The Seven-Petaled Shield

by Deborah J. Ross

The other slaves began shuffling down, but Zevaron lingered. His knees threatened to give way beneath him, yet something came boiling up in him. His one friend on this ship, the old sailor, was still on the island. He could not endure being tied up once again, serving the man who had beaten him almost to death, abandoning yet another person who needed him. What he would do when the Gelon noticed his defiance, he could not imagine. He glanced at the railing, wondering if he could scramble over it, his hands still fettered, and somehow make it to shore.

  The next moment, the pirates hurled themselves over the railing and onto the deck. Their approach had been silent, no more than the sound of the waves, but when they burst over the sides of the ship, they let out a unified, bloodcurdling scream.

  Haran and the handful of Gelon readied their swords and rushed to engage them. A heartbeat later, the deck swarmed with struggling bodies. The air rang with clashing steel.

  Zevaron scuttled out of the way as men slashed and charged at one another. The other slaves had disappeared below, but he remained on deck, heedless of the risk. He knew nothing of these pirates, whether they might be his enemies as well, or the friend who is the enemy of my enemy.

  The battle was quick and bloody. Within moments, all but one of the Gelon had jumped overboard or were lying inert on the deck. Only Haran remained. He’d lost his sword, but he struck out with his whip, again and again, keeping his opponents at a distance. The pirates backed off, as one of their number, a short lean man, his features unreadable in the uncertain light, stepped forward to engage Haran. The pirate had no sword, only a long knife, and as he and the Gelon circled each other, Zevaron noticed the slight drag of an injured leg.

  Haran must have seen it, too, for he moved in, striking hard to close the gap between them. He kicked at the pirate’s good leg. The pirate fell, rolling. Before he could scramble back up, Haran lunged for him. The sound of the lash cracked the air, followed by the sickening slap of knotted leather across flesh.

  Zevaron’s throat filled with bile. His muscles locked for an awful instant. Then his vision went preternaturally sharp. The moonlit deck, shadowed by railings, tackle, and beams, seemed as clear as a street in full day. The Gelon’s back was to him, so that he looked full upon the face of the fallen pirate. He saw each one of the parallel cuts across cheek and brow, the eyes shock-wide, the angle of Haran’s arm as he brought the whip around for another stroke.

  Suddenly Zevaron could move. He took a deep step forward, pivoted slightly, and brought the edge of his heel down on the back of the Gelon’s knee. The Gelon folded, twisted away. The blow aimed at the pirate went wild, but one of the flails of the lash caught Zevaron’s upraised hand, cutting open a strip of skin.

  Zevaron hardly felt the cut. With that same clarity of vision, he watched Haran surge to his feet.

  “You!” Haran snarled, “I’ll get you—”

  Again the whip came up, flails spread wide as they began their terrible arc. They hissed, as if they were alive and hungering. Zevaron saw the familiar gleam in the Gelon’s eyes, the shape of his breastplate like that of the soldiers who had cut down his father and then his brother, who had rampaged through the streets of Gatacinne.

  No! howled through his mind, along the marrow of his bones. No more!

  Faster than thought, Zevaron darted forward. He matched his movement to the arc of the blow. Although he was still too far to reach the stock of the whip, the heavy braided leather at the base smacked against his manacled hands. This time, the flails did not bite. They slid into his grasp. His fingers closed around them. Still moving along his own circular path, he stepped back and, using his momentum, yanked hard.

  Haran, holding tight to the stock of the whip, was caught unawares. He lurched forward, his balance broken. Zevaron shifted his weight and struck out with the ball of one foot. He missed his target, catching the Gelon high on the thigh. By chance or unexpected luck, he hit a nerve and Haran’s leg went out from under him.

  Fire exploded behind Zevaron’s eyes.

  Screaming curses in Meklavaran, he jumped on the fallen Gelon, kicking and pummeling. His blows landed with satisfying impact, one after another, some aimed at groin or knee or upward under the curving breastplate toward the heart, but most were just anywhere he could reach.

  Haran tried at first to defend himself. There was no room to swing the whip, and after the first few resounding kicks from Zevaron, he curled into a ball, knees drawn up to protect his belly, arms covering his head.

  With each kick, the rage inside Zevaron surged higher. His breath sizzled through his lungs. Every nerve and fiber shrieked. Roaring filled his skull, incinerating thought.

  The Gelon’s cries turned to frenzied yelps, no longer human to Zevaron’s ears, but those of a beast. Zevaron saw his prey twist and scrabble in a frantic attempt at escape. He followed, closing tighter with each round.

  Someone shouted at him, syllables that held no meaning. He bent and grabbed the beast’s sweat-damp hair in both hands and hauled the body upright.

  “Sur—surrender!” the beast mewled.

  Surrender?

  There could be no surrender, only revenge. Only justice. Only death.

  A sword was in his hands, the Gelon’s sword, although Zevaron had no memory of picking it up. The beast twisted away, crawling on its belly. Shuddering with adrenaline and emotion, Zevaron placed the tip of the sword against the beast’s neck.

  “Enough.” It was a different voice this time, not that of the beast, but human, both gentle and harsh. A hand closed around Zevaron’s, fingers covering his on the hilt of the sword.

  “Enough, now. He has yielded, this one.” Something in the voice, an undertone of quiet authority, pierced the wall of flames in Zevaron’s mind.

  Zevaron staggered backward and other man slipped the sword from his failing grasp. He felt as if he had been encased in fire, in ice, a brittle shell now falling away into shards.

  Two men rushed on to the deck, one carrying a lantern. The other strained under the weight of a small, ornately decorative chest. They halted, eyes widened. The one with the lantern drew a wickedly curved knife from his belt.

  “There’s no need for Shark’s Tooth here. We have another guest,” Zevaron’s pirate nodded toward Haran with a suggestion of drollness, “—one whose family will be grateful to ensure his safe return.”

  “And this one?” the pirate pointed his knife at Zevaron.

  “I am no friend to Gelon,” Zevaron said in the same trade-dialect.

  “No,” the pirate chief replied, eyes thoughtful. “But the question remains, are you my friend?”

  If you will take me to Gelon—

  Zevaron bit off the thought. Gelon would be the last place these lawless men would go. Even if Haran and the other officers were ransomed, an exiled Meklavaran never would be. The only fate he would meet at the hands of the Gelon was a speedy execution.

  Weariness washed over him. He leaned against the railing. The chain joining his wrists made a hollow clanking sound.

  One of the pirates had set about removing the armor from the half-conscious Haran, tying him up, and hauling him into the captain’s cabin. Zevaron waited at the door, as the lantern filled the low-ceilinged space with honeyed light. The other pirate placed the chest at the feet of his leader.

  “…no ordinary ship,” Zevaron overheard. “Treasure from Gatacinne…”

  “On an Isarran ship, under Gelonian command?” The chief rubbed his stubbled chin. From his seat on the built-in bed, he leaned forward to touch the chest.

  “Gatacinne has fallen to the Ar-King,” Zevaron mumbled.

  “Ah, yes, that explains much. Let’s take a look.” He lifted the lid. “By the leviathan’s pearly bones!”

  Stung by the frank astonishment in that otherwise sardonic voice, Zevaron crept closer. The chest itself was silver, cunningly set with precious gems. It was about as long as his forearm, lined with crimson Denariyan silk, and filled almost to overflowing with coins, gold and silv
er, pearls, rings and torques, and arm-bands set with emeralds and rubies, most of exquisite Isarran artistry.

  “What is a slaver ship doing with this?” one of the pirates exclaimed.

  “Loot, both the chest and the slaves,” the chief said.

  “They took the governor’s palace,” Zevaron said. “May their souls never find rest.” Was it three days ago? Four? Six? He couldn’t remember.

  “You, lad,” the chief fixed Zevaron with that dark, uncompromising gaze. “What is your name?”

  “Zevaron.”

  “A Meklavaran name, if I’m not mistaken. I am Chalil, that is little horse of the sea.”

  Zevaron nodded, recognizing the name and accent as Denariyan.

  “And yon fellows are Omri and Tamir. Whatever lies the Gelon may have told you, we men of the sea pay our debts. I owe you twice if you count leaving that piece of slime alive for us to ransom. What would you have of me?” Chalil sat back, inviting Zevaron to select a piece of the treasure.

  Zevaron lifted his manacled hands. “What good is silver to a slave?”

  “Ah, yes. That goes without saying. Omri, find the keys.”

  “And the others?” Zevaron said. “They would do Gelon far more harm if they take back Gatacinne than their price would do you good. You will have the treasure and more, once Gelon pays for the return of its donkey.”

  For a long moment, Chalil stared at him, and Zevaron wondered if he had made a terrible blunder, if he had asked for something so outrageous, so offensive, as to sacrifice all the pirate’s good will.

  “I see you have no need for silver, for you carry it in your tongue!” Chalil replied. “The sea holds the only true freedom, for possessions that can turn on you are the worst kind of enslavement. Now we have two ships but loyal crew for only one, an excess of riches. Ransom messages must be sent and men exchanged for gold. We will discuss the fate of your friends in the light of morning.”

  Omri returned with a set of keys and a wide, gap-toothed grin. When Zevaron’s hands were freed, Chalil said, “Now come, choose something. Debt weighs heavy on a sea horse.”

  A coin or two would satisfy the pirate leader’s honor and might buy passage to Gelon, Zevaron thought. That was, if he could find a ship to take him there. He bent over the chest and reached out for the nearest large silver coin. Something dark, like a piece of ragged silk, lay beneath an ornate armband. He grasped it in trembling fingers and knew the instant he touched it that it was a braid of human hair.

  Black, like strands of midnight. Black, like Tsorreh’s hair. He held it up. A token shaped like a little silver horse gleamed in the lantern’s golden light.

  Arandel.

  A voice he scarcely recognized as his own said, “Where did this come from? How did it get here?”

  Zevaron hurled himself across the room. He grabbed the front of Haran’s tunic and pulled him up to sitting. The Gelon moaned, his eyes crescents of white. Zevaron slapped him once, twice, stopping only when he saw the return of awareness.

  He shoved the token, its cord still wound in the severed braid, in the face of the Gelon. “Where did you get this?”

  “Leave him be,” Chalil said. “He knows nothing.”

  Zevaron could not tear his eyes from the curve of Haran’s lip, hovering between a sneer and something darker. “He knows! He will tell me or I will rip it from him, bit by bit. An ear, then an eye—”

  The Gelon burst into a fit of coughing. “I’ll tell you, for all the joy it will bring you. Belonged to a lady, did it? Someone you cared about? Your ducky?” He turned his head and spat, a wad of bloody froth. “Took it from her dead body, I did.”

  Crimson jagged across Zevaron’s vision. He locked his hands around the Gelon’s neck. His fingers dug into flesh. He felt the springy tension of cartilage flex and give way.

  The Gelon went limp in his grip, but Zevaron kept pressing, as if he could force death itself to give back his mother’s life. Behind him, someone shouted orders. He could not understand the words through the rushing, pounding clamor in his skull.

  Hands closed around his shoulders and pried his fingers open. He fought, but they pulled him back, two or three of them, he couldn’t tell. The Gelon wheezed and gasped.

  Through waves of shuddering nausea, Zevaron heard Chalil say, “Get him out of here,” and it took him a long moment to realize the pirate leader meant Haran, not himself.

  “Boy.” Chalil came up from behind and put his hand on Zevaron’s back.

  The explosion of agony sent Zevaron reeling to his knees as rough, salt-encrusted cloth rubbed against weeping sores. His vision went white. He could not breathe. Gentle hands lifted the shirt over his head, pulling away new-formed scabs.

  Chalil swore in gutter Denariyan, words so foul-sounding Zevaron could only guess their meaning. “He did this to you?”

  Zevaron could only nod mutely. His back was nothing. It would heal, he would live with it. But Tsorreh—

  O Holy One, she is gone…dead…

  “I’ll kill him,” Zevaron sobbed. “I’ll kill him!”

  The pirates dragged the Gelon away. Chalil left Zevaron in the little cabin with Omri as guard and nurse.

  Zevaron curled on his side on the built-in bed, too numb to weep and too wrought up to do anything else. He wavered in and out of darkness, shivering one moment and sweating the next. Eventually, light crept across the sky and in through the open porthole.

  After a time, the old sailor took Omri’s place, sponging the crusted sores on his back and murmuring to him. Zevaron slept then, or thought he must have, but could not remember anything beyond waking dreams, dreams of fire and blizzards, of mountains crashing down upon him, of men burning like torches in the night. Of Tsorreh.

  Always of Tsorreh, her strong arms about him, her voice singing him a lullaby or reading to him from the Shirah Kohav. Tsorreh lending Shorrenon her courage and calm during that last terrible fight, her lightning reflexes in getting them out of the palace, her determination to keep going, through the caverns, across the sands.

  I would never have made it this far without her.

  And now what did it matter? An exile in Isarre, a slave in Gelon, a captive of the pirates, his life was over, useless.

  I should be dead instead of her.

  Tears spilled down his cheeks. His body rocked with sobs, and yet no sound came from his mouth.

  “Boy.” Chalil again, his voice rough with concern. “Zevaron. You are free now. Your back will heal.”

  Zevaron heard the question behind the kindness. It was not for the beating and the lingering pain that he wept. “She is dead. She is dead…”

  “The woman of the braid? Someone you knew?” Chalil sat on the edge of the narrow bed. The mattress, coarse cloth over straw, shifted under his weight.

  Zevaron nodded. “My mother.”

  “Ah.”

  “He killed her, he must have. You heard him. Why did you stop me?”

  “Aside from his value at ransom, you mean? Zevaron—I can’t keep saying that name, it’s too long, my tongue will take sea sickness. Zev, then. Zev, it is the nature of such a man to be cruel, even when there is no profit in it for him. He saw that you knew the woman and therefore he aimed his words like a spear at your heart. To wound you in any way he could.”

  “Why would he lie to me?”

  “Why would he tell the truth? Is he an honorable man?”

  A pirate speaks of honor?

  “As you would have it, then,” Chalil said with a sigh. “Meanwhile, what are we to do with you? The Gelon is safely ashore with the other hostages, and I cannot let you go wandering about the ship. Not unless you have sworn in as my crew, subject to my command. What do you say to that?”

  Zevaron’s thoughts went spinning. “You are asking me to become a pirate?”

  “What other choice have you? You cannot go back to Gatacinne, which is still in Gelonian hands, or on to Gelon itself. One look at your back and they will take you for an escaped slave a
nd kill you, or worse. Listen to me, young Zev. The world is wide and the sea is filled with gifts. What have you to lose?”

  Indeed, Zevaron thought, what had he to lose? At least, this might give him the chance to take vengeance upon a few more Gelon.

  Someday, someday, he would return, and then he would make Gelon pay.

  PART III:

  Tsorreh’s Test

  Chapter Thirteen

  DIZZY and disoriented, Tsorreh came to herself. The world around her shifted, rising and then plummeting. Her stomach lurched, sending acid up the back of her throat. She tried to sit upright and found herself netted down in a bed that occupied most of one wall in a small chamber. An unlit lantern swung from the low beamed ceiling, and the only other furnishings were several chests strapped to the walls. A slit of a window revealed a gray, overcast sky. The air was filled with the smells of brine, fish, and pitch.

  I’m onboard a ship, headed for Gelon.

  Tsorreh fumbled with the netting. Her hands were stiff, and her vision slid in and out of focus. She had to stop when the rocking motion grew worse. Praying she would not vomit, she forced herself to breathe slowly. Her muscles felt as weak and watery as if she’d lain abed for a month with a fever, yet she had no memory of illness. She wondered if she had been drugged.

  Before she could free herself, a door on the opposite side opened and a man entered. He walked easily and confidently across the tilting floor. Even in the subdued light of the cabin, his clothing blazed in shades of crimson, green, and yellow, an open-necked shirt, breeches, and a wide sash into which were tucked at least two knives that she could see.

  “Now you’re awake, my lady, let me help you with that.” He spoke Gelone with an accent, but his fingers were gentle as he slipped the netting free from the hooks along the side of the bed.

  “Thank you.” She sat up. Another spasm knotted her stomach, and she looked around wildly. Just as she lost control, the seaman retrieved a bucket from an unseen niche. He steadied her with one hand as she retched. There wasn’t much to bring up, just a little foul-tasting liquid. Her throat burned, her eyes watered, and the muscles of her belly cramped.