Three hard left jabs that moved with blurring speed split both lips, bloodied his nose, then opened his left cheekbone.
The pain was blinding. Eregard staggered back, his hands going up to his face, tears of pain flooding his eyes. A hard right was driven deep into his gut, and he could no longer breathe. He hadn’t even known he was falling until he crashed to the deck.
He lay there, gasping like a sea creature stranded on a rock, struggling for air. Finally his lungs filled again, and it was bliss simply to breathe.
He lay there unresisting as Drenn came over, yanked off his jacket and appropriated it, then dragged off his loose linen tunic. “Fine stuff!” the brigand crowed.
Hauling the dazed Prince to his feet, the pirate dragged him over to one of the barrels of cargo that had fallen on its side, then pushed the younger man down until he was lying over it. Eregard tried to struggle, but it was all he could do to breathe. Blood choked him, flooding his mouth.
He felt the man’s hands reach beneath him, grab at his trousers, yanking them open, then pulling them down. The breeze touched his buttocks with gentle coolness.
“All right, lads, line up!” Drenn shouted.
Eregard thrashed in mindless terror.
“Hey, Drenn, sure you want to do that?” one of the pirates hooted, laughing. “That lad’s so terrified that he’ll let ’is bowels fly loose all over you, see if he doesn’t!”
Another pirate hooted. “You want a dirty cock, Drenn?
Didn’t know that was your fancy!”
More laughter. “Just look at that fat arse of his a’quivering!”
Drenn hesitated, then stepped back. “You’re right, lads.
I’m not riskin’ it. Ugly fat bugger, anyhow. But I’m not lettin’ him off with no punishment for givin’ me this shiner.
Here, hand me that sword.”
The Prince heard the ring of steel being drawn from a sheath, then a line of white-hot pain lanced across his rear, accompanied by a resounding smack. The pirates hooted encouragement as Drenn’s blows landed again and again.
Finally, whether by accident or design, Eregard did not know, the edge caught him and he felt the blade slice his flesh.
“Damn it, Drenn, enough!” the captain roared. “You’ve marked him but good, he’ll have a scar to the end of his days. I want him salable, rot you!”
The slapping blows ceased. Eregard slumped over the barrel, his head swimming with pain and fear.
Drenn kicked his thigh. “Pull up your pants, lad. And don’t ever swing on me again.”
Eregard pushed himself up to his knees, then managed to yank his pants up. “Get up!” Drenn ordered.
The Prince tried to comply, but his knees buckled. The roaring in his ears was louder than ever, and he could not tell whether it was the pirates, or the blackness that was pressing him down, engulfing him, sending him into blessed oblivion …
The next few days passed in a blur of misery, hunger, and pain. The captives were herded onto one of the pirate ships, chained together on deck, then The Merry Widow set sail for the northwest.
At first Eregard was barely conscious and could hardly see out of his swollen eyes. His backside throbbed so horribly that
he could not sit up, even if he had been strong enough to do it.
He lay on his side, or on his stomach, eyes shut, huddled under the scrap of blanket that was his only protection from the chill night air. Days and nights passed in a blur of feverish misery, and he scarcely knew where he was or what was happening.
On the morning of the fourth day he awoke, clear-headed, to find himself shackled at the end of the line of captives. He was hooked to a dark-skinned young man in his thirties who wore his hair cropped, as house servants did in the colonies.
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up until he was kneeling on the deck. His buttocks were still sore, but no longer throbbing with heat. “Where are they taking us?” the Prince whispered, his voice emerging as a hoarse croak. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since the day they’d been captured.
The man turned to regard him with surprise. “Ah, you’re with us again!”
“More or less,” Eregard mumbled, managing to ease himself down onto his left flank. He winced, but found a way to sit that was only mildly uncomfortable. “Where are we bound?”
“Kata, most likely,” the man said. “They’ll still need strong backs to harvest the winter wheat crop. Most likely they’ll land us at Port Alvar, sell the unskilled labor, then take the rest of us to the big farm auctions in Barslod.”
Just then one of the pirates came down the line with a pail of brackish water. He gave each captive a dipperful and a ragged hank of bread, plus a handful of dried figs.
Eregard’s mouth was still sore, but he forced himself to chew and swallow the food. It was his first meal since the tempest had driven them off course.
“I just wish Captain Farlon hadn’t been killed,” the lad, who had identified himself as Grimal, muttered when they’d finished their scanty meal. “He’d have ransomed me, sure.
They never sell anyone who’s important, who has family, or a place in things.”
Eregard smiled wryly. “Oh, yes they do,” he said. “I’m a prince, and they’re planning to sell me.”
Grimal gave a muffled snort of laughter. “ ’Tis a rare man indeed who can joke in a situation like this.”
The Prince shrugged wearily. “I’m also the court jester.”
More than once Eregard had come within a hairbreadth of identifying himself to the pirate slavemaster, but each time, a vision of how he must look had stopped him. His shoulder-length hair, once well-groomed, hung in greasy strings. His face was crusted with dried blood, he was filthy and covered with bruises, with barely enough rags left to him to cover his loins. And his shoes. He still had his shoes, though his stockings hung down over them, dirty and torn. Eregard had always had small, delicate feet for a man, and, although several pirates had eyed his footwear speculatively, his small size had preserved his shoes for his own use.
The voyage passed in a haze of misery. Many of the new slaves were seasick, and soon the deck was slippery with their heavings. Eregard sat hunched, too dispirited even to look up when the lookout shouted, “Land ho!” from the crow’s nest.
Several pirates wandered back and forth among the captives, tossing buckets of seawater over them to clean the worst of the dirt and blood off, joking about how rank they smelled.
Eregard shivered with the dousing, but it was a relief to be free of Regen’s blood.
Several hours later The Merry Widow was anchored off Port Alvar in Kata. Eregard and the other slaves were shoved and cuffed along the deck to a gap in the rail. Eregard looked down, to see the slavemaster and several guards waiting for the prisoners in a boat. A spindly rope ladder hung down the side of the Widow.
In order to climb, the slaves had to be unchained. Eregard reveled in the sensation of being able to move his arms and legs freely as he crawled down the ladder. Moments later he was in the boat, sitting hunched on the plank seat, too dispirited even to raise his eyes to the harbor that lay before them.
The Lass was supposed to make Port Alvar, he remembered. He had successfully reached his destination, but he would never be able to carry out his father’s wishes. Eregard buried his face in his hands.
In just a few minutes the boat was full. Most of the slaves were too terrified to speak or even whisper, but the pirates had no such compunction. As they rowed with smooth, powerful strokes, sending the boat skimming along the water, they began to sing, bellowing out a cheerful chantey.
“Hard as the rocks where breakers roll
Hard as the iron cannon cold,
Hard as the fight for a merchant’s gold
Hard as the Royal Judge’s soul!
Oh … we are the sharks of the open sea,
We are the scourge of the King’s Na-vy,
We are the hard and the wild and free,
We are the sharks of the ope
n sea!
Free to sail wherever we may,
Free to brawl in a bar room fray,
Free to shout what we want to say,
Free to hang on our reckoning day!
Oh … wild as the waves on the northern coast,
Wild as fur-assed horseman’s boast,
Wild as a drunk captain’s toast,
Wild as a pirate’s wandering ghost …”
Eregard heard them sing, and the music was stirring. But for once even music had lost its power to move him. He sat hunched against the whip of the wind and the chill spray, wondering if it wouldn’t be better just to roll over the side of the boat. With his heavy ankle cuffs, he’d be pulled down even if he struggled. And I won’t even struggle, he decided.
Before he could change his mind, the Prince leaned toward the side, only to have the pirate sitting opposite him reach over and clout him on the side of the head. Eregard slumped back in his seat, his head throbbing, his whole world turned gray and hazy.
He was still unsteady on his feet when the boat bumped the public dock of Port Alva. “All ashore!” bellowed the pirates cheerfully.
When they were all chained together on the dock again, a pirate with a dirty piece of paper, a pen, and a brush went down the line, painting a number on each captive’s shoulder. Eregard was number thirty-two. “Any skills?” the pirate barked at him.
Eregard was still too dazed to make much sense. “Educated …” he muttered. “I can read and write, cipher …”
“A clark, eh?” muttered the pirate, scribbling a notation.
“Best be tellin’ the truth, lad.”
Eregard shuffled after his fellows as the pirates herded their prizes toward the center of town. After a ten minute walk, they reached a large, brick building and a town square.
Along one side of the square, Katan citizens were gathered.
They were sturdy, prosperous-looking folk, though their clothes were far out of fashion, Eregard noted, wondering why such a ridiculous detail should stick in his mind.
There was a small podium in the middle of the square, and it was toward this that the pirates pushed their captives.
Eregard saw men, women, and a few children standing off to the side, and from their scanty, ragged clothing and downcast demeanor, judged them to be slaves.
It’s the slave auction. I’m about to be sold. Eregard halted, knowing he could not force himself to take even one more step toward the platform. I am a Prince of Pela, he thought. This can’t happen!
With all his might he willed himself to awaken from this nightmare.
He was jerked out of his thoughts when a bamboo cane slashed across the rags that barely covered his sore buttocks.
The pain was searing. Eregard jumped and cried out.
“Get moving, you!” the pirate yelled.
Eregard forced himself to continue his shuffle toward the sales block. Pain accompanied each movement; he was most certainly wide-awake.
He whimpered, low in his throat, but nobody heard.
Finally, he stood beside the block. The auction was going along briskly. Eregard watched as three or four slaves were
sold. Most seemed not to care one way or the other. One woman sobbed and tried to cling to her young son when they were sold to different owners.
Finally, it was Eregard’s turn. At the pirate’s prodding, he stepped up onto the block.
“And here we have a fine healthy specimen. Young, too!”
the auctioneer called. “How old are you, my fine fellow?”
Eregard could not speak, only looked at him, beyond fear, beyond horror. The pirate jumped up onto the block, grabbed his face, stuck a filthy finger in the side of his mouth as though he were a horse, forcing the Prince to open wide. The pirate shouted, “If he’s four and twenty, I’ll eat my boots!
He’s prime!”
“Did you hear that, citizens? Young, and strong. And obviously an easy keeper! Claims to be a clark, so he can keep your accounts after a day in the fields. He’ll soon sweat off that flab!”
Eregard’s cheeks burned, and the audience guffawed as he blushed. “So, citizens … what am I bid?”
A man from the front raised a languid hand, flicked his handkerchief at the auctioneer and said, “Five liera.”
The auctioneer did not seem pleased at the paucity of the offer. “Citizens, we have a fine young male here. He can read, write, and cipher! Please, do not insult us! Do I hear ten?”
A dark-skinned blacksmith waved a filthy hand. “Ten.”
“Very well, we have ten … ten … ten … do I hear fifteen? I can’t allow you to steal this lad! Look at him! Excellent health, excellent teeth! Fifteen, give me fifteen!”
A woman laughed raucously. “I’ll give you ten to take ’im away and bring out something decent!”
Eregard blushed, and the crowd hooted. A short, bearded man idly flapped a hand. “Twelve.”
The auctioneer appeared deeply pained. “Twelve …
twelve …” he chanted. “Twelve … good citizens, let me hear fifteen …”
But he heard nothing more, and moments later Eregard was knocked down to the bearded colonist for twelve liera.
The Prince stood there quietly, numb with shock, as his new owner filled out the paperwork and paid for his acqui-sition. He held out the paper to the Prince. “Read that,” he ordered.
Eregard tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was too dry.
He managed to croak, “ ‘Male slave, poor condition, number thirty-two, claims to be—’ ”
“Right,” his new owner said. “Good for you that you didn’t lie. You can cipher, too?”
Eregard nodded.
The pirate cuffed him. “Yes, sir!” he growled. “Show some respect!”
“Yes, sir,” Eregard mumbled, his swollen lips barely moving.
When the paperwork was completed, the man glanced over at the pirate guard. “You haven’t collared him.”
The man bobbed his head in a partial bow. “Haven’t had time, sir. But this one oughtn’ give ye any trouble. He’s been quiet as a lamb ever since he’s been handed over to me.”
“Well, I want him collared,” Eregard’s owner said.
“Marking them makes them think twice about running away.
But I haven’t been branding since I lost two to blood sepsis after the brands grew fevered. Collaring is better.” He passed a coin and a metal tag to the pirate. “See to it, and I’ll return for him in half an hour.”
Eregard looked around him dazedly, still half expecting to wake up in his bed in his father’s palace. “You can’t collar me,” he said hoarsely. “I’m King Agivir’s son, Prince Eregard. Take me to my father and he’ll reward you handsomely.”
Both men looked at him in amazement. The guard began to laugh.
“Here now, I didn’t bargain for a crazy fellow,” the planter said.
“Oh, sir, he ain’t crazy,” chortled the pirate. “He’s just …
creative. Must’ve been an actor, eh, lad?”
“Is that it? Were you a player?” the planter demanded suspiciously.
Eregard stood there, realizing that it would do him no good to repeat the truth. He would never be believed. If he ruined this sale for the pirates, the guard would likely thrash him and take him back to the boat.
Aboard ship I have no chance at escape, he thought. At least here I’d be on dry land.
He took a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I was lead actor for the Minoma Players.”
“I see,” his owner said, then, quick as a striking serpent, his hand came up and lashed across Eregard’s mouth. “We’ll have no more tall tales, no more insubordination, lad,” he said, with no particular malice. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The pirate nodded. “I’ll tend to him, sir.”
The planter turned his back and walked away. The guard glared at Eregard. “Prince, eh? Well, Your Highness, I’ve had about enough of you, so shut your yap.”
>
Eregard tried to resist when the guard grabbed his arm, but the older man swung around and raised a bony, clenched fist. “Come along, Your Highness!”
The Prince began plodding forward. The pirate escorted him over to the smithy across the town square. The man Eregard had seen bidding was there, hammering out a horseshoe. He looked up inquiringly.
“Need a collar for this ’un,” the guard said.
“Very well, I’ll be with you directly,” the smith said.
Minutes later Eregard sat there, watching as the smith hammered a thin strip of iron into the right shape, attaching a ring to it. Then he heated the metal and attached the owner’s tag to the collar.
Then the metal had to be heated to be bent around Eregard’s neck, and it was still hot enough, despite the smith’s quick dowsing in the bucket, to make the Prince yelp as it touched his neck. Despite his struggles, the guard held him still across the anvil as the smith hammered the iron circlet into place, then sluiced it with cold water.
Eregard lay there, dazed, feeling the throbbing pain from his burned neck. When they finally let him up, he reached up to touch the iron band, and felt his world crumble into dust and ashes.
Goddess, help me, he thought. Let me die, rather than live as a slave …
But She was not listening. His sight did not fail, the world did not stop its spinning, and he did not fall dead.
The guard grinned at him and winked. “Looks right proper on you, lad. Now let’s go to meet your master.”
Eregard rose shakily to his feet and followed the pirate out of the smithy. Goddess … let me die.
Thia’s initial good spirits at reaching Q’Kal did not last. By the time she had been in the port city for a day, she was convinced she’d made a dreadful mistake leaving the caravan. It was all she could do not to grab her few possessions and race out the city gates, back to the Shekk and her friends.
The city oppressed her; she was frightened all the time.
The stench of the open sewers, dodging the smelly cascades from flung chamberpots, the crowds, the noise—for the first day or so she was afraid to do more than look out the window.
Storms of Destiny Page 15
