by Tony Roberts
“I shall return to Bragal and Frasia and carry on scouting for the army. There’s always work here, at least as long as the war continues, that is.”
“But if my father ends it?”
“Ah. If that happens, then perhaps he may need my services elsewhere. There again maybe he won’t. I would have to leave his service, regrettably as its well paid, and do some private work, hunting, trapping, looking for lost family members, that sort of thing.”
“Do you do that?”
“Oh yes,” Lalaas nodded, looking down. He looked away. She was so vulnerable looking and he didn’t want to allow his feelings to show. There was no future in that, not with Amne anyway. “Sometimes people lose loved ones. They might have run away, or fallen down holes or been taken by beasts. I have to track them and find them. Sometimes they don’t want to be found.”
“What do you do if that happens? Surely the family wants them back?”
“I can only inform the family what I find; if the missing man or woman – or sometimes boy or girl – doesn’t want to go back, I leave it at that. Its not up to me to reunite families that have problems, I leave it for them to sort out. Other people pay me to track down those who have done them ill; that is a little more dangerous.”
“Aren’t you doing the job of the city militia?”
Lalaas chuckled. “City militias are interested only up to the limit of the city walls; my territory is out here in the countryside, away from centres of civilisation. I go wherever I please, and am not restricted by local rivalries or regulations or job descriptions. And I always deliver. I have yet to fail, which is probably a good reason why your father picked me to guard you.”
“And you’re doing a wonderful job; thank you,” Amne beamed, looking up at him again, her face filthy with mud. Lalaas looked at her, then burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Amne asked sternly.
“If only your father could see you now! What would he say?”
“I think he’d strike you down, Lalaas, for being too intimate with a woman of royal blood.”
Lalaas nodded in agreement and broke away. “Time to rinse off the worst of the mud; but I’m going to keep some of it on your face so the skin takes it in.”
“Will it be hard to get rid of?”
“After a few hearty baths with soap you’ll come up cleaner than ever. Come on, let’s get that mud off.”
They resumed their route after Amne had redressed. The rain persisted and the greyness of the sky depressed Amne. She much preferred the sunshine and bright colours. Valchia looked a grim and depressing place. Lalaas followed the muddy track along the side of the hill they were traversing. At the bottom there was a watercourse bordered with marshland, something to avoid. As night approached they crested a rise and before them stretched a wooded valley with smoke spiralling lazily up from the fires of hearths inside houses. A village stood amongst the trees, and tracks ran left and right into fields where animals grazed. People were moving about, herding the animals and collecting wood.
“What is this place?” Amne asked.
“No idea; I’ve never been here before. Some village, obviously. Must be new, the people here are mostly nomadic, migrating with their herds and flocks. Maybe Valchia is beginning to transform into a more settled society? Might be interesting to speak to them, if they understand our language and we theirs.”
Amne looked dubious. “Isn’t that risky? I mean, we’re not supposed to be here.”
“These are farmers, not nomads or pastoralists; they’re not thieves who can run away and hide somewhere. Look, there are children.”
“So close to Bukrat,” Amne said slowly “won’t they be sold to the slavers?”
“I hope not,” Lalaas said. “Come on, let’s go see if they’re hospitable. I’m wet through anyway and need to dry out.”
“Me too. I’m dying for a hot meal.”
Lalaas patted the box on one of the pack animals. “We can buy one with this.”
They entered the village, a collection of rough and basic wood and thatch huts set amongst the trees. Animal pens stood at the rear of many and one or two were set well back from the one and only street which itself was only a gap in between the two main rows of huts. It was a basic and dirt-poor place.
Curious faces turned their way as they rode slowly down the street, abreast of each other, the pack animals obediently following at the end of ropes. Lalaas stopped and looked to his right. A man was standing by the entrance to his hut, dressed in woollen clothes and holding a staff. He was older than most of the others and around his neck wore a metal plate. Lalaas knew what this was. In Kastania every village elder carried this as a mark of his or her status. This posed a question in Lalaas’ mind; were these people Kastanian or were they Valchians who had copied a tradition from over the border?
“Hail,” Lalaas said, raising his palm. “We seek shelter and a place to sleep the night.”
“Hail,” the elder replied, stepping forward. “Kastanian, eh? Glad you’re not Bragalese or Valchian raiders. Makes a change to have our own people pass through here.”
Amne and Lalaas exchanged looks of relief. This would make things easier. “We’re on our way to Mazag. We got separated from our friends and are a little lost. We would appreciate shelter and food for the night.”
“That we have. You’re both welcome. Lovely woman you have there.”
Lalaas glanced at Amne and smiled. “We’re cousins. I’m grateful for your hospitality. Where can we rest these animals?”
The elder pointed at a barn behind a house to the left. “That’s the village barn. Pop them in there. You’ll have to check they’re alright; we haven’t got anyone skilled with equines. We’ve only got bovines and wool beasts, and porcines but they’re not in there, of course.”
Lalaas nodded. “Can my cousin get out of this rain right now? I’ll take care of the animals.”
The elder extended his hand, indicating his own home. “I live alone these days; my wife died two years ago. My home is yours for the night.”
Amne jumped off her beast and gratefully allowed herself to be led into the house while Lalaas took the animals to the barn and unsaddled them, checked for feed, and found some lying around, and then stowed the saddles and packs in a corner away from the animals. By the time he’d done all that night had fallen and he stumbled awkwardly through the mud and rain to the house and let himself in.
Amne and the elder were sitting by an open fire and talking. Amne was wrapped in a thick cloak and her dress was hanging from a length of rope suspended in turn from two hooks set in the ceiling close to the fire. “Wondered where you’d got to,” Amne smiled, her cheeks red. The fire was warming her up nicely.
“Took a bit of time settling the animals. That fire looks inviting.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t got a spare cloak for you,” the elder apologised.
Lalaas waved the words aside. “It’s not a problem. I’ll sit here and dry myself. Excuse me while I get out of this shirt and jacket.” He peeled off his sodden clothes to reveal his muscled torso, and a few scars. Amne’s eyes widened and she looked away self-consciously. The elder, a white-haired man with a kindly face and gentle blue eyes, introduced himself as Markel. Lalaas sat on the earthen floor by the fire, in the middle of the other two who were seated on roughly carved stools, and introduced himself to Markel.
Markel nodded towards Amne. “I’ve told Amne here already how we came to be here; the war in Bragal drove us over the river four years ago. The Bragalese were systematically wiping out all non-Bragal villages and we knew we had to leave. So we took the decision to come here. This is nobody’s land and we’ve settled here and made this wood our own. We get visits every so often by people fleeing the war or riders saying they represent this warlord or that warlord, and we always pay a tithe to keep them off our backs.”
“We must reward you for your kindness,” Amne said.
“Oh, we don’t look to be paid for basic cou
rtesy; it’s a shame others don’t feel the same way,” Markel added wistfully. “We’re self-sufficient here, we lack nothing we need. Coins mean nothing to us.”
“What about the slavers?” Lalaas asked. “The slave trade operates here still, so I’m told.”
“Oh, yes, that.” Markel snorted. “They don’t come here. Or at least, not to stay. They do pass through on occasions but we stay out of their way and they’re always full with slaves. The war in Bragal had given them plenty of trade, and to be honest it’s affected the price. The cost of a slave has fallen in the last couple of years and now they’re hardly making ends meet there’s so many on the market.”
“I’m glad,” Amne said, “it’s a dreadful business, it ought to be stopped.”
Markel shrugged. “That would take a lot of effort from someone, and nobody owns this place.”
Lalaas was about to say something but he decided to keep his own counsel. There was something not quite right about it all and he needed to think about what had been said and what he’d seen. Amne though wasn’t finished with the subject quite yet. “Well somebody should! If there was a ruler here they’d stop this practice, wouldn’t they?”
Markel nodded. “But who’d bother? This place is wild; untamed. We’re happy here, paying our protection tithe and not being bothered by anyone. No taxes, no laws, no rules. It’s a nice change from what we’ve known before!”
“Well, someone should!” Amne looked at Lalaas. “What do you think?”
Lalaas pursed his lips. “Only Mazag and the empire could possibly make the effort, and Kastania is too beset by its own worries at present to look here. I’d think Mazag might try, if they thought nobody else would be worried about it.”
Markel waved a hand. “I’m getting a little too old to be worrying about that sort of thing; if Mazag did take over they’d be too busy with the building up of the province with their lands across the mountains to worry about our little community here.”
“Possibly,” Lalaas conceded, “but they would send soldiers down here to garrison their new frontier with the empire; you’re only half a day’s ride from the border here. I suspect they may turn your community into the local defence headquarters.”
Leaving Markel to worry about that, Lalaas declared he was tired and needed to turn it in for the night. He took his clothes from the improvised clothes line and found them to still be damp but passable. The old villager showed them a room they could share and left them to it. Amne brought her clothes to the room and looked for a place to hang them. There was precious little for her to hang them from except an old chair, so she used the back of that. There was a single bed, roughly cut and clearly made by one of the villagers, with a straw mattress and pillows and an eiderdown stuffed with feathers. A single candle flickered on a poor side table by the bed.
“Oh,” Amne said, realising that they were meant to share the bed.
“You sleep in there, Amne,” Lalaas said, surprising her with his familiarity. She was about to correct him when she caught sight of him furiously motioning that Markel may be listening at the door.
“Oh, yes, thank you, Lalaas. Where are you going to sleep?”
“That chair looks comfortable,” Lalaas said loudly, then he crept softly to the door and listened. After a few moments he heard the tread of footsteps and was satisfied Markel was returning to the living room. He looked round the room. One window, looking out over the rear of the house onto the animal pens, and beyond that the woods. He checked it and found there was a latch he could undo and open the window inwards. It was big enough to squeeze through.
“What are you doing?” Amne whispered, intrigued.
“We’re going to have to leave fairly soon,” Lalaas whispered softly back, almost into her ear. “We’re in danger.”
Amne looked at him in surprise, her expression half seen in the candle light. “What do you mean?”
“Markel and these villagers are involved in the slave trade in some manner.”
“What?” Amne almost forgot to whisper. “What makes you think that?”
“Markel’s lying. He speaks of slavers and their slaves passing through this village, yet that track we followed shows no sign of heavy use – no equine tracks, just a few footprints. If it were used that heavily it would show signs of wear. Outside the village, there’s little sign of that.”
“The track could have recovered since it was last used.”
Lalaas shook his head. “And Markel says the slave trade has become flooded with the war. I’ve seen this war and there’s no slave trade. Prisoners on the imperial side were always taken to the mines of Turslenka; Bragalese rebels always executed theirs. Nobody did any deal with Valchian slavers, so that’s lie number two.”
“So why would he lie?” Amne looked frightened.
“To make us think we’re safe; I think he and his villagers have bought themselves immunity from the slavers in return for supplying them with slaves whenever anyone passes through here. From what I know of the slave trade most of their supply comes from further west and north. Yes, there are some from Kastania, but not in sufficient numbers to make much difference, and then they’re mostly transported by ship. The imperial forces would never permit the passage of slaves across their lands.”
“And quite right too!” Amne said in a furious whisper. “So what do we do?”
“We’re on the wrong side of the village to get to our equipment. It’s over the other side. I suspect Markel’s gone to alert his fellow slavers. They’ll take our equines and equipment and take us prisoner and transport us to Bukrat in the morning.”
“Are you sure, Lalaas?” Amne breathed, now very scared.
“Almost certain. What is clear is we can’t stay here tonight. I’m afraid we’ll have to take our chances outside. My weapons are in the barn too and I’ll need them.”
“What are you going to do?”
Lalaas took hold of her by the shoulders and stared intently into her eyes. “I’m going to go get them; you’re going to have to stay here and wait for me.”
“No!” Amne objected, “I’m coming with you!”
“I will be faster and it’ll be less likely that I’m seen if I’m alone – and there may be violence. I will have to be sure whoever I’m face to face with out there in the dark and rain is an enemy.”
“But I’ll be alone – what if they come for me?” Amne took hold of Lalaas’ damp jacket and looked intently at him. “Please take me – I’m ordering you to!”
“No,” Lalaas sternly whispered, taking her hands in his. “I won’t be long. Wait here for me. I’ll ride round to this side into the woods and come for you. If anyone tries to break in, leave by the window and wait out in the woods.” He firmly pulled her hands from his clothing and took the chair, passing Amne her clothes. He wedged the chair against the door under the handle. “This’ll stop them for a few moments, giving you time to climb out.
“Please,” Amne pleaded, clutching her clothes to herself.
“Amne, I really need to hurry and I may encounter people who may try to use force to stop me. I don’t want you getting hurt in what would be the resulting fight. For my sake, and yours, stay here until I return. I shan’t be long, I promise.”
“You don’t want me with you, isn’t that it?” Amne spat hoarsely.
“Not for this particular piece of probably nasty work, no. Otherwise yes. Now get dressed and wait.”
Amne looked at him angrily, and with fear as well. Lalaas sighed. He gently placed his hands against her face. “I’ll be back, I promise. I made a vow to your father never to let you down, and I’ll keep that promise.”
Amne looked away and Lalaas made his way to the window. He pulled it open and looked unenthusiastically out into the gently falling rain. At least it wasn’t driving rain, that would have made it very uncomfortable. He clambered out and landed in some nettles, growing thickly underneath the window. The land rose immediately beyond the back of the house and a pen for porcines s
tood a few paces away. The smell of their ordure reached him and he could make out a dark shape at the end of the pen, probably their shelter. He made his way quickly around this and into the woods, then turned left and skirted the edge of the trees, keeping the few lights of the village in sight, then almost stumbling down onto the track as it suddenly appeared in front of him.
Crossing it in two strides he made another quarter circle, the rain pattering down onto his head directly or dripping from the leaves, and headed for the huge looming black shape of the barn.
He came on it from the woods rather than from the village as he’d done before, and he could hear voices. Torches were being held, he could see, and he crept up to the opening and peered in. Five people were there, holding a meeting. All were men. One was Markel, the other four much younger, fitter, stronger and armed with clubs and sticks.
“The girl will fetch a high price,” Markel was saying, “and we’ll be well rewarded for handing her over. She’s quite a pretty thing and educated.”
“Then they’ll need to break her in; educated people take a bit more effort to make them obedient,” one of the others rumbled.
“You haven’t seen her,” Markel countered. “Beauty is valued; she has it. Mark my words, she’ll fetch us a nice reward.”
“And the man?” a third asked.
“Knock him out; he’s trouble,” Markel said harshly. “He looks pretty fit and his right arm’s much more developed than his left. He uses a weapon.”
Lalaas peered at his arms critically. Markel was right. Lalaas pulled a thoughtful expression.
“So where’s his weapons, then?” one of the others asked.
“In here,” Markel waved around. “Their equines are at the back; I bet their equipment is close by.”
Lalaas decided now was the time to move. He slid into the barn and made his way behind the animals that were happily chewing on hay. The group of men were in the centre of the barn and Lalaas passed by unnoticed to the back. His animals were there, resting, heads down. The equipment was piled where he’d left it. Slipping on his sword to his belt, he now began to put the saddles back on the four equines, calming the animals as they looked around at him curiously.
