The Trail of Chains: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 5)

by Lynnette Bonner

  Earlier her fears had revolved around her capture and wondering if Trent had suffered much before he died. She had beaten back the hopeful question over whether he was really dead. For of course he was. There had been so much blood! And she had never been one to linger in a fantasy of hope. But now her fears turned to keeping herself from getting burned to death. And worry for Moyo.

  Her legs begged for rest, but still she pressed onward. The chains felt heavier with each step. Moyo also. RyAnne demanded just one more step from her muscles. And then another. She ran until her legs gave out from under her and she crashed to the ground. Moyo’s face smacked into her shoulder, and RyAnne heard her whimper. The fire wheezed a scorching belch against the skin of her legs exposed by her fall. Terror zipped through her.

  “Moyo, we have to run!”

  The child was yanked from her back, and RyAnne started to protest the separation until she realized Asha had swung the little girl onto his own back. He bent and used a key to unclasp her manacles. Yanking them off, he thrust them into a leather bag angled across his chest. And then he prodded RyAnne to rise and run. RyAnne managed to get her legs beneath her and stumble forward, but every breath pulled in only a lungful of smoke. She coughed. Her eyes watered, and she squinted to see where to place her next step.

  All thoughts of escape momentarily left her. Her only thought was of survival, and there was only one direction to move at this point. The conflagration marched surely and steadily behind them.

  The ground beneath her feet began to quake, and off in the distance she heard the dull roar of something like thunder.

  The guard cursed angrily and yanked RyAnne’s arm to angle her movement in a line tangential to their current direction.

  The roar grew louder, and suddenly they were running in the midst of a herd of wildebeests, gazelles, zebras, and ostriches. Every creature on the plains seemed to have congregated together in an attempt to outrace their looming deaths. And yet they were running in a line almost parallel with the flames. If they kept going this direction, the fire would catch up to them of a certainty! And yet there was no way to dodge through the herd and keep going away from the fire without getting knocked to the ground. So she raced along with the herds, like all the other people around her.

  Do not fall. Do not fall. Do not fall. RyAnne chanted the words with each step. For a fall now would mean being trampled to death by the terrified animals careening along behind her. RyAnne tried to think what the captain might have told her to do in a situation like this. But in all his lectures on safety, he’d never once covered how to respond if she was running in the middle of a stampeding herd of wild animals with a grass fire chasing hot on her heels.

  Tears stung her eyes. What she wouldn’t give to hear him barking orders at her in that moment!

  Just ahead of her she heard the guard, Asha, give an exultant shout. And then she heard the distinct splashes of the animals leaping into water! A gust of wind momentarily cleared the smoke from the plain. And blessed sight! A river, wide and placid, stretched before them. The animals had instinctively known where to head!

  Asha hoisted Moyo to his shoulders and leapt down into the riverbed, turning to raise his hands to help RyAnne down after him. Grateful for his help, RyAnne leaned forward and took his hands, then jumped down into the water.

  Asha gave her a nod, turned, and waded out into the river, grasping onto the neck of a wildebeest as he kicked out into the main flow of the water.

  RyAnne followed suit without a second thought. It was only after she was in the middle of the current, clinging to the mane of a wild-eyed zebra, with the danger of the fire behind her, that her thoughts turned to what creatures might be lurking beneath the surface of the water and ready to take advantage of all the meals swimming above them. She had but a fleeting moment to fear however, for just then her feet hit ground, and she released the zebra and slogged toward the shore.

  As soon as she was free of the water, she fell to her knees and crawled toward Moyo, whom the guard had left seated on a rock. RyAnne gathered the sobbing child into her arms and tucked her head beneath her chin. She glanced around. Where had the guard gone? Maybe this was their chance to escape?

  Her gaze skimmed the chaos in the river, and for the first time she saw the other slaves from the caravan were also struggling to cross the deep watercourse. But the heavy chains that bound many of them not only hand and foot, but from one to another, were making it difficult for many to swim. It was a miracle so many had even made it this far, bound as they were.

  She spotted Asha then. Swimming in the center of the pandemonium, helping people across.

  RyAnne’s hopes of escape soared, but then a woman cried out, and her head disappeared beneath the muddy surface of the water. Only a second later she bobbed up again, but from her flailing arms RyAnne could see she was struggling to remain afloat. She couldn’t just run off while other people drowned. She had to help!

  RyAnne kissed Moyo’s head and took her face in her hands. “Khalani pompo!” She dipped her chin to make sure her order not to move registered with the little one.

  Moyo nodded, her wide, tear-filled eyes flitting from one struggling swimmer to the next.

  As RyAnne dashed back into the waters, she wondered how much the child had seen today. The way she had searched the faces of those who scrabbled their way onto the bank gave RyAnne the distinct impression that she was searching for her mother.

  What had happened to Nyanja? RyAnne remembered Khalifa’s instructions to capture only the healthiest of the villagers. So what had happened to those deemed unfit? A shudder coursed through her. Well she knew Khalifa’s practice was to leave no survivors. Hopelessness threatened to bring her to collapse right there in the water. Had Moyo witnessed the death of her mother this morning?

  RyAnne took the arm of the woman struggling to find her footing and tugged her to shallower water. Offering what few words of encouragement she knew in the tribal language, she tugged on the chain to pull the next woman forward as well. She didn’t know how long she stood in the shoals helping people from the muddy water, but when there was finally no one left to assist, she lifted her gaze to the far side of the river to see that night was almost upon them, aided by the clouds of smoke still rising from the dying embers. All along the far embankment, small fires continued to blaze here and there, but even they would soon be out of fuel.

  She slogged her way back to Moyo and took the little girl’s hand to lead her farther from the river.

  The feel of Moyo’s delicate fingers clasped in hers returned her thoughts to Nyanja. The resurgence of her anger filled RyAnne with the hope that perhaps Khalifa had been killed in today’s mêlée. And then she immediately felt guilty for wishing the death of anyone, even if it was Khalifa. Even so… She glanced around. She hadn’t seen him since they had started running from the fire.

  Moyo was shivering, and RyAnne realized that a damp chill had sunk into the very core of her own bones as well. Her wet dress was sucking the warmth right out of her.

  Asha stopped before her and clapped the leg irons around her once more. So much for a chance at escape. With a sigh, RyAnne held out her wrists, but the man stepped back, deliberately stuffed the wrist cuffs back into his bag, and then resumed his stoic stance nearby.

  RyAnne thanked God as she sank down and pulled Moyo onto her lap. Having her hands free would be so helpful in caring for Moyo. She glanced around. She scooted over to put her back to a tree so she could hold Moyo more comfortably. Her leg irons rattled at the movement. Moyo recoiled at the sound. Already the child had come to realize what that clanking represented.

  Loss of freedom.

  Loss of personhood.

  Loss of hope.

  All around them other guards prodded the surviving slaves together and ordered them to sit. And all around them chains rattled as the newly captured slaves complied.

  Moyo squirmed with each jangle and clank.

  “Shhhh.” RyAnne soothed a hand ove
r the child’s back and wrapped her arms tighter, trying to offer as much warmth as she could.

  A couple of the guards set about making some fires, and RyAnne was thankful for the relief of the warmth.

  A loud curse rang out, and Khalifa stormed into the center of the circle. “How many did we lose?”

  So much for her hopes that he might no longer walk among the living.

  None of the guards replied, and none of them looked at him.

  “How many?!” Spittle flying, he fisted Asha’s tunic into his hand and yanked the man forward.

  Moyo whimpered, and RyAnne tightened her embrace.

  Asha mumbled a few words that RyAnne couldn’t make out.

  But Khalifa was apparently very unhappy at the report. He went still.

  RyAnne felt a prickle along the back of her neck, for it wasn’t a calm stillness. It was a stillness fraught with tension. A tension that might explode at any moment.

  The guard also seemed to hold his breath.

  And then with a feral yell, Khalifa slugged the man’s face.

  RyAnne flinched at the brutality of it.

  Asha stumbled back a step and fell to the ground.

  Khalifa leapt forward and kicked him. Fists clenched, tendons in his neck stretched taut, kofia askew, Khalifa bent over the man, screaming and bellowing in a language RyAnne did not know. His face turned red. His eyes bulged.

  The guard curled his arms over his head and tightened into a ball to protect himself.

  Temper unabated, Khalifa kicked Asha again. He spat on him, still cursing and screeching. And then he raised one boot and stomped fiercely on the guard’s head.

  RyAnne thrust Moyo to one side and scrambled forward. “Stop!”

  She tried to insert herself between Khalifa and the prone man, but Khalifa backhanded her out of the way.

  Her cry of surprise and pain must have somehow penetrated the fog of his rage, because he froze and turned to look at her, a dazed confusion slacking his jaw.

  The left side of RyAnne’s face pulsed with pain, and she gingerly felt of her cheek. Her fingers came away bloody.

  Khalifa blinked. “What have you done?!” He was upon her in an instant, taking her face in his hands to angle it toward the firelight and examine her wound. “Stupid woman! This might leave a scar!”

  “Good! Let it scar! Let it disfigure me till no one wants to offer you even a penny for me!” She batted his hands away, but he slapped her with an open palm. Her head jolted back, and before she could even gather her wits to continue her fight, he once more took her face firmly in his hands. She met Khalifa’s gaze steadily, without flinching, as he prodded and wiped at the wound.

  “Jabir! I require you! Now!”

  Footsteps scrambled toward them from the other side of the fire, and then a turbaned man with thick, bushy brows and a pointed chin stepped into sight.

  Khalifa thrust her toward the man none too gently. “This one is going to need stitches. Make them small and perfect, for after the auction, if I feel I’ve lost any money on her due to a scar, I’m going to take every penny out of your hide!”

  The man called Jabir bowed but didn’t speak a word.

  Khalifa stomped off then, and there was suddenly the soft rattle of chains and the release of breaths as everyone around seemed to relax at his departure.

  Jabir stepped toward her, but RyAnne turned her face away. She pointed to Asha, who remained prostrate, unconscious on the ground. “You don’t get to touch me until you have helped that man.” Despite the fact that the guard worked for Khalifa, the man had likely saved both her and Moyo’s lives today. She wouldn’t just stand by and let him die.

  Jabir glanced at the guard but then stepped toward her again. He stretched out his hands in a placating way, indicating she should let him treat her first.

  Why did the man not speak?

  RyAnne scooted back from him, lifting her chin. “The guard first!”

  Jabir merely sighed and turned a look on two other guards who stood nearby. Both men stepped over, and each took one of her arms and dragged her over to sit on the rock. One grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head back, angling the cut on her face so that Jabir could see it. The other held up a lantern.

  Calmly, Jabir set to cleaning and examining her wound. Beside them the unconscious guard moaned.

  “Well, at least he’s alive.” RyAnne glowered at the doctor. How could he leave a man so injured to treat a little cut?

  Asha rolled over to his back with a groan, and RyAnne caught a glimpse of a large gash across his forehead.

  “He needs help.”

  Still Jabir spoke not a word. With careful precision, he stitched the short cut on her cheek. His needle was so sharp and thin that RyAnne barely felt the prick each time. After he had finished and given a satisfied nod, he motioned to the two guards who had been holding her to bring Asha and seat him on the rock.

  RyAnne rose and turned to watch.

  With each movement he was forced to make, Asha moaned quietly as though intent on keeping Khalifa from knowing how much pain he had inflicted.

  Even with one of her eyes swelling shut, RyAnne could see that the man’s left arm was broken. White bone protruded through ebony skin. She winced. That would make it all the harder to prevent infection.

  RyAnne had expected the guards to seat the man on the rock, but instead one knocked him to his knees before it, while the other strode to one of the fires and thrust the flat metal point of his spear into the flames.

  RyAnne frowned, trying to guess why the healer might require a hot spear for setting an arm.

  Jabir quickly wrapped the strap of a leather whip around Asha’s wrist and stretched his broken arm out over the rock, passing the handle of the quirt to one of the guards.

  Asha screamed in pain, no longer able to tamp down the expression of his discomfort.

  One of the guards pulled the arm taut while the other guard placed his foot just above the elbow.

  Asha cried out again, but through gritted teeth this time—the sound a reluctant acceptance of what they were about to do.

  RyAnne felt pity for the man and couldn’t help but admire his acquiescence. It was good. Setting his arm would go easier if he tried to relax as they did it.

  Jabir tied a tourniquet above the guard’s elbow.

  She frowned. What sort of medicine had this man studied? They didn’t need a tourniquet for setting an arm.

  The healer took a step back and then withdrew a large machete from his belt. This he also thrust into the fire, its light reflecting on the grim set of his pointed features.

  Horror swept through RyAnne. They weren’t preparing to set his forearm! They were going to cleave it off and cauterize the stub!

  Jabir stepped toward Asha.

  “No!” She threw herself between Jabir and his patient. “It is only broken. It does not need to be amputated!”

  Jabir glowered at her and motioned for her to get out of his way.

  “Give me a week!” RyAnne spread her hands and prayed there was a scrap of decency inside the healer someplace. “Let me treat him. If he’s not well on his way to mending within the week, then you can take the arm. Please just let me try. He saved my life today.”

  Jabir raised the machete a little higher and leaned toward her menacingly.

  RyAnne swallowed down the tremor of fear that threatened to steal the strength from her knees, and lifted her chin. “To get to him you are going to have to go through me. And what will Khalifa have to say about such further injury to his property?”

  Jabir grunted, thrust his machete back into its sheath, threw his hands into the air, and stalked away.

  One of the other two guards cast her a perturbed look, as if she might have just robbed him of his evening’s entertainment. He unwrapped the quirt from around Asha’s wrist and followed in Jabir’s footsteps.

  The other guard stepped back and folded his arms across his chest, waiting as though he thought she might need
his help.

  A fact for which she was thankful, since she would indeed need him to help her set the bone back into place.

  “Thank you.” She unwrapped the tourniquet and motioned for the guard to hold the lantern so she could see. Though the bone had broken through the skin, it did not appear to be shattered and was not as bad as she’d first feared.

  She pointed the guard to Asha’s arm just above his elbow. “I need you to hold it tightly there. See this lump? That is where the bone has separated. We must pull until the bones fit back together.” She cast the man a questioning look, and he nodded that he understood. RyAnne squatted down and met Asha’s gaze. “This is going to be painful, but if we can do it right, it will save your arm. Bear with me for just a few minutes, yes?”

  Asha pushed a breath out between pursed lips and nodded.

  “Very good. Let us begin.” RyAnne took hold of the man’s wrist while the first guard took hold where she had showed him just above the elbow, and she pulled with all her might. Her manacles clanked and rattled, and Asha gritted a moan through his teeth, but he did not fight them, and it was only a moment before she felt the bone snap satisfyingly back into place. Panting for breath, RyAnne sank to her knees. She looked at the guard who had helped her. “Thank you. I will need four straight sticks the length of his forearm.” She indicated the length with her hands held about a foot apart. “Can you get them for me? And some leather lacing?”

  With a nod, the guard headed off.

  The guard who had earlier stalked off with Jabir returned just then and thrust a small roll of bandages and a pot of hot water into her hands. “From Jabir,” he said and then walked away.

  Thankful for at least that small blessing, RyAnne set to cleaning the broken skin and then wrapped the arm with the bandages and tied it off. That at least would keep it somewhat clean.

  RyAnne then turned to the problem of the large gash where Khalifa’s boot had split Asha’s forehead. Her dress was still wet, and she had no other material, so she used part of her skirt to wipe away some of the blood. She winced. The man needed stitches.