The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 (8 page)

The door at the back of the wagon banged open and two men appeared. The slaver Royce immediately recognized. The other was unknown to him. They were passing a bottle of amber liquid back and forth, laughing loudly at words Royce was too far away to hear. Every time they roared, the girls seated on the tree would shudder and shift closer to the wagon. The tall, unknown man crossed the clearing at a trot and punched Tiadaria in the stomach, sending her swinging against the shackles. Her head snapped back and she screamed; it was a high, unearthly keening that Royce had heard before. He had watched enough men die to know that sound and know it very well.

Royce had had enough. He picked his way down from the ridge, careful that no loose scree or dead twigs give away his approach. The tall man had become bored with his singular torment of Tiadaria and had returned to the fire and the bottle that waited for him there. Royce circled the clearing, coming up on the dark side of the wagon, using its shadow to hide him from the view of the girls and the men. The fire would work to his benefit, dazzling their eyes and making the shadows that much darker.

He waited for what seemed like hours. The tension was driving him mad. He wanted to act, and act quickly, but he hadn't stayed alive through so many battles by being rash. True, he probably could have taken the two drunkards without much effort, but the risk was too great. He dared not gamble Tiadaria's safety against his vengeance.

Just as Royce had decided that he couldn't wait any longer, the tall stranger got to unsteady feet and announced that he needed to relieve himself.

“Piss on them!” Cerrin called from the fire. “The lot of ‘em aren’t worth the price of piss anyhow.”

The slaver and the tall man shared a good laugh. Seeming to take this advice to heart, the man stepped up toward the terrified girls and hooked his thumbs in the waist of his breeches.

Royce’s dagger slipped out of its sheath without a sound. The old soldier half ran, half sprang toward the man as he struggled with the drawstring on his pants. Seizing the tall man by the hair, he wrenched his head back and drew the blade across his throat. The girls screamed as they were sprayed with blood spurting from the slit throat.

Turning to the opposite side of the fire, he saw that the slaver had gotten to his feet, knocking the bottle over and spilling the last of its contents into the dirt by his feet. The stain on the ground looked remarkably similar to the stain that was rapidly darkening the crotch of Cerrin’s fine pants. Seeing who had appeared on the other side of the fire, recognition dawned on the little man's face and he made the only smart decision he could. He turned tail and ran.

Royce slipped the bow from his shoulder and drew an arrow from the quiver, seating it and pulling it back in a single fluid motion. He laid the feather against his cheek and closed his eyes. He gazed into the sphere, correcting his aim through the sightless eyes of the ancients. His eyes snapped open as he loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true, slamming into the slaver's shoulder and sinking an inch into the soft flesh.

The little man bleated like a wounded animal, but still managed to get to his feet. It was an impressive act for a man in the grasp of strong spirits. Royce fitted a second arrow and repeated his shot, sinking an arrow into the opposite shoulder. The man crumpled, screaming. Without his arms to rely on, he lay face down in the dirt as Royce slung the bow back over his shoulder and walked toward the spot where he fell.

He lifted the man under the arms and dragged him back to the edge of the fire. He pulled the arrows free, none too gently, and pushed the slaver into a sitting position against the cart's wheel.

“Your keys,” Royce demanded. “Where are they?”

The slaver looked up at him, his eyes showing far too much white.

“In...the...wagon,” he panted, struggling for breath.

Shock was setting in, Royce thought. Thankfully, it was taking its time. He wasn't done with this little man who made himself feel big at the expense of little girls. He yanked the door open and climbed inside. A small candle lamp illuminated a table and benches, no doubt where the girls would sit for their ride to whatever destination full of horrors they had in store for them. A makeshift bed took up the front end of the wagon, its linens stained and none too fresh.

Royce's hatred for the slaver abruptly matured as he reached over the foul bedding and took the keys from the nail driven into the corner post. As he exited the wagon, he kicked the man in the shoulder as he passed, causing a renewed round of screaming.

He glanced at the girls as he passed. They had subsided into weak sobbing. Royce felt for them, but Tiadaria was his primary concern. He ran to her and unlocked the shackles, taking the weight of her body in his strong arms as she fell limp against him. She opened the one eye undamaged by the beating and her split lips parted in a weak smile.

“You came, Sir.”

“I promised you I would, little one.”

“No one,” she said, laboring to form the words. “No one ever keeps promises to me.”

“I do.”

Royce shushed her then and carried her to the fire. He laid her as near to the flames as he dared and turned to the slaver. He had gone white and Royce knew that he wasn't long for the world with or without his help. Now that Tiadaria was safe or relatively so, he found that his thirst for revenge had subsided.

He went to the man and hunkered down, taking his dagger from his belt as he did so. “I'm going to give something you never offered these girls,” Royce said, gesturing to them with the tip of the blade. “A quick death.”

“Please!” the man gasped, struggling to sit up. “I can pay you, anything you want, girls, money, name it and it’s yours.”

Royce snorted with derision. He plunged the dagger deep into the man's chest, gave it a savage twist to ensure the wound was mortal, and then wiped the blade clean on the little man's tunic. Sheathing the knife, he checked on Tiadaria and then went to the other girls, who shrank back from him in unison. He kicked the body of the tall man out of the way and went to his knees before them.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry for all that you've had to endure at his hand and that you had to witness things that no gentle girl should have to see. I can't promise that I can get you back to your families, but I can get you back to King’s Reach and you can find your way from there.”

Without waiting for them to reply, he went to the slaver and plucked the jewels from his fingers and the purse from his belt. He treated the tall man the same way, finding no lack of coin in his purse either. It would be enough to give these girls a new life.

It took him a long time to free the girls and usher them into the wagon. By the time he got Tiadaria into the bed that he spread with fresh grass to cover the worst of the stains, the smoke of the burning bodies was climbing into the
lightening of the morning sky.

~~~~

Tiadaria lay in her cot, listening to the bird sing right outside her high slit window. She wasn’t sure how long they had been back at the cottage. The first few days of her recovery had been a haze of pain and semi-consciousness. Then the infection had set in. She knew that the Captain rarely left her side, and when he did, it was to summon the best clerics and priests to practice healing magic or say prayers on her behalf. He was beside her cot, morning, noon, and night, and she didn’t know how he was managing to stay with her and still adjudicate the tasks that his position as Constable required of him.

Her fingers idly picked at the soft woolen blanket that was spread over her. Though summer hadn’t yet passed into fall, and the days were still warm, she found herself cold more often than not. She wondered if the cold was in her head. Her thoughts kept going back to the tree that she had hung from and every time her thoughts turned in that direction, it was like being doused in cold water. She didn’t want to show any weakness to the Captain, lest he lose his faith in her, but whenever he left her alone in the house, she was beset by panic.

Then there were the dreams. It seemed like every time she closed her eyes, she saw Cerrin and his friend taunting her, mocking her, telling her in graphic detail all the horrible and vile things they were going to do to her before they finally cut her throat and left her to bleed in front of the other girls. An object lesson in what happens when you disobey your master. She felt the gorge rise in the back of her throat and she swallowed hard against it, determined not to be sick yet again.

She was miserable. She wanted to put the whole thing behind her and yet it se
emed like everything she did reminded her of that night. Tiadaria wondered how long it would be before those memories faded and worried that they might be with her for a long time. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep them from coming.

The Captain had appeared with a laden tray, but as soon as he saw her wet cheeks, he deposited it on the desk and went to one knee beside the bed. His hands hovered over her and his face was a mask of anxiety that pained Tiadaria almost as much as her injuries.

“What hurts?” He asked quietly, his voice soothing her jagged nerves.

She shook her head.

“Nothing, Sir,” she said, equally quiet. “I just…” She trailed off and looked up at the window, not knowing how to explain, or even if she had to.

He laid his hand on hers and she knew that she didn’t need to say anything else. The shock that used to be painful was now a reassuring reminder of their bond. It was the thing that told her that though they were different from everyone else, they shared something unique between them.

She wondered if that bond was what had helped her to hear the Captain’s voice in her head before he swooped down to her rescue. She hadn’t built up the courage to ask about that yet. Everything seemed so hard these days. Even the slightest things were a huge undertaking and she just wanted things to get back to normal.

“Are you hungry?” He gave her a thin, tight-lipped smile. “I’ve done the cooking, I’m afraid. I may have rescued you just to put you in the ground again.”

Tiadaria couldn’t help but giggle. It was a weak, thin sound and she hated how vulnerable it made her seem. Still, any laughter at all was a good sign, she decided. At her willing nod, he pulled the tray from the desk and settled it onto her lap, helping her sit up to better take her meal.

The Captain’s lack of culinary skill had become something of an in-joke between them. Tiadaria had told him that since he was so used to cutting things apart, that he should naturally make a good cook. Alas, he said, this wasn’t so. He was old and tough and stringy and any meal he attempted to turn out was often reflected upon the same way by those unfortunate enough to be served.

There was a thick beef broth on the tray with thinly sliced vegetables. Her stomach rumbled, not with nausea but with actual hunger. It was the first time in days that food even sounded appealing, much less looked or smelled it. She wasn’t sure if the Captain had outdone himself, or if she was just so very, very hungry; but the soup was excellent. She drank every bit of it, even bringing the bowl to her lips with shaking hands to finish off the savory liquid.

The Captain stayed with her throughout the meal, nodding with approval as she finished what he had put in front of her. He seemed to appraise her before he took the bowl from her fingers and placed it on the tray, whisking it out of the room, the very pinnacle of efficiency. What he was taking stock of, she couldn’t guess.

As he left, the now familiar pang of panic chilled her guts and made her long for his return. This won’t do. Not at all. How am I going to survive if I fall to pieces every time he leaves the room? I’m here, I’m safe, and I can do this. She steeled her resolve and forced herself to breathe deeply; concentrating on the movement of her chest and the mild pain the bruises still caused her as she pushed air out of her lungs.

The Captain returned, hooking his foot around the stool in the corner of the room and lowering his big frame onto the tiny wooden tripod. For an instant, Tiadaria thought it was going to give way under him and he was going to crash to the floor below, but aside from a mighty creak as he settled his weight, nothing else happened.

“Sleep, little one,” he said softly, stroking her hair back from her forehead. “I’ll be right here.”

* * *

A heavy pounding on the door to the cottage awoke Tiadaria and set her heart to a similar rhythm. It was still full dark outside the high slit window to her cubicle and she fumbled around on the bedside table for the box of matches there. She lit the oil lantern and holding it out before her like a ward, slowly crept down the hallway toward the common room.

Just as she was about to pass through the curtain partition she felt something slip between her neck and the collar, giving her a nasty shock. She screamed, as much in surprise as in pain, and a heavy hand clamped down over her mouth. How she managed not to drop the lantern in her panic, she'd never know. The old soldier's face was rough-hewn in the harsh light.

He laid a finger to his lips and locked eyes with her, ensuring that she understood his silent command. She nodded quickly and he released her, motioning for her to let him past. He preceded her into the room and walked quietly, on the balls of his feet, to the front door.

When Tiadaria had arrived in the cottage, she hadn't understood why someone living inside the village would have fit their home with such heavy bronze shutters on the inside of the windows. Now, however, she was thankful for the protection they offered and glanced around the room, ensuring that the heavy wood planks that held them shut were in place and that all was in order.

The Captain had explained to her in no uncertain terms that the duty of securing the house every night fell to her, and promised dire punishments if she neglected any part of that task. She was glad that she had taken those warnings to heart and double, even triple checked that things were in order after their evening meal each night.

The pounding came again and Tiadaria jumped. Whoever was outside was worried not one bit about waking up half the village with their shenanigans.

“Constable!” The voice that came from the other side of the door was high and laced with panic. “Constable! Please! Open up, Constable. It’s horrible, absolutely horrible.”

The Captain went to the door and drew back the brass plate over the view slit. He peered outside for a moment and then threw the bolt, taking the key from around his neck and unlocking the intricate lock from the inside. A moment later, he yanked the door open and the young man standing on the threshold all but fell inside.

Tiadaria had seen uncontrolled panic before. During a raid by a rival clan, she had seen the men set fire to the long houses in which the women and children were taking their meal. Tiadaria had been lucky enough to have been sent into the pasture that morning to gather the cattle. She arrived back at the village just in time to see her mother and young brother fleeing in panic from the burning structure. They had survived with only the most minor of burns. Others weren't so lucky. The anguish and fear that had overtaken her clan was clearly mimicked on the young man's face that stood before the Captain now.

“Constable,” he sobbed. “Please, you must come at once. Something horrible has happened in Doshmill. The bodies are all burning and the houses too. There's nothing left standing in the whole village. The priests found a single child, a girl that had been stuffed in a water barrel and hidden under a bed. She said there were terrible monsters that came into the village and...”

The boy faltered, going even whiter. Tia was positive that he was going to faint dead away. He swayed on his feet and the Captain caught him by and elbow, steadying him with one massive hand.

“And what, lad?”

“And they were eating people,” the boy gasped in a low whisper, his eyes spilling over with fresh tears. “She said they were eating people alive.”

Tia closed her eyes at his anguish and couldn't help but see in her mind the cattle she had found in the pastures periodically. Often the youngest, weakest, or slowest would be savaged by the large wolves or snowy lions that inhabited the rocky crags that surrounded her ancestral home. But what could do that to an entire village? And how quickly would
it had to have happened, so that one young girl was the sole survivor of the massacre?

“You've done as you ought, Bryce. Go back to your father and tell him that I'll be along shortly. We'll ride for Doshmill immediately. This can't wait until first light.”

“Yes, Constable.”

Having a message to relay seemed to steel the boy and set his nerves right. He nodded jerkily to Tiadaria and slipped past the open door and into the night. The Captain pushed the door shut with one foot and leaned against it, scrubbing at his face with both hands.

He stopped and looked at her. She was still standing, just inside the common room, holding the lantern. In honesty, she didn't know what else to do. Her mind still reeled with everything she had heard in the last few minutes. Even then, she didn't know what her responsibilities were. Beyond cooking, cleaning, and occasionally running to the market on errands for the Captain, she hadn't done much of anything. They had their near daily training sessions, but she suspected that these were more to keep him in shape than to teach her anything.

During her recovery, the Captain had regaled her with tales of battles fought long ago. He had a wonderful knack for storytelling, filling in details and gaps that placed her on the battlefield, with all of its sights and sounds and smells. She could feel the cold steel in her palm and smell the stench of death when he spoke to her of all the things he had done in his youth, the things he had done in service to the Imperium and the One True King.

To say that she thought him the bravest man she had ever known wouldn't be inaccurate or an exaggeration. Though she knew her own father to be tough and wiry, skilled in battle, she also knew that if the Captain had done even
a fraction of the things he claimed to in his stories, that he was a consummate fighter to be feared by all.

The Captain never boasted. In fact, if his tales were lacking in one detail, it was his direct involvement in the battle, maneuver, or raid. There was no question that he had been there. The depth and breadth of his explanations and ruminations couldn't be questioned. He had commanded many men and had watched more than a few of them die. He had given the orders that sent them to their deaths. Tia knew that those lost souls still bothered him, for when he spoke of the dead he did so in hallowed, hushed tones and then was quiet for a long time afterwards. Sometimes, those lapses into silence indicated the end of the evening. They would stare into the fire until it died into embers. He would dismiss her then, sending her to her cubicle while he finished the night in quiet solitude.

She was torn. Some nights she wanted to go to him and offer whatever small comfort she could. Other nights, she was furious with him for keeping her in this cottage, away from the world and whatever else she might find there. Her anger, she had found, served no purpose. She was owned and wouldn't be free, even if she escaped. The collar would remain with her for the rest of her life. A symbol of her shameful status and a warning to others that she didn't act with her own free will.

“Go get dressed,” the Captain said, his harsh voice startling her out of her thoughts and making her jump. “We must prepare for battle.”

“Now!” he roared as she hesitated, and Tiadaria scampered down the hallway to her room.

She threw open the chest and quickly shucked her thin nightshirt, replacing it with underthings, a pair of plain doeskin breeches, and a pale green tunic. This she wrapped twice with a belt and knotted it above her left hip. She slipped into her boots, supple leather with woven wool inners that felt soft and inviting against her bare feet.

Tia ran back down the hall to find the Captain staring at the maps tacked to the wall, tugging at his lower lip. Although more parchment had been added to his collection since then, he had kept things in the cottage as she had organized them. It was obscurely pleasing that he found her simple tidying helpful. She crossed the room and went to the heavy leather armor that was hung up on pegs to the right of the maps she had organized weeks before.