Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  Keirith took strength from those early lessons. He promised himself to watch his enemies. Observe their behavior. Remember any detail that might help him stay alive.

  Each time Brudien sang the song of farewell, more voices joined in. “The Oak and the Holly are with us,” the song promised, but Keirith knew better. The gods hadn’t saved his people during the Long Winter and they couldn’t save him now. He couldn’t trust them any more than he could trust these strangers. If they found out what the raiders had done to him, they would scorn him. If they discovered his gift, they would revile him.

  The Oak and the Holly weren’t with him. He was alone.

  Chapter 10

  SOMETIME IN THE MIDDLE of the sixth day, Keirith heard a flurry of activity from above. Instead of the inevitable scrape of pebbles, the boat thudded against something and settled into a gentle rocking. Anxious speculation gave way to silence as the door swung open. The dark form of a raider stood silhouetted against brilliant light. He flung the rope ladder into the hole, drawing startled curses from those below.

  For a long moment, no one moved. Finally, Brudien spoke. “We are the children of the Oak and the Holly. Like them, we know what it is to fight and suffer defeat. And like them, we will remain strong to fight again—if we have the courage to face the coming days.”

  A few murmured assent, but one man shouted, “The coming days will bring death. Better to fight now.”

  “Against armed men?” Brudien shouted back. “Twice our number?”

  “Should we go forth like sheep to the slaughter?” Dror demanded.

  “Nay! Like proud men. Let them see our strength and wonder at it.”

  Bent almost double because of his height, Brudien edged through the closely-packed bodies and seized the rope ladder. People muttered prayers of protection as he climbed up. Then Dror pushed forward. “If there’s a chance to make a break, I’ll shout. When I do, take out the nearest guard.”

  “Good gods,” Temet said with weary disgust. “Half of us can barely walk, never mind ‘take out the nearest guard.’ ”

  “And where would we run?” someone cried.

  “Make for the forest,” Dror replied.

  Weak from the days of confinement, Keirith’s legs betrayed him, and he had to let the raiders pull him out of the hole. The heat made him gasp; if the air smelled better, it was just as stifling. A raider bound his wrists. Another looped a rope around his neck, tethering him to Temet. A shove sent him stumbling forward.

  Images formed before his dazzled eyes: sunlight striking sparks on the blue-green water; a treeless cliff silhouetted against the sun-bleached sky. Below him, a long tongue of stone rose nearly as high as the side of the boat; the line of captives trudged down it toward a beach of white sand. Fishing nets lay stretched like giant spiderwebs across the snowy expanse. Beyond it, clusters of people shouted and waved. Some of the raiders called out greetings in return. Of course, they must have families. Families who greeted their homecoming with the same joy and excitement his folk displayed when a loved one returned from a Gathering.

  Make for the forest, Dror had said. But there was only a sprawling mass of white buildings marching up the side of a hill, row upon row of small, square houses that reflected the merciless sun back into his eyes. In the distance, a dark crag thrust out from the hills, its peak obscured by a haze of yellowish dust or smoke. On its slopes, Keirith made out a few patches of green. There was Dror’s forest, those pitiful clumps of trees.

  A shout saved him from tripping as the stone tongue gave way to sand.

  Watch, Keirith. Watch. Observe. Remember.

  Bare-chested men with whips and clubs. The snap of a whip when a captive faltered. Snowy sand sifting through his toes like hot ash.

  The world blurred, then re-formed to show him heads bobbing up and down along the line as captives hopped from foot to foot to escape the burning sand. One of the raiders mimicked them, drawing roars of laughter from his comrades.

  Keirith kept a wary eye on the raiders hurrying toward their loved ones, but he couldn’t see the Big One. Did he have a wife? Would she rush forward to fling herself into his arms? Would she hurry him home, eager for the touch of those calloused hands, the thick fingers knotted in her hair, pushing her down, shoving her skirts up . . .

  Stop it stop it stop it!

  He forced himself to breathe, sucking in deep gulps of the hot air. When the black dots cleared from his vision, he spied a pathway of smooth stone and sighed with relief as he left the burning sand behind.

  The path twisted between rows of buildings too low to provide shade from the midday sun. He heard snatches of muffled conversation from within. More tantalizing were the smells: frying fish, roasting meat, and spicy scents he couldn’t identify. Saliva filled his dry mouth and he swallowed it gratefully.

  Steps led them past more houses that clung to the slope of the hill as if they might tumble off. Those at the top rose up two or three times a man’s height, offering brief patches of shade.

  Up ahead, a man shouted. Answering shouts echoed down the line as a man lurched away from the other captives. Good gods, was it Dror? Where did he think he could go?

  Whips cracked. Clubs rose and fell. A boy screamed. He saw guards dragging someone away. And then the line began moving again.

  He stepped in something wet. Blood, he realized, when he saw the trail of red footprints. They grew steadily fainter as the procession approached another set of steps, steeper than the first. By the time he reached the top, he was panting. His head ached. His legs quivered. The sweat oozing down his sides evaporated before it could even dampen the waist of his breeches. If it was this hot now, what must it be like at Midsummer?

  He heard the clamor of contending voices before he saw the open square. Small knots of people lingered before wooden stalls. Women hurried past, clutching baskets brimming with vegetables he couldn’t even recognize. Few bothered to give the captives more than a cursory glance, although one or two pulled their children back.

  It must be some kind of market, he thought dully.

  As the procession wound its relentless way upward, the world narrowed to the gray stones before him and Temet’s grimy heels, rising and falling in a slow but ceaseless rhythm. Only when he felt the sun beating down on him again did he look up. The guards led them up another flight of steps toward an enormous building. Gods, they could put ten villages inside it. Giant pillars, tall as pines, marched along the path, but the line veered away toward a section of the building that jutted out. Craning his neck, he saw two wooden gates swing open in the wall.

  When he passed through, he found himself in yet another open area. Instead of stalls, this one had flimsy shelters lining the walls. He glimpsed fair skin and dark, red hair and black, but before he could guess at the number of captives, the guards brandished their whips and herded his group forward.

  He had thought they were all roped together. Now he realized they were tethered in small groups. Just so they could fall into the neat lines their captors required.

  Some forty or fifty other newcomers had already been arrayed in the center of the compound. Nearly all were men and most had red hair. He wondered why there were so few; he’d seen ten or twelve boats at the mouth of the river. Had the other raids failed or did those boats have different destinations?

  He tried to think, to remember, but he was so tired. He heard moans around him, voices begging for water. A shout silenced them.

  Four men in loincloths trudged through the gates, clutching the ends of two long wooden poles that supported a box big enough for three men to lie in. Sweat streaked the bearers’ naked chests and the muscles in their straining arms. Grunting, they carefully lowered the box to the ground. Two open-toed shoes thrust through the bright blue fabric on the side of box. Beringed hands reached out. Two of the bearers seized them and pulled.

  A heavyset man emerged, clad in baggy knee-length breeches. Bracelets decorated his arms and a bronze collar adorned his neck. A man
hurried forward to greet him. He was dressed in the same odd half-breeches, but his only adornment was a sheathed sword belted around his waist. Three boys trotted behind him. One unfolded a small stool. Another proffered a cup. A third waited until the heavyset man seated himself before holding up a short pole topped by a fringed canopy that shaded the man from the sun.

  Keirith didn’t even realize another man had emerged from the box until he began speaking. “Slaves of the barbarian north. You are blessed to have come to Pilozhat, holy city of the Zherosi.”

  He spoke the tribal tongue with an odd guttural slur, but the word “slaves” was clear enough. And now his enemies had a name: Zherosi.

  “You live to serve the pleasure of the gods and the pleasure of the Jhef d’Esqi—the Slave Master.” He gestured to the heavyset man. “A few of you will be selected to serve in the great houses. The rest go to our temples. It is an honor to be chosen for such service. Others must toil in the fields or in the mines.”

  Keirith had no idea what mines were, but it might explain where the rest of the captives had been taken.

  “If you obey, you will be treated well. If you disobey, you will be punished. The punishment for the first act of insubordination is the loss of a day’s water. The punishment for the second act of insubordination is the loss of a day’s food. The punishment for the third act of insubordination is ten lashes.” The litany of punishments rolled on, climaxing with, “The punishment for attempted escape is death.”

  No one spoke. No one moved. Keirith hardly dared to breathe. Who knew what these people would consider insubordination?

  The Slave Master heaved himself up from his stool and slowly walked between the lines of captives. Each time he pointed, the captive was untethered and led off to the side. Keirith’s heart pounded when the Slave Master paused in front of him, but after a moment, the man moved on. At the end of the inspection, seventeen people—mostly girls and boys—had been chosen.

  The Slave Master climbed back into his box, while the Speaker said, “Now you will clean yourselves. You will drink. You will eat. You will rest. When Heart of Sky descends, you will be inspected by the Jhef d’Esqi and the Jhevi of the great houses.”

  The welter of strange names and titles immediately fled his mind with the promise of water. Impatiently, he waited for the Slave Master to take his leave, and licked his dry lips when he spied guards trotting forward with buckets and long wooden dippers. The other guards edged closer, whips and clubs at the ready, as the water bearers moved between the lines of captives. The man in front of him elbowed his neighbor aside and grabbed for the dipper. A club crashed down on his hands and he cried out, dragging those roped to him to their knees as he fell. The guards jerked him to his feet, cut him free, and dragged him over to a wooden stake. Ignoring his pleas, they tied his hands to the stake and returned to the lines.

  After that, no one attempted to take water out of turn. Keirith watched the bearer in an agony of anticipation, cursing him for giving each captive two drinks, cursing each captive for taking so long. When his turn came, he seized the dipper with trembling hands and swallowed the lukewarm water in three gulps. Licking his dripping fingers and lips, he waited for the guard to raise the dipper again. Too soon, he moved on. Keirith could only watch as the precious water dribbled down Roini’s stubbled chin.

  To his amazement, the guards then handed out bulging waterskins to each of them. Keirith drained almost half the skin before Temet whispered, “Save some for later. This may be all we get today.” Reluctantly, he lowered the skin, nodding his thanks. But why go through the ritual of the buckets and the dippers if they intended giving each person a skin of water? Then he glanced at the man tied to the stake: they had just been given their first lesson in obedience.

  His mouth tasted sour. He wondered if it was the aftertaste of the water or the lesson.

  The guards herded a group of captives toward two wooden troughs. Keirith’s stomach lurched when they began to strip off their clothing. Were there marks on his body? Scratches or bruises that would testify to the rape?

  When his turn came, he kept his back to the trough as he shed his tunic. He accepted a dirty round of soap from Temet and picked up one of the scraps of cloth dangling from the edge of the trough. The rough fabric abraded his skin, but it was a relief to wash some of the filth away. If only he could scour away the memories as easily.

  Boys in loincloths trotted forward with new clothes. Their noses wrinkled with disgust as they picked up discarded tunics and breeches. After some experimentation, Keirith figured out how to wind the long strip of wool around his hips and through his legs, tucking one end in at his waist.

  He followed the others to a long slab of wood supported by two crosspieces. Here, a guard handed each person a bowl and another ladled soup into it—fish soup, by the smell. He gulped it down where he stood. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed Temet to one of the canopied shelters that lined the walls of the compound. One man raised himself on his elbow, but the others dozed, oblivious to the newcomers. Keirith seated himself at the far corner of the shelter. He would rather endure the sun’s glare than another night of bodies brushing against him.

  To his dismay, Brudien walked toward him, one arm around Sinand’s shoulder. Carefully balancing his bowl, Brudien helped Sinand sit and coaxed him to eat. Sinand just curled up on the ground. Brudien sighed and nodded to the man propped up on his elbow. “I am Brudien, Memory-Keeper of the Holly Tribe.”

  “Soriak.”

  “You’re a child of the Oak and Holly, too?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  Soriak shrugged. “Half a moon. Or so.”

  “How many others were taken with you?”

  “Not so many as that.” His gaze drifted to the line at the feeding station.

  “Where are they now?”

  Again, Soriak shrugged. “Gone. Mostly.”

  “To the great houses? And the temples?”

  “It’s only the young, pretty ones who go to the houses.”

  When Soriak turned that sleepy smile on him, Keirith felt heat rise into his cheeks. He glanced at the group selected by the Slave Master; they huddled together under one of the shelters near the gate.

  “What about the others?” Brudien asked. Soriak gave a languid wave and flopped down on the hard-baked earth. Brudien shook his shoulder, his voice sharp. “Soriak. Where do the others go?”

  “Big gates. Little door. Pretty ones out the gates. Other ones out the door.”

  “Where does the door lead?”

  “Not the ones with red hair.”

  “What happens to them? Soriak!”

  Roini cursed and spat. “He’s drugged. Or bespelled. They want to keep us docile. If we’re going to make a break for it, it’ll have to be soon. Else we’ll all end up like him.”

  His comment sparked renewed discussion about escape, but for every man like Roini who favored action, there was another who cited Dror’s foolhardy attempt. No one had seen him after the guards had dragged him off, but everyone suspected he was dead.

  Keirith fell asleep to the drone of men’s voices and dreamed of cool rain and the rumble of thunder. When he awoke, the sun hung atop the western wall of the compound and all of the men were sleeping; even the guards on the walls seemed content to doze, heads drooping, bows held loosely in their laps.

  The headache that had plagued him since his arrival had become a persistent throb. The equally persistent howling of dogs only made it worse. His bag of charms seemed like a great weight around his neck. All he could do was lie on his side watching the ants marching past his nose. They streamed across the compound in long lines; in Pilozhat, even the ants were orderly.

  Shouts roused them. The gates slowly creaked open under the combined efforts of eight guards. A line of curtained boxes swayed into the compound, stopping before a large canopied shelter the guards must have erected while he slept. Men emerged, as richly adorned as th
e Slave Master. As they settled themselves on brightly colored cushions, boys trotted forward with jugs and platters of food. The smells made Keirith’s mouth water.

  Two guards pulled a girl forward. An animated discussion followed, the voices of the five Jhevi—for surely that was who they were—as shrill as women. They punctuated their arguments with groans and shouts and dramatic shaking of fists. When the voices fell silent, the Slave Master clapped his hands twice and the Speaker scratched something on a clay tablet. The girl was shoved to one side and, after the Jhevi paused for meat and drink, the process began again.

  The sun sank below the wall while they haggled. Light-headed from hunger and heat, Keirith watched and hated them: their clacking speech and callous laughter, the jewels on their greasy fingers and the bracelets clattering on their wrists, the oily sheen of their black hair and the pretty cushions beneath their pampered arses, and their utter and appalling disregard for the starving captives who watched every bite, every sip with mingled torment and longing.

  Finally, it was over. The Jhevi crawled into their boxes. Their chosen captives lined up behind them. The gates creaked open.

  A shout from a neighboring shelter made the Slave Master freeze. The guards on the walls drew their bows. Those in the compound hefted their clubs. Instead of a mass attack, a lone man leaped up and staggered out of his shelter. As the guards moved in, more men poured out from under the canopy, knocking over slower comrades crawling on their hands and knees. One man untied his bulky loincloth and swatted the ground with it. He looked so silly that Keirith laughed.

  He was still laughing when someone seized his arm and yanked him to his feet. Temet pushed him out of the shelter. Sinand screamed. Roini shoved past, screaming even louder.

  The snakes seemed to come from everywhere, wriggling out of the walls, slithering across the parched earth, slipping over the legs of men who blinked sleepily at the commotion. Keirith backed away, stumbling in his haste. In horrified fascination, he watched the snakes converge on him.