by Lee Bezotte
Taking aim at the man’s extended arm, Son brought his sword down hard upon it, feeling the blade become embedded in the bone.
The thug let loose a deafening howl and jerked his arm back so hard that he stumbled over the chair onto his back, taking the sword with him.
Without hesitating, Son lifted the chair in the air and brought it down hard over the goon’s head. As he lay there dazed, the boy yanked his sword from the wounded arm and ran toward the bar. Drawing closer, he could see neither Faymia nor Tcharron and his heart seemed to stop beating as the thoughts in his agonizing head went dark and despairing.
Suddenly, a flailing body flew through the air and landed behind the bar, releasing a deep, breathless groan upon impact.
Son and Dulnear arrived at the end of the bar at the same time, peering behind it together. The slaver-lackeys who’d stood so confidently before littered the tavern floor, and their boss was laying beaten and bloodied.
“Where is she?!” Faymia shouted while holding the tip of her sword to Tcharron’s neck.
“I don’t know!” the man insisted.
“Tell me!” the woman demanded.
“I never heard of her before today!” the slaver claimed. “It’s not like we all share notes!”
Dulnear grabbed a bottle of whisky from behind the bar and took a sip. “I am afraid that this rubbish cannot help us, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps we should tend to his wounds.” He then began pouring the drink onto the open wounds on Tcharron’s face and neck.
“Yeargh!” the slaver shouted before releasing a string of expletives that were so foul that some of the words were actually unknown to Son.
Unmoved by the man’s pain, Faymia continued to hold her blade to his neck. “Think hard, wastrel. This is not what we wanted. You have brought this on yourself. Where is she?”
“I’m going to put a bounty on your worthless hides for this!” Tcharron threatened. “The three of you are as good as dead! Just wait until—”
Interrupting the tirade, the man from the north continued to pour the whisky onto the slaver, eliciting a fresh release of curses. “That is not the information we are seeking. However, I take comfort in the fact that you have an ample supply of drink here to pour out.” He then nodded toward Faymia, adding, “Perhaps we need to go deeper.”
The woman returned a knowing look and plunged her sword into the flesh along Tcharron’s underarm, provoking a howl louder than any previously released. “Now,” she said coolly. “Don’t make us waste the rest of the bottle. Just tell us what we need to know.”
Son could feel sweat running down his spine as he stood there. The heaviness he felt from allowing Maren to go off with slavers returned in greater measure as he watched a man tortured because of his own lack of diligence. He watched Dulnear dangle the whisky bottle over Tcharron’s fresh wound and wanted to close his eyes. He was just about to turn away when the slaver shouted something.
“Ocmallum!” the man cried.
“What did you say?” Dulnear boomed.
“Ocmallum,” Tcharron repeated. “He would know where she is. Or at least how to find Sevuss.”
“Who is this person?” the man from the north persisted.
“He’s the most powerful slaver in Aun,” the man seethed through curled lips. “No slave movement happens here without his notice.”
“Where is he?” Faymia grilled.
Tcharron glowered at the woman. “You think you’re so mighty with your sword and your northern friend. You’ll always be a slave, no matter how you’re dressed.”
Interrupting the man’s ugly speech, Dulnear began to empty the whisky bottle into the deep, fresh wound beneath his shoulder. “That is not the information we seek,” he added with gravel in his voice.
“South!” the slaver shouted with a shrill wail. “Near the village of Dorcadas. You would do much better to forget about the girl though. You will not speak to Ocmallum and live.” The corner of his mouth then twisted into a sadistic grin as he caught his breath and he added, “On second thought, go. Please go. I look forward to hearing how he tortures you and ends your pathetic lives.”
The man from the north flicked the bottle at Tcharron’s bruised head, knocking him out cold. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he added. Then, turning his attention toward Faymia and Son, he continued, “We must make our way toward Dorcadas with great haste. If we do not find Maren before a buyer employs her, she may be lost forever.”
As the three of them left the pub and untied their horses, Son wondered if they would actually be able to bring his young friend home. “Do you know Dorcadas?” he asked Dulnear.
“I know of it,” the warrior answered. “It has a reputation for being a dark place. It is not the type of village where one goes for a holiday.”
Faymia mounted her horse. A look of concern began to manifest in her eyes. “I’ve heard mention of it before. When I was enslaved here, Tcharron would take trips to Dorcadas. I never knew why until now.” She swallowed and added, “Even the name is gloomy and bleak.”
A chill fell over Son as he mounted the horse behind Faymia. He knew that the only way out of this storm was through it, but he wasn’t prepared for the journey. Thinking about the situation, he asked, “How will we find Ocmallum once we reach the town?”
“A man like that is proud of his wealth and power. He will not be difficult to find,” Dulnear answered.
“Let’s hope Tcharron isn’t able to warn him before we arrive,” Faymia added.
The man from the north stopped himself from swinging his leg over the back of his horse and stood firm on the ground.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“You have brought up an excellent point, my bride,” he said. “Please wait here a moment while I go back inside.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tie up loose ends,” the man said, and moved with a jog back into the tavern.
Son shivered at the thought of what Dulnear was likely doing inside the tavern. He was well aware of the man’s poorly tamed violent streak, and the sound of thrashing about and mutterings of misery did little to set the boy at ease. He flinched when the door flung open and the northerner stood with the limp body of Tcharron over his shoulder. His voice trembled as he asked, “What did you do?”
“I thought we could use this piece of swill as a guide to find Ocmallum,” the northerner answered. “He may also be useful as a bargaining chip to get the information we need.”
“So, he’s alive?” the boy asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Dulnear answered as he bound the man’s hands and feet and flung him over the back of his horse. “For now.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Cost of Pie
“Pssst, Maren. Wake up. Maren!” Micah urged from outside the cage.
The young girl now had her own pen, and many more cages were added to their camp. Some were stacked on top of others, with makeshift ladders leading to their openings. The people came and went from the enclosures as they pleased, but they were not allowed to leave the camp. Guards were posted around the circle, and anyone trying to leave would be punished.
They were all given everything they were promised. There was food and the occasional entertainment, but somehow, it was soured now. Maren couldn’t bear to eat the blackberry pie, and the chores were more demanding than the ones she did on Gale Hill Farm. She often thought of Son, Faymia, and Dulnear, and wished to see them again. They were much nicer to her than the slaver crew. Her only comfort was the presence of her friend Micah, who was now reaching through the bars and gently shaking her shoulder in order to wake her up.
“What is it?” the girl asked. “It’s so early.”
“They want you to get up and eat something,” Micah answered. “There is a man coming to take you to Ahmcathare.”
Maren’s body shook from being jolted from her sleep and she urged her eyes to focus on the boy’s face. Hearing that she was going to be taken to the great city was
not sitting well with her. “Why am I going there?” she asked.
“You are being sold,” the lad explained.
“Sold?” she croaked.
“Yes, to a man named Kugun.”
Maren struggled to understand what she was being told. She massaged her ear and blinked. “I thought I was going to be a part of the crew. That we were going to put on grand festivities and pirate plays.”
“I know, but you signed the paper, remember?” he reminded her.
“What paper?”
“The one saying that you could be sold,” the boy said.
Suddenly, the sound of the other camp occupants became unbearable. The singing of the birds pierced the young girl’s ears. A wagon wheel being hammered onto a cart caused her head to pound and a dog barking made her shoulders rise and her neck stiffen. She looked to and fro as if she were expecting to be attacked at any moment.
“What’s wrong?” Micah asked.
Maren made a subtle rocking motion, back and forth, as she willed herself to focus on the boy’s face. “I don’t want to go,” she murmured.
“Oh, it’ll be all right,” the boy assured her. “I’m sure Mr. Kugun is a perfectly fine fellow.”
“Will you be going too?” the girl asked, still rocking.
“I’m afraid I won’t be,” the boy explained. “But we’ll always be friends in my book.”
Maren stopped rocking and allowed her neck to relax a moment. “Are you sure we’ll always be friends?”
“Of course. You’re my best friend,” he said.
A smile began to creep out from the corner of the girl’s mouth, but she suppressed it. Now fully awake, she felt hunger gnawing away at her stomach. “What’s for breakfast?” she asked.
The concerned look on Micah’s face turned to a smile. “We have loads of eggs, and brown bread,” he said, gesturing toward the center of the circle where people were filling their plates before going off to find a place to sit and eat.
“Okay,” Maren said tentatively. She exited her cage and followed the boy to where the food was being served.
Following orders to collect the eating utensils after breakfast, Maren picked up one plate at a time and slowly walked them over to the washing tent. All the while, she quietly told stories to herself about Smarmy Kidd Black and his pirate adventures, changing them a bit to include a trip to Ahmcathare. As she did, it dawned on her that she had not yet seen Earl, though it had been several days since they’d left Laor. Bending down to pick up a bent tin spoon, she heard a voice calling her name, “Maren! Just leave that and come over here.”
Looking up toward the camp entrance, she could see the fellow with the long, gray hair waving her over. Standing next to him was an unpleasant-looking man watching her with drooping, squinted eyes. The girl wanted to comply, but couldn’t refrain from completing her task. She picked up the spoon, ran it to the tent, and then walked over to the two men waiting for her. “Yes?” she said, standing before them.
“Now, Maren,” the gray-haired man began. “This is Mister Kugun. He’s a nice man and you’re going to go with him to the city.”
The young girl felt as if someone was pressing down with great pressure on her shoulders. She aggressively massaged her ear as she stared at the man from Ahmcathare. She studied his heavy, sagging features. His hair was dark, curly, and unkempt, and his large, round jowls were covered in stubble. “Stop playin’ wif yer ear,” he said in a gravelly voice, interrupting her examination.
Maren’s eyes darted away from the man, as if she was caught doing something improper. “Um, what?” she asked.
“Stop playin’ wif yer ear, er yer gonna stretch it out,” he continued.
“Yes, Mister Kugun,” the gray-haired man said, catching Maren’s eyes.
“I think he was talking to me,” the girl said.
“I know he was talking to you, Maren. And when he does, you answer with a ‘Yes, Mister Kugun.’”
“Okay,” she said, swallowing.
“Well?” the slaver said impatiently.
“Um, yes, Mister Kugun,” she murmured, still tugging at her ear.
“I tink dis one is broken,” the unpleasant man complained.
“Oh no, she’s grand,” the gray-haired man replied. “And she’s young, so she’ll give you many years of good service.”
Maren didn’t fully understand what the men were talking about, but she didn’t like it one bit. She felt especially small and helpless, and wished she could go play with Micah.
“Den why does she look like dat?” Kugun asked.
“What do you mean?” the gray-haired man asked.
“She’s not proper,” he began. “Her hair is all over da place, she keeps whisperin’ to herself, and she won’t stop playin’ wit her damn ear.”
Maren felt as if the ground was swaying and the camp itself was shaking in a way that only she could feel. Her face turned red with embarrassment and she looked down as she willed her hands to stay at her side.
“She’s plenty proper,” she heard the slaver say. “I’ll tell you what. Take her with you for a few days and if she doesn’t work out, you can bring her back.”
Kugun’s upper lip curled and he raised one eyebrow sharply. “I know how you boys work,” he snorted. “In a few days you won’t be here, an’ I’ll be stuck wit ’er.”
“Oh, no,” the man with the long, gray hair assured. “We will be in this same place for the next fourteen days. I promise.”
Maren continued to look down at the ground, hoping the man from Ahmcathare would decide to leave by himself. She could hear him rub his whiskery jowls as he considered whether or not to take her. She wanted to reach up to massage her ear for comfort, but she resisted.
“Fourteen days, ye say,” Kugun considered. “I suppose. Load ’er pen up on my cart and we’ll see how it goes.”
“Excellent. You’ll be very happy with this one,” the man assured as he motioned to his associates to do as his customer instructed.
Within a few short moments, Maren was sitting in her cage on Kugun’s wagon and they were making their way toward the path that led in and out of the camp. She scanned the circle to grab one last glance of her friend Micah, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Feeling alone and vulnerable, she sat against the back of her pen and wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking forward and back as the camp fell into the distance.
“You’re a lunatic,” Tcharron groaned as he lay on the ground, glancing around the campsite.
“Be still!” Faymia ordered. The sky was gradually fading to darker shades of gray, and it was becoming more difficult for her to see what she was doing as she attempted to patch up the wounds she recently gave to the slaver. Dulnear and Son were nearby building up a fire, but it did little to provide the necessary light for proper first aid.
“Honestly, the three of you are complete nutters,” he said.
“Pull your arm out of the sleeve!” the woman barked as she tugged at the coat opening.
Grimacing from pain, Tcharron grunted, “I can’t. You cut too deep.” He bared his teeth and went on, “Why are you even helping me?”
“Try this,” Dulnear said from the other side of the fire as he tossed a full whisky bottle over to his bride.
“No!” the man shouted, and he reached over with his left hand to cover the deep wound on his underarm.
Faymia was amused by the air of helplessness Tcharron exhibited. After being under his total control for so many years, it was a guilty pleasure to see him in such a state. She suppressed a smile and picked up the bottle. Pulling off the cork, she handed it to him and offered, “Drink some. It will make this more bearable for both of us.”
The slaver sighed with relief before grabbing the bottle and swigging down several mouthfuls. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said as he wiped the whisky from his bearded chin. “Why are you helping me?”
Helping him sit up, the former slave gently removed his coat and winced as she was able to more clearl
y see the damage she had inflicted on him. “Dulnear thought it was a good idea,” she explained.
“Oh, the giant goat,” Tcharron sneered. “He is a walking bad idea.”
Faymia didn’t appreciate hearing her husband spoken about that way. She released her support and allowed the man’s shoulders to drop to the ground. “Sorry about that,” she said insincerely.
The slaver let out another groan and coughed, “You did that on purpose.”
“Yes, I did,” the woman admitted. “Here, drink some more while I cut your shirt sleeve off.”
The man tipped the bottle for another drink, then looked away from his wound while Faymia cut his shirt open to gain greater access to it. “You deserve him,” he said. “How does it feel to be owned by a northern brute?”
Amused by his question, Faymia smiled and answered, “He doesn’t own me.”
“What?! But he purchased you from me—with an obscene amount of gold, I might add.”
“Yes, and he immediately set me free,” she explained as her smile grew larger.
“Why, in all of Aun, would anyone do such a foolish thing?” Tcharron asked. “Especially for an old, worn-out whore.”
The words he spoke should have offended Faymia, but they didn’t. She paused for a moment and thought about them. “He loves me,” she finally answered. “And I love him. And true love is free to run away but chooses to stay.”
Tcharron swallowed and for the first time, his face was missing its usual air of contempt. “A fine sentiment, but a fiscally foolish one,” he stated.
“Says the man who has never loved,” the woman rebutted with a sharp grin.
“Okay, so he loves you,” Tcharron said. “But why does he think it’s such a good idea to bring me along on this ridiculous chase?”
“He believes that you will lead us to Ocmallum’s estate and help us get the information we seek,” she said.
“The estate is not difficult to find,” the slaver blurted out. With an amused expression, he continued, “Every peasant in Dorcadas knows of it. It is one of the grandest castles in the south of Aun.”