Heartland

by Lucy Hounsom

  Without the void’s detachment, the chaos around her seemed magnified and Kyndra stood, dazed by the noise. A hand touched her shoulder: Nediah. ‘We have to get out of here,’ the Wielder said urgently. He pulled her, stumbling, around a burning tent and towards the motley group of rescuers.

  ‘If you wish to live, come,’ one said. The voice was female, but between the mud and the helm she wore, Kyndra couldn’t see the woman’s face. ‘Aberrations are always welcome among us.’

  There wasn’t time to ask what she meant. Medavle was struggling to keep his horse under control; Irilin was looking behind him at the advancing Sartyans. She flung out her hands and something silvery and vast caught the edges of Kyndra’s vision – a shield. ‘I can’t hold it long!’ Irilin shouted.

  Their rescuers took the use of magic in their stride; clearly, they were just as familiar with Lunar energy as the Sartyans. ‘Move or die here,’ the woman said, signalling. Archers hidden around the camp’s fringes rose and began to drop back, firing as they went. ‘Do not mount until we’re clear of the camp.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Nediah asked, but the painted figure waved his question away.

  ‘No time.’

  ‘Until morning, we’re outnumbered,’ Medavle said to Nediah. ‘My abilities are limited and Irilin is exhausted. If we stay, we’ll be killed or recaptured.’

  ‘Let Kyndra handle—’ Kait began, but Nediah cut her off.

  ‘No,’ he said sharply. Was that suspicion in his face? Had he seen what she’d done to the soldier? Suddenly the blood that drenched Kyndra’s clothes felt heavy and cold, weighing her down. She was glad of the darkness.

  Without further argument, they broke and ran for the night, accompanied by the thump and clatter of feet and hooves on hard soil. Their unlooked-for rescuers ran beside them, bared teeth white in muddy faces. Thanks to Irilin’s shield, the sound of pursuit swiftly faded, but Kyndra heard a furious shout as they fled and looked back to see Hagdon, standing at the edge of the burning camp, bloody scratches dark along one cheek. For just a moment it seemed as if they locked eyes and then the night swallowed him.

  Once they’d left the chaos behind, they deemed it safe to mount and Kyndra scrambled gratefully into her saddle. She felt sick from a lack of food and water and the coppery stench of blood coating her clothes. Their mysterious companions didn’t tire, but kept up an effortless lope. Kyndra looked sideways at Irilin whose face was grey and slack. Though she must be equally weary, she was still shielding the whole group.

  ‘How much further until we stop?’ Nediah called.

  No one answered him. The sky was beginning to pale now, bringing the cool of morning, and Kyndra shivered, thinking longingly of sleep. But she couldn’t let her guard down, not yet, not until she knew who these people were and why they’d rescued them.

  Irilin let out a sigh and slumped in her saddle, the shield winking out as the sun rose. ‘Are you all right?’ Kyndra asked her. She vividly recalled the young woman’s face only hours before, with her fever-eyes and snarling mouth, fighting like a cornered beast. Now Irilin’s eyes were shadowed; she was looking at Kyndra, at the blood that showed dark against the growing daylight.

  Kyndra’s face felt stiff with it. She looked down at herself, at her red hands gripping the reins, and swallowed, hoping she wasn’t going to throw up. She’d been trying not to think of it, but the memory of what she’d done to the soldier, to a fellow human, returned to haunt her. Again she saw the spray of blood, felt the snap of the woman’s spine, as if it were no stronger than a twig.

  You did what you had to, she told herself, she was going to kill you. And yet … was that true? Hagdon had wanted them alive, bloodied perhaps, but alive. No matter how vicious the soldier had seemed, she wouldn’t have taken Kyndra’s life. But Kyndra had taken hers, as if she had a right to it. She closed her eyes against the horror, against the sight of the blood on her skin, but it was still there. What she had done would never go away.

  Eventually, the terrain grew rugged and began to slope upwards, dark shapes rearing against the dawn. As they neared, Kyndra saw that the plain was broken by a tangled nest of cliffs and fissures – gullies that cut through a shattered mountain range.

  When they passed into their shade, Kyndra shifted uneasily. It looked like someone had plunged a serrated knife into the land and then dragged it through as if it were flesh. ‘What is this place?’ she asked the mud-slicked man who jogged beside her.

  ‘The teeth of the earth,’ he answered, ‘Skar.’

  ‘Why have you brought us here?’

  ‘It is our home,’ was all he said.

  They were deep into the gullies when the woman who led their group held up a hand for them to stop. The wind whistled as it navigated the rocky maze, stirring Kyndra’s hair and causing the others to twist in their saddles, scanning the seemingly featureless sandstone. The sun had cleared the horizon now, but it would be hours until it shone directly into the gullies. Nediah and Kait looked more alert and not a little relieved at the return of their Solar powers. If their ‘rescuers’ tried anything, they’d likely get more than they’d bargained for.

  The woman gave a loud clap and Kyndra winced at the reverberations that thundered through the surrounding rocks. When the echoes finally faded, she caught movement up on the sheer cliffs to either side and she tensed, hands clenched tight around her horse’s reins. Figures melted seemingly out of the rock, camouflaged in clothes of the same colour. Some held drawn bows and Kyndra gave an involuntary shiver. For how long had she and her group been their unknowing targets? Kait hissed through her teeth when she saw the archers.

  A small sound behind caused her to turn. More figures now blocked the way back, heavily armed, their lower faces masked. Kyndra suspected there were dozens of arrows trained on them from above. She was no tactician, but even she could see that the combination of narrow gullies and cliffs was highly defensible and perfect for ambushes. Who were these people? Why had they chosen to help them escape from the Sartyan camp?

  As if she’d asked aloud, a man slipped out of a narrow defile and came to greet their group’s leader. The woman removed her leather helm, shook out long hair, and Kyndra found herself pinned by hazel eyes, fierce amidst the face paint.

  The man beside her was unpainted, his brow deeply furrowed, as if he carried the weight of a responsibility he was unable or unwilling to cast aside. ‘Congratulations,’ he said to Kyndra and the others, ‘you’ve found the Defiant.’

  8

  Na Sung Aro, Acre

  Char

  The iarls arrived at dawn. As Char had guessed, Rogan and Alder were among them, accompanied by two more, dressed lavishly for the desert. ‘New money,’ Rogan said disdainfully in a voice he didn’t bother to lower. He was a handsome man, as far as Char was any judge of it, swarthy-skinned and just approaching his middle years. He owed his wealth to a dozen mines situated north of the city of Cymenza. His friend, Iarl Alder, was perhaps ten years Rogan’s senior and the two had a longstanding partnership. Rogan’s mines supplied the ore for Alder’s smiths. And it was Alder’s practice of staffing his smithies exclusively with women that ensured Genge’s caravan a regular income.

  ‘Alder and I were talking shop,’ Rogan said. He jerked his thumb at the overdressed strangers. ‘Unfortunately, they heard. Wish we’d been more circumspect. I won’t tolerate being outbid, of course, but they’re a little too free with their ken.’

  Char nodded absently, his mind still reeling with the events of last night and the plans he and Ma had made for this evening. He couldn’t quite believe this would be his last ever auction.

  ‘How goes it with you, Char?’ Rogan asked as they watched Alder inspecting the two girls. The sisters stood beside their cages and it was only the chains on their wrists and ankles that gave them away as slaves. Dressed as they were in simple flax, they could have passed for townswomen out on some errand.

  It took a moment for Rogan’s question to register. ‘All rig
ht, Iarl,’ Char answered blandly. ‘Looking forward to some time in ‘Aro.’

  ‘You men always are,’ Rogan said. ‘I spotted the brothers there last night.’

  The Black Bazaar had left Ren and Tunser hollow-eyed and Char suspected they’d smoked a good deal of their wages away. Genge threw them dirty looks between the smiles he reserved for his customers.

  ‘I’ll be bidding, Master Genge,’ Alder announced, his eyes flicking briefly to the two new iarls hovering off to one side. ‘These are well up to your usual excellent standard.’

  The blue-eyed girl opened her mouth as if to speak, but Ma was suddenly at her shoulder and she seemed to think better of it.

  ‘How’s Ma?’ Rogan asked a bit too casually, his eyes lingering on her body. Ma wore her market-garb this morning – a pale, sleeveless top paired with airy trousers that narrowed at the ankle. She’d swapped her boots for sandals and a heavy gold torque ringed her neck, shining against the rich brown of her skin. Her hands were gloved as usual and leather thongs wrapped her forearms. A blue scarf covered her hair.

  It was funny, Char thought, as he watched the lust on Rogan’s face. Ma had barely changed in all the years he’d known her. Many men found her attractive … although most knew better than to try anything. ‘Fine,’ he answered shortly, hoping to kill the topic, but Rogan continued anyway.

  ‘She, you know, had any offers of late?’

  ‘No.’

  Although the iarl shifted uncomfortably under Char’s black-lensed stare, the one-word answers didn’t deter him. ‘So, speaking as someone who knows her well, do you think she’d be … amenable if I were to—’

  ‘With respect, Rogan, I think she’d break your legs.’

  ‘Ah yes, well. I thought it might be like that.’ He sighed mournfully. ‘What a woman.’

  Char felt a reluctant smile pulling at the side of his mouth before Genge sauntered over and turned the conversation to business. ‘Rogan, my friend. See anything you like?’

  Rogan nodded and the two men moved apart from the others to converse in low voices. The fat man whom Genge had found in the shipwreck watched them, his face already beaded with sweat from the warming day – or perhaps from nerves. But he had little to fear if Rogan bought him. The iarl was not a cruel man, merely pragmatic. And despite his untiring pursuit of Ma, Char rather liked him.

  Once Alder and Rogan were gone, the ‘new-money’ iarls who’d hovered on the sidelines approached Genge. Although Char was busy setting up for the auction, he didn’t fail to notice Genge’s look of interest, or the way both iarls glanced at the girls. It seemed Alder might have competition. When finally the men left too, Char found himself working to the tune of Genge’s whistling. The slave master only whistled when in the very best of moods.

  Ma had noticed too. ‘I don’t like those men,’ she said to Char as he unpacked the portable stage they used for auctions. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re scouting for brothel girls. If they offer more than Alder, and I expect them to, then Genge will sell.’

  ‘Well, why wouldn’t he?’ Char replied, securing one of the stage’s struts. ‘That’s the point of an auction.’

  He knew he’d angered her by her intake of breath and the way her shoulders hunched. ‘I don’t want the girls to go to them,’ Ma said. ‘Alder will work them hard but fairly. Smithing’s a decent trade.’ She paused. ‘No woman should be forced to lie with a man.’

  Char glanced round. ‘It’s still slavery, Ma. What difference does it make where the girls end up?’

  ‘It makes a difference,’ Ma said, her expression hardening. ‘And I brought you up to realize it.’

  The hypocrisy of the situation grated on Char. Anger prickled. He dropped the hammer in the sand and turned to face her. ‘Those girls hate you,’ he said. ‘They hate me. Give them knives and they’d slit our throats … and they’d be right to do it.’ He could hear the rage in his voice, bubbling, barely controlled. ‘We are the monsters, Ma, not the iarls, not the pimps. It’s us. We make this happen.’ He swept an encompassing arm at the caravan. ‘All of this. Who brought the girls here to be haggled over? Who takes their cut of ken after market? If the girls are sold into whoring, it’s our fault. It’s your fault.’

  She hit him, a swift slap to the cheek. Char didn’t flinch; he’d expected it. He bent and retrieved the hammer from the sand. ‘Don’t lie to yourself, Ma,’ he said, his anger beginning to fade under the sting of his own words. ‘This is the life you chose.’

  Her sandalled feet moved off softly through the sand and Char returned to his work. There was much still to do. It was auction day.

  ‘One hundred red ken. Do I have one fifty?’

  ‘Look at the fat on him!’ someone shouted.

  Genge turned towards the voice. ‘Which is why he’s worth one fifty – for the next few months at least, he’s his own food.’

  There were snorts of laughter and – though his eyes were wide with fear – the pudgy man from the Hozen Swamps tried to tug his tunic further down his exposed belly. Char had positioned himself to the left of the auction stage, opposite Ren and Tunser who stood at evenly spaced intervals. He kept his weapons on full view, alongside a trio of knives stuck brazenly into his belt. The blades were only there for show since some didn’t see his kali sticks as weapons. This part of his job was simple: discourage trouble.

  ‘He’s a hooch-brewer and a spiller of secrets. Tickle him with a knife and all sorts of information comes tumbling out. Information you’ll find a use for, no doubt. He was a local of the Hozen Swamps, an area notoriously difficult to penetrate.’ Genge made an aside to the audience, but his voice was loud enough to carry. ‘And, once you’ve milked him dry, he’s a house-boy in the making.’

  More laughter. ‘So do I have one fifty, sirs?’ Genge shouted.

  ‘One fifty!’

  Genge graciously acknowledged the bid, his eyes raking the crowd. ‘Two hundred?’

  ‘Two hundred,’ another voice echoed and Char was surprised to hear it was Rogan’s.

  ‘Two fifty?’

  Silence. ‘Do I have two fifty?’ Genge asked again. His forehead wrinkled into an expression Char knew well: the slave master realized he’d get no more. ‘Going once. Going twice …’ He let the phrase hang in the air, holding out for a bid that wouldn’t come.

  ‘Sold,’ Genge said with that wrinkle of disappointment creasing his brow. Char smiled to himself, recalling his words to the Hozener a couple of days back. So the man really was worth only two hundred red ken.

  Ma wove through the crowd, ready to take Rogan’s deposit, while Hake picked up the Hozener’s chain and led him, whimpering, off the platform.

  He returned with the two girls. Unlike the fat man, they fought tooth and nail to escape. Char noticed the extra and unnecessary chain that passed through the manacles on their wrists and ankles, linking them together. Each wore a slave collar, trailing more chain, which Hake secured to rings at the back of the stage.

  The mood of the crowd changed as both girls struggled. Genge’s manservant calmly finished tethering them and then retreated to stand at the edge of the platform. Gazing out at the gathered people, Char noticed the ugly shine in some men’s eyes and narrowed his own. Auctions always drew a crowd. They came for the show and – by fighting – the girls were giving them one. The elder sister who’d spat at Char the other day was pretty with brown hair that tried to free itself of the tight plait Ma had secured it in. Although her teeth were bared in a snarl, her blue eyes were fearful and she kept darting worried glances at her younger sibling, whose cheeks were wet with tears. Char looked quickly away, their plight waking the anger he constantly strove to bury. No, he thought, trying to tamp down the rage before it became a torch. Not here, not now.

  Genge’s frown had disappeared and he practically beamed at the girls before turning to face his audience. Char loosened the sticks in their sheaths. This could get nasty.

  ‘Sisters,’ Genge said, ‘the youngest no more
than sixteen. Healthy, strong and – because I’m a kind-hearted bastard – selling as a pair.’ There were leers and shouts from the crowd. Char caught Ma’s eye. She’d moved back to get a clearer view of the audience. He spotted Alder and the two new iarls, their faces alight with the thrill of the auction.

  ‘For such fine creatures, I’m opening the bidding at three hundred red ken,’ Genge said and Char knew from the low starting bid that the slave master expected to make a lot of money.

  On cue, Alder said, ‘Three fifty.’

  ‘Four hundred,’ one of the new iarls countered.

  ‘Four fifty.’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Five fifty.’

  Genge didn’t have to say a word. Alder was glaring at the iarl bidding against him and the man smiled back serenely. The crowd had hushed to better hear the battle.

  ‘Six hundred,’ Alder said.

  ‘Seven,’ the other iarl countered and Alder’s face tightened. Char saw Rogan put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Seven hundred and twenty-five,’ Alder said with more than a hint of sourness.

  ‘Eight hundred.’

  Genge was almost beside himself with glee. He looked at Alder. ‘Do I have eight fifty?’

  ‘You do,’ Alder said fiercely, his face a thundercloud.

  Genge gave him a gracious nod. ‘Nine hundred?’ the slave master asked with a glance at the other iarl. Char watched Ma’s gloved hands curl into fists. Her eyes were fixed and steely. If looks were blows, the iarl would be pulp on the sand.

  ‘One hundred,’ the iarl said. Clearly confused, Genge opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the iarl added, ‘black ken.’

  The crowd gasped and Genge looked as if someone had struck him a blow to the head. ‘Black?’ he said stupidly. Char stared at the iarl, unable to believe his ears, and the distraction cost him his concentration. His grip on the rage that seemed to burn in his very soul slipped. He lunged for it, struggling to stay calm, but the fight was harder than it had ever been. Char stood stone still, but inside it felt as if he were being flung back and forth by a hurricane, a wind that tasted of fire. Sweat beaded his face.