Before my capture I had never seen the sea. It was a terrible thing. So vast, like an open steppe. Endless. A desert place. Nowhere to hide from the cruel sun or the briny wind.
A slaver walked down the steps. He shouted for us to stand. We already were - the ropes that bound us to the deck were taut. A handful of slavers followed behind.
One by one we were released from the deck. Only our hands remained bound. One by one the captives were led up the wooden steps and into the day’s light.
I awaited my turn. My body cried out for a touch of the sun. I stood as still as stone. Showing weakness here was a death mark.
The stunted urguyk approached me. He leered up at me. I was much larger than he.
“You stay,” he said, lip curling. “You row.”
A swell of hopeless rage welled up inside me. I was bound. There was nothing I could do but suffer his taunts.
His eyes twinkled evilly. He relished my torment. He raked the scourge over my hands. I felt the barbs tear open the flesh of my knuckles. A grunt of pain escaped my lips and he laughed.
A hobgoblin loped over to confront the stunted urguyk. They chittered in a foreign tongue. It sounded like the hissing of a snake. The hobgoblin thrust his club under my chin. The two seemed to argue over me. Then the hobgoblin left.
The stunted urguyk returned his attention to me. He sneered. A wicked light glowed on his face.
“We sell you here. But first, work to do,” he grinned.
His words were halting, awkward. He did not speak my tongue very well. His accent was Unnic. Likely his people had long ago succumbed to the Empire of Un. Perhaps he resented my freedom.
I was released and led above deck.
As I reached the open air the light blinded me. The world was so bright, brighter than I recalled. Up there the cry of gulls was piercing. A gust of air washed over me. I breathed in deeply.
The stunted urguyk cursed me, pushed me from behind.
“That way, that way!” he barked, pointing me toward a blocky tower at the rear end of the galley.
The other captives were being herded down a wide ramp on the other end. I could see the harbour’s bustle; strange clothing, strange folk. The slaves were all being roped together, just like how we had been marched to the coast.
The stunted urguyk opened a door on the side of the great wooden tower and shoved me inside. At least he tried to shove me; his small, squat frame could do little.
My eyes readjusted to the darkness. Inside the room were stacks of barrels.
“You move all. All,” he said, gesturing to the barrels.
I looked down at my hands. They were still bound by the manacles. I did not know how he expected me to lift a barrel.
“Go. Go!” he shouted.
He swiped at me with the scourge. It tore at my exposed arm.
I walked to the first barrel. I squatted low, tipped it onto my shoulder, and tried to stand. It was incredibly heavy. I strained beneath the weight, heaving to stand up.
The stunted urguyk directed me out the door and I placed the first barrel upon the deck.
“Next, pig, next,” he goaded.
I returned for the next barrel.
Over and over I lifted the barrels. Each was a greater struggle than the last. My limbs quivered with effort. The blazing sun beat down. Sweat rolled off of me.
Soon my vision blurred. The heat, the work, the slaver, all fighting against me. My mouth was dry – my tongue felt like leather. Sweat stung my eyes.
I lost count of the barrels.
My knees threatened to give way. I do not know how long I had been working. The stunted urguyk slashed at my calves.
“Get moving, you. Move!”
I took another step, the weight of the barrel pressing down on my shoulder. I shuddered and fell to one knee.
The stunted urguyk roared. I felt a shadow pass over me. My head swam. He whipped me over the back and I dropped the barrel. It struck the deck heavily.
“Get up, pig! Get up!”
He continued to flail me. The sharpened goads of the scourge bit deep into my back, my shoulders, my arms. I raised my manacled hands to protect my face. I was still kneeling. He stood over me.
After an eternity the stunted urguyk ceased his thrashing. Sweat and blood mingled upon my skin. I was shaking with pain and rage.
“Get up,” he gasped. “Up.”
Like a hot coal my hatred glowed within me. I rose to my feet.
I saw the stunted urguyk was sweating too. He breathed heavily. The scourge was loose in his hand. I bent over, lifted the barrel back onto my shoulder, and with a few long strides placed it with the rest. My anger had refreshed me, filled me with acrimonious energy.
I walked back into the shaded room and he followed after. He was like a fat, black fly, hovering and biting.
Still my loathing burned, now white hot. I looked around. We were alone upon the deck.
I knelt down to lift the next barrel onto my shoulder. But this time I feigned a stumble.
“Come on, get going!” He railed.
He took a step toward me, scourge raised.
I leapt up.
He jumped back in surprise. But he was not quick enough.
I grabbed him by the throat and pushed him against the wall. My eyes swam with hate while his eyes opened wide in panic. I pushed him harder, harder, until I was lifting him off his feet, my hands on his neck.
A desperate croak escaped his mouth as he tried to scream. He flailed and kicked. I pushed harder upon his throat. His back was pressed against the wood. There was nowhere for him to go.
He brought the handle of his scourge down hard upon my elbow. I buckled and he dropped to the floor.
The slaver tried to scream, but only a rattle came out. I had crushed his throat. He dropped to his hands and knees, one hand on his neck, coughing.
I thrust a knee into his shoulder, knocking him back against the wall. He tried to scramble away. With my bound hands I grabbed him once again by the neck.
Then I squeezed. With every ounce of strength, with every ounce of hate, I squeezed. His eyes bulged. His tongue lolled out of his crooked mouth. I squeezed harder, pushing down, standing over him as he had stood over me so many times. I strangled him. His legs kicked out.
Soon his wild struggling faltered, his fight weakened. His arms no longer reached high enough to batter my wrists.
Another moment passed, and he went limp.
I let go. He dropped heavily to the floor.
I exhaled and closed my eyes. It was over. I had killed him. Strangled him.
I gathered my senses. No doubt the slavers would soon return. I had to leave now.
Kneeling at his corpse I fumbled with shaking hands to search his belt. I withdrew a curved knife, blade no longer than my longest finger, and used it to cut the rope between the manacles. With difficulty the blade sawed through.
I rose and stretched my arms. It had been a long time since I could move freely.
But there was no time to waste. The manacles had to be removed. And the earring.
Leaving the corpse behind I left the room and closed the door. There had to be some place they kept tools for undoing these accursed shackles. I searched the next room of the tower.
It did not take long to find. On a rack were the long implements used to bend the manacles apart. I wedged the handle between a work-bench and pried the first manacle off, then the second. They clattered the ground.
As I searched for the smaller tool used to remove the earring, the sound of voices reached me. My heart jumped.
I bolted out of the room and onto the upper deck. At the far end, by the gangway, a group of slavers was returning. They may have seen me but did not react. The stacks of barrels were between us.
I looked over the ship’s edge. Salty water lapped against the hull. On either side other ships were anchored at the docks.
The slavers were getting
nearer. I could hear their heavy steps upon the deck.
I jumped.
It was a graceless dive. My entire body plunged into the water. The cuts in my flesh burned.
I thrust my head above the surface, spitting out the briny water. I could hear shouts from above. Recklessly I swam toward solid ground, arms and legs pumping madly.
I hauled myself onto the dock and wiped the water from my eyes. Already the slavers were at the cusp of the gangway. I turned and ran.
Through the harbour I sprinted; through crowds and markets, flashes of faces and limbs and colourful clothes. It was all a blur. Exhilaration swelled in my breast.
I was free.
For now.
If I could outrun them.
I didn’t look back. I ran and ran until my lungs burned.
Everywhere I went the walls seemed to follow. The whole city was surrounded. There was no way out but through the guarded gates. I stopped between two buildings by one such gate. The buildings leaned against one another. They seemed to be collapsing, but very slowly, over the course of decades. I watched as mule carts and camels and travellers passed in and out, all paying their due to the guards. Strange tongues floated in the air; hissing, cooing, singing, rumbling. So many queer languages.
The sun was setting in the dusky sky. I did not feel safe, but I knew I could not keep running. Even if I left the city, I did not know where I was. I did not know the direction of home. All I knew was that I was very far away, and I could not escape the city. I touched the brass slave earring. Not yet.
There was all sorts of refuse in the alley between the slouching buildings. I leaned up against the wall, flinching as my still-wet wounds touched the stone. My feet were bare and dusty, my wrists ugly. I closed my eyes.
The streets emptied as the light dimmed. It was a warm night. I did not need a shirt now, but I would if I intended to leave.
I pinched the brass earring and gave it a light tug. This would have to go, too. I breathed in deeply and tightened my grip.
Then, with a strong wrench, I tore the three-toothed thing out of my ear. Blinding pain shot through the side of my head. I gasped and exhaled through my teeth with a hiss. Blood poured down the side of my face. It streamed down my neck and pooled in my collar bone.
I tilted my head back and all went black.
15
Herace
We departed in the early morning, headed east.
We were a sizable party now; Myself, Lyrandor, Maeral, and Tibaron lead. Majira, Ortham, and Dawn rode in the centre. Perethon and his detail of Royal Guard followed up the rear.
I’ll admit, it was safer this way, and certainly befitting of a princess.
But I still found it inconvenient. For one, centaurs were not known for their civility, nor their subtlety. It was hard to travel discreetly when their brassy armour shined like a tenth moon. And in a place so fraught with danger such as Sythir Eoaghn, discretion was paramount. If we were ambushed on the way we would always be outnumbered.
Regardless. This was simply the way it was and there was no sense in complaining. So I complained anyway.
“Will you quit your griping? You groan like a pregnant sow,” said Maeral.
“I’m not griping,” I replied.
“Sure sounds like griping,” said Lyrandor. “Definitely sounds like griping.”
“Ah, give him a break,” Tibaron piped up. “It’s awkward already, Royal Guard showing up out of the blue. And to escort him through the scary woods no less!”
“It seems you’ve all become comedians. You should consider a troupe act, I’m sure the queen would love it,” I snapped back.
“That’s not the only awkward thing about this,” continued Maeral, “imagine travelling the roads with a princess you failed to impress and a sorceress you failed to seduce.”
The other two fell into fits of laughter. I did not.
“Not sure why I even bothered inviting you three slack-jawed simpletons along,” I said.
They laughed harder.
I never should have told them about Majira. But of course, last night we all stayed up late with more mead than we could rightfully handle and swapped stories and I had nothing interesting to tell other than what happened with Majira. Not the boring bits about Dawn and Glenn Mereillon and destiny or anything. No, just the part where Majira and I almost slept together but didn’t. It seemed like a funny story at the time, and we all laughed. But now I was paying for it.
I guess they were just trying to improve my mood. They accused me of turning into a recluse since the Battle of Ithtine. That was sort of true – I never joined them on our annual spring bear hunt, and the last time I went to the Etala Chamber was for the king’s funeral. So it was good to see them again, all together, all doing something worth our while. Actually putting our training as Guardians of the Amber Bower to good use.
By late morning we stopped our horses at the sandy ridge separating the Sacred ground of Céin Urthia from the world beyond. From there I could see the grim, wet hills of Sythir Eoaghn stretching out as far as the eye could see from north to south, a dark gash of gnarled trees and sunless ravines. The needle peaks of the Bitter Frost Mountains loomed in the east.
“We’ll go scout ahead,” I announced. “The rest of you wait here until we come back.”
“Do you know where you’re headed?” Majira asked.
I tried not to roll my eyes. She was always trying to make me look like a fool.
“Of course. Into Sythir Eoaghn, looking for the fae and whatnot.”
“You won’t find anything.”
“Oh? Well then, what’s the point of coming all the way out here if we won’t find anything?”
Majira sighed, as if she was the one hard done by.
“The fae are in there, yes, but you won’t be able to find them unless they reveal themselves,” she said.
“Wonderful. Did you all hear that? We’re relying on the fickleness of the fae. Good thing they’re known for their honesty and dependability,” I said aloud to the rest of the party.
“Herace, please, just listen to Majira,” Dawn interrupted, ever the one to try and make peace.
“Fine, fine,” I said, raising my hands defensively. “Then what do you suggest?”
“I will come with you. I know how to find Glenn Mereillon. I know the Yvrette,” Majira said.
I groaned inwardly.
“Right, sounds good. Shall we move along?” said Tibaron, spurring his horse toward the sandy crest.
Reluctantly I followed behind. The Royal Guard, Ortham, and Dawn watched us in silence as we rode down the loose slope. Soon they were nothing more than small black shapes behind us as we passed between the twisted trunks of knotted oak.
Once in the trees I gave orders to my friends.
“Tibaron, keep left, Maeral, keep right, Lyrandor, follow up the rear. I’ll take the lead with our sorcerous friend here.”
We spread out, keeping about thirty paces between us to cover the most ground without losing sight of each other. It was the same way we often hunted in these very hills. Years ago, when we were all first inducted into the Order, the low folk frequently raided the frontier – and, just as frequently, we were called up to defend it, to track down and eliminate the savages.
Those were the days!
Majia rode beside me as we made our way through the thickets and briars. It was slow going as always. The summer sun had dried the smaller sloughs, but still the mire was thick in the deepest gullies. We did our best to keep to the thistle-strewn heights so as to not get bogged down.
“So where exactly are we headed? You haven’t told me to change course yet,” I said to Majira.
“We must simply head in. Fae enclaves exist nowhere in particular – they move like the morning mist, hidden, out of sight,” she said.
Great, more mystic talk. No sense in asking questions if the answers were puzzles.
We passed under
a drooping canopy of sickly leaves. Their edges were wilted and black. Majira reached up and plucked one and it turned to tarry, black slime in her hands.
“Woah, don’t touch that. That stuff is disgusting, tends to stain,” I said.
“This tree is corrupted,” she sighed, studying the tumorous trunk as we rode by. “The Shade festers here.”
“Sure does. The Shade has been in these hills since forever. You should see some of the things it spawns. Black-eyed boggarts, giant salamanders… if you’ve had a nightmare of it, the Shade has produced it,” I said in an attempt to seem cavalier.
“There may come a day when the whole land is infected. Or worse – turned to ash,” she continued.
“Turned to ash?”
“If it were up to some, yes. They would rather have the Void consume the world than allow the Shade to taint it…”
I recalled the day we all sat in the garden listening to Majira. Hadn’t she spoke of something like this?
“Dark powers and bleak powers, right? You mentioned it before.”
She nodded solemnly.
“The dark power of the Witches, who are nurtured by the Shade. The bleak powers of the Void, whose disciples gather their strength east of the Bulwark Mountains. Together they are the Twin Pillars of Woe, forever locked in combat, holding up the house of obliteration. Their war is rising. If either wins, we all suffer.”
I really didn’t like the sound of that. A shiver crept up my spine.
We rode deeper, deeper into the dark-soiled hills. A wispy grey haze hung heavy above us. Between the bubbling clouds, and through the dense canopy, I could still catch a glimpse of blue summer sky.
Even the smell here was revolting. A swampy, muddy stench offended my nostrils with every breath. The stink of rotten vegetation was pungent, almost suffocating in places.
Suddenly Majira stopped. She raised a hand signalling for me to do the same. I whistled for the others to follow suit.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 12