Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  At last they came to a larger longhouse down another wood-planked road. The guards pushed him through the door. The man holding his leash dragged a bench into the center of the room next to a stone hearth, and the other man shoved him down onto it. He bound Conor’s arms behind his back, looping the rope around the chair legs, and then did the same with his ankles.

  “Don’t move,” one of the men said. “Haldor has given us permission to kill you if you try to escape.”

  Conor studied the man. He was lying. The leader wanted him alive.

  That certainly worked in his favor. He just needed to discover what the commander wanted from him. He looked around the rectangular cottage, hoping for some sort of insight into the warrior they called Haldor, but the room gave him very little. A raised wooden platform ran around the outside edges of the structure, several wooden benches and chests spaced along it. A thick straw mattress covered in woolens and furs indicated a bed, and a meager collection of cookware sat by the square wooden hearth. Haldor had no woman or children with him here. That was telling. Either he didn’t plan on staying permanently or their settlement was too tenuous to bring his family from Norin.

  The door opened once more, and Conor turned his head toward it. A man stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the sides of the frame, his head brushing the lintel above. Blond hair, naturally pale rather than bleached yellow like that of the other warriors, barely reached his shoulders, brushing a blue wool cloak fastened with an intricately wrought silver pin. The pommel of a sword peeked from beneath the cloak.

  The man jerked his head to the warriors in dismissal and watched Conor until the door shut behind them.

  “You heal fast,” he said in Norin. “A few days ago, you would not have been able to make the journey here.”

  Conor said nothing. Unlike the other Sofarende he had come across, this man was completely unafraid of him. The commander retrieved a bench from the platform and set it near Conor. His massive frame made it look as if it were sized for a child. He leaned forward, his forearms braced on his knees.

  “My name is Haldor the Brave. To distinguish me from my father, Haldor the Fierce.”

  Still Conor said nothing. He met the man’s gaze, determined to show neither fear nor curiosity.

  “I could attempt to coax information from you, but you have already shown you can endure pain. So I find myself in a quandary. You are plainly a warrior. Warriors are of no use to me. I give you a tool, you try to kill your guards. Yet you intrigue me.”

  Conor noted the carefully chosen wording, the soft intonation. Haldor was no barbarian. He was an educated man, a thinking man. He would not fall prey to fear and superstition like his warriors.

  “Have you nothing to say?”

  Conor stared at him blankly.

  “Very well. Just listen then. I understand you were asking about a woman.”

  Conor couldn’t keep the flicker of alarm from his expression. He couldn’t recall having mentioned Aine, but who knew what he had uttered while in the throes of fever?

  “Ah, I see I have gotten your attention. In answer to the question you will not ask me, I do not have her. But I could find out if another settlement does.”

  Conor moistened his cracked lips, contemplating his answer. “In return for what?”

  “I want to learn of your people. Your language, your religion, your magic.”

  “I know nothing of magic.”

  “I do not believe you. But let us assume I do. My Gwynn slave tells me the Fíréin are something of legend. I take a particular interest in legend.”

  He only wants to know what kind of threat he might face should he invade Seare. To come out and deny him would only earn Conor a quick death. He tried to turn the conversation another way.

  “Why the interest in magic? Your men seem to fear it. Is that why you want to know? To instill the respect that your men lack?”

  Haldor merely cocked his head. “What makes you say that?”

  “They disobeyed your orders by trying to kill me.”

  The Sofarende leader let out a booming laugh. “Do not think because you understand our language that you understand our ways. I was not telling them to unhand you. You killed two of my best men. I needed to know if your life was worth two of theirs.”

  “Is it?”

  The amusement left Haldor’s expression, and his eyes turned hard. “We will see.” He stood and called to the guards, “Eluf, Ove!” The door opened immediately, and the guards stepped inside. “Take him back now. We’re finished.”

  The guards untied the rope from the bench and jerked Conor to his feet, but they kept his hands bound behind his back. He complied, his face impassive.

  “I will give you until this time tomorrow to consider my offer. If you still refuse, you will be executed.”

  Conor struggled not to show the thrill of fear the words sent through him. If the choice was between betraying his homeland or his own death, he knew which one he should choose. But it was not only his life at stake here. Eluf shoved him toward the door. Before he could step through it, Haldor called after him, “Not all Sofarende are as enlightened as I am, Conor. Before you make your decision, you might ask Eluf what the others would do with a female captive.”

  Conor jerked his eyes to his guard, who grinned suggestively. Haldor nodded, his point made. “Tomorrow. I hope for the sake of your woman you make the right decision.”

  The walk back to Conor’s prison went more easily, perhaps because his mind was fixed on Haldor’s ultimatum and not the trembling in his legs. He barely noticed the shoves Eluf aimed at his back to unbalance him as he calculated the likelihood of Aine’s survival. If she were alive and in Sofarende custody, he would do anything to spare her. After all, it wasn’t as if there were much left of Seare to save. Would it be so bad if Fergus had to focus his attention on a Sofarende invasion?

  He didn’t immediately notice that Eluf was not taking him back to the goat pen but instead toward the opposite side of the village. Conor slowed. “Where are you taking me?”

  Eluf responded with a shove. Conor resisted for a brief moment before he gave in to his guard’s prodding.

  Eluf stopped before a smaller hut, its roof thatched but its walls poorly insulated. The guard yanked open the door and shoved Conor inside. He stumbled and caught himself on his hands and knees. Thin straw pallets covered in stained linen lined the hard ground, and a bucket stood in the corner. From the smell, he assumed it to be a makeshift chamber pot. He suddenly wished for the goat pen.

  “You will stay here until you are called again. If you try to escape, you die. Haldor’s orders.”

  Before Conor could respond, Eluf stepped out and shut the door. Conor found a spot away from the bucket and lowered his aching body to the ground, the squalor around him a stark reminder that should he live, he would be a slave.

  Warriors are of no use to me. I give you a tool, you try to kill your guards.

  Haldor was no fool.

  Right now, though, Conor could barely walk, let alone fight, which meant that Haldor’s offer was the only way out.

  That evening, a guard came in with another scrap of bread and a bowl of thin soup. Conor ate slowly, his stomach still uneasy after days of mostly liquid. There had to be other men quartered here, but they must eat someplace else. Someone had ordered the guard to make the extra effort of bringing him food.

  Why? Was Haldor that sure Conor would accept his offer? Why waste food on a prisoner who would be executed?

  He finished the meal and inched himself back against the wall, where he sat, breathing carefully lest he disturb his injuries, until the door opened again. A line of men filed in, each one just this side of malnourished and cloaked in the aura of defeat that only those who had given up hope could possess. All except one.

  Conor studied him for a long moment. Talfryn. The man kept his head down and his movements controlled, but he still possessed a quality that unmistakably screamed warrior. How was
it that they let him move so freely among them?

  The Gwynn sat against the wall a few feet from Conor and shot him a sidelong glance. “So Haldor decided not to kill you after all?”

  “Not until tomorrow at least. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  Conor studied him for a long moment. “On you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Haldor says he never keeps fighting men alive. So how’s it that you’re still here?”

  “Me?” Talfryn’s eyes widened in surprise, and a man beside them guffawed. “What gave you that idea?”

  Conor frowned. Talfryn’s build, his mannerisms—Conor knew instinctively that this man was comfortable with a sword. “I’m rarely wrong about these things. I pegged you for a warrior. Likely a good one.”

  Talfryn’s expression changed. “Interesting.”

  “I don’t . . .”

  The other man shook his head. “I’ll explain later. You said it all depends on me. What did you mean by that?”

  Even though Conor was clearly missing part of the story, his instincts told him he could trust Talfryn, especially after the man had nursed him back to some semblance of health. “He gave me a choice. If I teach him about Seare, he will inquire after my wife in the other settlements. If I don’t, he’ll execute me.”

  “Haldor’s an intelligent man,” Talfryn said. “He knows you wouldn’t betray your country to save your own life, but for someone you love . . .”

  “You told him.”

  “It was necessary. What are you going to do?”

  “What did you do? You must have made some sort of deal to keep yourself alive.”

  “I didn’t.” Talfryn moved closer and lowered his voice. “You are the only one who has been able to perceive me as a warrior. Everyone else believes I’m a eunuch. A house slave.”

  Conor’s eyebrows flew up. Talfryn could alter others’ perceptions of him? That was a gift he’d never heard of. “Then you’re Balian.”

  “You don’t seem surprised by my ability.”

  “I’ve seen things a lot more unbelievable than this.” It explained plenty, though—why he’d recognized the Gwynn’s voice but not his face. “You were the one translating the day I was captured.”

  “I’m the only one who speaks both Norin and the common tongue.”

  “And how did you learn Norin? As a slave?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” Talfryn threw him a smile. “But those are stories for another day. After you’ve made your decision.”

  Talfryn was right. Conor stretched out on a filthy pallet and stared at the dimly illuminated thatching while he pondered his options. Aine was probably dead. Acknowledging the thought seemed to suck the air from the room. The honorable thing to do would be to refuse Haldor’s offer and accept his execution. But what if there were even the slightest chance Aine could be alive and in Sofarende control?

  The surge of hope surprised him. He and Aine had a connection before. Did he have some sort of awareness that she lived? Or was it just wishful thinking?

  What would You have me do, Lord? Do I betray my homeland? Is it even a betrayal? What harm could come from teaching Haldor to speak Seareann?

  Then, Is Aine alive? I want to believe that You saved her once more. I don’t want to fail this test.

  He waited for a sign, some deep certainty about his path. It didn’t come. In fact, when the guard came for him the next morning, he still had no idea what answer he would give.

  Once more, the guards lashed his wrists and ankles to the bench and waited nearby. As the minutes passed and Haldor still did not arrive, Conor’s pulse accelerated. He imagined himself remaining tight-lipped, accepting a pronouncement of death rather than betraying his homeland’s secrets. But it was not his own execution that sprang to mind.

  Haldor chose that moment to appear, and Conor couldn’t help but think the delay had been calculated to make him nervous. He stiffened on the bench, preparing himself, but the big warrior simply regarded him expectantly. “What have you decided?”

  Inspiration struck. “I will accept your offer. On one condition.”

  “What makes you think I’m interested in your condition?”

  “Because you want what I can offer more than you want to execute me.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Send word to the other settlements about my wife immediately, and if they have her, ensure her release. I don’t want her spending any more time imprisoned than necessary.”

  “You think more of my influence than you should. I have no control over what the other settlements do.”

  Conor studied Haldor. The brooch that held his cloak on one shoulder was silver, studded with precious gems. The hilt of his sword was elaborately carved ivory. Taken with his educated speech, Haldor must have been an important man back in Klasjvic. Besides, his men had thought Conor was a spy. That meant Haldor had enemies, and men only had enemies when they had influence.

  “No. You’re someone important. I would stake my life on it.”

  “Easy to say when your life is already in my hands. How do I know you will still tell me what I want to know once she’s safe?”

  “How do I know you will ensure her release?” Conor countered. “Are we men of our word? If not, you might as well kill me now.”

  Haldor considered and then gave him a single nod. He looked to the guard. “Unbind him.”

  The guard reluctantly unknotted the ropes. Conor flexed his hands but otherwise didn’t move. Gaining Haldor’s trust was the key to getting what he wanted.

  “Leave us,” Haldor said to the guard. The man obeyed wordlessly.

  “Tell me, Conor with no clan name, why did you make this decision?”

  Conor remembered the last thing he had said to his wife. You are my world, Aine. Never forget that.

  “Because I value my wife’s safety above my own,” he said finally. “Besides, Seare is under the control of a despicable man. I wouldn’t mind him being occupied with you instead of my countrymen for a while.”

  Haldor laughed. “I like you, Conor. You keep your end of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine. I’ll send my messengers today. Come tomorrow morning after breakfast.”

  Talfryn looked unsurprised to see Conor that night in the prison hut. “You made your decision, then.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I think anything that saves your life and buys you time is a sound decision. I just hope you have a plan. When Haldor gets what he wants, he’ll have no more reason to keep you around.”

  Conor nodded solemnly. He had bargained for Haldor’s help in finding Aine. His own life hadn’t much entered into the decision.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Shortly after dawn the next morning, two guards appeared at the door of their prison and roused them with a shout. Conor groaned and pushed himself into a sitting position, shaking off the grogginess of another restless, nightmare-filled night. The other men automatically lined up at the door, expressionless.

  Talfryn nudged Conor. “Up, quickly. You don’t get in line, you don’t eat.”

  With difficulty, Conor made his stiff limbs obey and fell into line behind the Gwynn warrior. He moved toward the dim light of the door, but one of the guards stopped him with the haft of a spear.

  “Hands,” he said in Norin.

  Conor obeyed and held out his wrists to be bound. The guard also knotted a rope around his ankles, leaving just enough slack for him to walk in small, shuffling steps. He would have been flattered if the whole idea were not so ludicrous. Were he really capable of escape, a length of rope would hardly be a deterrent.

  He hurried forward to catch up with the others, helped along by the occasional jab of a spear point between his shoulder blades.

  Talfryn shot him a wry smile over his shoulder. “The most dangerous prisoner.”

  “Until I have need of breathing deeply.”

  “Quiet!” The guard thwacked the back of Conor’s thigh with the spe
ar, hard enough to make him stumble.

  Conversation effectively cut off, Conor instead looked to his surroundings. The village was larger than he had first thought. The curve of the stone and earth walls seemed to suggest a large circle, and timber-planked walkways formed the main thoroughfares, intersected at right angles by other, smaller walkways.

  The line halted at a little square formed by several small buildings, in the middle of which hung a heavy iron cauldron over a cook fire. An old woman in a linen shift and wool overdress ladled porridge into wooden bowls, strings of beads swinging from the two brooches at her bosom as she worked. Substitute a man for the woman, and it wasn’t so far from what he’d been accustomed to in Ard Dhaimhin.

  The line moved slowly forward. Conor held his hands out wordlessly for a bowl, but the woman paused before placing it into his hands. Her lips twisted into a sneer, and she spat into his bowl. “Balian filth.”

  Conor cringed, but he took the food anyway, not knowing when the opportunity to eat would come again. The other men crouched in a circle nearby, eating with their hands. He squatted beside Talfryn and scooped out the spittle floating on top of the thick oat mush.

  “She gave you something extra today, did she?” Talfryn said with a wicked grin.

  “She called me Balian filth.”

  “Ah, don’t take it personally. Yesterday, she spat in Geralt’s and called him the son of a cross-eyed mule. She’s completely mad.”

  “I feel so much better.” Conor tried not to think of what had been in his porridge. It was still probably cleaner than his fingers, though, which seemed to be the only utensils he’d be getting.

  Across from them, Dyllan, the biggest of the prisoners—though, given their emaciated states, that wasn’t saying much—took the bowl from an adolescent boy. The young slave protested, only to get cuffed in the ear for his trouble. Conor shot a look at the grinning guard and then stood up.