The Magus

by Ted Neill

  “They are Candelin,” Tallia said.

  “Who are they?” Gail asked, taking a fighting stance.

  “My people. Maurvant who worship the Rakne.”

  “What do they want?” Gail said, eyeing them over her blade.

  “Nothing of us,” Tallia said, looking to Adamantus and then to the dark shape of the dead elk, half submerged in the glassy water of the lake. “They will want to pay their respect to the slain one.”

  She was right. The Maurvant—or Candelin—were less interested in them and even Adamantus, than they were in the dead elk. A few glanced in their direction, examining Adamantus with some curiosity, but then moved on with the rest, wading into the water where they began to beat their breasts and let out miserable wails while they tore at their garments, mourning their fallen god.

  “Are your clothes dry?” Adamantus asked, his voice low.

  “Mostly,” Katlyn said, touching her tunic.

  “Then it is best we are going.”

  Chapter 7

  Chattel

  Haille’s world was reduced to the bare boards and nicked bars of the jailor’s wagon. He tried to console himself, savoring what he could of small reprieves: the stars winking between the bars as the wagon rolled through the night, the smell of pine trees that would waft through his small prison, the trilling of bird songs. But inevitably just as he felt some inkling of pleasure, even hope, it would collapse downward into thoughts that seemed intent on destroying him: this could be the last time he saw starlight, smelled pine trees, or listened to a bird song. It all depended on what these captors intended to do with him and what prison awaited him.

  Of course, it was all unfair and unjust but none of that mattered. Fairness, justice, any semblance of logic and sense had been long forsaken. Haille knew he had entered an upside-down world where expectations of goodness were inverted so than they only led to agony.

  The jailors did not feed him except for stale rye bread once a day and water twice. They drove the horses in shifts, riding through the night. Haille was only allowed out of the cart—while in chains—twice a day to relieve himself. Even this he believed was not out of the graciousness of his jailors, but rather their own distaste for having to clean up the inside of the cart. On those occasions, after long hours in the rocking darkness, everything was a revelation to Haille: the explosion of red and green on a holly bush, sap collected on the scales of a pinecone, raindrops hanging on the tips of tree branches. These forays were short but they allowed him to gather some understanding of where he was. The road was grainy, the trees mostly short and narrow evergreens. When he kicked at the forest floor covered in needles, the soil beneath was sandy.

  The sand road. They are taking me west.

  The sand road led to the coast, so Haille had no illusions about remaining on the continent. His suspicions were confirmed one night when he heard a rider gallop down the road and greet his captors.

  “The ship leaves in two days. I have orders to ride with him on ahead.”

  “The wagon is too slow? We’ve pushed day and night.”

  “Yes, but you’re being followed. You’ll take the south fork three leagues from here and lead whomever it is behind you on a diversion.”

  How Haille’s heart leapt at the thought of being followed. It could be bandits but then why lead them on a diversion? It had to be his friends, but like every hope this one only led to despair for he would not be in the wagon as it turned off at the fork. His captors would see to that. He listened as they made their way to the rear door. The starlight outside his rolling dungeon was bright compared to the darkness within, so he was able to make out the face of the new arrival. He was a hefty man with shaved chin but hairy cheeks that glistened with sweat beneath his whiskers. More noteworthy, to Haille, was the broken ring he also wore around his neck.

  Like all the others. Like Vondales. Like Sade.

  But what it meant Haille still did not know and did not dare to ask. He was weak, too weak to attempt escape. Instead he offered his hands as they unshackled his arms from his legs. No sooner was that pressure relieved that they bound his wrists together with rope. Then for the sake of thoroughness, he guessed, they blindfolded him. He felt himself lifted off the ground and onto the back of a horse that the newcomer had brought on a tether. Haille took hold of the saddle as they adjusted his stirrups. He listened to the creak of leather as his new captor climbed back into his own saddle.

  “Remember,” he said in a throaty voice. “South at the fork.”

  Being on horseback, with its fresh air, was a contrast to the wagon, but not necessarily an improvement. It took all Haille’s concentration to balance in the saddle and post effectively as he had to ride by feel alone without the visual cues of the horse’s movement such as the shifts of its shoulder, the break in its gait, or the shaking of its neck. His own muscles were weak from malnourishment; his legs and back soon cramped. Moreover, he was not dressed to ride and the air cut through his clothes, chilling him so that his chest felt stiff and sore. After the sun rose and he could perceive light at the edges of his blindfold, his captor must have noticed Haille’s deplorable state for he removed his cloak and wrapped Haille in it.

  At least they want me alive, for now.

  His captor did not want to attract too much attention. As they neared signs of villages—no more than outposts of a few houses, a barn, and silos, Haille’s blindfold was removed and his captor arranged his cloak to cover Haille’s bindings. Haille said nothing regarding the ruse, but he found it interesting.

  To have his vision returned was at least welcome. They passed other travelers on the road, farmers, traders, and minstrels. Haille knew better than to make eye contact. He longed to beseech them for help but what would he say? And who would challenge this rider? Without his cloak, the rider’s armor clearly displayed the knicks of many battles. His sword, strapped to his back, was long and broad, like an executioner’s, and he kept a poleax strapped lengthwise to his saddle. He was formidable, and Haille understood why other travelers yielded the road to him, their own faces turned aside, their heads lowered, offering few friendly greetings of their own.

  The morning of the second day they took their own turn down a southern fork in the road towards an inlet that was lined with a forest of masts. Morning mist still hung over the tiny harbor. It was no major port, more of a large fishing village. Haille hoped to see some garrison of soldiers but the streets were empty of them—or at least his escort knew how to avoid them. The two of them passed market stalls where sellers were just setting up for the day. Those earliest to rise were already frying fish and potato wedges. Haille’s stomach twisted with hunger but it was yet another agony to be endured. Hunger and thirst made his head spin as they turned the last corner and rode down a ramp to the docks. Haille was unsure of what to expect. They passed longshoremen rolling barrels down gangways, sailors playing dice, and traders bartering for the morning’s first catches. Then he spied a line of men in collars chained to one another, a man holding a whip goading them into the hold of a ship.

  Slavers.

  Haille was forced to follow his captor alongside a carrack set to sail. The first mate, a man with a red beard and patched breeches, met them at the gangway. “About time. We were about to throw the lines.”

  “You will be glad you waited, the Servior will reward you for a full shipment.”

  The first mate’s eyes darted over to Haille before he let out a disgusted grunt and spat over the side. Haille had no doubt the first mate did not think him very valuable as chattel. Too skinny, too short. Haille stumbled as he was forced up the gangway onto the deck. Two sailors with sinewy arms and leather faces took him below as the first mate gave the orders for them to set sail.

  The hull was warm with the heat of so many bodies, at least five dozen of them, all men or older boys packed in next to one another, their knees bent to their chests, the air foul with the odor of their bodies and their waste. Soiled hay was scattered on the floo
r, not unlike in an animal stable. Haille could not imagine that humans could be forced to endure such conditions. He started to gag from the stench alone until one of the sailors struck him in the face.

  “No puking on my shoes. Just had them cleaned, I did.”

  “Shut up,” the other sailor said.

  The last stall at the stern was empty. The sailors shoved Haille down into it, locked in his wrists, and turned to leave him.

  Then Haille vomited. It was nothing but bile and the saggy remnants of the last piece of bread he had eaten. Now he watched it slide across the boards as the ship caught a breeze, listed, and rode out to sea.

  “What’s your name?” the voice came from beside Haille. He turned, his chains clanking, and wondered if the question was meant for him. In the stall next to him, separated by a narrow board, sat a man whose facial features were lost beneath an overgrown beard and long tangles of hair. His bones stuck out through his shirt, which was worn so thin that Haille could see the scars on his shoulders and back. He bore all the signs of long imprisonment.

  “You got a name, don’t you?”

  “Derrick,” Haille said, falling back to the false identity that had served him previously.

  “Geoff,” the man beside him said. “That over there is Dennis, that is Scott, Sam, and him, he hasn’t talked yet. And him, I can’t remember. He don’t talk much either.” Geoff nodded at a few other men with similar beards and unkempt hair hiding their faces. Some were like Geoff, thin and wasted, but others barely fit into the stall they were locked into, they were so hulking with muscle.

  “Are all of us men?” Haille asked.

  “So it seems,” Geoff said. “Likely we’re being shipped somewhere to be workers, slaves for some builders.”

  “How did you come to be here?” Haille asked. His throat was sore and his mouth dry and it was difficult to concentrate but the sound of a human voice kept his mind off his hunger, thirst, and overall agony. Companionship was a sort of nourishment just then.

  “How did any of us? Debts, drunkenness, women, betrayal, being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Do you know anything of our captors?”

  “They are slavers. What else is there to know?” the one called Dennis said from across the aisle.

  “We’re slaves,” Scott said, eliciting a few weak chuckles from the men around them. “Just in case you didn’t know.”

  “Scott, always a wizard with the obvious,” Geoff said with the weary familiarity born of long, forced company.

  “Just keep your mouth shut around the guards. Do what they say and you’ll . . . well you’ll still suffer but you’ll suffer less for it.”

  Haille nodded, not that Geoff noticed. It was not long before the fore hatch opened and blinding daylight poured down the length of the stalls. Haille almost wished the darkness had not been diluted, for in the light he could see the lice crawling through his companions’ hair and surely that was itching he felt on his own scalp. A porcine-faced guard came down the aisle, poured water in the upturned mouths of the prisoners. He did not make much effort to ensure that the men received their full share. Really, he just dumped the ladle over their faces whether conscious or not. The prisoners did their best to wake their neighbors if they were sleeping so they would not miss their share. Some asked for a second helping but all they received was a kick from the guard.

  “We call him Guardy, no one knows his real name. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t make him angry,” Geoff said in Haille’s ear. Haille noted the warning and when Guardy came by with his bucket and ladle, Haille took his fill, swallowed, and let out a weak “Thank you.”

  Guardy, already halfway, turned to the hatch, stopped, spun back, leveled the ladle at Haille’s face and said, “What did you say?”

  “Leave him alone you fat slob,” Geoff said. “He just got here.”

  “And you didn’t,” Guardy said, kicking Geoff in the side. “You shut up and you,” he turned back to Haille. “What did you say?”

  “I said ‘Thank you.’”

  The kick was unexpected and the pain exploded like a shard of glass in Haille’s side.

  “Do I look like your mother?” Guardy asked.

  “Sir?”

  “‘Sir,’” he mocked Haille, his lips curling up towards his pitted nose. “This is no supper table. I’ll ask again: do I look like your mother?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Guardy tilted his head to the side. “You don’t know?”

  “My mother is dead. I never knew her. Maybe she did look like you,” Haille ventured.

  Scott or Dennis or maybe both tried to stifle their sniggers. Guardy scratched his cheek and tugged on his ear.

  “Child is just saying things as they are,” Geoff said.

  “You shut up.” Guardy threw the ladle so that it clattered in the bucket then turned and stomped away.

  Haille felt some small bit of pride, even a spark of pleasure, be it dark, that he had brought humor to this place, to his companions.

  “You’ll want to keep your mouth shut, son,” Geoff said after the hatch had closed again. “It’s better simply not to be noticed.”

  “You didn’t take your own advice,” Haille said.

  “Ah, I’ve been on this ship too long. But mark my words, it’s the ones who stick out that they punish. You’ll see. Better not to be noticed, not to be distinct, be a plain, gray man.”

  Geoff was right. When Guardy returned the next day, he didn’t even tip the ladle so Haille could drink from it. Instead he dumped Haille’s portion on his head.

  “Going to thank me now?” Guardy clomped away laughing, tipping the bucket and draining the rest for himself.

  Haille tried to suck in the moisture from his clothing but it was too little to quench his thirst. He spent the next twenty-four hours parched. Even the occasional draft from the ocean was torture, a threat to steal away any precious moisture his body had left. He became delirious, uncertain if he dreamed or was awake. Only when Guardy came again the next morning and this time allowed him to drink his share from the ladle did Haille come back to himself. But it was a cruel turn for it only made him aware, once more, of his circumstances.

  His muscles ached from sitting in the same position so long. The lice caused his skin to itch with real or imagined crawling. Their rations—watery gruel supplied at the end of each day—were hardly enough to ease their hunger. Once, when the seas were particularly choppy and some men were vomiting, Haille seized. Not that the others could tell, for he could barely even thrash, chained as he was. The exhaustion that followed was a welcome respite from consciousness.

  But the worst suffering was the filth. They all sat on boards crusted and slick with layers of dried and fresh excrement. It was no different that riding in a swill hole and no matter how long Haille was exposed to the air, he could not get used to it. The odor burned his eyes, his nostrils, and he recoiled at the touch of the slick, gooey boards beneath the hay. In time, the foulness grew, the fumes, the hunger, and despair silencing the men completely. Haille tried to sleep or doze. He would have even welcomed more seizures for the unconsciousness that followed, but no more came. He finally fell asleep, and so it was with some bitterness that he woke as someone slapped his face.

  He took it for a guard and even though the hatch was closed and the hold was dark, he ducked his head on instinct.

  “Derrick, come on now boy,” Geoff said.

  Haille looked up and in the faint light he could make out Geoff turned towards him and another figure, another prisoner, beside him in the aisle. Haille wondered if he was dreaming for both the men were standing unchained. It was even harder to understand what was happening when the second man reached for Haille’s wrists, his fingers probing the locks.

  “What is going on?”

  “Shhhhhh,” Geoff pressed his finger to his lips. “This is Jacko.”

  The second man was jabbing a thin strip of metal into the locks on Haille’s wrists. After a fe
w clicks and twists the shackles opened.

  “Aye, there it goes,” Jacko said with an air of satisfaction. “I was an entrepreneur of sorts before they caught me.”

  “An entrepreneur?” Haille asked.

  “A thief,” Geoff said, helping Haille to his feet. “Glad you woke up there. Thought maybe we had lost you.”

  Haille tried to stand but his legs gave out beneath him.

  “Slow, careful. Just move slow.”

  In the darkness Haille could see other prisoners freed, stretching their limbs and helping each other to stand.

  “Jacko had a pick or two on him. He’d been working at his locks this whole trip. Once he got free he went down the line to free us all.”

  “But it’s no good if we’re still trapped in the hold,” Dennis said as Jacko worked at his locks. Jacko was a small fellow with bright eyes that reflected what little light there was, just like a raccoon.

  “I have a plan,” Jacko said, his teeth flashing as he ground them with the effort of turning the tumblers of Dennis’ locks. The manacles popped open and Dennis was free too.

  The men gathered in the middle of the aisle, whispering, rubbing their wrists, and supporting one another to stand.

  “Stretch while you can. Conserve your strength because we’ll have to go back into the stalls,” Jacko said.

  “You just set us free, I’m not going back,” one of the men said.

  “Yes, you are, just don’t lock your shackles down. Keep them loose. Guardy and the others won’t even notice,” Jacko said. “We’ll bide our time and wait until we’ve pulled into port. Then, when they open the hatch we’ll get the jump on them. They will never expect it.”

  “Why not the next time Guardy comes down?”

  “Because, are any of you sailors? Can you navigate a ship?”

  No one answered.

  “I thought so. We don’t even know where we are. So we wait. Once we’re on land we’ll have somewhere to run to. Then it’s every man for himself.”