The Panzar would likely be running well behind, he figured, knowing that the storm would keep them in port in the Lower Reach. Two more days until the Kaffa auction, and Volga would return home. The outpost in Trebizond, he figured, would be a good way to avoid resistance. He wanted no part of organized villagers, angry armies, or assassins like the feared black riders. Volga had never been accused of being a courageous man, but he was at least smart enough to stay ahead of his enemies, and brutal enough to inspire sufficient fear in his underlings.
The cantina began filling up, as Volga continued drinking. Some of his men made their way in, shouting a hearty greeting to him and to each other. They laughed and gambled, and soon the crowded bar was in full swing. Volga was looking forward to visiting their encampment later, to look over the slaves and choose one, if he wasn’t too drunk. It didn’t matter to him, either way.
A man came in and ordered a drink at the bar. He was a tall, young fellow, whom Volga barely noticed as they trotted the dancing girls out onto the stage- Volga’s favorite part of the evenings in Kaffa. The girls would dance to the music, wearing very little, and they could be had for a price, if the patrons wanted one. A slave-trading port with various forms of debauchery was Volga’s kind of town. Maybe I’ll retire here, he thought, sipping his ale through his thick moustache.
“These girls are a hell of a sight, aren’t they?” the young man spoke to him. Volga turned his attention to the stranger, annoyed at being distracted from the girls on stage.
“Hell of a sight,” he agreed.
“My name is Jidet,” the man said, extending his hand. Volga shook it.
“Volga,” he replied. “What’s that ya got there?”
“New girl,” he said. “Just bought her last week.” He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her over. “What do you think?”
Volga looked her up and down. “She looks expensive,” he replied.
The man nodded. “The good ones always cost you,” he agreed.
Volga liked the sound of that. “I appreciate a man who values quality over coins. Maybe you’d like to look over some of my stock tomorrow. I have a fresh group just getting in. You could beat the auction.”
Bastion laughed, and yanked Yana closer to him. “Where’s your manners?” he asked. “Say hello to Volga!” Yana hung her head down low, and bowed slightly. “Hello, sir,” she said meekly.
“Haha!” Volga laughed, and reached out, squeezing her backside. Yana let out a yelp and jumped.
“You got a live one, don’t ya?” he said to Bastion. “Gypsy, right?”
“Yep. Damn gypsies are always the most trouble, but the most fun, too.”
“It’s harder to break them, but worth it, just like the price,” Volga agreed. He looked around at his men, as they drank and danced and shouted, and tried to size up this new acquaintance. He was young, so he must come from money, Volga figured. Most slave owners he sold to were older.
“Pints of ale!” Bastion shouted at the barkeep. Volga was watching the girls again, so Bastion let it seem that he was watching them as well. The ale came quickly, along with a loaf of rye.
“Do you want some bread, wench?” Bastion asked Yana. She nodded her head as though she was ashamed to admit it but could not deny it. Bastion tore off a piece, and tossed it on the dirty floor. Yana scrambled to get it, and bit into it eagerly. Yana gained Volga’s attention, smiling at him while she ate. He kept trying to watch the dancing girls, but instead found himself more and more lustful of the gypsy girl.
“What did you say your name was?” Volga asked.
“Jidet,” Bastion replied.
“Where are you from?” Volga asked, growing curious.
“Originally from Sardica, but I have a ranch down in Nikomedia,” Bastion replied.
Volga nodded, unable to keep his eyes off of Yana. She looked alluring and strong. She also seemed familiar.
“Maybe we can make a trade,” Volga said.
“A trade?”
“Maybe I could trade you for another slave girl,” said Volga.
Bastion laughed. “I doubt you’ve got any that I would trade away this one for,” he said.
Volga was immediately frustrated. He wanted her. “Maybe I could trade you two girls for the one,” he offered. He would not normally jump to making such a concession so quickly.
“Two?” Bastion said. “Still not very likely.”
Volga tried not to appear too eager. “Well, why don’t you come have a look? I have some very good gypsy girls just in from the Lower Reach. Got some of them around Jedikai.”
“Well, maybe we’ll come by sometime before the auction, and have a look,” Bastion said.
That was no good for Volga. “Let’s go tonight! My camp is not far from here, just down near the docks. My other ship might already be in port.”
“Tonight? I think we best get along to the Inn where we are staying.”
“I have some fine rum back at camp. I want to repay your generosity for the ale, at least!” Volga said.
Bastion knew it would be an insult to refuse, and Volga’s camp was exactly where he wanted to go.
“Very good then,” Bastion said. “We’ll come have a look at your stock. Then we’ll be off.”
“Unless you find something you like?” Volga prodded him.
Bastion laughed. “Sure, Volga. Never hurts to look.” Bastion paid their tab and headed for the door, slave girl in tow. Volga reached out to pinch her backside again, getting the same reaction.
Outside, Volga took the lead. “It’s down this way,” he said, heading downhill on a dark street towards the shore. Bastion followed him. When they got a block or two away from the Tarsus Cantina, Bastion pulled out a dagger he had hidden in his clothes, and clubbed Volga in the head with the butt of it, knocking him down.
“Whaaa...?” the fat old trader moaned.
Bastion kicked him hard, and then kicked him again, setting down his knee onto Volga’s neck.
“You’re going to show us your camp, and then you’re going to be out of business,” Bastion said. He was ready to end this man immediately, not just for being a slave trader who had dragged them out so far, but also for the way he touched Yana.
“Don’t- don’t kill me,” Volga pleaded. He was not above groveling. “I’ll give you whatever you want.” He was not above bribery either.
“That’s right, you will,” Bastion said.
“Promise you won’t kill me,” Volga asked. Bastion was not about to make any such promise. He stepped back to let Volga get up off the dark street in the shadows of Kaffa.
Yana screamed. Bastion turned to look behind him. Two men had snuck up behind them, and one had a knife pressed onto Yana’s throat.
“Drop that blade,” the man holding Yana demanded.
Bastion turned to Volga again, who was chuckling as he got up.
“You think I’d be fool enough to let some boy steal from me?” Volga said. “Drop that dagger or you’ll see your little slave girl die just before you do.”
Bastion dropped it, knowing that the life of a gypsy slave was utterly worthless to these men. He was surprised they had not just killed her already. The blade clunked on the ground, and Volga punched him hard in the stomach, dropping Bastion to the ground. Bastion fought to catch his breath, realizing that more men had gathered.
Volga had seven men, at Bastion’s count. There would be nothing he could do. One of the men took Bastion at knife point, shoving the tip at his back.
“Let’s move,” Volga said. “Maybe we’ll have two more slaves to sell at auction. Or at least the one.”
Bastion and Yana marched down the street, blades pressing into their skin, hoping it would not be long.
It wasn’t.
A hand grabbed the arm that held the knife to Yana’s neck, and the black riders emerged from the shadows. Yana tumbled to the ground, and Volga’s first reaction was to club Bastion on the back of the head. Bastion collapsed to the ground, and the riders of
Jedikai engaged the traders. Metal clashed against metal, whipping and punching sounds punctuating the night.
“Stop!” Volga shouted. “I have your man!” Volga was perched atop the unconscious Bastion, a blade ready to drive into his back. He squinted to see who was who, as the fighters all froze. Yana was crouched in a corner, after having dodged one of the men initially. Two of Volga’s men were on the ground. One of the riders was too, laying still.
“Drop your weapons, or your man is finished,” Volga said.
The men dropped their weapons, following the protocols that they were sworn to. Protect the Prince.
Volga looked over at Yana with a sneer. “You, slave girl,” he called. “Come here.”
No way, Yana thought.
She ran.
“You want us to try to catch her?” one of Volga’s men asked.
“No, she is not broken, way too strong. She is gone.” he replied. “We got something better here anyway. This young man will fetch quite a ransom, I think, and if not, he and his men will fetch a good price in the open markets. Get the shackles.”
Already the thick jingle of iron could be heard, as one of the men produced several sets. The men gathered up the weapons of the black riders, and shackled Bastion and the others.
“Get up,” Volga barked, kicking Bastion. One of the traders yanked him upward. Bastion struggled to get his balance, and clear his head.
“What about these three?” one of the traders asked.
“Bring our two men down to the camp. We’ll bury them at sea. Leave the other one here. The dogs might want to clean up our scraps.”
Yana flew through the old city streets in terror, to escape Volga and his men. She ran in fluid motion, as fast as her frame could carry her, not stopping until she realized she felt very, very lost. She stopped and tried to remember her route. After catching her breath, she began heading directly back to the fight. There was no way she could allow herself to be caught or beaten or raped by the likes of Volga and his ilk, but everything about the situation was unacceptable.
She could not be a slave, but also, she could not allow for Bastion to be hurt or captured. She had given the King her word, and while she was a gypsy, prone to break promises or even steal for the sake of convenience, Bastion was no inconvenience. She loved Bastion. Her heart ached as she thought of Bastion being accosted and beat up. One thing she knew for certain about slave traders- they were very good at breaking people, both body and spirit. Yana could not allow that.
Yana approached the scene of the fight, and spied on the dark street carefully. There was one man on the ground, and though it was dark, it appeared to be one of Bastion’s men. The rest of them had cleared out. Yana got closer, carefully. Finally assured that she could move in safely, she approached the man on the ground. Yana touched him and leaned closer.
He was alive.
“Wake up!” Yana urged him, slapping him lightly on the face.
“Help me up,” he responded, startling her.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, trying to help him sit up.
“Unnnhhh,” he groaned, having to lay back down. Yana looked him over in the dark. He was bleeding on the side of his torso.
“Lay still. Lay still,” she urged him. She tugged on the hem of her skirt, ripping away some of the rough fabric. She tore it again, getting two thinner strips, and tied them together. She reached underneath him to get it around him, prompting more painful grunts from him.
“What is your name?” she asked him as she worked.
“Tuvia,” he replied. She had met Bastion’s men, certainly, but they had not been much for talking.
“Tuvia, we have to get back to where we set our supplies,” she said, pulling his tourniquet tight. “Can you make it?”
“I will make it,” he answered. “Help me up.”
Yana pulled him up again, this time, getting him to sit up. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, and Yana helped him to his feet.
“What are we going to do?” Yana asked.
“We have to get them out,” he said. “Do you know where they went?”
“Looks like they are down by that shipyard,” she pointed into the sparse lights that still burned in the late hours of the night, as they limped off the streets onto a winding pathway that would lead to their gear.
“Get me that stick there,” he pointed. Yana leaned over, trying not to let him fall, and grabbed the thick limb. Tuvia took it as a walking staff, and they made their way back. Tuvia half-collapsed when they arrived, trying to rest. Yana started sorting through their weapons, and put on the additional clothes she brought, including her black cloak.
“We have to go get them free,” Yana said.
“That is not your job,” Tuvia said. “I have to do it.”
“Like hell it’s not my job,” she said, slinging her bow across her back, and a quiver of thin, sleek arrows.
“You’re in no position to go attack their camp,” Tuvia warned.
“Well, I’d say my ‘position’ is a lot better than yours right now,” Yana replied, touching his side lightly, making him wince.
“I am going with you,” Tuvia said.
“How are you going to be any help?” Yana asked. “You’ll slow me down.”
“Or save your hide,” he replied, standing up and brandishing a blade. Yana looked at him, trying to assess him. He held up a small metal box.
“I have a plan,” he said. “How good are you with that bow?”
Yana and Tuvia approached the camp. Yana’s tracking and common sense took them right to it. The camp was set below an embankment, and it had two small fires going in different spots, and a few torches, otherwise lending darkness and shadows. Hiding places, Yana noted thankfully. They took a half-circle around the camp, using Yana’s stolen telescope to look closer and try to find Bastion.
On the far end of the camp, they found Bastion and the other riders. They were cruelly locked in a full iron cage, much too small for five grown men. They were stripped naked. Just next to their cage were many more cages, all full of captives, each overloaded. Most of the slaves had very sparse clothing, and seemed to be sleeping in uncomfortable positions. Bastion and his men appeared to be wearing shackles, though the other captives were not. Volga’s men milled about the fires, occasionally laughing loud enough to be heard from Yana’s vantage point. Volga was nowhere in sight.
“You ready?” Yana asked.
Tuvia reeled backwards slightly, catching his balance and wincing in pain. Yana pulled his tourniquet tight, seeing that he was losing more blood. Tuvia righted himself, and set his jaw.
“I’m ready,” he said.
Yana moved into the camp under her black cloak and the night that lent her cover. She isolated the spot where the men were going to relieve themselves, and waited there. She was short on time, knowing if she took too long, Tuvia might fail. After just a few minutes, one of the traders came to her. He pulled his trousers down and began relieving himself of the many beverages he had indulged.
Yana knocked an arrow and drew the cord tight. She was tempted to drill it directly into his privates, and was close enough to do it. Sticking to her plan, she tilted the arrow upward. She shot the arrow right through the man’s neck. The man clutched his neck immediately, unable to scream. Yana moved in and shoved the man to the ground. She thought of all the poor gypsies he had surely sold, tortured, and worse. She pulled her dagger out and cut his throat. Blood shot out from the wound, thankfully away from Yana. She retreated to her hiding place, watching him. She had to make sure he was finished. He struggled only a few more moments, and then lay quiet. Yana moved up to her next chosen spot, lurking like a shadow, just as she had done when she burned down the castle.
Yana was on the other side of the camp from where Bastion was, and poised herself with a clear shot of the campfire. Eight men encircled it, drinking. Yana recognized most of them as the men that had overcome them near the cantina.
She produced another arro
w, and pulled the cord tight. She let it fly, and the arrow zipped through the air and struck the biggest one in the neck. It lodged neatly there, just as with the first man. Almost before he could even react, another arrow flew from Yana’s shadow, hitting a man further away in the chest. Pandemonium and panic sprouted in the camp immediately. The men that were not wearing gypsy arrows all drew their swords, trying to determine where the arrows had come from. They peered through their own drunkenness and one of them pointed to the spot where Yana had chosen. They stormed the shadows, finding only a wagon, a dark corner, and some spilled goods.
Yana was on the move, at her greatest speed. She no longer had surprise, but she still had her stealth. She hid behind two barrels, under her cloak. She popped up and shot another arrow perfectly, into the chest of a man unknowingly running towards her. He dropped to the ground and did not get up. Another man began running towards her, shouting. He had seen her! Yana had already drawn her bowstring taut with another arrow, and took an extra moment to get the right shot. She let it fly, and it shot right into the man’s mouth. He dropped right away too, struggling with the arrow unsuccessfully.
Yana moved again, hiding under the cloak. The shouting and yelling intensified, even though there were four less men to do it. The captives began stirring, and Yana planted herself in a small mass of bushes, looking for another shot. Men were running by, and she was very good with moving targets, but it was a bad angle to get a clean shot.
She knocked another arrow and pulled it tight, waiting for another shot to present itself. If she didn’t see something good, she would have to move again.
Smash! Yana’s face was jolted sideways by a heavy fist.
The Gypsy Queen Page 12
