Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “Dunno about this,” said Cenzel, the bargemaster of a convoy of timber barges that had stopped at Urok to pay customs fees. “Diomeda is not the place it was for slave tradin’. It’s Queen Sairet—she’s met too many folk who was slaves, like when she was pretendin’ to be a mad dancer. She’s killed the trade, like, ye know?”

  D’Alik had been in the trade for three decades, and was not easily discouraged.

  “But these nine girls all have pedigrees and certifications,” he insisted, opening a cloth bag full of scrolls. “Every one comes from a good merchant family in the Sargolan states, and all can pay ransoms. There is no excise on ransoms in Diomeda.”

  “Diomeda is not Sargol.”

  “Aye, but Diomeda is a seaport. You can discreetly sell them to a shipmaster bound for Sargol, then have no more to do with them. Besides, you have eight barges, each with two crewmen. A girl each to keep them amused for a week would be a bonus that would cost you no money, take them off my hands, make you a profit, and restore the girls to their families. Everyone will be happy—you cannot lose.”

  “Nine girls,” the bargemaster sighed.

  “And eight barges,” laughed D’Alik, elbowing him in the ribs. “Cenzel, I’m afraid you will just have to take two girls in the flag-barge.”

  “No, you said nine girls, yet I count ten.”

  “Ah, but one of them is not for sale.”

  D‘Alik’s deals were difficult to resist, and indeed, most were happy with the arrangement. The girls even had a good prospect of getting home, and seemed willing enough to supply whatever services were involved to pay for the trip. Cenzel took the seal from around his neck and concluded the deal. D’Alik paid off the guards, saw the girls aboard the barges, then returned to where Senterri was chained to a railing. She was gazing west, to the Lioren Mountains. That was the territory of the Gladenfalle principality. Slavery was banned there. It was only thirty miles or so to the frontier. Nearly ten times closer to freedom than she had been at Hadyal, yet in a way just as far. What else was there to do, though, except what she was told?

  “Now, little Senterri, there is just you to dispose of,” he declared.

  “Master, I would fetch a better ransom price than any of them,” she said as he unlocked her.

  “And get my head on the end of a very long pole if I tried to claim it. Still, the market for slaves of noble origin is more steady than that for common whores, especially in the kingdoms to the north. I have a very discerning buyer ready to make an assessment, so come along.”

  Senterri looked longingly to the mountains in the west. They were in a different kingdom, they seemed so close. There she would be free … but they might as well have been on the other side of the world. A few guards and some loyalty were all that separated royalty from slavery; she now knew that only too well. The sheer helplessness of her situation offended her like a foul stench, but there was no escaping it.

  D’Alik stopped before a tavern, checked a note, then led Senterri inside. A caravan master met them at one of the tables. He beamed at the sight of Senterri, then circled her several times.

  “At first sight, she is a rare prize,” he declared, taking her chain from D’Alik.

  “There is more to her than just the sight,” said D’Alik. “I have her papers and certifications.”

  “Indeed? I shall be glad to inspect them, but I must insist on inspecting the, ah—how shall I put it delicately? The entire proposition?”

  D’Alik’s eyes narrowed. “I suspect that you wish to inspect the proposition while staring down into her most beautiful green eyes within a most comfortable bed. Such-like would devalue her worth.”

  “Ah, but if you already have your fee, is her worth any business of yours? A princess, you say? I have seen a few from afar. Why do they always seem so much more fair than the common run of women?”

  “Because kings demand—and get—the fairest of bedmates.”

  The caravan master stroked Senterri’s breasts, then hefted one and nodded. Senterri shivered miserably, but had learned not to pull away.

  “I have a room prepared in the town’s finest inn,” announced the caravan master.

  “The Red Star?” asked D’Alik.

  “The same. The bed has been scented with rosewater, incense is burning.”

  “So, you intend to set about bulling her all night? What sort of price will she fetch if her belly is bigger than yours by the time you parade her in the markets of the north?”

  “Price, price, price—you think only of price, D’Alik. I think of destiny. I intend to set about bulling her until she brings forth sons, a line of princes to make my house great, to succeed me.”

  “And if you sire daughters with her?”

  “Hah! They will still be princesses, and so will she.”

  They sat down at a table to examine Senterri’s scrolls in greater detail, and presently the men were deep in serious bargaining. Senterri stood beside them, as unheeded as if she were a pony. Not once has either of them spoken to me in this exchange, she thought. She looked about the dimly lit taproom, aching for release. Every dream, every reverie was a prayer for escape, yet her master had decades of experience with the handling of slaves, and knew of more tricks and schemes to escape than she could ever dream of.

  A young wayfarer with a soft-featured, almost girlish face was gazing at her. There was a disturbing intensity in his eyes, something that hinted at a hungry fire and lashing etheric energies within him. At first Senterri could not quite believe he was paying her any attention. He had to know what she was: a slave. She wore the padded yellow collar, it was there for the world to see. Perhaps he is a young prince in search of adventure, thought Senterri, savoring the dream rather than holding any real hope. He might even be a warrior prince, wandering the world, having lost his kingdom. He would rescue her with a band of loyal followers, they would flee across the desert to Sargol. Her father would welcome him, shower him with wealth and honors. They would be married.

  No! The word blasted through Senterri’s mind. No dreams, no more futile dreams. What would Dolvienne do? Fight, of course, there was no question of that. But how? Perhaps by gathering allies. Perhaps the youth was a master thief, or a desert brigand, who might start a fight, flee the tavern with her, and take her to the sanctuary of his desert hideaway. He was still staring at her, a cold, bright, unblinking stare. He raised his eyebrows. The gesture seemed to say, Well?

  Locking stares with the youth, Senterri mouthed the word, Please, with what was the most imploring expression she could manage. The youth straightened the fingers of his right hand, put them to his lips, then one by one curled them into a fist. The gesture for words into deeds, thought Senterri with a shock. Was he serious? There were two impressive and expensive bodyguards flanking the table where the slaver and the caravan master sat with her. Slavery was legal in Urok. Any attempt to rescue her would be regarded as theft; the town militia would be after them within the hour.

  Beside her, a deal had been concluded. Papers were being stamped, signed, and sealed on the table. As the two men stood up to go, it was the caravan master who was holding the silver chain attached to Senterri’s collar. She cast once last glance at the youth with the intense eyes. He put a fist to each heart, then bowed his head slightly. “My hearts are in your service,” thought Senterri. But does he mean it?

  Miral was rising in the east above the low buildings of Urok as they set off through the darkened streets. Urok did not have much nightlife beyond the five taverns near the river docks, so they saw nobody as they walked. Thoughts of the youth in the tavern faded quickly from Senterri’s mind. Perhaps he had had good intentions, perhaps he had even thought seriously about helping, but he would soon see that it was no use. Even half a dozen men would be hard-put to defeat the four who were with her. So this is how I am introduced to womanhood, she thought. No sweetheart, no romance, no love, no coy glances and shy, hesitant kisses, just a command to disrobe and a bed that gaped like the mouth o
f a dragon to feast upon her innocence. However revolted she might be by the caravan master, though, Senterri knew she would have to try her very best to please and delight him. Were he to lose interest in her, she would be quickly turned over to his drivers or sold as a harlot slave.

  “My purser is waiting at the Red Star with funds that will cover your most ruinous price,” the caravan master was saying.

  “Pah, for just a few grubby gold coins, you will transform the fruit of your loins into royalty—”

  Something black dropped from a balcony and smashed down onto D‘Alik and the caravan master. They both collapsed, shadows swirled. A tangle of glowing threads wrapped itself around the neck of the caravan master’s bodyguard, then there was a sharp snap. Senterri had the impression of D’Alik flying through the air, to thud against a wall. He lay still. A shadow struggled silently on the dusty ground with the caravan master. Senterri backed away until stopped by the wall. Now she saw that another figure had engaged D’Alik’s bodyguard, and they were trading ax blows. The smaller man ducked under a swing, closed, hooked the bodyguard’s leg with his own. The bodyguard stumbled, recovered, there was a flailing of arms, then the bodyguard was bent over in an armlock. A knee smashed into his face. The bodyguard collapsed and lay still.

  So far everything had taken place in near-total silence. To Senterri’s amazement the smaller man began binding the bodyguard. He dragged him over to a horse and cart she had not noticed until now, heaved him into the tray, then hurried back to D’Alik. Senterri watched as her unconscious master was also gagged and bound. Next the youth lifted the other bodyguard into the tray—and tossed a severed head after it. Suddenly he looked up, appearing to notice Senterri for the first time. It was not the youth from the tavern. This one had a scruffy beard and wavy hair.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded in an urgent whisper, speaking Diomedan.

  “A slave,” replied Senterri, tapping her collar, then pointing to D’‘Alik. “He is my master.”

  “Not anymore. Hurry! Help me drag him to the cart.”

  D’Alik was heavy, and it was a struggle to get him into the tray of the cart, and concealed. Senterri followed the youth back to an untidy black pile of shadows on the ground.

  “Velander, for goodness’ sake!” he hissed, dropping to his knees. “What if someone comes?”

  By Miral’s light Senterri could see that the one called Velander had her teeth buried in the caravan master’s neck, and was sucking and swallowing rather messily. Tendrils and sparkles of etheric fire played about her lips in the gloom. Her face! The youth from the tavern, Senterri realized. A girl? A girl who had the strength of half a dozen men, and who drank blood?

  “Velander, please! We have to go.”

  Velander’s head shook without detaching her teeth from the caravan master’s neck. The youth hurriedly searched the man’s body.

  “Purse, scrolls, seal, notes of credit and debit, rings, knife, another knife, sheepgut contraceptive … that seems to be all,” he muttered. “Velander, will you hurry up!”

  Velander raised her head and snarled sharply, then returned to her feeding.

  “No use, it’s been three days since her last meal. You know how it is with those thin desert outlaws. Give her one, and before you know it, she feels like another.”

  “I, I, I—What is it—er, she?” asked Senterri.

  “The technical term is ‘vampyre.’ She is the only one, but she’s quite a handful. Velander! Snap out of it! It’s no good; you will have to help me, young lady. I’ll bring the wagon over to them, then you lift Velander while I try to get her dinner in.”

  “Me? Touch that?” gasped Senterri, catching sight of the claws on Velander’s fingertips as the horse plodded over with the cart.

  “She’s quite clean, it’s just that her eating habits are a bit messy. Now, lift her at the waist and I’ll get his shoulders onto the tray. Just be careful, her thinking is not too clear when she is feeding. Ready? Heave!”

  Senterri put her arms around the supernaturally strong bundle of shadows, claws, and fangs, and was not really surprised to discover that she had no body heat at all. They heaved.

  “No! Mine! Mine! Mine!” mumbled Velander, her teeth still buried in the caravan master’s neck.

  With a frantic flurry of pushes and shoves, Senterri and the youth managed to get the vampyre and her victim onto the tray of the wagon and raise the tailgate. Senterri’s rescuer draped a ragged tent over them, then sagged against the wheel and paused to catch his breath.

  Senterri glanced about her. The street now looked quite normal, almost innocent. The horse seemed quite unperturbed, and obviously had seen a lot of this sort of thing. The youth had worked with efficiency that could only have come from extensive practice. He snapped his fingers, and a pinpoint of light appeared above the palm of his left hand. With his right hand he reached under the seat of the wagon.

  “Now, what do we have here? Which scroll? Are you Senterri/ Sargolan/Five?”

  “Senterri is my name, and—”

  “Good. This scroll must be yours, I’ll just stamp it. There, you are free. Take the scroll, and his purse.”

  He thrust them into Senterri’s hands.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Go. You’re free.”

  “Free?” Senterri gasped. “What do you mean? You can’t just set me free.”

  “I just have.”

  “But you can’t!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am a slave.”

  “Not anymore, I stamped your scroll. Just here, see—”

  “No, no. I mean if I was found wandering the streets with my master’s purse and my master missing, I would be tried for his murder, sentenced to death, and executed so fast the town crier would be able to announce the lot in one breath,” Senterri hurriedly explained, stamping her foot with exasperation.

  At that moment Velander’s head appeared over the edge of the wagon’s tray, her chin dark with blood.

  “Girl is right, Laron,” she hissed in soft, heavily accented Diomedan. “With us, comes.”

  “What? No!” snapped Laron. “Next time your stomach rumbled you would be onto her faster than a sailor with a—”

  “No, safety, I pledge, for her. From tavern, young lady. Remembering, one I said about? With evil slaver? With filthy ravisher?”

  “I—Yes, yours was a brave and valourous deed, quite beyond—” Senterri began.

  “Succulent ravisher,” Velander said wistfully.

  She bared her fangs and flicked her tongue over them, then her head vanished again. Laron glanced up and down the street, but it was still empty. He unpinned his cloak and draped it over Senterri’s shoulders.

  “Here, hide your collar and chain under this.”

  The guards at Urok’s desertside gate were more interested in keeping raiders out than preventing anyone from leaving, whatever the hour of the day or night. However, at night they charged double the bribe for an unrecorded opening with no questions asked. Laron paid with one of D’Alik’s coins, borrowed from Senterri.

  “If they knew what they were letting out of Urok, they would have let us pass for free,” said Senterri, glancing back at the covered tray of the wagon, and shuddering.

  “Thinks with her stomach,” Laron muttered without turning.

  He urged the horse to a brisk but sustainable pace.

  “My lord, I am truly grateful to you for your valorous rescue,” said Senterri, once the town’s lights were no longer visible behind them.

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Look, this was Velander’s idea, not mine. I did not even know you were being rescued until the fight started—but don’t feel hurt or anything. If I had known about you—ah, I suppose I would have suggested a rescue to Velander anyway. How does it feel to be free? Job security can be a problem, but—Ah, good, we turn here and cut across the field to the road that goes west, beside the river. Hold o
n, it’s bumpy for a way.”

  “That, that, that, er, whatever it is—you mean she deliberately rescued me?” Senterri said, slowly catching up with what Laron had been saying.

  “Yes. Were unwelcome sexual attentions about to be foisted upon you by the caravan master?”

  “I—Ah, yes.”

  “Thought so. Velander is a little touchy about the rights of women in general, and violence against them in particular. I am, too, but I don’t take it as personally as Velander, her being a girl—well, more or less, anyway. That is probably why she chose the caravan master to be first. He is Dinner Seventeen.”

  “She has killed seventeen people?” gasped Senterri.

  “Oh no. If you count Breakfast Six and Lunch Two, it comes to twenty-five.”

  Senterri swallowed.

  “Ah, and I nearly forgot about Midnight Snack Six and Afternoon Tea Two.”

  “Thirty-three deaths?”

  “Her favorites are rapists, although she mostly makes do with ordinary bandits as a staple. She is also partial to bullies, wifebeaters, slavers, pimps, and burglars—oh, and corrupt administrators, she loves those. Then there are delicacies, like boring bards who sing out of tune, wine fanciers who will not shut up about the great cellars and vineyards they have visited, and religious fanatics who follow people about in the street reading tracts of scripture.”

  I have either gone raving mad or I am dreaming, thought Senterri. Or maybe both. Perhaps the caravan master is ravishing me, and I have gone insane with shame and humiliation. I have vanished into my own head, where my spirit dreams it is free even though my body is—

  There was a muffled squeal followed by frantic scrabbling from the tray behind them.

  “Velander!” shouted Laron, banging on the side of the cart. “Keep the noise down.”

  No dream, thought Senterri. Far too ridiculous. By Miral’s light, Senterri saw long, gleaming fangs flash in Laron’s mouth. So he was one, too! Senterri realized. One what? Whatever they were, they tore people’s throats out and drank their blood. Perhaps she was being saved for later, as well … yet the treatment she was receiving was considerably better than that which her late masters had experienced.