by Matt Gilbert
Marcus tried to stifle a laugh, and mostly failed. Tyler, however, seemed to grow even sadder. “There is no war.”
Ahmed’s stared at the barbarians in confusion. “Then how are there prisoners?”
Marcus grew somber. “No need for a war to take prisoners, boy. Not if you’re in the business of trading slaves. You just need to find people who can’t do anything about it.”
Ahmed answered with a grim nod, understanding now. “How is it that this can even be done?”
Tyler pointed to the ship. “They take them from Prima, or islands nearby. The slip up on them in the night. Even if they didn’t, it’s steel against stone and wood. It’s all too easy.”
Ahmed waved a hand in derision. “I know well the arts of war, barbarian. I ask how this can be done to a man?”
“Aye. I cannot understand such cruelty either.”
Ahmed rolled his eyes in frustration. “Still, your uncivilized mind cannot grasp my meaning.” He pointed at the brown man on the platform who was even now the subject of much bidding. “What makes you certain that he is a man, and not a beast to be subjugated as any other?”
Marcus continued laughing silently as Tyler struggled for words. “Gods, Xanthian, are you so arrogant that you cannot see they are men just like yourself?”
Ahmed nodded and turned toward the chained man, considering the point. “He looks like a man, aye, but men are judged by their deeds, not their appearance.” He turned back to Tyler. “A true man would die before allowing himself to be a slave. These men live. I say they are not men at all, but beasts.”
Tyler was growing angry now, his eyes blazing. “A cruel and ignorant judgment made by a cruel and ignorant young man!”
“Is it so?” Ahmed gestured to Marcus. “Tell me, would you surrender to such men, or fight to the death?”
Marcus grinned. “I would fight. And I would die. But all men do.”
Ahmed turned back to Tyler, beaming with triumph. “What say you now?”
Tyler glared up at Ahmed with distaste. “I say that you have much gall to call me a barbarian.”
Ahmed waved Tyler’s comment aside as if it were a gnat flying in his face. “I will call you that again. Any man who will not fight and die if need be for his freedom does not deserve it.”
“All men deserve freedom!”
“A lie! It is like saying all men deserve food, even the ones who do no work. How will they have it? If they will not take it for themselves, who will? If someone else does, are they not still beholden to him? No man is free unless he makes himself so!”
Marcus nodded in agreement as Tyler glared back and forth at them. “It’s what I’ve been telling you all along. It may need politicking too, but politicking alone won’t do it. At some point, it comes to steel. It always does with these sorts.” He cast a murderous glare at the man on the platform. “They’ll spread that woman in chains up there for the money, and not feel a thing while she cries. You’d better believe they’ll stick a knife in you if you get close to shutting them down. Trust me, there will be blood. It’s just a matter of whose it turns out to be.”
Tyler stared at the ground, his shoulders sagging. “I swore I would never turn to violence again after….”
The large barbarian put a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “So did I. But we were young. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, Tyler, it’s that there is time and place for everything. Men like us, if we want to make a difference, we have to be prepared to fight. And we’d better be prepared to work with some hard men.”
Tyler nodded, clearly miserable.
Ahmed scowled down at them. “I think you are too soft-hearted. Why would you take up the cause for men who will not fight for themselves?”
“Could be they didn’t understand what would happen to them until it was too late,” Marcus suggested. “Maybe if they had the chance to fight now, they would.”
Ahmed raised an eyebrow, considering. It was possible. “Give me your sword. We will see who will fight.”
Marcus sighed and reached beneath his cloak as Tyler turned a shocked stare toward him. “You came armed? What the hell did you intend to do here?”
Marcus handed the blade to Ahmed. “I don’t know. Something. I hadn’t got that far yet. But I think he’ll do better at it than I would, anyway.”
Ahmed nodded and gave his horse a kick. The beast reared and gave a loud neigh, and Ahmed joined in with his own battle cry. The barbarians immediately scattered, screaming as he and his mount surged forward and leapt onto the platform, barely missing the slaver.
Ahmed drew his own blade, and tossed Marcus’s on the platform before the slaver. Below, the crowd had stopped screaming and was watching in fascination.
“Pick it up, dog.”
The slaver looked back and forth between the crowd and Ahmed, as if he expected salvation and was frustrated that it was not forthcoming. “You get down from here right now!” he cried as he backed away. “This is against the law! I have rights!”
Ahmed dismounted, chuckling, and kicked the blade toward the slaver. “I know my rights. I think you are very confused about yours.”
The slaver backed up again, and stood at the edge of the platform. “This is my property! You’re trespassing. That’s against the law!”
Ahmed laughed out loud. “Ah, I have heard of your law. I do not believe in your primitive superstition. It has no power over me.”
Panicked, the slaver tried to step back again, felt his foot contact nothing at all, and put it back on the platform. “You’re crazy!”
“You’re the crazy ones, barbarian. Pick it up!”
“No!” The slaver kicked the sword back toward Ahmed.
Ahmed glared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Take off your clothes.”
“What--?”
Ahmed brought the tip of his sword to the man’s throat. “Take off your clothes. All of them. Don’t make me tell you again.”
The slaver stared at Ahmed in shock for a moment longer, and then, in a sudden burst of energy, began tearing off his clothes as if they were on fire. Some of the crowd made catcalls. A bottle came sailing from the crowd, aimed directly for Ahmed, but he ducked the missile.
“Will you take the blade?” Ahmed called, pointing at the thrower. The man spun and quickly vanished into the crowd without a word. “Coward! Dog!” Ahmed cried after him, but his taunts were ignored. He turned back to the slaver. “Against the bar.”
The slaver, now fully naked, looked much like his slaves as he tried to cover himself. “Fine! Just don’t kill me!” The slaver meekly shuffled to the bar and made no move to resist as Ahmed shackled him, though his eyes were full of fear and loathing. You should fear me, barbarian dog. I am your better.
Ahmed turned back to the crowd and raised his arms in a victory pose. “There is one man who will not fight!” he shouted. “Two, if you count the bottle thrower!” He grinned at the crowd. They seemed to be enjoying the spectacle well enough. Perhaps barbarians were much like civilized men after all, at least when they were amused. He bowed with a flourish, then bent to rifle through the slaver's pile of clothes. He stood again, held up a set of keys for the crowd to see, then turned to the brown man chained to the bar. “Will you pick up the sword?”
The slave looked at him, confused, terrified. “And fight you?”
“Aye. To the death. Agree and I will unchain you.”
“You’re crazy!” the man hissed. “You will kill me!”
“Would you die a man or live on as a slave? You might get lucky.”
“No!”
Ahmed stepped back, and cast a glance toward Marcus, but the big barbarian would not meet his gaze. The crowd booed. Ahmed turned next to the woman. “And you? Do you cling to life above dignity, too? Or would you risk your life, knowing that if nothing else, you would die free?”
The woman tried to speak, but could only choke out a sob. She nodded and raised a hand.
Ahmed shuffled through t
he various keys until he found the right one, and unlocked her legs and one arm. She rushed forward, lunging for the sword, but it was just out of her reach. Ahmed inserted the key into the final lock. The woman glanced at Ahmed briefly, her gaze one of infinite distance, a hundred yard stare, the contemplation of eternity and a single, slim chance. She turned her attention back toward the weapon, straining at her last bond, knowing that steel in her hand was the best she could hope for. Ahmed nodded and turned the key.
The woman dove for the blade, and Ahmed kicked her in the face. She staggered, blood pouring from her nose and mouth, but she did not turn aside. Her small hands closed on the hilt, and swung it full force toward her opponent.
Ahmed parried her attacks, nodding, grinning. “Fight harder!”
The crowd was deathly silent now as the naked woman hurled herself at the Xanthian. She was no warrior, nor was she hard of body, yet her muscles obeyed her will. Her shame was gone now. Blow after blow she hurled at Ahmed, screaming in defiance and hatred for all that she had endured. If sheer will could kill a man, I would already be dead.
“Enough!” he shouted. “I yield!”
The woman seemed not to hear him. She continued swinging, and he continued parrying, until the message in her eyes and ears at last reached her mind. She backed slowly away, chest heaving, spittle dripping from her lips, fury blazing in her eyes.
Ahmed tossed the key ring to the ground in front of her and mounted his horse. He waved at Marcus and Tyler, then snapped the reigns and sent the horse over the side of the platform. The crowd moved quickly to clear a path for him.
Ahmed sent his horse galloping down the beach as the slaver began to scream.
Yazid was staring out over the waves patiently. He waved as Ahmed approached, and stared at him in silence for long moments. “Do you see, now?”
Ahmed nodded. “The barbarians trade other barbarians like beasts.”
“And what do you think of such things?”
Ahmed shrugged. “I think little of cowards.”
Yazid’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I have seen this too-innocent look on your face many times, boy. I am no fool. You have done more than observe. What trouble have you been up to?”
Ahmed pursed his lips and shrugged again. “I put some of them to the test.”
Yazid glared at him a moment, then shook his head in amusement, a broad smile on his face. “Then we should be off. The barbarians will be after us for violating their law, and they will come in numbers, for they fear us greatly.”
“Aye, no doubt it is true.”
“One question, boy. Do you understand now why I said ‘usually’?”
“I think so. Some of the barbarians do not like selling men as beasts. The nations squabble amongst themselves over it, yes?”
“Indeed. There is bloodshed from time to time, some covert forces with deniability. There will be war proper over it soon enough, mark my words.”
“And Xanthia? Where would we stand?”
“In Jacynth, I suspect, while the rest focus here.”
Ahmed laughed out loud. “Then may the barbarians go to war soon!”
“Aye. But enough talk. Let’s board our ship and be off before the barbarians clap us in irons.”
Chapter 2: The Sorcerer's Sons
The library in the ancestral home of House Amrath was one of the most revered locations in all of Nihlos, second only to Tasinal’s courtroom, and perhaps not even to that. Amrath had written his great book and many of his most moving treatises in this very room. Here, behind the great oaken desk, Amrath had put quill to parchment and created the law. Here, before the enormous stone fireplace, Amrath had held forth to the other founders on philosophy, no doubt shaking his fist and shouting with a passion that was legend as he hammered home his arguments.
Unlike the courtroom, the library was no huge edifice, merely a comfortable room where the Great Father had found inspiration and, on occasion, peace. The floor was smooth marble, the walls lined with shelves of black, polished wood, each holding books of inestimable value, some hundreds of years old. There was no room for ornamentation on the walls, nor even sconces: all of the space was for the books.
Aiul rose from the couch and stared in silence at the lifelike statue of his ancestor, Amrath, a man he thought of as having been like unto a god, and bowed his head in respect. “Great Father,” he said softly, “Before I tell the others, I would tell you.” He bent toward the statue and whispered in its ear, then stepped back and smiled, imagining he saw the emerald eyes twinkling with pleasure at the news.
“Fair enough,” called a familiar, aged voice. “But wait not too long, boy. Some of us will be with him before long, and he will deprive you of the chance to tell us first, you know!”
Aiul turned quickly to the library’s entrance, his smile broadening into a grin. “Maranath!”
The ancient fellow stood framed by the entryway, his head almost touching the lintel as he pushed one of the heavy, oaken doors open. He smiled broadly beneath his wild, white beard and stepped slowly into the room. At his age, his once formidable height worked against him, making balance difficult. He leaned heavily on his cane as he entered, watching his feet carefully so as not to trip over his long, brown robe. “And friend,” he added, chuckling.
A woman, as old as Maranath but spry and tiny like a doll, pushed open the remaining door and entered behind him. She wore flowing silks that made her look as if she might blow away in a strong breeze, and a huge ruby about her neck that might well have been an anchor against just such an occurrence.
Aiul’s grin grew even broader. “Ariano! I am honored, indeed!”
“You honor us, child,” she replied, her voice strong and smooth, betraying not even a hint of her age. The pair regarded him for a moment with eyes that seemed far too young and full of life for their wrinkled faces.
“Well?” Maranath asked. “Out with it! I’m tired of pretending that I have no idea what you intend to say.”
Ariano punched him in the arm. “Impatient goat! He’s waiting for his mother.”
“Is he, now?” Maranath chuckled and flashed her a knowing grin. “I think he won’t have to wait long.”
Ariano glared pointedly at her companion for a moment, then turned back to Aiul, her face sweet and gentle once again, and mock-whispered, “He’s always in a hurry these days. Not much time left, you know!”
“It’s hardly a new thing,” Maranath sighed. “It is a curse of the blood. Aswan himself was the very icon of impatience.”
Ariano tittered. “Oh, don’t blame Aswan for your failings!”
“I’ve shown remarkable patience in the past, I’ll have you know.”
Ariano patted his face gently and nodded agreement. “That you have, Maranath.”
“Won’t you have a seat?” Aiul invited the pair. “I’m sure Mother will be along any moment, and it’s just us four. It’s the sort of news that family should hear first.”
Ariano blushed, and Maranath cleared his throat, embarrassed. “It is kind of you to call us such, child,” Ariano said. She took Maranath’s arm and the two walked slowly to the plush couch in front of the fireplace. Maranath grimaced and winced as he lowered himself to a sitting position, then sighed with relief.
Aiul was just about to offer them a drink when he heard the sound of footsteps in the foyer. Moments later, Narelki, Matriarch of House Amrath stood in the doorway, an expression of slight annoyance on her normally serene face. She wore a simple, form fitting dress of white silk, and no jewelry at all. She is perpetually severe. To Aiul, she seemed more sculpture than woman, a female counterpoint to the statue of Amrath: noble, aquiline face of whitest alabaster, with high, chiseled cheeks and pointed chin; fine hair of spun gold, not a strand out of place; narrowed, cold eyes of pale, blue sapphire; thin, pressed, disapproving lips carved of ruby.
Her heart, he knew, was made of stone, so why not the rest of her?
Narelki raised an eyebrow as she surveyed the room.
“I see we have guests.”
Aiul flashed his most charming, confident smile at his mother. “Indeed we do. I invited them to hear my news.”
“And welcome the two of you are in my humble abode,” she said, nodding to the two elders. “As for me, I feel more summoned than invited, but as our Great Father told us, feelings have little to do with reality.”
“It is good to see you, child,” Ariano offered.
Narelki seemed to soften just the tiniest fraction at this. “It is good to see the both of you, as well. It has been some time, hasn’t it?”
“You are young,” Ariano said. “You have responsibilities. We understand.”
Maranath rolled his eyes as if to say, “Speak for yourself,” and Aiul struggled not to laugh out loud. He, too, suspected Narelki’s sudden grace was more out of decorum than any real sense of ease or reunion, but he would take what he could get.
Obviously, no one was going to be surprised by his news, but it was time to make it official. “Well, you’re all anxious to hear my ‘secret’, so I’ll go straight at it. The test was positive. Lara is pregnant! I am to be a father, and Great Father Amrath’s line moves forward once again.”
Ariano clapped her hands together and grinned like a child before a birthday cake, and Maranath rose with uncharacteristic speed to clap a hand Against Aiul’s back. “Well done, boy! Well done indeed!” He gave an exaggerated wink and chuckled, “We knew, of course. What else could it be? But it’s good to hear it from your lips. Congratulations!”
“It’s wonderful news, Aiul!” Ariano said. “I simply must do something to commemorate the occasion.” She clasped her hands together and tilted here head, a look of pure bliss on her face, her eyes widening and seeming to lose focus as she considered. “A song? A sculpture? A painting, perhaps, of you and Lara. I have some techniques I’ve been wanting to try. Or a mosaic!” She was more excited now. “Yes! I could do something grand on one of the walls in your new home! Have you any ideas on where you will live?”
