Slave of Sondelle: The Eleven Kingdoms

by Bevan McGuiness

  ‘We should share body warmth,’ she offered.

  He grunted and allowed her to move close.

  Once again, Myrrhini was lying on the ground, freezing cold, hungry and afraid. But this time was different — she was not alone. Another body, a man, lay beside her sharing the air, warming her with his warmth.

  The only other time she had known this was with Hinrik.

  His name struck her with the force of a blow. She had not even thought of him since leaving him in the hut within the Place. Her toe still ached although she was no longer limping, but the constant nagging pain should have kept him in her mind. How had she forgotten him?

  A tangle of emotions washed over her — anger, shame, aching sadness, pain — leaving her confused and empty. She bit back tears, refusing to allow herself to cry. He had used her and taken her trust cruelly, but she had left him behind. When he was discovered there, he would be harshly punished, probably expelled from the Place.

  He would likely end up not that different from where she was right now.

  Slave stirred.

  ‘What is it?’ Myrrhini asked.

  ‘Can you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  Myrrhini focused intently, but could only hear the wind. She shook her head. Slave slid out from under the blankets and silently disappeared.

  It took a while, but Myrrhini finally heard something over the noise of the wind — crunching footsteps approaching them across the snow. She tried to make out what creature might be causing them, but to her ear they were just feet.

  A cry cut the night air. Myrrhini curled up under the blankets, fear making her shudder more than the cold. Another cry.

  Another.

  How many are there? Myrrhini wrapped her hand around the shaft of the arrow she had carried all day. I might die here.

  ‘But not like this,’ she said aloud. She rolled out from under the blankets back into the wind and ice, holding the arrow like a spear.

  Three figures struggled in the dark. In the melee, she could not identify Slave, but two bodies lying on the snow were not moving. The dark patches beneath them were slowly spreading.

  ‘Ha! I knew it,’ a voice cried behind her. Myrrhini spun around and thrust out with the arrow without thinking. The shaft met resistance before snapping in her hand. A large, bulky figure standing close to her staggered back, clutching at its belly. ‘And it has claws,’ the figure grunted. ‘Good.’

  A sharp cry of pain made the figure look up, beyond Myrrhini. She did not hesitate — she stooped, pulled out the dagger from her boot and thrust again. This time, she knew where to drive her weapon and it also met resistance, but it did not break off. She drew her hand back, feeling a sticky warmth on her wrist and fingers. The figure lurched backwards again with a gasping wheeze. Myrrhini felt anger well up within her — anger she could not explain — and she drove the dagger forwards again, and again, stabbing hard into the body. The sticky warm fluid flooded over her arm, she even felt splashes on her face as she kept stabbing.

  A hand grabbed her forearm and pulled her back.

  ‘He’s dead, Myrrhini,’ Slave said. ‘Let him be.’

  Myrrhini looked around into Slave’s disturbing silver eye, glowing slightly in the dark. The dagger slipped from her hand and her knees felt weak. She sagged slightly against him. He caught her and held her firmly.

  ‘We are safe now. They are all dead.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  Slave shrugged. ‘I don’t know. People. People like us, lost out here, desperate probably.’

  ‘But why would they attack us?’ Talking was helping. The strength had returned to her knees. She pushed herself away from Slave and stepped back.

  Slave let her go and looked at the bodies. ‘I don’t know that either. But they did attack, and they died.’

  Myrrhini braved a look down at the person she had killed. The dark shape by her feet did not look so daunting, limbs splayed on the snow, blood spread around it. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered stabbing, stabbing, stabbing.

  She looked at her hands, thankful that the dark wet stains were not blood red as they would have been in daylight. Her stomach heaved and she vomited heavily onto her hands.

  The retching was harsh and uncontrolled, sending her to her hands and knees where she crouched like an animal, spilling everything in her guts onto the snow. Soon there was nothing left, just bile and spit, but still she heaved and coughed.

  Finally, she collapsed onto the snow, spent and aching.

  She lay on her side with her back to the body. Slave crouched in front of her, watching silently. When she raised her eyes to meet his, he returned her stare impassively.

  ‘We should see what they had,’ he said. He stood and walked away.

  ‘How can you think of something like that?’ Myrrhini called after him.

  Slave stopped. Without turning, he spoke. ‘You killed a man. You are upset, and that is good, but we will die in this place without food and better protection; you know it.’ He slowly turned to face her. ‘You killed a man,’ he repeated, his voice redolent with menace. ‘Yesterday I killed nearly fifty, most of them unarmed and chained. Think about that, next time you are feeling sorry for yourself.’

  Myrrhini forced herself to her feet while Slave made his way methodically around the bodies of their attackers. He stripped off their outer coats and went through their possessions. Myrrhini walked unsteadily towards the body of her own victim.

  ‘He is right,’ she muttered. ‘If you had not fought back, he would have killed you. You are entitled to defend yourself.’ But the memory of her frenzied attack, the stabbing, the blood, the memory of Hinrik, would not be mollified. She knew why she had wanted to kill this man.

  Myrrhini kneeled beside the dead man and lifted her eyes to watch Slave at his looting. The wind bit through her blanket and thin dress. This cold is as dangerous as this man was. He does not need what he owned any more. I will die without clothes and food.

  She swallowed hard and heaved the body over to look at the face of the man she had murdered.

  He had been young. Lifeless eyes stared up at her blankly from a dark face. A small beard adorned his chin and he had a tattoo of a crown high on his left cheek. Myrrhini tore her eyes from his face and started to wrestle his coat open.

  He wore a blue tunic under a thin leather tabard. On the tabard was a drawing of a castle. It looked more like a stylised device than a simple drawing. Could he have been a soldier? Hanging from his heavy leather belt was a waterskin, a sheathed dagger and a sword. She rolled him over to get the warm coat out from under him and found his pack.

  Inside was food, spare clothes and a money pouch. She grabbed some food and gnawed hungrily. It was dried, salted meat but to a woman who had just left the entire, if scant, contents of her stomach on the snow, it was a feast. That finished, she took a deep swallow from the waterskin.

  Fortified, Myrrhini reassured herself that looting a dead man was not so bad, not when your own life was at risk, so she started to strip off his boots. They were well worn but sturdy, and looked like they would fit her. His tunic was thick and his trousers woollen. Myrrhini looked around. The wind had dropped and Slave was busy. As long as I am quick, she reasoned.

  She threw off her blanket and quickly stripped off the coarse grey dress. The icy chill bit instantly into her exposed skin. She sniffed. Even her underclothes stank so she stripped them off and tossed them away before pulling on the dead man’s clothes. Her skin cringed away from the damp patch on the tunic where his blood had seeped through his thick undershirt, but the warmth was worth it. She stamped down on the snow, driving her feet deep into the new boots and pulled the heavy cloak around her shoulders. Fed and warm, Myrrhini felt better than she had for some time.

  ‘Necessity can override almost any morals, can’t it?’ Slave said.

  Myrrhini froze at his words.

  ‘Have you been watching me?’ she accused.

  Slave shook hi
s head. He too was clad in the tunic, trousers and cloak he had stripped from a dead man. His new clothes were identical to hers. Slave looked her up and down.

  ‘Uniform?’ he asked.

  Myrrhini considered it before answering. ‘Were the others wearing the same?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A uniform then. Were they soldiers?’

  ‘I would think so.’

  ‘What were they doing out here?’

  Slave shook his head. ‘Following orders, like soldiers do.’

  ‘Whose orders?’

  ‘Who cares? This is useful, though.’ He held up a roll of parchment. ‘It’s a map.’

  ‘That would help if we knew where we were, or where we were going.’

  ‘Leserlang.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘C’sobra. To the east.’ Slave’s eye glinted in the dark, not reflecting anything, just emitting its own glow. Myrrhini shuddered and turned away. ‘But we’re not going anywhere now. Let’s get some sleep and talk about it in the morning.’

  Three soldiers had small tents, each one just big enough for two. Slave set one up and Myrrhini joined him. She lay beside him, not as close as when they shared a blanket, but near enough to feel him breathing, near enough to remember what it was like to be next to a man. Hinrik’s face came to her again. She tried to put it away, but when she managed that, other faces floated across her memory to fill her mind — Waarde, Ileki, the man she had killed, Joukahainen. They leered at her, they laughed at her, they bled for her, they haunted her in their own ways until exhaustion took over and she fell into a restless, troubled sleep.

  She awoke alone.

  ‘Slave?’ she called. ‘Where are you?’

  She rolled out of the tent and stood up. Slave was crouched over one of the bodies. He looked up when she walked towards him.

  ‘This one was an officer, I think.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘He’s older. His uniform is a bit fancier, and he had the map.’

  ‘Does he have anything else?’

  ‘No.’ Slave stood up. ‘Do you know which way is east?’

  Myrrhini pointed a little to the right of where the sun was appearing over the horizon. ‘That way.’

  ‘I think C’sobra is that way.’

  ‘And why do we want to go to C’sobra?’

  ‘I want to find out more about what was under Vogel, and the Readers are the only ones likely to know.’

  ‘Anywhere in C’sobra in particular?’

  ‘Ileki was from Leserlang. He wanted me to hunt down and kill a Reader called Fraunhof, but I guess everything he told me was a lie.’

  ‘I have read about Leserlang. It sounds like a horrible place.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is full of those Readers and they are always plotting against each other and stealing one another’s ideas. They sound like silly little children.’

  Slave laughed. ‘I said something similar to Ileki. He said the Readers should be taken seriously.’

  ‘Was Ileki a Reader?’

  ‘Yes. They are sorcerers, so they are dangerous no matter what sort of silly games they play.’

  After packing up the tent, they headed off into the sunrise.

  43

  Keshik tipped the gold coins out onto the ground. He squatted beside the pile and started to divide their spoils into two even piles. When he was done he pushed one towards Iskopra.

  ‘That should be enough to refit the Sotiria,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed, friend Keshik. More than enough.’ As Iskopra picked up his pile he tilted his head to one side. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? We make a good team.’

  ‘No. I have other business.’

  ‘As you will,’ Iskopra said. He rose and smiled at Maida. ‘It has been a pleasure, Maida.’

  Maida gave him a quick but warm embrace and stepped back.

  ‘We will meet again by the Light at the End of the World,’ Iskopra said to Keshik. He gave a half-bow and a curious gesture with his left hand — raising it, fingers splayed, to cover his face — before turning and quickly walking away.

  ‘Good plan,’ Keshik said as he tipped the coins back into the bag.

  Maida flashed a small smile. She still hurt from where Tatya had reopened her original wounds, but it was worth it. The slashes were shallow and would heal quickly and the stab wounds in her shoulders were deep but clean. They would heal also.

  ‘Where do you think she will go?’ Maida asked.

  ‘Tatya? I don’t know. Probably east. In search of friendlier places. Not everyone treats shapeshifters like they do here.’

  ‘Good.’

  Keshik grunted in dismissal of the subject. He was glad to be rid of the shapeshifter. They were creatures of chaos, wild as the wind and treacherous as a snowdrift. When he had tried to explain Maida’s plan to her, it was as much as he could do to get her to stay in one place long enough to hear the words, let alone understand and agree to it. In the end he had had to threaten her with the golden talisman in the box — the true bewitchment that kept her in thrall to Emilengel. Keshik thought the plan simple — pretend to give Cort the talisman, get paid, leave the man to his fate. Anyone who wanted to try to tame or control a shapeshifter deserved what he got, but Tatya argued, sulked and pouted, shimmering in between forms until she suddenly changed her mind; so totally in character with the chaos of her nature.

  It was then that she demanded to be free to attack Cort if she wanted to. Keshik gave her the talisman and she destroyed it. Never again would she be anyone’s slave.

  The money they earned would do nicely for them. They would be able to re-equip and head north again, away from the heat, the smell of the sea and the noise of the crowds. Maida was beginning to suffer from the closeness of the city and a long walk north to Leserlang would do her good.

  Or, with any luck, he might be able to find a caravan heading north and work their passage. But he wasn’t planning on looking very hard.

  He glanced around and sniffed. Even here, in a quiet, dark corner of the labyrinthine poor quarter of Mollnde, the smell of the markets was strong. One need only follow the noise and the smell to negotiate the path.

  Three turns and they were once more among too many people — shouting, laughing, pressing, pushing, sweating, jostling, stinking people. Thousands of them, it seemed, all busily heading their own way, all unconcerned for anyone else, all absorbed in their own lives. Keshik walked with one arm around Maida’s shoulders, the other hand on the hilt of his metal sword, although he doubted he would have room to draw it should the need arise.

  The market was worse than any other in every way — louder, noisier and more crowded. The smell was stifling and the air still despite the thronging mass. Maida walked close to Keshik, holding his arm tightly, her tension clear in her grip. He forced his way through the mass of humanity towards the edge of the market area where the merchants’ stalls would be.

  Once there, he shoved and elbowed his way along the front of the stalls, ignoring the desperate importuning of the merchants. One look at their sleek, healthy countenances was more than enough evidence for Keshik to dismiss the idea that starving women and children depended upon his every coin. He stopped before a young man with a stall of serviceable, solid-looking clothes.

  ‘We are heading north,’ he said. ‘I need clothes, boots and leathers.’

  The man smiled broadly and was about to launch into his usual patter when Keshik’s scowling, scarred face stopped him dead. The smile vanished.

  ‘Certainly, visitor,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know I am a visitor?’

  The merchant gave an eloquent shrug. To Maida’s eyes it said everything she needed to know about this city and its self-importance. Keshik looked different — with his slightly slanted dark eyes, short stature, nut brown skin and jet black hair, and so he must clearly be a ‘visitor’ to this old, arrogant city.

  Keshik did not push the point to
the extent of demanding an answer. Instead he opened the leather bag and pulled out two gold coins. The young merchant’s face positively shone with welcoming joy.

  Keshik dropped the coins on a pile of clothes.

  ‘Tell me when they run out,’ he instructed.

  ‘Of course,’ the young man murmured. As if by magic, the coins vanished, so fast did the merchant’s hands move.

  By the time they had selected warm clothes, leather jerkins, boots and hats for them both, the merchant was starting to look restless. Maida had an idea.

  ‘Could I interest you in a trade?’ she asked with her best shining smile. In the fun of choosing new gear, her apprehension at the pressing crowd had faded slightly and her mind was working again.

  The merchant had a distinctly dubious expression on his face as Maida dumped the bag of Tatya’s clothes on his table and leaned forwards to open it for his examination. The fact that her bodice — still Tatya’s dress from the previous day — was somewhat looser and lower than she normally wore and that she ‘forgot’ to demurely cover her chest might have had something to do with his sudden interest. She pulled out the fine garments for his consideration. From the direction of his gaze, she doubted he even saw the clothes, but his smile was enough.

  For Tatya’s beautiful, but to Maida completely useless, clothes she traded a thick, fur-lined jacket, an extra pair of boots, a solid leather belt, another hat and a robust pack. Satisfied, they left and went in search of merchants who sold the other things they needed: cooking pots, large animal skins for a new gyrn and horses.

  It took them most of the day, but by the time the sun was sinking over the jagged roofs that surrounded the large market, they were ready to head north to Leserlang in search of a Reader named Fraunhof.

  * * *

  They did not quite gallop through the teeming streets of Mollnde, but they went as fast as safety would allow. The horses strained at their bits as if sensing their riders’ need to be quit of this stinking, swarming place, and sent unwary pedestrians scurrying for shelter as they passed. More than one fist was raised in anger at their passage, but it caused them little concern. Even the requisite guard on the gate seemed to sense their haste, their need to be gone, and waved them through perfunctorily.