by Karen Nilsen
"I'd feel a coward if we turned around now."
"Why? You've killed at least two dozen of these southern dogs, faced death everyday without flinching. Blind obedience is not courage, Gerard."
He reached for his pack. "Not two dozen, Landers. Thirty. At least."
I lightly punched his shoulder. "You should have started with whoever taught you how to count. I'm the only one here who's killed thirty. Three dozen, actually."
He snorted, pulled out his pipe. The moonlight gleamed against the ivory stem as he fumbled for his flint and dagger. "Careful," I said as he struck sparks into the bowl of tobacco, and it began to glow. "You never know who's watching. Or sniffing."
"Oh, Landers, shut up. They can't see or smell this little spark from far away. A fire maybe, but not a pipe."
"They may not be far away." I took a deep breath and crossed my arms as I looked around.
"We'd hear them." He sounded less certain, though, and I noticed he shielded his pipe with his hand.
"Maybe."
Just as I spoke, a pebble fell somewhere close by, a small plunk amplified against the mountain sides into a hundred echoes.
"Damn." Gerard put down his pipe, and we both stumbled to our feet, peering around at the hulking shapes of the rocks. Our companions slept on, huddled piles of cloaks and packs and weapons, the men themselves hardly to be seen in the dark.
There was a sudden yell, and a torch flared red along the edges of the path leading off to the east, the path we would have followed in the morning if we stuck to our orders. Both Gerard and I woke the men, but it was too late. Shadows poured down the side of the mountain, and SerVerinese scimitars flashed in the moonlit bowl of our camp.
Gripping my sword, I put my back against the mountain so no one could come at me from behind. There were plenty coming at me from the front. I had heard rumors that the SerVerinese could see in the dark as well as cats, and I believed it. We were surrounded.
The first man who came within length of my blade appeared nothing more than a shadow. I slashed at him blindly, and he leapt away. Then he approached again, his sword raised to block my blows. I stabbed under it, but instead of parrying and lunging towards me, he leapt away again. That's odd. Usually these SerVerinese were aggressive attackers, willing to sustain deadly injury if they could manage to nick you with their blade. Maybe this was a young one.
Careful to keep my back to the mountain, I moved forward a few yards and lunged towards him. Yet again, he moved away, waving his blade in the dizzying arc they taught all their warriors as an intimidation tactic. It irritated me more than anything else. Why wouldn't he engage? They were attacking us, so why was he backing away? It was almost like he was drawing me out . . .
I froze, my eyes darting around the perimeter of the camp. There was a flat expanse of rock at the far end, torch light bouncing across it. I saw the giant shadow of the bowman, the ten foot high curve of the bow, the spear-sized arrow. Then he released.
My feet, my body, nothing would respond to the frantic stream of thoughts coursing through my mind. Mother, Father, court, Whitten and Selwyn and Gerard as boys, the academy, my horse Shadowfoot, Safire . . . oh hell, Safire, sweetheart, I'll never see you again. Then I ducked, but it was too late. I was dead. No, not dead . . .
There was a sudden sting in my lower arm. What the hell? I glanced down. A six-inch shaft of a dart was sticking through my sleeve, blood welling around it. I pulled it out. It was a miniature arrow with a sharp iron tip, fletched with feathers on the other end. I dropped it, rubbed my wound. The sting had become a burning, a burning that slowly spread up my arm and into my torso. I glanced up, suddenly remembering the swordsman who had acted as bait. He was standing there, scimitar lowered, watching me. A rage filled my limbs, and I lurched towards him, my sword extended. My legs felt heavy, though, as if I were walking through water, and everything seemed to slow. I closed my eyes, my heart pounding in my ears. Then I collapsed to the ground, and everything went dark.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It was light when I awoke. I lay on my belly like a snake. I groaned and closed my eyes again, trying to stretch. My arms were bound tightly behind me, though, and I couldn't move them. Someone turned me over roughly and forced brackish water down my throat. I swallowed gratefully. My mouth was so parched it felt cracked, and my throat was sore as hell. Some effect from that poison they'd shot into me, I supposed.
When I opened my eyes again, the sun was higher. I was resting on the ground in the circle of rocks that had been our camp last night. Gerard lay beside me, our packs beside him, but there was no sign of any of our men. Our captors had evidently been shrewd enough to pick us for the noblemen and commanders from among our motley crew, though the only way they could have told us from the peasant recruits were the insignias on our weapons, the finer mesh of our mail. Otherwise, we were equally as filthy, flea-bitten, and ragged as the others. Traders then--only traders and the highest ranking SerVerin knights knew enough to tell a Cormalen nobleman from a Cormalen commoner. And only traders would have wanted us alive rather than dead. We were worth more alive.
I struggled up until I was kneeling. It was only then I noticed the two men standing behind us. The taller quickly came over and helped me stand. Then he barked an order to his companion, who took off running down the path and out of sight.
About a quarter hour passed. Gerard awoke and was dragged to his feet. SerVerinese began to appear a few at a time until there were at least sixty surrounding us. Gerard and I watched the ragtag jumble of traders warily. They were olive-skinned for the most part, with long black beards waxed into elaborate curlicues and points, dirty clothing in all manner of bright colors, and enough jewels winking in their ears and on their fingers to embarrass a mercenary woman. They looked like a flock of tropical birds with soiled plumage, foreign and forlorn against the dark rock of the mountains. Their flamboyant appearance belied their deadly skill at fighting, however; woe to the man who underestimated them. All had long scimitars strapped to their belts and bows made of a sleek, black wood I had never seen. So Gerard and I stood, silent and still. Three months ago, we might have challenged our captors and died brave fools, but we were too exhausted for that now.
The leader of the traders (at least, I assumed he was the leader because of the nearly unintelligible invective that poured from his mouth on to the hapless ears of his underlings) snatched our packs and began to rifle through Gerard's. Since we had run so low on supplies, there was little for him to search, and he soon found Gerard's seal ring on a chain. Gerard had stopped wearing it after a SerVerin warrior had grabbed the chain and tried to strangle him in the midst of battle. The trader examined the ring for a moment before he picked up Gerard's sword and looked at that as well. Then he looked at us with dark eyes and held out the ring and sword.
"What House is this?" he asked in SerVerinese.
"What the hell is he saying?" Gerard whispered to me.
"He wants to know what House you're from."
"I'll not tell him. They'll get no ransom from my father."
"You have to say something, or they'll kill you. Lie, make up a House name--they'll not know it's a real House for several weeks, with how slow these message riders are. We might have a chance to escape . . ." I was cut off when the trader cuffed me, whipping my head around.
"No talking between prisoners!" he yelled.
"He doesn't know your tongue," I said in my poorest SerVerin. "I must translate for him."
"Too many words--you use too many words."
Shrewd son of a bitch. "I would use less if you wouldn't use so many," I retorted, enraged by the feel of the blood running down my cheek from where he'd hit me with his heavily bejeweled hand. Then I cursed myself, for I realized that in my anger, I had spoken with a well-educated courtier's accent. To hell with passing myself off as the son of a simple country squire now.
He straightened, looked at me narrowly. He handed Gerard's things to a stripling boy beside him before he
picked up my pack and emptied it. I had Safire's letters and hair tucked in my shirt pocket under my mail, so all he found were my rations, oils and stones for polishing my blades, an arrow fletching and repair kit, and my last pair of dry woolen hosen, a treasure I had been saving for the return journey. After pawing over these articles, he picked up my sword and stared at it, running his fingers over the large flourished L of the insignia and ruining the smooth finish of the blade with his oily hand prints. Then he looked up at me again.
"Landers," he said finally, a greedy gloating in his voice. "You're of the House of Landers."
"No." I shook my head. "The House of Lyrre."
"You lie." He cuffed me again. "There is no House of Lyrre among the first families of the northern barbarians."
"It's a minor House."
"You're not of a minor House," he said. "You're a lying Landers." He smirked. "Seven, eight bags of gold at least for you."
I closed my eyes. Father would never pay that much, not for me, not after I'd given up my seal ring. Damn it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The traders took us on a path that seemed to run almost due west, for the sun was in our eyes every afternoon. They laughed at us and our pale heathen eyes when we squinted. Mostly, though, the insults and mistreatment that generally went with being a prisoner of war were absent. My name had bought us that much.
Gerard and I kept a sullen silence for the most part. If we tried to talk to each other, the leader cuffed us. However, sometimes at night, when the traders stopped to make camp and everyone was busy, we managed a few whispered conversations.
"What's that stench?" Gerard said one night when we were tied back to back and hobbled to the ground like horses.
I sniffed. "Dinner."
"I suppose it'll be like that offal last night. Dog meat--it made me sick to eat it."
"It's an honor they'd even give us meat. Usually they starve their prisoners on hard tack and water."
"Some honor." He began to wiggle around, his movements tightening the ropes around my wrists.
I shoved him back as best I could. "I'd rather not lose my hands, Gerard, if you don't mind."
"Sorry, my shoulder blade itches."
The leader passed, casting us a cursory glance, and we fell silent for several moments. Then Gerard cleared his throat. "Merius?"
"What?"
"They sent a rider west when they caught us, to send word of the ransom, and now they're taking us in the same direction, down to the coast."
"Well, yes--how else will they get their ransom?"
"Do you really think they'll get it?"
"No." I stared at the jagged black horizon, the first stars piercing the darkening sky behind it. "My father won't pay that much. I gave him my seal ring before I left."
"What?"
"My duties lie with the king's guard now, not the House of Landers."
"But, but Merius," he sputtered. "Your inheritance, offices . . ."
"They're not mine anymore." I smiled for the first time in several weeks.
"You sound pleased about it, you crazy son of a bitch."
"I am pleased about it. I'd rather be doing this."
He snorted, and a nearby horse jumped and neighed. Several men looked our way, and we sat still until everyone returned to cooking dinner.
"Anything is better than being under my father's thumb," I said finally.
"He might still pay it. You are his only son."
I shook my head. "We can't make that gamble. What if he doesn't pay it? They'll likely kill us."
"So, escape?"
"Yes."
"But how?"
"At night, after we reach the lowlands. It's too dangerous here."
He grunted. Some of the men came to feed us then, and we got in no more conversation that night. I heard Gerard choking down the meager meal of stew and pack bread behind me, and I grimaced, swallowing fast with as little chewing or tasting as possible. I wished he hadn't said that about dog meat. I had been able to pretend last night that it was something else, stringy beef perhaps, but now I kept picturing the hounds who lived in the Landers stables. They ran out with joyful barks to greet every carriage and wagon that rolled into the courtyard, their tails wagging wildly. My jaw locked shut, and I gulped the last of the stew. It burned all the way down my throat and into my gut. The horrid taste remained, a spicy greasiness that no amount of water seemed to wash away.
I closed my eyes, quickly tried to concentrate on something else before I retched. Safire's letters and lock of hair were still in my pocket, undisturbed. I couldn't touch them because my wrists were bound, but at least I could think about her. I wondered if she had started to worry yet--it had been several weeks since I had sent my last letter. I hoped not. I didn't like to think of her worried. I liked to think of her laughing. She chortled--I had never met another girl who chortled before, but she did, the witch. Especially when I tickled her or kissed her on an odd spot. I had discovered it our first night together. Suddenly, when I kissed her ear lobe, her girlish giggle had deepened into this gurgling chortle. It was erotic as hell.
As my captors extinguished all flames but the main watch fire for the night, I felt the cold, hard rocks under me, digging into the aching muscles of my legs, and imagined my bed at court. Then I imagined Safire in my bed, and everything was sweet for awhile until I nodded off.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It took only two weeks or so to reach the foothills. At first this surprised me, since it had taken our band of men a month to traverse the mountains to the point where we had been attacked.
As I thought about it, I realized it wasn't so odd we had back tracked so quickly to the lowlands. The traders knew secret shortcuts, we had run into no skirmishes, and men seemed to travel faster when the going was downhill and there was the hope of good coin at the end.
My only amusement as we trudged along was listening to the traders. The leader Raul was a tyrannical man, and there was much muttering against him. Because of my pale skin, the men apparently forgot that I understood most of what they said. We had different guards everyday because the duty was considered a punishment, and Raul meted out punishment frequently, depending on who displeased him the most on a particular morning. On our last full day in the foothills, a young loudmouth named Ferzan and his brother Senkal guarded Gerard and me.
"That old heathen Raul," Ferzan kept saying as he cast dark looks ahead where Raul and his main cronies rode at the front of the caravan.
"Shut your mouth," Senkal said finally, cuffing Ferzan across the back of the head.
Ferzan muttered some curse I didn't understand, and then he punched Senkal back. "I'll not shut my mouth while that old liar leads us. He's a disgrace, a yellow cur."
"Take your punishment like a man, brother."
"A real man wouldn't let another cheat him out of coin."
"It wasn't your loot to keep. All gets divided equally among the men, no matter who finds it. It's the rule of the traders--you know that."
"Then why does Raul get a quarter of it, if it's divided equally? It seems equal means something different for the leader." Ferzan spat on a rock.
"I'm tired of your whining. You sound like a eunuch, and all you do is get me in trouble."
"You're the eunuch, defending that thief."
"Now, see here, we'll have plenty of coin, once we deliver these two and collect the ransom."
"That's what you think," Ferzan snarled.
"He's right," I said in SerVerin. Gerard glanced at me, his eyes wide.
Both of our guards' heads whipped around, and they stared at me. "You see here," Senkal said finally. "You're not to speak, you barbarian filth. Your tongue defiles the language of the gods."
"What do you mean, I'm right?" Ferzan asked, his gaze narrow.
"Don't talk to him, Ferzan. We're not to talk to the prisoners."
"You just did."
"That's different. He needed to be reminded of his place."
"Others besides y
ou two have forgotten my place and spoken in front of me as if I had no more understanding than a dog."
"That's because you don't. We can always return you alive without your tongue. Think on that, barbarian." Senkal spat in my general direction, but there was no real venom in it. Of the two, Ferzan had the guts.
"Who else has spoken of the ransom in front of you?" Ferzan had taken the bait.
I shrugged, looked defiant. "I really couldn't say. I can't keep all your heathen names straight." Senkal punched me on the side of the head until my ears rang, but it was worth it.
"Could you point them out?"
"I might." I tipped my head towards the front of the line. "Those two, up there with Raul. The tall one with the silver studded vest and the jeweled dagger and the short, sniveling one with the squinty eye."
"Those bastard curs--they're Raul's toady henchmen, they are."
"Ferzan," Senkal hissed. "You'll get us both with daggers in our backs tonight. Shut up."
Ferzan ignored him. "What did they say, barbarian?"
"Why should I tell you?"
He hit me in the back. "Because I asked you. Next time it'll be your kidneys, and you'll piss blood for a week. Now talk."
"Let's just say they'll be getting their own quarter of the ransom."
"I knew it," he muttered. "I knew it. Those toadies--I'll be damned if they'll cheat me or my brother out of our shares."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
By that evening, the camp was a seething mess of plotting and counter-plotting. Ferzan had told all his cronies what I had said, and now they were whispering amongst themselves and glaring in Raul's direction. Raul appeared not to notice as he feasted with his favorites, telling some ribald story about the emperor's harem and popping dried apricots in his mouth.
"I don't know what you said, but you've stirred a stick in a hornet's nest, Landers," Gerard hissed.
"Just wait."
"Be quiet," Senkal barked. He was still our guard and more on edge than usual since Ferzan had defected from his duties.
We stayed silent after that. Senkal had bound us back to back again but hadn't hobbled us at the ankles yet. I took this as a sign that Ferzan planned to move us sometime later tonight, perhaps when he mutinied against Raul, using us as leverage when things turned nasty.
