Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  It should have felt cramped and uncomfortable, but the filtered light coming through the soft drapes and the clever use of colour made it seem airy. The Sana honoured them with a smile. She sat on the narrow wooden bench like a noblewoman on a throne: her elegant dress spread tastefully over her knees, her head slightly angled, her smile fixed and only slightly condescending. Her hair, despite the days spent in this carriage and nights spent sleeping on the ground in a tent, was immaculate.

  ‘Do you know why we are travelling to Mollnde?’ she asked without preamble.

  Slave and Ileki looked at each other and shook their heads.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ The Sana sighed and looked across at her sleeping brother. ‘My brother is unwell,’ she started. ‘He has problems dealing with the world and often retreats into a place where no one can follow him. This is why he does not speak. There is a drug which sometimes eases his anguish, and we have to import it from C’sobra.’ She fell silent, her eyes becoming glazed as she stared beyond the walls of the carriage.

  ‘And …?’ Ileki prompted after a few moments had passed.

  ‘And we have run out,’ the Sana said simply.

  ‘Can’t you just buy more in Vogel?’ Slave asked.

  The Sana smiled, a small, sad sort of smile that Slave found oddly discomforting.

  ‘No. It is illegal to buy in Lac’u.’

  ‘Ah,’ Slave said as if he understood. ‘Why?’

  Ileki hissed suddenly, as if something had occurred to him. ‘This is not daven juice, is it?’

  ‘You know it, then.’

  ‘Yes. And I have seen its effects. It is lethal.’

  The Sana shook her head. ‘Only in large quantities and only if its use is not controlled. Under the right conditions, it is quite safe.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Not under any conditions.’

  ‘My brother’s condition would suggest otherwise.’

  Ileki snorted derisively. ‘Look at him; does he look well to you?’

  The Sana cast a quick glance at her brother’s slumped form in the corner of the carriage before looking away. ‘He is the same as he always is,’ she said.

  ‘How long has he been using daven?’

  The Sana shrugged. ‘Much of his life.’

  The San stirred. Slave watched as the man shifted uncomfortably, grunting softly, before settling back into a hunched position and apparently continuing to sleep. A faint smell wafted across the carriage. Slave wrinkled his nose.

  Ileki saw his response and shook his head. ‘The juice has a characteristic odour,’ he said. ‘It floods the body and slowly seeps out through the skin. If he uses it a lot, he would always smell like that.’

  Slave returned his gaze to the Sana. ‘Why are you telling us this?’

  Sana Waarde sighed. ‘I thought daven juice would be of use to you. But,’ she fixed Ileki with a disapproving stare, ‘I am thinking your friend would counsel you against it.’

  ‘What does it do, this daven juice?’

  The Sana shot Ileki a quizzical look, which he ignored, so she sighed and looked back to Slave. Before speaking, she readjusted her dress and sat up a little straighter.

  ‘Daven juice is a medicine which is used to help people like my brother. It helps them think more clearly and eases their fears. I think it could help you with your fear of the open. There are, however,’ she hesitated and shot another look at Ileki, who studiously ignored her, staring at the drapes hanging on the opposite side of the carriage, ‘other uses.’

  Ileki snorted softly.

  ‘Some claim that daven juice can affect people and make them act… unusually.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It makes people mad,’ interrupted Ileki. ‘It drives them mad with horrid dreams and violent images that haunt their minds long after they used it. Many daven users kill or maim themselves in a futile attempt to rid their minds of the unseemly visions.’

  The Sana fixed Ileki with a hard stare, which the Reader held until she looked away.

  ‘He is right,’ she said softly. ‘Some people cannot live with what the juice lets them see, but…’ She stopped as Ileki snorted rudely again. ‘But,’ she went on primly, ‘we are part Mertian, so that is not a problem for us.’

  Ileki rose abruptly to leave. ‘Slave,’ he said. ‘If you value your mind, do not ever use daven juice.’ He wrenched open the door and left.

  Slave winced at the sudden glare of daylight as the door swung open before slamming closed again when Ileki left. He quickly looked away from the painful light and caught the eye of the San.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ the San whispered. ‘The juice is dangerous.’

  The San’s voice was rasping and harsh, as though infrequently used. His eyes were pale blue, and wide, as if perpetually surprised. Unfocused and watery, his gaze was disconcerting, making Slave unconsciously reach for his Claw. A moment of nervous panic swept over him when his hand closed over air. His Claw was gone.

  ‘They took it off you,’ the San said. ‘I think they are more afraid of you than they are of me.’

  ‘Why are they afraid of you?’

  The San smiled. It was an ugly, vacant expression that made Slave shudder.

  ‘I have a reputation.’

  ‘Hush, Aven,’ the Sana said. ‘You mustn’t tire yourself.’

  San Aven waved a languid hand at his sister. ‘I’ve been resting for too long, sister. I think I can manage a short conversation.’

  ‘What is your reputation?’ Slave asked.

  ‘Ah,’ San Aven said with another disconcerting smile. ‘When I take the juice, I see things.’

  ‘Things?’

  ‘Things that might have been, things that might be … Dangerous things.’

  ‘Visions?’

  ‘You might call them visions, yes.’

  ‘And why does that frighten people?’

  ‘I tell them what I see, and they don’t always like what I say.’

  A loud pounding on the door prevented Slave from asking another question. The door opened to reveal Aesla. She was framed by the bright sunlight so her face was in shadow and Slave could not see her expression. Her first words were clue enough.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ she demanded.

  ‘I invited him in,’ the Sana replied.

  Aesla glared at the noblewoman. ‘Do you know what he did?’ she asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘I am aware, mercenary,’ the Sana declared. ‘But I was unaware of inviting you to open our door.’

  Aesla bobbed a brief bow and backed off slightly, but not before shooting Slave a glare of pure venom. Slave returned the look evenly. When the door was closed, Slave shifted his gaze back to the San, but he had already fallen back to sleep.

  ‘You should go now,’ the Sana said.

  Slave rose and left without a backwards glance.

  29

  Drikka proved an attentive healer. She tended Keshik’s wounds dutifully as well as seeing to his every need, but she never spoke a word to him. Keshik’s wounds were clean but severe. His exertions after regaining consciousness had cost him more blood and energy than he had realised. It took him several days to regain his strength, and several days after that before he could complete a full training routine — training that he undertook with one whole blade and one broken blade.

  During his enforced idleness, he tried to keep his mind active somehow, to avoid thinking about Maida. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her ruined face, her lifeless eyes staring at him. Then he saw the scarred face of the monster who had killed her.

  You are a walking dead man, he promised silently. And I will bury that accursed weapon with your lifeless body.

  He forced his mind to replay, over and over again, the breathtaking speed of the man, the virtuosic skills, the fury of his berserk rage, searching for any weakness. Every time, he finished the same way — his foot slipping, the explosion of pain, the lifeless stare of two emerald eyes.

  Whatever it ta
kes, Keshik reminded himself. Whatever it takes.

  The first thing it would take was getting himself back into shape. He forced himself out of bed and began the mind-clearing exercises in preparation for starting his practice regime. The exercises worked only partially — they never came close to the burning core of rage that he would keep hot and hidden until he needed its fury.

  With every exertion in the Tulugma training, the swordsmen were to utter a grunt, an exhalation of air that would carry part of their energy, driving them on, keeping them balanced. Each fighter had their own word, something to keep them focused. Up until this moment, Keshik had used the name of the man who had given him his scars, but now he changed it.

  Maida was his focus now in death as she had been his core in life.

  It was only then that he felt ready to consider tackling Slaaj.

  Drikka came into his room with his evening meal on a tray. As normal, she paused at the door to give a brief, respectful bow, before coming in and leaving the tray on the single table. Her normal routine was then to check Keshik’s bandages, and wait for any further instructions. All in silence.

  This time, however, when she rose after putting down the tray, she held his eye. From out of her left sleeve she extracted a scroll which she handed to Keshik. He took it and unrolled it to see a map of Vogel. A place was marked on the map.

  ‘If you are ready,’ she said flatly, ‘and your progress would suggest you are, Slaaj will be alone at that location tonight until Grada sets.’ When he had bowed in acknowledgement of her words, she went on. ‘You will not be welcome back here.’

  ‘And my horses?’

  ‘Your gear, and that of Maida, will be taken to the main guardhouse at the northern gate. I have a friend in the Talons who will keep them safe until you claim them.’

  Keshik stood and bowed deeply to Drikka. ‘My thanks, honoured lady,’ he said formally. ‘You have been a good host and a skilled healer. My swords will never draw your blood.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Drikka replied, apparently flustered by Keshik’s suddenly formal behaviour.

  ‘I fear you do not understand the formality of the Tulugma,’ Keshik said. ‘My promise to you stands as a commitment to you.’

  Drikka’s face showed mixed emotions. She stepped away from the swordsman to gesture towards the door. Keshik bowed again.

  ‘I will prepare myself and leave your home,’ Keshik said. Drikka’s mouth opened as if she were about to speak again but she hesitated. Keshik went on: ‘And I will never return.’

  Drikka flushed and left hurriedly, closing the door behind her. Keshik stared at the door, knowing that her face had betrayed her more than she had realised. Whatever she had organised for this evening, it was not what she had described. Either it would not be Slaaj awaiting him in the building marked on the map, or there would be a trap.

  Keshik strapped on his swords, both the whole blade and the broken one. Whatever awaited him, he would be ready. And with luck, he might meet a worthy adversary.

  The streets were oddly quiet, despite being busy. The people were scurrying quickly, going about their business with their heads down and eyes averted. Keshik walked at his normal pace, an even speed designed to give him time to observe those around him. Most were armed, it seemed no one was walking alone and the air had a gritty, dirty feel. The smoke from the still-burning vorbyndjaarge hung low over the city, filling eyes and lungs, giving everything a grey cast. Overhead, beyond the pall of smoke, the sky was darkening with night but few stars were visible through the cloying miasma.

  Keshik slowed his pace slightly. He allowed his mind to focus on sensing the mood of the people, rather than watching for threats. It did not take long for him to get a feel for the mood of the people — they were afraid. Every downcast face, every averted eye screamed fear. He had been in the city before, and while it was not a welcoming or friendly place, it had never been so rank with fear. The people were edgy and nervy. Occasional voices were raised in anger at some slight, real or imagined, fists were raised in anger, but the anger was short-lived as people hurried on their way.

  Doors were kept closed, merchants were reticent to spruik their wares, even beggars seemed withdrawn and wary. Something beyond the fire was happening, and Keshik was curious. Were he not on his way to meet Slaaj, he would have stopped to explore.

  The building marked on Drikka’s map was old, older than those around it, but still in good condition. Its walls were scarred with the passage of time and the single door was iron, pitted with rust but solid-looking. The building rose two storeys above the street and dark windows looked down on him as he approached. No sounds came from any of the houses on the street, and no lamps or torches disturbed the gentle moonlight.

  Around it, the other buildings looked rundown, tired, almost sagging with weariness. For a fleeting moment as he regarded them, Keshik had a sense that they were leaning away, as if flinching from something distasteful — or disturbing — in their midst.

  Putting aside such fanciful notions, Keshik heaved the door open. It creaked loudly in protest, sounding like it had not been opened for decades, and revealed a room. He quickly stepped inside away from the silhouetting light and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The room was large, filling almost the whole lower floor, and full of shadows. Moonlight drifted in through the dirty windows to softly illuminate big, heavy furniture — old chairs, high-backed and stiff, a couple of low tables, rugs on the floor, bookcases on the walls. Also hanging on the wall were oddly shaped objects that he could not identify. Cautiously he stepped towards the middle of the room. The house creaked and groaned, but he saw nothing move, nor could he sense any presence in the room with him.

  He reached the centre of the room and drew his swords. The steely slither as they left their scabbards sounded unnaturally loud. Slowly, he turned, examining every part of the room. The decor was old and black and reeked of something long dead, something that the world should have left behind centuries ago; something that no longer belonged.

  Keshik’s every sense was screaming wrongness.

  ‘You may as well put the blades away, Swordmaster. They will not avail you here.’

  The voice was low, dusty, as if long-unused. It sent shivers of disquiet over Keshik’s skin. He turned, seeing a figure seated in one of the chairs. The figure gestured and light sprang from several sconces set into the walls. Keshik blinked.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘As you have guessed, I am not Slaaj,’ the figure replied. It was an old, old man with pale skin like wrinkled parchment. His eyes were sunken; covered in a fine tracery of red veins, rheumy and glistening in the light, they almost shone with malice. Clad in a thick blue velvet cloak, the man was covered so that only his face and hands were visible. His white hair hung lankly from a narrow, tapered head, down to his shoulders. The hands were long, skeletally thin, with yellowed nails that seemed thick and slightly hooked, giving them the look of claws. ‘My name is Sondelle,’ he said. ‘And yes, you have been betrayed again.’

  Keshik advanced on Sondelle, his swords still drawn.

  ‘Ahh,’ breathed Sondelle. ‘A broken blade. Always interesting to see something new.’ He gestured with his right hand and the broken sword sprang from Keshik’s grasp and flew across the room. Sondelle caught it by the hilt.

  ‘A fine blade,’ the sorcerer commented as he examined the sword. Without seeming to look up at Keshik’s continuing advance, he flicked his hand in a dismissive wave. Keshik felt his body stiffen and lock. He could not move. It was as if he had been frozen solid.

  ‘Just wait while we talk, Keshik,’ Sondelle said. He appeared to finish his consideration of Keshik’s broken sword and placed it gently across his knees. ‘I have a proposition for you, Tulugma Swordmaster.’

  Sondelle gestured again with his right hand. Instantly, the room was brilliantly lit by a glowing sphere that hovered just above the floor. It was larger than a man in diameter and flashed with coruscatin
g colours, but that was not what caught Keshik’s eye.

  Stretched out over the surface was a naked man. He was squat and muscular with a head like a cannonball. Old fighter’s scars criss-crossed his body. He writhed in silent agony.

  ‘This is Slaaj,’ Sondelle said, as if introducing an old friend. ‘He took something of mine.’

  Despite his conversational tone and bland words, Sondelle conveyed more malevolence than anyone Keshik had known. Unable to move, he could only stare at the unnerving spectacle before him.

  ‘What he took is out of my reach at present,’ Sondelle went on. ‘But I think you can help me.’

  Keshik tried to speak, but no words would come, and he could barely move his lips.

  Sondelle looked down at the broken sword lying across his knees. ‘This is a fine piece of craftsmanship. But as with all like it, it has a great flaw.’ He shifted his gaze to regard Keshik, as if expecting a response. When he received none, he continued. ‘It can break, like anything. Even people break.’ Sondelle flicked a glance at Slaaj’s tortured form where it hung on the mystical globe of light. ‘I grow bored,’ he sighed. He raised his left hand and clenched it into a fist. The globe gave a startled flicker and vanished. Slaaj’s body dropped to the floor, motionless.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Sondelle said. ‘He isn’t dead. Not yet.’ He released his fist and Slaaj sighed as if released from his torment. ‘I will leave him there for the moment — to help you focus.’

  Sondelle reached out and plucked a silver goblet from the darkness, apparently out of thin air. He raised it to his lips and sipped. When he removed it, Keshik noticed his lips were stained red. He tried not to think of what might have been in the goblet.

  ‘Beneath this city lies an ancient labyrinth. Sealed within it is a power, an evil so great it defies comprehension. Recently its prison was breached and soon the evil will rise and visit great suffering on this world. I had prepared one to do this task, but he …’ Sondelle paused, seeming to consider his words. ‘He proved unworthy. I want you to complete his task. If you do, I will give you a gift.’