As long as I still breathed, I would keep going.
28
The Slave
We trudged over the uneven coastline. The great stone was heavy upon my shoulder, but I could not set it down – we had to make haste. The she-unman was shivering; she would die. We needed to get warm and dry. Her pace was slow but still impressive; she yet walked after almost drowning.
She was hardy. We would survive. But only if we hurried.
The unman fell behind as we went up a hill. I waited atop. As I did, I surveyed the green countryside – the port, much smaller than the one we left behind, was no more than an hour’s journey now.
She caught up. Her feet dragged upon the ground, her paces short. I grimaced. The cold was seeping into her blood, into her bones. I had seen it before. Strong folk dropped dead from such affliction. I marvelled that she continued on. Her motions were listless, but her eyes – piercing and blue – were hard. Determined.
We trudged on.
The rain beat down. Water ran in rivulets off my skin. I pushed a strand of stringy, wet hair out of my eyes with my free hand.
We wound our way over rocks and through hilly pastures. I was vigilant to the unman, making sure she was always in sight. She hugged her arms to her chest and shivered. The water plastered her clothing to her skin. But she staggered forward, ever forward.
We made our way down a steep, grassy hill. It was flecked with tumbled rock. As we did she stumbled, falling to her hands and knees. I waited for her to rise. She did not.
Instead she sank further to the ground. Her chin fell to her chest and she slumped over into the grass. She was no longer shivering.
I had to do something. She was on the cusp of death. The cold was wresting her soul from her body. I could not let it. She saved me on the docks – now I needed to save her. We had a deal to stand watch over each other. I carried the stone, she would take me to the Ashen Plain.
I dropped the stone tablet behind a boulder. Then I dug into the dirt with my bare hands, tearing up great clumps of grass by the roots. I laid it like sod atop the tablet to hide it from sight.
Then I walked back to the warrior-girl. Rain drenched her limp body – one so imposing for her race, so strong, felled by the cold.
I stooped low and tried to scoop her into my arms, but she was too heavy. Her weapon kept getting in the way. She was denser than I thought; not a shred of her was spare. It was all lithe, feline strength hidden in a feminine body.
Impressive. I had a good travelling companion – if I could revive her.
Eventually I managed to get her on my back, her arms slung over my shoulders, my hands beneath her thighs. She was heavier than the stone.
But it was no matter. I carried on with her on my back. I had to hurry.
At long last a low, stone cottage came into view. It was in the middle of a rolling pasture. A small garden wrapped around the cottage, hemmed in by a wicker fence. A thin curl of white smoke rose up from the chimney.
I headed for the cottage and picked up my pace. This place would have to do.
As I neared, I laid the unman down in the grass and picked her back up, this time cradling her in my arms. It would be easier to lay her down this way. Her head lolled back.
As I walked toward the stone cottage, a little girl in a long green cloak stood up in the garden. She stared at me, mouth agape. Her eyes were wide. She dropped her basket and ran out of the garden and around the front of the cottage.
I paid her no heed. I approached the cottage and walked around to the front. There was a wooden door and two small windows. The windows were covered in stretched sheep-skin.
I kicked the door with my foot. The rain was pouring down, running in torrents off the cottage roof. There was no answer.
I kicked the door again, this time harder.
After a moment it opened just a crack. An elvish face appeared – a father or a brother. I wasted no time. I kicked the door open and it swung wide. Someone cried out in surprise.
I stepped into the small cottage. The he-elf backed away, a stave in his hands. The little girl-elf cowered in the corner with her mother, green cloak still soaking wet. The mother clutched a baby to her breast.
Water dripped from me. I looked around the room. The hearth was lit. Inside was warm and dry.
I laid the unman down carefully on the hard-packed dirt floor. Her face was pale, her skin cold.
I stood back up. I was still dripping wet. The elvish looked at me, looked at the unconscious unman. They didn’t move. I kicked the door shut gently.
I looked the he-elf in the eyes and pointed down at the unman. I did not speak his tongue, and he did not speak mine. But he needed to understand – he needed to know.
“She is dying,” I said.
He stared back at me dumbly. But he lowered his stave. He said something in a strange, lilting tongue. I did not respond.
The mother got up from her corner and handed the babe to her young daughter. She knelt next to the supine figure laid out on her floor and touched her face. I watched over, not moving. The he-elf leaned his stave against the wall, never breaking his gaze away from me.
The he-elf slid a stool over to me, gestured for me to sit. I sat.
The mother wasted no time; she unfastened the unman’s belt, tossing the sword and tiny shield to the side. Then she stripped the soaking clothes from off her and said something aloud. The he-elf picked up the wet clothes and hung them from a line above the fire. Then he disappeared into another room before returning moments later with a woolen blanket.
The mother took the blanket and wrapped the unman in it. Her skin was still wet and glistening in the firelight, her eyes closed.
Then the mother tried to drag her closer to the fire, struggling against the weight. I stood up and helped, lowering her head back down gently. Her hair was growing back like a fine dust. The dark tattoo stood out against the back of her pale head.
I returned to my stool. The little girl-elf still sat in the corner, wide-eyed, baby in her arms. My heart softened. I longed for home.
But it was far away. I had to focus on today.
The he-elf and the mother began to speak. They looked the unman over. Their speech was muted. The he-elf looked at me from the corner of his eye. Then the mother glanced at the side of my face – at my ear.
Did they know? Did the meaning of my slave-mark reach even these strange lands?
It did not matter. I was free, no matter if any claimed my flesh as their own.
I looked down to the sleeping figure of the unman. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed. She was alive – she would survive. I was satisfied.
I stood up. The elves looked at me, unsure of what to do, of what I would do.
I opened the door and walked back out into the rain.
I had to get the tablet.
I walked back the way I had come. The wind had died down; the storm had passed. Far away the horizon lightened. The rain eased, falling in fits from the grey sky.
Soon I reached the green hillside. I traced my steps, seeking out the crushed grass where the unman had collapsed. It did not take long. I walked around the boulder, uncovered the tablet, brushing off the muddy grass with a hand.
With the stone on my shoulder I travelled back to the stone cottage. With less distraction I was better able to scan the way ahead. The port was nearby; had we kept going, it would have only taken a half hour more. But this cottage was more than enough – the family was kind to help us strangers.
I lowered the tablet to the ground beside the garden. There was a stack of hay next to a feed trough. I covered the tablet with the hay. Then I returned to the cottage door.
This time I knocked. The rain was only spitting down. The he-elf let me in with only a little hesitation.
That night I sat in the corner, letting my ragged clothes dry upon my body. I watched over the unman. The elves watched the both of us cautiously. I was not afraid –
this was a family. They would do us no harm. From time to time the mother checked the unman, feeling her face. I watched as she cradled her head and let her drink from a clay bowl.
I put a hand to the coin purse around my neck, hidden in my shirt. I did not have much, but I would repay them.
I slept leaning against the wall. It was not good sleep, but it was enough.
***
Late in the night I was awoken by a soft voice. I opened my eyes and looked around in the half-light cast by the glowing coals. The he-elf was sleeping in the other corner. The unman stirred on the floor, rolled onto her side. She whispered something in a foreign tongue.
I knelt beside her and she looked up, alarmed. Her arms shot out from the woolen blanket and she sat up suddenly.
I grabbed her by the shoulders to calm her. She saw my face and slowly relaxed.
“We are safe. Sleep,” I said in a hushed voice.
“We are where?” she asked. “My shotel…”
“Safe. A shepherd’s cottage. We will leave in the morning,” I soothed.
Then I pointed out her drying clothes, her sword and shield. They were laying on the ground where the mother had left them.
The unman lay back down, pulling the blanket over her bare shoulders. She closed her eyes and went to sleep.
***
We rose at dawn the next day. The family watched us as we prepared to go.
The unman let her blanket fall from her body, unconcerned about her nudity. The he-elf looked away, covered the little girl-elf’s eyes. Even the mother blushed, baby in her arms.
The unman quickly put on her clothes, strapped her belt above her hips. We walked to the door.
“Thank you,” I said, knowing they would not understand.
I withdrew two silver coins from the purse and placed them on the table. The family looked surprised. The he-elf stepped forward, picked them up, and tried to give them back. I shook my head slowly.
“Thank you,” I said again and reached for the door.
The unman began to speak. She spoke the same foreign tongue as the elves. It was halting and unsteady, but they seemed to understand each other. After a few words the unman bowed her head and backed out the door. I followed.
“The stone is around back,” I said once we were outside.
She looked relieved.
I walked around and brushed off the hay to reveal the stone. I did not know what it was – I did not know why it was important. But it was my duty to carry it.
I picked up the stone and hefted it onto my shoulder.
We walked down the path that lead away from the front door.
After a short ways a voice called out from behind us. We stopped and turned.
The little girl-elf was running toward us, a sack in her hand. Her green cloak, far too long for her little legs, fluttered behind her.
She caught up to us and held out the sack. She said something. The unman replied. Then she took the sack from the girl-elf.
The girl-elf turned and ran back home.
The unman looked into the sack. She smiled a sharp-toothed smile and showed the contents to me. Inside were loaves of bread, bits of food, a hunk of dried sheep-meat.
“Look!” she then exclaimed.
She reached into the sack. Then she withdrew it and opened her hand. In her palm lay the two silver coins.
We both looked back up to the girl-elf running away. Her green cloak followed behind, fluttering like a galley’s flag.
I wondered on their charity. What folk would do such kindness for strangers?
The sun was rising over the hills. Its rays were warm, cutting through the cool morning air. We skirted around the edges of the town. It was surrounded by a wall of dirt and a deep trench. Wooden watch towers loomed above, but they were empty. Grass grew in the trenches. Thorny vines were overtaking the earthen walls. The defenses seemed hasty and neglected. Ignored for years.
Outside the walls were open pastures. A road led northward and out of sight. I only knew we were headed west, far west. We kept rounding the port town.
“Thank you for keeping me alive,” the unman said, breaking the morning silence.
I nodded, grunting. She remained quiet for a time. We continued to walk. The dew-covered grass soaked my legs.
“My name is Shi’iran-daz-ithrav,” she said in her heavy accent. “Or just Daz.”
Silence ensued. Daz had the sack slung over her shoulder. In the morning light I could see hair beginning to grow upon her shaved scalp. I did not know why she shaved it – why any of the tattooed girls did.
The Empire of Un was a strange land. Its people stranger.
I looked around me. The landscape was green. I realized then that we were no longer in the Empire of Un – we were much farther west. A stranger land still.
We came round the end of the town. A well-tread road led west along the coast. We carried on along this road, climbing the first rise.
As we did a voice shouted out to us. It was coming from toward the town. There were a few voices, deep male voices. I turned to look.
Six men-folk were approaching; they were leading a mule. The mule had a barrel strapped to either side of its body. I recognized them easily. They were the same barrels from the ship. These ones looked full.
“Trouble…” Daz muttered.
She dropped the sack to the ground and squared up to the approaching folk. They were all ur-men, and one elf who led the mule. The folk had hatchets and hammers on their belts, and two had long staves. Their clothes were damp. They must have looted the shipwreck.
They were talking at Daz. She didn’t reply. She put a hand to her shotel hilt. One of the ur-men approached her while the others stretched out across the road. He had his hand on his belt, on the head of his hatchet.
They spoke for a while. Daz was a full head taller than him.
“They want you to drop the Soul Slab,” she said aloud, never moving her eyes away from the ur-man.
“The stone?” I asked.
“Yes. They want it.”
I frowned.
“Are we going to give it up?” I asked.
I saw Daz smile. Her teeth were sharp.
“No,” she replied.
I knew what she meant.
I dropped the stone tablet to the earth. It landed with a dull thud.
The ur-men looters circled around us, faces grim. They continued to speak in their foreign tongue. Slowly they all reached for the tools at their belt. I flexed my hands.
In a flash of motion Daz struck the lead ur-man in the throat with a closed fist. She stepped back and delivered a savage kick to his stomach and he doubled over. The onlookers shouted in surprise and drew their hatchets and hammers.
I leapt for the nearest one. His hatchet was caught on his shirt; he wrenched to free it, but it was too late. I swung my fist into his jaw and he crumpled.
Daz drew her shotel and unhooked the buckler from her waist, stepping back from the prostrate ur-man she had just felled. The two with staves both lunged at her but she was far too fast. She stepped aside and lashed out with her thin blade, catching one ur-man on the neck. Blood gushed out.
I advanced on the next two. They fell back to the elvish muleteer who was trying in vain to calm the braying pack animal. Its eyes were panicked, rimmed with white.
One of the ur-men swung at me with a hammer. I stepped forward and caught his arm at the elbow mid-swing. The hammer struck me on the meat of my shoulder. With my other hand I reached up and slammed his throat, flinging him backward with all my might. He landed in the road sputtering and clutching his neck.
The muleteer fled. He left his cap in the dirt, not even daring to look back.
The last ur-man did the same. I picked up the other’s hammer and threw it in a desperate attempt to strike the one who fled. It sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. He continued to run, legs and arms pumping.
I turned back to Daz. T
he two stave-wielders were dead in the road. She knelt beside one and cleaned off her shotel. Their blood pooled in the ruts, glistening bright red in the morning sun.
I was once again impressed by this girl-warrior.
She stood and sheathed her blade, hooked her buckler back to her belt.
“We must go,” she said, surveying the scene.
Two were clearly dead. Two others were writhing on the ground. One was still as a log, splayed out in the road.
I took the mule by the reins and calmed it.
Daz and I hefted the tablet onto its back, between the two full barrels. It shifted under the weight but still bore it.
Then she picked up one of the staves and offered it to me. I shook my head.
“Fine,” she shrugged, and tossed it back to the ground.
She took a moment to pick up one of the looter’s hats. It was just a simple cap, featureless, made of grey wool. She must have wanted to cover her tattoo.
Then I took the mule by the reins. She picked up her sack and slung it over her shoulder.
And we continued west.
29
Herace
I squinted against the glaring sun. It was far too bright and I had a piercing headache.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed once the headache subsided. The curtains were all the way open and daylight streamed in. What kind of idiot leaves the curtains open?
Oh yeah. Me.
I got up and closed the curtains. Then I opened them. There was no point in going back to sleep; I was already up. The streets of Safon awaited!
I quickly got ready, washed my face in a small basin, pulled my riding boots on. My riding boots looked the best. They were also the only ones I had brought. So it worked out perfectly.
Then I checked my sabre on my hip and flung my cloak over one shoulder. It was the fashion here, or so I saw last night. I was ready to go wander around the upper districts. It had been a long time since I was last in Safon; years. I wondered what had changed; I wondered if there were still a surplus of fine young maidens to make swoon. I’d like to think that an Urthian lancer still commanded hero status in this city.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 25