly around, holding the eye of every man in the room.
‘Many of you probably think you are here to die,’ he said in an even, almost cultured voice. ‘This is not true. You are here to earn the opportunity to live well and be handsomely rewarded for your skills.’ Slaaj paused to allow his words to sink in. ‘I run the best mercenary company in Lac’u. My people are in high demand across the country and I pay well for good work. Train hard, work hard, and you will never again see surroundings like these.’ He waved his hand to encompass the dank dungeon.
Ileki was impressed. It was clear Slaaj had used this exact speech many times before, but it had thering of sincerity and he found himself wanting to believe it. He was almost convinced, but he reminded himself of the reason he was here, his need to be successful, and stayed silent.
‘Soon,’ Slaaj went on, ‘you will be shown to your new quarters and commence training. Work hard.’ He looked around the room again before making his way out. The door was not closed behind him, leaving them in light, but no closer to freedom.
From the darkest corner of the dungeon where the light cast more shadow than illumination, a silent man looked on. A brief flash of silver glinted from his left eye before a hand came up to cover it. Had anyone bothered to look at him, he would have seemed calm, but inwardly he burned with a murderous rage. After going with Slaaj, he had been struck unconscious by some sorcery and awakened here, shackled like the rest, without his Claw. The sting of betrayal ran deep.
He remained silent as he listened to the others discussing their apparent reversal of fortunes. The one thing that interested him was Ileki’s voice. He wondered by what twist of fate the man had come to be taken and brought here. Slave’s feelings about him were mixed. Ileki had helped Slave at some risk to himself, without ever explaining why, yet had led him straight into Vyndde’s grasp. But still Slave could not decide whether that was truly betrayal or desperate opportunism.
He could wait — there were others he had to deal with first.
* * *
Guards came into the dungeon over the next few hours and took the prisoners away, one at a time until Slave was the only one left. When Slaaj himself came in, Slave stood to stare into his eyes.
‘You are probably feeling betrayed,’ Slaaj said without preamble. ‘And I would think less of you if you didn’t. But let me explain my actions before you kill me.’
He gestured to a guard waiting behind him. The guard stepped up with heavy manacles which he lock
ed on Slave’s wrists before stooping to unlock the chain around his ankle. As soon as the lock opened, Slave slammed his foot down on the guard’s neck, driving him face-down into the stone floor. A scream rang out as bones cracked. Slave threw himself at Slaaj, arms outstretched as he aimed to wrap the chain around the mercenary’s throat.
With the speed of a trained fighter, Slaaj sidestepped the attack and slammed his fist into the small of Slave’s back as he stumbled past. Slaaj followed up the blow with a savage kick to the side before Slave hit the ground. Gasping for breath, Slave rolled over and tried to rise, but Slaaj stood on the chain between Slave’s wrists and smashed a powerful fist into his face.
Slave slumped back, stunned. Slaaj kneeled on his chest and lowered his face close to Slave’s as he whispered, ‘You are without doubt the deadliest man I have ever had in this room, but just for now I have the advantage over you. And while I have it, you will do as I say or I will kill you. Do you understand?’
Slave stared into Slaaj’s eyes without speaking. Slaaj slammed his head forwards to land a vicious headbutt on Slave’s nose.
‘Understand?’ he hissed.
Slave spat blood into Slaaj’s face.
Slaaj stood up, wiping off the blood. ‘I like you,’ he said. ‘We will make a lot of money together, you and I.’ He went to walk away, but before he did, he stomped heavily on Slave’s chest. ‘But we have a way to go before we can.’
He left and locked the door behind him.
Slave was left in the dark with only the dead guard for company for two days before the door opened again. He was waiting near the door for precisely this moment, but the bright light flooding the room made him flinch in pain. That was all the man entering needed to land two solid blows with what felt like a large plank of wood. Slave staggered back, winded and unbalanced. The man launched himself at Slave and drove him to the ground. Stunned, Slave was hoisted onto the man’s shoulder and carried outside to be thrown on the floor at Slaaj’s feet.
Slaaj kicked him before gesturing for the other man to haul Slave back up to his feet.
Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms Page 12