Ostyn seemed distracted and Delinda realized the experience of being measured for clothes had probably been surreal for him. She could not resist the urge to tease him a tiny bit. “So, Ostyn,” she said, slowing her step so he would be forced to walk abreast with her. “How did you get on with Letta?”
Ostyn blushed and mumbled something unintelligible.
“What did you say?” asked Delinda, relentless.
“I said, she was nice,” repeated Ostyn, barely audible. At that, he picked up his pace so much the he actually drew ahead of Delinda as they rounded the corner to the block where pungent odors announced the presence of livestock.
Delinda chuckled. “So, Ostyn thought she was nice, did he?” she said to herself. “And he actually managed to string five whole words together to tell me about it. Well, well, well.” She caught up with Ostyn as he stepped aside to allow her to enter the pig merchant’s gate ahead of him and held the door for her, exactly as befitted an employee.
Chapter Two
As much as Jeryl wanted to know who was speaking, he was afraid to turn his eyes away from Grenda—and the sword—to search for the source of the new voice.
“I’ll not ask you again, Grenda,” said the speaker. “As you already well know, this male is not yours—to kill or to take to the block—without my leave. I would not have you destroy what is newly mine until I have seen it for myself.”
The dreadful eyes drew away from Jeryl but the sword point did not. “He raised his voice to me,” whined Grenda. “I have the right to make him pay for it.”
“If I so decide,” replied the voice calmly. “Now, step back and let me see him.” Finally the sword dropped away. Sighing in relief, Jeryl turned to face his rescuer.
Above him, seated on a horse, was a woman he had not yet seen. She must have ridden up while he was entertaining the rest of the group. The sun was behind her and he squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes to see her features clearly.
Her horse shifted and her face came into focus. It was, thought Jeryl, simultaneously one of the most beautiful and cruelest faces he had ever seen. She was raven-haired, no longer young, with the kind of features that would be striking no matter her years, and she looked at him with a confident arrogance he had never seen in a woman. While she was dressed in trousers, hers were of a rich, velvety fabric and worked through with patterns and embroidery. She wore a breastplate and a sheathed sword hung from her saddle, but they looked more ceremonial than practical and her full sleeves would have been a hindrance in the case of swordplay.
As she looked him over in an unhurried manner, he found himself reluctant to speak. What manner of creature was this? The other women had bemused and disgusted him, but he had not found them intimidating. This woman radiated power in a way he had rarely seen.
Once, his family had hosted a ball for a famous military commander. Jeryl, still a boy, had spied constantly upon their legendary guest and had seen the same effortless authority. The general, however, had not seemed as dangerous as this woman.
Jeryl realized he was holding his breath, like a small animal being watched by a bird of prey. It was a new experience for him and he did not much like the feeling.
Should he ask the woman for help? She was obviously the leader and her manner of speaking had seemed more refined than Grenda’s taunts and the rough cackling of the other women, although he was unfamiliar with the accent and could not be certain. Perhaps she would recognize that despite his tattered appearance, he too was from an aristocratic background. Showing uncertainty would be a mistake.
“My lady, there appears to have been a misunderstanding,” he started, taking a step forward in preparation of making a courtly bow. “My ship—” Jeryl was cut off by the reappearance of Grenda’s sword at his throat.
“Ye dare approach the Ra-drine without her leave!?” she spat. Jeryl froze, not wanting to show fear but uncertain how to proceed.
The woman on the horse looked more amused than offended. She dismounted with an ease that surprised Jeryl, even with the sharp sword commanding most of his attention. As a gentleman he had, of course, been expected to become a competent rider, but even as a boy his true interest had always lain more with sailboats than stallions and he had never truly been comfortable astride a horse.
She walked over to stand beside Grenda and face him, still looking amused. By heaven, she was tall! Standing on ground only a little higher than that on which Jeryl stood, she almost looked him straight in the eye. She placed one hand on the edge of the sword and pushed it away.
“Thank you, Grenda,” she said, “but I think we can assume this outlander is, as of yet, unfamiliar with our ways. He will learn fast enough.” Her voice was not comforting. Grenda stepped back, and the woman walked around him as she perused him like a prospective buyer inspecting a prized bull at the cattle show. Her next words did nothing to dispel the image.
“He’s a big brute,” she commented, coming around in front of him again, “and looks strong for all his bruises. Those will heal.” She tilted her head, addressing her next remarks to Grenda. “He is a valuable piece of goods and you have done well for me.” Grenda nodded her head respectfully. “You shall have a reward. I will give you…” She turned to look at Jeryl speculatively, as if deciding something. She retuned her attention to Grenda. “I will give you a quarter of what he brings.”
Grenda bowed, raising her fist to her chin in obeisance. “I thank ye, my Ra-drine.”
Jeryl barely noticed her. Valuable piece of goods? A quarter of what he brings? Just what were these women talking about?
The tall woman turned to face him. She smiled so unpleasantly that Jeryl wondered how he could have thought her beautiful. Her teeth were very white and looked as if they would be just as sharp.
“I shall speak to you directly this one time, outlander, and then I doubt we will have occasion for it again. I am Bloduewedd and I do not care to know your name. You will no doubt be given a new one. You have the great honor,” her voice held just a hint of sarcasm, “to be the property of the Rahntadrine of Glamurhaven, if only for a few days. Unless…” She paused and deliberately ran her eyes over his nearly bare chest and, to his horror, rested her gaze on his groin. She resumed, “Unless I find there is some compelling reason to keep you around.” Several bawdy snickers erupted from the onlookers, to be silenced by a sharp glance from Bloduewedd.
With a final mocking smile, she turned and abruptly started giving orders as she effortlessly mounted her horse. “Grenda, bind him. Blenshi, give him some water and make sure he can walk. Move along and we can still get him to the sheds before dark.” The women sprang to obey and before he could put up a struggle, Jeryl found his hands grasping his elbows behind his back and his forearms tied with leather thongs. The position caused the pain in his cracked ribs to flare with each breath and for a few moments he was unable to speak.
Finally, he caught his breath and began to bellow. “Loose me, you filthy sows! I demand—” A blow to the side of his head made him see stars and stopped his tirade.
“Gag him. He can go a bit longer without drink if he is incapable of keeping quiet,” said Bloduewedd.
A filthy rag was stuffed into Jeryl’s mouth and bound with more thongs behind his head. Blenshi examined the binding on his foot and decided it would do for the time being. A rope was produced, and within minutes one end was around his neck and the other tied to Grenda’s saddle. When she mounted and urged her horse into motion, he stumbled and nearly fell before he realized he must move of his own accord or be dragged.
What followed was harrowing. Grenda kept up a relentless pace, forcing Jeryl to almost trot, except for on more narrow or steep parts of the path, which he had to navigate without benefit of his hands. He fell numerous times to what was first amusement and then impatience on the part of his captors. It became progressively more difficult to regain his feet, even when Grenda used the rope to haul him up. His thirst made his tongue swell and with the foul-tasting cloth between his teeth
, it was hard to resist the urge to gag. The pain in his ribs made it difficult to breathe and the makeshift binding on his foot was soon soaked with fresh blood. Nearly blinded by pain, Jeryl lost track of time, distance and direction.
In this semi-delirious state, he was bombarded with images of the circumstances that had brought him here.
He had awakened to pain and to the sounds of seagulls. Their sounds had reassured him, as it meant he had probably not died and ended up in hell, as his granna had always predicted. A complete absence of water was one of the primary characteristics of hell in Granna’s gruesome tales. He barely remembered the swim that had brought him to the shore and caused him to vomit up what had seemed like an ocean of seawater.
Ah, Granna, you always said I’d come to a bad end. He had an image of a stern and much-beloved face. And here it looks like I have gone and deprived you of the chance to say ‘I told you so’. Ah well, even you would never have guessed I’d end up here. Wherever ‘here’ is.
“Anyone who takes to the sea is a fool, and doubly so a man who thinks to sail beyond the known waters.” For a moment, Jeryl was back in his grandmother’s sitting room, sprawled across the cushions of her fine settee with a leg over one elaborately carved armrest. He had purposely assumed this ungentlemanly position to annoy her. He knew her pinched expression hid a concern that came from deep affection, and he could not resist teasing her.
“When I come back from the Easterlies with bags full of gold and coconuts for you, Granna, you will not call me a fool.”
She put down her ubiquitous needlework and looked at him sharply. As a child, this look had never failed to make him shudder. At nearly thirty years, it made his heart squeeze with love for this indomitable old woman.
“Gold and coconuts!” she replied with what would have been called a snort, except that so ungenteel a sound never could have escaped her. “I have no use for either.”
“Then I will bring you a beautiful slave girl to cater to your every whim.”
“Surely, Jeryl, you do not believe those ridiculous stories about the so-called paradise no one has ever seen. All that can be said about the fools who sail toward the setting sun is that they seldom return.” Sniffing, she returned her concentration to her needlework.
“Maybe they never want to leave. Surely, Granna, you do not believe the ridiculous tales of monsters, storms, water funnels and sea spirits the old sailors tell about the waters in the path of the sunrise.”
“Do not be flip with me, young man. I am too old for your teasing.”
“You will outlive all of us, Granna.”
“Not if you continue your attempts to drive me into an early grave,” she snapped. “Of course I do not believe such nonsense.”
Jeryl did not believe in sea monsters either, but there was no denying that many who had ignored the warnings and sailed east had never been seen again.
But in addition to dire warnings there were other stories, less common but persistent, about a land to the east of where the sun rose. In the town where Jeryl was born and in the cities he visited as an adult, he’d never met anyone who claimed to have actually seen this land, but there were always sailors who had heard of someone who had seen it—some claimed even to have met these eyewitnesses. As a young man, Jeryl had prowled the inns and seafarers’ way stations, searching for these elusive travelers without success. And yet the stories seemed so universal and had so many common elements, he had refused to dismiss them as tall tales.
The self-proclaimed experts agreed on a number of things about the Easterlies, as they were called. The Easterlies were a large group of islands, with a mild and sunny climate. The shores were thick with natural harbors where ships could be safely anchored. The mild waters teemed with fish so plentiful they could be plucked from the sea by hand, and so sweet and fat that a man never need worry about his provender. While not strictly civilized, the islands were far from deserted.
And the inhabitants were mostly women, all of whom were beautiful and friendly.
Jeryl yelped as his injured foot came down on a sharp rock, the pain rocketing him back into the here and now. His cry had drawn Grenda’s attention and she grinned over her shoulder at him.
“Do not be woolgatherin’, outlander. If ye break yer pretty face, ye’ll reduce me profits.”
Both the beauty and the friendliness of the islands’ female inhabitants seem to have been somewhat exaggerated, he thought in disgust. It hurt too much to think about his Grandmother anyway, now that he would probably never see her again.
Instead, he let his thoughts drift toward a much more tangible loss. Back to the beach, where he had stood only a few scant hours ago, searching the angry whitecaps that danced inside the small harbor made by an extending arm of land. Peaked waves, seeming to move in opposing directions, cut the sea beyond the shelter of the cove where he had washed ashore. He knew sometimes the currents, the cut of the shore and the shape of seabed beneath combined to create a place where the waves were unpredictable and potentially deadly. He had piloted his beloved Sheeling right into the center of such a place.
Where was the wreckage? A few bits of what could have been hull planking had littered the shore, but nothing more. Jeryl remembered the storm—remembered it all too well. He could still hear the terrible sounds of the ship’s timbers being wrenched apart, audible even over the deafening sounds of the wind and the sea. To him, the Sheeling was like a living thing, and the groans and shrieks made by wood and brass being torn apart had sounded like the screams of a dying beast. But he had no recollection of going into the water. Perhaps I was knocked unconscious. But no, if that were so, he likely would have drowned.
“Argh!” Jeryl landed on his knees, this time literally pulled from his delirium from an especially sharp yank from Grenda’s rope. Amid the mixed chuckling and grumbling of his captors, he thought, I had better keep my mind on the present, if I ever want to get away from this damned place.
Jeryl did not know if one or ten hours had passed when he became aware the path had widened to a road, and they were passing farms.
Once back in settled lands the party seemed to relax and slow their pace and Jeryl was able to stay on his feet, even though the combination of thirst, pain and exhaustion had only served to deepen his dreamlike state, and none of his surroundings seeming quite real. In one field he could see men working between rows of freshly turned earth. They must have been aware of the troop passing but did not even raise their heads to look. Jeryl wondered groggily whether a bound man on the end of a rope, led by a group of armored women, was such a common sight as to arouse no interest.
Eventually the farmland gave way to a proper village, and here he did notice some stares, although the faces turned toward him, almost exclusively female, showed more curiosity than surprise. The men he saw all seemed to be engaged in labor.
At what appeared to be the main intersection, Bloduewedd reined in her horse and waited for Grenda to catch up. “Take him to the sheds,” she told Grenda, “and meet the rest of us at Bretna’s inn.” She turned her horse and the rest of the group followed her. Grenda spurred her horse again. Jeryl, not expecting the sudden start, was nearly yanked from his feet but managed to stumble on in a haze of pain and exhaustion.
Jeryl was unsure what happened next but Grenda’s horse reared without warning. She kept her seat easily but the sudden release and resumption of pressure on the rope pulled Jeryl off his feet and he landed hard, facedown in the mud.
The pain from his broken ribs was excruciating and the breath was knocked from his lungs. As he struggled to take a breath, he was hampered by the gag in his mouth and the mud that clogged his nostrils. Suffocation seemed like a real possibility, until he managed to twist his legs and turn his body so he was faceup. He blew mud from his nostrils and breathed deeply. He had no way to reach his hand up to clear the mud from his eyelids. He lay with his eyes closed and waited for Grenda’s curses, demanding he get back on his feet. If she wanted him to go any further
, she would just have to drag him. He was sure he would not be able to get up, even if his hands were not tied behind his back. He heard another voice and though he could not concentrate on the words, he thought its owner was arguing with Grenda.
He could feel the sun behind his eyelids and cautiously blinked a few times to see if he could clear the mud enough to make out his surroundings. Carefully, he opened his eyes and squinted up into the sun. And there, directly above him, he saw an angel.
* * * * *
Just as Delinda stepped inside the pig merchant’s gate, she was distracted by a noise in the road. She was horrified to see a sight even worse than the one she had sought to avoid at the slave market. A large, impossibly ugly woman with short gray hair, clad in a breastplate and carrying a shield and sword, was riding an enormous horse down the center of the street. Behind her, being pulled at the end of a rope, was a bleeding and filthy man. His arms were bound behind his back and a gag was tied to his mouth. His eyes were glazed and unseeing and he staggered unsteadily, oblivious to his surroundings. “Go inside, Ostyn,” she said quickly, wishing to spare him the sight. She was about to follow him when something small and dark caught her eye, darting across the road in front of the great horse.
What occurred next happened so fast, Delinda was barely able to react. The great horse reared and spun, causing the pressure on the rope around the man’s neck to go slack. He tottered and almost fell backward, but before he could do more than sway, the rope was again pulled taut and the man was lifted completely off his feet and sent flying through the air. Delinda saw that, because he was bound, he would be unable to put out his hands to break his fall. And he was coming directly at her!
She jumped back to avoid the collision and then realized, too late, he was going to land headfirst. She wanted to hold out her arms and try to catch him, but was unable to stop her backward momentum and watched, helpless, as he landed face-first in the mud before her feet.
Men In Chains Page 3
