Blood and Sand Trilogy Box Set

by Jon Kiln

  She coughed and staggered backwards, almost choking, before falling over and once again scraping her hands and needs on the rough, battle-scarred streets of Fuldoon. Again.

  “Do you think I like standing around here, while all the others are off feasting?” Chief Vharn called out in his sharp voice.

  “I don’t much care what you like,” Suriyen muttered into the dirt, but stood up slowly, pulling at the rope as she did so – strong enough to make Vharn have to snatch at the rope leash suddenly.

  “Heh. That’s more like it. You need a bit of hate to make the sun go around, that’s what I say.” The Menaali chief didn’t appear to mind her stubborn looks and dark glares. Which was just as well, Suriyen thought, turning back to pick up her stolen staff and return to what she was supposed to be doing. I’ve got plenty of hate. She gritted her teeth, and poked with her staff at the nearest rubble pile.

  Nothing, just like the other previous hundreds of other piles of the broken city. What did he expect me to find? she thought sarcastically, although she already knew the answer, from her previous weeks of work for the disagreeable Menaali chieftain.

  There might be boobytraps, laid by the resistance still inside the city (or underneath the city). She had already found several trip wires and fake floors with her stolen pole and scrambled out of the way of falling masonry a couple of times. Other than saving the hide of the Menaali Horde as they started to make inroads into Fuldoon, Suriyen was also tasked in finding anything of value – which could be silks, dropped coins, or even weapons.

  And finally, the very last thing that she had been tasked in finding: people.

  Another poke of the rubble, levering aside some of the fallen roof tiles and burnt beams. Nothing there, (of course) – but then something shifted.

  A pebble bounced and slid off one of the top piles of this broken building, and at first Suriyen discounted it as another piece of this torn and ruined city, but her finely honed warriors senses nagged at her.

  I was poking that other pile. That pebble came from over there. She turned, her eyes sweeping over the detritus in order to catch any sign of subsidence or movement. Admittedly, her mind was more preoccupied with this pebble being a sign of a trap or of the imminent collapse of the nearest wall, until they focused on a dust-smeared face.

  The whitened face was peering out of a tiny hole in the broken walls, and it was the face of a man. His eyes were dark like most of the southerners, and what little edges that the warrior could see of the man’s hair, she could tell that it was matted and unkempt. The man had probably been living and hiding in these ruins since the wall fell.

  The Fuldoonian let out a startled non-sound; a sudden intake of breath upon being discovered.

  “It’s ok-ay,” Suriyen said in an exaggerated whisper, hoping that he could see her mouth as she stooped slowly down, to pretend to be digging at the refuse.

  “What you got over there, Iron-Pass girl?” shouted Vharn from the middle of the street.

  “Don’t know. Just looking…” she called back, hunching her shoulders to block the view of the man from him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” she whispered. “But you have to be still.”

  The man blinked, once, which could have been a sign of understanding or just terror for all that the wall-captain knew.

  “Can you move?” Suriyen whispered.

  Another blink.

  “Are there more of you?”

  The man glared, not making a sound.

  Wise, Suriyen thought. The refugee probably thought that she was one of the enemy – which, technically, she was right now. “I won’t tell. I promise. The Menaali are coming through this way. You need to find a better place to hide,” she whispered into the hole, earning another blink, and then, with another sound like scraping stones and dust, the face was gone. Suriyen was left looking at a tiny crawlspace between two collapsed walls, and there was no sign if the quiet form that she had just been talking to had ever been anything but a figment of her imagination.

  “Oh well.” Suriyen straightened up, grabbing the first thing that came to hand. A broken pot, still brightly colored.

  “What you got there, thrall?” Vharn was walking over to the ruins, scowling his dissatisfaction. “If I find that you’re hiding treasures from the Horde, well…”

  “Is this worth anything?” Suriyen said, putting on a slightly dumber voice than she actually had. She knew that it wasn’t, and the look of dissatisfaction on the chief’s face was palpable.

  “Idiot!” Vharn’s wiry hand snapped out as fast as a striking snake, backhanding her roughly across the cheek. If she had been rested, and fed, than Suriyen would have seen it coming. She would have been able to block or duck such a crude blow – but as it was, the man’s ringed hand smacked the half-starved Suriyen’s cheek and spun her back around to the rubble. She tasted the coppery bitterness of her own bleeding lip.

  “I’ll kill you for that,” she hissed up at him, earning just a hoot of cruel laughter from her tormentor.

  “Well, you can get back in line with all of the other buggers who want to take Chief Vharn down, slave.” He tugged on her lead, not caring if she was on her feet or not.

  Suriyen, grumbling, went back to her current job as trap-bait and scout for the Menaali invaders. But she did so with a tight, half-hidden grin. There was at least one person that she might have saved, she thought.

  29

  Suriyen was hauled back to the Menaali base camp just inside the ruined walls of Fuldoon by the time that night started to purple the sky. She had found several swords, a couple of treasure boxes, and had almost been skewered by spear traps at least twice. She was exhausted, and starving. Chief Vharn, of course, had stopped whenever they had found a cache of food or still-unspoiled wine and had taken his fill while Suriyen was left to find what shade that she could. By the end of her ‘work shift’ her limbs were groaning and her stomach growling, and Vharn was swaying drunk.

  “Ar, go on with ya,” he snarled, cuffing her on the back of the head as he dropped the rope outside the tent.

  Suriyen looked over her shoulder back into the dying city, even thought about attempting to run into the ruins – but knew that she wouldn’t get far.

  Most of the Horde were still encamped outside of the walls, on the other side of the makeshift bridge and the protecting river, but a sizable amount of soldiers had been ordered to secure the walls.

  Which is ironic, really, the wall-captain thought, as this exact place – the wide avenue between the gates and the first market squares – was where she had her military encampment previously, when she had been trying to keep them out. She even recognized some of the tents and barrels as those that must have been salvaged when the Horde swept into the shallows of the city beyond.

  The Menaali had archers on the half-collapsed walls, along with torches, and they had barricaded the near streets and set up half-drunken watchtowers in the ruins of the largest, still-standing houses. She couldn’t run yet. She would have to be better prepared.

  And armed, she thought as she ducked under the tent awning to see the collection of tables and other Menaali chieftains and their senior thralls attending to them.

  Suriyen was a bit of an oddity in this crowd. She had hair like corn in midsummer, and eyes as wide and blue as clear northern skies. Her skin was lightly freckled, and pale as milk in the dark, and with a golden, tawny sheen in the bright sun. She looked like a northerner in this company of southerners – and most of the other higher-ranking slaves, attendants and serving girls were a mixture of the Menaali and southerner tribes.

  Large chieftains sat on stolen chairs that had once graced mighty guild houses, debating and arguing over stacks of booty that had been discovered that day, and which ones should be sent as tribute to their ultimate leader: the War Lord Dal Grehb.

  “’Ere. This one, for sure…” One of them attempted to lift a solid gold urn, about the height of his knee with two large rings on either side. “An
d this,” the same chieftain kicked the pile of an expensive tapestry. Its bright indigo and cloth-of-gold shone even in the guttering torch light. “All came from the same guildhouse, over on that curvy street with the fish statue.”

  “Avenue of Nual,” Suriyen muttered, moving to the large water bowl where the slaves were allowed to wash in. She was lucky that her oddity and uniqueness (and the fact that Dal Grehb had favored her) had made her one of the higher-ranking slaves, which meant that she could get water to wash with and different water to drink.

  Suriyen didn’t feel very lucky, however.

  “Yeah, what she said,” the chieftain scoffed. “I left my boys in there to garrison the place overnight, just in case one of you lot decide to steal my glory!” the chief laughed, slapping the man next to him. They all laughed like hyenas, and Suriyen was sure that was exactly what they would do to each other if they thought that it would bring them any greater favor with Dal Grehb.

  “And what else have we got?” the chief asked.

  “Twelve new slaves,” shouted another of the chiefs.

  “A weapon’s stash. We found twelve longswords, seventeen short spears, some other crap…”

  “A bit of gold and silver, not much…”

  “How about you, Vharn?” the suspicious chieftain called over to where Suriyen’s captor lounged at the side of the tent with two serving maids. “Did you save any of that wine you so clearly found?”

  “A few weapons. Not much.” Vharn shrugged nonchalantly, earning an icy silence from the others. Suriyen saw angered glances pass from one to the other of the assembled chiefs. They’re scared that the Dal will be displeased with them. Suriyen thought she might start to see the shape of a plan.

  “The Dal is expecting tribute, Vharn,” the suspicious, guild-house occupying chief said flatly. “If you can’t provide…”

  “If I can’t provide what, Sergan?” Vharn pushed the half-clad ladies off of him and stood, wavering from foot to foot in the center of the room. “You know that the Dal favors me, not you. He gave me that one,” he stabbed a finger in Suriyen’s direction. “And told me to explore the frontiers of the advance. To do the most dangerous work. To clear the way for his arrival. He doesn’t give two shits about any treasure I find.” Vharn slurred his words, before puffing himself up proudly. “He just knows that I will bring him glory.”

  Suriyen’s eyes flickered to her tormentor’s opponent, who was scowling deeply. It seemed that what Vharn had said was true. To an extent, Suriyen thought. Dal Grehb did probably trust Vharn with breaking the resistance inside the city. But the Dal also likes having tribute and glory, doesn’t he?

  The wall-captain wondered if there was a way that she could exploit this tension.

  But to what end? She hunched over on the mess of slave rags where she slept. There was a basket of scraps that they were allowed to eat from and she picked at the stale bread, cheese rinds, and bits of salted meats as she watched the exchange. Could I make them fight Vharn? Or make Vharn fight them? Would it bring me freedom?

  “Fine. You go back to your bodies and dust,” Chief Sergan snarled, turning to the other chiefs. “We’ll keep the gold company!”

  Another harsh bark of laughter, and Suriyen saw Vharn snarl at them, before swaying back to his serving girls. She knew that he would probably eat and be asleep within the hour, giving her at least a little to rest – and to plan.

  The chiefs finally allocated which of the treasures was to be paid in tribute to their master straight away, and which was to be packed away to be argued over and no doubt fought over all in due course. Their discussions drifted towards feasting, drinking, and pulling at the women in the tent. Suriyen gritted her teeth and slunk further into the corner, and tried not to draw any attention to herself. She had no qualms about taking more of the salted meats and folding them into her ragged tunic, fixing it with needles made of splinters.

  I’m going to need my strength, if I am to escape, she thought – before a thought struck her.

  Do I really want to escape? Before Fuldoon had fallen, she had been tasked with defending it. That, she had failed at. Before the Menaali had arrived, she had regarded herself as one of the holy cult of Guides – raised to defeat all threats to humanity, be they human or supernatural. To kill monsters. She had failed at that, too, when it turned out that the priest that she had been traveling with was harboring one of the greater Evils of Hell inside of him.

  What did that leave? she thought, massaging her aching limbs.

  Revenge, the answer came to her immediately. She might have failed in all of her holy duties, and all of her honorable ones, but did that mean that she also had to fail in her only personal task.

  To kill Dal Grehb. The man who had made me a slave. The man who had killed my parents. The ultimate general of the Horde.

  But to do that, she would have to get close to him, again. And to get close to him, I need a reason to be brought before him, she reasoned. She needed to find something so wondrous, and so glorious, that Dal Grehb himself would have to come to witness it.

  And then, she might be able to have her revenge.

  30

  “Faster!” Vharn shouted under the blaring sun. The chief was in a bad mood today. Suriyen tried to not grin too broadly. She wondered if it was the wine from the night before, or whether it was Chief Sergan’s words. Either way, he had slept late and long, and the sun had already been ascending towards midday by the time that he had got himself ready for another expedition.

  Suriyen had been waiting, observing the Menaali camp, and remaining silent. The Horde were keeping close to the walls, but they had effectively cleared almost the nearer third of Fuldoon, and set up barricades here and there across their captured territories.

  That meant that there was still plenty of city left for them to explore, she knew, and she knew also that she and Vharn could not hope to cover it all. Instead, the Menaali would push on through the streets, looting and burning as they went, occasionally encountering the odd pocket of resistance and dying on the booby traps.

  “They’re supposed to follow our cleared route,” Vharn scowled as he called for another rest, under the shadow of a large statue of some learned Fuldoonian trader. “That way they won’t all die so often.”

  Their enforced time together over the last few weeks had made Vharn – if not friendly to her, then at least somewhat talkative. Suriyen said nothing from her crouch in the shade. Instead, she picked at one of the hidden bits of food and chewed it slowly. She wished that she had some water to go with the salty meat, but resolutely only chewed slower.

  “You think Sergan was right?” Suriyen attempted, not looking at him as she drew doodles in the dirt. “About Dal Grehb wanting trophies?”

  “What do you know!” Vharn barked, before adding surly. “The Dal always wants trophies. Every Menaali Hordesman wants trophies. It’s what we are, slave.”

  Suriyen waited for a moment, before asking casually, “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Why should I be worried about what that goat Sergan says?” he snapped down at her, before rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re the one whose worried, Iron Pass girl? That maybe the Dal will send me off somewhere and give you to another chief? Maybe one who takes a liking to pale flesh?”

  Suriyen shivered in horror even at the merest suggestion. “No,” she said, but it was obvious that she meant ‘yes’.

  “Ha. I knew it. But nothing you can do about it, right?” Vharn grinned in a cruel fashion.

  “Well, there is something I can do,” Suriyen said uneasily. She had never been on the stage, or had ever done well at performing. She wondered if she was going to be any good at it now.

  “There is now, is there?” the man laughed. “And what can a useless slave like you do to please the Dal? Except die, that is.”

  “You said that the Dal likes trophies. I know where one might be. But it’s not like what the other chiefs bring him,” Suriyen said slowly.

  �
�The Dal told me to clear the roads. To use you to find the resistance. He didn’t tell me to go around treasure hunting.”

  He knows where his food and coin came from, Suriyen thought sourly. She would have to be more convincing is she was going to get him to divert from his duty.

  “Of course. But this might also lead you to the resistance, as well,” she said, having no clue whether that was true at all.

  “Oh really,” Vharn finally turned to stare at her with all of his attention. “And why haven’t you told me this before?”

  “I uh…” Suriyen looked away, and bit her lip. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Idiot.” He casually back-handed her across the face, causing a burst of coppery blood in her mouth. “Thought you could hide secrets from me?” Vharn tottered to his feet, reaching for his cruel-looking sword.

  “Please,” Suriyen began, “I can make it right. It’s important enough that the Dal himself will want to know about it,” she gasped, crab walking back against the statue. The wall-captain wondered if she had played her part too well, and angered Chief Vharn too much. Would Dal’s protection over her stand? Or was she just another slave, and it didn’t really matter if she died at Vharn’s hands or speared in the gut by one of the booby traps?

  “Talk. Now,” Vharn spat where he stood over her.

  “There was a powerful man who was here. He was called Councilor Maaritz,” she remembered. He was also a Guide, like me, Suriyen thought. I hope he got out alive, but doubted that he had.

  “So?” Vharn snapped.

  “He has a tower, near the docks. He was important. Like, a spymaster…” Suriyen said. So far, all true,

  “A what?” Vharn shook his head.

  Damn. I’d forgotten that the Menaali have almost no concept of diplomacy.

  “He found things out for the Council of Fuldoon. Like, our trading enemies. He was able to make problems go away, quietly. People had accidents,” Suriyen said. Again, all true.