Oberon's Dreams

by Aaron Pogue

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Aaron Pogue

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781611098181

  ISBN-10: 1611098181

  For Daniel, who saw what I was missing.

  CONTENTS

  Map of Hurope

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  In the high desert south of Jepta, where the sand and sheiks alike wore blinding white, the man at the edge of the market crowd stood out like a signal fire. He bore the fine, sharp features and the haughty, bored expression of a lord, but even dressed in silk he had the manner of a rogue. He wore only loose black pants and a bright-red sash and the plain thong sandals of a sailor.

  On his hip he wore a cutlass, not the heavy scimitars and long, curved knives native to this sun-seared land. And in his hand he held a velvet bag, straining with its weight in thick-edged coins. It was his outlandish dress that drew servants and slaves from all across the camp to gawk, but the bag of gold drew at least as much attention. This was, after all, a place for doing business.

  At the very center of the crowd, a dozen hulking guards defined the edges of a circle occupied by nearly naked men in chains. Through all the civilized lands of Hurope, slave trade was forbidden, but no king among the Godlanders could reach this far into the high desert. Today two hundred souls would find new masters, and tomorrow this place would be nothing but dunes.

  And of course there were more than a few among the white-robed men who served as agents of the Godlanders. Some few noblemen even came from the gentler lands up north to make their own transactions. But one and all, they came in careful disguise.

  Now their precautions only magnified the strangeness of the man at the edge of the crowd. Though no one looked his way, everyone’s curiosity was fixed on him. Fair as a Godlander nobleman, tan as a lowborn dockworker, and entirely out of place among this crowd.

  Who was he? He held far more interest to the crowd than the broken slaves upon the block. In whispered rumors he was called the pirate king, and whether here to buy or sell, everyone watched to see what he intended.

  He intended nothing more than to start rumors. Ethan Blake was only here as a distraction.

  * * *

  Far across the camp, a man in even stranger costume stole between the tents, this one dressed in black from head to toe, with a heavy cloak despite the cruel sun. Captain Corin of the black flag Diavahl moved like a shadow on the sands, gliding among the low, tan tents until he found the one he wanted. It was the largest in the sprawling market camp. The man in black looked both directions, then lifted the tent’s flap and slipped inside.

  Corin blinked against the sudden darkness. The air inside the tent was thick and foul with the stench of cruel captivity and noisy with the moans and misery of those still waiting to be sold. The captain pressed his lips tight and hoped he could find what he needed here.

  Before Corin’s eyes could adjust to the gloom, a heavy hand crashed down on his shoulder and spun him in half a circle. He stared wide-eyed into the close, dark face of an armed guard. It was a face stitched with scars and missing more than a handful of teeth from its evil grin. “You are not the first who’s tried to gain an advantage with a little stealth, my friend.”

  Corin grunted, abandoning a futile struggle. Instead, he flashed a disarming smile and shrugged. “You can hardly fault me for trying.”

  “It is a breach of the Agreement of the Sands.” The voice like gravel showed no hint of understanding.

  Corin paled. “And what…what’s the punishment for that?”

  “You must leave this place. We will trade with you no more.”

  Corin sniffed in cold disdain. “From what I’ve seen, I do not wish to trade with you anyway. I’ll gladly leave—”

  The guard’s grip never lessened on his shoulder. “There is more, my friend. I say you will leave this place, and you will leave it three pounds lighter than you arrived. Gold or silver will suffice.”

  “Three pounds of silver?”

  The gap-toothed grin flashed again. “From time to time, there have been those who could not pay the fines.”

  “And did you show them mercy?”

  “We found a compromise.” The guard made a slashing chop with the edge of his left hand, stopping just above his own right elbow. “Three pounds.” He made another chopping motion, this time striking just below the right knee. “Three pounds. We compromise.”

  Corin stared. After a moment, he smiled weakly. “Silver. I…I can pay in silver.”

  “You would be surprised how many can.”

  “But all my coin is with my camel.”

  “I will come along,” the guard said amiably. “I do not mind the effort.”

  Corin moved as if to leave, and at last the guard released his shoulder. But Corin hesitated, one hand on the tent’s flap, then threw a last look back over his shoulder.

  His eyes were finally adjusted, and in a glance he saw what he had come for. Iryana. She knelt in a corner, all alone. Even the other slaves would not go near her. Her dark skin still showed the bruises from her mistreatment at the slavers’ hands, and all the filth could not conceal the stain of blood.

  But she was undiminished, staring straight at Corin with eyes bright and harsh against the gloom. There was no pleading in them, no forgiveness or accusation, not even hope. There was only an unyielding, unspoken demand. Rescue me.

  Corin rolled his eyes, then turned back to the guard. “Listen…may I ask your name?”

  “I am called Razeen.”

  “Of course you are. Razeen, the agreement is already broken. If I must pay three pounds of silver, will you at least allow me the transgression I am paying for?”

  “You have already stayed here far too long.”

  “So moments more will barely count at all. I might yet find another pound of silver…”

  The guard glared for a long moment, then he grunted. “Two more.”

  Corin nodded right away. Razeen nodded back and tapped Corin’s shoulder. “Five pounds, then. One way or another.”

  Razeen returned to his place just i
nside the tent and stood watching his new benefactor. Corin licked his lips and turned away, pretending to survey the whole crowd of waiting slaves. At last he made a show of noticing the girl alone. He cocked his head in curiosity, then drifted her direction. The unfortunates he passed did not cry out to him. They shrank away, trembling, and he was grateful for that. He had no wish to meet their eyes.

  He couldn’t have met their eyes. Iryana held his gaze. Her eyes were dark and commanding. Corin stopped, standing over her, and spoke under his breath in the civilized language of his homeland.

  “I warned you not to run away.”

  She shrugged one shoulder like a queen, despite her chains, and answered in imperfect Ithalian, “I am a prisoner either way.”

  Corin looked around. “I kept you better than this.”

  “A slave is a slave. At least this way I will earn someone some silver.”

  “We would have found far more than silver at Jezeeli.”

  “You are a fool for thinking it. Jezeeli is a place of tragic loss. It is not a treasure trove.”

  Corin grinned. “Care to prove me wrong?”

  “You do not have wealth enough to win me from this place!”

  He shrugged. “I know a trick or two.”

  “You cannot beat these men with tricks. They only answer to violence and gold.”

  Corin turned in place, feigning one last measuring look over the slaves there, but the guard Razeen beckoned impatiently with one hand and made a vicious chop with the other. Corin’s time was spent.

  “I’ve paid in gold enough to learn my tricks,” Corin said, almost offhand. “And more than a little violence. I think I can handle a few slavers.”

  Iryana laughed in dark contempt, but Corin wasn’t listening. He was counting time, waiting for his cue.

  In the distance, someone screamed.

  The guard spun, concerned, and Corin acted fast. He knelt by Iryana, hands searching for the locks that bound her. He found them open, dangling from the loose ends of her shackles. Iryana raised her hands, showing off, and said, “You are not the only one with clever tricks.”

  He grinned. “That’s why I came for you. Now close your eyes.”

  “What? Why?”

  Instead of answering, he swung his heavy cloak around them both, dragging her head beneath it. Then he stabbed his free arm up, scattering a cloud of silvery dust that hung suspended in the air. The powder glowed with a brilliant light, soft and clean and beautiful as it drifted out to fill the wide tent.

  Then it exploded with a roar like thunder and a searing burst painful even in the shadow of his cloak. Corin didn’t wait. He caught the woman’s wrist in one hand and drew a dagger in the other.

  Two quick slashes carved an exit in the tent’s fabric, and Corin and the girl emerged in sunlight nearly as painful as the silver flare. The shouts and screams that had been Corin’s cue still rang within the camp, but for the moment they were distant, near the auction block.

  Corin turned the other way and three quick steps brought him to the tent’s edge. A guard he’d noticed earlier was gone, drawn by rumors of Ethan Blake or by the uproar Corin’s first mate had caused in the center of the camp, so Corin sheathed his dagger and turned his attention to escape.

  But Iryana stopped. She planted her heels and hauled back against him with more strength than a girl her size should have possessed.

  Corin spun on her. “Are you mad? We must run!”

  “You must run,” she said. “I may still find a kinder master on the block.”

  Corin licked his lips, weighing his arguments while precious time slipped by. Then, ten paces back, Razeen dove through the exit Corin had made. Slaves dragged behind him, clinging to the big man’s legs in utter desperation, but he barely seemed to notice.

  His attention was all on Corin and the girl. While one hand still rubbed at his blinded eyes, Razeen stabbed the other after the fugitives and cried, “Thieves! Enchanters at the tent of trade! Get after them! Kill them all!”

  Corin met Iryana’s eyes and shrugged. “It’s up to you.” Then he turned and ran.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Corin glanced back once as he passed the edge of camp. Iryana chased him, but after her came guards responding to Razeen’s cry. All along the camp’s edge, they came boiling from the lanes between tents like ants from a spoiled hill. Corin pounded across the sand, his black cloak flapping after him.

  The girl came alongside him, running hard despite bare feet and bruises. Corin tossed her a grin. “You came after me!”

  She growled, “You left me little choice, but it barely matters. They are already catching up, and the desert is their home.”

  “I know,” he said. “Just run.”

  They ran. They topped a dune with less than thirty paces’ lead on the closest pursuers. But there below, just beyond a rough outcrop of stone, waited two saddled camels.

  At Corin’s side, Iryana gave a startled cry of relief, but a moment later she groaned. “We won’t have time. The guards are too close. There are too many!”

  Corin threw a glance back, risking a spill down the sandy slope. He looked just in time to see the line of white-robed warriors top the dune behind them.

  “Looks like just the right number to me,” he said. “But where in Ephitel’s wretched name is Blake?”

  She caught Corin’s sleeve as he turned back to the camels. “Is this him?”

  Where she pointed, another figure was just now cresting a smaller dune to their left. It was the man who’d drawn so much attention at the auction block. Now the bright-red sash clung to his sweat-slicked torso, but despite the splash of blood on his bare skin and the complement of angry sheiks pounding along behind him, he was grinning.

  “Blake,” Corin said, equal parts relieved and irritated.

  “They’ll cut us off!” Iryana screamed. She stopped, still ten paces from the camels, and looked around frantically. To their right, the sands climbed into a sheer, nearly concave dune. “We’re trapped!”

  Corin said nothing, though she was clearly right. Still, he coaxed her into motion again, almost dragging her down to the camels. She struggled so much that the tardy Blake was able to reach the beasts one step ahead of them.

  Blake paused as they arrived, one hand on the reins, and narrowed his eyes at Iryana.

  “You brought her out?”

  Corin busied himself handing her up to a seat on his own camel, showing no regard for the angry mobs rushing down on them from two directions. “I couldn’t let them sell her off.”

  “You should have let them sell her off!” Blake shouted, scrambling into his saddle. “All you needed was a word! And after all, she is the one who ran.”

  “These slavers are not gentle men.”

  Blake spat. “Neither are we. Gods on high, Corin! All you needed was a word.”

  Corin stood unmoving, holding his first mate’s gaze as the first of their pursuers arrived. They were the sheiks who’d followed Blake from the auction block, a smaller crowd. But orders rang among them, barked in the strange language of the sands, and they fanned out into a loose circle surrounding the fugitives.

  A moment later the second force arrived, all those who’d come swarming from the camp behind Corin and Iryana. There must have been at least a hundred, every one among them armed. Most of them fell into ranks outside the ring of sheiks already watching, but a handful of soldiers from the second force pressed through to the center.

  Razeen moved at their head. He stopped just outside arm’s length from Corin and surveyed the camels with some appreciation, but his expression turned sour when it touched on Blake and dark indeed on Iryana.

  Still, he feigned a gap-toothed smile for Corin. “As I told you, friend, we will collect the weight that’s owed. You’re not the first who’s tried to run.”

  Corin sighed and stepped forward. His eyes traced the edges of the heavy swords among these accusers. Seven here. Another twenty in the ring of sheiks, but hundreds more arraye
d beyond them. Soldiers filled the sandy slopes.

  Corin showed a lopsided smile. “How many try?”

  “Thirty-seven in my time. Five or ten a year, I’d guess. And none has made it. Ever.”

  Corin reached toward his belt, but Razeen’s curved blade cut through the air and stopped just short of his throat.

  With exaggerated care, Corin completed his gesture. He drew the dagger from his belt and dropped it in the sand. Corin met the big guard’s eyes. “You seem overcautious.”

  “I have seen your tricks.”

  “Of course,” Corin said. “But have you seen my pirate crew?”

  Razeen blinked, confused. He glanced at Ethan Blake, but Corin shook his head.

  “That’s just one man, however impressive his disdain.”

  Razeen frowned at Blake, then raised his eyes to the ring of surrounding sheiks, to the larger force that had followed him from the camp, and finally up to the tops of the dunes.

  “Too far,” Corin whispered.

  Then on the slopes above them, one hundred and forty men threw off their linen wraps. Beneath they wore the loose, light trousers of sailors and the red silk sash that Blake had made so popular. Daggers and Ithalian short swords gleamed in the desert sun, but not as brightly as Corin’s grin.

  Razeen cried, “How?”

  Corin shrugged. “You brought them to me. Blake, take the sheiks’ swords.”

  “We should kill them now,” Blake said as he slid from his saddle.

  “Ephitel bless your murderous heart,” Corin said. “But we do not want a blood feud with these slavers. Tie them up.”