Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series

by Helen Garraway

  The man frowned at him, tapping his chin. “I think you need a lesson, maybe a night in the pens will make you realize your situation. Come morning, if you do not answer my questions, then you will regret it.” At his signal, the guard hit Birlerion behind the ear, and he collapsed to the ground.

  Birlerion awoke to the stench of the slave pens. His hands and feet were manacled, and he lay across the legs of two men scrunched up against the bars. His head thumped painfully, and his ribs ached as he tried to sit up. The men had been generous with their boots while he was unconscious, no doubt retaliating against his attack. His feet were bare, and he was only wearing his thin under robe; not much protection against the cool night air.

  “Take it easy, lad,” a soft voice said in his ear. “There ain’t room to swing anything in ‘ere.”

  Birlerion groaned and tried to sit up again. He drew his breath in against the sharp flash of pain. “Done you over good and proper,” the soft voice continued as the men around him propped him up.

  Birlerion held his head in his hands. The manacles rattled. They were connected to a metal collar around his neck.

  “You’ll be alright in a moment, lad. It takes you like that when you first wake up.”

  “Where am I?” he asked, though he had a fair idea. Did they really think a night of discomfort would make him talk?

  “Central market slave pens. We’ll be sold in the morning. This is the pen for petty thieves and general offences. The Governor likes to have a full pen.”

  Birlerion’s head swam as he tried to focus on his surroundings. The stench turned his stomach, and he swallowed the rising bile; it burned his throat. “Do they not like to sell their slaves in the best possible condition? Surely they would fetch more money?”

  “Nah,” the man laughed, “why waste the money?” Some of the other slaves grumbled at being disturbed.

  “Who’s likely to buy? I didn’t think slavery was allowed in Terolia.”

  “There are strangers in town, and they have a trafficking business up north. Most of us go there.”

  Birlerion squinted at the man. He was filthy. His clothes little more than rags. His eye was purpling beautifully and just below was the family mark, a yellow sun tattooed on his right cheek. Solari. The man bared his stained teeth. “No buyers so far. They toss you back in for the next sale. You’ll sell, no problem, ‘coz you’re educated. You can tell; nice clothes. You’ll wash up well, never mind the bruises.”

  “I’d prefer not to be sold.” Birlerion closed his eyes. His head ached. He needed to think. What had Taelia said about the Slave pens? He was sure he was meant to be here. Birlerion sighed. He was getting fed up with being a punching bag. Leyandrii could at least have found a less painful way to get him in the pens. Now he was here, what was he supposed to do?

  All he had found out was that Var’geris was actively searching for the Captain. What had happened for him to call off his assassins? If he had, that was. In the meantime, being sold as a slave would not be ideal. He needed to escape and find Var’geris and his brothers. Sitting in a stinking pen wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

  He paid more attention to his surroundings. The guards were clustered around a barrel in the farthest corner of the square, as far from the stench as they could get. They were suspiciously cheerful, and the glint of a bottle being passed around suggested the reason why.

  Birlerion studied the locks. They were new and well oiled; they wouldn’t be a problem. He stared down at his manacles and flexed his wrists; they were tight and unyielding and were already rubbing his wrist and ankles. His feet were freezing.

  “What you thinking, lad?” the voice murmured in his ear. “Them guards’ll be asleep within the hour. They spend the evening drinking; only way they’ll agree to guard us.”

  “What makes you think I’m thinking anything?”

  The man snorted. “You’re the first one to arrive with any gumption. You ain’t gonna sit here and rot.”

  “Well, not by choice.” He tensed as the pen’s wire gate opened and closed again. “You’re early,” Birlerion said, closing his eyes against the sight of Jerrol dressed in a grubby guard’s uniform. “How can you wear that?” he said wrinkling his nose against the smell of dried sweat.

  Jerrol chuckled under his breath. “You can’t talk, you smell worse. I had the feeling you might do something stupid if I left you much longer.”

  “Your faith in my restraint is reassuring.”

  “Any good at picking locks?” Jerrol said to the man supporting Birlerion.

  The Solarian grinned. “Knew you were a rum’en when they tossed you in ‘ere. I said, Lady, ‘ere’s a bloke who’ll not be in ‘ere long. He’s got friends!”

  “You follow the Lady then?” Jerrol whispered as he started easing a thin metal pin out of the hem of his shirt.

  “Yeah, most of us in here do; that’s our offence, usually.” The man scowled.

  “Do your family not search for you? I thought the Family took care of their own?”

  “It’s what you hear, but not so much these days. The Families seem to be crumbling from the inside. Children banished, petty arguments. Family Law seems to be only a convenience, used when it suits them.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Birlerion said. “The Family would never stray from Family Law.”

  The man’s manacles clanked; a soft echo in the darkness as he shrugged. “There are stranger tales than that. They say there are ghosts in the desert, voices on the wind up past Il Queron. Not that many people venture into the salt flats, if they have sense.”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Jerrol replied as he shuffled around and began to work on Birlerion’s collar and then his wrist manacles. He gave Birlerion a pin and Birlerion twisted around, rubbing his wrists, and began on his ankles.

  The man shushed the quavering voices as Jerrol continued to release the slaves, pausing only as a guard staggered passed, oblivious to the gleaming eyes watching him. The others were no longer in sight. As the guard stumbled away, Jerrol swung open the wire gate, the hinges blessedly silent, and melted into the night, followed by Birlerion.

  Jerrol navigated the streets, heading northwards as he cut down alleyways and skirted the thoroughfares. “Zin’talia, I have Birlerion. We’re heading north. Meet us on the outskirts.”

  “On my way.”

  A communal well caught his eye and after a quick glance at Birlerion, he cranked the handle to bring the bucket up. Birlerion crouched beside him, and the dim light from the lantern hung over the well revealed the dark bruising on his skin. Another beating Birlerion had taken for him. He offered him the water. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah,” Birlerion sighed. “Just bruises.” He shivered in the cold night air and sluiced his face and hands, scooping the icy cold water up to drink.

  “I packed all our stuff and sent Zee on to wait for us. She’ll be here soon,” Jerrol said peering around them, they continued walking north.

  The outskirts of the town loomed ahead of them and they hunkered down in a quiet alleyway to wait for Zin’talia. Birlerion crouched behind him, shivering, and it was obvious Birlerion was hurting, even though he wouldn’t admit it. He scowled down the road. Where was Zin’talia?

  Her grumble interrupted his thoughts. “I’m coming. I’m coming!” She trotted into view, Birlerion’s hack still tied to her saddle. He had hastily packed everything into their saddle bags before leaving to find Birlerion.

  Jerrol waited while Birlerion rummaged for some robes and shrugged into them. Birlerion’s shivering eased as he found his boots and stamped into them.

  Zin’talia rubbed her head against Birlerion’s shoulder. “Tell him I’m glad he’s alright.” she murmured to Jerrol.

  Jerrol chuckled. “Zee is glad you’re ok.”

  Birlerion froze in surprise and then slowly relaxed and rubbed her nose. “Thank you,” he said. Taking a breath, Birlerion mounted his horse, stifling a groan as he settled in the saddle.
>
  Jerrol mounted Zin’talia and headed north out of the town as the morning bells began to clang.

  “Is Birlerion really alright? What happened?”

  “Birlerion is fine, just a few bruises. He was thrown in the slave pens.”

  “He does reek a bit. A hazard of the desert. Never enough water for a wash.”

  “He had no choice; it seems there was someone waiting to give us a message.”

  “What message was that?” Zin’talia asked.

  “We need to divert to Il Queron,” he replied before falling silent as he led Birlerion northwards at a steady pace, leaving the town of Ramila behind them. The sound of clanging bells faded as they travelled.

  Birlerion jerked out of an exhausted doze as Jerrol called his name. “We’re here,” he said as they reached a rocky outcrop that would provide some shelter.

  “Where’s Nil’ano?” Birlerion asked as he slid out of the saddle.

  “He said he would return to Mistra and find word of the Atolea. We need to meet him there. There was no point him remaining in Ramila. The Elders were clueless and less than helpful.” Jerrol’s lip curled. “They wouldn’t even listen to our complaints. Nil’ano was not impressed, though it didn’t help you much.”

  Birlerion grunted. “They weren’t real Elders, and they were in a hurry. More muscle than brains. Just followers trying to impress the boss.”

  “Well, assuming Var’geris is the boss. No doubt we’ll find him in Mistra.”

  Jerrol opened the jar of salve he had in his pack. It was suitable for most injuries, and he offered it to Birlerion who took time to dab the salve on his cut lip. It wouldn’t do to leave open sores in this climate. Tucking the jar back into Jerrol’s pack, Birlerion folded to the sand with an exhausted sigh and rubbing his fingers together lit the small fire Jerrol had built.

  “How did you end up in the slave pens?” Jerrol asked as he put a pot of coffee on to heat.

  “The fake Elder didn’t believe I was who they were looking for. They wanted you.”

  Jerrol raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

  “Yes. Var’geris is searching for you. They thought I needed time to consider my answers before they sent me up the line. And anyway, I think we were supposed to end up in the pens.”

  Jerrol nodded thoughtfully. “I think you might be right, though I’m sorry you took the brunt of their displeasure.”

  Birlerion’s lips twisted. “It’s what I’m here for, to protect you.”

  “Still, it would have been nice to spend one night at the Oasis.” Jerrol handed Birlerion a mug and made himself more comfortable. “Do you think we’ll find more Sentinals in the salt flats?”

  “Leyandrii went out of her way to make sure we were told to look there. I would assume that’s where we’ll find them.”

  “We still need to speak to Medera Maraine. I need to confirm a few things before we head home.”

  “Fortunate the Solari told me the Atolea are still encamped at Mistra, then, isn’t it?” Birlerion said as he inhaled the steam from his coffee.

  Jerrol stifled a grunt as he eased back against the rocks and sipped the steaming liquid. “When did you speak with the Solari?”

  “Whilst you were chatting with Tarenion. I also heard that a child was recently banished. A girl, the Medera’s daughter. The Family are upset about it. Normally, they would have been tightlipped about such a disgrace,” Birlerion said, his voice soft as he watched the fire.

  “Are they now?” Jerrol murmured. Tell me about Family Law.”

  Birlerion laughed. “Family Law? That would take weeks.”

  “A summary then.”

  “Family Law is the glue that holds the Families together. The rules by which they live. Each child has responsibilities whether they be brother or son. Sister or daughter. Each to care for and protect the other. It’s what makes the Families so strong.

  “Each Family has a facial tattoo, you’ve seen the sun of the Solari, and Nil’ano wears the Atolean star. The mark of the Family is sacrosanct and reflects their honour. To have your mark defaced is the ultimate dishonour; it means you are cast out, banished.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone with their tattoo defaced.”

  “That’s why it is a last resort, it usually means death. Banishment is extreme; to banish a child is unheard of.”

  “What did the child do?”

  “They wouldn’t say, but they were angry, extremely angry. It brings Medera Reina’s rule into question as she has no other heir.”

  Jerrol frowned at the flickering fire. “Do you think she was influenced?”

  “It’s possible,” Birlerion said. “Though she should hold the Lady the closest. But to banish your only heir? She must not be in her right mind.”

  “Do they know where the child is?”

  “Dead they think. No other Family could offer her aid. It’s a slow death, reserved for a blood debt or a life debt usually.”

  “It sounds brutal.”

  “It keeps the hotheads under control. It’s meant to be a deterrent.”

  “But not for children,” Jerrol said, his voice soft.

  “No,” Birlerion replied, staring out at the dark sands. They fell silent, each with their own thoughts.

  Jerrol watched the sunrise spread across the sky, burning away to a brilliant blue, Birlerion’s quiet movements soothing. “We need to leave,” he said at last.

  Birlerion nodded and loaded up the horses. “It’s a three-day ride to Mistra. If we divert via Il Queron, that will add at least another day to our journey.” Birlerion stared off into the golden dunes, his brow creased in thought. “There should be an oasis where we can top up our water, and there should also be a Sentinal.”

  Jerrol raised his eyebrows. It was uncanny how Birlerion knew where places were. “Are you sure? I mean, it might not be there anymore.”

  Birlerion flushed. “I looked at a map earlier.”

  Jerrol huffed out breath. “I thought maps were useless in Terolia?”

  “They have their uses if you know how to read them.”

  Shaking his head, Jerrol mounted his horse. “Lead the way then,” he said and followed Birlerion down the dusty trail towards Il Queron.

  28

  Il Queron, Terolia

  Late that afternoon, Il Queron shimmered on the horizon, undulating as the heat rose from the sun-hardened rock. The shadows cast by the dunes had begun to lengthen as the sun sank lower and burnished the sky a molten yellow.

  Jerrol scanned the village. Maybe two hundred people lived in the collection of small mud-baked huts and buildings. The central square was empty and the aimless breeze swirled the dust in the deserted streets. A temple building presided over the small oasis. A slender sentinal tree arched over both the temple and the water. Its leaves were thinner but just as pointed.

  A row of canvas fronted stalls, currently empty, and a cluster of small tables with spindly chairs covered in dust extended out at a right angle from the temple, depicting where the market would be when the heat dissipated. A hanging rug stirred in the still air as they approached the oasis. Someone was watching.

  “Water the horses first,” Jerrol said through dry lips.

  Birlerion led the horses to the water and let them drink while he refilled all their canteens. He handed over Jerrol’s and then sipped some water himself before topping it up and stowing them securely to his horse’s gear.

  Unravelling the scarf around his head, Birlerion ran his hand through his black hair, leaving it sticking up in tufts. White creases fanned out at the corners of his eyes, where the sun had found a way in and tanned his skin. Leading the horses into the shade of the sentinal tree, he glanced at Jerrol. “Peterion first?” he suggested.

  Jerrol stared at him. His bruises had bloomed. His face was a mass of purples and blues, and Jerrol suppressed his wince at the sight of his swollen lip. “I suppose you know Peterion, as well?”

  Birlerion’s grin was lopsided and he held his mouth for a mo
ment, suppressing an ‘ow’. “What can I say? I got about.”

  Jerrol placed his hand against the trunk and Peterion stepped out. Tall, dark-skinned, and dark-haired, he wore a soft green robe that shimmered in the sunlight.

  The two Sentinals embraced. “Peterion,” Birlerion murmured in his ear, “you need some sun, my friend.”

  Peterion gave a puff of laughter. “You can talk. What have you been up to, Birlerion?”

  “Same as always. Though I admit, I’ve had better moments.”

  Peterion snorted as Jerrol led the way into the temple. He walked up to the altar and knelt with the Sentinals beside him, praying to the Lady for guidance.

  Peterion jerked as Leyandrii spoke. “Peterion, welcome home. Jerrolion, welcome to Terolia.”

  “My Lady,” Peterion gasped.

  “Jerrolion?” Jerrol queried, a little apprehensively.

  “Of course, my Captain, you were the one suggesting a disguise. It is always best to hide behind your true name where possible. Dearest Birlerion, hold true. We are not finished yet.”

  “Yes, my Lady.” Birlerion sounded bereft.

  “We are close. My children will be returned. My Captain is here.” Her voice embraced them. “Make sure you listen carefully; you mustn’t miss them. Bless you all, stand strong and tall. My Sentinals are coming home.” Her blessing shimmered in the air as her voice faded.

  Jerrol leaned back on his heels and glanced at Peterion. “Did that make any sense to you?”

  Peterion grinned. “Birlerion will translate.” Birlerion huffed beside him and Peterion laughed aloud, his silver eyes gleaming in the dim light.

  “Is there somewhere we can all rest? It doesn’t look like there are many inns here,” Jerrol said.

  “Hospitality will flow once it is known, you will see,” Peterion said.

  Jerrol wondered what would be known but followed as Birlerion rose with a stifled groan and led the way out into the sunshine.

  A grey-haired woman swathed in amber robes stood in the empty square, waiting. She was tiny. She might reach Jerrol’s chest if she was lucky, and he wasn’t particularly tall. Jerrol stopped a short distance away.