by Lee Bezotte
Micah’s expression lightened, “It was! I had loads of fun.”
The girl turned her eyes toward her companion. She thought for a moment, and then asked, “What was your favorite part?”
“Oh, I’d say the big sword fight with Admiral Cole at the end,” he answered excitedly.
Maren squinted in response, then asked, “What was your scariest part?”
The boy pushed his mouth to one side and raised his eyebrows. “That must have been when Cutthroat Seamus’s ship almost went down in the stormy sea.”
Smiling, the girl continued her questioning, “And what was your funniest part?”
“Hmmm? What do you mean?” the boy asked with a confused expression.
“When did you laugh the loudest?” she asked, not knowing how he could possibly need clarification.
Micah’s enthusiasm began to fade. “I guess when the first mate fell off the ship.”
“What about the most exciting part?”
“Um, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think that much about it,” the boy explained. He then cleared his throat and stood up to make his way toward the cage’s opening. “I’m going to go see if I can find something to eat,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
“Okay,” Maren said, now sitting alone. As she looked around, her stomach growled. “Shhh!” she instructed the noise coming from her abdomen. Then she continued ruminating about the pirate show. “Watch your step, Mister Rumly!” she exclaimed in a hushed tone.
“Oh, I’ll be fine. Just let me pull this rope out a little further,” she answered in a deeper, gravelly voice.
“But you’ll—”
“Stop pestering! Pshhhh! Ahhhh! Splash!!”
The young girl giggled as she recalled the scene. As she sat there repeating the dialogue and recounting the action, the world around her seemed to fade away and she was caught up in the salty sea spray, the clashing of swords, and the peril of a pirate’s life at sea.
Suddenly, there was a metallic clanging sound on the side of her cage. “Come on out in the circle!” a man called out. “Important meeting!”
As she stepped out into the ring of wagons, Maren could see the man with the long, gray hair standing on a crate as the people gathered around him. “Over here please!” he yelled. “We need to discuss some things.”
The young girl moved forward but kept herself behind the group so that she had space to herself. As the man spoke, he talked about things like terms of indentureship, contractual perpetuity, and consequences of abandonment. It was all rather boring and complicated so she chose not to listen and examined some of the other new crew members instead.
As she looked around, she noticed how unhappy they looked. They had just spent weeks celebrating, feasting, and being entertained, yet they appeared bloated, lifeless, and disheveled. It was a contradiction that she struggled to understand. When the gray-haired man said something about debt repayment and release, a small handful of villagers walked over to a table, signed something, and began to walk away, down the trail from whence they came.
Maren thought about going back to Laor. She missed her books and hadn’t seen Earl as she had hoped. She also missed her sketch paper and pencils. She was excellent at drawing pictures and her bedroom walls were covered with her artwork. She decided to walk over to the table that the townsfolk had visited before departing and sign the paper so she could leave too.
When she approached the table, an irritable-looking man pushed a paper toward her and spoke words she didn’t understand. He then sat scowling at her with his arms crossed. “Well?” he grunted.
The young girl felt anxious, confused, and embarrassed all at once. Her face went flush, and she aggressively massaged her ear as she stared back at the man. She then realized that she had no idea how to return home. Even if she did sign the paper, it would be dark soon and she would most certainly be lost. Her stomach began to growl again so she simply said, “Never mind,” and walked back to the group.
As she returned to the center of the camp, she heard the man on the crate say something about possession and life-rights and then the group dispersed, with most of them returning to their cages. With nothing else to do, Maren returned to her cage too. She sat leaning against the back of it and, shortly after, a man came by and tossed a few loafs of bread inside with a couple canteens filled with water. One of the other slaves handed her a chunk of bread and she nibbled on it, but the growling in her stomach had subsided and her appetite seemed to have gone away.
As Son sat and stared into the fire dancing in front of him, he replayed the last several days in his mind. He could clearly see the evidence that he’d missed while in the moment. It deepened his anger toward himself, and he would have given anything to relive the experience differently.
As if knowing what the boy was thinking, the man from the north broke the night’s silence. “If only we saw today with the clarity we see yesterday,” he mused. His demeanor was less harsh than earlier, and he stroked his wife’s hair as she slept on the ground next to him.
“But I did see something,” the boy lamented. “She was always going into town. She claimed that someone had stolen Earl. Her clothes were even fitting too tightly. I was just too preoccupied with the things I wanted to get done to notice.”
Dulnear took a deep breath and released it with a whispered word in his native tongue. He then looked at Son and said, “To notice another is one of the greatest gifts you can bestow upon them. I am very disappointed that this has happened. However, you are still rather young, and noticing is a skill which takes time and effort to develop.”
“I only wish—” the boy began.
“Save your wishing for another time, boy,” the warrior urged. “You cannot change what has happened. Focus your energy on retrieving Maren instead of wasting it on regretting your mistake.”
Son knew that his friend was right, but it didn’t make how he felt any easier. “What do you think is going to happen?” he asked.
“I do not know,” the man from the north admitted. “But we will do whatever it takes to bring her home.” He then paused for a moment. “I need you to know something though. I will not be pulling punches, nor will I stay my sword. Slavers care not for the lives of others. To them, people are simply a commodity to be exploited. They are the lowest of low. They seek only profit; their only interest is their own, and they will prey on the most vulnerable to get what they want.”
“Then why is it not against the law to do what they do?” the boy asked.
“As long as people are not forced to sign away their life-rights, then what they do is legal. It matters not what means they use to dig their hooks into people, as long as they can persuade them to go with them by choice.”
Son thought for a moment, again replaying the last several days in his mind. “When Maren came home without Earl, I should have insisted on checking out the festivities myself,” he groaned.
“Perhaps,” Dulnear answered. “Or perhaps you would have fallen into the slaver’s snare alongside of her.”
“That would never happen to me,” the boy stated confidently.
“That may be true,” the warrior said. “Or it may not be.”
Trying not to take offense at his words, Son asked, “What does that mean?”
“It means that we are never as strong as we think we are,” the northerner explained. “And assuming that we are strong enough to resist even the smallest of temptations only weakens our defenses against them.”
Son pondered the man’s words as they settled on his shoulders. As he did, his thoughts began to shift, and he recalled his impatience with Maren. He remembered raising his voice and speaking harshly toward her. “Sometimes I wonder if Maren has any resistance to temptation at all,” he speculated out loud.
“What are you saying?” Dulnear asked.
“Only that she seems to give little to no thought about caring for herself or her responsibilities. Her only concerns seem to be sweets and stories. It’s
no wonder she was so drawn to those festivals,” the boy said.
“Ah, yes. She has always been drawn to the world of make-believe. I believe it is the graymind.”
“That’s just it,” Son continued. “I can’t figure out if I’m seeing her graymind or irksome behavior.”
Dulnear snickered quietly. “You are seeing Maren. That is all that matters,” he said. “She is unique, bright, imaginative, frustrating, and loved enough by the three of us that we would risk much to find her and set her free.”
Son smiled and looked into the night. “I suppose so. It’s just that she is harder to love at times.”
The man from the north chuckled under his breath, “As are all of us, Son. As are all of us.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Open Sores
Late the next morning, the three travelers arrived at Lahald, one of the villages scattered along the outskirts of Ahmcathare. They had been there only a year before to purchase Faymia’s freedom from the slaver Tcharron. The scent of the town dug into the woman’s scars, releasing pain and shame that she had believed to be at rest since her marriage to Dulnear.
They approached the tavern where she once served drink and pleasure to loathsome men. As they did, the world seemed to spin around the former slave. She felt dizzy and her breathing became shallow.
Halting their horses outside, the man from the north noticed the change in his wife’s disposition. “Are you okay, my love?” he asked.
“I didn’t expect…” she said before wiping a tear from her eye. She looked at the large wood and iron door to the pub, then up at the window of the rented room above.
“You do not have to go in,” the warrior broke in. “Son and I can speak to Tcharron ourselves.”
As Faymia looked into the eyes of her husband, she experienced something unexpected. She looked at his broad shoulders, the hilt of his sword peeking out from underneath his fur coat, and the iron fist that Son had made for him when his hand was taken by his fellow northerners. She also remembered his resoluteness in doing what was right, even when peril was a certainty. She became emboldened by his example and replied, “I know I don’t have to, my layoak. I’m going in anyway.” She took inventory of her quiver and then dismounted her horse.
Son also leaped down from the horse and tied it to a post. He checked the buttons on his coat and felt for his weapon several times. “What should I do?” he asked Dulnear.
The man from the north replied, “Just stay behind me, and listen.”
“What should I listen for?” the boy asked.
“Details of words spoken, metal being drawn, heavy steps. Let your surroundings speak to you and keep your hand close to your sword,” he said. He then swung himself off of his horse and faced his young friend. “It is going to be all right, lad,” he assured. “I will not allow any harm to come to you. Just be vigilant.” He then turned toward Faymia and spoke. “And you, precious, are as brave and strong as they come. You could slay a hundred men if you chose.”
The words her husband spoke had a strange effect on her. She felt both bolstered and like weeping at the same time. She pushed back the tears and gathered fortitude from his encouragement.
“Tcharron has no claim to you and no power over you,” he continued. “You are not merely a former slave. You are beautiful, cunning, and powerful. Let us go in and see what we can learn about Maren.”
Side-by-side, Dulnear and Faymia stepped into the pub, with Son trailing close behind them. The sounds and odors of the establishment threatened to overtake the confidence the woman had just gained. Knowing exactly where to look, she could see Tcharron standing at the end of the bar.
Son’s fists curled into steel spheres as he followed his friends toward the back of the pub. There was a long bar counter there and well-dressed, cologne-drenched men stood around it smoking and cackling about matters he had no understanding of. His heart beat against the inside of his chest as if it were trying to find a way out, but he did his best to do as the man from the north said and listen with utmost vigilance.
“Tcharron!” he heard Dulnear call out in a deep, confident tone.
Immediately, the cackling ceased and all eyes were on the warrior and his bride. At the end of the bar stood a man with oiled, black hair. He wore a well-groomed mustache and beard, and reeked of an air of condescendence. He looked up with an annoyed expression. Then his eyes widened as he exclaimed, “Well, you must be kidding me.” He then stepped away from his companions and approached the trio. With a broad, insincere smile he continued, “I never expected to see the two of you again. Did you come to return her to me?” he quipped. “I’m sorry to inform you that all sales are final.”
The room erupted with laughter, but Dulnear’s countenance remained unchanged. “You might say that we are passing through—” he began.
Before he could continue, Tcharron interrupted, “Then perhaps you should move along. You’re not welcome here, unless you’ve brought me more of your northern gold.” He glanced around for approval and the men at the bar sniggered as they stood up straight.
The hair on the back of Son’s neck felt like needles as his mind rehearsed worst-case scenarios and proper defense maneuvers.
“You do not amuse me,” the warrior continued with a dead expression. “We are simply here to ask a question and be on our way.”
“Okay, mighty goat,” the slaver jabbed. “What is it that—” Stopping himself in the middle of his question, he threw his gaze at Son. “Wait a minute. Who’s the boy?” he asked.
Dulnear’s calm demeanor began to show cracks as he clenched his jaw in irritation. “He is just a servant,” he replied.
Son’s mouth went dry as Tcharron and his men stared at him. He tried his best to listen, be aware, and stay calm, but he felt as if the room was reeling, and he willed himself to stand as still as possible.
The oily slave boss continued to examine Son from where he stood. Squinting, he asked, “Do you always allow your servant to carry a weapon?” and nodded toward the scabbard peeking out from under the hem of the boy’s coat. As he did, the men around the bar shifted themselves into a semi-circle behind him.
“It is none of your business, slithery vermin,” Dulnear spoke up, somehow standing taller and broader than before.
Reaching out to touch her husband’s arm, Faymia broke in, “We’re looking for someone, and we need your help.” All of the sound in the room seemed to fade into silence at the sound of her voice. “Please,” she added.
Tcharron chuckled silently in amusement and turned his attention toward the woman. “Well, first you run from me, then your ogre-friend kills my men, and now you want a favor. You really are damaged.”
The former slave took a deep breath and repeated herself, “Please. A child has been taken by a slaver caravan in the south. We must find her.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “A child?” he said. “A child cannot join a caravan unless a parent signs away their life-rights.”
“She is an orphan,” Faymia explained.
“Then what is she to you?” he asked.
“We are her guardians.”
The woman’s words struck Son. He remembered finding Maren alone on the road. He vowed to care for her and keep her safe, and now they were all in peril because of his neglect.
“Not very good guardians,” Tcharron cracked. “Did you sign for her?”
“No!” the woman exclaimed.
The slaver laughed, “Ah, such simple people you are. She cannot sign for herself if she has a proper guardian. What does she look like?”
Faymia cleared her throat nervously. “She is small, has long, dark hair, and is called Maren. We believe she is with a man named Sevuss.”
Dulnear reached inside of his coat and produced a folded sheet of paper. As he unfolded it, he explained, “She is an excellent artist. This is a drawing she made of herself,” and he handed it over to the man.
Tcharron looked at it and smirked. Walking back to the bar, he spok
e. “A slave this young and lovely is worth more than ten like Faymia. It doesn’t matter whether or not she was obtained legally.” He then held the drawing over a lantern and set it ablaze. “You will never get the girl back from Sevuss. Go home and forget about her!”
Son could hear the deep growl in Dulnear’s chest before anyone else could. He knew that the sound heralded blood and steel, and all movement in the room seemed to happen as if under water. He could see the man’s left hand reach inside of his coat for the hilt of his sword, so he reached for his as well.
Tcharron’s companions turned their focus on the man from the north as he swiped upward, catching the nearest man’s shoulder and nearly removing his arm. The slave boss himself made his way behind the bar to gather knives to hurl at the warrior.
Immediately, four of the men were upon Dulnear. As Son moved to assist his friend, he felt a throbbing sensation above his left ear and there was a man in front of him holding a broken bottle. Instinctively, he chopped downward at the bottle, sending glass and the tip of one of the man’s fingers to the ground.
Cursing, the man tucked his wounded hand under his arm. Before he had a chance to refocus, a swirling ball of blades and fur removed his leg from underneath him as Dulnear tore through the room like a force of nature.
Glancing toward the bar, Son noticed Faymia inching toward an unaware Tcharron. He began to make his way toward her, but the pain on the side of his head was now encompassing the top and back of it as well. “Here, little runt!” he heard someone yell before the edge of a blade narrowly missed his neck.
The boy turned to his right to see a half-drunk hooligan aggressively swinging a baselard in the air. The pounding in his head beat on like a kettledrum but he held his focus, knowing that the slightest lapse in attention could mean the end for him.
Quickly, Son advanced toward the man, which seemed to take him off guard. He backed up, nearly tripping over the chair behind him. This seemed to irk the man, and he lunged with his sword as he let out a snarl.
