I wasn’t sure exactly what had driven me to wandering so early in the morning; I was restless, discontent with sleep. I had wanted to watch the sun rise, watch the stars fade. The sky was only just brightening now. The land was drenched in shadow.
I was surprised that Queen Boralia had relented so swiftly to Dawn’s trip to Glenn Mereillon. Majira held an awful lot of sway over her, it seemed. She was an interesting character, that dau sorceress; clearly powerful in her own right, even if a little… odd.
I gathered up my cloak around me to ward off the chill mist.
As I wandered about the empty meadow in front of Herace’s keep a noise drifted to me through the whited haze; distant at first, ill-defined. I strained to hear, squinting against the pre-dawn gloom, scanning the treeline. It sounded like a rattling of metal, a faint clinking.
I knelt in the grass to hide my silhouette.
The woods of this kingdom were deep and only half known. All forms of strange creatures inhabited its unlit places, all manner of peculiar beasts yowled in its abandoned quarters. We were near enough to the Weeping Hills that some monster could have slunk in, to skulk in the undergrowth in search of prey.
A shiver ran through me. I hoped reality was less foreboding than my imagination.
The sound grew clearer; a clatter, a shuffling, the heavy tread of hooves.
Out of the mist appeared a dark shape; many dark shapes. Riders with long, thin lances.
I stood up out of the grass.
The haze-shrouded riders stopped, their ill-defined shapes just dark blobs. I realized that the horses were headless; then I realized that they were not horses at all, but centaurs.
Centaurs only inhabited the open fields of the east; I didn’t know what business they would have, what business anyone would have, trespassing in Plin Oèn.
After a tense moment one approached, hands empty. Slowly his form solidified. The sun was gradually making its ascent behind me, still hesitant on the horizon’s edge.
The centaur was broad-shouldered, an immense figure of muscle and armour. A green cape draped from his neck over a bronze breastplate. A huge claymore was strapped to his mailed flanks, nearly as long as a spear. He looked down at me imposingly through the dark visor of an ornate barbute.
I considered asking him to state his business, but not only was this not my land, I also had less claim on asking the business of a sylfolk in their own lands than he had asking me.
He reached up and removed the brassy barbute. Steam plumed out.
My nerves settled as I set eyes on his face, recognizing him. He was the Captain of the Royal Guard. I couldn’t remember his name, but I recalled him from the days leading up to the Battle of Ithtine.
“Greetings, battle-mage,” he said, tucking his helmet under his arm. “Were you expecting us?”
“Good day, Captain… no, actually, it’s only by chance we meet here.”
The centaur smirked.
“It seems you have a knack for skulking. A useful skill, should you cultivate it. A surprised opponent is an easy one.”
I wasn’t sure how to take his backhanded compliment. He had been there when I admitted to King Aral that I had kidnapped Dawn, and he had been there when I had been detained as a ‘spy.’ It was little wonder why he may have a poor opinion of me.
“My name is Perethon, Captain of the Royal Guard,” he continued, putting a fist to his chest. “Queen Boralia has sent me to escort Princess Dawn beyond the border.”
I glanced back at the other Royal Guard. The sun was just rising over the horizon now. Light glinted off their helms, the tips of their long spears. There were eight, all armed and armoured.
It made sense for the queen to send them. It was surprising, in fact, that such a provision had not already been made.
I gave a shallow bow to show my compliance with his mission.
“My name is Ortham. It will be my pleasure to show you to the princess,” I said.
“Ortham,” he echoed. “Of course. I couldn’t remember your name. I could only remember the great influence you had at Ithtine. Your noble actions helped win the day.”
I was taken aback by his misplaced praise.
“Ah – well, of course. Just a matter of business, I suppose… shall we?” I said, gesturing for us to continue on to the keep.
He motioned for the other Royal Guard to follow along. We made our way through the dewy meadow as the morning broke overhead.
“Having battle magick at our disposal opened my eyes to its utility. Never before had a court in the Untouched Wood used battle magick. Magick, yes, but never battle magick in such pure form,” Captain Perethon said as we walked.
The others trailed along behind, lances resting on their shoulders.
“Is that so?” I intoned, feigning interest.
I knew what he was getting at. He was leading up to something. This fellow was a military one, thinking only of efficiency, of war, of duty. All the things I no longer cared for at all. I used to think in terms of cold logistic. But I was free now, dammit, and I didn’t want to be bothered.
“Indeed, the death of the king at the hands of mages made me finally accept that the use of battle-wizardry is no longer something to avoid – it is something that Céin Urthia must accept. Something we must foster. Else, we may not survive the changing of the world.”
“Well, it’s a good thing that Queen Boralia is reinstituting court wizardry. Majira seems a keen teacher. Your kingdom is in good hands,” I replied curtly.
Perethon let out a rumbling chuckle.
“I recall Majira from many years ago. She was a capable seer, but she is no battle-mage. You are a battle-mage, though, an expert in that foreign art. Perhaps one day, when the princess takes the throne, she will give you a position in court.”
“Perhaps,” I mumbled, not terribly thrilled at the prospect.
Training battle-mages was not something I had the stomach for. The Black Cohort’s methods were cruel in excess, dangerous in excess, even considering the quick results. Maybe there was a chance I could make such training less terrible…
But no. I was not interested. Not today, and likely not tomorrow either.
We approached the gate. It was open, having not been closed in weeks. Grass and weeds grew thick all around the rough doors. A few hens scratched the ground inside. Commoners milled about their daily routine, stopping at the Royal Guard’s approach to simply watch them pass. Maybe they thought Herace was being evicted again…
“Wait here. I’ll go get the princess,” I suddenly blurted out.
I ran off into the keep, up the stone steps to Herace’s chamber.
None of the doors were locked, not even his own. Most didn’t have locks at all. It was a very old keep, after all, one that had been inherited countless times from father to son.
Herace was fast asleep on his bed when I burst in. I ran over to the window first and peered out; there was a good view of the courtyard below, including the detachment of Royal Guard. It was perfect.
“Herace!” I said, shaking him awake. “Herace, they’re here!”
His eyes opened wide. His hair was a mess; he pushed me off.
“What? Who’s here?”
I ran back to the window, trying to hide my grin. I pointed out to the centaurs.
“The Royal Guard! They’re here to arrest you! You’re being evicted!”
Herace leapt up off his bed, a stream of incredibly colourful language pouring out of his mouth. He pushed me away from the window and gasped as he saw the Royal Guard waiting outside.
“What! Again? Why? I’m not going back, Ortham. They’ll never have me!” he shouted, stumbling around for his boots.
He flopped back down on his bed and quickly pulled them on, then gracelessly wrestled a shirt over his head. He was in abject panic. I was struggling to keep a grin off my face. This was working all too well.
Suddenly he stopped. He glared over at me.
>
“You bastard…” he said.
I could no longer contain myself. I laughed and laughed. He pulled off a boot and threw it at me.
“You worthless dog! You son of a pig!” he yelled, voice breaking up between insults as he too succumbed to laughter.
“I got you, didn’t I! Should’ve seen the look on your face. Never seen someone so scared,” I laughed, unsuccessfully dodging another thrown boot.
“You little rat. Scared me half to death,” he said, collecting his boots from off the floor. “How ‘bout you tell me why they’re actually here.”
“For Dawn. They’re going to escort us through the Weeping Hills.”
“Through Sythir Eoaghn? I’ve already got a few friends ready to ride with us,” Herace said. “You remember them. Tibaron, Lyrandor, and Maeral. Sent a courier late last night. They should arrive sometime this evening.”
“The courier, or your friends?”
“My friends. Least, they should. They’re pretty dependable. Either way they’ll all be ready by tomorrow afternoon. We’re not in any rush.”
“I suppose so.”
He was sort of right. We had been in a rush to leave Naraya, just in case the queen changed her mind. And judging by the Royal Guard mustered outside, she had already reconsidered to a degree.
Fully dressed, Herace leaned out the window and waved.
“Looks like Perethon,” he said.
“That is Perethon,” I replied.
Herace drew back from the window.
“We’ll have quite the little party as we travel. Four Guardians and nine Royal Guard, plus a battle-mage and a sorceress. Shouldn’t have a problem,” he said as we walked out of the room.
“Wouldn’t be too sure about that. I had a dozen urguyks with me and still got into a pretty nasty ambush. Those hills are swarming with tribal low folk.”
“I’ve gone through with far less and been just fine. It all simply depends on who surprises who. Anyway, we’re not headed straight through Sythir Eoaghn, right?”
I realized that Herace had never been to Glenn Mereillon.
“That’s right. Glenn Mereillon will find us, more so than we will find it. That’s the nature of fae enclaves. You stumble into them, but only if they want you.”
We came to one of the guest room doors and knocked.
“Dawn, we have visitors,” Herace sang. “Wake up, Dawn.”
There was a muffled reply from beyond the door that more or less told us to go away.
“She’ll be fine,” I said. “Should we go wake up Majira?”
We looked at each other. Then we laughed.
We both knew she never slept. Sorceress, and all that.
“Well, might as well go say hello to the four-legged ones,” Herace breathed out, hands on his hips.
“Might as well,” I replied.
Outside the sun had risen in a cloudless, powder-blue sky. It would be another beautiful summer day where nothing could go wrong.
Just as we came to the threshold Majira rounded the corner. She walked with a purpose, her red hair a wild mane about her face.
“Good morning, Majira-” Herace began.
“None of them should come with us,” she said abruptly, cutting him off.
She stood defiantly before us, arms folded.
“Who, them?” Herace asked, pointing a thumb out the open door.
Perethon and the Royal Guard were out of earshot, but they could still see us conversing in the doorway.
“Any of them. Or your friends. Few are allowed to enter, and only ever at the behest of the Yvrette, who rule there,” she huffed.
She was less calm than usual, her serenity all but gone.
“You mean Glenn Mereillon?” I asked, and she nodded.
Herace narrowed his eyes at her.
“How did you know my friends are coming? I didn’t tell anyone but the couriers.”
Majira tipped her head back and looked down her nose at him.
“I know many things, and can sense even more. But this much I know for certain; even should we desire these folk to enter with us, Glenn Mereillon will not allow them to enter.”
“Why not? What’s so special about any of those enclaves?” Herace asked, clearly annoyed.
“Such is the way of the fae,” Majira said, shrugging nonchalantly. “We may only come as guests, and only ever if invited.”
Herace grimaced and looked back out the door to the awaiting centaurs. Then he threw his hands up in exasperation.
“Fine. They’ll escort us, and they’ll just have to camp out in the hills. But just know, if they get skinned by goblins, it’ll be on you,” he said, thrusting an accusatory finger in Majira’s direction.
“They will be safe from harm, I assure you,” she said, placidity returning to her face.
“Good,” Herace said curtly, “I’ll hold you to it. Now if you’ll excuse me, sorceress…”
He turned away and walked outside to greet Perethon, leaving the two of us in the doorway. He didn’t seem very happy with the change of plans. I couldn’t blame him.
Majira sighed and shook her head.
“I told Boralia not to send an escort…” she whispered, gazing out to the courtyard.
I smiled drily.
I loved awkward situations.
14
The Slave
The ship was docked.
No longer did the stained floor rock; no longer were we forced to row.
I sat against the hull. The stink of unwashed bodies had stopped offending my nose long ago; but now a new scent reached me.
Land.
I peered again through the oar holes. Birds cried shrill and discordant. There was land; a harbour. A foreign place with strange boats and stranger folk, stone buildings. I did not know where I was. All I knew was that I was far away from home.
The heavy iron manacles had chafed my wrists raw. In my desperation I had torn bits of my clothes off, stuffed them between the metal and my weeping flesh. It helped.
A heavy boot struck my thigh. I tore my gaze away from the oar hole and looked up into the face of my tormentor. He stood above me, sneering, a barbed scourge in one hand. Long had he dogged my steps. He was urguyk like me, but short, stunted. From the hills, not the open valleys. His teeth were filed to mimic the overlords of his tribe; the same overlords who allowed raiders to scour my homeland in search of slaves.
His tribe was weak. It served the Empire of Un. Mine was strong and free. He hated me, and I him.
He spat at me and raised his scourge. I did not look away. He brought it down, striking me across the shoulder. I flinched as pain shot through me. But I held his gaze. The other captives sat completely still. They did not want to attract his ire. They did not want to be like me.
The stunted urguyk raised his scourge again, preparing to strike, when another slaver called from above deck. He gave me one last look, one last gob of spit, and left.
My blood boiled in my veins. I resented my treatment; I resented my capture. I would not submit to slavery.
They tried to break me the day I was captured in battle; yet they could not.
They tried to break me on the long march to the sea; yet they could not.
They tried to break me at the slave markets of the coast; yet they could not.
They tried to break me on the oars; yet they could not.
How now did they expect to break me? I had survived this long. I might comply, but I would never obey.
I put a hand to my head and felt the three-pronged earring. It was the mark of a slave. A crescent of brass, bored into the ear by three needle teeth. It could only be removed with special tools – or so the other slaves whispered in the deep night. We all had one.
I gazed back out the oar hole. If I were to escape now I would have to remove this cursed earring… but that was the least of my obstacles.
I strained against the manacles. The wrist cu
ffs were iron and a rope connected them together. It was bound to the floor. There was only enough rope to let me stand in place. I was one of the few forced to endure such treatment. The slavers only ever walked me from the side of the hull to the rowing benches and back. That was all. I had not set foot above deck since I had boarded. I had not felt the wind, seen a sunset. My world was vomit and sweat and these manacles.
A long time passed. The ship rocked gently. The birds cried amidst the clamour of the harbour. I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of land. I did not know what was to become of me. I dreamt of home – but pushed the thought away.
Home could not help me now.
A barking voice roused me. I opened my eyes to see a gang of slavers roving through the massed captives, menacing with scourges and clubs. They were unmen, urguyks, hobgoblins. A crooked-necked birdfolk too, beak snapping. Each shouted the command to rise. They tried every language.
“Up, up, uuuup!” croaked the vulturian birdfolk, wild eyes snapping around. “Get uuup!”
The slaves squatting on the floor were whipped and prodded. In a filthy stream of flesh and rags they shuffled out, the slavers shouting all the while.
Soon all that was left were the captives who were manacled to the floor, backs pressed against the hull. The slavers had gone up with the rest.
Was I to stay with the galley? I looked down at my calloused palms.
My world was nothing but the oars. I squeezed my hands into a fist, tightening until they shook. Damn them all. Damn the slavers, damn the slaves. Damn this galley and all the seas I was cursed to row!
The day dragged on in uncertainty. One of the captives began to weep. He was not urguyk. He was far elvish. In the first week of the journey this was not uncommon. Many wept bitterly, cried in the night. Soon, however, there were no tears left.
This captive wept in shudders. His shoulders heaved as he kept back his wails. I watched him from the corner of my eye. Those who wept seldom survived. If the slavers did not beat you to death, your heart would give out. Or sickness would ravage your living corpse.
Death was all around us. Its stink was thick. Some died at the oars. Others died in the night. The bodies were unshackled from the benches or pried from the deck and tossed into the hungry sea. We all heard the splash and somewhere in the awful depths strange fishes nibbled out the eyes and horrid monsters chewed the flesh.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 11