by A. J. Smith
Hasim stopped, he was surrounded and out of options. The mercenaries and knights had him encircled and his room for movement was getting smaller and smaller as they penned him in. He held a longsword in one hand and his kris blade in the other, but he was faced with twenty or so Red knights and several dozen mercenaries.
He turned and was met with a powerful punch to the face from Sir Pevain. He felt blood flow from his nose and mouth and lost the strength in his legs for a moment, crumpling to a heap on the floor.
He looked up and rubbed the blood from his face, and saw dark faces loom into view. A kick to the stomach and he lost his breath, a kick to the back and he lost his grip on his weapons, and a kick to the groin and he exhaled sharply and involuntarily curled up into a ball on the stone floor.
‘Don’t kill him, you dogs, we need information from him,’ ordered Rillion. His voice sounded close and Hasim was vaguely aware of him shoving the mercenaries aside. ‘Pevain, control your bastards.’
Hasim was pulled roughly to his feet and received another punch in the face from Pevain, though this time he was held and not allowed to fall. He was shoved between the mercenaries for a few minutes, punched, kicked, insulted and goaded with promises of rape and worse. Then he was thrown against another table and doubled over, wheezing heavily and spitting blood.
Pevain grabbed him by the neck and held him up to his face. ‘Where is the duke’s slut of a daughter? Where did you send her?’
Hasim laughed weakly and spat blood in Pevain’s face. ‘A few kicks and punches I can handle, you sorry excuse for a knight,’ he said, with as much bravado as he could muster.
Another powerful punch to the face and Hasim spat out a tooth and felt his lips and jaw swell up.
Pevain turned back to Rillion and said, ‘My lord, we need to apply a bit more pressure to this Karesian pig-fucker. He’s a tough little bastard.’
Rillion nodded and Hasim was thrown back to the mercenaries.
‘Break him,’ commanded Pevain simply.
He tried to resist, but many hands held him and he was weak and unfocused from the repeated blows to his head and body. He lashed out and struck wildly at the faces around him, but his arms were quickly wrenched behind his back and a forearm was wrapped roughly round his neck. Vile calls came from the mercenaries as they argued who would get to violate him first, and Rillion and his knights simply watched.
Hasim didn’t stop struggling, but he knew he had no chance of resisting as he was punched repeatedly in the stomach and bent over a feast table, his arms held firmly and a rough hand grasping his hair.
Just as he began to pray to Jaa for a swift death, he heard a man shout, ‘Let him go!’
Hasim turned his head and identified the speaker as William of Verellian. The hawk-faced knight captain was standing just inside the great hall with five of his knights, who looked at Pevain’s men with disgust.
‘Not your business, Verellian,’ said Pevain in response.
The captain stepped forward and glared at the huge mercenary. ‘No man will take his payment in blood or flesh. That applies to you and your men. Cage him, imprison him, question him,’ he said with menace, looking directly into Pevain’s eyes, ‘but cause him to bleed again or violate his flesh and I’ll kill you.’
Verellian’s men drew their swords and faced off against the mercenaries, most of whom were decidedly afraid at the sight of Fallon of Leith, a man renowned as one of the finest swordsmen amongst the knights of the Red.
‘Captain,’ barked Rillion, ‘you overstep your bounds. We need information from this man. He’s a criminal and your knightly code does not apply.’
Verellian looked offended, but maintained his composure. ‘Apologies, my lord, but my knightly code applies in all situations and with all prisoners. I will not disobey a direct order from my commander, but neither will I stand down and let these animals cause any more pain to a captive, criminal or not.’
Fallon and Verellian both looked dangerous with their swords drawn, and the men with them would clearly think nothing of killing the mercenaries if they were ordered to do so. Pevain glared at the captain, but his men were unsure, as if they would rather not have to test themselves against true fighting men.
Hasim remained still, but chanced a quick look at Ameira. She was standing behind Rillion, evidently enjoying the confrontation. This was the closest he had been to her since he had arrived in Ro Canarn and he wondered if she knew that he worked for Algenon Teardrop.
Rillion stepped forward to stand next to Pevain, considering what to say to Verellian. He narrowed his eyes and slowly smiled.
‘I’m honestly not sure who would win if I let the two of you fight.’ He sized up the two armoured knights.
Pevain was larger by nearly a foot, but William of Verellian was a hard man and had a reputation as a swordsman who could kill quickly and efficiently. Pevain was younger, though not by much, and the match was even.
William took a step forward and stared up at the mercenary. Lieutenant Fallon let a hard glare play over the faces of the others.
Verellian didn’t move his eyes from Pevain as he spoke to his commander. ‘My Lord Rillion, I will gladly kill this man and all his bastards if it will convince you that the Karesian should be treated with honour.’
Pevain smirked, showing that he wasn’t scared of the Red knight. ‘Commander, let this boy-fucker try and I’ll make him my little whore the same as that Karesian pig.’
Verellian didn’t change his expression as he rammed his forehead into Pevain’s nose. He had to rise on to tiptoes to reach the taller man, but the blow landed solidly and sent Pevain to his knees, clutching his smashed nose.
Two of the closest mercenaries automatically moved to attack Verellian, their swords brandished and eyes wild with anger. Fallon grabbed the first by the throat and casually kicked away his sword. The second turned to thrust at him, but was met with a parry and Fallon’s riposte was a swift cut to his neck. The wound was clearly fatal and the assembled knights and mercenaries paused and stared as the dying man slowly fell.
Pevain gathered himself and, panting heavily, rose to his feet. Fallon took a step towards the remaining mercenaries, stepping over the dead man and twirling his longsword with skill. Verellian didn’t move an inch as Pevain again stood nose to nose with the knight.
Commander Rillion began to laugh, breaking the ominous silence. ‘Pevain, if you strike Captain Verellian, he’ll kill you. Fallon and the others will then kill all of your men and no order from me will stop them,’ he said with quiet authority. ‘Put your sword down and take your dead man out of my hall. Enough blood has been cleaned off the floor today.’
‘You should listen to him,’ said Verellian in a near-whisper.
Fallon simply smiled at the mercenaries, and Verellian’s other knights stood with swords drawn.
The man restraining Hasim had turned away and the Karesian had slumped to the floor, leaning against a wooden chair. He managed a slight smile at the idea of his honour being defended by knights of the Red.
The mercenaries all looked towards Sir Pevain and Hasim sensed they’d rather their leader did not continue the argument. They were tough men, but no match for a group of hardened knights of the Red, especially not this particular group of knights of the Red. William of Verellian had been known to Hasim even before he overheard him talking to the commander. His skill and honour were well known in Tor Funweir.
Pevain was grunting under his breath and no doubt imagining all manner of unpleasant torments he would visit upon Verellian, but he turned to his men and waved them out of the main hall. He then nodded to Commander Rillion and left, gingerly touching his broken nose.
* * *
Hasim had been tied to a horse and he found himself waiting, flanked by knights of the Red, at the gatehouse leading north out of Ro Canarn. It was just starting to rain and he was still sore from the beating he had taken.
Knight Commander Rillion had not been pleased with William of Ve
rellian’s interference and, as punishment, he’d given Hasim into the care of the knights to be taken north in pursuit of Bronwyn. Rillion evidently thought that threatening Hasim’s life would make Bronwyn less inclined to run. What he did not realize was that Verellian was a knight to whom displays of terror did not come naturally.
Hasim was used to having his fate dictated to by others, but he disliked the thought of those people’s strings being held by a Karesian enchantress. As he sat on the horse, Hasim wondered where the other Seven Sisters were, and what interest they had in Ro Canarn.
CHAPTER 8
ZELDANTOR IN THE CITY OF KESSIA
Slavery was a reality to many Karesians. Zel had been a slave since he was a child and had never questioned his position. His mother was a Kirin, living in the woods of Lislan, and had apparently been killed by churchmen of Ro. Slavers, following the clerics, had taken Zel when he was too small to remember. Zel was not bitter about this, primarily because he had never known his mother, but also because he found the life of a slave to be a relatively pleasant one. The slavers had given him to a mobster in Kessia as a show of respect and he’d served the man faithfully.
He now served a woman called Saara, though she was often referred to as the Mistress of Pain. She was of the Seven Sisters and had purchased Zel from the mobster shortly before Zel’s twelfth birthday. He was now fifteen and largely enjoyed his duties. Previously he’d been required to care for the fat old mobster, cleaning his tattered clothes and fetching his meals. On occasion he’d even had to wash the man, scrubbing his back and shoulders while singing soothing songs or reciting poetry. When he wasn’t being a body slave, he’d been trained in the use of a scimitar and told that, when he grew stronger, he’d be one of the man’s many bodyguards.
Zel was glad that Saara did not require him to bathe her, or even repair her clothing. She liked him to wake her with breakfast and the gentle ringing of a bell, but her daily demands were few. She required that Zel accompanied her virtually everywhere and trusted his discretion, even going so far as to ask his opinion on matters when they were alone. In the time they’d been together, Zel had stood next to her at all manner of interesting meetings and encounters.
The Seven Sisters were the enchantresses of Jaa and universally feared by common Karesians. They had the power of life and death over all those who claimed Jaa as their god and they were able to make demands of virtually everyone. Even in Kessia, where the merchant princes ruled, Saara was treated with nervous respect.
‘Slave!’ The voice came from one of two wind claws waiting outside Saara’s chambers.
The Mistress of Pain had chosen to stay in an opulent residence in the south of the city, a quiet place built in the form of three towers around three gardens of meditation. Saara had asked for the top floor of one of the towers to be cleared and she now held court overlooking a beautiful fountain and a carefully tended garden of brightly coloured plants.
Zel’s mistress had just finished talking to a merchant prince called Zamam and had requested a short break. She had spoken to a number of princes during the morning, and several mobsters the previous evening, and Zel had advised that she take an hour’s rest. He’d seen her through to her marble bedroom and had then taken some time for himself. Currently, he was on the terrace that led from the top floor to the stairs and the ten floors below.
The inner walls of the tower were open, allowing guests to look down on the garden, and Zel found the low babbling of water from the fountain most relaxing.
‘Slave, are you listening, boy?’ one of the wind claws asked again.
Zel sighed at being pulled away from his quiet contemplation, turned and bowed deeply to the man before him. The wind claws were tall men, wearing the flowing black robes common to their order, and both carried two wavy kris blades at each hip. The man who had spoken had long black hair, tied in a braided topknot.
‘Many apologies, master, I was deep in thought,’ the slave said.
‘A slave to an enchantress is still a slave, boy. Please remember your manners or I’ll have you beaten.’
It was not as much of a threat to Zel as it would have been to a younger slave. A beating was a simple thing, easily endured and soon forgotten, and yet the nobles of Karesia evidently found the notion pleasing on some level.
‘I meant no offence, noble master,’ Zel said, bowing even deeper and holding his arms wide in a fawning gesture. ‘Were you waiting for my mistress?’
‘Well, I was considering waiting for her, but after the procession of merchant princes I’ve seen walking up those stairs, I’d imagine my presence would be positively boring by comparison,’ the wind claw said, clearly deep in thought.
‘If you give me your name, master, I’ll be sure to tell my mistress that you are waiting. She’s resting at the moment, but will be available again shortly.’
The wind claw looked at him, letting his eyes narrow and his speech become suspicious. ‘I am Dalian, called the Thief Taker. She will know me.’
He spoke with little ceremony, but Zel had heard the name before. The Thief Taker was an infamous man in Kessia, a man who enforced the will of Jaa and was frequently brutal in doing so. He was not gifted by the Fire Giant, as were the Seven Sisters, but had chosen to serve faithfully, frequently questioning the enchantresses and their use of the powers granted to them. He was the greatest of the wind claws, the men who made sure that common Karesians adhered to the word of Jaa.
‘This is Larix, called the Traveller. He has just returned from Tor Funweir with a message from Katja the Hand of Despair for your mistress.’ The second wind claw was a younger man, with lighter skin. His black robes were in pristine condition, suggesting to Zel that they had not been worn recently.
‘I’ll be sure to tell her that you are waiting, masters,’ Zel said with deference. He had met wind claws before, but never the Thief Taker himself, and Zel was moderately impressed at his bearing.
The slave continued bowing as he backed away from Dalian and Larix and approached the ornate white doors that led to Saara’s chambers. He turned slowly and opened the doors, not looking back to see if the wind claws had any other words for him. Zel enjoyed a degree of arrogance, being slave to one of the Seven Sisters, but, faced with a man of such reputation, he felt his self-confidence wither.
The Thief Taker had recently been responsible for the death of an old-blood, an insane Karesian with the blood of Giants who’d been hounding an outlying village. Another of the Seven Sisters had asked him to do so and, if rumour were to be believed, Dalian had burned the old-blood alive. This brutality was apparently typical of the man and Zel was glad to be out of his presence.
He walked through the white and gold sitting room to the bedroom door. The quarters were opulent and spotlessly clean, with four quilted chairs positioned round a central table. Zel was not permitted to sit on any of the chairs and had only been present in the sitting room while standing behind his mistress.
He straightened his light blue tunic and knocked gently at the wooden door. At fifteen, Zel was almost a man in Karesia, though his mixed lineage meant that little was expected of him. Even as a slave, being a Kirin meant he’d be looked down on for the rest of his life. He was short and slim from years of hard work and meagre diet, but his mind was sharp and his time with Saara had taught him much of the world.
Zel knocked again and heard his mistress stirring. She coughed and said, ‘Zel, I need to rest. Whatever you want can wait.’
‘Many apologies, my lady, but two wind claws are waiting outside and I believe one of them is called Dalian Thief Taker.’
There was a momentary pause. ‘Very well, come in.’
Zel opened the door slowly and peered in. Seeing Saara lying across a white-sheeted bed of expensive fabrics, he moved to stand inside the room.
‘The second man is called Larix and has a message from your sister in Tor Funweir, mistress.’
Saara smiled, a thin expression masked a little by sleep. ‘Excellent,
’ she said, ‘I think the Traveller may have good news for us.’
‘Mistress…’ Zel said, not moving from his position by the door, ‘I’m confused.’
Saara rubbed the tiredness from her eyes and sat up, letting the covers fall from her body, exposing her naked breasts.
She smiled warmly at her slave. ‘You are often confused, young Zeldantor. Come, rub my shoulders and tell me what you are confused about.’
The slave walked round the large bed and picked up a small vial of scented oil from Saara’s bedside table. The enchantress removed the bedclothes entirely and shifted position to sit naked and cross-legged in the middle of the bed. Zel removed his sandals and climbed on to the mattress, kneeling behind his mistress. Her skin was smooth and light for a Karesian, and her lustrous black hair was delicately placed around her neck so as to allow Zel to reach her shoulders unhindered. The young Kirin had seen her naked numerous times and no longer felt embarrassed at the sight; in fact, he’d come to enjoy seeing his mistress unclothed, as she represented the ideal of womanhood to him. Though most men would never admit it, for fear of retribution, the Seven Sisters were all beautiful women. Even those who were plain when they were chosen gradually took on the same beauty within a few years. It was a part of their gift, and Zel assumed it was to make the act of seduction and enchantment easier, for that was the way of the Seven Sisters.
Zel uncorked the vial of oil, poured a small amount into the palm of his hand and began to rub it smoothly into her bare shoulders. Saara leant forward and closed her eyes as he began to massage her skin.
After a moment or two, his mistress straightened her neck. ‘So, let us talk about this confusion of yours, Zel.’
‘It can wait if you’d rather bathe and prepare to receive the wind claws, mistress.’
She turned her head and smiled warmly. ‘Dalian can wait. I would rather my body slave was fully informed of my actions before I see any more men.’