by Brian Fuller
It took a while for Gen to realize that the Shadan actually wanted an answer.
“Honor, sir, dictates that . . . well . . .”
“Honor! Oh, yes. If you consider someone honorable, why would you kill them in the first place? Honor has no place in war, only advantage. But, as I said, I shall acquiesce this once. I have here two letters, one to be delivered to your Duke Norshwal of Graytower and the other to the ‘honorable’ Baron Forthrickeshire. They outline my presence here in the heart of Tolnor and my intentions to give them a solid beating come spring should they choose to fight rather than surrender.
“Surrender would be very disappointing, however, so I made it a point to be as arrogant and insulting as possible to inflame their manly indignation. I would like two messengers for each message, and, as a sign of my goodwill toward you, Gen, I will let you choose who they are. Now, don’t be an idiot and say Regina, because she gets to stay to be leverage on you.”
Gen’s mind raced, but one choice was obvious.
“Gant and Yeurile.”
“Come forward, then!” Khairn yelled. Gant took a despondent Yeurile by the hand and led her forward. Gen met his eye, finding gratitude there. “Ahh, a friend and his woman, then. Very well. Where shall they go?”
“To the Duke.”
“That is fine, though he might not believe two commoners unless I send further proof. Does the Duke know you, Magistrate?”
Bernard perked up, a glint of hope in his eyes.
“He does!” Bernard said eagerly. “He is my cousin.”
“Very good,” Khairn replied. “I shall send your head with them. Quartermaster! Give these two a horse and provisions. Omar, see to the head.”
Bernard, pale, sunk to the ground and pled for his life. Despite years of abuse, Gen felt pity for the man as Omar dragged him away behind the house. The Quartermaster, a young Aughmerian with dark hair, signaled Gant and Yeurile forward and waited for the second selection.
“Who shall go to the Baron?” Khairn prodded. Bernard screamed and screeched so pathetically that Gen couldn’t focus his mind until the sick thud of his head hitting the ground plunged everything into profound and unnatural silence. Khairn’s eyes bulged, and Gen thought of Regina.
“Jeorge and Rena Morewold, and their young daughter, if you will.” Strangely, Khairn laughed and slapped Gen on the back.
“You are very predictable. The woman holds great power over you, indeed, and now you secure more of her favor by your magnanimous gesture toward her parents. What a game! Very well. I will permit the daughter to go, for she is too young to be of use anyway. Quartermaster, see to it. Here are the letters.”
The Quartermaster took them. Jeorge and Rena looked back sadly as they left. Gen felt exhausted, emotions running high.
The Shadan grabbed his shoulder. “Now get back inside. The rest of this will be difficult.”
Gen opened the door and found himself in Regina’s grateful embrace. Through the window Gen could see the soldiers leading the men, women, and young children down the road that led to the woods. The sky had cleared and the sun shone down on what otherwise would have been a pleasant morning.
For just a moment, Gen could imagine that those chosen to die were simply out for a morning stroll or perhaps on their way to visit family in Sipton, but the terrified cries of the children and the rough shoving of the guards tore the illusion away. Gen didn’t have to think very hard to figure out that most everyone else in the town would walk the same path come spring.
The door banged open loudly as Shadan Khairn and Captain Omar strode inside, agitating already raw nerves. Regina pulled away from Gen and wiped her face. They all stared at the floor as the Shadan circled around in front of them
“Nasty business, that,” Khairn said in a tone that made it difficult to tell whether he cared. “But I see that you haven’t quite finished the chore to which I set you! The floor is still strewn with the broken belongings of that pig you called Magistrate. As this was clearly the job of young Regina here, and since she decided to spend her time weeping and screaming instead of sweeping and cleaning, I shall punish Gen here as a lesson.”
Gen barely had time to widen his eyes with surprise before he found Khairn’s sword had entered his belly and come out his back. The inhuman speed with which he had drawn his weapon and thrust it shocked Gen, and what pain he felt came slowly by comparison.
Blood poured out of the wound as the King extracted the sword, and Gen slumped to the ground, everything below his waist numb. The world spun, and he dimly heard Rafael trying to speak to him. Regina was near, too, face blurry and voice warbled. Somewhere behind them, Torbrand Khairn and Captain Omar laughed.
Gradually, everything faded and Gen sensed in a detached way the life slipping out of him. Summers and winters passed before his mind. Hours reading books, playing the lute, and singing songs reeled around him. He saw his brief talk with Regina at the well, her blonde hair moving with the breeze, as if he were a spectator rather than a participant. Then it stopped, and everything went black . . . and then he was awake, Khairn leaning over him, a light sweat on his brow.
“See! I told you. It is my gift. I can bring people back from the brink of death, should I so choose. Only the Chalaine herself is said to be able to heal with greater power, and I doubt not that those tales are exaggerated.”
Gen checked himself. He lay in a pool of his own blood, his shirt and breeches soaked, but he could feel his legs again. The bump from his encounter with the shelf was gone, and, lifting up his shirt, he could see that the deadly wound was now nothing more than a scar. Gen stood, realizing that not all the fantastic stories told about Torbrand Khairn were false. In fact, most of them now seemed true.
“Of course, what this means to you is this. . .” the Shadan continued. “I can beat and torture you almost to death and have you up and ready to work and suffer the next day if you do not do exactly as I ask.” Torbrand daubed the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “Get me a drink, old man. Gen, you and the girl get this place cleaned up. Open some windows. It stills stinks like that befouled Magistrate in here. And Gen, it will, of course, fall to you to get an outhouse in working order as quickly as possible. I would like you to dig a new pit and fill in the old one.”
Captain Omar examined Gen for a moment.
“You be careful of this one, My Lord. He thinks he has a brain in his head and he ain’t no coward.”
“Isn’t a coward, Omar,” Khairn replied in exasperation. “For the sake of all civilized people, Captain, let’s try a little harder not to talk like we were in the stockade. But just to show you that I still like you, appoint that Hubert boy to be the leader of the children. That will give you plenty of excuses to beat him when he fouls up.”
“Excellent, my Lord. I’ll be seeing . . . I shall attend to it immediately.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Captain Omar left quickly.
“You’ll have to forgive the Captain’s language. I took him as a slave and trained him myself when I saw how he was built. Perfect fighter. Strong, fast, and no neck at which the enemy can aim a decapitating blow. He is, however, still a little coarse around the edges, and—if you ask me—he enjoys the killing a little too much. A good fighter enjoys the fight, not the end of it. Notwithstanding, his ability makes him a jewel.”
The King’s face turned contemplative, and Gen wasn’t sure if he was addressing them anymore. “Almost as good as Cormith, the Captain. Cormith liked the killing, too, but he was an unsettling person all around. I could do a better job than I did with both of them, though. Neither one could kill me.”
The King went silent, lost in thought for so long that Gen glanced at Rafael questioningly. Rafael mouthed, “Crazy!”
Khairn stood suddenly, eyes fierce. “What are you waiting for?!” he yelled. “Get to it!”
By early afternoon, Gen threw the last shovelful out of the new waste pit and climbed out covered in dirt and mud. A soldier lazed aro
und by a tree, watching him with no concern. Gen hadn’t seen the Shadan for some time.
Regina passed by the rear windows several times while she cleaned. Sometimes she chanced a look at him, though Khairn forced her to wear a veil after the tradition of his people. He had apparently brought a supply of veils along for the invasion and was distributing them among all the young women.
Rafael played for Khairn later that morning, but the music stopped near the midday meal, which none of them, apparently, was to enjoy.
Gen leaned on the spade. All he had left to do was fill in the old waste pit and move the outhouse over.
“Get on with it, boy,” the soldier growled. “I’m tired of goin’ in the woods.”
“Yes, sir.”
A horn blew, and many of the soldiers emerged from the houses and buildings to congregate in the square. Gen’s guard left his post.
“You stay here,” the soldier ordered. “I run faster than a deer and can track the wind. You run away, I’ll find you quick-like and make you regret it.”
Gen went to the thicket where he and Gant had hid the dirt they dug the night before. Gen noticed the assembly in the square, Torbrand standing on the Church steps waiting for his men to arrive. Pureman Millershim stood behind him, and Gen wondered why Khairn let him live. Gen thought only briefly of bolting away into the woods to escape and then gave up the notion. He couldn’t leave Regina and Rafael behind. From what little he knew of Khairn, the crazed King would send a party to hunt him down and kill him, anyway.
“You ain’t done yet?” the guard strode around the corner of the house after several minutes.
“I was about to get a drink, sir.”
“Want a drink from the pretty lady, eh? Well, you get nothin’ until I’m sittin’ down in that outhouse. You ain’t got it done soon, I think Khairn will beat on your lady for punishment. Now get goin’.”
The soldier grabbed him roughly by the shirt and threw him headlong into the hole he had just dug, chuckling at the result. The thought of Regina taking a beating at Khairn’s hands spurred Gen to greater efforts, and, putting aside his hunger and discomfort, he worked frantically, finishing the task just before Torbrand appeared around the corner of the house.
“Good work, Gen,” he said, tone light. “After I personally inspect your handiwork, I want to hear you play. Your master is tolerably good, though a little slow and cracking around the edges. Now get cleaned up. Guard, you are dismissed.”
Gen noticed that the soldiers never returned or reflected Khairn’s lighter moods, remaining somber and focused. Gen took it as further evidence of their captor’s capriciousness. He decided to follow the soldiers’ strategy—say as little as possible and take every remark, however flippantly given, as God’s law.
Chapter 7 - Boredom
Gen watched Torbrand Khairn’s face and knew the expression: boredom. The Shadan’s eyes, normally lively with anger or some private glee, gradually dimmed into vapidity while he watched his captive bards strum, beat, and sing until their voices cracked.
Two weeks had passed since his incursion into Tell, and every day Gen grew more nervous. They had long since come to the end of even Rafael’s extensive repertoire, and those people the Shadan thought spent or useless were shoved by rough hands into a line at dawn and marched into the woods, never to return.
The weather had turned bitter and cold since the Shadan’s arrival, a light snow falling three days later, and a heavy storm rolling in two days after that. Unfortunately, the weather increasingly confined the unpredictable Shadan to the indoors.
Gen and Rafael found themselves hard-pressed to satisfy the Torbrand’s thirst for entertainment. Some days, he would watch them intently, clapping and even singing along; but overnight or even unexpectedly during the day, his feverish, magnanimous self would transform into an agitated, sullen taskmaster. When the Shadan was in his distemper, everyone suffered for it, and Rafael pointed out to Gen that even Khairn’s own soldiers knew when to avoid him. On the Shadan’s bad days, visits and reports from his men dwindled by nearly half, and the offhanded slaps and punches he used to express his displeasure doubled.
Regina, veiled and desperate to please, fretted and worried over every small task Torbrand set her to, for if a meal was not timely, a potato not cooked to its proper tenderness, or a piece of meat overdone, she could do nothing but watch guiltily as the Shadan found some new way to hurt Gen.
Whether a quick stab with a knife or a swift fist to the nose, Torbrand would always heal his victim and demand thanks for it afterward. In his happier moods, the Shadan could be tolerable if not outright forgiving. But those days had faded, and for the three captives forced to endure his presence even more than his own soldiers, a sense of dread dominated every other feeling.
In this desperation, they whispered half-formulated plots to escape with each other whenever the Shadan went outside on some matter of business. If nothing else, they figured that starving in the cold—choosing their own fate—was better than finding death at the whim of Shadan Khairn.
Regina’s distress brought out a protective feeling in Gen, and he did whatever he could to shield her from the worry and violence around her, offering what scant humor could be found in their dreadful circumstances. She clung to him, and they both relied on Rafael for counsel, though as for that, even the practiced performer could not fool his young charges with pretenses of hope. “Just keep your dignity. Be strong,” was all he could offer most days.
Today, the 26th of Auber, had started poorly, the Shadan having risen early to fuss them all around after they awoke at dawn to perform the chores and duties set to them. Rafael was to play while Gen helped Regina in the kitchen. Captain Omar entered later, leering at Regina before giving his morning report: eight more youths were now useless and had been removed from the town. Even the massive warrior knew when to keep it short and left quickly.
“I can tell by the smell that you’ve burned the biscuits again,” the Shadan fumed, plopping down into his seat with enough force to nearly break the chair. Regina yelped, and she and Gen, who had been setting the table, ran into the kitchen. Regina pulled the biscuits from the oven hurriedly. While not technically burnt, they were a browner shade than the Shadan preferred. Gen swallowed hard.
“I’m so sorry, Gen,” Regina wailed quietly, tears filling her eyes. “I . . . I . . . think the fire must have been too warm. I’m. . .”
“Well, let’s see them!” Torbrand yelled. The rest of the meal was set, and Regina tentatively brought the biscuits in and laid them before the Shadan. He nodded his head slowly as if to confirm to himself his own olfactory prowess. For perverse reasons of his own, the Shadan always had them eat at his table, and as Gen, Rafael, and Regina sat, the Shadan stood, mouth turned down in a frown.
Rafael eyed him nervously as he walked around the table. Gen kept his eyes riveted on his plate. The Shadan’s heavy boots stopped behind the young bard, and Gen closed his eyes, keeping an ear out for the sound of steel against the scabbard. Instead of swinging his sword, the Shadan stooped, grabbed the underside of Gen’s chair, and heaved. Gen crashed into the table face first, biscuits, jam, and tableware exploding in all directions, silverware and plates cracking and clanging on the floor. Regina screamed and Rafael nearly fell out of his chair. Gen struggled to his hands and knees just as the Shadan brought the chair down on his back. Gen grunted in pain, slamming back into the table. The Shadan took what was left of the chair and threw it at the fireplace.
“I hate this place!” he yelled, stomping toward the door. “I want biscuits done to perfection in an hour or Gen dies.”
He slammed the door shut behind him. Rafael and Regina sprang to Gen’s side.
Rafael stooped low, putting his face even with Gen’s. “Are you all right, lad?”
“I’ll manage,” Gen groaned. “Help me off the table.” Rafael and Regina pulled him slowly to the edge, sending more food and crockery to the ground. They let him take his time standing up,
and when he did, they braced him from both sides until he could get his balance again.
“I’ll get him cleaned up,” Regina said, voice subdued and sad.
“No!” Rafael objected. “I’ll see to him. You bake those biscuits, Regina, and you poke your nose in that oven every minute!”
Regina nodded and half-ran to the kitchen.
“It’s not your fault, Regina,” Gen called out to her, wincing. The clatter of pots was all the answer he received.
Rafael started gathering items from the floor, back cracking as he bent over. “You just take it easy a moment, Gen. I got hit with a stool in Tenswater when I was strong enough to take a blow like that. I remember everything before but not a lot for several days after.”
“I’ll be fine,” Gen mumbled unconvincingly, wiping honey that was sticking his arms to the table cloth. “We have got to get out of here, Rafael. He’s going to see us dead before long, I know it.”
“You’ve the right of it there, but we’ve got to contrive some reason to get outside so we can survey where he places his men at night. I’ve no doubt you know a hundred places to hide in the woods around here, but it will do us no good unless we can get there undetected.”
Gen started righting items on the table, sharp pains blazing down his back at the slightest twist or turn. Their plan was simply to wait for a night that heavy snow was falling and steal into the woods. The snow would cover their tracks and muffle the sounds of their movement, but they knew that the Shadan patrolled the woods heavily and placed a guard at the front of the house. Fortunately, he had quartered his three captives in the back, but until they had an idea of where the patrols ran, they feared to attempt the journey. They had, at the least, counted themselves clever for sneaking tiny pieces of meat from the table and wiping the grease on the shutter hinges to silence them.