Written in Blood

by Span, Ryan A.

  “We... We don't understand.”

  “Do not try. There is no time to explain.” Glassy eyes rolled around inside his head, and his voice grew thicker. More violent convulsions wracked his body. “What you see here is only half a thing. The other half is hidden in the tomb below. It must remain there. Please...”

  The rest of his words devolved into fevered gibberish. The thrashing of his limbs quieted, then stopped altogether. He wasn't breathing.

  “That,” said the woman, “was more cryptic than I would've liked.”

  Sir Erroll didn't have a moment's doubt in him. “We've come this far, Milady. I'm not about to turn back now.”

  “Perhaps you're right.”

  Her gentle hands went to the body, now finally at rest, and slipped the bronze amulet over his limp head. She held it up to the fading sunlight, like a treasure in rose gold.

  “Who, I wonder, should wear this one?”

  “Me,” came an unexpected voice from outside the chamber, accompanied by the tread of heavy boots and the jingle of maille.

  Penn Saldette tore down one of the curtains, a big shit-eating grin on his face. Lytziri stood at his left, and at his right, a huge, green-clothed mountain man I didn't recognise. Behind him ‒ and surrounding us on all sides ‒ was a whole contingent of raggedy mercenaries, Harari and Grenokes both, side by side with prim and proper soldiers wearing the badge of the Duke's personal guard. They outnumbered us more than six to one.

  Last up the stairs was the crowning horror of the moment. I recognised the battered, bloodied shapes of Faro and Racha, bound, stripped naked, barely alive.

  My heart stopped beating.

  It was a moment of perfect, dumbfounded dismay. We sat frozen like open-mouthed statues as Penn marched into the room. He looked thinner than I remembered, ragged, sleepless and travel-worn. He also ‒ I was sure ‒ used to have two arms. The one which Descard had shot through now ended in a stump at his shoulder, and he scratched at it compulsively with his other hand. He bent down and snatched the amulet from the woman's fingers.

  “I've been waiting for the ideal moment to crash your little party. Is this alright?” He giggled to himself, and there was a sharp manic note to it that hadn't been there before. He turned the bronze badge over with mild curiosity, like a nice rock which he could grow bored of at any moment. “It helps when the prey barely bothers hiding its trail. If not for your Ranger friends, we would've had you before you reached the Grove of Black Oaks.”

  He put the amulet on. He had to work the over-tight chain down his face, losing some dignity. Still, he looked pleased at the result.

  “It's almost pretty for a pagan trinket. I might keep it. Or, who knows, I might throw it in a midden heap where it belongs.” He beckoned to us, and added a significant glance at Faro and Racha, Ducal knives held to their throats. “Hand over your weapons, and those bronze museum pieces, too. You won't need them. In fact, there's a lot of things you'll find unnecessary from now on.”

  I had to do something. I had to. I knew what went on inside that sadistic little mind, I could see his thoughts when he looked at each of us, and I couldn't let him make anyone else suffer. If he wanted a target, I'd give him one.

  I pushed myself to my feet, slowly, without any sudden moves. I reached to my side and grasped one of the buckles from my breastplate. Then I took a step towards Penn and put on my nastiest smile.

  “There's something different about you,” I said sweetly. “Have you lost weight?”

  And there it was. All of his hatred flared up and found me. Every muscle in his body clenched. He didn't even need to signal the big Grenoke beside him. Grinning under his auburn beard, the barbarian turned his axe around and smashed the heavy handle into my face. It made an awful crunch, and I went down, head spinning. I barely caught myself on one knee, panting in hot agony.

  Forcing the pain to the back of my mind, I cradled my bloody nose and looked up at him. My other hand went back to unbuckling my treasured plate. “You... You need others to do your dirty work now, Penn? I thought you were a Listener. I thought you took pride in this sort of thing.”

  The Grenoke raised his axe again, but Penn stopped him. “Leave him, Nevick. I'll give that one my personal attention later.” Instead he selected a couple of his own men and sent them to grab Sir Erroll, Yazizi and myself. “They won't surrender willingly. Strip them. Have the Harari build a prisoner cordon, and make camp until morning.”

  Lytziri wheeled on him, appalled. “The Dargha are not labourers! We will‒”

  “Do what, exactly?” Penn interrupted. In that moment he was all there, sane as anything, and every bit the evil son of a bitch who'd risen to become a First of the Duke's Listeners. “If it weren't for me, you and your savages would be rotting in either a dungeon or a mass grave. I bought you, I own you, and you'll carry out any task I deign to give you. Understood?”

  Lytziri lowered her eyes and said nothing. Her jaws were clenched so tight she could've crushed rocks in them.

  The rest of the proceedings went on in sullen silence. The Duke's boys took our weapons, and our bronzes, and everything else we had that was worth stealing. I wound up with nothing but a blood-stained shirt and trousers. My boots, my cloak, it all went to someone else as plunder. Sir Erroll got the same treatment, and he turned purple with rage, ready to go out in a very brief blaze of glory. They held him down and took his things anyway.

  Only the woman went unmolested. She showed no mercy in slapping away any pawing hands. It amused the mountain men to no end, but not as much as what they did to Yazizi. She ended up wearing nothing at all.

  Eventually the sport went out of it, and they lost interest. They bound our hands and marched five of us down the pyramid. Only the woman stayed behind, at Penn's invitation. That thought made me sick to my stomach. I forced myself to think of other things before I did something stupid.

  Down below, the Dargha ‒ a lot fewer of them than I remembered, many without their horses ‒ went to work digging and chopping wood. They begrudged every second of it. Out on the Harari steppe, prisoners didn't need to be restrained. They simply chose not to run away unless they were very curious about whether it was thirst or starvation that got them first.

  I found it interesting that Penn had singled them out. The Ducal soldiers could've whipped something up in minutes, but Penn was holding them in reserve. Perhaps to balance out the large, heavily-armed group of mountain men who didn't look like they appreciated the value of manual labour. The kind of men who, back in the Kingdom, inevitably wound up either in the Army or on the gallows.

  What I saw of their behaviour in camp only confirmed it. To a man they were big, bearded, crude and dirty. Even a plentiful supply of clean water couldn't compel them to wash themselves. Men would squat in the middle of the camp to do their business. By contrast, the Ducals were digging themselves a field latrine. Even the Dargha made an effort to bury their spoor. It made me wonder why the Grenokes, according to common knowledge, were supposed to be the friendliest and most hospitable of the mountain clans.

  Their leader, Nevick, strutted around like the cock of the walk, stopping only to give unnecessary orders to his people and to Lytziri. Taking advantage of his newfound stature. It was painfully obvious that Penn needed him, although I wondered if Nevick really understood his chances against a platoon of disciplined troops.

  He made us sit and watch while the Harari fashioned a rude cage for us. It was a job that took them far longer than it needed to, and it wasn't hard for an Army sergeant to see why. They were deliberately dragging their feet as a form of protest. At least it gave me a chance to see how Faro and Racha were holding up after days of forced march and brutal torture.

  Sir Erroll had his squire by the shoulders and was trying to shake a response from him. Faro stared straight through him, his eyes empty, glazed over. Not a good sign. I only hoped I could pull him out of it, and pay back the bastard who'd done it. Oh, I'd repay him tenfold...

  Rach
a was different. I could see her gaze flitting from place to place like a nervous hummingbird. She wrung her hands over and over, partly covering her nudity with her arms, and shivered constantly despite the muggy heat all around us.

  She flinched when I took a spot beside her. I took care not to come any closer, although I stripped off my shirt and laid it on the stone between us. She made no move to take it.

  “Sorry,” she chattered. “I'm sorry.”

  I found myself speechless. Whatever I'd expected her to say, that was not it. The very idea of her apologising was ludicrous. “Racha...”

  “I should have known. Should have known where we were going. Should have not let them catch me. Shouldn't have let‒ Shouldn't have‒”

  She gave up attempting to speak. Tears poured down her cheeks. She turned to look at me, and there was cold, pulse-pounding fear in her eyes. Not just of the soldiers, or Penn, but of me. Her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. It took every ounce of her self-control not to bolt.

  “I know we used to be friends,” she said, her voice cracking, “but I... There was...”

  “We still are,” I avowed, and reached out to her. She jerked away as if struck. I closed the rest of the distance slowly, wrapped my fingers around one of her clenched hands and held it.

  Whimpering, she pulled and pulled, but I didn't let her get away. Eventually she settled down and sank against my bare chest. Quiet sobs rocked her whole body. She picked up the shirt and buried her face in it.

  “I'm sorry we got you into this,” I told her, and meant it. It hurt to speak and I sounded like I didn't have a nose anymore. I could only imagine what a mess I must've looked.

  At another barked order from Nevick, our Grenoke guards kicked us into the finished cage, and chained the door shut behind us. I immediately tested the construction. Sturdier than it looked. Damn.

  Nevick came to gloat once we were inside. The sight of us behind bars, especially Racha, seemed to be the best joke in the world to him.

  “Hello, prisoners. I hope you are comfortable.” He grinned. “This is what happens to Brunoke-lovers. You regret your little deal now, no?”

  I met his beady eyes and hissed, “The Brunokes will never let you get away with this.”

  “Brunoke is a smoking ruin, and Rogald of the Valley is dead. I killed him myself. He was eager to help, though. He told the Listener everything on the sole condition that his precious daughter's life be spared.” The way he glanced at Racha told volumes about who'd abused her so much. “She still lives, but once we find for what you search, he will have no more use for any of you.”

  He left, chortling to himself. I worried about Racha, but she busied herself shrugging into my ill-fitting shirt without so much as a hint that she heard or put any stock in what Nevick said. She still shivered, but her eyes were a shade clearer, like she was actually here in the moment and not drifting off somewhere else.

  “What happened to your face?” she asked, trying in vain to make the shirt go down over her hips.

  “Broken nose. I'll be fine.”

  “I am afraid it's not making you any prettier.”

  It took me a minute to realise she'd told a joke. I cracked a grin, though it hurt and some of my teeth felt loose. She shook her head at it, and I put it away.

  “Be wary of that man,” she told me. “He's not half as stupid as he looks. His father, Nevill Kinslayer, murdered the rightful chieftain who was his brother, married the chief's daughter, and now sits on his throne. The son is worse. Entire generations of cruelty and savagery have come together in Nevick of Grenoke.”

  I nodded. Really, I didn't need any further reason to hate Nevick. He'd be as dead as the Listener if I got my way.

  Now that Racha seemed more stable, I went to check up on Faro. Nothing much had changed. Sir Erroll stood vigil over his squire's body, and stared bloody daggers at every Ducal soldier, Dargha and Grenoke who came close to the cage. As I knelt, the knight acknowledged me with a nod.

  “I cannot get him to talk,” he whispered. “The eyes are open, but...” He fought to swallow. “I know I have not always been kind to him. Perhaps I should've spared the rod more often.”

  “He's a tough lad. He'll come back to us.” The words tasted uncertain in my mouth, but I said them anyway because I wanted them to be true.

  The knight looked me in the eye for a moment. There was no need to talk about who would be watching over him. We'd take turns.

  Lastly, I visited Yazizi, ensconced in the furthest corner of the cage. She was still, but tense and tight, like a blade halfway out of its scabbard. I could almost sense the conflicted emotions that rolled off her in waves. Cold, deep hatred for the Dargha. Worry and doubt for her squire. Fear and loathing for herself. She was so wound-up I had to wonder if she was thinking about chewing her way out.

  “Just like old times,” she said bitterly.

  I slumped down beside her, keeping my eyes averted. “This whole trek has been one disaster after another, hasn't it?”

  “That is one way of putting it.” She cleared her throat, and for a second her expression was almost contrite. “I was harsh, before. I did not mean all I said.”

  “You meant enough.”

  “Oh, back to brooding again?” Her tone was sweet and caustic at the same time. Gently mocking. “Is something else eating you now?”

  It came spilling out of me before I even knew it was on my mind. “I have a son,” I said, and I told her about Nerell and Calum and the knot in my heart whenever I thought about them. Feelings so powerful they made me wish I could break my contract and go back. I had no one else to confide in, and I was desperate.

  Yazizi listened to the whole story. At the end, she laughed. There was very little sympathy in her eyes. “You're weepy over putting your seed in some woman's belly years ago? Gods, Karl, you certainly do have the worst of troubles.” Sarcasm dripped from her tongue. “When I came to be with child, from men who did not deserve a Harari son or daughter, I ended it. That is our way. It is what your woman should have done. It would've been cleaner than living a lie.”

  “You... ended it?” I blurted, though I knew well enough what she meant.

  “Yes, Byren.” She patted her flat, taut stomach for effect. “You and Faro may be the only half-worthy men in the East, but it will be my decision, not yours, nor of slavers with hungry eyes. Perhaps when you come to your senses. If you ever do.”

  I tried to respond, but she stopped me, putting a finger against my lips. She said, “I am a slave, Byren. Even without the irons, nothing has changed. Remember that.”

  She left me speechless once again. By the time I thought of anything to say, the opportunity was long gone, and Yazizi returned her attention to the world outside our cage. So we sat, the whole group of us, lost in our own thoughts.

  Hours passed that way, minute by dragging minute, so slowly it almost drove me mad. I watched the night descend like a heavy blanket. Torches went up around the camp. At one point, three big Grenokes came to collect Sir Erroll and escorted him to the top of the pyramid. We didn't see him again.

  Yazizi took up caring for the damaged squire in Sir Erroll's absence. I came over to see how he was doing. Still the same, staring dead-eyed from a body that was barely beginning to heal.

  Racha joined us. She was sharp and intense, as if holding back all the bad memories by force of will alone. She whispered, “He got the worst of it. He tried to protect me.”

  “He's a good man,” I said. Slowly, the hopelessness and lethargy inside me began to transform into something else. They'd taken almost everything from me, the only certainty in my future was the inevitable pain at Penn's hands, but there were things he couldn't strip away. He couldn't take Calum, safe and sound back in the Kingdom. He couldn't take Ioanna, because even his depravity was limited by the laws of birth. He couldn't take my hatred.

  I realised Racha was looking at me. She dropped her voice even lower, for friendly ears only. “When are we going to escape?
”

  “As soon as I've figured out how.”

  “Good.” Her hands clenched and relaxed over and over in her lap, as if practicing to strangle somebody. “Just one thing. Nevick of Grenoke. I need to make him die.”

  Suddenly, one of our guards kicked the bars of the cage, making the whole thing rattle and shake. “No whispering,” he growled in crude Northern. The three of us glared at him in dead silence until he went back to his post.

  I already knew what to do. We needed help from the outside, and there was only one person in this valley who could possibly give it to us. If I could talk her into it.

  I went to the bars, pointed at the nearest Dargha and called to him until I got his attention. “Lytziri,” I said. I repeated it a few times, until he seemed to understand. He disappeared into the Harari section of the camp. When he returned, he sent the Grenoke guard away ‒ overcoming the language barrier by the use of aggressive hand gestures ‒ and opened the cage to let me out.

  Standing in the open air, I gave a second's thought to running away. I'd managed it once. Of course, this time I didn't have a weapon, or a sense of the landscape, or a hope in Hell of getting back to friendly territory. The friendliest thing for a hundred leagues would be Mudden the Ranger, who might kill me on sight, if he wasn't already a corpse.

  The thin, scraggly Harari led me in amongst the Dargha's tents and waved me into the biggest one. Unmistakably the tent of a chieftain. It was red, decorated with a pattern of golden stars, and a bleached dog skull hung above the entrance.

  Inside, it was more spartan than I'd expected. A bedroll, a few cushions to sit, and a mat which served as a table for maps and charts. Lytziri sat there, calligraphy pen in hand, recording everything she knew about the terrain in smooth strokes.