Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  ‘The end of the world.’

  Another flash of light cut across the sky. Keshik looked up to see a second set of black lines tear across Grada’s already wounded face. They intersected the first set to form a diamond shape that darkened until it was totally black. And there, deep within the utter blackness of that shape, three motes of blue light flickered into existence. They swirled around until finally settling at the points of an even triangle, in the very centre of which a fourth light of pure silver blinked once and started to glow.

  ‘What does all that mean?’ Keshik asked.

  Iskopra leaned back on one of the boards that formed a seat and closed his eyes. ‘I have no idea,’ he sighed. ‘But I fear it is about you somehow.’

  ‘Why?’

  Iskopra opened his eyes and stared at Keshik. He traced the lines of Keshik’s scars across his own face. ‘The scarred man,’ he said.

  Keshik repeated the gesture and the words.

  ‘Beware the scarred man,’ said Maida. ‘He is your fate, but not your destiny.’

  Keshik tore his gaze away from Grada to stare at Maida. ‘You think she was talking about me?’

  Maida looked away without answering.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Iskopra asked.

  ‘An oracle. An Eye of Varuun.’

  ‘You have been to the Acolytes?’

  Keshik shook his head. ‘No, a slave held by a Jooure merchant.’

  ‘Ah. You need to be very careful with an Eye. The Seeings are …’ he paused, ‘complicated without the ritual.’

  ‘What ritual? And how do you know about the Acolytes?’

  ‘Everyone knows about the Acolytes and their rituals.’

  Keshik considered Iskopra’s words. While not ‘everyone’ knew, the Acolytes and their fondness for ritual were well enough known. He had his own ideas about the scarred man, but he was not about to tell. Not here; not at the Light at the End of the World.

  There was a third flash of white-blue light and in an instant, the world returned to normal. A light breeze wafted across them from the east and the sky was flawless blue again. Overhead, Grada was unblemished. To the north, a smudge on the horizon suggested land.

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Iskopra. ‘C’sobra.’ He dipped his hand into the water and brought it to his lips. ‘And the Eastern Drift.’ He stood and laughed. ‘We will make land by night.’

  39

  The C’sobran capital, Mollnde, was older than Vogel. Older and less inviting. It had the distrustful, unfriendly air of an old, old man who had seen too many betrayals. When the Sotiria drifted into the harbour two fast-moving skiffs intercepted her and hard-faced soldiers regarded them with suspicion.

  ‘State your business.’

  ‘None, at present,’ Iskopra called back. ‘As you can see, we are vexed by the water’s fickle favour.’

  The soldier snorted a derisive laugh. ‘Vexed, he says. More like destroyed by incompetence.’ He gave a curt gesture. ‘You don’t look like you pose much of a threat to C’sobran integrity. Be welcome.’ The tone, the look and the gesture offered anything other than welcome, but Iskopra bowed in apparent gratitude. As if by way of an afterthought, he smiled at the C’sobran soldier.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could…’ He left the words unsaid as he gestured at the boat, his hand-waving taking in the lack of a mast, sail and oars.

  ‘You want a tow?’

  ‘In short, yes.’

  With a theatrical sigh, the soldier tossed a rope over to them, which Iskopra caught easily and made fast to the bow. ‘My thanks,’ he called.

  The soldiers neither replied nor acknowledged his words, but the Sotiria gave a startled jolt as the rope’s slack was taken up. Iskopra settled back onto the seat and took the tiller from Maida. He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  ‘It’s amazing what you can get if you just ask for it,’ he said.

  Maida shook her head while Keshik stared out at the busy harbour, trying not to be impressed by the man’s bare-faced effrontery. As a Tulugma Swordmaster, Keshik was accustomed to getting his own way, but to simply ask for and receive a free tow into dock in a capital port?

  Unheard of.

  Funny, but unheard of.

  The skiff came about and slowed. Once Keshik untied the rope and tossed it back the Sotiria drifted comfortably into an open anchorage. Again, there was no acknowledgement from the soldiers aboard, but that did not stop Iskopra from waving cheerfully and calling his gratitude.

  Carrying a rope, he leaped easily up from the boat onto the dock, where he made the Sotiria fast. That rope, kept lashed to the forward stanchion, was almost the only thing the Light at the End of the World had left them. Once they were secure, Keshik clambered up and then leaned over to help Maida.

  ‘Now what?’ Iskopra asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maida said.

  Iskopra shrugged. ‘We have no money, my poor little boat is nothing more than a shell and we are in Mollnde. None of these things are good.’

  ‘But we are not in Vogel,’ Maida pointed out.

  Iskopra grinned. ‘I like you, Maida. You see the important things in life. We are not, as you say, in Vogel, and that makes all the difference, doesn’t it, Keshik?’

  Keshik grunted in reply, his own mind full of the same issues that vexed Iskopra. They were in a city not known for its acceptance of vagrants, with no money and no possessions beyond their clothing and what they carried on their person. For Keshik, this amounted to a small fortune, given the value of his various weapons, but for Maida and presumably Iskopra, it amounted to next to nothing.

  He stood motionless, watching the crowd of people that flowed past them, all apparently unaware of their presence and their plight — or at least uncaring. No one so much as paused, except to ease their way past them without making physical contact. Maida stood very close to Keshik, her breasts brushing lightly against his arm every time she moved to avoid another Mollnde passer-by.

  ‘Food,’ Iskopra said suddenly.

  Keshik shook his head. Of all the things to think about…

  ‘Good idea,’ Maida said. ‘I’m hungry.’

  Which is exactly why you do not talk about food, Keshik thought.

  ‘You can help us there, Keshik,’ Iskopra went on.

  Keshik gave the Seagull a glare and a raised eyebrow.

  ‘There is a place, not far from here, where we can get free food.’

  ‘And why do you need me for that? If it’s free, we should just go and eat.’

  ‘Did I say free? I meant no money is needed, but we can earn a meal.’

  ‘Earning is not free.’

  Iskopra did not answer, pushing his way instead into the crowd of people. There were grumbles and stares, but he made headway across the flow, moving away from the edge of the dock. Maida and Keshik followed, elbowing and shoving their own way through.

  Once off the dock, the crowd thinned noticeably, but there were still too many people for Maida to feel comfortable. She was a nomad by birth and a wanderer of wilderness from choice. People like this, surrounding her, touching her, breathing on her, talking loudly around her, filled her with anxiety. Usually she was able to hide her worries and smile cheerfully, but here, in a new city with so many people …

  Keshik slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him.

  ‘Breathe,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t think about the crowd, think about the desert, think about the tundra. I am here.’

  Relief washed over her as she drew on the strength of the warrior’s arm encircling her. She leaned her head briefly on his shoulder as, once again, he drove the demons away. Even the demons of her dreams had faded since leaving Vogel. Not vanished, not yet, but fading.

  Even the memory of those nights sent a cold shiver running through Maida, so she tried to distract herself by remembering the good times when she and Keshik would ride unfettered through the rolling wilderness that stretched all around the central, populated part of thei
r world. Once past the tendrils of the sprawling cities that squatted around the three great seas, the world became wild and free. A woman could ride for days upon empty days without seeing another person. She knew her need for the peace of solitude marked her out from most others, but the need was insatiable. Every fibre of her being craved a clear horizon, a wide sky and the smell of ice. To ride at full gallop across the plains with Keshik close was a pleasure almost orgasmic in its intensity.

  The crowd thinned even further as Iskopra led them into a series of dark, narrow alleys that twisted deep into the city. Noises became muted, muffled, and the light dimmed as the aged houses started to crowd in over the top of the alley. It seemed that within moments, they had moved from the loud, bustling crowds into this world of half-heard, half-seen hints, a city within a city. Every great city in the world had a place like this, she knew, but it never made entering them any easier.

  Her nerves were jangling by the time Iskopra rounded yet another bend and led them into a large vacant space, open to the sky. It was roughly circular and paved in mottled red stones. About a dozen people milled quietly around another entrance on Maida’s left. The sky above, blue and clear, gave an odd counterpoint to the drab plaza and age-wearied buildings.

  Keshik gave an exasperated groan.

  ‘I am unhappy with this, Seagull,’ he muttered to Iskopra.

  ‘With what, Swordmaster?’ Iskopra replied, all innocence.

  ‘Don’t try and fool me. I have seen too many places like this.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Maida.

  ‘Battle arena,’ Keshik said. ‘That’s why he wanted me here.’

  He jerked his thumb at Iskopra. ‘He’s going to bet on me and we’re going to make money — he hopes.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Iskopra agreed. ‘But the first bouts are always just for food. You can stop any time. I thought you might be happier just fighting for our meals, but…’ He let the sentence trail away while raising his eyebrows quizzically.

  Keshik snarled and stepped forwards into the open space. He drew one sword, leaving the mystical blue blade sheathed.

  ‘I am hungry,’ he said loudly. ‘They tell me I can find food here for the price of a little blood.’

  Silence greeted his words. He looked around.

  ‘I grow bored,’ he said.

  ‘Patience, visitor. Patience.’

  Keshik turned slowly to regard the man who had stepped out into the area opposite them. He was of average height and build with short, iron-grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His clothes were serviceable, without being rich or particularly shabby. In all, an unremarkable man.

  ‘What am I waiting so patiently for?’ Keshik asked.

  ‘For your opponent, of course,’ the man replied.

  ‘Tell me the rules while I wait.’

  ‘Rules? There are very few. The first fight is, like the rest, to the death. Winner takes all. First prize is food. After that,’ he tilted his head to the side, ‘the prize is negotiable.’

  ‘Money?’

  The man shrugged. ‘If that is what you want, yes. All manner of things are to be earned here.’

  A burst of conversation from the group to the left alerted Keshik. He turned to watch a burly man step out from among them. The man was bare-chested with leather pants and no shoes. In his fist he gripped a heavy blade that bore the chips and nicks of hundreds of street fights. Keshik whipped his blade up in the traditional salute of the Tulugma.

  The big man sneered and strode forwards to the muted cries of his fellows.

  ‘Fancy manners won’t help you here, visitor,’ he grumbled. ‘Only a good blade and fast hands.’ The small crowd called encouragement and gave cheers to their hometown champion. He turned slightly to acknowledge their support as Keshik replied, ‘I have both.’

  Maida recognised the tone. Nothing could save the man’s life now. The Tulugma Swordmaster had marked him for death — it was only a matter of time before he tasted it. How long that would be depended only on his skill.

  As it happened, the man had little skill, so he lay face-down, leaking his lifeblood onto the stone within heartbeats. He had advanced quickly with his sword raised for a savage blow, but Keshik stepped aside and drove his own curved weapon through the man’s chest before it had time to land.

  Keshik wiped his blade clean and resheathed it. ‘I am hungry,’ he said into the once more silent arena.

  ‘I cannot see why,’ the other man said. ‘That was hardly a challenge.’

  Keshik shrugged. ‘No one said the fight had to be hard to earn a feed, just over. I am hungry.’

  The man gestured towards a door to Keshik’s right. ‘Through there, you will find all you need.’

  The door swung open to reveal a room. Iskopra rubbed his hands together and made his way towards it, but Keshik grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. He raised his voice to address the man opposite him. ‘You said all manner of things are to be earned. Does that include information?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Keshik looked back to Maida and Iskopra. ‘You go ahead, I will join you soon.’

  ‘My name is Cort,’ the man said. ‘And I do not want your name, visitor.’ He gestured for Keshik to precede him inside. ‘You mentioned information.’

  Keshik walked through the door that led out of the arena into a well-appointed room. He looked around, taking in the carpets on the floor, the comfortable chairs, the table and the guard standing by the only other door. The guard returned his stare impassively. Keshik noted the location of the calluses on his hands and the shape of the muscles on his arms. The man was big, but his technique was flawed. He would pose no challenge if it came to a fight.

  Comfortable, Keshik accepted Cort’s offer to sit.

  Cort sat in the other chair and leaned back, pressing his palms together horizontally in front of his chest. Keshik returned the gesture.

  ‘You know our ways,’ Cort said.

  Keshik shrugged. ‘I have travelled.’

  ‘Information,’ Cort began. ‘What do you want to know about?’

  ‘Vogel.’

  ‘You can always go there and look for yourself.’

  ‘Not any more. I have just left there. It’s in flames.’

  ‘The vorbyndjaarge is always burning.’

  ‘Not the vorbyndjaarge, the whole city is burning.’

  Cort sat forwards. ‘Really? How?’

  ‘Someone set fire to it.’

  ‘Ha!’ Cort slapped his thigh and smiled broadly. ‘A man with a sense of humour. So rare these days.’

  ‘Not really. Someone set fire to Vogel and I want to know who and why.’

  ‘You’re serious.’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Cort sat back again, apparently deep in thought. ‘I don’t know anything, but I know people who might.’

  ‘What will a name cost me?’

  ‘That pretty little woman you have with you would be an easy price.’

  ‘Not easy for you.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You would be dead.’

  ‘Ah.’ Cort shrugged. ‘It was worth asking. She would fetch a fair price at auction.’

  ‘Not with all the bidders dead.’

  Cort raised his hands in a defensive gesture. ‘You have made yourself clear, visitor. No need for further clarification.’ He tapped his chin. ‘I think, having seen you fight, that you would make short work of anyone I set up against you, so that would not even be good entertainment. No, something else. Something more interesting.’

  Keshik sighed, bored already. No doubt this pretentious man would send him out to kill some innocent who had annoyed him in the past over a trivial matter. Another man would die on his blades for no reason. There were times he lamented the impulsive actions that had led him on this path in life.

  But then he remembered Maida — her eyes, her hair, her body, her sparkling smile, her intelligence — and dismissed the
thought.

  ‘I need to think,’ Cort said. ‘Go and eat your fill with your friends and I will come to you later.’

  40

  Myrrhini watched in disbelief as Slave roared and raged against the bars of the cage. The whole wagon started to shake as his fury intensified. The Sana Waarde shrieked and huddled in the far corner of her cage, as far away from him as she could get.

  ‘Slave,’ Myrrhini called. ‘What is it?’

  Her words went unnoticed as Slave’s violent frenzy continued. As Myrrhini watched, the impossible happened: slowly, but undeniably, the bars Slave held in his fists bent. The bars gave a groan of protest as they were ripped abruptly out of the wooden floor of the cage. Slave cried out again and leaped from the cage, a bent bar still held in each fist.

  His frenzy had been so fast, so unexpected, that the guard barely had a chance to look around before the bar smashed his head into an unrecognisable mess. Slave swung the other bar with the same force and felled the guard’s horse before charging towards the next guard.

  Voices were raised, orders shouted. Other guards wheeled their horses around and headed towards Slave. They needn’t have bothered because he was sprinting straight at them. He bellowed again as he fell on the first mounted man in a flurry of limbs and iron bars. Despite the guard’s advantages of having a sword and a shield and being on horseback, in a heartbeat he fell to the ground dead as the whirling storm named Slave destroyed him and his horse.

  Myrrhini gasped as men fell screaming from the brutal wounds Slave inflicted. Arrows flew from the guard’s bows in self-defence but not one hit him. Slave’s spinning bars smashed them out of the air. Those he did not hit struck their targets behind him: chained slaves fell as well as guards.

  The rattle of metal distracted Myrrhini. Urryk stood at the door to the Sana’s cage, fumbling with the lock. The door swung open and Urryk clambered in. Waarde shrank from him, but he was big and strong. He caught her easily and dragged her out, screaming.

  ‘Hey, wild man!’ Uryyk cried. He wrenched Waarde in front of him and thrust a dagger up to her throat. ‘Hey! Hold, or I gut her!’

  Slave smashed another guard to the ground and turned to face Urryk. Myrrhini could see nothing in his face except insane, bestial fury. No trace of his humanity could break through the mask of violence. Urryk wavered slightly and stepped back, but Slave charged him. As he approached, Urryk dropped his dagger and shoved Waarde at Slave, as if hoping to slow him down and buy himself time to flee. But to Myrrhini’s eye, it looked like the leader of the slave train had suddenly realised that nothing would stop this thing that had appeared without warning in their midst.