by Anthony Ryan
There was a time she would have made them watch, delighting in their impotence as they squirmed in their bonds, helpless witnesses to the slaughter of their families. But for reasons she can’t fathom such diversions hold no interest for her now and she has been content to gather them atop the Council Tower, standing at the parapet with the tip of a sword pricking every back, watching smoke and flames rise from the wealthier districts of the city as their estates are laid waste. It is close to midnight and the flames are bright, though they are at too great a height to hear the screams. For all their unnatural vitality these greats of the empire are now revealed as old men, sagging in grief, weeping or choking out desperate pleas for mercy, kept upright only by the promise of instant death should they falter.
“I realise this may be a redundant statement, Honoured Council-men,” she tells them. “But the Ally is less than impressed by your efforts to fulfil his great design.”
She moves to the grey-haired dullard, the one whose name she still can’t recall although she is almost certain he must have known her father as a youth. He wears the formal robes of a Council-man, red from head to toe, though a telltale stain is spreading across the fabric around his legs. “Barely a tenth of the forces required have been gathered,” she tells the somewhat pungent greyhead, “whilst you present me with an endless parade of ever-more-pathetic excuses. The Ally has ordained a great destiny for this empire whilst you wallow in your comforts and blind yourselves to the threat growing across the sea.”
He attempts to beg, but his words emerge in a stumbling incoherent babble of spit and tears. She lets him burble on and turns an appraising glance on the man standing at his back, dressed in light armour like the Kuritai, but armed with but one sword, the blade longer and more slender than the Volarian standard, reminiscent in fact of the Asraelin pattern. Also, unlike the Kuritai, his armour is enamelled in red rather than black. He is of average height but his body is toned to near perfection, the product of decades of breeding and years of conditioning. It had always been a persistent delusion among these long-lived clods that the Kuritai were the ultimate slave soldiers, incapable of improvement, and now here they were, once again proved fatally wrong.
The swordsman is aware of her scrutiny, returning her gaze with a respectful nod, a grin of anticipation on his lips. They had been the Ally’s most cherished project for centuries, a slave soldier capable of thought as well as obedience, but successive generations had proved a disappointment, either too difficult to control or too easy. It was her beloved who had provided the clue; during his time in the pits they had studied him closely, finding him most deadly when the binding was loosened, when his rage added precious speed to his blows. And so they had begun to change their diet of drugs, subtly alter their training regimen, weeding out those lacking the required spirit. In a few short years the results achieved had been … impressive.
“Step forward,” she tells the swordsman and his grin widens as he complies, his sword digging into the Council-man’s back. The scream is long as he plummets to the ground. She doesn’t bother herself to view the result, waving a hand at each of the swordsmen in turn, the Council-men forced over the edge with varying degrees of panic and terror, some begging as they fall, as if their pleas will conquer gravity. In a few moments only one remains. He stands with his back straight, staring fixedly at the northern suburbs where his villa burns, the ornamental lake that surrounds it providing a fine reflection as the air is still tonight.
“Nothing to say, Arklev?” she asks him.
He doesn’t react, not even to turn his head. She moves closer, finding his posture oddly noble, stoic in the face of death, refusing to acknowledge his enemy. A classic Volarian pose, worthy of any statue. “I’ve always wondered,” she says, resting her arms on the parapet beside him. “Was it you who proposed the Council employ me to assassinate my father?”
The question is pointless, she knows. He will not speak to her. She is an unworthy enemy, bereft of consideration, deserving of no more respect than the tiger that eats the unwary traveller.
Instead, he chooses to surprise her. “It was not a proposal,” he says, face still composed and voice free of any quaver. “It was an order, conveyed by the creature you call the Messenger.”
She stares at him for a moment then laughs. Was it reward or enticement? she wonders. “I ordered your wife and most recently spawned brats be killed quickly,” she says. “I felt I owed you that much.”
He says nothing, his composure still fully in place. She toys with the idea of letting him stand there for a full day, curious to see how long it will take before his legs buckle, but yet again finds her appetite for indulgence diminished this night. “Take him to the vault,” she tells the swordsman standing at his back.
Arklev casts an appalled gaze at her then lurches forward, trying to launch himself from the parapet, but his guard is too swift, catching him by the legs and dragging him back. “Kill me!” Arklev rages at her. “Kill me you pestilent bitch!”
“You have too much yet to do, Arklev,” she replies with an apologetic smile. He continues to rage as his guard drags him to the stairs, his cries echoing all the way down.
She lingers for a while, watching the fires, wondering how many living in the city below had any notion of what they portended, of the different world that would greet them on the dawn, a now-familiar fugue of confusion settling over her mind.
The fires are smaller when she comes back to herself, the confusion fading. How long has she stood here? She turns to one of the swordsmen, the one who had killed the greyhead, finding him viewing her with open admiration, his eyes lingering where the slit in her gown reveals a length of thigh. “Do you know what you are?” she asks him.
“Arisai,” he replies, meeting her gaze with a grin. “A servant of the Ally.”
“No.” She turns back to the city. “You are a slave. In the morning I will be an empress, but also a slave. For we are all slaves now.”
She is moving to the stairs when it strikes her, the sensation of his return falling like a hammerblow. She staggers, falling to her knees. Beloved! Her song swells in welcome and foreboding, the same notes it has always sung in his presence. He is close, she can feel it, the ocean no longer between them. Beloved, do you come to me?
The song shifts as it touches his hatred, his sweet hatred, a vision coming to her mind, foggy but clear enough to discern a stretch of coastline, tall waves breaking on a rocky shore, a single word in his voice, his wonderful hate-filled voice: Eskethia.
“Reminds me of southern Cumbrael,” Draker said, shielding his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the landscape. “Did some smuggling there in my youth.”
Eskethia did indeed bear some resemblance to the Realm’s driest region, and seemed similarly rich in vineyards, rows of neatly ordered vines stretching away across the rolling hills, interspersed with an occasional villa or farm building. Frentis glanced back at the Sea Sabre, wallowing in the morning tide. Belorath had been obliged to land them when the shore was clear of waves to avoid smashing them onto the rocks, resting the hull on the sands before they disembarked. “I’ll ask the gods to favour your mission,” the captain had called down to Frentis from the stern, casting a wary eye at the shore, his final words a barely heard mutter, “though I doubt even they could preserve you here.”
“I put us fifty miles south of New Kethia,” Thirty-Four advised, examining an unfurled map. “If the captain’s reckoning is to be trusted.”
“Good navigation is about the only thing I’d trust a Meldenean with.” Frentis’s gaze tracked to the nearest villa, perhaps a quarter mile off with outbuildings large enough to be stables.
“It’ll be home to a black-clad,” Thirty-Four said, following his gaze. “Too grand for anything else. They are likely to have guards; house Varitai. An estate this large will keep perhaps a dozen.”
“All to the good.” Frentis gave the sign for the company to adopt the loose skirmish formation he had taught them in the
Urlish. “We need to start somewhere.”
They managed to take a Varitai alive, a guard posted on the villa’s western side, roped and beaten down by Draker with Thirty-Four’s assistance. His comrades were not so fortunate, running to confront them with weapons drawn when a panicked slave gave the alarm, screaming shrilly of bandits as she fled back to the house. Frentis had ordered no chances taken and the fight was short, half the Varitai cut down by their arrows and Illian’s crossbow before the company closed in with drawn swords to finish the others.
How much they have learned, Frentis thought, finding a grim satisfaction at the efficiency with which his people dealt with the Varitai, lanky Dallin ducking under a short sword to jab his own into a slave soldier’s eyes then moving behind him to finish it with Draker’s trick. Beyond them Illian deflected an overhead slash and delivered a deadly counter-thrust, finding a gap in the Varitai’s armour just above the breastbone. It was over in a few moments, the company kneeling beside fresh corpses to claim weapons and trinkets, a ritual born in the forest.
“Leave that,” Frentis barked. “Search the villa. If he hasn’t fled, the owner will be in the upper rooms. Draker, take Thirty-Four and gather the slaves.”
“Redbrother.” Lekran stood at the arched entrance to the villa’s courtyard, wiping blood from his axe, his expression dark. “Something you should see.”
The man had been strong, the muscle on his arms and back clearly revealed as he hung from two posts, dried blood streaking his wrists where the shackles held him upright. His head hung forward, still and lifeless, the length of his broad back striped with two-day-old whip strokes. Frentis noted his left foot was stunted, the front half having been hacked off at some point, the standard punishment for slaves who run from their masters, death being the fate of any who run twice.
Opposite the dead man a young woman had been chained to another post, arms drawn back and legs tied in place so she couldn’t turn, a leather gag secured about her mouth. She was partially naked, breasts and shoulders showing the signs of repeated beatings. She collapsed in Illian’s arms as Lekran smashed the chains with his axe and the sister cut away her bonds. She choked on the water from Illian’s canteen, an expression of utter confusion on her face fading slowly as she took in the sight of Frentis, her eyes tracking over his garb, the blue cloak and the sword on his back. “Brother?” she asked in Realm Tongue, her accent unmistakably Asraelin.
“Yes, Brother Frentis.” He knelt at her side. “This is Sister Illian.”
The woman’s head lolled, her gaze losing focus. “Then I am finally dead,” she said with a shrill laugh.
“No.” Illian took her hand, squeezing it gently. “No. We are here. Come to save you at our queen’s orders.”
The woman stared at her, apparently unable to comprehend the reality of her survival. “Jerrin,” she said after a moment, raising herself up, gazing around with a wild animation. “Jerrin. Did you save him too?” She stopped as her gaze found the man hanging from the posts. She sagged in Illian’s arms and voicing a despairing wail. “I told him we shouldn’t run,” she whispered. “But he couldn’t stand the thought of him touching me again.”
Frentis turned at the sound of a fearful whimper. A plump little man in loose robes of black silk stood trembling beside the ornate fountain in the centre of the courtyard, his chins bulging somewhat as Master Rensial pressed his sword blade harder, forcing him to stand on tiptoe. “Where are the horses?” he demanded.
The plump man raised a shaking hand, pointing to an arched doorway off to the left. Rensial raised a questioning eyebrow at Frentis. He turned back to the woman they had freed, seeing the depth of hatred in the stare with which she fixed the plump black-clad. “Not just yet, Master,” Frentis told him. “If you don’t mind.”
They found another six Realm folk among the slaves, none more than forty years in age, all possessing skills of some kind. “Jerrin was a wheelwright,” his wife explained. Her name was Lissel, a chandler from Rhansmill come to live in Varinshold at her husband’s insistence. “Money grew tight after the desert war. Varinshold would be our fortune, he said.” She began to voice another of her shrill laughs but mastered the impulse with a visible effort, her gaze moving to the villa’s owner, now stripped naked and chained to the posts where her husband had died. Thirty-Four had questioned him for a short time, his skills unnecessary as the black-clad had been all too eager to cooperate.
“He tells of a larger estate twelve miles to the east,” Thirty-Four reported. “The master there is a renowned breeder of horses and has also purchased many slaves from the recent influx.”
“The nearest garrison?” Frentis enquired.
“Ten miles north of here, a single battalion of Varitai, though fewer in number than they should be. It seems the Council has been concentrating forces on the capital recently.”
“Not for much longer.” Frentis took the whip they had found on the overseer’s body. He had tried to run, displaying an impressive turn of speed for such a large man, but Slasher and Blacktooth were faster. Frentis placed the whip in Lissel’s lap. “I leave this matter in your hands, mistress.”
He went outside where Draker had gathered the slaves, the Realm folk standing apart from the others, some already holding weapons taken from the Varitai and greeting Frentis with bows and expressions of grave intent. The others numbered over forty people and displayed only fear. A clutch of girls, the youngest no more than thirteen, clustered together in a protective huddle, casting tearful glances at the men surrounding them. Only one slave was prepared to meet Frentis’s gaze, a trim man of middle years dressed in a clean dun-coloured tunic. He winced a little as the first scream came from the courtyard, the crack of the whip an indication that Lissel was a quick learner.
“You are One here?” Frentis asked the trim man.
He winced again as another scream sounded, then bowed low. “I am, Master.”
“I am not a master and you are not a slave. What is your name?”
“Tekrav, m— Honoured Citizen.”
Frentis studied the man’s face, seeing the keen intelligence he tried to hide with a servile stoop. “You were not always a slave. Those born to slavery have no names. What was your crime?”
“An overfondness for dice.” Another scream pealed forth, longer and louder, followed by a babble of desperate entreaties and promises. Tekrav swallowed and forced a smile. “And a dislike of resultant debt.”
“Your skill?”
“I am scribe and bookkeeper here. Should you require my talent, Honoured Citizen, I am at your disposal.”
“I’ll have need of it in time. Whether you choose to offer it is a matter for you.” Frentis stepped back, raising his voice to address them all. “By order of Queen Lyrna these lands are hereby seized for the Unified Realm and all who reside here afforded the rights and privileges due free subjects of the Crown.”
There was little reaction beyond bafflement, most remaining immobile, eyes fixed on the ground, the clutch of girls huddling even closer together.
“You’re free,” Frentis went on. “You may go and do as you please. However, any who wish to join with me and free your brothers and sisters are welcome.”
More silence; even Tekrav just stared at him in incomprehension.
“You’re wasting your time, brother,” one of the Realm folk said, a short but broad man with the teardrop scars of the forge visible on his forearms. “You’ll find more spirit in a whipped dog than this lot.”
Frentis gave them a final glance, seeing the truth of his words plainly enough and suppressing a sigh of frustration. Slavery is more than just chains, he knew. It binds the soul as much as the body.
“We leave in an hour,” he told the slaves, turning away. “You may take what you like from the villa, but I advise you not to linger.”
The Varitai exhibited no fear, kneeling with his arms bound behind his back, stripped of armour and undershirt to reveal the pattern of scars. They were less elaborate than
the matrix that once covered Frentis’s chest, similar to Lekran’s markings but plainly administered with scant regard to artistry or the discomfort of their wearer.
“How much?” Illian asked, removing the cap from the flask.
“No more than a teardrop,” Frentis said, watching the Varitai keenly as she stepped closer, pouring a small amount of the liquid into the cap.
“Varitai are not as strong as Kuritai,” Lekran advised in a wary tone. He stood at the rear of the bound slave soldier, axe at the ready. “Could kill him.”
“Then we’ll try a smaller dose on the next one.” Frentis nodded at Illian and she upended the cap, allowing the contents to fall onto the scars on the Varitai’s chest.
Unlike Lekran there was no scream, the Varitai’s head snapping up, the veins in his neck bulging, teeth gritted so tight it was a wonder they didn’t break. His eyes widened, the pupils shrinking to dots as spit began to drool from his mouth. A second later he collapsed, convulsing on the ground with white foam covering his lips, his jerks gradually slowing to twitches, then nothing.
Frentis crouched down to feel for the pulse in his neck, finding it weak, and slowing. “He’s dying,” he said with a sigh. He looked up as a shadow fell across him, finding Weaver staring down at the scene with naked disgust. Frentis began to rise when Weaver’s fist came down in a blur, connecting with his jaw and sending him sprawling.
Frentis lay stunned, hearing Illian’s sword scrape free of its scabbard. After a moment his vision cleared and he found Weaver on his knees, both hands placed on the dying Varitai’s chest, paying no heed to Illian, who had touched her sword point to the nape of his neck. “Leave it,” Frentis ordered, getting to his feet and waving her back.
Weaver kept his hands on the Varitai’s chest for some time, his expression one of deep concentration, eyes half-closed and lips moving in a silent whisper. Frentis heard Illian stifle a gasp as the slave soldier’s scars began to fade from his chest, shrinking to faint pale lines in a matter of minutes. Finally Weaver removed his hands and rose, stepping back as the slave soldier issued a weary groan.
