“Wait, please, mercy,” the figure choked out, and I suddenly recognised Adar, the little halfwit. I threw him on the floor and lit the small oil lamp in the corner. When the light touched his face, I could see bloody claw marks across his cheeks and nose, definitely not from me. I almost burst out laughing.
“She got you, did she?”
He gave a jerky nod, tears running down his face. “I'm sorry, I was such‒ such a f-fool,” he sobbed, clambering up onto the other cot, his fingertips exploring his wounds. “I j-just wanted some hay to sleep in, but she‒ she invited me closer, unlaced her d-dress, showed me her... Her...” He couldn't seem to utter the next word, only blush like a virgin.
I snorted a laugh. “Be glad it was just your face she tore. Clean yourself up, and learn. The prettier the flower, the deadlier the poison.” He nodded again, trying to stop himself from blubbering. I waved at the cot. “Sleep there. Just don't make noise.”
He was pathetically grateful. It took me ten minutes to get him to shut up and go to bed.
I woke from Adar's insistent hands shaking me by the shoulders. I snarled at him in half-awake fury, my hand already going for my missing knife when I heard someone bang on the door. Recognised the innkeeper's voice shouting, “The lady requests your presence outside. There's a problem with her servant.”
“What kind of problem?” I barked at the door, barely conscious and already in a mood.
“Apparently she's gotten hold of a sword,” the innkeep answered.
I didn't know how to respond to that. I did notice, however, the way Adar gasped and staggered backwards. His hand reached for his belt and closed on empty air. Eyes shimmering, he let out a self-pitying whimper.
In the background I could hear the innkeep tromping back down the stairs, his job as messenger fulfilled to his satisfaction. I, meanwhile, dragged myself upright and turned on Adar.
“What did you do?” I demanded in a dead-level voice. He looked down miserably, and I tried to think back, unable to believe that I could've failed to notice him carrying a weapon. “You were supposed to hand everything over at the gate, you little piss-stain! Where did you even get a sword?!”
“I didn't mean to, it's my responsibility, I... I...” He moaned. “They never should've given it to me. I'm not good enough!”
“Just sit down and shut up,” I snapped. “Right now I've got to go clean up your mess. Then we're going to have some words.”
I skipped down the stairs and out the door. The place had been brightened by cheerful morning light and washes of emerald green grass and pine needles, like heavy-handed brushstrokes on canvas. However, a strong southern breeze carried the smell of smoke and industry all the way from Newmond, and the badly-tended cesspit out back lent an unpleasant taint to air.
Slowing my pace I made my way through the crowd of excited onlookers and arrived at the stables, where Sir Erroll stood dressed in breastplate and tunic, hefting the heater shield with which he kept the crowd at bay. A little ways inside I could make out the woman's slender hourglass shape, trying to appeal to the slave girl with little success.
“Ah, Byren,” called the knight. “Lovely morning, eh? I don't know how that desert whore got her hands on it, but by God I'll make sure she never raises a weapon again!”
“Don't trouble yourself, Sir Erroll,” I replied, suppressing a flash of irritation, “I'll take care of it.”
I went on into the hay-strewn chaos of the stables without waiting for a reply.
Our cart still stood down the main aisle, next to a messy pile of straw where someone had been sleeping. Nervous horses neighed and snorted everywhere around me, tails swishing, hooves stamping the dirt.
The woman jerked suddenly and backed into me, the tip of a gleaming bronze sword inches from her throat. The slave girl strained against her chains to reach a little bit further, but the irons held. She couldn't quite make the killing blow. Beads of sweat stood out on her brow as she spat insults in at least two languages.
“Idiot girl,” the woman hissed. She turned in an angry whirl of skirts, and looked up at me with her lips set in a thin line. For a moment she didn't seem to recognise me. Then her smile returned and she brushed thick dark locks out of her eyes. “Master Byren. I honestly don't care what you do or say to her, as long as you get that sword. This has been very embarrassing and I'd like to be away from this hateful little town as soon as possible.”
I'd been given my orders. I nodded, and did my best to remain graceful when she touched my arm by way of thanks. As usual I spent too long watching her leave. Thankfully she didn't look back.
When I turned round, the sword-point still weaved trembling figure-eights in front of me, the girl's face still a murderous mask behind it. Somehow the weapon drew more of my attention than the girl. Its blade was a triangle, fat at the base, tapering to an almost needle-like point. Behind it, a slender U-shaped guard, barely wider than the strong of the blade. A grip wrapped with fresh, brand-new wire, and a pommel like a great hollow ring. Old-fashioned yet hard to place in any single time period. Fascinating.
“You played a mean trick on the boy,” I told her.
She snarled, “Nothing but another fat Eastern pig, just like you.”
“Whatever opportunity you had, you've lost it. If you give up now you'll get away with a flogging. At least you'll be alive.”
I didn't know what it was that made her back away, but she did, letting the sword's point fall to the ground. For the first time I noticed her arms were shaking and her legs nearly buckled from exhaustion. I could probably have stepped in and taken the weapon from her without a scratch.
“A flogging.” Her voice almost cracked. “Is that all?”
Suddenly I wasn't so sure of my case.
She made a jerky turn, then hitched up her dress to expose the bare flesh of her back. Everywhere, smoke-coloured skin had turned pink with scars, each mark of the whip outlined in a spiderweb of pain. Even revealed and vulnerable, she kept one hand on the sword, ready to turn on me if I got too close.
“God,” I whispered. The scars on my own back stung in sympathy. I'd seen hundreds of soldiers flogged in the Army, some halfway to death, but it had never looked so cruel as on this girl's whipcord-thin body.
She quickly hid herself back in the dirty white dress and glanced over her shoulder with eyes full of hate, hugging her elbows for comfort. “Don't talk to me about floggings, soldier.”
It left me speechless. Words didn't seem adequate. Thankfully, I didn't need to say anything. I lifted my tunic and turned my back. Remembering all the things I tried so hard to forget. Every single lash that cut into me, each line of red-hot agony throbbing to the beat of the drum procession. Some nights I could still feel the broiling, razor-sharp leather bite into me, making the blood feel cool as it ran in waterfalls down my spine.
I jolted at the touch of her warm fingers, but forced myself not to pull away. She explored my scars with gentle fascination. Tried to identify how each one had struck.
“I didn't know,” she said into the yawning silence.
“Which one of them does it?”
“The squire, Faro. The knight makes him do it though he cries with every stroke.” She reluctantly withdrew her hands. “Later he brings me herbs and stuff, whatever he can find. Never speaks to me. Can't look me in the eye.”
Tugging my tunic back into place, I held out my hand to her. She nodded and pressed the sword hilt into my palm.
“Will you be alright?” I asked.
“Mm. It barely hurts anymore.”
I left her chained to the cart, both of us humbled, and clenched the sword tight. Anger tightened around my heart until I fought to keep breathing. There was no getting around the fact she was bought and paid for, and it wasn't my place to decide the fate of a slave.
The woman and Sir Erroll were at my side the moment I walked out. Polite restraint in her voice. “What did you do to her?”
“I talked,” I said hoarsely. “Any punishme
nts can wait until we leave, yes?” She nodded, and although Sir Erroll looked fit to raise a protest, his better judgement kept him quiet. A bastard he might be, but he had at least some sense. “Milady, if you'd do me a kindness, smooth things over with the militia while we get out of town. The sooner we get our weapons back, the better.”
“Leave it to me.” She turned on her heels to find the nearest man in a pot helm, gone with a silky swish and a fading hint of perfume.
I found a new appreciation for her then. As blue-bloods went, this Lady could get things done. She didn't talk down to me much, didn't stand on every possible bit of ceremony, and she was even willing to take instructions if they made sense. It was unheard-of for someone born to that amount of privilege. She never stopped surprising me.
The moment Adar popped his anxious face out the door, Sir Erroll was there, furious. The knight grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and marched him out into the open for all to see.
“You fool boy!” He clouted the boy across the head with an iron-gauntleted hand. “Look at the trouble you've caused us now! She should never have let you keep it in the first place!” He barely stopped himself from striking Adar again. The boy stood half-crouched with his head in his arms, sobbing and trickling blood from his scalp. He deserved a good scolding. Still...
“Sir Erroll, a word, if I may.”
I stepped in, grabbed Adar and kicked him through the stable doors. A gentle reminder of what he ought to be doing. The squire, Faro, ran to join him. Going by Sir Erroll's expression, he didn't appreciate the interruption one bit, but seemed curious about what I had to say.
I raised the gleaming rose-gold sword and inspected it from top to bottom. Perhaps an inch or two shorter than a regular arming sword. Beautiful in its lack of frills, just a spiral-etched hilt wrapped in wire and a clean, unengraved blade. Polished to a mirror shine and masterfully balanced. It felt as alive in my hand as the best steels I'd ever held.
I asked, “How is this thing here? Why wasn't it given up, and how did no one notice it until now?”
“The boy's a coward and a wastrel,” he replied. “My Lady might listen to foolishness and superstition, but I know he's to blame for the whole fiasco, one way or another. He hasn't earned the right to hold a weapon at all, much less one as fine as that.”
Disgusted, he shook his head and walked away, leaving me to puzzle over what he meant. He'd barely answered anything.
In the background, the spear-armed militiamen dispersed the milling crowd. Their sergeant whispered with the woman about compensation. I took up a spot by the stable door, not sure what I was guarding it from, until we were ready to get on the road again.
We marched out of Oristo in a hurry. We seemed to leave everywhere in a hurry. I leaned on my spear as I walked, the cut on my thigh throbbing. A poultice of sharp herbs kept any fever away, but it stung like a devil, and I had to summon every bit of restraint in my heart to stop from tearing it off.
The morning sun was a deep, bloody red where it topped the trees. A bad omen in some cultures. The Harari girl whispered pagan prayers as she walked, and her chains clinked with every step. I couldn't tell if she prayed to ward off bad luck or for mercy in what was to come. The squire, too, looked like a man on his way to the gallows. Head bowed, back hunched to carry the invisible weight on his shoulders.
And then there was the farmboy, Adar. Above the claw marks on his face, a large red scab covered his scalp where Sir Erroll had hit him. He kept picking at it, making it hurt and bleed more. He seemed like he might burst into tears with every step.
An hour or two into our silent march we finally found a secluded spot in a copse of planted trees, out of sight of the town. The woman called a halt. I clenched my jaw at the cursed inevitability of it, and leaned against a nearby trunk to watch.
“Adar,” she said in clipped tones, loosing her anger, “I have told you too many times to keep an eye on that sword.”
“B-But I don't want it!” he stammered pathetically. “I told you, I'm not good enough! Let somebody else take it!”
“You heard what your village elder said. You are the boy in the prophecy. You must carry that sword and protect it with your life.”
“Bugger the p-prophecy!” Adar shot back and stamped his foot. The woman stepped forward and threw an open-handed slap across his face. He cried out, shrinking back into a ball.
“I took you on as my ward, Adar, as agreed with your father and the elder. You do as I say and not another word in complaint. You can go hungry until you learn how to treat us properly.”
He whimpered, gingerly took the sword from her, and slid it into the too-large scabbard at his belt. Why had I never noticed that scabbard before?
The woman's fury only doubled as she turned on the slave girl. The girl offered no response, only stared at the floor like a dead thing, gone away inside.
The woman said, “I know there's no reasoning with you so I won't waste my breath. I paid good money for you, Yazizi. That makes you mine, and it's my responsibility to tame you. Sir Erroll, will you please teach this little man-thing a lesson tonight?”
Sir Erroll bowed his head. “As you wish it.”
That was the end of it. She stormed off back to her horse, and our little column got going again. This time I marched beside the cart, hopping onto it every now and again to give my leg time to rest.
“Your name is Byren, is it?” asked the slave girl, still chained to that cart. She looked at me with bright eyes, and I could swear I saw half a smile at the corners of her mouth.
“That's what I go by,” I told her. “My first name is Karl, but don't tell anyone.”
“Karl. Do you mind if I call you that?” She seemed to like the sound of it, so I shrugged. It made her smile. “Karl, then. I have a thing I wish to ask you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Will you lie with me tonight after they are done?” she murmured, as casually as though she were asking me about the weather. I gaped at her, flabbergasted and stunned into silence. She saw my hesitation and blushed red. “Forgive me, I shame myself. I thought you wouldn't mind.”
By my own standards I was no prude, but being bald-facedly asked for sex by a girl several years shy of twenty didn't sit well. I knew the Harari were strange, but... The coy, fumbling loveplay of my youth seemed suddenly very far away.
I blurted, “No, I‒ I don't mind, but by God, you can't be serious!”
“I have tried to attract Faro but he runs away when I undress. I won't lower myself to bed with the knight or the child. That leaves you, Karl.” She smiled again, almost shyly. “It helps ease... things. I don't ask to be your wife, nor to birth you a child.”
“Listen, Yazizi,” I fumbled, trying to explain, “much as I'd like to, it wouldn't be right, I‒”
Warm lips planted themselves on mine, firm and sweet as honey. They pulled away just as quickly to make sure no one saw, but the feeling lingered in my mouth and tingled down my spine.
“Tonight,” she whispered and pushed me away to the front of the column.
There was no town nearby to shelter us that night, so we camped out in the open, and I took the first watch. It didn't take a genius to guess what was going on when the squire came with an iron key and a face of stone and led Yazizi away into the woods. I could hear the whipcracks faintly in the distance, and her shrill screams as they landed. I pictured her chained to a tree half-naked with blood running down her back. She would have gutted me this morning had I given her the chance. Could I truly say she hadn't earned it?
So I sat and stared into our little fire, and took rapid slugs of wine from the skin at my belt. I looked up as a shadow plopped down beside me. I recognised the silhouette of the squire, his hands shaking as he held them out to the flames.
“Is your master finished with you?” I asked gently. The drink had loosened my tongue a bit.
“For tonight,” he replied. After a long silence he added, “There's a saying that the Army marches at the end o
f a lash. Is that true?”
I thought about that one for a moment, and admitted, “It's not far off.” He looked at me with big eyes. I rested a hand on his shoulder and hoped it came across as a reassuring gesture. “You're not the only one who's ever had to pick up a whip, lad. Being a sergeant means that when one of your men steps out of rank, you're the one holding the leather. Sometimes it's not even soldiers. Camp followers, whores and such, they get the same treatment if they're caught thieving or breaking the law. Sometimes you have to be brutal to stop others from being worse.”
He bobbed a slow nod, apparently grateful for my words. “Be gentle with her. She deserves it.”
“Eh?” I sat bolt upright, a surge of panic in my chest. “What did you say?”
“I saw you earlier. I know what she's like, I watch over her when I can. Please... Be gentle.”
With that he stood and walked off, boots crunching down the grass and dirt. Saints only knew where he went.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. Then, gingerly, I stood up and wandered into the shadow of the cart. I found Yazizi lying on her belly on a small cot, breathing quietly. Blood still seeped from underneath the crude bandages on her back. She pushed herself to her knees with a soft jangling of chains. Hissed at every movement, but refused to let her body stop her from doing what she wanted.
“Karl,” she said, “would you show me your scars again?”
I bit my tongue at that. I didn't want to get involved with her, with this group. It would be a dumb thing to do. Knowing that, I still peeled off my tunic, feeling my blood start to run hotter.
Slowly, she traced my marks from top to bottom, bottom to top, and back again. Every touch sent tingles up my spine. I glanced back at Yazizi's half-lidded eyes, absorbed in the feel of the scars as if they aroused her. She sucked in air through her teeth like she could feel the lashes landing on her own body. Then she planted her lips on my back, kissed every mark, one by one.
Written in Blood Page 3
