A Cerridwen Press Publication
www.cerridwenpress.com
Men In Chains
ISBN #1-4199-0727-1
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Men In Chains Copyright© 2006 Virginia Reede
Edited by Kelli Kwiatkowski.
Cover art by Syneca. Photography by Cindy Jett.
Electronic book Publication: October 2006
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®
Men In Chains
Virginia Reede
Chapter One
“Curse this whoreson cliff!”
Jeryl had been climbing forever. If there’d been any other route off the beach where he had awakened, he would have taken it. Other than the obvious, that is. Getting back into the treacherous waves that had torn his ship to shreds had made him shudder, and there was no guarantee he would have survived the swim around the headland. It blocked his view of the shore beyond which, for all he knew, was even more unfriendly.
So here he was. On a shelf narrower than the length of his feet—one of which was bleeding and wrapped in a scrap of what remained of his shirt—and still unable to reach the top edge of the cliff he had been seeking for what seemed like hours.
Just above Jeryl’s head, a slight overhang prevented him from seeing anything of the ground above. He reached up for the edge—he could almost touch it with his fingertips. He looked around for hand- and footholds to bring him closer and found none. He surveyed the surrounding cliff face, trying to find a sideways route. No, the projection where he stood was the closest point from which there was any chance of access.
Well, there’s no choice but to jump for it. He winced in anticipation of the pain his cracked ribs would cause him. Of course, I’ll probably fall off and break my neck, in which case I will not mind the ribs so much. He took one last measuring look at the edge of the cliff and the width of the tiny outcrop from which he must let fly his final assault. He would only have one chance—if he missed, the fall would doubtless kill him.
Jeryl gathered the last of his strength, took a deep breath and launched toward the edge of the precipice. He grabbed the rocky edge, silently praying it would not give way, and pulled with all his strength. His tortured ribs screaming in pain, he managed to haul his torso up and over the edge. Another effort and he was able to swing his legs and land solidly on his injured side. The last of his breath was forced from his lungs in a great burst and an explosion of pain filled his head with starbursts of light. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and lay panting, waiting for the pain to recede so he could get his bearings.
He was not to get the luxury.
“Well, runner,” said an unpleasant and strangely accented voice. “Ye just cost me fifty dorins. I bet Blenshi ye would not make it up here. At least ye saved us a trip down to fetch ye.”
Jeryl opened his eyes to a sight so bizarre he thought he had died after all. He blinked to clear his vision. The apparition became no less fantastic.
Standing before him was the most outrageously ugly woman he had ever seen. She was heavily built and dirty. Her gray hair was cropped like a peasant boy’s and clung greasily to her forehead, which was broad and speckled with bulbous growths. Her smile—if one could call such a frightful expression a smile—revealed uneven teeth about the size of a dray horse’s and the color of driftwood. Several were missing entirely. A heavy ring pierced one side of her wide nose—obviously broken—and a livid scar crossed her face diagonally, intersecting one eye that had turned a milky pale greenish color. The other, which squinted hungrily at Jeryl, was almost black.
But it was not her hideousness that made him doubt his senses. It was her wardrobe. She seemed to be wearing, if Jeryl was not hallucinating, armor. He wondered if he had mistaken the gender of this preposterous creature but, no, her ponderous breasts were unmistakable, and he could see way too much of them. Jeryl shuddered involuntarily and tried to catch his breath enough to speak, although what he would say to such an apparition he could not imagine.
Another female voice broke in. “He ain’t a runner, Grenda. Look at his clothes, or what’s left of ‘em. He’s an outlander, I’ll wager.” The armored woman, apparently Grenda, scowled at this assessment.
Jeryl lifted himself on his elbows and suppressed a groan—it would not do to show weakness in the presence of women—and adjusted his gaze to find the second speaker. As his vision cleared he saw a group of five women, four of whom were on horseback. To his astonishment, all wore some form of battle gear or another. There was an assortment of helmets, breastplates and something that looked like chain mail. All had weapons and two showed their legs well above the knee.
“I’ve already lost one wager to ye today, Blenshi,” Grenda replied amiably, “and that’s enough. Runner or outlander, ‘twill be all the same at the block next week.” She chuckled and several of the women laughed in response.
Jeryl had no idea what they were talking about and he found their appearance abhorrent, but he needed help and could not afford to be too choosy. He got unsteadily to his feet, leaning hard against a boulder, and cleared his throat.
“My ladies,” he croaked, and realized his words were so rough as to be unrecognizable. All of the heads swiveled to look at him. He cleared his throat a second time and started again.
“My ladies, I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said, after which there were several snorts of what might be either surprise or derision. Their collective reaction was beginning to make him uneasy and he felt it important to take command of the situation as quickly as possible. He plowed ahead.
“I seem to have misplaced my ship and I am unfamiliar with your fair land. I would be eternally grateful for some water, and then perhaps you ladies can direct me to a place where I can arrange for some food and lodging, and perhaps some clothes.” The group had become quiet and Jeryl could not read the expressions on their faces. Disbelief? Outrage?
Perhaps they were offended by his appearance. His torn clothes showed parts of his anatomy usually kept hidden in polite society. He felt the urge to quicken his tempo but that would reveal his waning confidence. He was in the habit of commanding men. It should be no great feat to convince a group of the weaker sex to do what he asked of them. His poise somewhat restored, Jeryl decided a modest show of contrition might be in order, as long as it was nothing too humble. He let go of the boulder and stood more steadily.
“I must apologize for my ungentlemanly appearance,” he continued with a courtly nod of his head—not all of his granna’s lessons had gone unheeded and he could use manners when called upon to do so. “And under normal circumstances I would never appear in such an, er, immodest condition in front of such fine gentlewomen as yourselves, but unfortunately events have conspired to put me, as I said before, at somewhat of a disadvantage.”
Jeryl was beginning to warm to his subject. He was just about to introduce himself, titles and all, when he noticed the woman named Grenda appeared to be having some kind of a fit. Her face had turned so dark it was almost purple—a color that did nothing to improve her complexion—and she was making noises like she was having difficulty breathing.
“Madam, are you ill?” he asked, preparing to step forward and go to her aid.
Suddenly the woman burst forth with a noise lik
e a donkey braying, spraying saliva on his face. He realized this hideous creature was not having a fit—she was actually laughing, and doing so in a manner most uninhibited and unwomanly. To make matters worse, her loss of control seemed to be the signal for all the other women to do likewise. Jeryl, the scion of a respected family, was not accustomed to being the object of ridicule. He felt a flush start at his forehead and creep down over his chest.
Grenda, now laughing so hard that tears ran down her veined cheeks, leaned on a boulder for support and appeared to try to get control of herself.
“Oh, outlander!” she finally managed. “Ye have given me the best laugh I’ve had for this twelve-moon. ‘Ladies’ and ‘ungentlemanly appearance’ and…and…” She began to snort and laugh again, succumbing to uncontrolled mirth.
Jeryl’s mood darkened. How dare this woman belittle him when he had obviously been giving her the benefit of courtesy more suited to someone much above her station! He assumed the demeanor and voice he used on recalcitrant members of his ship’s crew.
“Woman, you forget yourself!” he thundered. That tone made novice seamen tremble in fear. In this case the result was anything but what he was used to.
There was a blur of movement and Jeryl found himself at the wrong end of a very sharp sword, the point pressed just above his breastbone. At the other end, grinning maliciously, was Grenda. Although she smiled, her expression could not be more different than that of the laughing woman of a moment ago.
“I forget nothing, outlander,” she hissed. “And I do not care what ye’re worth on the block, if ye speak to me in that manner again I’ll slit ye open like a pig.” Jeryl too dumbfounded to react, held as still as a stone, staring directly into the mismatched eyes.
“That will be quite enough, Grenda,” said a voice Jeryl hadn’t noticed before.
* * * * *
Delinda sighed deeply. “No, Ostyn. I have asked you at least twenty times not to call me ‘Ra’. I am your employer, not your owner. You work for me in exchange for housing, food, clothing and whatever else you need. And if the farm makes a profit, you will be entitled to a share.” Delinda realized no one was listening to the last part of this statement—Ostyn no longer walked next to her. She turned to find him prostrate on the walkway. She sighed again. As soon as she’d said “no”, he must have dropped to the ground in the traditional pose of contrition. “Oh, for the love of the Goddess, get up!”
“Sorry, Ra,” mumbled Ostyn, scrambling to his feet and keeping his eyes lowered. Delinda bit her lip to keep from screaming in frustration. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and reminded herself she could not expect to break the habits of a lifetime of slavery in a few short days. Ostyn did well at the estate but in the village, surrounded by the bustle of market day and, most of all, the Eye of the Goddess, he had reverted to the cringing, terrified slave she had bought only a week previously.
Delinda placed her hand gently on Ostyn’s shoulder, ignoring the slight flinch she knew he could not avoid. She saw he was trembling and her frustration was replaced by sympathy.
“I know it is difficult Ostyn, and you are brave to come back here so soon.” She looked directly into Ostyn’s eyes. At first he avoided her gaze, but as she spoke his eyes were drawn back to her own. “You are doing well and we can go home in a few hours.” As she continued to touch his shoulder and to speak the soothing words, she tentatively reached inward with her mind to find the rahnta, the new power so strange and yet so familiar. When it responded she gained confidence. It became a tangible thing and she steered it, ever-so gently, from her center to her arm, down her fingers and into Ostyn. Peace, she thought to herself. Be at peace. She felt Ostyn’s trembling subside. She withdrew both her gaze and her hand.
She stepped back, pleased with herself. She had used the rahnta before, of course, but only in quiet surroundings. Never before in public, let alone in the middle of a busy road on market day. And never so close to the Eye. Her mother had tried to describe what the power flowing from the Eye of the Goddess felt like, but had left Delinda with little more than vague images. Now that she had experienced it herself, she understood why.
When Mother had tried to put it into words, the closest she came was “dark light”, which had made no sense. The rahnta that flowed through Delinda, and through her mother before her, dazzled, bright and crystalline. That which flowed from the Eye dazzled as well, but more like the moonlight reflected on dark, oily water. No, that was not quite right. Mother had warned that the Eye’s dark streams would be drawn to her own power, but it would be possible to deflect it if she remained focused. Delinda steered the dark river away from the fiery flow of her own rahnta with little difficulty, and felt a smug satisfaction. Her powers grew every day. Mother would have been so proud.
She shook herself back to the present. She didn’t have time to get lost in thoughts of Mother, the pain was always just below the surface. Now was not the time. She had a lot to accomplish today and poor Ostyn still stood in the middle of the walkway with a glazed expression on his face.
“Come along, Ostyn,” she said. “We have much to do and I want everyone to see us doing it. It’s all part of phase one of my plan.”
“Yes, Ra,” replied Ostyn, picking up the packages he had dropped when he fell to the ground. He hurried after Delinda as she took off at a brisk pace. She stopped, whirled and looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, Miss,” he corrected, coloring.
“That’s better.” Delinda scanned the street for the shop she wanted. Her view of the storefronts was largely blocked by market stalls, their proprietors hawking wares and shoppers competing for space in front of the most desirable goods. She realized a number of the people had turned to scrutinize her.
Delinda was accustomed to attention. Her appearance always drew the eye. Her hair was almost the color of blood, as Mother’s had been before it faded to gray-streaked respectability. In a land where most people had hair as straight as a rod, her mass of curls inevitably escaped whatever bonds she tried to impose. Her eyes were dark gold, as had been those of most women in her family. She was tall and amply proportioned. Even by city standards, her clothing was elegant and obviously expensive. In this remote village, she stood out like a scarlet flower in a field of wheat.
She knew it was not her appearance, however, that caused the stares. In a village as small as this one, any new arrival was apt to be noticed. An arrival who moved into the sector’s largest plantation, abandoned for more than twenty years, was a natural subject of curiosity. Add to that a striking resemblance to the most powerful and, according to some, notorious matriarch in the sector’s history, and the appearance was an opportunity for the most exciting gossip the village’s mothers had exchanged in years.
Delinda had been so distracted with her planning that she had given little thought to how uncomfortable such concentrated scrutiny could be. One younger girl’s mouth actually hung open, until an older woman hissed a sharp comment and the girl turned away.
Delinda’s face burned, which irritated her. She had known her decision to return to the village where her family had long held power would stir up attention, both good and bad, from the local people. She had thought she was prepared for everything from curiosity to downright hostility. She chose a direction, lifted her chin and concentrated on moving her feet down the path toward the livestock market.
“Keep up, Ostyn,” she warned, and silently prayed the sense of peace she had instilled in him would last until they had passed the slave sheds. Even she found them distressing, and she had never been locked up in them. “I am going to need your expertise to help me select the pigs.”
She was relieved to see Ostyn followed this time. He looked calm and his eyes were on the path ahead. Just as well he was not yet ready to lift his head, because the sight before them would make any person with even a modicum of sensitivity cringe.
As they rounded a bend in the walkway, they came abreast of the slave sheds and the dusty
yard in front of them. Delinda gritted her teeth. Market day. Tonight there would be an auction. A few likely favorites had been chosen from the men currently housed in the buildings behind. These were chained to posts along the road—mercifully, on the opposite side from where Delinda and Ostyn walked. Delinda averted her eyes, but not before she caught a glimpse of the man closest to the road. His head drooped, probably to ease the strain of having his arms bound to the post behind his back. And he was naked.
It was not unusual to see a naked slave in the country, but Delinda had been less than six when Mother had taken leave of the estate and moved to the city. Where Delinda had grown up, males were always clothed in public and the slave markets were not located in the center of town.
The chill of the light breeze cut through Delinda’s jacket, blouse and trousers as she tried to smother her outrage. It was much too cold to be naked on this brisk spring morning. She could not rescue every mistreated male in the sector. Phase one of her plan required patience, which had never been Delinda’s strong suit. Weather notwithstanding, it was degrading to strip slaves naked and put them on public display with no greater consideration than cattle. Just because they could not carry the rahnta did not mean they should be treated like beasts.
Delinda smoldered with righteous indignation as she walked, a bit blindly in her suppressed rage, down the public thoroughfare. After a few moments and a check that Ostyn was still keeping up with her, she regained her composure and slowed down. It would never do to negotiate with the sharp-witted livestock broker in a state of agitation. She noticed a teashop ahead and decided to take a few moments to calm her nerves. She started through the door and realized Ostyn had come to a dead stop on the path behind her.
“Is there a problem, Ostyn?” she asked, trying to quell her impatience.
“No, Ra. I mean Miss.”
Men In Chains Page 1
