Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  He heaved himself up onto unsteady feet. Nothing broke the blackness that surrounded him. With discipline ingrained by his training, he stilledhis breathing. Although he knew it would make no difference, he closed his eyes and concentrated on every other sense.

  He could feel only the cool air from across water, softly wafted towards him by the trickling flow. Nothing else stirred nearby. His ears told him the same and his nose found only the traces of blood from his fight with the xath lizard and the remnants of its rank scent. A slow smile formed on his lips. Nothing else would live close to one of those monsters anyway.

  Even as he thought it, he realised it begged a very significant question — what was a predator of that size doing down here? What did it eat? Large predators needed plenty of food to survive; they could not subsist on the hope of the occasional lost man. From the way the scent lingered, he decided it had been here for an extended time, and he recalled the feel of its flesh under his hands. It seemed in good condition, which meant it was well nourished and healthy. And that meant one of two things: either it found enough food, or it was being fed.

  So far he had detected nothing alive besides the lizard.

  A chill swept across him. Who, or what, would keep a xath lizard fed and healthy down here? And why? Suddenly, this pool of cool clear water seemed less inviting.

  He reached his hand out behind him, seeking the wall. The solid rock was comforting and he followed the wall until he found an opening. With some relief, he made his way from the pond,walking a bit quicker than was strictly safe. Thus he missed the first inklings of something awry, and when the attack came, he was unprepared. The first he knew was the shock and agony of something sharp slashing across his chest.

  He cried out and staggered back. A low chuckle, a disturbingly unhuman sound, emanated from ahead of him.

  ‘A bit slower than I expected,’ a voice said. It was sibilant and deep, redolent with malice.

  The man heard a footstep as the creature took a pace towards him. In the hope of evading any attack, he took another pace back. His senses fed him information, but the agony of his wounds jumbled his mind so he could not yet make sense of what was attacking him.

  ‘You evaded my pet,’ the voice went on. ‘So you’re either very skilled or very lucky. Either one is dangerous in its own way.’

  As the creature spoke, the man was able to calm his raging pain and focus a little. The beast, whatever it was, was no longer advancing on him. Its voice was coming from somewhere close to his own height, but the depth of tone and power in it suggested something larger than human.

  Another lizard? But what lizards can speak?

  The man reached inside his jerkin and gripped the Claw. Its weight and solidity gave him a moment of comfort. He had already faced a xath lizard and prevailed — how could this thing be any worse?

  ‘Ahh,’ sighed the thing, ‘you are assessing me. And you have my Claw. Skill, not luck then. Good.’

  It pounced.

  The man felt the shift in the air that preceded the creature’s dive towards him, giving the warning to move. He dodged just enough so that the blow was glancing, but it still made contact which sent the man spinning into the wall. The impact sent shockwaves through his already damaged chest and drove the air from his lungs.

  The beast landed softly on two feet and turned around to face his opponent. In the dim glow from the Claw, the man could make out a hazy shape. It was humanoid, but massively bulky, with two enormous eyes that glinted in the faint light.

  ‘That is my weapon,’ the thing said. ‘I want it back!’

  The man gulped in air as he pushed himself upright. ‘Come and get it,’ he said.

  ‘You might just live to regret those words,’ came the sibilant reply.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Never had he heard anything so malevolent, so dangerous. It was a voice of ancient evil. He edged to his left, starting to prepare an escape, for he sensed his death in those unblinking eyes.

  ‘Oh, no, little man,’ the voice went on. ‘There is no escape there. Not now that you have challenged me.’

  ‘That was no challenge,’ the man said. He came to a decision and leaned forwards to place the Claw on the ground. ‘It was an offer.’

  With a pace that belied its bulk, the beast sprang. The man had no time to react as it crashed into his body. In the instant before the impact, hesaw what looked like a taloned hand rest on the Claw.

  The crushing blow drove him heavily into the rock wall behind him. Unspeakable pain shot through every part of his body and he heard bones cracking over his own agonised scream. A hand wrapped itself around his throat and lifted him up. More bones cracked as the huge hand tightened its grip. The man fought to breathe, but the hand was too tight. Bright lights exploded behind his eyes as consciousness started to fade. He felt himself being thrown and instinct took over, loosening his body for the landing and preparing to roll.

  When he hit the ground, the pain nearly stole his consciousness away, but his training took control. Gasping for breath, he drove himself back up onto his feet to meet the next attack.

  ‘Brave little man, very brave,’ the beast said. ‘And I salute you for your courage.’ It crossed the intervening distance in a single bound and slashed the Warrior’s Claw across the man’s face. The razor-sharp blades sliced him to the bone from hairline to jawline, destroying one of his eyes and removing most of his nose in the process. He howled in pain and went down again, clutching the ruins of his face. Before he landed on his knees, the beast sent him spinning away with a brutal kick to the body. A taloned foot ripped him from rib cage to pelvis.

  The man landed hard and lay still. Somehow he still lived; his breath bubbling through the blood that covered what was left of his face. His undamaged eye flickered open to look into the faceof the thing that had nearly killed him with such contemptuous ease. It was a hideous parody of a human face and seemed to glow from within. Huge eyes flared with flames that danced deep.

  ‘So, you live, little man?’ it asked. With its breath came the stench of carrion, of ancient death. A hand rested briefly on the man’s labouring chest, as if to ensure his death was not far away. ‘Do you want to die?’ the creature asked in a voice that sounded almost kind.

  He stared up into the luminous eyes and summoned enough energy to shake his head.

  ‘I thought as much,’ the beast said with a deep growl. ‘I offer you a choice: die here and now, or accept my blessing and live for the battle, to serve me in the fray.

  ‘Take my offering and live, or refuse me and die, the choice is yours.’

  Even in the depths of his dying pain, the man heard a change in the beast’s tone, as if it was reciting an age-old mantra. His mind, so long a servant, so disciplined and strong, failed him and instinct overrode sense. He nodded.

  ‘Accepted is your fealty,’ the beast said. ‘Now accept my blessing.’ It placed its large, heavy hand once more on the man’s chest and searing heat raged through his dying body. He felt he would burst into flame or melt under the savage pain. He cried out in the extremities of his despair and gave up. Blackness took him and he slid into insensibility.

  2

  Keshik sheathed his swords and drew a deep breath. Despite the icy, bitter wind and snow on the ground, sweat was pouring from his body. Maida held out his coat for him and he slipped his arms into its warmth.

  The morning’s practice had been good and he seemed satisfied, almost happy. At least as happy as he ever showed. Maida stepped back and bowed deeply, completing the morning routine.

  ‘Where are we going today, Keshik?’ Maida asked.

  He grunted and pointed east.

  Maida did not show her disappointment, she had learned long ago there was no point. Once Keshik made up his mind, discussion was irrelevant.

  ‘Food,’ Keshik said.

  As part of their morning custom while Keshik practised, Maida prepared the day’s main meal. She set the fire while he shot one hundre
d arrows, assembled the meal while he threw his knives and cooked it while he completed his highly ritualised sword routine.

  They sat cross-legged on opposite sides of the fire and served themselves from the large black pot. As usual, the meal was eaten in silence. When he was finished, Keshik looked up at Maida and smiled.

  ‘Good meal,’ he said. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and belched. ‘I think I would like to stay here another day.’

  Maida lowered her eyes. This was one of the nicer places they had stayed for quite a while. There was a small spring and a few scrubby trees which gave shelter from the incessant wind. Game was, while not bountiful, at least present. Her traps had met with success and Keshik’s arrows had found several targets. Skinning and dressing the animals had kept her busy while Keshik meditated, practised and tended to his weapons.

  Their round animal-skin tent — a gyrn — was robust and gave good protection from both wind and cold, but took quite a while to set up, so she preferred to stay more than one night in any one place. This would be their third day here.

  Maida rose to her feet.

  ‘I will go and check the traps,’ she said.

  Keshik grunted his assent. Already, it was clear he was mentally preparing himself for the next part of his daily routine. After the rigorous practice of the morning, he would sharpen his blades and meticulously check every arrow for nicked fletching and warping of the shaft. Sharpening his various blades — three throwing knives and two curved swords — would sometimes take all day. His swords were very old, having been handed down through his family for generations,and his knives, while comparatively new, were masterpieces of weapon smithing. Even the stones he used to sharpen them were finely crafted to exactly suit the curve of his blades.

  Once out of the lee of the small hill, the winds that whistled down from the icy north hit Maida with full force. Around her, the vast expanse of the northern tundra with its flattened snowdrifts, its rare plants and hardy animals was being whipped by snow that trailed in the wind. Tiny ice crystals stung every patch of exposed skin, forcing her to wrap up more tightly, leaving only a thin sliver through which she could see. Even through such a tiny gap, she could feel the warmth escaping. She trudged against the wind, looking for the first of her traps, hoping she had been lucky again.

  In total, her traps yielded four fat lapis and two ground-dwelling qyil birds. She was happy. Not only would the animals provide food for days, lapis fur was thick and soft. It could be made into hats or mittens, while the qyil down was the best material for filling their sleeping blankets.

  Bounty in hand, Maida returned to their campsite. When she was less than fifty paces away, she stopped suddenly, dropping the animals. There were four riderless horses standing near their gyrn. From their saddles and protective blankets, she recognised them as belonging to one of the Myele tribes that made this wasteland their home — the Kifud. Their reputation was among the worst of the warlike nomadic tribes of Myele. Maida drew her own sword and started to approach the campsite.

  Her only warning was the faint sound of a footfall behind her. She spun around to face the Kifud warrior, but he was too close, too big and too fast. His gloved fist caught her a stunning blow on the jaw and she went down.

  He stooped and grabbed her, tossing her limp body over his shoulder, but not before his hands made a rough but thorough examination of her body, assuring himself that she was both female and unarmed beyond the sword that had slipped from her grasp.

  He grunted and started to jog towards the campsite.

  When he came around into the lee of the small hill, he gave a quiet chuckle, dropped Maida to the ground and ran to join his three fellow warriors. She gasped in pain as the wind was driven from her lungs. With an effort, she forced herself up to her knees to see what was happening.

  Keshik was calmly facing the four Kifud. They were armed with the traditional axe in the right hand and mace in the left. The Kifud axe was double-bladed with a short spike on the end and the mace was little more than a spiked ball on the end of a metal rod about the length of a man’s forearm.

  The four of them were spread out in a semi-circle around Keshik. He was not backing away as they approached him, which had slowed their forward movement.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Keshik said. Maida recognised the tone — it was how he always spoke when he was sizing up his opponent. ‘I don’t want to kill you,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you for your kindness, enemy,’ one of the Kifud said. ‘And we will kill you quicker for your consideration.’

  The other Kifud laughed crudely at their leader’s joke.

  ‘That was stupid,’ Keshik said.

  He exploded into action, springing forwards, a sword appearing as if by magic in each hand. A single slashing attack with each blade disarmed the first two men and ended barely a hair’s breadth from their throats.

  The Tulugma Swordmaster stared into the dark eyes of the larger of the two tribesmen. Their eyes locked for a moment before Keshik whipped his blades away and resheathed them.

  ‘I thank you for your offer of blood for my blades, but I have already practised today,’ Keshik said.

  The Kifud were clearly shaken by the display.

  ‘Who are you, man?’ the leader asked.

  Rather than answering, Keshik pulled the covering away from his face, revealing the long thin moustache that hung down past his chin and the pale, twin scars that traced their famous tracks across his face from left cheek to right jawline.

  As one, the Kifud dropped to their knees. ‘A thousand apologies, Keshik,’ the lead man said, his face looking down at the frozen ground. ‘We thank you for your mercy.’

  ‘Just go,’ Keshik snapped. He watched as they sprang to their feet and fled, leaving their horses behind as an offering.

  ‘We should break camp,’ he said, turning to Maida.

  She shuddered and nodded as she looked briefly at the fleeing Kifud scouting party. No matter how good this campsite might be, she could no longer stay here.

  Together, they dismantled and packed up their gyrn and loaded their pack horses. Keshik searched the belongings of the Kifud men and stowed their valuables before examining their horses. He cut their saddles and bridles off and threw the intricately patterned blankets to the ground. Maida collected the blankets and stowed them on her pack horse. No point in letting such quality craftsmanship go to waste.

  The Kifud horses were more hardy and compact than their southern cousins, and had a more dense coat. They were perfect for these northern wastes, but less so for anywhere south, and anyone not Kifud found riding such a beast was shown no mercy by a Kifud tribe.

  In short, a Kifud horse was a valueless trophy, a poisoned prize. Keshik considered them, then grinned.

  ‘We could make a lot of money selling these to a young noble,’ he said.

  Maida shook her head. ‘It would be a death sentence.’

  ‘So we sell them to someone who deserves to die.’

  ‘How do we know who deserves to die?’

  ‘Wait long enough and you know.’

  Maida rolled her eyes and walked away. She heaved herself up onto her horse and looked around. Keshik was watching her.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘If we don’t sell them, what?’

  ‘Let them go.’

  Keshik snorted. ‘I don’t like the Kifud. Why should I give them their horses back?’

  Maida shrugged. ‘Do what you want.’

  Keshik smiled. ‘Good.’ He slipped one of his daggers out of its sheath and approached the nearest horse.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Watch.’

  Keshik crouched near the hind leg of the first horse. Very carefully, he shaved a patch of hair from its hamstring and made a long but shallow cut along the shaved portion. The blood flowed freely for a moment before slowing quickly in the cold. He picked up some dirt and rubbed it into the wound.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Maida asked, her voice more insistent. />
  Keshik looked up and grinned. ‘No damage, but any Kifud who finds this horse will think it’s been weakened and will never ride it.’ He stood and slapped the horse’s rump. ‘Go!’ It sprang forwards and galloped into the freezing waste. He did the same to the others and sent them off in different directions. ‘Now no one has them.’

  Maida urged her own mount on. The pack horse tied to her saddle followed and she left the campsite behind. Keshik tugged his conical fur cap tightly down over his head, pulled the scarf across his face, leaped up onto his own horse and followed.

  3

  When the man awoke he was still underground and, as far as he could tell, exactly where he had fallen. He feared to move, expecting every nerve to scream out in the pain he must surely feel. Trying to stand he found, to his shock, he rose easily without a twinge. He felt his body, but found only torn, bloodied clothes covering his healed wounds. His fingers traced three parallel scars stretching from his left shoulder down across his chest to end at his right hip. A similar set extended across his ribs from right to left. From the lack of sensation as he felt the scar tissue, it seemed they had been healed for years, rather than what had to be less than half a day. In fact, there was no sensation, no feeling in them at all. The damage done to his flesh had been considerable, and not all of it had healed.

  He recalled the slash the beast had inflicted across his face with the Warrior’s Claw. With a sinking feeling, the slave reached up to feel what was left of his face. In the total blackness, he could not see at all, so he had no reason to suspect his eye would have been repaired like his torso. But tohis surprise and relief, he felt two eyes, both of which seemed normal. Even his nose felt complete.

  Was this the ‘blessing’ he had been promised?

  He doubted it. A shiver ran though him. The creature had offered blessing in exchange for fealty. Nothing came for free, and the man knew deep within his gut that he owed a great debt to that beast, and it would be called in at some stage.