The bastard screamed, but did not die. Brogan tried to pull the dagger out and stab him again, but it was seated properly and did not want to be pulled loose. The man screamed some more and reached to stop him, so Brogan stepped back and drove a fist into the damn fool’s face again and again until he stopped all his yelling.
He looked around and found the man’s sword. It would do. He reached for it and missed, reached again and grabbed the blade up.
And by the time he was done with that Mosely was riding his way.
Sallos was directly behind him.
“They all dead then?”
Sallos spat. “Not hardly. Mostly just so broken they can’t get themselves up and start fighting again.”
Harper came closer, still riding his horse. His face was once again smirking.
“What do you suppose that was all about?”
Brogan looked back at him. “Seems the king would like to talk to us about murdering some folks.”
Harper shook his head. “And what do you plan to do about that?”
“What else? We’re going to talk to the king.”
“What do you plan to tell him about this?” He gestured at the wounded and dying.
That was a problem.
“Whatever we have to.” He looked around the area for a long moment. “We hide the bodies.”
“What about the ones still alive?” Mosely meant well.
“We’ve just committed an act of treason, lads. We hide the bodies.”
Mosely opened his mouth to protest and Harper spoke up. “They’d have taken our money and killed us to keep us silent.”
Mosely closed his mouth.
A moment later he was off his horse and moving closer. “What about the ones who are still alive?” Perhaps the lad hoped for a different answer.
Harper stared hard, that same damnable half-smile in place. “We hide the bodies. All of them.”
Brogan knew the man was right. He’d have answered the same way. That didn’t make him feel any better about it.
* * *
In Saramond the weather had soured. Rain was bad, but this was not merely rain, it was accompanied by wind and lightning and the endless roars of thunder.
B’Rath was a free man and he owned the stables at the northern end of town. The money was enough to let him have a comfortable life, though he knew he’d never get rich from it. What helped him stay more than merely comfortable was the information he shared with the right people. For a few coins he reported whenever someone new came to town. Not every person passing through, merely those he suspected were important to someone.
The day was growing old and the sun would be setting soon enough – albeit somewhere behind the clouds – and B’Rath closed the doors of the stables and locked them properly. Horse thieves were not a large problem in Saramond, but they were a problem. He had four servants – his brother Uto among them – to watch over the animals and they did their job well enough, but he did not like to tempt the hearts of thieves.
As he headed back for his small house in front of the stables, the lightning flared and lit the northern road for a moment. He was looking in that direction as luck would have it, and so he saw the shapes that fell from the sky at the edge of town.
They descended like fruit dropping from a tree and only as they should have struck the earth did they suddenly slow and settle themselves.
When B’Rath was much younger his family had lived on the coast near Adimone, and his father had worked on the docks, paying for the fish brought in by the boats and selling them to those who wanted to feed their families on the fruit of the sea.
There had been a fish called a sea cape. The great thing had a wide body and, instead of fins, had massive, fleshy wings that it used to swim at great speeds. His father had favored the meat and often brought them with him for the family to eat. B’Rath had always been fascinated by the things and remembered them well.
The shapes that fell from the sky reminded him of sea capes, and he watched as the wings of those shapes wrapped around the bodies until what he saw looked more like a man draped in a great hooded cloak than anything else.
He didn’t need to know more than that. B’Rath hid himself against the side of his home as the forms walked closer.
The hooded shapes drifted across the muddied ground, their heads lowered and their faces hidden in shadows. As he watched, the two at the front of their short column dropped lower and their cloaks slithered and folded around them, moving across the muck of the street much as the wings of the sea capes had slithered through water or sand. The mass of their bodies nearly seemed to float, while the wings suspended them.
The heads lowered further and even through the downpour and the rumbles of thunder, he could hear the wet, snuffling sounds of the creatures sniffing the ground as if they were a pair of hounds on a trail.
One of them rose and nodded. The other stayed low to the ground and the group moved forward again.
He had seen them before, of course. Most people had seen the Undying before, at least if they lived in one of the cities instead of in the silent places where farms were more common than people.
Saramond was a large city and he lived on the outskirts. He stayed hidden as the shapes moved past his house and he whispered silent prayers to the gods. The Grakhul came for their sacrifices when they chose and he prayed desperately that his family would be spared. He had never heard of any member of his family being taken by the hooded shapes and he hoped to keep it that way.
Sometimes the gods offer favor.
The dark forms, eleven all told, moved slowly down the road and into Saramond proper.
B’Rath considered the coin he could earn by warning the slavers.
He considered his wife, his children and his ailing parents who had given up the sea and moved with him to Saramond.
He did not need the coin enough to risk his family.
Six
Chains
Beron walked with his hands on his hips, scowling his disapproval to the men he’d left in charge of training the newly acquired slaves, women and children, the best sort to sell to the pleasure markets. “It’s not sorcery, you idiots!” He did not speak, he roared. “Find common words! Speak to them! Use whips if you must, but make it clear that they are now property and must behave as proper servants!”
After a week of attempts to teach the new acquisitions, it had become unfortunately clear that they had no desire to be instructed. Just the same, he would have them broken and trained. They had cost him dearly and he would not tolerate this foolishness longer than necessary.
He watched on for another half an hour as the men working with him did their best. The words failed. The whips were employed. Only on the women, because children often broke under the severe beatings and dead slaves did not sell. The whips failed, too. He watched one of the pale women, one who seemed frail in comparison to most, take a dozen lashes that left her bloodied across her back and shivering from the pain. She did not cry out. She did not beg for mercy in any language. Instead she simply stood her ground, cried silent tears, grimaced and finally warned her child back when the boy became agitated and tried to come to her assistance.
He had known plenty who broke well before a dozen lashes. The whip was a great ender of arguments.
“Argus!”
The man came at the sound of his harsh voice.
There were few men who could match Beron in size. There were fewer who remained unimpressed by his voice, his temper or his combat skills. Argus was bigger, meaner and deadlier straight across the board. The only reason he listened to Beron was because the slaver paid so well.
“You bellowed?”
“Of course I did! I want them trained!”
Argus crossed his thick arms and eyed the man who employed him as if he’d caught a particularly foul fart. Beron had no idea where Argus came from. He only knew the man was pale before his body was covered with tattoos, and that he was capable of any number of dark deeds that
left him apparently unworried and little concerned about any possible punishments in this or the next life. The tattoos, according to Argus, kept him safe from sorcery. When Beron expressed his doubts the other man pointed out that they’d never run across a single sorcerer since he’d allowed the first tattoo to be put on his body. It was a hard logic to deny.
“They’re being trained. They’re just stubborn.”
“Break their wills.” He looked out at the crowd of pale women and children, his eyes drinking in their shapes. They were healthy specimens to the last. That would change if they didn’t start eating.
“We’ve talked about this. You want me to break them I can do it physically, but a lot of them will suffer before anyone breaks – or we can do it by taking the children.”
Beron snorted as he looked at the pens. The children currently stood near the adults. Separating them would be hard.
“Move them into smaller groups,” he ordered. “Smaller pens. Then take the children. I know a few who would like the younger ones. They’re easier to train as whores.”
Without saying a word to Beron, the brutal, tattooed man gestured and several of the slavers moved to him. When he spoke they nodded and obeyed.
Beron walked away from the area, knowing that he would be obeyed and not caring beyond that simple fact.
By the time the sun was descending, the separation of women and children was nearly finished. A few of the women had to be subdued, as he expected, but overall the process was smooth.
The women, who had been docile before, now bared their teeth at the slavers who touched their children or dragged them away.
Beron contemplated their change of demeanor and smiled. He had not been aware of how unsettling their silent stares were until they replaced that placid demeanor with anger.
One of the most hostile actually growled at him.
“You would like your children back?” he asked, not expecting an answer.
She continued to stare at him with rage. But another, only a few feet away said, “You are being foolish. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
Beron shook his head and smiled. “I am making a profit. How I make that profit does not matter to me. You can behave and follow orders and I might let you keep your children with you. Or you can ignore simple orders and I can send them to Torema, where young children get a fine price as concubines and whores.” He paused as the woman considered him. “It is a long trip. Likely many would die, but you are pleasantly different in color and I think the remaining ones would fetch a fine price.”
“You do not understand. The He-Kisshi are coming. They will ruin you for this.” She looked him over, head to toe. “You are large and you are strong. I can see that. The He-Kisshi will kill you just the same.”
“I have never heard of these ‘He-Kisshi,’ and I remain unimpressed.”
She smiled. It was as cold a smile as he had ever seen. “You sometimes call them Grakhul.”
That got his attention.
“You call them Grakhul. They are not Grakhul. We are. They are He-Kisshi. What you call Undying. They are the Undying. The Servants of the Gods.”
He thought a great deal about that. Finally he nodded. “If that is true then we will move all the faster.”
“What do you mean?” It was her turn to frown and that pleased Beron immensely.
“I have spent too much coin to let you go. You and yours have cost me a fortune. Enough to buy a country. I do not intend to lose my investments.”
He paused a moment then bellowed for Argus. The man came over at his usual saunter. Beron looked at the skies above them and saw the bank of black clouds rising to towering heights to the north. They were the sorts of clouds that promised horrifying weather. Lightning flashes danced deep within them, lighting shadows that looked like the monsters from nightmares he’d suffered from as a child: grim things that ate the feet of sleepy children. Those demonic looking clouds were two days away at the very least. They would need to expedite matters if they wanted the slaves on their way before the storms hit.
“I need you to prepare the children for travel. Leave by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Why the change of plans?”
He gestured to the pale beauty he’d been talking with. “My ‘friend’ here just said we have reason to worry. I intend to take her at her word. By the dawn and no later. I am trusting you. Do not disappoint me.”
Argus nodded his head and eyed the pale woman. The wind from the north ruffled his short blond hair. “By the morning then. What of the women?”
“Leave them. I have a different destination in mind for them.”
“You’re taking our children from us?” The woman’s voice was surprised.
Beron looked her way. “You have not cooperated. Your strength of will can only make them less controllable, so yes. They will be taken and trained to pleasure their new masters.” He smiled at the horror on her face. “You did this to them. Remember that.”
She looked to the clouds and nodded. “And what comes for you? You did that to yourself as well.”
* * *
By the time the sun had set, ten of the King’s Guard had shown themselves. They marched in unison and presented themselves to Undenk, the eunuch who protected the front of the enormous house where Beron lived. As always, they came prepared to escort him before the king – as if the man had any authority that Beron did not give him.
Beron sighed. He’d been half expecting them.
“Lord Beron, sir, King Frankel calls you to his court.”
“Later than usual for that.” Beron was sitting in his offices. He chose to eat there most nights, as he could see all that he owned from that position. Currently he was eating slabs of pork with hard bread and cheese. He looked at the food and then at the soldiers and continued to eat.
“Lord Beron, the king was most insistent.”
“He always is.” Still, he sighed and stood and the men who were there to escort him backed up a few paces. Beron was not the largest man in the city but he was definitely one of them.
He took his plate with him and continued eating as he walked the road to the palace. On some occasions he took a horse, but there wasn’t time and horses did not do so well on darkened streets.
By the time he’d finished his food they were entering the palace. Beron walked with head high and shoulders squared and made his way to the throne room easily enough. It was a vast room and adorned with many magnificent works of art and sculpture. There were even a few suits of armor, none of which Frankel was likely to ever wear. He had never been in combat. He had sparred a few times when he was younger, but these days he sat on his royal ass and did nothing else without the express permission of the slavers. Except, occasionally, when he called the slavers before him to ask questions and politely make requests.
It was simple math. The slavers made the majority of the money in Saramond. The only other industries worth note involved several drugs that the slavers imported, and farming. The slavers allowed the necessity of farmers making a living. If they hadn’t, there likely wouldn’t have been any farms in the region, but nor would there have been food for the slavers.
Frankel was not smiling when Beron entered the room. That was a rarity. Most times the king was delighted to see the head of the slavers, because he was very happy with their relationship. Beron paid him enough to ensure he was happy, and in turn the king signed the papers that ensured the slavers were content.
“Beron.” Frankel rose from his seat and gestured to a gathering of travelers to one side of the room. There were no religious orders in Saramond. Beron and his people made sure of it. Religious sorts tended to argue the rights of slaves. That would never be allowed in Saramond so long as Beron was alive. Still, the men looked like religious sorts. Like the sort of penitents he had heard of in Hollum, always ready to beg a coin and tell a person how to save themselves from the wrath of the gods.
Beron felt his skin tighten, the hairs on his neck rise,
but deliberately relaxed his entire body even as he became more alert. Tension was a mistake too many people made. He seemed as relaxed as ever and looked slowly at the monks.
“These folk had some questions about a great deal of people brought into the city to be sold.” Frankel allowed himself a smile that was awkward and devoid of warmth. The king was terrified and Beron knew it.
He assessed the penitents.
The throne room was well lit. A fire roared pleasantly in the fireplace and several torches hung along the walls. There was enough light to read a manuscript with ease, but the competing light sources left each form with several dancing shadows.
Beron knew instantly these were not penitents. They did not wear robes. It was flesh, the pelted flesh of–
Grakhul. No, he corrected himself, the Undying. The women, their children, they were the Grakhul. These were He-Kisshi, according to one of the women. They were the very source of half the nightmares known to the Five Kingdoms.
Despite himself, Beron felt his skin crawl. There was little he feared, but only the foolish felt calm in the face of the Undying.
“How can I be of aid?” Beron kept his voice calm.
The closest of the He-Kisshi rose in height until it was as tall as he was, and turned the blackness of that cowled face in his direction.
The voice was cold and dusty. “We seek our people. Our servants. They have been stolen away from us.”
“How many people are we talking about?”
That darkness was as blank as any shadow but he could feel the gaze of the thing. “Hundreds. Women. Children.”
It was close to a thousand, actually, but he wasn’t going to disagree with the thing.
“I will keep note and bring any news I have to King Frankel. Is that acceptable?” He tried to keep his voice pleasant, tried not to panic at the thought of the Grakhul looking for his newly acquired stock. What he did not do was consider releasing the new herd. “I will also spread the word. Is there a reward for anyone who finds them?”
The Last Sacrifice Page 8