“Great. Now, I’ll go get the coinage and we can offload your mule afterwards,” he said and walked inside.
“Hey, you don’t know what ‘silverling’ is, do you?” I asked the slave in my equally abhorrent east-uyrk.
I was really beginning to get weary of struggling through every conversation.
He shook his head slowly. I figured he wouldn’t know.
We took some time to unload the mule. The elvish girl watched from the steps of the inn, squinting her eyes against the late morning sun.
“You two mercenaries?” she asked abruptly as we lowered the last barrel to the ground.
I knew the word mercenary. It was hard not to; we used the Urvish word frequently. It was foreign and devilish, synonymous with the razing of Tiv’ithm by the black-robed mages of the west, synonymous with the brutal armies raised by the Vindayans and the ur-men colonies during the war.
“No. Not mercenary,” I replied. “Traveller.”
“Well-armed traveller,” she said, nodding to my shotel. “Don’t blame you, frankly. Take care the riverwatch don’t catch you with it, though. Being a foreigner and all.”
I thanked her for the advice. I didn’t know what a ‘riverwatch’ was, but I didn’t want to find out.
The he-elf came back down the steps, money jingling in his apron pockets. He held out his hand and I held out mine.
“Alright, lass. That’s five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-four silverling for your wine,” he said, counting out the coins as he dropped them into my hand. “And a good day. Safe travels.”
I thanked him and handed the coins over to The Slave, since he had a coin pouch. The Slave just looked down at the sum with a blank expression. He pushed the coins around in his palm. Then he frowned.
“Not enough,” he rumbled to me.
“Not enough? It’s twenty-four silverling. That seems enough,” I said, having little idea what that meant.
I also never dealt with the money on our hunting trips. I lived in the citadel-monastery of Ashrahaz; money meant nothing to me. I owned nothing in the world, not even the clothes on my back or the hair on my head.
“I have thirty coins in a pouch I took from beggars. This is not enough.”
The two elves were busy trying to figure out the logistics of carrying the two cumbersome barrels into their inn, ignoring our nonsensical conversation. I hated bartering.
The Slave walked over to the elves. Sensing his shadow passing over them they stopped what they were doing and moved back. They looked apprehensive.
The Slave put a hand on one of the barrels. He put his fingers to the cork and tar seal where the spigot was supposed to go.
“Tell them they give us a fair price. Or we keep the barrels. They can have as much of the wine as they can catch in their hands as I pour it into the street,” said The Slave.
“What? Oh – yes. I will ask,” I fumbled.
The Slave seemed very determined to get a better price and I wasn’t about to back down and say no.
“What’s he doing…?” asked the he-elf nervously.
“He says, give us fair money or else he keeps a barrel,” I said, amending The Slave’s heavy-handed negotiation to be more… diplomatic.
The he-elf grimaced and glanced up at the hulking form of the scar-backed uyrguk. He hesitated, wiped his hands on his shirt. Then he whispered excitedly with the elvish-girl whose eyes were wide with fright.
After a moment she dashed back into the inn. The he-elf tucked his thumbs into his apron strings and tapped his foot nervously.
“She’s gone off to get some more coin. I’ll give you double. Does that sound fair?” he said, talking quickly.
I frowned. I didn’t know what sounded fair and what sounded unfair. So I thought of a compromise.
“We take how much she bring back out,” I said. “Sound fair?”
The he-elf wrinkled his nose at my offer, but with another sideways glance at The Slave and a downward glance at my shotel, he nodded his head.
The elvish girl returned, money in her hand. She handed it to the he-elf, who passed it to me. I counted it up. Twenty-four silverling. I cleared my throat and kept my hands open. The he-elf sighed and asked the elvish girl to give him the rest from her pockets; she handed it all to me. It was an extra twelve silverling.
I presented it to The Slave. He took the coins and dropped them all into the coin purse around his neck. Then he grunted and let go of the wine barrel.
“Good deal. Fair,” I said, smiling to the elves.
They didn’t look too pleased. They silently went back to appraising the barrels and we unhitched our mule to leave. They ignored us as we walked away.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that transaction. Who took advantage of who? I felt The Slave had good intuition. I trusted his wisdom. And no matter what, we needed the coin to keep going.
The sun high in the sky, we went to the market and bought as many travelling supplies as twenty silverling could buy. Which wasn’t too meager; hard flour-cake things, salted fish, some water-skins. And I learned something about bartering; when you sell things, always ask for double. And when you buy things, only offer half. They might make funny faces, but that was just part of the game.
I still hated bartering though.
We also bought two blankets. After nearly freezing to death I thought it was a worthy investment.
Once we were provisioned we left town. We still had a long ways to go, and it would have to be on foot. When we left Ashrahaz, the plan had been to sail from Argru’un to as far west as we could get, then keep sailing until we reached a port we could disembark at and ride north. But since we had no horses, and the ship was wrecked, and we only had maybe fifty silverling between us, we would have to go on foot.
At least we had a mule.
We walked all day until the sun was low on the horizon and we were walking straight into it. I still needed light when we stopped for the night, so we climbed up a nearby hill to set up camp. The Slave helped me unload the Soul Slab before going out to collect fodder for the mule.
Then I was alone with the Soul Slab.
I sighed. The sun was setting once more, sinking into the distant, mysterious hills like a drop of molten iron. The sky was ablaze with glorious colour; the underbellies of those magnificent white clouds were a striking pink. Everywhere there was colour as the green, swaying grass was hued a lustrous gold, the coast sparkled orange and blue. I couldn’t help but take a moment to sit in wonder. I never really saw the sunset from Ashrahaz. Only the sunrise…
I slapped my forehead and groaned. I forgot to buy a razor! I needed to shave my head. With my fingertips I felt beneath my woolen cap; hair was beginning to grow. I frowned in dismay. My discipline was beginning to lapse; that would have to change. If I were to pull off this incredible feat, I needed to remain iron-willed and needle-focused.
I knelt over the Soul Slab. Shaving my head and the sunrise ritual could wait – for now, I needed to reveal where my quarry lay.
I gripped the edges of the great stone tablet. I never really used this thing either… I was the fighter, dammit! That was my role in the myrmidon. And I was damn good at it, too! Now, though, I just wished I had practiced some other things too…
But it was no matter. I was here, this was now, and I needed to locate that sylfolk queen or whatever it was. So I honed my focus on the task at hand.
The Soul Slab… blood magick. I needed blood, and to activate it with a trickle of my own magick. The stone did the rest. Then I could just look down and basically pick out the largest soul with a description matching the one Gol-Gorom had given us.
I pulled a small knife from my belt. It was dull from frequent use, but the tip was good.
Holding my hand over the siphon I pricked my thumb with the knife tip. A ruby-red bead of blood welled up, glistening in the dusk light. It dripped into the siphon and I repeated the necessary words to activate the Soul Slab.
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A hum emitted from the smooth, obsidian surface. A smoky image appeared; confused memories and dreams shifted and mixed and muddled. Faces and places fluttered across the square surface. I squinted hard, trying to make sense of it all. But I couldn’t; I wasn’t very good at this whole ‘Soul Slab’ thing. My job was, first and foremost, to kill things dead. And that was that! And now I had to take on every single role from all nine girls…
I hung my head. It was all so overwhelming. I tore the woolen cap from my head and tossed it into the grass, ran my hand over my fuzzy scalp. I couldn’t even keep my head shaved…
I brought my fist down on the stone tablet and cursed aloud. I could do this. I could do this… I just needed to keep trying.
I pricked my thumb again and squeezed blood into the siphon. Then I focused as hard as I could to clear the jet surface, to coax a clear image from the swirling smoke.
At last a stolen memory appeared. A thought, a fleeting thought, scurried across the Soul Slab. I saw an immense stone castle; I heard a susurration of disembodied whispers.
… Safon……Safon…
then something I had never seen before exploded across the surface.
A soul bloom larger than any I had ever seen burst through the smoke; the image fizzled out.
“What the…” I muttered.
I had hunted many souls on behalf of the Empress. I had delivered dozens of the largest reservoirs, the choicest souls to the Disciples for their sacrosanct dealings. But never had I seen a soul release so much energy all at once – and remain unbroken.
No wonder Gol-Gorom was sending us so far away in pursuit. This truly was a prize worthy of the Empress herself. And certainly enough to keep me out of a harem forever.
I sat back in the grass and looked out to the darkening horizon. Behind me I heard The Slave feeding the mule.
Safon… I had heard of distant Safon. Or at least, the other girls knew where it was. And I had sort of listened to them planning their route. That was the port we were supposed to sail to before disembarking and heading north.
So my quarry was in Safon… I didn’t know how far away that was. I would have to ask the travellers on our way west. And tomorrow I would check the Soul Slab again, see if it could pick up any other memories or half-formed thoughts. I wanted to know what this being looked like. I needed to be prepared.
The Slave sat down next to me. He offered me a hard wheat-cake thing. I took it absentmindedly and nodded in thanks. We looked out over the horizon in silence.
I took a bite and chewed.
Safon… I could make it. I could do this.
I sucked the cut on my thumb. The metallic taste of blood tainted my tongue.
I just had to keep going.
34
The Slave
I did not like what Daz was doing.
I did not know what this bizarre artefact was that I carried; had I known, I gladly would have let it be swallowed by the raging sea.
I watched from afar as she used the infernal contraption – saw her feed it her blood. I watched as her eyes clouded over, darkened. The light was quenched in her bright blue eyes as she gazed into the smoking abyss of the stone tablet.
If only I had cast it into the sea!
But I could not mourn it. Hers was a strange folk; one I did not understand. Surely she had her reasons in toying with such baleful magicks.
Yet she was kind; she was truthful and courageous. I could not hate her. She saved me on the docks. We had a pact. I could only mourn for her as she carved into her own soul.
I was grateful, too – the Empire of Un devoured its slaves. Took them for their blood, for their souls. Yet she had not taken mine; she had not even asked. She took her own. She took that burden on herself. She bore the full weight of those malign sorceries.
Daz was a slave like me.
I would do well to remember that.
We chewed silently on our bread. I touched my torn ear and looked at the dark symbols tattooed upon the back of her skull. We were slaves together – yet I hoped that soon she would break free. Like me.
I swallowed a mouthful of the dry bread.
Her spirit was strong. She would free herself, one day. I watched as she sucked her cut thumb.
I just hoped it would not be too late. For her sake.
She did not speak that night. The evening faded and we slept beneath the stars. And in the morning, before the sun rose, we loaded the mule and began again.
The countryside was green; the pasture was good, the soil rich. We passed shepherds on our way, guiding their flocks along the winding road and up the hillsides.
“How much, do you think?” I asked Daz as we came upon a flock.
“How much? How much what, the sheeps?” she asked. “One hundred sheeps I say.”
“No. Not how many. I mean how much. How much coin to buy one,” I said.
We passed by the shepherd and Daz spoke to him in that strange melodic tongue. At first he just stared up dumbly. She asked again. He shook his head.
“He said not for selling,” Daz said to me.
We carried on.
I was not very pleased with our food. Now that I was free I was eager to have meat between my teeth once more. Looking at the sheep made me hungry and restless.
At home I hunted through every season. I was known for my skill. And now I could not stop from wondering what beasts might walk the coastal woods that flanked us – what game wandered so close at hand.
As we walked I collected smooth stones from the road. Daz did not understand. But she did not have to; I would show her. I kept my eyes to the tree limbs, watching for movement as we travelled.
At last something appeared. A squirrel crawled around the trunk of a tree, tail twitching.
I took a stone into my right hand and slowly wound up. Daz watched quietly and held the mule’s lead.
I took aim and threw.
The stone struck the squirrel in the back, snapping it instantly. It bounced off the tree and fell to the ground.
Daz laughed and clapped, sharp teeth flashing in the sunlight. I walked over and picked up the squirrel, breaking its neck to stop the twitching.
“Good! Very good!” she said. “What is called the animal?”
“Squirrel,” I replied, holding it up to show her.
“Ah. Skerl,” she said, struggling on the word.
“No. Squirrel,” I corrected.
“Yes. Skerl. Skerl?”
I couldn’t help but smile. She was trying, but it still sounded odd.
I bit the skin to make a hole, big enough for my thumbs to reach into. Then I tore the skin off with a strong tug and tossed it all into a sack hanging from the mule.
We carried on.
Late in the day we came upon a great stone bridge that spanned a river beneath a low stone tower. Even from afar I could see soldiers upon the bridge. Daz stopped on the side of the road, just out of sight.
“We must go around. Not the bridge,” she said, scanning the way ahead.
“Why?”
“My sword,” she said, pointing to her hip.
“The soldiers will take your sword? Hide it,” I replied.
“And these,” she continued, pointing to her teeth.
I grunted. She must have meant they would not allow foreigners.
I looked up and down the river banks. There were few farms; fruit trees grew wild, the fields were covered in brambles. Houses, long neglected, rotted with caved-in roofs and collapsing walls.
To the south there was an open river delta that spilled out into the sea. To the north were squat hills. I could not see if the river narrowed, but other than the bridge, it was our only other route.
We made our way north into the old farm fields.
The mule made for slow travel. We had to pick out a path with no walls, free of brambles and fallen trees. The further along we travelled the more evidence I saw of war; the land was
scarred by it. Many of the roofs had been burned, the fruit trees cut down. The land had been abandoned for many years.
Brambles thickened as we travelled alongside the river. The land was hilly and dark, the vegetation dense. We kept close to the river, searching for a place to cross. We could not find a place shallow enough for the mule.
Soon the sun was low in the sky. We were deep in the hills, far from any trails. The river gurgled next to us, the water dark. The place made me uneasy; the hair of my nape tingled.
“We must turn back now. No way across, not here,” said Daz in her heavy accent.
I grunted my agreement and scanned the underbrush that choked the banks. I had a strange feeling about this war-scarred place.
We turned back and wended our way through the gorse. Blackberries grew heavy on coiling vines, but I did not eat any; a dark presence was thick in the air. I suspected the presence of the Shade.
In the long shadows of dusk I tripped over an unseen object, covered in weeds. Daz stopped and I looked down.
There were long, thick poles scattered in piles here, beneath the overgrown fruit trees. All along the banks there must have been an orchard, now forgotten. Wasps swarmed the ripening fruit. They droned threateningly.
I picked up one of the poles, dragging it out from the bending grass. It was a pike; an immense pike, tip blotched with rust. The shaft was crooked and crudely hewn.
I dropped it back into the grass.
We continued on a short ways and stopped to marvel at another oddity, tucked among the ruins.
Glowing orange in the dusk light were gaping skulls of huge proportions, laying among the weeds. Troll skulls and ogre skulls, old tough flesh blackened from the sun, brambles coiling through their eyes sockets. Teeth were scattered upon the ground.
Daz picked one up. She held it to the light, looked it over, then tossed it into the river.
“Ogres. Trolls,” she muttered, flipping over a bone with her foot. “Old. From the war.”
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 31