Insurgency (Tales of the Empire Book 4)

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘A slave,’ the prince replied with a sigh and dropped to his knees at a gesture from the nomads. As three nomads came and searched him, removing his belt and his scabbards, his eating knife and his pouch of coins, and wrapping a thick leather cord around his wrists so tight it bit into the flesh, all along the caravan whooping riders celebrated their victory and displayed their prizes. The incongruous sight of a nomad warrior the size of a bear with a huge braided beard trying to don a noblewoman’s delicate cotton cloak was just one in a sea of images that Quintillian caught in passing as he was bound and gagged.

  Asander and he were tied to a rope which in turn was attached to a saddle, and others were slowly brought to join them, bound and gagged in the same manner, mostly good-looking women or well-built men. Quintillian cursed himself as behind them the three cooker women were brought down to the ground and made to pleasure the riders in rotation, while two more nomads entertained themselves beating the carter to insensibility. The nightmare scene was only brought to an end when what appeared to be the chieftain came trotting along the line. Quintillian couldn’t help but note that four disembodied heads swung from his saddle horns, clonking against each other with heavy bony sounds in time with the horse’s steps. Nikos the merchant and Captain Casta were among them. Judging by the open mouth of horror on Nikos’s face he had been taken alive and made to watch the blade coming to decapitate him.

  The chieftain made a short barked announcement and gestured to the three poor, abused women on the floor. One of the nomads moved among the weeping women, slitting their throats, then they quickly dispatched the barely-conscious carter and remounted.

  Animals!

  Quintillian chewed on his lip as he looked up along the slave line. Fourteen of them. Of a column that had begun with 17 guards and perhaps a hundred civilians, just 14 now remained, and most of them were suffering minor wounds. It was clear what the handsome women had been taken for, and if Asander was right, the menfolk had little to look forward to but being slowly worked into the grave.

  Quintillian turned back to his friend. ‘I’m going to make them pay for this.’

  Asander rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. We’ve lost. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘For you, maybe. Not for me. Not by a long way. My father would turn in his grave if he thought I just lay down and accepted this.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Asander hissed again.

  ‘If we survive long enough to end up somewhere private, I’ll tell you. It’ll probably make you laugh.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  A discordant horn blast signalled some decision and the last of the wagons were picked over for items of use. Nomads began leading the strings of captured animals away, and the riders prepared to depart imperial lands once more. No. This was not over…

  Chapter III

  Of Journeys Most Foul

  The first hour was the worst.

  It seemed that the nomads were less concerned with slaves than with mobility, for the clan travelled at a light trot alternated with a fast walk, regardless of the poor, ruined, exhausted prisoners roped in a line from the back of a horse. In fact, Quintillian’s trained general’s mind suggested, the clan was travelling at the fastest comfortable pace for the pack beasts and meat animals they had taken from the caravan. It suggested a bleak future for the imperial captives that the captured animals were clearly more valuable than the humans.

  Quintillian was lucky, as were Asander and a few of the captives, in that they were fit and hearty enough that the run was not too difficult, even with the wounds. Two of them, though, a beefy carter and a pretty young woman, were in trouble fairly early on. The girl was not fit, despite being a pleasing shape. She was puffing and panting and groaning by the time they crossed the second valley, and the big carter roped just in front of her had suffered a wound to his left thigh, with which he was clearly struggling despite being in excellent shape otherwise.

  That first hour, the 14 captives had to adjust to their situation, find their pace and try and maintain it. It was not easy, given the terrain. The grassy steppe, with its wide, shallow valleys and low, rolling hills – a sea of grass with gentle green waves – might look like easy terrain, and for a rider it was just that, but for a human, running at pace, it was treacherous. The grass was rough and tall, growing in tufts and concealing dangerous dips and rabbit holes. It was, to Quintillian’s mind, a miracle that they made it through the first hour without a broken ankle.

  He estimated the clan to number around 250, with almost half that number being male warriors of good age. The rest were the children, old folk and women of the clan, yet each and every one old enough to walk and speak rode their own horse and did it with a level of skill that would make an imperial cavalry trainer proud. The clan took with them perhaps 60 extra steeds, each of which doubled as a pack beast with the entire tribe’s belongings on their backs. They were a truly nomadic people, able to settle wherever they wished with little difficulty.

  Quintillian watched carefully throughout the run, taking in everything he could. There was no chance to catch any of their speech, of course. Not a single one spoke the imperial tongue and there was no hope of Quintillian being able to pick up even the basics of their guttural language. Asander, roped in front of him, could understand them, of course, but with the run, he needed to save all his breath and could not afford to chatter and pass on scraps of information.

  The warrior who rode the horse to which they were roped was clearly important. He seemed to be in perhaps his 40th year – though these nomads were so weathered and etched and sun-blazoned it was hard to tell their age even to the decade – which put him around the same age as the chieftain. Given the way the two men spoke to one another, missing the deference offered by the younger warriors and the women, and the number of gold and bronze accoutrements about his person, Quintillian surmised that the rider was probably the chieftain’s brother, or a close cousin at least. He was certainly respected. And he was hard.

  He would be a difficult proposition when the time came for Quintillian to turn the tables on their captors. He would need to free himself, and Asander too. And any of the others who might help. It would be a suicide mission, of course. Even if all 14 of them could be freed, armed and turn on their captors, 14 against 200 or more was insane. But instead of slowly fading as slaves, they could at least make a good account of themselves. At the very least, the chieftain and this brother had to die, along with the warriors who had raped the cooker women at the caravan. He’d memorized their faces. They would pay. But it would have to be carefully and slowly planned. It was no good being precipitous and leaping at their first opportunity. That way abject failure lay.

  He was contemplating the man on the horse ahead of them and wondering whether the big knife at his belt was loose enough to draw without it being noticed when he suddenly felt a jerk on the rope and almost lost his footing. Turning, he peered past the thickset blacksmith roped directly behind him, who was also craning his neck.

  The girl at the rear – the one Quintillian had already had his doubts about – had lost her footing altogether and was now on the ground, being dragged through the scratchy grass and across the humps and bumps by her wrists. She was screaming in pain and her legs were flailing and kicking and bouncing behind her. Even as Quintillian closed his eyes for a moment, saddened by her predicament, he heard the snapping of a leg bone. That did it. If there had been any hope that the nomad might stop and let her travel easier, it was lost now. Human captives were treated worse than the animals. What use was a slave girl who couldn’t walk?

  Regardless, the rider did not seem inclined to slow. The girl continued to shriek and bellow and cry as she bounced and thumped along the ground at the back, bones snapping and cracking, legs floundering at unnatural angles as she died in the most excruciating pain. Quintillian was about to turn away and wish her a swift passing when he saw her jerking arms catch the bad leg of the carter in front of her. The man gave a cry
of shock and was suddenly down just like her, bouncing and caroming through the tufts. His cries were deeper and more surprised than hers, but no less heart-rending. Quintillian watched as the man desperately tried to haul himself upright on the rope, but his leg was now far too bad and he slipped again and fell, bouncing once more and cracking his head on a rock.

  The new lurching on the rope threatened to bring the rest of them down, and along with the other 11 captives, Quintillian found himself desperately trying to keep his feet. Still, the nomad leading them failed to even slacken the pace, despite the fact that now the rear two figures on the rope were prone and ruined, either dead or so nearly they would be better off that way.

  Even as the prince cleared his throat to try and suggest Asander speak to the rider, a boy of perhaps seven came alongside on a bay mare with a white patch over one eye. The lad had dropped back from the bulk of the clan. Even at his tender age, he was clearly being trained as a warrior, for he had a bow and quiver at his saddle and a spear on his back. The boy pulled level with the fallen slaves and, in a manoeuvre that would have imperial cavalry officers impressed and blowing through their teeth, leaned out over the side of his steed, holding the saddle with his left hand, a knife in his right. Expertly, the boy edged the horse closer to the fallen captives, and with only two attempts, he neatly snicked the rope, before sliding back up into the saddle as though gravity had no hold on him.

  The two broken, battered figures – the girl and the carter – bounced slowly to a halt in a heap. Quintillian, finding the going suddenly easier again without the pressure on the rope, watched as the boy put away his knife, drew his spear and circled the bodies, thrusting the long shaft down into each figure to make sure they were dead before urging his horse on once more and rejoining his clan.

  The day passed in misery and hardship. With the example of the fallen pair, even exhausted and in agony, every captive made sure to keep to their feet. It was almost impossible to tell the time, but Quintillian estimated that they had run for five solid hours by the time the clan stopped.

  The sun was beginning to sink slowly into the west, and the descent told Quintillian that they had been travelling northeast almost all day. He estimated that they had covered 25 or 30 miles. His legs told him it had been more like 300.

  It was quite likely that the first time they stopped would be their best chance at unexpected escape, but even with the best will in the world, Quintillian could no more have overcome a guard at the end of the day’s run than attempt to leap up to the moon. The fact that they were simply dropped, roped still, to the grass to sit felt like an incredible blessing. One of the nomads hammered an enormous iron ring into the ground and the rope was fastened to it at both ends, the remaining 12 prisoners on the loop. Three of the young trainee warriors were set to watch them by the fading light of the sun while the clan set up their camp for the night. As the last of the light faded, torches coated with pig fat were ignited, sending up greasy black smoke and filling the lifeless air with a thick stench of cooked pork. The three youths were eagle-eyed, Quintillian noted, though he had no intention of testing them tonight anyway.

  He must have dozed off almost instantly, for when he awoke suddenly it was true dark and the temperature had dropped considerably. The three boys with their spears were now paying only scant attention to the roped slaves, talking among themselves instead. Quintillian tried to work out what had disturbed him, then he felt it again. The blacksmith beside him was nudging his ribs. He frowned and looked around.

  ‘Shhh,’ the smith whispered, and held up a hand for a moment, to demonstrate that he had freed it from the leather binding that had held him to the rope.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I’ve had a flake of flint in my hand for the last few hours. Been working on the leather. If I can get my other hand out, you can have the flint. With two of us we might make it away?’ He caught the look on Quintillian’s face and shrugged. ‘Your friend too if he can get free fast enough. But we have to go quick.’

  Quintillian felt an unintentional surge of hope, but bit down on his lip and forced that false confidence back down deep into his gut where it belonged. Now was not the time.

  ‘You can’t go now. Don’t be a fool.’

  ‘They’ve set children to guard us, man. Children.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled,’ Quintillian whispered carefully. ‘Those children are stronger and quicker than most of the guards on the caravan were. These clans teach their young to fight as soon as they can sit in a saddle, and they learn to do that once they walk. Be careful and sensible. Take things slow. Loop the leather around your wrist as though it were still intact. We can each get a hand free over the next night or two if you share that flint around. Then we can weaken the other one. That way, when we’re better prepared, we can all go at once. All 12 of us. Those who want to can run for the hills. The rest of us can bring the fight back to the nomads.’

  The blacksmith blinked. ‘Fight? Are you mad.’ His hand pulled back, drawing the flint from sight.

  ‘We wouldn’t stop you going, but these bastards have to pay for what they’ve done.’

  ‘Screw you, soldier boy,’ the blacksmith whispered heavily. ‘I’m not freeing you to draw attention. We have to go quietly, and if you won’t, then you can stay here.’

  There was a snicking noise, and the blacksmith suddenly had both hands free. Pursing his lips, he cast the flake of flint some three paces away across the grass. ‘There it is. You’ll be able to get it when you move in the morning. But I’ll be long gone by then.’

  Quintillian shook his head. ‘Don’t be a fool, man. They’re more alert than you think, and better warriors at eight summers than you’ll ever make. Stay with us and wait for the right time.’

  But the smith was up into a crouch now. ‘Gods go with you,’ the man muttered, ‘Because I won’t.’

  Taking advantage of the fact that just for a moment the three youths were examining a spear tip intently, the smith was suddenly up and running. Asander, disturbed from sleep, blinked and opened his mouth. Before he could make a noise, Quintillian clapped a hand over his lower face, causing the whole rope to jerk, and pointed as best he could. Asander squinted into the darkness and his eyes widened as he picked out the smith running in a crouch, making for the side of one of the huge, low, drum-shaped tents the clan had erected.

  ‘Go, man,’ urged Quintillian in the quietest of whispers.

  It looked for just a moment as though he’d make it, but then the three boys were on their feet, yelling at one another, two began to sprint after the fleeing slave, but the third, a disdainful sneer on his lips, simply lifted his bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly so quickly he hardly seemed to have had time to aim.

  Quintillian felt his momentary elation sink as the silhouette of the smith against the indigo sky vanished downward with a squawk. The other two youths were on him then, and even at a hundred paces, Quintillian could hear the sounds of butchery as he saw the boys’ arms rising and falling and tried not to listen to the blood-curdling screams of the man.

  ‘Careless,’ Asander whispered.

  ‘I tried to tell him.’

  ‘Our time will come,’ the scout agreed and sagged back.

  The youths, spattered with the smith’s blood, came back to the slaves and quickly checked all their leather bindings. Satisfied that the remaining 11 were intact, they returned to their conversation. Perhaps an hour later a woman with skin like a saddlebag brought around a pot of something steaming. She put a wooden bowl in each pair of hands and ladled something watery and greasy that smelled like smoked meat into each bowl, before dropping in chunks of flatbread with the consistency of leather. Ravenous, Quintillian and Asander attacked their meals like animals, cramming the hard, dry bread into their mouths and washing it down with the thick, pungent stew. Another half hour later the woman returned with water for them all, which was consumed just as eagerly.

  Quintillian was sitting peacefully, sighin
g with relief at the food in his belly and the alleviation of his parched mouth, when the next fuss began. Somewhere off to his right, past Asander, a girl was shouting. His brow furrowed as he listened. She was arguing… fighting someone off. Asander was paying attention too, now, and Quintillian leaned next to his friend. One of the carters was busy trying to force himself with some difficulty on the young woman roped next to him.

  ‘Come on, girl. What else have we got to look forward to. Let me in.’

  The girl was spitting at him and fighting back, kicking and writhing. Neither of them had the use of their hands, and the scene was ridiculous, or would have been had it not proved to what level of barbarity a desperate man could sink.

  ‘Leave her,’ grunted Asander.

  The carter snorted. ‘Mind your business. If you lot had been worth your money we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

  Asander turned to glance at Quintillian, and the prince was surprised at the look of intense hatred in the scout’s eyes. Asander flicked back to the scene before them.

  ‘Last warning, man. Leave her alone.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  The bulky carter had succeeded in getting his breeches down to his knees and was pinning the girl’s legs to the ground.

  ‘Give me some slack,’ whispered Asander. Quintillian pulled the rope towards him and his friend, there being a little extra give now the blacksmith was absent. With sudden freedom of movement, Asander leapt on the carter who gave a shout of alarm as the scout’s hands closed on his head. The would-be rapist managed to get out half a syllable before Asander twisted his head sharply to the left with a jerk. There was a crack of bones and the carter’s word became a gurgling noise as he shook and shuddered and fell to the grass, jerking and dying. The girl pulled herself back in horror.

  ‘Rest easy, lass.’ Asander smiled at her, then sat back and sighed. ‘This is not the sort of vacation I had in mind.’