Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  Slave leaned in closer to the Laird. ‘What sort of evil, Laird?’

  Laird Wilfred looked up in surprise. ‘Are you sure you want to continue talking about this?’ hewhispered. ‘I fear I may have upset some of the patrons of this fine establishment.’

  Slave shrugged. ‘Like you said, I am not a local. What do I care?’

  Laird Wilfred’s smile reappeared. ‘Splendid chap,’ he said. ‘That’s what I pay Slaaj for: courage.’ He gestured at the barman for another drink. When it arrived, pushed across the bar firmly so that it sloshed over the rim, Laird Wilfred raised it and winked. ‘Legend has it,’ he said, ‘that there is an extensive labyrinth deep beneath the city. It was there even before the first city of Vogel was built. The original builders are long forgotten, but they are said to have been great sorcerers and in their vile practices they conjured — or summoned — an immensely powerful being. It laid waste to their society but was finally subdued and caught in the labyrinth, where it remains, trapped and angry. Its evil influence pervaded the very rocks and soil until the city was cleansed by fire.’

  When he finished, the Laird tossed back his drink and fixed Slave with an intense stare. ‘And that is why Vogel was razed.’

  Slave smiled, a hard grin that was devoid of humour. ‘You’re wrong, you know,’ he said softly.

  The Laird looked about to laugh again, but as he regarded Slave’s expression, his smile faded.

  ‘How so?’ he asked.

  ‘The evil was never cleansed. It still lives, beneath this city, still trapped in that labyrinth.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  Slave leaned very close to the Laird and ran his fingers along the scars on his face. ‘I have seen it.’

  The Laird jerked back as if the Slave had hit him. The colour drained from his face. He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

  The barman, who had obviously been listening, suddenly let out a roar of laughter.

  ‘That is the best I have ever heard,’ he said as he laughed. ‘You’ve seen it! I shall remember that for a long time. You’ve seen it. Is there a better way to shut up a Rilaman fop?’

  Slave stood up and went to move away from the bar, but Laird Wilfred grabbed his wrist. He looked into Slave’s eyes in mute question. Slave nodded. The Laird released his wrist and turned back to the bar. He was ordering another drink by the time Slave again took up his station by the door.

  The sounds of conversation resumed, and soon the room was filled with good-natured noise, but the Laird was noticeably quiet, apparently having lost his appetite for chatter.

  It came as no surprise when Laird Wilfred rose from his barstool and made for the door. Kooy joined him before he went outside and the Laird shook his head in response to the question.

  ‘No, my good fellow. No more entertainment tonight. I think I shall go home.’

  The Laird walked more briskly on his way back to the home of San Roos. He hardly spoke and his head was down, as if concentrating on the ground below his feet.

  The night was now chilly and clear. Stars glinted brightly in the velvet-black sky. Even the breeze that normally drifted in from the Silvered Sea was still. It was as if the night was holding its breath.

  Slave tried to focus on the Laird, but the insistent tingling over his skin was back. Each step sent shivers through him and everything he sensed carried a greater level of clarity than normal. He heard, saw, smelled things that he would not normally be aware of. The combination of acute sensation and the tingling of his skin was like the anticipation of a fight, a preparedness for violence.

  His Warrior’s Claw glinted in the moonlight as he hefted it. He looked down, surprised to feel its weight in his hand. When did I pick that up?

  Keshik stared down at the Laird. His escort was casual and apparently disinterested as they trailed along with the nobleman. The only one who looked like he might create a problem was the powerfully built, dark-skinned man with the silver eye walking beside him. Keshik frowned as a face, a name from his past, flickered across his mind. He had seen that colouring before. Or had he? He shook his head to clear the image and focused on the fighter below him. Unlike the others, he was armed with a Warrior’s Claw and seemed alert. His eyes were wide and his gaze was keen.

  * * *

  If not for him, Keshik would have simply leaped down from his vantage point and taken them alone, hoping the mystical creature was all Drikka had described it to be. As it was, he gave the signal to Panxo, Tristan and Maida to prepare. The others, Drikka’s own men, were moving along with them, all armed with bows.

  A sound made Slave look up quickly. He saw a shape flit over the roof of a building, followed by the same sound from across the street. He looked and saw another shape. As if blinkers had been removed from his eyes, he suddenly saw movement all around as shadows converged on them.

  The dark man looked up suddenly, just as Keshik gave the signal to the archers. Arrows rained down on the mostly unsuspecting mercenaries below and Keshik leaped down. Maida, Tristan and Panxo swarmed out of the shadows and attacked.

  The first arrow struck the Laird in the leg. He went down screaming. Immediately, the team formed a circle around him, facing outwards as arrows rained down from the roof. The mercenaries were trained in dodging arrows, so no one died, but three were wounded by the time the attackers swarmed out of the dark alleyways. Light glinted from swords as Slave faced the ambush.

  All the anticipation, the increased sensitivity, clicked into place as he assessed the situation. It felt as if everything slowed down, all the plans suddenly clear and obvious as Slave stepped forwards to counter the attack. The moment he decided to fight, he felt the boiling rush of rage surge within him. His sight clouded over with a black haze, his hearing faded, lost beneath the fury of his own heartbeats. He bellowed in a language he did not know and time ceased for him.

  * * *

  In the dark, Keshik’s swords were flickers of silver death. He moved swiftly and silently amid the defenders, cutting down any who stood in his way as he drove towards the Laird. Between him and his quarry stood the scarred fighter with the Claw.

  Keshik had seen men in a berserk rage before, but never anything like this. As the arrows sliced the air around him, the fighter’s hand was a blur, spinning the Claw and slicing them into tinder. All the while, he roared and bellowed in a harsh, guttural language. Keshik approached him from the side hoping to flank him, but he was too fast. Even before he could take position the fighter was ready.

  The Claw spun from hand to hand so fast it was like a living thing, sending out sparks of light reflected from the moons. Keshik tried to avoid watching the Claw, but he had never seen anything move that fast. He hesitated long enough for Tristan to lunge past him and strike.

  Had he not been there watching closely, Keshik would not have believed what happened next. Without once taking his eyes off Keshik, the silver-eyed fiend lashed out at Tristan with the Claw and opened the Rilaman swordsman from neck to groin before he had a chance to move, but Keshik had no doubt that he had simultaneously lashed out at Keshik with his Claw.

  Either he had two of the weapons or …

  The attack was faster than Keshik had imagined possible. It took every hint of ability and reflex he had to keep the razor-sharp blades from his throat. He parried the Claw, but the shock of the blow sent him staggering back.

  Laughter rose in him.

  ‘Ha!’ he cried. ‘Worthy!’ He drove at the silver-eyed maniac with both swords. Within a heartbeat, Keshik was sure about the Warrior’s Claw. The scarred man was clearly fighting with two weapons — one in each hand. Keshik lost track of time as he and the bodyguard strained against each other, sword on Claw. Sparks flew every time metal clashed on metal.

  A sudden pain in his side caused Keshik to cry out and stagger. Once again, reflexes honed over decades in battle saved him, as the unnaturally fast fighter drove in throwing a third Claw past Keshik’s left shoulder and fourth past his right. As the C
laws whistled past his head, Keshik was confronted with the dual attack from the other two mercenaries who were still slashing at him. They came at his chest, forcing him to parry, but as he did, he staggered, stepping on a body. The scarred man slammed two Claws together on Keshik’s blade, snapping it cleanly in half. He fell backwards, his head landing heavily on the ground. A light exploded behind his eyes and consciousness began to fade. Head lolling to one side, the last thing he saw before the blackness covered him was Maida’s lifeless stare.

  24

  The sun cut through his eyelids like a blade. Keshik groaned and tried to roll over but another stab of pain made him gasp and stop. He reached down to the pain and pulled the dagger out. The agony made him cry out and his eyes snapped open. What he saw made him cry out again.

  ‘Maida!’

  She was still lying beside him, drying blood pooled by her head. Keshik forced himself up onto his knees. In disbelief, he stared down at the wound that so savagely disfigured her perfect face.

  ‘Maida.’ It came out more like a sob than a word.

  Keshik gently moved the hair back from her face. As he looked down on her, another face came to him. A flash of silver, scars not unlike his own — a worthy adversary. But the weapons, the berserk rage, the preternatural speed.

  What was he?

  Keshik drove himself to his feet. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

  He stepped back, and trod on another body — another person killed by the raging fiend. Panxo. Keshik looked down at the dagger he still held, then the dagger he had pulled out of his own side. It was Panxo’s.

  ‘Tristan,’ Keshik said. ‘You were right.’ He did not need to look for Tristan’s body — he could remember him falling — so Keshik picked up his swords, one whole, the other broken, resheathed them and walked away.

  The first place he went was to Huenu’s nondescript building. He knocked firmly and waited for Drikka to answer. She did not take long.

  ‘Keshik,’ she exclaimed. ‘I heard …’ Her voice faded and petered out in the face of Keshik’s stony gaze.

  He pushed past her into the house and made his way down the corridor to the room where they had spoken earlier. The wound in his side had reopened and he left a trail of blood but he was beyond caring. He lowered himself carefully into one of the comfortable chairs and waited for Drikka to join him.

  ‘Tell me about Panxo,’ he said when she walked in.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Was —?’ The look on her face said all he needed to know about her feelings for Panxo.

  ‘Why was he sent with me?’ Keshik pressed.

  Drikka shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He often came here on Huenu’s business.’ ‘Why?’

  ‘He is — was a dangerous man who did things that sometimes needed to be done.’

  ‘An assassin then,’ Keshik summarised.

  Drikka made to disagree but stopped herself. ‘That is an oversimplification, but, yes, he did fulfil that role on occasion.’

  ‘Now tell me about Slaaj.’

  Drikka shrugged. ‘He runs a mercenary company, selling muscle to anyone who wants it.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ Drikka said. ‘His compound is the biggest in the commercial quarter. It’s surrounded by walls and only has one gate.’ She rose and walked to the table, picked up a roll of paper and handed it to Keshik before resuming her seat. ‘At the top is his crest. Just look for the gate with that crest on it and you have found him.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Finding his compound and getting inside it are two different things.’

  ‘How is it protected?’

  ‘Lots of guards and magical wards as well. Not even Sondelle can get in there.’

  ‘Who is Sondelle?’

  As if realising she had said something she shouldn’t have, Drikka looked away quickly.

  ‘Your wound,’ she said. ‘It looks bad. Can I dress it for you?’

  Keshik considered pressing her hard for information about Sondelle, but the pain and blood loss were starting to trouble him. He gave a curt nod. Drikka rose again from her chair and crossed the room to kneel by his side. Keshik removed his hand from the wound to allow her to examine it.

  ‘It is deep,’ she said, ‘but clean. A little time, some rest, and you will be fine. Wait here.’ She stood and left the room. Keshik waited until she had gone before standing to examine the room more closely.

  It was square, about ten paces to a side, with a high, slightly domed ceiling. The floor was covered in rugs. Keshik recognised some of them as being from Myele and some others from Aposmenos. The patterns of others had the look of Gielde, but some he did not recognise. Underfoot, they were all slightly different in texture, but as a whole they softened the room and absorbed sound. The furniture was similarly mixed, with different styles, woods and fabrics. The walls were lined with bookcases filled with hundreds of books. Drikka, whatever else she might be, was a collector of fine things, just like …

  ‘Maida,’ he whispered. ‘Already I miss you.’

  Drikka came back with a metal bowl full of steaming water. Keshik sniffed, smelling the unmistakeable odour of eulapyt — a soothing unguent often used to cleanse wounds.

  ‘Sit down,’ she instructed. Recognising the sound of a healer taking charge, Keshik obeyed.

  Once again, Drikka kneeled beside him to examine his wound. She felt it gently with her fingers. Keshik grunted in pained surprise as Drikka ripped his tunic open.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I thought so.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There is more than one wound here. Whoever stabbed you wanted you dead very badly.’

  That it was Panxo who had stabbed him when he was occupied fighting the silver-eyed man was something Keshik thought Drikka could wait to hear.

  ‘When I arrived, you said you had heard something. What was that?’ he asked instead.

  Drikka dipped a cloth in the eulapyt bath and dabbed at Keshik’s wounds to wash away the blood. She had gentle hands, but even so, pain shot through Keshik with every touch.

  ‘At least the blade was clean,’ she muttered. ‘Sometimes a knife like this is poisoned.’

  ‘You didn’t answer me.’

  ‘I heard of a fight somewhere last night. There was talk of a berserker and that one man called out in the ancient battle tongue.’

  Keshik scowled as he tried to remember something he had heard a long time ago. ‘I have heard of that. I also heard it is completely unknown.’

  ‘Not completely unknown, no. A few scholars have kept it alive.’

  ‘Do you know what he said in this ancient tongue?’

  Drikka shook her head.

  ‘Who would know?’

  ‘There are a couple of people in Vogel, but most of the scholars who would know are in Leserlang.’ She looked him in the eye for the first time since he had arrived. ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ve been there a couple of times.’

  Drikka’s surprise was evident.

  ‘Even Readers need my skills sometimes,’ Keshik assured her.

  ‘I see.’ She looked down again, busying herself with the cleaning of Keshik’s wounds. ‘What exactly is a Tulugma Swordmaster?’

  ‘Tulugma was a great swordsman of Gielde. He devised a method of fighting which persists to this day. A Tulugma Swordmaster is one who has completed the training at the Kuriltai.’

  ‘How many swordmasters like you are there?’

  ‘Three, at the moment. Before last night, there were four.’

  ‘Who …’

  ‘Tristan of Rilamo. And I need to find out who was the man who killed him.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘I would like to either kill him or learn from him. I think the one might lead to the other, but …’ He did not finish the sentence, but his shrug was expressive.

  ‘I would not try going nea
r anyone like that for a few days, if I were you.’ Drikka stood up. ‘You need to heal first.’

  Keshik looked down at her dressing and patted it. ‘Good work,’ he said.

  ‘Working for Huenu, I see a lot of wounds. I have learned a few things.’

  Keshik knew he had to keep talking to stop himself thinking. Were he to allow himself to dwell on the events of the previous night — the silver-eyed beast, the death of his friend Tristan, the betrayal by Huenu, Maida — he might not be ableto maintain his control. He lowered his head and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. The pain was beyond belief. No wound he had received in battle was ever like this.

  He knew of no way to heal an injury like this. Cuts, bruises, broken bones — these he knew, but a pain like this, pain that would cut so deep and leave no mark … He looked up. ‘I need to get inside Slaaj’s compound.’

  Drikka just shook her head. ‘Can’t be done.’

  ‘It can, you need to find a way.’

  ‘It would be easier for you to lure him out.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘It will not be easy. He never goes anywhere without a tame sorcerer or two.’

  ‘Look into it,’ he instructed.

  ‘And who are you to be giving me orders?’ she asked mildly.

  ‘I am the Tulugma Swordmaster who was betrayed by your employer. At this moment your life is in my hands.’

  ‘Betrayed? As I understand it, you failed in your task, after, I believe, receiving full payment in advance.’

  ‘I said betrayed,’ Keshik said. He pulled the dagger from beneath his tunic and threw it at the table where it landed point down, vibrating slightly. ‘Recognise it?’

  Drikka stepped back in shock. Again, her face betrayed her. She knew the blade and knew what its presence signified.

  ‘Either get me into Slaaj’s compound or get him out of it.’ Their eyes met. Drikka swallowed before lowering her eyes in acknowledgement. ‘I will stay here for a few days, and then you will tell me what I need to hear.’ She made to leave, but he rose quickly and grabbed her arm, pulling her around to face him. ‘Do not think about attempting to complete your lover’s unfinished work. I will not hesitate to deal with you as I dealt with him.’