King’s Wrath

by Fiona McIntosh

  Such fights were rare, of course, as most prisoners took their chances with a new life as a slave. But now and then one would risk death in a bid to win back his independence.

  Varanz strolled over to the man now that he knew his tongue was loosened. “You understand what you ask for?”

  “I do. It was explained to us on the journey here by one of your aides. I wish to fight for my freedom. I also wish to speak with your Zar.”

  At this Varanz smirked. “I can’t imagine he will want to speak with you.”

  “He might after he watches me best twelve of his strongest warriors.”

  Varanz was speechless at the man’s arrogance. He shook his head and walked to the Master, briefly explaining in a quiet mutter what the slave was proposing. Now both of them returned to stand before the man.

  “Don’t try and talk me out of it. I want my freedom back. I will pay the price if I fail to win it,” the slave warned them.

  The Master had no intention of attempting to thwart the prospect of some sport after an already long and wearying day in the market. He could see that Varanz was unfazed, knowing that he would get a good price either way.

  “What is your reserve, Varanz?” he asked.

  “No less than two hundred karels for this one.”

  The Master nodded. “I will send a message to the palace for authorization,” he said. Then, turning to the man, he insisted, “You must give us your name.”

  The slave knifed them with a cold gaze. “My name is Lazar.”

  The palace did more than give authorization. A runner returned swiftly with the news that Zar Joreb, his interest piqued, would be in attendance for the contest. “You understand how unusual it is for the Zar of Percheron to visit the slave traders,” Varanz informed Lazar.

  The foreigner was unmoved. “I wish to speak with him if I succeed.”

  Varanz nodded. “That is up to our Zar. We have told him you have offered to fight twelve of his men to the death. This is no doubt why he is coming to witness the contest.”

  “It is why I suggested so many.”

  Varanz shook his head, exasperated. “How can you best a dozen fighters, man? There’s still time to change your mind and not waste your life. I will ensure a cozy position for you. A fellow like you will find himself in high demand by a rich man to escort his wives, families . . . take care of their security.”

  Lazar snorted. “I’m no nursery maid.”

  “All right.” Varanz tried again. “I know I can sell you as a high-caliber bodyguard to a man who needs protection whilst he travels. I’ll find you a good owner.”

  “I don’t want to be owned,” Lazar snarled. “I want my freedom.”

  The trader shrugged. “Well, you’ll have it, my friend, but you’ll be carried off in a sack.”

  “So be it. I slave for no one.”

  Their conversation was ended by the Master of the Market’s hissing for silence—a troop of Percheron’s guard had arrived, signifying that the Zar’s karak was just moments away. Varanz nodded to one of his aides to escort the rest of the prisoners to the holding pen. Trading would resume once this piece of theater was done with.

  “I wish you luck, brother,” he said to Lazar, and moved away to stand with the Master, who was marshaling all the other traders into a formal line of welcome. The Zar finally arrived, flanked by several of the Percherese Guard, his karak carried by six of the red-shrouded Elim, the elite guardians of the Zar’s harem who also performed bodyguard duties to royalty. The Zar’s entry between the slave market’s carved pillars of two griffins was heralded by the trumpeting of several of the curled Percherese horns, and everyone who was not attached to the royal retinue instantly humbled himself. No one dared raise his eyes to the Zar until given formal permission.

  No one but Lazar, that is.

  He was on his knees because he had been pushed down, but he brazenly watched the Zar being helped out of the karak; their gazes met and held momentarily across the dust of the slave market. Then Lazar dipped his head, just a fraction, but it was enough to tell the Zar that the brash young man had acknowledged the person who was the closest thing to the god Zarab that walked the earth.

  The guard quickly set up the Zar’s seat and the Elim unfurled a canopy over it. Zar Joreb settled himself. He had a wry smile as the Master of the Market made the official announcement that the prisoner, Lazar, captured by Trader Varanz, had opted to fight for his freedom against a dozen warriors from the Percherese Guard. No one watched the Master or even the Zar. All eyes were riveted on the dark foreigner, whose wrists and ankles were now unshackled and who was disrobing down to the once-white, now gray and dirty loose pants he wore. They watched his measured movements, but mostly they watched him study the twelve men taking practice swipes with their glinting swords, all bearing smirks, none prepared to take the ridiculously outnumbered contest seriously.

  The gong sounded for silence and the Master outlined what was about to happen. It was a superfluous pronouncement but strict protocol was a way of life for Percheron’s various markets, especially in the hallowed presence of the Zar.

  “. . . or to the prisoner’s death,” he finished somberly. He looked to Zar Joreb, who, with an almost imperceptible nod, gave the signal for combat to begin.

  Those who were present at the slave market that day would talk about the fight for years to come. Lazar accepted the weapon thrown toward him and without so much as a hurried prayer to his god of choice strode out to meet the first of the warriors. To prolong the sport, the guard had decided to send out one man at a time—presumably they intended to keep wounding the arrogant prisoner until he begged for mercy and the deathblow. However, by the time the first three men were groaning and bleeding on the ground, their most senior man hurriedly sent in four at once.

  It didn’t make much difference to Lazar, who appeared to the audience to be unintimidated by numbers. His face wore the grim countenance of utter focus; he made no sound, never once backed away, always threatening his enemy rather than the other way around. It was soon obvious that his sword skills could not be matched by any of the Percherese, not even fighting in tandem. His fighting arm became a blur of silver that weaved a path of wreckage through flesh, turning the dozen men, one after another, into writhing, crying heaps as they gripped torn shoulders, slashed legs, or profusely bleeding fighting arms. To their credit, the final two fought superbly, but neither could mark Lazar. He fought without fear, his speed only increasing as the battle wore on. Cutting one man down by the ankle, Lazar stomped on his sword wrist, breaking it, to ensure he did not return to the fray, and some moments later, fought the other into exhaustion until the man was on his knees. Lazar flicked the guard’s sword away and gave a calculated slash across his chest. The man fell, almost grateful for the reprieve.

  The slave market was uncharacteristically quiet, save for the cries of bleeding, paining men. Varanz looked around at the carnage, his nostrils flaring with the raw metallic smell of blood thick in the air, and he raised his eyebrows with surprise. No one was dead. Lazar had mercilessly and precisely disabled each of his rivals but claimed the life of none.

  Throwing down his sword, Lazar stood in the circle of hurt warriors, a light sheen of perspiration on his body the only indication that he had exerted himself. His chest rose and sank steadily, calmly. He turned to the Zar and bowed long and deeply.

  “Zar Joreb, will you now grant my freedom?” he said finally into the hush that had fallen.

  “My men would surely rather seek death than live with the dishonor of losing this fight,” was Joreb’s response.

  Varanz watched Lazar’s curiously light eyes cloud with defiance. “They are innocent men. I will not take their lives for a piece of entertainment.”

  “They are soldiers! This was a fight to the death.”

  “Zar Joreb, this was a fight to my death, not theirs. It was made clear that I either win my freedom through death or through survival. I survived. No one impressed upon me the
fact that anyone had to die as part of the rules of this custom.”

  “Arrogant pup,” Joreb murmured into the silence. Then, impossibly, he laughed. “Stand before me, young man.”

  Lazar took two long strides and then went down on one knee, his head finally bowed.

  “What is it you want, stranger?” the Zar demanded.

  “I want to live in Percheron as a free man,” Lazar replied, not lifting his head.

  “Look at me.” Lazar did so. “You’ve humiliated my guard. You will need to rectify that before I grant you anything.”

  “How can I do that, Zar Joreb?”

  “By teaching them.”

  Lazar stared at the Zar, a quizzical look taking over his heretofore impassive face, but he said nothing.

  “Become my Spur,” Zar Joreb offered. “Our present Spur must retire soon. We need to inject a fresh approach. A young approach. You fight like you’re chasing away demons, man. I want you to teach my army how to do that.”

  Lazar’s gaze narrowed. His tone sounded guarded. “You’re offering to pay me to live as a free man in Percheron?”

  “Be my Spur,” Zar Joreb urged. This time there was no humor in his voice, only passion.

  The crowd collectively held its breath as Lazar paused. Finally, he nodded once, decisively. “I accept, but first you owe Varanz over there two hundred karels apparently.”

  Joreb laughed loudly in genuine amusement. “I like you, Lazar. Follow me back to the palace. We have much to speak of. I must say, I’m impressed by your audacity. You put your life in danger to get what you want.”

  “It was never in danger,” Lazar replied, and the semblance of a smile twitched briefly at his mouth.

  Excerpt from Myrren’s Gift

  Gueryn looked to his left at the solemn profile of the lad who rode quietly next to him and felt another pang of concern for Wyl Thirsk, Morgravia’s new General of the Legion. His father’s death was as untimely as it was unexpected. Why had they all believed Fergys Thirsk would die of old age? His son was too young to take such a title and responsibility onto his shoulders. And yet he must; custom demanded it. Gueryn thanked the stars for giving the King wisdom enough to appoint a temporary commander until Wyl was of an age where men would respect him. The name of Thirsk carried much weight but no soldier would follow a near-fourteen-year-old into battle.

  Hopefully, there would be no war for many years now. According to the news filtering back from the capital, Morgravia had inflicted a terrible price on Briavel’s young men this time. No, Gueryn decided, there would be no fighting for a while . . . long enough for Wyl to turn into the fine young man he promised to be.

  Gueryn regarded the boy, with his distinctive flame-colored hair and squat frame. He so badly needed his father’s guidance, the older man thought regretfully.

  Wyl had taken the news of his father’s death stoically in front of the household, making Gueryn proud of the boy as he watched him comfort his younger sister. But later, behind closed doors, he had held the trembling shoulders of the lad and offered what comfort he could. The youngster had worshiped his father, and who could blame him—most of Morgravia’s men had as well. It was especially sad that the boy had lost his father having not seen him in so many moons.

  Ylena, at nine, was still young enough to be distracted by her loving nursemaid as well as her dolls and the new kitten Gueryn had had the foresight to grab at the local market as soon as he was delivered the news. Wyl would not be so easily diverted and Gueryn could already sense the numbing grief hardening within the boy. Wyl was a serious, complex child, and this would push him further into himself. Gueryn wondered whether being forced to the capital was such a good idea right now.

  The Thirsk home in Argorn had been a happy one despite the head of the household having been absent so often. Gueryn had agreed several years back to take on what seemed the ridiculously light task of watching over the raising of the young Thirsk. But he had known from the steely gaze of the old warrior that this was a role the General considered precious and he would entrust this job only to his accomplished captain, whose mind was as sharp as the blade he wielded with such skill. Gueryn understood and with a quiet regret at leaving his beloved Legion, he had moved to live among the rolling hills of Argorn, among the lush southern counties of Morgravia.

  He became Wyl’s companion, military teacher, academic tutor, and close friend. As much as the boy adored his father, the General spent most of his year in the capital, and it was Gueryn who filled the gap of Fergys Thirsk’s absence. It was of little wonder then that student and mentor had become so close.

  “Don’t watch me like that, Gueryn. I can almost smell your anxiety.”

  “How are you feeling about this?” the soldier asked, ignoring the boy’s rebuke.

  Wyl turned in his saddle to look at his friend, regarding the handsome former captain. A flush of color to his pale, freckled face betrayed his next words. “I’m feeling fine.”

  “Be honest with me of all people, Wyl.”

  The lad looked away and they continued their steady progress toward the famed city of Pearlis. Gueryn waited, knowing his patience would win out. It had been just days since Wyl’s father had died. The wound was still raw and seeping. Wyl could hide nothing from him.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go,” Wyl finally said, and the soldier felt the tension in his body release somewhat. They could talk about it now and he could do what he could to make Wyl feel easier about his arrival in the strange, sprawling, often overwhelming capital. “But I know this was my father’s dying wish,” Wyl added, trying to cover his sigh.

  “The King promised he would bring you to Pearlis. And he had good reason to do so. Magnus accepts that you are not ready for the role in anything but title yet but Pearlis is the only place you can learn your job and make an impression on the men you will one day command.” Gueryn’s tone was gentle, but the words implacable. Wyl grimaced. “You can’t stamp your mark from sleepy Argorn,” Gueryn added, wishing they could have had a few months—weeks even—just to get the boy used to the idea of having no parents.

  Gueryn thought of the mother. Fragile and pretty, she had loved Fergys Thirsk and his gruff ways with a ferocity that belied her sweet, gentle nature. She had succumbed, seven years previous and after a determined fight, to the virulent coughing disease that had swept through Morgravia’s south. If she had not been weakened from Ylena’s long and painful birth she might have pulled through. The disease killed many in the household, mercifully sparing the children.

  Although he rarely showed it outwardly, Wyl seemed to miss her in his own reserved way. For all his rough-and-tumble boyishness, Gueryn thought, Wyl obviously adored women. The ladies of the household loved him back, spoiling him with their affections but often whispering pitying words about his looks.

  There was no escaping the fact that Wyl Thirsk was not a handsome boy. The crown of thick orange hair did nothing to help an otherwise plain, square face, and those who remembered the boy’s grandfather said that Wyl resembled the old man in uncanny fashion—his ugliness was almost as legendary as his soldiering ability. The red-headed Fergys Thirsk had been no oil painting either, which is why he had lived with constant surprise that his beautiful wife had chosen to marry him. Many would understand if the betrothal had been arranged but Helyna of Ramon had loved him well and had brooked no argument to her being joined to this high-ranking, plainspoken, even plainer-looking man who walked side by side with a King.

  Vicious whispers at the court, of course, accused her of choosing Thirsk for his connections but she had relentlessly proved that the colorful court of Morgravia held little interest for her. Helyna Thirsk had had no desire for political intrigues or social climbing. Her only vanity had been her love of fine clothes, which Fergys had lavished on his young wife, claiming he had nothing else to spend his money on.

  Wyl interrupted his thoughts. “Gueryn, what do we know about this Celimus?”

  He had been waiting for just
this question. “I don’t know him at all but he’s a year or two older than you, and from what I hear he is fairly impressed with being the heir,” he answered tactfully.

  “I see,” Wyl replied. “What else do you hear of him? Tell me honestly.”

  Gueryn nodded. Wyl should not be thrown into this arena without knowing as much as he could. “The King, I gather, continues to hope Celimus might be molded into the stuff Morgravia can be proud of, although I would add that Magnus has not been an exceptional father. There is little affection between them.”

  “Why?”

  “I can tell you only what your father has shared. King Magnus married Princess Adana. It was an arranged marriage. According to Fergys, they disliked each other within days of the ceremony and it never got any easier between them. I saw her on two occasions and it is no exaggeration that Adana was a woman whose looks could take any man’s breath away. But she was cold. Your father said she was not just unhappy but angry at the choice of husband and despairing of the land she had come to. She had never wanted to come to Morgravia, believing it to be filled with peasants.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “She said that?”

  “And plenty more apparently.”

  “Where was she from?”

  “Parrgamyn—I hope you can dredge up its location from all those geography lessons?”

  Wyl made a face at Gueryn’s disapproving tutorly tone. He knew exactly where Parrgamyn was situated, to the far northwest of Morgravia, in balmy waters about two hundred nautical miles west of the famed Isle of Cipres. “Exotic then?”

  “Very. Hence Celimus’s dark looks.”