Men In Chains

by Virginia Reede

  For a moment she froze, fearful the fall had broken his neck. Then she saw his chest heave and saw him twist his legs and turn over. She bent to help him and the woman on the horse spoke to her.

  “Ye’ll excuse this male for splashing mud on ye,” she said in a voice full of malicious humor. “But I just acquired him and haven’t had time to teach him his manners.” She turned her attention to the man, who appeared to be having difficulty clearing the mud from his nostrils. “Get up, ye lazy vermin, and stop botherin’ the quality folk. I have to get ye to the sheds before they close up for the auction.”

  Delinda felt rage welling inside her. This was exactly the sort of thing that had given her reason to return to her native sector and formulate her plan. She knew a public confrontation regarding cruelty was probably ill-advised until she had been here long enough to know with whom she was dealing, but she could not stand idly by while this man was dragged to his death.

  “Can you not see he is hurt?” she demanded. “He can barely breathe with that thing in his mouth and he is obviously too exhausted to walk. The Goddess only knows how far you have dragged him and it looks like he has fallen numerous times. And just how is he supposed to get up with his hands tied behind his back, will you tell me that?” Delinda bristled with fury as she looked up into the ugly face.

  “He will get up the same way he got up the last time,” said the woman, annoyed. “And I cannot see how ye have anything to say about it.”

  Delinda drew herself up to her full height and gave the woman her most imperious look. “Just give me a moment and I will help him up,” she said. “And then I suggest you slow your pace a bit, if you want to have anything left to sell by the time you get to the sheds!”

  The woman still looked displeased but seemed to be considering whether it was wise to argue with someone who was obviously a noblewoman, even if she could not exactly place her. She shrugged and grumbled, “Do as ye like, but be quick about it.”

  Delinda turned her attention to the man at her feet. He was breathing easily now, but seemed to be trying to open his eyes, which was dangerous because his face was covered with mud. He squinted up at her.

  Delinda took a kerchief from her pocket, crouched and spoke quietly to the man. “Let me wipe the mud from your eyelids so you can open your eyes.” His lids closed and she wiped away some of the mud. His eyes opened, and she gasped.

  His eyes were so pale green against the dark mud that covered his face, the contrast was truly startling. Exactly the color, she thought, of the shallow sea on a sunny day. He blinked again, trying to focus on her and made a noise as if to speak, but could not because of the gag. Delinda considered removing it but did not want to push her luck with the woman on the horse.

  Delinda had thought to help him to his feet, but now that she was so close to him she could see he was big for a male—exceptionally so. His shoulders were broad and his chest, most of which was exposed, was a fascinating study in musculature. She guessed that when standing he might be as tall as she. She would have difficulty lifting him if he was unable to do at least some of the work, which the glazed look in the sea-green eyes made unlikely. Briefly, Delinda considering asking the gray-haired woman to help her, but immediately dismissed the notion. That left her only one choice.

  Placing her hand on his chest which, she could not fail to notice, was just as hard as it looked, she took a breath and summoned the rahnta. She realized she had been aching to do this since the incident when she and Korin had somehow shared power, and the rahnta answered more swiftly and more powerfully than it ever had before. Again, she felt the dark streams coming from the Eye trying to find and commingle with the brighter, purer light of her own power, but she mentally flicked the darker force aside as easily as brushing off a falling feather.

  Knowing she had little time before the man’s captor noticed, she channeled the power directly into him. Your pain is eased, she thought. Your strength returns. As she watched, the glazed eyes became first aware and then startled. His eyebrows, which might have been golden under the layer of mud, rose in surprise. She felt the chest muscles under her hand ripple and flex and eased her hand so that it grasped his upper arm without ever breaking physical contact. “Can you stand?” she asked quietly. He nodded, and she stood, leaning back to use her weight to lever him to his feet. Her pull, combined with his suddenly steady legs, allowed him to get up much more easily than she expected. Delinda was astonished to see he was at least two hand spans taller than she was. She realized she was still holding his arm and released it.

  Almost immediately he slumped a little, but did not stagger or look like he was about to fall again. His eyes remained bright and focused directly on hers. She found his regard a bit unnerving. Although she was not in favor of the system of social mores that dictated a male must not look too directly at a woman, she was unaccustomed to such unselfconscious regard from a man. It gave her a rather odd feeling, not entirely unpleasant.

  She turned to find the armor-clad woman looking at her suspiciously. It must not have gone unnoticed that Delinda had been able to raise a very large man to his feet with what would have been, to the casual observer, little effort. “I suppose I should thank ye,” the woman said grudgingly, “for saving me having to drag the outlander all the way to the sheds. He will bring a good price and a share goes into me own pocket.” She nodded at Delinda curtly and started off. The man, still staring at Delinda, resisted the drag of the rope for a moment, but then had no choice but to follow along as the horse was urged to a pace that was, in Delinda’s opinion, just a bit faster than necessary.

  Delinda stepped back onto the walkway in front of the livestock merchant’s, where she stood unobserved, watching until horse, woman and man turned the corner. “What a remarkable-looking man,” she murmured to herself. “I wonder where she found him.”

  Chapter Three

  Dazed, Jeryl followed Grenda’s horse down the street, no longer feeling as if he would fall. What had just happened? He shook his head but it did not seem to need clearing. He had been wandering in a delirium and had fallen and been unable to rise. Then he had heard voices and someone had said something about mud and his eyes. Then he had seen the angel…

  No, definitely not an angel. Even though the pain in his ribs, foot and various joints had mysteriously lessened, he could still feel enough soreness to be sure he was alive. Angels were not creatures of the land of the living. This had definitely been a woman, even if she had golden eyes that would be more appropriate on a cat.

  Jeryl had a hard time comprehending what had happened next. The woman had put her hand on his chest, there had been sudden warmth and then he had been filled with some kind of flowing…what? Light, certainly, and something like the burn of strong spirits when swallowed too quickly. It had started where her hand had rested and flowed through his limbs. Then she had grasped his arm and, even though only moments before he had been sure his legs would never again be able to support his weight, he had risen to his feet as if hauled up like one of the Sheeling’s sails.

  When the woman had let go, the flowing sensation had ceased instantly. He had no longer felt as if held up by anything more than his own strength, but the terrible exhaustion was gone and the pain from his bonds and injuries was no longer severe. He knew he had stared at her like a man aghast, but that’s exactly what he had been.

  And she was beautiful. No wonder he had thought her an angel, even in those outrageous trousers.

  Grenda reined in her horse suddenly, causing Jeryl to nearly walk into its backside. She had stopped to speak with some mounted passersby. Jolted out of his reverie, he took a better look at his surroundings. He was on a busy public way with buildings lining both sides of the street except for what looked like an open area—maybe a market square, but he could not see clearly because the horses were blocking his view.

  The women who had stopped Grenda finished their conversation and departed, and Jeryl was able to see what their horses had previously c
oncealed. A small open lot was positioned between two buildings that edged the road. At the back of this lot were long, low sheds that looked like horse stalls, except there were no windows. It took him a moment to register the sight in the foreground. Three naked men were bound, much as he was himself, with their hands behind their back and ropes leading from their necks to posts of wood. Each stood with his eyes lowered and several women walked between the posts, examining and discussing the men. As Jeryl watched, one of the women grabbed the man closest to the road by the hair and pulled his head back to examine his eyes. The man made no move to resist, even when she finished her inspection of his face and moved on to squeeze the muscles of his arms, buttocks and—unbelievably—to handle his male organs as if she were weighing fruit!

  Jeryl’s mouth would have hung open if it had not been bound. Grenda saw where he was looking and grinned evilly. “Cannot wait for yer turn?” she asked. “Sorry outlander, ye’ll have to wait a week—’tis the rule for any male from outside the sector. Have to make sure you’re fit before ye can be sold. Come on, now, let’s get this business over with so I can have a drink. I’m thirsty.”

  The mention of drink made Jeryl’s head swim. The familiar tug of the rope forced him back into motion as Grenda headed down a path toward the back of the low buildings. Here, Jeryl saw that the roof of one of the buildings had been extended to form an open-air shop or office. Several women sat on stools and chairs taking their ease. Some of them, Jeryl observed, were smoking pipes. One of these women scrambled to her feet.

  “Grenda!” she shouted with false heartiness. “Always a pleasure to see you and to be of service to you or to the Ra-drine. How can I help you today?”

  “Good day, Selia. I’ve an outlander for the sheds. He is the property of the Ra-drine, and she means to sell him next week if he be fit enough,” said Grenda.

  The woman looked Jeryl over doubtfully. “He doesn’t look too spry at the moment,” she said. “He’s bleeding and he looks like he’s been dragged from the next sector.”

  “Nah, he’s just dirty and thirsty from his little stroll into town,” Grenda replied. “Bloduewedd will appreciate it if ye fix him up a bit so he’s ready for the block.”

  “Of course, of course,” Selia replied hastily, her manner obsequious. “He’s a fine, big beast and will show well after a little cleaning up.” She turned toward an open door in the back of the shed. “Alun! Come out here!” A wiry man came out, bowing his head.

  “At your service, Ra,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Take this man in and get him cleaned up,” she instructed. “And keep an eye on him—he’s an outlander and they’re troublesome, often as not.” She turned to Grenda. “Please tell the Ra-drine we will take good care of her property and see she gets a good price for him, if you are sure she does not wish to keep him for herself. Outlanders,” she added, “can be difficult to handle, but they are sometimes good breeders. Not so slow to get their shafts hard, you know.” She and Grenda shared a bawdy chuckle.

  Before he could overhear any more of this alarming conversation, Jeryl found the wiry man had removed the rope from his neck and was leading him toward the door from which he had appeared. Immediately it became blessedly cooler and Jeryl stumbled a bit, having trouble seeing in the dim shed after the bright yard. “Watch your step,” the man said quietly, “until I get those bindings off you.” They came to a halt near some kind of worktable, next to a rough bench. “Turn around.” Jeryl turned his back to the man, who cut the leather thongs binding his arms. The instant his hands were free Jeryl pulled the foul gag from his mouth. A moment later he gasped from pain as the circulation flowed back into his hands and forearms.

  “Water!” he croaked. His voice sounded unintelligible even to his own ears but the man, anticipating his need, was already lifting a lid from a barrel next to the bench and filling a clay cup. Jeryl snatched it from his hands and gulped it greedily. Almost immediately, his stomach roiled and he vomited the water onto the straw-covered floor. The man, expressionless, took the cup from Jeryl’s trembling hand and refilled it.

  “Sit down first, and go slower this time,” he said, handing it back. Jeryl did as instructed and the water stayed down. The man refilled the cup three more times before Jeryl nodded that he’d had enough.

  “Thank you, friend,” he said, his voice less hoarse. He looked at the man, who neither smiled nor looked away, but gazed steadily at Jeryl as if he were looking at a wall. “My name is Jeryl, but I’m afraid I missed yours.” He looked up expectantly, waiting for an answer.

  After a long pause the man answered. “My name is Alun, and I am not your friend.” This statement carried no animosity, either in tone or in expression. Indeed, Jeryl had yet to see any trace of emotion from this neutral man. He continued to look at Jeryl for a moment then abruptly turned away. “Come with me,” he said, and began to walk away. Jeryl considered ignoring the order, but was curious about the place where he found himself. As he stood and followed Alun, he noticed a sheathed knife on the man’s belt, presumably the one that had been used to cut his bonds.

  They continued deeper into the building, which Jeryl had previously thought windowless but now saw had windows in the wall facing away from the road. They stepped through a doorway into a steamy room. Alun stopped and turned to Jeryl. “Take off your clothes,” he said. Jeryl was about to protest when he realized where they were standing.

  A bathhouse! At Jeryl’s childhood home and at the residences of all persons of his family’s class, there were always such rooms, filled with warm water and steam and relaxation. He had grown up taking this for granted, but his life at sea had taught him to regard it as a luxury. The inability to submerse in a tub of hot, soapy water was one of the few things he regretted when he made his decision to forsake the land for a life of adventure on the open ocean.

  Here there was a large communal tub such as was common in inns and barracks houses, and the steam rising from the water indicated it was warm. Currently it was unoccupied and the water looked clean. Jeryl stripped out of his clothes and began to climb over the edge. Alun stopped him, indicating he should pull off what was left of the filthy rag binding his foot. He did so, and then stepped into the water.

  The water was hot, but not too hot. His cuts stung as they hit the water, but it was nothing compared to the ease he felt as he sank up to his neck, the water taking the weight off his battered frame. He groaned with pleasure. Alun seated himself on a stool, watching him. Jeryl felt a bit uncomfortable under such unblinking scrutiny, but decided to ignore it. He looked around at the edge of the tub and found a cake of what smelled like soap. He dunked his head underwater and began the process of scrubbing himself from head to toe. As he came up from rinsing the soap from his hair, he noticed Alun seemed to have actually achieved a facial expression—one of mild amusement.

  “What is it?” he asked, becoming annoyed at the man’s stare. “Do you find me humorous?”

  “I was just thinking that at least you will not have to learn how to use the tub,” replied Alun. “Many outlanders seem to be unfamiliar with the process. You splash about like a duck in a puddle.”

  Jeryl did not respond to this comment. He needed to use his time in the bath to try to make sense of the jumble of new information with which he had been bombarded since awakening on the beach.

  He was in the Easterlies, that seemed certain. The local society seemed to be dominated by women and Bloduewedd was in some position of power. He was, at this moment, chattel. Were all men slaves here? He had yet to observe any behaving as free men did—conducting business, taking their ease and the like. But he had seen little, and needed more information before he could truly assess his situation.

  He glanced speculatively at Alun, calculating his potential as a source of information. The man was taciturn, but he was all Jeryl had at the moment. Ah well, it doesn’t hurt to ask, he thought. Again he remembered his granna and smiled a bit to himself. I wonder what she would think of t
his turn of events. He chuckled. Alun lifted an eyebrow but did not comment.

  “May I ask you some questions?” Jeryl asked politely. Since this man had already made it clear he was not interested in striking up a friendship, it would not do to seem overly familiar. Alun did not reply but his face changed slightly, seeming to indicate he was waiting.

  “What is the name of this place?” he asked.

  Alun looked puzzled. “What place do you mean? This business establishment?”

  “No, although I want to know that too. But what is the name of this, um…” He tried to figure out how to explain. “You see, I was shipwrecked and I do not know if I am on an island or a larger piece of land or in a country or, well, anything. We had sailed farther east than our maps show and there was a storm, and I must have been hit on the head, and…” Jeryl stopped, confounded by the enormity of what he did not know.

  After a moment of silence, Alun sighed. “I see.” He ruminated for a few minutes, probably trying to figure out how to convey the most information in the least number of words. “You are in the village of Havendrine in the sector of Glamurhaven. I am not sure how large a piece of land must be before it is no longer an island in your reckoning, but there are seven other sectors, some of them quite large.” Jeryl waited for Alun to continue but he apparently felt he had adequately covered the issue.

  Jeryl had more questions. “Who rules this land? Is it a king? And why have I been made a captive?”

  Alun, never quick to speak, considered again. “I am not familiar with this word, ‘king’. Each sector is ruled by the Rahntadrine, or Ra-drine as she is generally called. They have a council of sorts and sometimes they all come together in one sector or another to meet. Bloduewedd is the Ra-drine here, and you are her captive because any unclaimed male in the sector belongs to her.”

  Jeryl had more questions—dozens—but Alun stood and turned his back, signaling an end to the interrogation. Again, Jeryl noticed the knife on his belt. He speculated it would not be hard to get it away from the older, smaller man. When Alun turned he was holding a small roll of cloth. “You have had more than enough time to cleanse yourself, outlander. More than is normally allowed, but you were in sore need.” He indicated the edge of the tub. “Sit here and hold out your foot.”