The Bridle Path

by Faith Eden

  'Then what are we to do?'

  Jorkan sighed again and indicated for Paulis to mount his horse. 'Firstly,' he said, 'we'll take a nice slow walk back to that village and get the smithy to take care of your horse's shoe. While he's doing that I intend to go into that apology of a tavern and get myself good and drunk on that swill they sell as ale.'

  'And then?'

  'And then,' Jorkan said, wheeling his horse back around to face the way they had come, 'I'm going to head south, down into Karli, or maybe Tamarinia, steal me a few slaves and sell them on and see if there are any others in need of my particular talents. You can come with me, if you want, or you can go your own way, but I suggest if you do, you put as many miles between yourself and Illeum as I intend to do - at least for the next year or so.'

  A bolt of sickening pain seared through her head, but pain was good, Corinna realised: it meant she was still alive, though as she fought her way back to full consciousness it was a full half minute before she realised what had happened.

  Immediately she tried to sit up again, gritting her teeth against another wave of nauseating agony, crying out as she saw the inert form of Savatch slumped across her legs and clawing desperately with her bound hands in an attempt to draw him to her. There seemed to be blood everywhere, his blood, splattered across her thighs and stomach as well as soaking through his clothing, and her breath caught in her throat, exploding as a helpless sob as she fought against the awful reality.

  But no - no, he wasn't dead! His eyelids flickered, his chest rose and fell, albeit slowly and, when she finally managed to place her fingers against his neck, sliding them through the blood that still seeped out around the bolt that had pierced him there, she could feel a pulse, weak, erratic, but a pulse nonetheless.

  All at once Corinna realised several things. They were lying in the midst of the pile of furs upon which Savatch had originally laid her. Somehow, as the wagon had plunged towards oblivion, he must have fallen back alongside her and the thick pelts acted to cushion their impact when they finally hit the sides or bottom of the ravine. Vaguely, she recalled the wagon's erratic and terrifying descent, tearing through bushes, ricocheting off trees, all of which must have contrived to slow the descent and the river had acted as their final salvation.

  The wagon itself had suffered badly. Timbers were splintered, the canvas sagged from badly bent iron hoops and there was water lapping about their legs, but somehow it had remained afloat, the current rocking motion suggesting it was continuing downstream.

  Easing herself from beneath his weight, she squirmed forward and, after an awkward struggle, managed to push her head out from beneath the enveloping canvas shroud. Sure enough, the wagon was in the middle of the river, bobbing and turning gently as it was borne along on the current. Quite why it had not yet sunk Corinna could not tell, but meanwhile, afloat or sinking, Savatch presented a more pressing problem.

  Worming her way back to him she managed to turn, gripping his shoulder in one of her hands and shaking him, at the same time calling his name, while tears of fear and frustration coursed down her cheeks.

  'Damn you!' she cried. 'You can't die - and I can't help you, not unless you help me get out of these manacles.' She shook her head, trying to clear her vision, hardly recognising the voice that berated him as her own. Desperation gave way to resignation and the strength seemed to drain from her body. With a groan she sank back onto her knees, cursing, praying, weeping, all at the same time.

  'My belt...' He spoke so quietly, his voice so weak, Corinna hardly heard him, but when she opened her eyes again she saw he was looking up at her, his pain-wracked features testimony to the great effort that even to speak was costing him.

  'Belt,' he repeated, his voice threatening to crack. 'Key... belt.'

  The trader was elderly, travelling with a woman Moxie assumed to be his wife, who sat hunched beside him on the driver's seat of the rickety wagon. His white beard, straggly white hair and wizened features, however, disguised a shrewd bargaining brain and, by the time the vehicle lumbered off again, she counted herself lucky to have secured the rather blunt sword, two very cheap knives, two very coarse woven blankets and a few basic provisions that would not last her and Pester beyond the next evening.

  The page eyed the meagre collection in a manner that betrayed his lack of enthusiasm, but Moxie was in no mood to argue.

  'We'll scavenge, if we have to,' she told him. 'There will be farms and villages and it wouldn't be the first time I've raided an orchard, believe me. Now shut up, or I'll make you ride with the cock attachment on your saddle.'

  'But this is all so pointless,' Pester whined. 'It must be days to this castle and neither of us really knows the route. And what if we meet any trouble on the road? You may have that sword now, but you're hardly an expert with it, are you?'

  'The whole point about having a sword,' Moxie said, 'is that having it means you mostly won't have to use it. Whereas,' she continued sagely, 'if you haven't got a sword, that's when you get into situations where you wish you had one to use.'

  'Yeah, well, if you say so,' Pester muttered. 'But you're still a girl.'

  'I'm glad you noticed,' Moxie retorted, trying to hide the grin on her face. 'And so, hopefully, will everyone else.' She tapped one finger against her temple. 'Most things are won up here,' she said. 'Think about it - nearly all men carry swords, but half of them aren't competent swordsmen, so another man, say one who is better skilled, will always fancy his chances.

  'But,' she added, tapping again, 'how many women wear swords, eh? Not many, as we both know, except the Yslanders and they all carry a bloody armoury anyway.'

  'And know how to use it,' Pester pointed out.

  'My point exactly, you soppy little boy,' she exclaimed triumphantly. 'Any woman who carries a sword openly is assumed to be more than just proficient with it, so a man would think twice before being tempted to find out otherwise. Besides, apart from the possibility of losing vital bits of his body, no man would ever willingly risk getting beaten by a woman, would he?' She looked at Pester's face and her grin widened still further.

  'Well,' she corrected herself, 'not in a sword fight, anyway!'

  The wrecked wagon finally ran aground among some small rocks on the southern bank of the river, but by this time Savatch had lapsed into unconsciousness again and showed no signs of reviving.

  The effort of unlocking the cuff from Corinna's right wrist had very nearly proved beyond him, the tiny iron key repeatedly refusing to penetrate the buckle lock, the constant motion of the wagon doing nothing to help, and only her repeated urgings had kept him at the task. Finally, the lock had clicked open and, after a few more fumbled efforts, he had managed to free the buckle, allowing Corinna to deal with the left cuff herself.

  Unfortunately the key had broken in her haste and although the lock actually turned as it happened, it meant she was unable to remove the slave hood and collar. Cursing under her breath, she had thrown the shaft of the key aside and turned her attention to Savatch's wound.

  The iron quarrel had buried itself deep, but she realised it must have missed vital arteries and veins, or he would surely have been dead within seconds of being struck. However, he had still lost a lot of blood and was still losing more now, and would undoubtedly bleed to death eventually unless she could staunch the flow.

  The arrow had to come out, that much was obvious, but Corinna knew also that removing it might allow the flow of blood to increase still further. First, she decided, she needed something with which to compress the wound. During her youth she had read stories where the heroines tore off strips, either from their dresses or their voluminous petticoats, but her current garb precluded that course of action.

  Willing herself not to panic, she crawled over the tangle of furs towards the rear of the wagon and began searching for something suitable. There was not much: a piece of sacking, two strips of wide leather strapping and a coil of rope, plus the small chest from which she had seen Savatch take some o
f their dried provisions. She wrenched open the lid and offered up a brief prayer of thanks. He had used pieces of cloth to wrap cheese, beans and dried beef separately. They were not perfectly clean, but they were better than nothing. Quickly she unrolled the layers of thin muslin, dropped the cheese back into the box and ripped the cloth into two halves, wadding up the one half to make a pad.

  Corinna scrambled back to Savatch's side. His eyes were closed, his face a milky white pallor and, for a brief moment, she feared he was already dead, but his chest still rose and fell slightly and she could see that a vein at his temple was pulsating gently.

  For a long moment she knelt over him, the shaft of the quarrel gripped tightly in her right hand, hesitating, unsure that she could do what was necessary, terrified that her attempt to help might only hasten his end.

  Do it!

  It was as if she heard his voice inside her head and, if she had not been looking down at his unmoving lips at the time, she would have sworn that Savatch had actually spoken to her. She blinked away the returning tears, took a deep breath, and began to pull.

  For an awful moment it seemed as if the shaft was not going to move and Corinna's blood-soaked fingers began to slide on the smooth metal. But then, just when she was beginning to fear the worst, she felt it give and in one horrible sucking movement, it slid free, eliciting a low moan from Savatch.

  Blood did indeed begin to well up from the open wound, but it was not as bad as she had expected and quickly she thrust the wad of soft muslin over the gaping hole, pressing down on it. Briefly, she considered the spare strip of material, but the wound was so situated that there was no way in which she could utilise it as a bandage for holding the compress in place.

  Instead she had to sit, keeping the pressure on with her fingers, willing the bleeding to stop, not daring to lift the temporary dressing to see if her silent pleas had been answered.

  'You see, Melina,' Jekka said, taking the rescued girl's hands in her own, 'men have a great weakness.' She nodded towards where they had tied Sprig to a small tree. 'They mostly never think with anything situated above their waists,' she continued. 'This young beast is a prime example of that and look where it's got him.

  'If he'd been using his head, he'd be back home in his own village by now, but no, he was determined to try to get you back, though no man in his right senses would ever consider taking on two Yslandic warriors on his own. Ye gods, but he'd already seen what we are capable of, yet still he came on.'

  Melina, still very nervous, continued to stare at the near naked brigand, apparently fascinated by the way the leather sheath and its securing strap made Sprig's otherwise flaccid organ stand out from his groin.

  'Will you really sell him?' she asked tremulously.

  'Indeed, I think we shall,' Jekka said. 'Female slaves are more common in Illeum, but male slaves are nonetheless popular, and a young healthy specimen like this should command a good price. More than they'd have ever got for you, I'm afraid to say.'

  'And they'll work him to death in the fields, I suppose?' Melina said.

  'Maybe,' Jekka said, 'and if they do, well, it's no worse than his kind deserve. For centuries it's been accepted that men can abduct helpless women and sell them into a living hell, whereas few have the right to inflict the same fate on men. Usually, male slaves have to be convicted of some heinous crime and slavery is then used as an alternative to execution.'

  'But surely,' Melina pointed out, 'this fellow hasn't even been tried?'

  'Oh yes he has,' Jekka retorted. 'Tried and found wanting.'

  'Yes, but not by any authority.'

  Jekka released Melina's hands and took her gently by the shoulders. 'By Alanna's authority,' she said quietly. 'Alanna was vested with the authority to bring these outlaws to order, by whatever methods needed, including killing their chieftain and as many of them as the situation demanded. She could have let me kill this oaf on two occasions at least, but she has decided, instead, to commute his sentence.'

  'But can she do that?' Melina asked incredulously.

  'Yes,' she replied, 'she certainly can. And she has her own authority, an authority recognised by the state of Illeum for many generations and extended to a few very select individuals, even fewer of whom are not natives of the state.

  'You see,' she continued, 'my friend Alanna, as well as being one of the finest swords women you're ever likely to meet, is also a princess - and a royal princess, at that.'

  'But I thought—'

  'You thought that all princesses lived in big castles, married princes and then had lots of other little princes and princesses and then maybe, some day, became queens, yes? Well, a lot may well do,' she said, 'but there are always some who make their own rules, and I doubt Alanna is the only one.'

  To her great relief, Corinna saw that the bleeding had all but stopped, though Savatch showed no signs of coming to his senses again. Pressing the compressed muslin back against his wound, she crawled past him and wrestled her way through the tangle of canvas that hung over the front of the wagon, fearing that at any moment it might be swept out into the current once more.

  Emerging from the cloying shroud, she blinked against the harsh sunlight and then pulled herself out to stand on the broken driver's bench, clinging to the forward iron hoop to maintain her balance. Looking around she saw there was no immediate danger of the wagon floating away again, for it was securely wedged between and against an outcrop of half submerged rocks, with one corner actually aground in the mud.

  Of the four wheels there was no sign, and she realised they must have been torn off during the wagon's headlong descent. Quite how the wagon had even survived as well as it had, she could not imagine, but survive it had, even though it would never take to the road again.

  Moving cautiously, she edged towards the side of the cart and then jumped across the few feet of water separating her from the bank, landing in the soft silt and sinking up to her ankles. Cursing quietly, she struggled the three paces to the embankment itself and pulled herself up onto more solid footing. Turning, she looked back at the beached wagon and shook her head.

  Getting ashore herself was one thing - getting Savatch ashore presented an entirely different challenge and one which, she knew, she could never hope to meet unaided. She stood on the uneven grass, looking first left, then right, the river empty in both directions as far as her eye could see, torn between her instincts and common sense.

  The former made the prospect of leaving her wounded lover, even temporarily, almost unimaginable, whilst the latter said that, even if he were to die while she was gone, without assistance he would have to remain where he was and, in all probability, die there anyway.

  There really was no choice, but there was still a problem. Looking around, Corinna had no idea where they were, nor in which direction help might lie. The ground on either side of the river was uncultivated, semi-woodland and covered in clumps of dense undergrowth, which suggested that the soil hereabouts was totally unsuitable for farming.

  Her best chance - her only chance - was in finding either a hunting lodge, or in finding her way back to the road again and hoping that she could find help from some passing travellers. There was more than an element of danger in this, for there was no way of knowing who might be on the road, but she realised, with a sigh of resignation, there was no other choice.

  If she remained with Savatch his chances of surviving for more than a few hours looked grim, so danger or not, she would have to risk everything on the gamble.

  Momentarily she hesitated, wanting to go back to him, if only for a final check on his wound, but an inner voice told her that she was only postponing the inevitable and that every minute she delayed might well prove to be fatal. Help might well arrive too late anyway, but the sooner Corinna set out to look for it, the better Savatch's chances were, even if that still meant they were slender.

  Fulgrim surveyed the sorry looking coffle. The surviving maids and pages had been stripped, fitted with slave hoods and b
elts, their arms pinioned to their sides, a long chain linking their collars. At the head of the line stood Dorothea, her shaven skull now hidden beneath the leather of the hood that made her distinguishable from her former servants only by the maturity of her figure.

  'Very fitting,' he smirked. 'You make as good a slave now as you did a year ago, and this time it will be for good. And you will lead your former charges still, but in a different form.' He turned to Ingrim, who was waiting patiently just behind him.

  'When we make camp tonight,' he said, 'your men can make free with this bitch and as many of the rest as are not still virgin. There should be enough of them, but I don't want them ruining the value of any of the wenches that are still intact, understand? I take it you know how to tell the difference?'

  'Sir,' Ingrim replied. 'I'll separate them out and fit belts to any that still are. We've loaded the necessary equipment in one of the wagons,' he added, grinning.

  'Good,' Fulgrim said. 'Just make sure that every man has her ladyship before he moves on to more tender flesh, and that includes those who might prefer the boys. And, when they've all finished with her, bind her to a tree for the remainder of the night and I'll give her a sound whipping before breakfast.'

  The sudden appearance of the hooded slave girl startled Pecon's horse and it reared and whinnied in fright, almost throwing him from the saddle.

  'Whoah there!' he cried, pulling hard on the reins and wheeling the frightened beast around. 'Whoah, steady there!' The horse, usually such a placid animal, made one more half-hearted attempt to shy and then settled, responding to the sound of its rider's voice, whilst Demila's pony remained apparently unruffled, watching the proceedings with no more than a passing interest. Swinging himself out of the saddle, Pecon held out the bridle rein and called to her.