The wine. He turned around, looking to the ruined town beyond. One house in four burned through the night and most others sustained damage of some kind. Among the charred piles of timbers was the storehouse of the largest wine merchant in the town. Full to the brim with clay jars tall as a man, vintages from across the world, sealed with wax and destined to fill the cup never far from his hand. All boiled away by the fire, leaving behind a scent of fine wine mixed with the stench of burning. All gone.
He'd have to make do with something else. The silver flask hanging from his belt was filled with a rough spirit flavored with pine resin, favored by those too poor to afford any better. Only now there wasn't anything better. He took a sip from the flask, swallowing the noxious brew before his tongue could realize the insult being done to his mouth. But the rush to his head was the same, calming his demons for a moment. Enough so he could think.
He turned again to the men standing nearby. They'd been waiting patiently, and would continue to wait so long as it was his pleasure to make them wait. But the air was making his head swim. "Tell me the worst," he said. "Lugdal, you first."
The pit master wobbled forward. Today he'd mercifully covered his bulk with a thin cotton robe, enough to hide the boils and insect bites that usually marred his exposed skin. Enkilash personally found nothing wrong with the sight, but there were others who found Lugdal's flaunting of his various skin ailments disturbing. A few even made the mistake of saying so to his face. They rarely had the chance to apologize afterward. There was muscle under all that flab, and a mind with a long memory for insults, and all-too-inventive in the ways they might be answered. The Lord of Tereg couldn't fault the man for that.
"The town is in ruins," Lugdal said. "A quarter of the houses are gone. People are camping in the ruins. And most of the wine is gone."
Enkilash tapped the flask. "Do not remind me of this. What else?"
"Half the slaves in Otossa are missing, likely more if we did a full count. Many went with their masters to haul buckets of water from the harbor, then ran into the forest first chance they got. Others broke out of the holding pens. I've men after them, but we'll only catch a few."
"Slaves can be replaced. And the taking of them is half the fun. What else?"
"We lost one of the grain storehouses. Much of the plunder from the last set of raids was stored in a warehouse next to it and that burned also. Ten of our men are dead from burns, maybe double that of the locals. If this had started at night, it would have been worse, everyone would have been asleep."
"Enough." Enkilash turned to Ugallar. "The fleet?"
"Some damage to ships near the shoreline," said the pirate. "But nothing we can't fix. Winds were blowing in from the sea, kept away most of the sparks."
"The ships get first priority," Enkilash ordered. "Then the town."
"Locals won't like it," Lugdal said. "I have three merchants yammering at me already about what they lost, asking what you plan to do about it."
"Put a knife in their guts," Ugallar retorted. "They won't be squawking when their blood is flowin' down their legs!"
"And none of them will do business with us again."
"Business? Piss and blood, you sound like one of those leeches, Ludgal! We don't do business with them, we takes what we wants, as a man does! But maybe you forgot that?"
Lugdal's fists clenched. "Say that again, Ugallar. I'll take you apart piece by piece."
"That will be the day, fat man. But if you be wanting to die..." He reached to the knife.
"Pull that knife and I'll cut both your throats," Enkilash said. He reached the flask again, but the aftertaste of pine resin in his mouth held it back at the last moment.
Silence again. Blessed relief. He looked at the two men and silently cursed any god that might be listening for not burning the entire rats nest to the ground. "Slaves can't do anything right," he muttered.
"My lord?" asked Lugdal. "What are your orders?"
"Tell the merchants to jump in the sea. Fire eats the rich and poor alike."
"We have to give them something for their pains..."
"Any who complains, tell him he can talk to me in person. It will be a very short conversation. Ugallar, what bounty do we have on Azaran?"
"Two hundred mina of gold..."
"Double it. I want him brought back alive...and before he does I'll show the incompetent swine what a proper job of arson looks like."
"Four hundred mina?" Open greed filled Ugallar's eyes, as it did every other man who heard it. That was a ransom fit for a king, as well as his wives, children, cousins and other assorted relatives, his palace and everything in it. "I'll pass the word."
"You do that. Those prisoners we have on the hulk, they still breathing?"
"Aye."
"Take them to the mountain. Today. Once the deed is done, put the men on the ships. We leave to raid the eastern shores after the solstice."
"The eastern shores?" Lugdal asked. "But...there's nothing there but rocks."
"Then we attack the rocks. Don't argue!" He glared at both men, daring either to say another word. None did. "But before we go, we'll stop on the eastern end of the Isle. Time to smoke out those runaway vermin. Azaran is likely hiding among them. We burn them out. Tell the merchants they can sell any who survive."
Ludgal and Ugallar did not look happy about this. But they knew better than to raise any objections. Their lord and master was in no mood for further frustrations.
"As you command," Ugallar muttered.
"It stinks."
Azaran stood upwind from Segovac, watching as a handful of green-brown moss was pressed against the wound on his leg. The healer said nothing to this comment, focused on the task at hand. She began wrapping a long strip of cloth about the arrow wound, blood seeping through from the pressure.
"I am aware of the smell," Segovac answered calmly. The sharply pungent odor diminished slightly as the cloth covered it. The moss had been plucked off a nearby tree, long strands of the stuff hanging from the bark facing east (and only east, apparently) and the smell was enough to bring tears to the eyes.
"And you put it on an open wound?"
"The Hair of the Sunrise has marvelous properties when it comes to the treatment of wounds," answered Segovac. "In a week's time I will be walking about without a hint of putrefaction. Without it, my leg would rot off the bone and likely take my life in the process. The stench is a small price to pay by comparison...ah, thank you my dear."
The healer nodded. She was an older woman who kept her mouth fully shut, rising to her feet and walking away without a word.
"Not that talkative," Azaran noted.
"Her tongue was cut out." Segovac reached for the crude crutch sitting nearby. "One of several indignities suffered when she was taken. Such tales are commonplace here."
"Right." Azaran looked about the place. Not exactly the rough camp he'd been expecting. Shelters made of fallen wood were scattered about a shallow bowl-valley. Pigs rooted about the ground, while shrieking children ran past. Men and women wandered about, working at various crafts or slept. On the northern slope wooden racks were erected on which fish hung, drying in the wind. A fresh catch sat nearby, spread out on a cloth, several women busily gutting them, stoically enduring the clouds of flies attracted in the process. The shoreline was half a miles walk to the south, the settlement close enough to the sea so that men could go out at night with nets to fish, far enough away so that ships passing along the shore during the day wouldn't see them.
Perhaps two hundred folk lived in the camp. From the large number of fish and pig bones scattered about, they'd been here a while. There was even a small forge tucked away to the east, hidden in a hollow where a gaunt fellow of few words banged away with rough tools. Every man in the place was armed, as were most of the women. They looked on Azaran with suspicion born from years spent on the run, living in fear of the day that Enkilash decided he would ignore their presence no more and hunt them down. They were lean from hard liv
es, kept going by an utter determination never to be slaves again, to die rather than be taken. The children scampered about the place only made the stakes higher. Men with something to lose and willing to do whatever it took to prevent that from happening. Something dangerous could be made of them...
A man who has nothing to lose is useless. The voice from the past spoke. He has nothing to live for. A man with nothing to live for is a man without honor. Without honor he will not stand his ground, for it costs him nothing to run.
Hope. The silent passenger intruded on his consciousness. Give those who are broken hope and they will move mountains. They will march through flames. They will pull down tyrants. Hope is the armor of the weak, the nemesis of the mighty.
"Honor," Azaran muttered. "Hope. What's the different between the two?"
"I imagine it depends on who is being asked," said Segovac,
"What?" Azaran looked over, pulled from his thoughts to the present.
"Your question." Segovac stood, a puzzled look on his face. "Honor and hope. Unless it wasn't meant for me."
"No...well, yes...never mind." Azaran shook his head. Segovac had a hard enough time believing the loss of his memories. Telling the man Azaran had not one but two voices in his head might be more than he was willing to take.
"As you wish," said Segovac. He jutted his chin towards the huts. "Tavarus says there are at least four other villages like this within a day's walk. Pull all the men from them in one place and you'd have something to fear."
"Runaway slaves," was Azarean's reply, though his mind was alive with the possibilities.
"With training they could be more."
"Maybe." Azaran wanted to think on that. “Does Enkilash know of this camp?"
“His eyes are turned to the sea. But that will change after what we did. He will look for us. He'll find the bodies of his men. He'll realize that the renegades hiding in the pine woods are a greater threat than he'd realized." Segovac was troubled. "We have brought death to these people."
"Then they should strike first," said Azaran.
"Perhaps. But that is a decision neither of us can make."
"Segovac." Tavarus approached. "A word? Privately?" He gave Azaran a meaningful look."
"I'll go for a walk." Azaran nodded back at the man and strolled away. The renegades and runways squatting in their huts looked at him curiously but made no attempt at conversation. A young woman sat crosslegged in one, grinding corn in a stone pestle with a round stone. She looked at him, smiled shyly, then looked away. This left him puzzled. He frowned, wondering about the woman's behavior.
It is desire. The silent passenger gave an explanation. All living creatures feel it.
Control your passions, declared the voice from the past. All passions. Lust is a danger to a warrior. It fogs the mind more than anger or fear. Crush it as you would any enemy. Do not, and it will make you weak.
"Make up your bloody minds," he muttered, striding on quickly and doing his best to avoid looking at anything or anyone of the female persuasion. He squatted down by a tree, leaning back and closing his eyes...
Something bumped against his leg. He looked down at a crude ball made of rags, wrapped together with lengths of twine.
"That's ours." Two boys stood nearby. Ragged and thin, but playing as children generally did when adults weren't watching.
"Is it?" Azaran tossed the ball on his hand. "What if I say it's mine?"
The boys didn't answer. One of them looked a mite scared.
Azaran gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The boys backed away slightly. He sighed and tossed the ball in their general direction. "Run along," he said.
One of the boys grabbed the ball and they scampered off.
Women were a mystery. Children an enigma. It left a sense of melancholy. Did he have a wife? A child? How did he speak to them? Did they miss him? Or were they glad he was gone? And did he even want to know the answer?
He closed his eyes again. Took a deep breath, exhaled slowly as Segovac taught, Emptied his mind of thought and waited for memories to return. None did. Instead other things came. He felt a slight warmth on his chest, one of the runes flaring. His hearing suddenly sharpened, hearing everything, picking through the babble of hundreds of voices, settling on Segovac and Tavarus. They were a good fifty feet away, yet by concentrating he could just hear them over the general din.
They were speaking Eburrean. "I've news from home," Tavarus was saying. "A few months out of date, but more than we've had for a long time."
"Good news, I trust?" Segovac didn't sound hopeful.
Tavarus didn't disappoint them. "I wish it were so. Ganascorec only grows more powerful. The Aranac clan remains dominant as ever. Last winter they finally gained the submission of the Colamnac's...."
"What?"
"That is your clan, if I remember right."
"It was my clan. I left it behind when I became Rhennari." Anger was in Segovac's voice. "Do you know how? Old Tarabec swore he'd die before bending the knee."
"He got his wish. Died in his sleep. No way for a warrior to go."
"Saerec welcome his soul. Who is chieftain now?"
"That I don't know. I got the news from a Cavaragi captive who heard it second hand from an Eburrean he shared chains with. But it seems true."
"I have some idea who it could be..." Segovac's voice trailed off for a moment. "Yes, I know exactly who it would be. He'd bend the knee to Ganascorec in a heartbeat."
"There's more," said Tavarus. " Ganascorec makes war on Cavarag. He marches men from all the clans into battle."
"What?" The anger turned to despair. "Is it not enough he puts Eburrea under his boot, he must do the same to all the Aelen's Folk? Saerec and his servants, what is happening to the world? Every day comes with word of a new war being fought, a new tyrant seizing power. Every land is afflicted by this chaos. It creeps across the world like some plague and so many men are willing embrace this sickness. And now out own folk indulge in this foolishness? They make war against our own kin? The gods spit on those who kill their own blood. Generations of Rhennari look on from the afterlife and they weep. Shameful, I say."
"It's a shame I'm not there to join in the fight," Tavarus said with a laugh. "Never did like those northern swine."
"You hate Ganascorec more than anyone."
"A man can dream, Segovac."
Segovac sighed. "I fear you will have violence soon enough, my friend. We are wanted by Enkilash."
"So am I, so is every soul hiding in these woods."
"You don't have the kind of reward on your head that we do."
"Really? How much?"
Segovac whispered it, too low for Azaran to hear.
"That much?" Tavarus exclaimed. "Brigacca's Fist, for that kind of coin I might turn myself in, if the reward were on my head."
"As long as you don't turn me in, or Azaran...”
"Segovac, I am insulted that you would even suggest it."
"Even so, I fear you have done yourself no favors helping us. The Otossan's will find those men you slaughtered. They will know we are somewhere on the eastern end of the island. It won't take Enkilash long to figure who is harboring us. Better if you left us to die."
"Wouldn't have a difference." Tavarus' voice brooked no argument. "They were headed right for our camp. We would have killed them regardless. Saving you was just a bonus."
"Still, they are coming..."
"Not right now." But Tavarus sounded troubled. "We've been here too long," he conceded. "There was talk of moving north, but the fishing here is good. We're eating well for a change. No telling what we might elsewhere. Ah well, best think it after a night's sleep. Now, about your friend."
At that Azaran perked up.
"What about him?" asked Segovac.
"Who is he? Who are his people?"
"He doesn't know. They fished him out of the sea. He knows his name and knows how to speak, nothing more. He has lost his memories."
"And you bel
ieve that?"
"I do."
"Well..." Tavarus paused a moment. "Ah, what does it matter? I've seen men like him before."
Azaran was very still now. The rest of the camp seemed to fade away, Tavarus' voice the only thing that existed in the world.
"You remember that...business in the mountain?"
"Only what you told me," Segovac answered. "That was when you still took Enkilash's coin."
"Yes, and I will carry that shame until death claims me." Tavarus spat on the ground. "That day, when we led those prisoners into the caves, I saw a man there. He was the one holding the knife, the one doing the cutting. Only for an instant, then Enkilash ordered us out. But I will never forget. His chest was covered with runes burned into his skin. Just the ones on your friend."
"Are you certain?"
"It's not the sort of thing a man forgets."
"Was it Azaran?"
Azaran stopped breathing.
"No," said Tavarus. "Someone else. I never saw him again. After that...well, you know the tale."
"I'll tell Azaran. He'll want to speak with you."
"Hold off on that. Until I'm sure of him."
"Tavarus, the man saved my life several times over the last few weeks. He is not a threat. And he truly does not remember."
"Humor me." Tavarus walked away. "I'm hungry. All we have is fish at the moment, but you are welcome to join."
"Gladly." Segovac went with him, their voices passing beyond range.
Azaran's eyes opened. His mind reeled at the revelation, trying to make sense of it. Someone else like him.
Someone holding a knife.
Cutting. A killer.
Like Azaran.
We are weapons. The voice from the past whispered.
A horrible prospect. Did he really want to find out? Would the answer be worse than the question?
"I need to know more," he muttered. He stood and turned to the cook fires, his fixed on Tavarus. Not here, not now, he was still talking with Segovac. Best wait until night, when they could talk privately. A sense of anticipation mingled with dread filled him. The first real clue. And come what may, he needed to know, had to know.
Warrior on the Edge of Memory (The Tale of Azaran Book 1) Page 9
