The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2)
Page 14
And like he realized she was thinking about him, the boy rolled over and said, “M’lday.”
“Not sleeping well?” she asked.
“After all you’ve told me, what do you expect?”
Her smile grew wider. “I’m impressed you were able to sleep at all.”
Armand said, “A couple of days being dragged behind a horse will make you so tired that even the thought of being killed or eaten doesn’t do much at all.”
“Good for you,” she said. “Sleep is precious around here.”
“How long have you been a prisoner?”
“Long enough.”
He came closer to the side of the cage. “Have they taken you far from here?”
“No,” she said. “Here I sit, here I stay, ever since I’ve been captured.”
“So you don’t know much about what lays out there, beyond the hills?”
She moved a blanket tighter about her. “No, I don’t. I tried to escape a few times but never made it more than a few meters away before they caught me.”
“That will have to change.”
Melinda couldn’t believe what the boy was saying. “Again you talk of escape. What do you intend to do? Break free and fly us the both out of here? Do you have an airship hidden in your clothes? Or a magical weapon to slay them all? Or some shaman chant to put them all asleep so we can stroll out of there, like we’re going to the village center for market day?”
“No, I don’t have any of that,” Armand admitted. “But what I do have is my title, m’lady, as a noble. With that title comes duties, such as defending lady folk of the Empire, no matter where they happen to be. I take that as my duty, m’lady, no matter what you say.”
Her voice was tired. “Don’t make promises you cannot keep, my young noble.”
He said, “This is a promise I will, and I must, keep, Melinda. I intend to get the both of us out of here. I don’t know how. But I know it will happen.”
“And for me? You’re going to do this for me?
Melinda was expecting the foolish young boy to puff up and say, but of course, I’m doing it all for you, m’lday, but instead he seemed to grow old and more solemn. Armand said, “No… not only just for you. For me as well.”
She said, “That makes sense.”
“No, it’s more than that,” Armand said. “I have other duties to complete as well. Here and back in the Empire. And I can’t fulfill them by being a prisoner.”
“Bold talk for a young boy, being held prisoner.”
“Not just talk, m’lady,” he said. “You’ll see. Not just talk.”
With that, he pushed himself away from the side of the cage, and wrapped himself up in his own dirty blankets. In a while Melinda did the same thing, and it took her a very long time to fall asleep, for that damn young noble had done something to her, had awoken and stirred something she thought was long ago dead.
Hope. That young noble had given her hope.
In spite of it all, she hated him for doing that.
Every day thereafter, Armand was taken out of his cage, to wash dishes or to cut wood under the very watchful eye of an Ayan tribesman who had a carbine trained on him at all time, and motioned to a circle drawn in the dirt, indicating if he were to step out of the circle with hand axe in hand, Armand would be shot. Along the way, he found the number of Ayan males were eighteen or nineteen, depending who was outside of the palisades.
Once, coming back he saw his Jasper, being forced to ride around the paddock, and Armand silently cheered him on as he dumped one of the Ayans on his ass. After each day of chores, Armand found himself back inside his cage, trying to talk to Melinda, to find out more about her and the Ayans. Some days Armand found her to be talkative, and other days, she gave him one or two word answers, if that.
As for the circumstances of her capture, she said very little, just that she and three others staying at a farmhouse had been raided by this band of Ayan tribesmen. As for her personal background, not a word, though from her appearance and her accent, Armand was sure she was from one of the northern tribes of the Inuit in the Empire. But she would never tell him her last name, not ever.
But of the Ayan tribesmen, she had plenty to say.
She talked low and quiet, like she didn’t want them to hear her, and Armand would sit near her as she lectured, like the student she was. “They’re an old group, dating back before the War of the World. Supposedly they were just isolated bands, but after Amerka broke up and our Empire was established, they grew stronger and more widespread, coming out from mountains in the west. They believe they are a chosen race, and that the rest of us are known as mud people.”
Armand could hear screaming, laughing, and more screams, from a part of the camp he couldn’t see. “What in the hell are they doing over there?”
“Fighting,” she said. “They love to fight. They will fight each other over an insult, an undercooked piece of dog, or anything else. They love to fight the Indians and everyone else. They have no fear, save for one thing.”
“What’s that, their God?”
She shook her head. “As far as I know, they don’t worship a God. Wait, I take that back. They worship a book.”
“A book?”
Melinda nodded. “Yes, a book. I saw it once at a ceremony. I suppose I shouldn’t have seen it as an unbeliever but an exception was made, I guess.”
“What kind of book is it?”
“Well, it’s wrapped in skin. Human skin, I’m sure.”
Armand’s stomach did a slow roll. “Oh, that’s nice.”
“Yeah. But it’s very, very old, even older than they are. It’s written in a language that has the same letters and forms as Franglish, but not exactly. In the middle of the book is a black and white photograph, of the book’s author. A strange looking man, with piercing eyes, dark short hair, and a moustache. But not a full moustache. Just a little one, no more wider than his nose.”
“Why do they worship it?”
Melinda said, “They believe the book contains the secrets of who they are and where they came from as the chosen race. Even though they can’t read it. Hell, none of them can even read a word, as much as I can tell.”
Armand couldn’t help it. He started laughing for the first time since his capture. Melinda looked shocked. “What’s so funny?”
“Some chosen race,” Armand said. “Sleeping on the ground, eating dog and whatever, freezing in the winter, living in tents. If I lived like that, I don’t think I’d be particularly chosen. Maybe cursed.”
Melinda said carefully, “Maybe so, but they don’t like being laughed at. I know that for a fact. They demand respect. Which is probably why they fight so damn much.”
“But you said earlier that they fear one thing. What’s that?”
Melinda waited for a while before answering, and then she said slowly, “I will tell you this, but only if you agree not to gain hope or anything else from what I say.”
“Is it the Empire? Do they fear the Empire?”
Now it was her turn to laugh. “Oh, Armand. I think they respect the Empire, but if the truly feared it, they wouldn’t raid the border towns and capture innocents. No, the only thing they fear is well to the south of us. They call them Starmen. They speak of them in hushed voices, like telling each other ghost stories. In the south, there is a great fortress where the Starmen live, and they rule over certain lands. Anytime the Ayan gets near the Starmen, they are exterminated. Supposedly the Starmen are tall, fearless, and have magical weapons that can cause death from klicks away.”
“Have you ever seen them?”
“No, I haven’t, and sometimes I think they’re just a legend. Like so many other tales of mighty people. But when they do talk about the Starmen, they get afraid.”
“That name. Do they think they really come from the stars? Like monsters from out of space?”
“I don’t know any more, Armand. I think the tales of Starmen are just legends. Don’t put anything into it. Just leave it be.”
Two days after their talk about the Starmen, there was a change in the camp. Horses were moving about, and there were shouts and yells. Armand saw four women on horseback, lined up. They were laughing and gesturing to the other men, and then a group of eight men came up, armed with lever-action carbines and bows. There were more shouts, and then they all rode out of the main gate. Melinda saw it as well and Armand said, “What was that all about?”
“Those were the senior wives to this tribe of Ayan,” she said. “They come for a few weeks, to cook and clean and to reacquaint themselves with their menfolk. But after a while, they go back to the main village.”
“With one hell of an escort,” Armand said.
“Yes,” she said. “Women are precious to the tribe. They see them as some holy vessel, to perpetuate their people.”
He said, “When I first met them, they scared the crap out of me.”
“They should have,” she said. “In some ways, they are more cruel than their menfolk. One of us who were captured in Manitoba was a beautiful young girl, the daughter of the family who had put me up. Two women here were jealous of her beauty. It took a long time for her to die.”
Once the horsemen and the women had left, then something odd happened. One of the Ayan tribesman –-- the bulky one who had urinated over Armand after he was captured -–- came by their cages. And Melinda, quiet Melinda, his reclusive neighbor, suddenly tossed off her blanket and raced to the chained door. She rattled the door and called out, “Joe, oh Joe! Joe!”
The Ayan named Joe grinned, and a couple of his buddies slapped him on the shoulder, and he strode over. Melinda started talking rapidly in the language of the Ayan, which stunned him, but shouldn’t have. After all, she did know a lot about their customs and beliefs, but not once had she earlier said a word of the Ayan language.
Joe came over, grinning his wide grin, teeth yellow and dirty, the tattoos on his face and skull visible. He went to the door and produced a key, and working it into the padlock, he popped the door open. Melinda giggled and slid through the open door, and into his arms, and he laughed again. As they walked away, his hand rubbed the back of her head, loosening up her long hair, and for a moment, when the hair at her neck was free, Armand saw a tattoo there, a tattoo of the same crooked-cross that was on all of the men.
Chapter Thirteen
Armand did another bout of cleaning dishes and pots, and then was back in his cage after a couple of more kicks to his legs and butt. There were more shouts and some singing, and fires were lit before their cages. Armand didn’t know what was going on -–- perhaps the men folk were letting their hair down (even if they were bald) now the women folk had left --– but there was something darkly odd in the air. His three Sioux neighbors had retreated to the far corner of their cage, like nervous sheep at a farm, hearing the squeals of other sheep being slaughtered.
He sat against the wooden cage, cold, even with the blankets wrapped around him. Armand tried not to think of what was going on, and especially, not to think of Melinda, quiet Melinda, the older woman who was a graduate student, a fellow member of the Empire, and ---
What? A mistress? A concubine?
More shouting, more laughter, and he sat still, as shadows approached, carrying burning torches.
They came right up to Armand’s door.
There were three of them, young, bulky and wearing the usual trousers, heavy boots and leather vests. They weaved back and forth, drunk, and Armand could smell them. He imagined they could smell the fear on him. They lowered their torches and one yelled at Armand, but he kept his place. But another one rattled the door, making Armand jump, and they all laughed. In the torchlight, their tattoos looked dark, looked evil. Another tugging at the door, and more laughter. Then one reached to the lock on Armand’s door, and an argument started, two against one, with the one trying to break open the lock. Armand had the queasiest thought they were fighting over him.
It went on, with loud voices, hands waved around, and then one threw a punch, and then the other punched back, and one torch was sputtering on the ground as the third one laughed and cheered them on. Punch after punch, rolling around in the dirt, and there was a high-pitched scream as one of the Ayans had the other one’s ear in his teeth. A few more moments of struggle, and they got to their feet, still drunk, but laughing. One of them was bleeding from the ear, and the other was bleeding from his nose. The torch was picked up and they went to the cage with the three Sioux.
This time, there wasn’t any fighting or discussion. The gate to the cage was unlocked and two of them ducked and went in, torches in hand. The three Sioux started talking and the older one, Karr, came forward on his knees, pleading, but he was ignored and they grabbed the other one, the one with legs, and dragged him out. Jimmy, the one with no legs, cowered in a corner, and the one on his knees tried to follow but he was punched and kicked back in, still pleading. A chill roared over Armand, knowing what was happening: the older of the three men was offering to take the place of the younger, the Sioux named Tom. Father and son? Uncle and nephew? Two brothers? Armand didn’t know. All he knew was that while Jimmy cried and cowered in the corner, Karr was up against the locked door, hands extended out, still pleading.
Tom was kicked and stomped, and was pushed down into the dirt, and his arms were bound behind him by a length of rawhide. One of the three Ayans had a stick and he drew a large circle around the two Ayans and Tom. The two other Ayans then butted their chests together, and their fists, and then they drew swords from their belts, after dropping their lever-action carbines in the dirt. The third Ayan –-- who was carrying a torch –-- flipped a die and then shouted and pointed at the taller of the two in the circle. This one --– who had a bloody nose from the earlier fight --– laughed and grabbed Tom and dragged him in front of his torso, and now he stood behind the Indian, sword held out, and then they fought.
It was a horrible thing to watch, especially with the other Sioux nearby, crooning and chanting. The fight went on, with the two Ayan going after each other with swords. Every few minutes or so, they would switch off, pushing Tom in front of one of the fighters. Armand understood the horrid game they were playing: one would hold Tom in front of him, and the other would try to strike his opponent without touching Tom… but in the flashing swords, Tom was struck in his shoulder, in his hip, and once in the face. Blood sprayed everywhere as the Sioux stumbled and was hauled up by one of the strong Ayans. Earlier Armand thought they were experienced fighters, but he saw now they moved with speed but no grace, just hammering blows at each other.
So that was the game, to see who could fight the best without injuring Tom. The Sioux spun about as a sword flashed, severing an ear, and he rose up a hand and in another flash of the sword, fingers were sliced off. More whoops of laughter and cheers, and then Armand saw something he couldn’t believe: one of the Ayans came forward with a sword thrust, Tom deliberately stepped in front of it, the sword stabbing into his chest. He slumped over and then fell to the ground, and the chanting beside Armand stopped.
It was suddenly quiet, and the two Ayan fighters got into an argument, hands raised, yelling, pointing to dead Tom on the ground, and it seemed like they were fighting over who had won. Punches were thrown and they wrestled themselves to the ground while Karr and Jimmy started a low, more mournful chant. Then the third Ayan, the one with the torch, said something sharp, and the two others stopped fighting. They got up from the dirt, weaving some, and all three looked out to the camp, like students playing hooky, waiting for a schoolteacher to catch them. They moved quickly, the two fighters grabbing Tom’s legs and then dragging him away, followed by the torch-bearer, the chanting low and yet still loud in Armand’s ears.
Sometime during the night Armand heard a gate being opened, and o
pened his eyes. Melinda came in and stretched out on her blanket roll. She had a small cloth bag which she put with her other belongings, and then she rolled over, her back facing him.
“Hey,” Armand said.
No answer.
“Hey,” Armand said, louder. “Melinda!”
“What?” snapped back her voice, instantly sounding like Armand’s sister Michelle, being brought to task by Mother. “What is it?”
“Tom is dead,” he said, his voice above a whisper. “There was a fight. Two Ayans fought with swords. He was in the middle, part of a game.”
“Oh,” she said.
“That’s it? Just ‘oh’?”
She rolled over, sighed with some sort of disgust. “All right then, Armand. I’m sorry he’s dead. And if you’re queasy, don’t eat any of the stew over the next week. Now, shut the hell up so I can sleep, all right?”
“Of course, m’lady,” Armand said with exaggerated politeness. “Whatever you say.”
He rolled over and curled up tight in his blanket. Jimmy and Karr were sitting up, silent, no more chanting. Armand took a breath in and a breath out. The way of the world here. To die for someone’s amusement, to end one’s life tortured and killed, and then --–
“Armand?”
He laid still, not wanting to talk to her.
“Armand? Please?”
“Yes?” he replied.
“Please… could you turn over, just for a moment?”
Armand rolled over on the hard ground and in the dim light from the fires and torches, he saw Melinda’s face, and that was all. Everything else was wrapped in her blanket.
She said, “I… I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just that… well... I found something out a while ago, something I didn’t want to hear.”
“What is it? Tell me.”
Melinda sighed. “It’s about you.”
“Me? Why? Oh --–“
Armand kept quiet for a second or two, and said, “They’ve decided no one is going to ransom me. They’ve decided I’m no longer valuable. Am I right?”