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New Concepts Publishing
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Copyright ©2007 by Michelle L. Levigne
First published in 2007, 2007
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Damsels of Distress Book Two
THE SWORD AND THE SLAVE
By
Michelle L. Levigne
© copyright by Michelle L. Levigne, Oct. 2007
Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, Oct. 2007
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
Adon bent over the belly wound and forced back the revulsion that always swept over him when the first injuries of the day's battle arrived at the infirmary. He was Chief Physician, son of Prime Minister Naqueron, son of Adieri, the strongest magically gifted healer to ever heal in the ten kingdoms of the Utora River Valley. After fifteen years of service as a healer, he shouldn't have to yank his churning stomach under control.
He resolved to stop eating breakfast as long as the army of the Parsadi Empire kept up its siege of Eber, the only city remaining to the kingdom. King Eber was a madman, and all that kept him in power was the fear that whoever took his place would replace Naqueron, the man responsible for undoing most of the king's stupidity before people could get hurt.
"Blessed Unseen, maker of all that was and is and is to come, guide my hands,” Adon whispered and nodded for his assistant to light the healing incense. Priests claimed the incense carried prayers to the Unseen. Adon only cared that it helped to prevent wound-rot. He believed the Unseen was powerful enough not to need the help of the astringent incense to hear prayers.
In the quiet as he worked over the belly wound, Adon heard the clamor of the fighting at the gates. Regular as the sundials and sand-timers. He wondered if Parsadi General Istrak ever got tired of the clash of metal and bodies colliding and the screams of wounded men.
The wounded man moaned, rising from the black depths of sleep granted by drugged wine. Adon poured sour wine infused with healing herbs over the sewn wound and slapped an herbal plaster on the spot. It would draw out what poison remained and numb the flesh.
He stepped back, washed his hands, and waited for one patient to be exchanged for the next. Other healers thought the rituals prescribed by the Healer Prophet devoured too much time, and the abundance of herbs and cleansing wasted supplies. Adon disagreed and enforced the ritual procedures when he became the leader of his mother's healer hall outside the city. The absence of wound-rot and the faster rate of healing at his healer's hall brought him to the attention of the king's advisers, much to his father's disappointment. Naqueron didn't want his only son to come anywhere near the throne. Catching the king's attention could be deadly.
"What's done is done,” Adon reminded himself when the next soldier slid onto the operating table before him.
He wondered if General Istrak was sick of the campaign of conquest and retribution that Emperor Oprak of the Parsadi had begun less than a year ago. King Eber had been exceptionally insane when he cajoled the other kings of the Utora River Valley into rebellion against the Parsadi, who had been their overlords, and defenders against far larger, brutal empires, for nearly four hundred years. Oprak might have forgiven rebellion, because what could Eber and his allies do besides close off the valley to outside commerce? That would have hurt the valley more than the Parsadi anyway.
The unforgivable crime had been to send an assassin against Oprak's family and then call it justified when confronted with the deed—and the head and hands of the failed assassin.
"Adon!” Lady Taisha posed in the doorway, reaching out to brace herself against the doorframe. She caught herself at the last moment before touching the plebian plain wood.
"Go away,” Adon murmured without looking up from the long, jagged leg wound.
"Adon, you are nobility. It is beneath you to wallow in blood and filth and soil your hands for the sake of commoners.” She pressed her delicate hands against her chest and swayed, as if she would faint.
Adon knew from long experience that Taisha would only faint if she knew someone would catch her. She wasn't about to risk falling onto the floor littered with blood, vomit, bandages and other assorted healing detritus. As long as he didn't look at her, she would stay on her feet. She had used such tactics on him only twice before he realized it was play-acting. Adon refused to let any woman manipulate him—especially one who insisted they were to marry, when his father had never approached hers to begin negotiations. He swore he'd surrender to the Parsadi army before he would marry Taisha and give her a part of his life or any power over him.
"The same commoners who prevent the Parsadi from carrying you away to a brothel?” Adon said, half-distracted with the bits of grit he washed out of the soldier's leg.
"Do you have any idea of the state of the siege?” she nearly shrieked, and took a step closer to him. “If you don't distance yourself from the army right now, the king will slap a helmet on your head and a sword into your hand and send you into the field. That's how desperate the situation has become."
"And I will thank the Unseen for giving me an opportunity to escape you.” He held out his hand for the needle strung with hair-fine gut to sew the cleansed wound.
"I can't believe you would speak to me that way. What has happened to you?"
"How many times do I have to tell you that I would rather be gelded than end up as your plaything?” Adon glanced over his shoulder after the third stitch. “Someone get her out of here. Find out who let her through the door. I want his head on a platter."
Taisha burst into tears—careful to preserve her face paint—when the young novice with bloody hands reached out to take her arm and guide her away. “Just you wait, Adon. You'll regret breaking my heart. You need me!” she threw over her shoulder as she fled the room.
"Only if I want to be painted and perfumed and useless for the rest of my life,” he muttered, and gestured for the moveable lamp stand to be brought closer to illuminate his stitching. The two apprentice healers on either side of him exchanged grins. Lady Taisha was no favorite of the healers.
Adon ignored them and concentrated on his work. He ignored the clamor in the infirmary and the gossip of the stretcher-bearers and apprentices. He only noticed the passage of time when the lamps guttered and ran out of oil.
"That's the last one,” a novice in blood-smeared tunic and trousers whispered when he growled for more light.
"Last lamp?” Adon hissed as he tried to stand up straight and his back gave its usual protest. He was sure his legs had locked solid, and he would never bend his knees again.
"Last patient,” the girl said. She rubbed her hands on the seat of her trousers, and she and the other healers took the man away. Then Adon noticed how quiet the rest of the hall had become. A shiver of warning ran up his spine.
"Physician?” The male voice was unfamiliar, therefore not a healer. Therefore, the owner of the deep, rough voice didn't belong in the room.
"Utreth curse you,” Adon muttered and peeled off his bloody robes. “No one is allowed in here while I'm work
ing."
"The war is over,” the man said. “You won't be working any longer."
"Over?” He straightened, cursed under his breath, and closed his eyes as he massaged his back. “How can it be over?” Adon opened his eyes and looked at the stranger.
A soldier—he had expected that. A big, dusty, sweaty, battle-hardened man. Adon had expected that, too. What he hadn't expected were the silver wolf's paw emblems and the dark green uniform of a Parsadi officer.
"Oh, that's how it's over.” He might have laughed if he wasn't so weary. “When did you break through the wall?"
"We didn't. King Eber fell off the wall and the Prime Minister immediately declared surrender.” The soldier shook his head. He looked more confused than triumphant.
"Well, Father has been advocating surrender since King Eber boasted about that idiotic assassination plot."
A ghost of a smile split the man's dusty black beard. “Father?” He nodded. “Just as I thought. You're Prime Minister Naqueron's son. Just who I was looking for."
"Why?” Adon hated that dropping sensation in his stomach.
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"We can't do that.” L'istra shook her head, then groaned at the weight of her ceremonial helmet and yanked hard on the buckle of the chin strap so she could pull the silver, sapphire and onyx monstrosity off her head. She sighed as her sweaty, ebony curls cascaded down her back.
The amused light in Prime Minister Naqueron's eyes didn't irritate her like it did when her older brothers laughed at her discomfort. She had wanted to work her way up the ranks and make her role as general in their father's army a real position, not a ceremonial one. She had earned the gaudy construction with the snarling wolf poised over her forehead. That meant she had to put up with it. She sensed Eber's prime minister understood and commiserated with her. She hoped someday she could laugh at the idiocy of the whole situation. She had wanted to be a soldier so she would never have to depend on anyone for protection. She wanted to be a soldier so she could feel safe and strong, and to have the power to protect others. She hadn't wanted all the ceremony and trappings that went with it.
That was the curse of being royal and the only living daughter of the Parsadi Emperor.
"Why not, General?” Ambassador Huron asked. He traded glances with Naqueron, silent communication and agreement, which told L'istra much about their relationship.
That comforted her. She liked Huron, who had courted her sister L'innea, before that barbarian in Gohl won her as a peace bride. She had been furious when she heard Eber threw Huron in prison the moment hostilities were declared between the Empire and the valley kingdoms. Naqueron had convinced King Eber to give Huron into his keeping. She imagined the two men had spent their evenings discussing boring statecraft and playing games of Draktan.
"Prince Elber is married.” L'istra snatched up her goblet of watered wine and downed the lukewarm contents in one mouthful. “I won't go dragging that girl off to exile because she was sold into marriage in the wrong family. Crown Prince Eber isn't married, he's an idiot, and the kingdom is better off with his brother as a figurehead ruler. I'll take him as a peace hostage."
She stalked to the door of her command tent. The hill it sat on gave her a splendid view of the now-fallen city. From this distance, Eber looked peaceful. She wondered how many people were lighting incense sticks in prayers of thanksgiving that the war was over and the siege had ended before starvation and sickness swept the embattled city. L'istra didn't want to go into the city, to see the crowded conditions, the filth, the destruction of homes to fortify the walls—all the things that happened when the surrounding countryside emptied and all the inhabitants and their animals fled for shelter into the nearest walled city. She was General Istrak, her ceremonial name as heavy as her ornate helmet, leader of the Parsadi Empire's army. She didn't have to go into the captured city if she didn't want to.
"One prince isn't enough for peace hostages,” Huron said, breaking L'istra from her contemplation of the fallen enemy.
"It's not my fault Eber spawned a dozen sons and all but two got themselves killed before they grew their beards.” L'istra settled down on the third camp chair and reached for the pitcher of watered wine. She started to refill her cup, then changed her mind and reached for a slice of bread covered in honey. It had been sitting out so long, the honey had crystallized. She didn't care. She needed something in her stomach, something sweet in her mouth, to counter the talk of hostages and alliances and vassal kingdoms.
"Commander Meer is going through the city, gathering up all the young men and women of any noble blood.” Huron paused and gave Naqueron a sympathetic glance. “Or those who hold important posts."
"All right.” She put down the half-eaten bread. “What did I miss?"
"My son is Chief Physician,” Naqueron said. “Because of my rank and the royal blood of his mother—her grandmother was the youngest daughter of Eber the Twelfth—I'm afraid Adon is the highest ranking young man in the city, after Princes Eber and Elber.” He shook his head, a bemused smile parting his silver-shot black beard. “And here I thought he was safe from all politics and courtly intrigue because he chose to be a healer like my dear wife."
"Please tell me he's married,” L'istra said. “I won't take families."
"You won't punish a woman by dragging her off to a foreign land because she was unlucky enough to marry the wrong man,” Huron murmured. He shrugged and gave her an innocent look when L'istra shot him an angry glance.
"Princess—excuse me, General.” Naqueron nodded apology for the slip. “It is not my place, yet I must remind you that not all young women are as innocent as your sister, nor are all foreign countries of exile as evil as Gohl. I have no fear for any young woman of Eber who goes into the Parsadi Empire, because I am sure you will see to her safety."
"I do swear on my royal blood and the Unseen's throne,” L'istra muttered.
"And in answer to your question, no, Adon is not married."
"Let's pray he isn't handsome and well-made,” Huron said. He very carefully didn't look at the other two sitting at the small conference table.
L'istra smothered a groan. It wasn't just beautiful young women who were sometimes roughly used by battle-aroused, victorious warriors. The women in her army often had wounded spirits that needed appeasing, and captured males were convenient targets to ease their frustrations and battle-lust. From what she had heard, Crown Prince Eber wouldn't mind servicing a dozen women every night. She doubted a healer would share his prince's tastes.
"I do swear, Prime Minister, your son will be as safe among my army as any sheltered maiden.” She held out her hand in pledge.
Chapter Two
"Peace hostage.” Adon snorted in disbelief and gave the collar of curiously flexible, woven gold a testing yank. A tingle in his fingertips told him magic rested in the tiny emerald chips that decorated the collar, waiting to be awakened. That would probably happen when the collar was fastened around his neck.
He knew better than to believe even a tenth of the stories he had heard about the Parsadi atrocities against defeated kingdoms, the cruelties of their soldiers, the bloodthirsty nature of General Istrak. He had spent half the night calming the fears of most of the healer novices under his command, promising them that they wouldn't be taken out to be raped on the altars of Keri and Ewars and then sacrificed, their flesh served in the celebration feast of the soldiers. The Parsadi Empire served the Unseen, not the licentious gods of the D'mocarts. The silly boys and girls had nearly wept when he finally got that fact through their fears.
Adon knew, however, that the soldiers would be hungry for spoils. It made sense to take all the educated and noble youths of the city, everyone trained in some artistic craft, the priests and scholars and healers. That was how the Parsadi Empire became great—by taking away the future leaders of their fallen enemies and adding them to the leadership of the Empire. How many of his fellow healers and students would be among the peace hostages? How many girls wo
uld vanish in the night, to reappear silent, pale, and afraid of their own shadows?
"Maybe it's a good thing I'm going,” he murmured, and turned to the table where Naqueron had waited, silent and patient, while Adon digested the news of his fate. “I can at least try to look after the young ones. The Parsadi have to respect me because I'm a healer, right?"
"Absolutely. And I have General Istrak's word that you will be treated well."
"Hmm. Can't think much of someone who leaves all the dirty work to his commanders.” Adon silently laughed at himself, feeling some resentment that in the three days since Eber surrendered, General Istrak had never stepped foot inside the gates of the city.
"Her.” Naqueron smiled at his son's frown of confusion. “Her commanders. General Istrak is a woman."
Adon imagined a gray-haired, leather-skinned woman, scars on arms and legs and face, wrinkled and sour looking, built like a man. Maybe it was justice that a woman had defeated Eber, because every king of Eber had been a womanizing bully.
"You're going to have your hands full with Elber. He uses twice as much brain as his father and grandfather put together,” Adon offered and tried to laugh.
"The Unseen is merciful.” Naqueron nodded again. “And so is General Istrak. She leaves very little to the hands of her assistants. She hasn't come into the city because she wants me to be in charge from the beginning."
"Have you heard the latest one, Father? Someone has decided that you threw Eber off the wall, even though you were talking with the commander of the gates, on the ground, when he toppled off the top."
"Everyone believes I possess incredible magical powers.” His father shrugged.
"Everyone knows you kept this kingdom from falling into ruin. You should be king, not Elber."
"A wise man does not want to be king, my son. A wise man concentrates on the truly valuable things, like protecting life and peace. Healing the sick is one of the truest, purest forms of worship of the Unseen that a man can offer.” Naqueron reached out and caught up his son's hands, pressing the hostage collar between them. “Old men can have visions, no matter how high or low their rank, and I see a great and glorious future ahead of you."
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