by Candy Nicks
He returned his attention to the guard. With no sword to yield, protocol called for the touching of hands, so timing was everything. The slightest touch and the surrender would be set in stone, their fate sealed.
"Do you yield freely?"
"I do.” Ancel lifted his hands, careful to keep the symbol burned into his left palm concealed. “I am unarmed, as you see."
"Then make the sign and be done."
Ancel stayed in place, motioning him forward. The guard took a hesitant step, glancing at the chief slave-runner who waved him on.
"Get it done, you buffoon. Or I'll sell you in his place. Can't you see we're losing the market?"
A split second before the touch, Ancel stiffened his hand and thrust it, blade-like into the guard's throat. The reaction from outside the cage was instantaneous.
"You're dead,” the chief cried. He raised his sword and leapt into the cage, almost trampling the body of the twitching felled guard. “I'll kill you myself. Man to man, here, now. Then I'll have your woman in front of everyone. Maybe I'll keep you alive and let you watch. Let it be the last thing you see before you die."
"You'll step over my dead body first.” Ancel swept up the now-unconscious guard's sword. Taking up a defensive stance, sword raised at an angle in front of his chest, weight perfectly balanced, he reached out for Carine, needing to know that she was still with him. Stand firm, he urged her with a press of his hand. The symbols burned and strained, one towards the other with an almost unbearable longing. Sad and sweetly poignant, whispering of hopes and regrets. Of promises that they'd likely never be able to keep. Sealing them together, he closed his hand around hers and let her feel his strength.
A sharp crack split the air, followed by the metallic clang of sword on sword. The slave-runner's sword scraped the bars of the cage in an explosion of sparks. Ancel stepped back, still holding onto Carine, blocking with his own sword. She stepped with him, mirroring his movements almost instinctively. Another thrust pushed the slave-runner back and almost brought them to the open door of the cage. None would interfere while the combat was one to one. The chief had chosen the sword rather than the blast-gun in order to show off his prowess to his men, but once they'd broken free, it would be open season. Every one of the guards surrounding the cage looked as if they wanted a piece of the mighty Eagle warrior. They would take great pleasure in his death.
"Stay behind me,” Ancel yelled and let go of her hand. Ducking low, he swept under the arc of the Slave-Runner's sword and lunged for his legs. The man jumped, neatly avoiding the deadly slash, showing an agility that belied his tremendous bulk. He grinned widely.
"That's better,” he said. “At least give me a contest to boast of."
"Oh, you'll get that. Before you die.” Ancel swung his weapon, using the momentum to thrust upwards. The confines of the cage and the two sprawled bodies of the felled guards limited movement to the most basic of slashes and stabs, allowing few of the acrobatic moves for which he was famous. “I reclaim my honour,” he roared, almost catching one of the captives who scrabbled out of his way. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of the captive he'd laid out, his face pressed against the bars. The man groaned and shook his head.
"I deny you.” The slave-runner nodded at the captive, now sitting dazed and rubbing his eyes. “Interesting tale he had to tell. Just what did bring about this miraculous recovery of yours? Better not be what I'm thinking.” The tip of his blade whistled past Ancel's ear, catching the side of his jaw. A thin line of blood stained his skin, running into the hollow of his throat. “First blood.” The slave-runner threw back his head and crowed.
"Second.” Ignoring both the jibe and the blood, Ancel caught the Slave-Runner neatly on the bicep. The man barely flinched.
"Give it up,” he said lowering his weapon as a mark of contempt. “You're in a slave cage. I have four men on point and the perimeter is heavily guarded. Where could you possibly go?"
"Home.” Ancel raised his chin. “I'm going home.” Instead of fighting it, he let the pictures come. The snow-covered mountains, the sharp clean air. His mother's soft hand, the adoring, indulgence in her beautiful face. Such a contrast to his father's grim disapproval. The daughter he'd never seen.
Yes, he had unfinished business there too. He wasn't ready to end his life here, by any means.
"The Wish-in-Hand is gone.” The captive seemed to suddenly remember what he'd been saying before Ancel knocked him senseless. Ancel kicked out at him, missing him this time as the man rolled away towards the open door of the cage. “Let me out,” the man screamed, hysterical now. “Let me out and I'll tell you how to make more credits than you've ever dreamed.” The captive fell from the opening, righted himself and lurched towards the slave-runners guarding the perimeter.
Ancel marked him, burning the man's image into his brain. His betrayal would not go unpunished and the man knew it. As a son of the High Lord of Faylar, justice was Ancel's to mete out. “Pray that we never meet again,” he mouthed to the cowering man. He turned to face the chief slave-runner who appeared far too relaxed for one who stood a hair's breadth away from death. Instead of raising his sword, the man laughed and shook his head.
"This gets better by the moment. You!” The slave-runner jabbed his finger at the captive, now dangling by his collar which was scrunched into the hands of one of the guards. “Tell me what's going on. Why is an Eagle so intent on defending a Moon-Child? Why should he care?"
Rule number one, never let yourself be distracted. Ancel immediately threw all of his weight forward, head low. The slave-runner grunted, gasping out his breath as Ancel's head made contact with his solar-plexus. Ancel followed with a vicious blow to the back of the head, using fists now rather than the sword, which was far too unwieldy a weapon for the confines of the cage. Stemming the flow of blood-lust took all of his control. Rather than killing the man outright, as he'd vowed to do, Ancel circled the man's throat with his hands and squeezed until the gasping man jerked and fell limp against him.
"Now, where were we? Oh, yes, you were going to release me and the girl. Or will they turn on you, as you turned on him? Are you ready to die with us?” Ancel pushed the charred body of the dead guard with his boot. “Carine, the swords. Both of them. And you,” he said to the captured slave-runner. “Tell them to stand back and let us pass."
The slave-runner remained silent, his mouth set in a defiant line. Ancel pressed his thumbs harder into the man's windpipe.
"Okay, okay.” The slave-runner grabbed in vain at Ancel's hands. “You heard him,” he choked out. “Lower your weapons."
The guards exchanged a brief glance, as if weighing up the chances of them taking Ancel without the help of their leader. Ancel prayed that he was throttling the brains of the operation. A leadership challenge now would be disastrous. Thankfully the surrounding guards shook their heads and placed their blast-guns carefully on the ground.
"I'll double the bonus, for each one of you. Step away from the cage and let them pass."
Around the cage everyone stilled, their eyes fixed on the drama unfolding within. Challenges and breaks for freedom were usual, but never normally amounted to more than a few moments’ amusement. Now, even the Overseers were watching with interest.
Before hauling his human shield upright, Ancel ground his boot hard onto the man's flailing hands, first the right, then the left. As expected, the man neither flinched, nor made a sound, but his eyes spoke of his pain, and his rage. To be humiliated in front of him men was the worst indignity and one which would take all his cunning to survive. Ancel took a firm, single-handed grip on the man's throat and thrust him towards the opening of the cage. Extending his right hand, he reached for one of the swords.
"Stay close,” he warned Carine, wishing that he could return her gift and give her back the strength she'd given him. Her pale face belied the determination in her expression, making Ancel pray to every God he knew that she'd hold firm. “We're going home,” he told her. “Tell me
you believe it."
"Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “Let's do it."
Chapter 2
Home. They called it, Terralandria, the world below the mountains. A province of shady glades and grassy valleys. Still lakes fed by icy melt-water torrents tumbling from the jagged peaks towering over their land. Carine had never travelled higher than the snow-line, which moved with the seasons and formed a natural barrier between the Children of the Moon and Eyrie, home to the Tribes of the Eagle.
Neither had she ventured towards the cities where the new-rich were fast rejecting the old ways in favour of the technology brought in by opportunistic off-world traders. Here, the heavy air stank of pollution and corruption. Nature sidelined in favour or metal and money.
Carine jabbed her sword against the captive slave-runner's side, surprised at the anger coursing through her veins. “Move,” she cried and prodded him again. The choking man could do no more than raise hostile eyes to hers. Ancel nodded his approval and shoved him forwards.
"One false move,” he warned him, “and I'll let her finish you."
Carine clutched at the cloak, desperately trying to preserve her modesty while hefting the heavy sword. Could she ever do that? Take a life? Blood trickled from the wound on Ancel's jaw and it startled her to think that she might. The Wish had willed that he live. The Gift of the Goddess had chosen him, and she would honour that wish and do everything within her power to make sure it had not been given in vain.
That, or she must stand here and die with him. This even more alarming thought caused her to stop in her tracks for a moment, unable to breath. All they had was their hostage, whose dubious worth they had yet to find out, and their love of freedom.
It wasn't enough. She jumped from the cage into the market square. Running meant certain death. Surrender offered a slim glimmer of hope. For one of them, perhaps both. Life as a pleasure slave might be bearable, given a tolerant and undemanding master. Ancel, were he allowed to live, was almost certainly destined for the short brutal life of the Fight-Club circuit. Or even worse, Gladiator school and the arena.
It took all of her reserves to stand firm beside him, waiting for his lead.
"Are you ready?"
To live, or die? She nodded, unsure of what he was asking, but determined to prove herself either way. For the first time, it struck her that he might have a sweetheart, or even a wife. Someone whose place she had taken without even a second thought.
"Save me, and I'll find a way to release you.” She inched forward, unsure of what to read into his curt nod, his only acknowledgement of her words. At their chief's gurgled plea, the guards fell back and allowed them to pass unhindered.
Ancel urged her through the crowd, wielding the guard like a shield. “I don't trust them, he said. “Those two won't stand by him. And the hybrids will follow them. Keep sharp."
The slave-runner had cold-bloodedly executed his colleague and Carine had no doubt that the others would do the same to their leader given the chance. Hybrids were modified humans, bred for obedience, Material wealth meant little to them. They would follow the strongest of them without question. At the moment that person was still the one Ancel held a hair away from death, but that could change at any time. Ancel angled the sword across his captive's neck and whispered something close to his face. The man bared his teeth and gestured wildly with his hand. The guards turned as one to the tallest among them, who shook his head and lowered his blast-gun. Carine breathed out her panic and bit back a cry as a stone cut into her bare foot.
The temporary respite allowed them to inch their way towards the trading posts lining the edge of the market-place. In front of the stores were benches piled with gaudy baubles and trinkets, shimmering bolts of cloth, hot pies and barrels of ale. The delicious aroma of freshly-baked bread made her head spin. Licking her cracked lips, she tried not to think of iced mint-tea and honey-cakes fresh from the oven.
No-one but the guards seemed interested in them other than as a spectator sport. Why risk getting killed so someone else could pocket the profit? A blacksmith stood, arms folded, hammer in hand, guarding the door to his workshop. Some of the traders scrabbled for their blast-guns, accustomed to the mayhem caused by runaways and determined to protect their wares. Others called out longer or shorter odds on the escape, their books waved in the air. The guards who'd followed them matched Ancel and Carine step for step, keeping a wary respectful distance.
"Third door on the right.” Ancel gestured with his head, his bloodied hair a mad tangle about his face. “The alleyway next to it. Can you make it there?"
"I think so."
"Good, check and see if it's blind."
Carine ignored the trembling in her legs and the sheer terror twisting in her gut. Groping for Ancel, she felt the market-place go out of focus then come back again. She was running on empty, but run she would.
Ancel on the other hand looked stronger by the moment, almost exhilarated. Hefting his purple-faced captive as if the man were no more than a stripling, he looked the very epitome of supreme command. His set features held a challenge few in their right minds would take up and a fierce energy poured off him in waves. The Magic had chosen well and she offered a quick prayer of thanks.
Moving the few steps to the alleyway, she saw with great relief that it appeared to lead somewhere. Where, she had no idea.
"When I kill him, be prepared to run with everything you have."
"You're going to kill him?"
Ancel's expression flickered between incredulous and implacable. “Don't go soft on me now. You asked me to save you, I'm doing it. By my hand or theirs, he's doomed. Can we get out that way?"
She managed a small nod, swallowing down the revulsion. Survival didn't allow for ethics. It was kill or be killed, whether she liked that or not.
"Cut yourselves,” someone shouted, waving a betting slip in the air. His voice broke the silence that had descended on the market place. “Your blood will confuse the scanners, and I'll make a mint."
"He's lying,” a woman pushed through the crowd. “Give up. It's your only hope.” Others took up the call.
"Yes!"
"No!"
"Run!"
The pursuing guards pushed through the cheering crowd, shoving them out of the way as they scrambled after their prey. The crowd's earlier indifference turned to frenzied excitement at the thought that a captive might make it out of the slave market, let alone breach the walls.
Time was racing ahead of them. Carine ached for her Crystal and the protection it might have given them. Protection she'd up to now taken for granted.
"You heard,” one of their pursuers called out. “We honour your strength and offer mercy for the woman. For you,” the man wiped greasy sweat from his brow and glanced around at his colleagues. “We offer an honourable death, Eagle Warrior. Sword in hand. Your entry to the Hall of Warriors will be swift."
"They won't be parted,” another of the guards called out. “You heard back there. Bonded, they are. An Eagle and a Moon-Child. Got to be worth a fortune, that."
"We take him alive then,” the guard said without hesitation, fast assuming the role of leader.
Ancel returned a feral grin. “Not on this day,” he said with deceptive calm. Reaching behind he snatched a half-cut loaf and handed it to Carine. “Can you eat and run?"
"I could vault that building in a single bound if there was food on the other side."
Ancel let out a bark of laughter. “We'll make an Eagle of you yet,” he said and urged her with a brush of his hip towards the opening between the trading-posts. As they moved into the gap he kicked out suddenly, overturning one of the stalls to the indignant cries of its owner. Threads of gossamer banner-silk spiralled into the air, catching the thermals, dancing, interweaving. Forming a temporary, natural barrier to the opening between the buildings. Their pursuers launched themselves on to the tangled silks, slashing with their swords. Unable to use their blast-guns to dispatch their former leader wi
thout risking harm to their precious prey.
Carine felt the shift, saw the resignation in the captive slave-runner's eyes as the challenger burst through and aimed his weapon. Ancel's fingers closed on her arm and pulled her low behind the bulk of the man. The slave-runner took the full force of the blast, his charred, unprotesting body discharging the energy. Ancel pushed her farther into the alleyway and hoisted up the remains. Sword in one hand, the body still held shield-like before him, he rose to his full height.
"Run,” he said. “I'll hold them for as long as I can."
"No.” It wasn't just bravado talking. The symbols ached with the very thought of leaving him, already feeling the grief of parting. When she touched his elbow, he flinched and pushed her away.
"No,” he said, his voice rough with contained emotion. “Don't touch me. There's no shame in a warrior's death."
She felt his reluctance, the control he exerted so ruthlessly. In front of them the new leader stood, ready to face the challenge. To deal out death and prove himself worthy.
"Go,” Ancel said again, eyes set on the coming fight. “If I can control this Bonding, then so can you. I repay my debt to you with my life."
"But that doesn't make sense. How can I live without you?"
For a brief moment his expression softened. “You'll find a way, Moon-Child."
"Carine, my name is Carine.” He was her mortal enemy and now her very life. And this would be her last vision of him. Not the tall unwavering warrior, the hard man who would meet his end with courage and provide a spectacle that would be talked about for many years to come. That vision would fade, but the intense regret in his flint-grey eyes would haunt her dreams until she grew old and bent with age. She would spend the rest of her life wondering what it meant.
"My name is Carine,” she said again.