The Swordmage Trilogy: Volume 01 - The Last Swordmage

by Martin Hengst

  “Easy for you to say,” she snapped, drawing the back of her hand across her eyes. “You're not the one in a cage.”

  “True,” the main replied, nodding sagely. “You'll be free soon enough. We just have the matter of some paperwork and you'll be free to go.”

  Tiadaria was suspicious. She had never heard about any paperwork from the Captain, and he was as much an expert on the laws of the land as anyone she had ever heard of.

  “What paperwork?”

  “Just the rightful registration of ownership. Captain Royce didn't enter into a proper contract when he purchased you. There was no sealed agreement.”

  “What does that mean?”

  A stocky little man stepped out of the shadows, large gems on each finger reflected the flickering light of the torch in its holder. Cerrin smiled, the slaver’s feral grin full of malice and hatred.

  “It means that you are being returned to your rightful owner, slave.”

  The little man hooked his thumb at his chest, still grinning. Tiadaria shrank away from the cell door until her back was to the wall. She slid down to the floor, too numb to speak.

  * * *

  Royce ground his teeth as he raced down the path between the training field and the cottage. There had never been much love lost between himself and the Magistrate, but now there was open animosity. There may not have been a letter-sealed bargain for his purchase of Tiadaria, but it had been a legal transaction.

  The Magistrate was just looking for a way to stick it to him. He would learn, soon, that he underestimated the lengths that the Captain would go to protect the girl. Legal bargain or not, Royce wasn't going to let Tiadaria go back to that slaver. Cerrin was exactly the type man would want his revenge and he would take it out on Tiadaria in unthinkable ways. There was no way Royce was going to allow that to happen.

  He fished the key from around his neck and tried to fit it in the lock, but it wouldn't budge. He tried again, to no avail. Dropping to one knee, he peered into the lock. Someone had shoved clay into the mechanism. Unleashing an endless stream of profanity that had been cultivated from the seediest bars and taverns in the land, he rooted around beside the house until he found a suitably thin twig to dig the clay out of the lock. He didn't have time for this. Every moment he wasted here was a moment that the slaver would be farther away.

  Royce ground his teeth together in impotent fury. Of course. That was part of the plan. It had to be. He wondered if the sneaky little rat had known he would come back to the cottage, or if it had just been a lucky guess. Regardless, it was costing Royce time that he really couldn't afford to lose and he'd see to it that the slaver paid this debt thrice over.

  He fitted the key into the lock and this time it did its trick, though protesting profusely. Normally a series of ticks and pops accompanied the unlocking of the door. This time, there were squeals of stressed metal and grinding. Royce didn't like the sound of that and he wasn't sure he'd ever get the door open again, but he didn't have time to worry about that now.

  With nimble fingers, he donned the thick leather armor that was his daily wear. He exchanged his training blade for the fine scimitar he usually carried into battle. He crossed to the cabinet and flung it open, slinging a black leather quiver over his shoulder. He all but ran down the hallway, through the curtain into his room. From the rafters he took an intricately carved longbow. Sliding the tip of the bow against his instep, he bent the top of the shaft and hooked the waxed sinew over the other end. The string made a satisfying twang as he strummed it. He slipped the bow over his shoulders and went to the stable.

  Out on the trade road, Royce pulled up on the reins and brought the stallion around in a slow circle. He stood at a crossroads. There were two main routes out of King’s Reach. North and south. If Royce were a betting man, he'd bet south. The slaver had already been north. Had already visited the Frozen Frontier and taken everything there was to take. South would take him through the heart of the Imperium and eventually to Dragonfell. Slaves were an unwelcome commodity in Dragonfell, but there were plenty of little towns and villages between here and there. Cerrin could probably unload his cargo in any number of them. Then he’d have heavily lined pockets when he arrived in the capital.

  Spurring his mount onto the southern track, Royce dug in his heels. They rode for such a long time that Royce began to doubt his instinct. He was ready to turn around and try to catch up on the northern track before he saw a thin curl of smoke climbing into the darkening sky of evening. There were no other signs of travelers along the road. He urged his beast into the woods and tied the reins to a low tree branch. He paused only long enough to take a feed sack and a handful of oats from his saddlebag to settle the horse.

  It was full dark before Royce found the slaver's wagon. He lay on his stomach on the ridge, surveying the scene below. A number of girls, chained wrist to wrist, were seated on a fallen tree, huddled together. He suspected this was more for comfort than for warmth, as the night was mild and a large fire burned in the center of the makeshift camp.

  Tiadaria was there, and Royce sighed with relief. Her arms were pulled up over her head, new shackles looped over a branch that kept all but her toes from touching the ground. Her face was drawn and haggard. Dried blood caked her lips and her left eye was hidden in a swollen mass of black and purple bruises. Her torment pained him, but the fact that the slaver was taking sadistic pleasure in drawing out her torture had given him time to come to her rescue.

  “Hang in there, little one,” he whispered to himself. “Just a little while longer.”

  In the clearing, Tiadaria turned her head ever so slightly, as if she had heard him. Then her chin fell to her chest and she went slack against her shackles, her arms pulled up at a grotesque angle.

  The door at the back of the wagon banged open and two men appeared. The slaver Royce immediately recognized. The other was unknown to him. They were passing a bottle of amber liquid back and forth, laughing loudly at words Royce was too far away to hear. Every time they roared, the girls seated on the tree would shudder and shift closer to the wagon. The tall, unknown man crossed the clearing at a trot and punched Tiadaria in the stomach, sending her swinging against the shackles. Her head snapped back and she screamed; it was a high, unearthly keening that Royce had heard before. He had watched enough men die to know that sound and know it very well.

  Royce had had enough. He picked his way down from the ridge, careful that no loose scree or dead twigs give away his approach. The tall man had become bored with his singular torment of Tiadaria and had returned to the fire and the bottle that waited for him there. Royce circled the clearing, coming up on the dark side of the wagon, using its shadow to hide him from the view of the girls and the men. The fire would work to his benefit, dazzling their eyes and making the shadows that much darker.

  He waited for what seemed like hours. The tension was driving him mad. He wanted to act, and act quickly, but he hadn't stayed alive through so many battles by being rash. True, he probably could have taken the two drunkards without much effort, but the risk was too great. He dared not gamble Tiadaria's safety against his vengeance.

  Just as Royce had decided that he couldn't wait any longer, the tall stranger got to unsteady feet and announced that he needed to relieve himself.

  “Piss on them!” Cerrin called from the fire. “The lot of ‘em aren’t worth the price of piss anyhow.”

  The slaver and the tall man shared a good laugh. Seeming to take this advice to heart, the man stepped up toward the terrified girls and hooked his thumbs in the waist of his breeches.

  Royce’s dagger slipped out of its sheath without a sound. The old soldier half ran, half sprang toward the man as he struggled with the drawstring on his pants. Seizing the tall man by the hair, he wrenched his head back and drew the blade across his throat. The girls screamed as they were sprayed with blood spurting from the slit throat.

  Turning to the opposite side of the fire, he saw that the slaver had gotten to his
feet, knocking the bottle over and spilling the last of its contents into the dirt by his feet. The stain on the ground looked remarkably similar to the stain that was rapidly darkening the crotch of Cerrin’s fine pants. Seeing who had appeared on the other side of the fire, recognition dawned on the little man's face and he made the only smart decision he could. He turned tail and ran.

  Royce slipped the bow from his shoulder and drew an arrow from the quiver, seating it and pulling it back in a single fluid motion. He laid the feather against his cheek and closed his eyes. He gazed into the sphere, correcting his aim through the sightless eyes of the ancients. His eyes snapped open as he loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true, slamming into the slaver's shoulder and sinking an inch into the soft flesh.

  The little man bleated like a wounded animal, but still managed to get to his feet. It was an impressive act for a man in the grasp of strong spirits. Royce fitted a second arrow and repeated his shot, sinking an arrow into the opposite shoulder. The man crumpled, screaming. Without his arms to rely on, he lay face down in the dirt as Royce slung the bow back over his shoulder and walked toward the spot where he fell.

  He lifted the man under the arms and dragged him back to the edge of the fire. He pulled the arrows free, none too gently, and pushed the slaver into a sitting position against the cart's wheel.

  “Your keys,” Royce demanded. “Where are they?”

  The slaver looked up at him, his eyes showing far too much white.

  “In...the...wagon,” he panted, struggling for breath.

  Shock was setting in, Royce thought. Thankfully, it was taking its time. He wasn't done with this little man who made himself feel big at the expense of little girls. He yanked the door open and climbed inside. A small candle lamp illuminated a table and benches, no doubt where the girls would sit for their ride to whatever destination full of horrors they had in store for them. A makeshift bed took up the front end of the wagon, its linens stained and none too fresh.

  Royce's hatred for the slaver abruptly matured as he reached over the foul bedding and took the keys from the nail driven into the corner post. As he exited the wagon, he kicked the man in the shoulder as he passed, causing a renewed round of screaming.

  He glanced at the girls as he passed. They had subsided into weak sobbing. Royce felt for them, but Tiadaria was his primary concern. He ran to her and unlocked the shackles, taking the weight of her body in his strong arms as she fell limp against him. She opened the one eye undamaged by the beating and her split lips parted in a weak smile.

  “You came, Sir.”

  “I promised you I would, little one.”

  “No one,” she said, laboring to form the words. “No one ever keeps promises to me.”

  “I do.”

  Royce shushed her then and carried her to the fire. He laid her as near to the flames as he dared and turned to the slaver. He had gone white and Royce knew that he wasn't long for the world with or without his help. Now that Tiadaria was safe or relatively so, he found that his thirst for revenge had subsided.

  He went to the man and hunkered down, taking his dagger from his belt as he did so. “I'm going to give something you never offered these girls,” Royce said, gesturing to them with the tip of the blade. “A quick death.”

  “Please!” the man gasped, struggling to sit up. “I can pay you, anything you want, girls, money, name it and it’s yours.”

  Royce snorted with derision. He plunged the dagger deep into the man's chest, twisted it to ensure he was thoroughly dead, and then wiped the blade clean on the little man's tunic. Sheathing the knife, he checked on Tiadaria and then went to the other girls, who shrank back from him in unison. He kicked the body of the tall man out of the way and went to his knees before them.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry for all that you've had to endure at his hand and that you had to witness things that no gentle girl should have to see. I can't promise that I can get you back to your families, but I can get you back to King’s Reach and you can find your way from there.”

  Without waiting for them to reply, he went to the slaver and plucked the jewels from his fingers and the purse from his belt. He treated the tall man the same way, finding no lack of coin in his purse either. It would be enough to give these girls a new life.

  It took him a long time to free the girls and usher them into the wagon. By the time he got Tiadaria into the bed that he spread with fresh grass to cover the worst of the stains, the smoke of the burning bodies was climbing into the lightening of the morning sky.

  Chapter 8 - Dark Omens

  Tiadaria lay in her cot, listening to the bird sing right outside her high slit window. She wasn’t sure how long they had been back at the cottage. The first few days of her recovery had been a haze of pain and semi-consciousness. Then the infection had set in. She knew that the Captain rarely left her side, and when he did, it was to summon the best clerics and priests to practice healing magic or say prayers on her behalf. He was beside her cot, morning, noon, and night, and she didn’t know how he was managing to stay with her and still adjudicate the tasks that his position as Constable required of him.

  Her fingers idly picked at the soft woolen blanket that was spread over her. Though summer hadn’t yet passed into fall, and the days were still warm, she found herself cold more often than not. She wondered if the cold was in her head. Her thoughts kept going back to the tree that she had hung from and every time her thoughts turned in that direction, it was like being doused in cold water. She didn’t want to show any weakness to the Captain, lest he lose his faith in her, but whenever he left her alone in the house, she was beset by panic.

  Then there were the dreams. It seemed like every time she closed her eyes, she saw Cerrin and his friend taunting her, mocking her, telling her in graphic detail all the horrible and vile things they were going to do to her before they finally cut her throat and left her to bleed in front of the other girls. An object lesson in what happens when you disobey your master. She felt the gorge rise in the back of her throat and she swallowed hard against it, determined not to be sick yet again.

  She was miserable. She wanted to put the whole thing behind her and yet it seemed like everything she did or thought reminded her of that night. Tiadaria wondered how long it would be before those memories faded and worried that they might be with her for a long time. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep them from coming.

  The Captain had appeared with a laden tray, but as soon as he saw her wet cheeks, he deposited it on the desk and went to one knee beside the bed. His hands hovered over her and his face was a mask of anxiety that pained Tiadaria almost as much as her injuries.

  “What hurts?” He asked quietly, his voice soothing her jagged nerves.

  She shook her head.

  “Nothing, Sir,” she said, equally quiet. “I just…” She trailed off and looked up at the window, not knowing how to explain, or even if she had to.

  He laid his hand on hers and she knew that she didn’t need to say anything else. The shock that used to be painful was now a reassuring reminder of their bond. It was the thing that told her that though they were different from everyone else, they shared something unique between them.

  She wondered if that bond was what had helped her to hear the Captain’s voice in her head before he swooped down to her rescue. She hadn’t built up the courage to ask about that yet. Everything seemed so hard these days. Even the slightest things were a huge undertaking and she just wanted things to get back to normal.

  “Are you hungry?” He gave her a thin, tight-lipped smile. “I’ve done the cooking, I’m afraid. I may have rescued you just to put you in the ground again.”

  Tiadaria couldn’t help but giggle. It was a weak, thin sound and she hated how vulnerable it made her seem. Still, any laughter at all was a good sign, she decided. At her willing nod, he pulled the tray from the desk and settled it to her lap, helping her sit up to better take her meal
.

  The Captain’s lack of culinary skill had become something of an in-joke between them. Tiadaria had told him that since he was so used to cutting things apart, that he should naturally make a good cook. Alas, he said, this wasn’t so. He was old and tough and stringy and any meal he attempted to turn out was often reflected upon the same way by those unfortunate enough to be served.

  There was a thick beef broth on the tray with thinly sliced vegetables. Her stomach rumbled, not with nausea but with actual hunger. It was the first time in days that food even sounded appealing, much less looked or smelled it. She wasn’t sure if the Captain had outdone himself, or if she was just so very, very hungry, but the soup was excellent. She drank every bit of it, even bringing the bowl to her lips with shaking hands to finish off the savory liquid.

  The Captain stayed with her throughout the meal, nodding with approval as she finished what he had put in front of her. He seemed to appraise her thoughtfully before he took the bowl from her fingers and placed it on the tray, whisking it out of the room, the very pinnacle of efficiency.

  As he left, the now familiar pang of panic chilled her guts and made her long for his return. This simply wouldn’t do, she said to herself. How was she going to survive if every time he left the room she felt as if she was going to fall to pieces? She steeled her resolve and forced herself to breathe deeply; concentrating on the movement of her chest and the mild pain the bruises still caused her as she pushed air out of her lungs.

  The Captain returned, hooking his foot around the stool in the corner of the room and lowering his big frame onto the tiny wooden tripod. For an instant, Tiadaria thought it was going to give way under him and he was going to crash to the floor below, but aside from a mighty creak as he settled his weight, nothing else happened.

  “Sleep, little one,” he said softly, stroking her hair back from her forehead. “I’ll be right here.”