Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  Drikka did not retreat from his stare, nor attempt to break free from his grip. ‘Panxo was never my lover,’ she said. ‘But I did love him. You dismiss him as merely an assassin, but he was more. I will do as you instruct, but not for the reasons you might think.’

  25

  Myrrhini shivered. The blanket they had given her barely kept the icy night air out of her bones. Her breath steamed in the darkness, illuminated only by the light of Yatil as it flooded in through the open window of the Mertian hut.

  Contemplation again.

  It could have been worse. At least Hinrik helped braid my hair.

  The feeling of his fingers touching the sensitive skin on the back of her neck while he fumbled with the complex braiding was still fresh in her memory. It seemed that his fingertips brushed against her every time he moved to twist the strands of hair into the numerous braids.

  After the audience with Joukahainen, Myrrhini had been hustled straight out into the Mertian village for her days of Contemplation and now she lay once more in the simple bunk staring up at the rows upon rows of images that adorned its walls. Those wretched pictures!

  How many hundreds, thousands, of Crossings had they survived out here, sketched on animal hide?

  Myrrhini sat up suddenly in her bunk. How long indeed could a hide hut like this survive, much less the markings on the walls? They must have been rebuilt and redrawn regularly!

  But how often?

  Curiosity overrode the cold and she rose from the bunk to examine them more closely. She touched an image of the archer — or sorcerer, perhaps — and tasted her finger. The characteristic stab of daven juice shuddered through her body.

  That clinched it. If these symbols were supposed to have been hundreds of Crossings old, there was no way the taste would still be there. So who has been rebuilding the village? And did that mean someone would know what the symbols meant?

  Or were these just random drawings?

  Her heart sank. Had she been fooling herself all this time?

  On insane impulse, Myrrhini scraped more of the daven ink from the wall and put it to her mouth. Again, the juddering impact of the juice ran through her. She smiled and did it again. What did she have to lose?

  And again.

  And again.

  One last time.

  The daven ink was making her dizzy, sending spikes of bright colour through her mind. She reached up to scrape some more ink but stopped when she looked at the symbols. They no longer looked meaningless. Swirling around, they started to take on meaning, but not a written meaning: they were moving like figures in a play. The archershifted, growing larger, his bow became a staff, his quiver, a wand. He grew until he overshadowed all those around him. Now a powerful sorcerer, he strode across the plains with his people behind him. People Myrrhini recognised — her people. This … thing … this … sorcerer, that was not a man who led her people into safety and peace.

  A jarring movement caught her eye. She shifted her focus to see another figure — the one she had called the tall man — rise from its slumber. It took up the symbol she had called the wheel and raised it like a weapon. It shifted in his grip to become a Warrior’s Claw. The tall man roared in defiance and led his own people against hers. These new people were the Scarens.

  The two forces fell upon each other and the blood of their battles stained the world red. They fought until it seemed they would annihilate each other in their fury, but another symbol — one that looked like a spurre — rose and slunk alongside the sorcerer. It whispered something and the sorcerer gave his wand and his staff to the spurre.

  The spurre grew as it took control of the wand and staff, driving first the tall man and his people back, and then with a sudden change of direction, it rounded on the sorcerer and drove him south.

  The tall man and the sorcerer were beaten back by the spurre until they both stumbled over another symbol that looked like a bird. It was a city and the spurre drove them both under it, sealing them both in, leaving a symbol — the gate — to guard them.

  The movement slowed, Myrrhini’s eyes dimmedand darkness closed in. In the final moments before sleep — or unconsciousness — claimed her, Myrrhini saw the people who had followed the tall man and the sorcerer fade away, leaving little more than a memory.

  She awoke late at night, huddled, shivering, on the frozen earth. The soft light of Grada flooded in through the open window, illuminating the bare hut. Myrrhini got up and shuffled to the bed where she wrapped herself up in the blanket. All the eating she had been doing in the previous days was paying off slightly, for although she was cold, she was not as debilitated as she had been the last time. And she was wearing more this time.

  The daven juice had run its course and the images on the walls stayed where they should. Her head ached and spun from the after-effects of the disturbing visions. She tried to put the story the images had told out of her head, but the two powerful leader symbols stalked her mind, refusing to remain safely locked behind the gate.

  Were they the two dark forces rising in the south?

  She pulled the blanket tighter around herself and tried to stay warm, but the images of the two powerful beings escaping and once again wreaking havoc on the world haunted her. How had they been imprisoned? How would they be released? And who would want them free? Myrrhini shifted uncomfortably on the bed. Her Seeing still frightened her, and this new information complicated matters.

  ‘The Scarred Man,’ she said softly. ‘Do you have a symbol somewhere? What did my ancestors have to say about you?’ She stared again at the walls covered in images, pale and washed out, stubbornly motionless and once more enigmatic in the light of Grada. The temptation to scrape some more daven ink was strong, but not strong enough to overcome the ache in her head.

  A sound disturbed her thoughts.

  Myrrhini looked up. There it was again — a footstep.

  No one was allowed out here except her. The whole village was her private Contemplation area. Anyone else who dared invade the sanctity of the Mertian village was faced with immediate discipline from the Arms — discipline that could range from a flogging to being released into the julle pens at feeding times.

  The footstep came again. There was no doubt — someone was walking towards her hut. From the way they were walking, it seemed they were trying to be stealthy.

  Myrrhini was suddenly afraid. Who would brave the Arms, unless it was someone who did not have to fear them? And the people who had no such fear were few — Joukahainein, Koslea, Kaarle, Erno — none of whom would visit her out here.

  ‘Myrrhini?’ The voice was quiet and close. She knew it.

  ‘Hinrik?’ She rose, pulled the blanket tighter around her and padded to the door, pushing it open. ‘I’m in here.’

  Her Bane was carrying a large bundle. He smiled at her and hurried into her hut. Myrrhini closed the door after him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded in a harsh whisper. Her feelings were surprisingly mixed. That she was pleased to see him was beyond doubt, especially when she saw the large, thick blanket he pulled out of his bundle, but he had no right to be here, this place was hers, and hers alone. It was the only thing of which she could say that.

  Hinrik came close and wrapped the blanket around her. As he pulled it tight, he also pulled her to him. His breath was warm on her face, his body felt good so close. They stood almost the same height. She allowed herself to look into his eyes and smile. Already the warm blanket felt good. His hands slipped away from holding the blanket and eased their way around her waist, pulling her even closer until he was holding her tight against him.

  He turned his face slightly until his cheek rested against hers. ‘I could not let you freeze, could I? I am your Bane after all,’ he whispered into her ear.

  The feeling of his warm breath in her ear sent an unexpected shiver through her. She was about to answer when she felt his lips press gently against her earlobe, then against her neck, just below her ear.

&n
bsp; Such sweet sensations flooded through her.

  He kissed her again, more firmly. Myrrhini tilted her head slightly and felt him kiss her again, his lips open a little this time. His tongue touched her skin. She snuggled closer and felt his arms tighten in response.

  Hinrik kissed her throat, her jaw, her chin. Her lips. She gave herself up to the sensations as his mouth joined with hers, his hands moving sensuously over her back. Without any effort, he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the bed where he laid her down.

  ‘We should share warmth on a night as cold as this,’ he said gently.

  Myrrhini experienced a sudden rush of fear mingled with excitement. She knew exactly what he planned, and was unsure whether she wanted it, but felt powerless against the rush of her own emotions. He lay beside her, sharing her blankets and bringing his own body’s warmth. His hands caressed her body while he kissed her face. Myrrhini responded to his touch and closed her eyes when he started to undo the lacing of her dress. With a care that belied his youthful appearance, Hinrik undressed her until she lay naked beside him under the blankets.

  Unaware of her vulnerability, she snuggled into his warmth and allowed herself to enjoy the new sensations of seduction and first love.

  She awoke before dawn when Hinrik rose from their bed and dressed quickly.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked sleepily.

  ‘If I am caught out here, it will not go well for me,’ he explained.

  The reality of their — more specifically his — situation dawned on her. She scrambled to her feet, clutching the blanket around her to ward off the biting cold, and stood close to him. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her gently.

  ‘I have to go,’ he whispered.

  ‘You will come back?’ Try as she might, she could not quite keep the sense of pleading from her voice.

  ‘Of course, my love.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Tonight,’ he assured her.

  26

  ‘I have been retained to supply a small force of guards for a valuable cargo travelling secretly to C’sobra — to Mollnde specifically,’ Slaaj said. ‘Normally, it would be a simple route — just follow the road through Gaandpre, Frerthe, cross the border and on, following the trade route. But this client wants it very secret, so you are travelling rough.’

  Slaaj handed Aesla a slim, flat box. ‘Your instructions are all in there. You leave in the morning. Be ready at first light.’

  Six members of Slaaj’s mercenary troop stood in Slaaj’s office — Slave, Ileki, Aesla, Rene, Piet and Hari. Rene and Piet were newcomers to Slaaj’s team. They stood nervously, staring alternately at Slaaj and Slave. Hari cleared his throat, preparing to speak. Slaaj turned on him.

  ‘What?’ he snapped.

  ‘Slaaj,’ he started nervously, ‘Slave is…’

  ‘Is what?’ demanded Slaaj.

  ‘He is dangerous,’ Piet completed. ‘Everyone knows it. When he gets the rage, he kills everyone, even his own people. We all know what happened.’

  Slaaj’s face purpled with rage. He moved to stand menacingly close to Piet.

  ‘Were you there?’ he snarled.

  ‘No, Slaaj, I wasn’t.’

  ‘And as Slave and Ileki were the only ones apart from the Laird to survive that night, how can everyone know what happened?’

  Piet swallowed hard and clearly wanted to step back, out of range of Slaaj’s heavy fists, but discipline kept him steady. He kept his silence and stared over the top of Slaaj’s bald head.

  ‘I am waiting for an answer,’ Slaaj demanded.

  ‘Rumours, Slaaj,’ Piet said.

  ‘The Laird was attacked, the Laird survived because my guards did their jobs. That is all that matters. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Slaaj.’

  ‘Good.’ Slaaj stepped back and glared at Aesla. ‘You ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Slaaj.’

  ‘Right. You know what to do. Go there, come back. Make me money.’

  Slave was only dimly aware of his actions as he spun and slashed, killing and maiming indiscriminately. Bodies fell before his swirling blades. Blood spattered the walls and ran into the drains until he stood alone, chest heaving, roaring in unrestrained savagery. When there was no one left to kill he lowered his arms and looked around.

  He met the Laird’s terrified gaze. At some stage one of Slaaj’s men had obviously thrown himself over the Laird to protect him and lay dead on top of the dazed nobleman. Slave looked away, and found Ileki’s stare. At first, he seemed dead, but as Slave watched, he blinked.

  ‘Ice and wind,’ Ileki whispered.

  Slave lifted his Claw above his head and brandished it to the uncaring sky. The blood from his fallen foes and allies dripped from the blades onto his upturned face.

  Turning once more to the carnage surrounding him, he noticed the body of his sword-wielding assailant. Beside the man lay a woman — one woman he did not know. Her red hair tumbled limply down showing pale skin and dull eyes. The wound between those eyes could only have been caused by his own Claw.

  Aesla led them out into the night. Because the client wanted the movement of their package kept secret, they were not in uniform and they were leaving Vogel at night by a rarely used gate to the east. But before they did, they had to pick up the ‘package’.

  Slave recognised the house immediately. It was the Lan Dieals’s home. They approached the house stealthily and were greeted at the gate by the Lan herself. If she recognised Slave or Ileki, she gave no hint as she talked quietly with Aesla before stepping back and ushering two people forwards: the Lan called them San Aven and Sana Waarde. In shock, Slave realised they were not transporting a simple package, but people. The journey to Mollnde suddenly looked a lot more interesting.

  San Aven was tall and lithe with long black hair that hung freely over his shoulders. He carried himself with confidence, but every time Slave looked at his face, it held a vacant expression; it was as if there was no one behind the face.

  Sana Waarde was as different a person as could be imagined. She was very small with short, light brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. The Sana moved quickly with sharp gestures, a bit like a tiny lizard. Slave had read about birds and thought she could be described as bird-like, but having not yet seen a bird, he could not really say.

  No one spoke as they walked through the night. Slave kept his hood up and pulled tight around his face as they made their stealthy way through the back streets of Vogel. Unlike the night when Laird Wilfred was attacked, he felt comfortable.

  Slave had never seen this part of the city, but it did not interest him much as he had already decided that he was not coming back.

  He could not say when he had made the decision to leave the team and head off on his own, but once made, it was set. The only question that occupied his mind was when and where to simply vanish. Slaaj had made it clear that they would not be travelling along the main roads, if using the roads at all, so there would be ample cover for him to use in his departure and he was confident that his skills in navigating underground would be sufficient for over-ground travel.

  Aesla held up her hand, signalling for them to stop. Ahead, the city wall loomed dark against the starlit sky. On top of the wall, the torches burned fitfully in the gusting breeze. The gate before them was closed, guarded by a single soldier who stood under a torch. He lowered his spear as he saw the shadows lurking.

  ‘Gate’s closed,’ he announced.

  Aesla stepped forwards into the circle of light cast by the torch.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ the guard said, lowering his spear. ‘Come on through.’

  Aesla walked ahead and the rest followed her. The gate opened, and they left the city of Vogel. At the sound of the gate closing behind them, the Sana threw back the hood covering her head and raised her arms to the sky.

  ‘At last,’ she breathed.

  Aesla stepped up and pulled her hood back up. The Sana turned to glare at her, but in respon
se, Aesla gestured up at the top of the wall behind her. The Sana looked around, and in the faint glow from the torches, Slave saw her grimace in disappointment before the shadow of her hood covered her face. In that brief glimpse, he saw something in her face that made him wonder what sort of woman she was, for although there was a spirit, a fire, in her eyes, there was also something else — something calculating, something hard. As he shifted his gaze away from the Sana, he looked straight at Ileki, who smiled back.

  And when I leave, do I take him?

  The question had already been answered, but he still did not like the answer, no matter how unavoidable it seemed. He shook his head and looked away. Aesla gave a low command and they started to move away from the walls of Vogel, heading north.

  To their right, the moons were reflected off the surface of the Silvered Sea. Vogel owed much of its prosperity, and that of Lac’u, to its proximity to the great northern sea. Not only did the sea provide water, that most precious of resources in this largely parched world, it also opened the door to the lucrative sea-trading routes. Slave knew that much, but little else, about the city he had spent his life in but never seen.

  He felt nothing as he left the walls behind.

  A strong smell washed over him as the breeze gusted slightly from the east. Slave wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  ‘What is that smell?’ he asked Ileki.

  Ileki grinned. ‘That, my friend, is the smell of health, wealth and prosperity.’

  Slave frowned.

  ‘It’s the smell of a harbour. And that means proximity to one of the three seas, which means water, hence wealth.’

  Slave had seen maps of the world and knew the importance of the three great seas, but smelling one was not the experience he had imagined. With the breeze also came distant sounds — creaking, rattles, splashes, muffled cries. Slave could not identify what was causing many of them, but presumed they were to do with ships and sailors. Slave shrugged and adjusted the straps on his backpack, shifting the narrow canvas strips onto a new part of his shoulder. He sniffed the air again and tried to quell the faint sense of anxiety that had started to form somewhere deep in his gut.