Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (29 page)

He grunted. “Trust me, better to lose the babe now when it’s small. If Nir beats it out of you later, you’ll likely bleed to death.”

Sara’s skin roughened with chills. “No.” She forced herself not to reach for her belt-knife, and tried to explain. “You do not want to do that. If you give me a potion to make me miscarry, then my contract will be dissolved. Nir will blame you.”

“What? I’ve never heard of such an outrageous contract.” He dragged her over to a red horse, dug a sheaf of paper out of the saddlebag, then began to read. He glanced up sourly after the first page. “Did Nir read this?”

“No. Though Blorius warned him several times my contract was unusual.”

A grunt, then a spate of swearing. “
Vez’s
Malice
. He signed it. Without reading it.” Wettar’s voice was so loud, two legionnaires on horseback broke off their own conversation to stare. “And I have to tell him.” Wettar glared at Sara. “I hold you responsible for this mess.” He strode off.

Sara followed.

Nir stood in one of the stalls, inspecting a black mare’s legs. The black arched her neck and snorted, but allowed the touch.

Although Sara sensed Nir knew she was there, he ignored her. Them.

Wettar waited until Nir looked up before saying softly, “My lord?”

Nir turned to a nearby acolyte of Jita. Most of Jita’s acolytes were female, but this one was a man with gray braids almost as tall as he was. “She needs at least another day of rest. Keep treating her as before. I’ll leave a man behind to catch her up with us.”

The acolyte nodded. “As you wish.”

Nir gave the mare one last pat then left the stall.

“Yes?” he asked Wettar, still ignoring Sara.

“My lord, I fear Blorius is attempting to cheat you. This contract...I recommend that we return the girl.”

“She stays,” Nir snapped.

Wettar bowed his head lower. “I do not think any slave could be worth—”

Nir snorted. “Blorius said she was expensive. How much?”

“Twenty gold coins—”

Nir turned away. “That’s nothing.”

“—for five months or less of service.”

He stopped. Spun back. “What?”

“It gets worse,” Wettar said grimly. “Her slavery lasts only as long as her pregnancy.”

Nir stopped pretending Sara wasn’t there. He yanked up her dress. Cool air played across her bare legs and private parts. Cassia hadn’t provided undergarments. Maybe slaves didn’t wear them.

Nir prodded the small bump in her belly. Red veins pulsed on his forehead. “Get rid of it.”

Wettar spoke faster. “If she miscarries, she goes free. Furthermore, if she’s disfigured or crippled we have to pay fifteen hundred gold coins in damages. If she dies, other than in childbirth, it’s ten thousand gold.”

Esam hadn’t told her about that clause. Sara would have argued against it, trusting Lance to heal her afterward.

Nir slapped her. Hard. Her cheek stung as if pricked by a hundred needles. “Who’s the father?”

“I don’t know,” Sara said truthfully.

“Twotch.” Another slap. This one left her ears ringing and almost sent her to the ground. Her heart beat faster. Why?

He loomed over her. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “How many men have spread your legs?”

She counted. “Three. Lance, Claudius and you. Though Lance didn’t rape me.”

Nir raised his hand again, but then stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Is this a trick? Do you want me to beat you so that you’ll miscarry and be free?”

“No,” Sara said.

Nir turned to Wettar. “Let me see this contract.”

Wettar handed him the sheaf of papers. Nir unrolled it, then waved his hand, dismissing them.

Weattar bowed deeply, took Sara’s arm and towed her away. Sara’s steps dragged. She was Nir’s slave. Shouldn’t she stay with him?

“Are you insane?” Wettar hissed once they’d left the stable. “Why did you bait him like that?”

Sara didn’t know what he meant so she ignored the question. Her stomach rumbled, and the baby moved, as if startled. “I’m hungry.”

“Yes, yes, you’ll have your breakfast. But first you listen to me.” Wettar put his face close to hers. “If you think your contract can protect you from Nir’s temper, consider this—paper makes a very flimsy shield.”

* * *

Lance wiped flecks of itchy sweat and grime from his forehead. Despite his pounding headache, satisfaction swelled his chest. The sword he’d forged was just a simple blade and a tang, but once the pommel was wrapped in leather it would make a sturdy weapon.

He stretched—his back ached from working over the anvil. This sword had used the last of their iron, and there were no raids planned for the next few days. He was fully justified in leaving camp for a while.

Lance smothered the tiny flicker of guilt he felt over Edvard. He would make a decision soon on the matter of rebreaking his legs, but Sara and the babe took precedence.

A full week had passed since he and Sara parted ways. He wondered what changes her pregnancy would have made to her body. Would he be able to feel the babe kick? Anticipation hummed in his bones at the thought of seeing her again.

Chapter Seventeen

Sara caught Nir watching her again. He sat atop his
steed a little off the road, the plumes on his helmet making him appear even
taller, his red cloak draped over his shoulders and his breastplate
gleaming.

A Legion marching was like moving a whole town. Two-thirds of
the cavalry rode out front, then the main column of infantry, then Governor
Drencis’s carriage, the wagons, and slaves in the tail, followed by the rest of
the cavalry. Sara paid no heed to the mounted centurions and messengers who
moved constantly up and down the column. Nir’s brooding gaze, in contrast, felt
like a heavy hand.

She waited, chest strangely tight, but after a moment, he urged
his horse into a trot and moved off.

Sara started walking again. She was accustomed to travelling
all day, but that was with Lance there to heal her. Today, each step caused its
own symphony of pain, especially between her legs.

By the noon meal the sky had grown overcast and her aches had
faded somewhat. Wettar handed her two dried figs and some stale bread. Throat
dry, Sara sought out the trickle of water where several legionnaires had paused
to let their horses drink.

The rising wind whipped her hair around her ears as she knelt
and drank from her cupped hands. One of the horses, a brown gelding with good
lines, flapped its lips in her direction, and she heard the rattle of a sword.
Without looking, she knew Nir had found her again.

She calmly finished drinking, then straightened.

Nir stood very close. “Thinking about stealing a horse? Go
ahead. I’ll even give you a head start before I chase you down.” His nostrils
flared, his muscles coiled.

Sara had been thinking about riding the horse. She
liked
riding horses. But she shook her head, not the
least bit tempted to try to escape. “I am your slave.”

Nir scowled and stalked away. When the Legion started out
again, Nir put Cassia up in front of him on his saddle. He stared at Sara while
groping the blonde’s breasts.

* * *

That evening Sara and Cassia served in the legate’s
tent. Nir’s Legion had joined up with the Fourth Legion, and with Nir, Governor
Drencis, the legate, ten centurions and four aides to scribble notes and figure
on their abacuses, the large leather tent was quite crowded.

“The rebels have both Grasslander cavalry and Gotian archers,”
a hook-nosed scribe reported. “Numbers are uncertain, but do not exceed one
thousand men and even that is a very generous estimate.”

“If they’re such a small force why haven’t they been caught?”
Nir asked bitingly. “They slaughtered the governor and his family on a villa not
five miles from the Fourth Legion.” Nir stared at the Fourth Legion’s legate
with cold eyes.

The heavy-set older man flushed. “The garrison at the
governor’s villa failed to alert us. I urged Lord Garius to build a signal tower
to burn if they were attacked, but
he
ignored my
suggestion—” he glanced meaningfully at Lord Drencis, who was stuffing his jowls
with the meat skewers Sara had offered.

“But you did receive some sign of the attack.” Nir toyed with
his dagger. “A rider from the villa?”

The legate’s face stayed red. He blustered. “The man died
before he could tell us anything. The biggest racha I’ve ever seen brought him
down.”

“And this didn’t strike you as strange?” Nir asked, glancing
up. “A racha from the deserts of Qi appearing in northern Gotia?”

They meant Rhiain, Sara realized. They didn’t know she was a
shandy.

“Well, yes, of course, I found it strange. But there was
nothing to connect the incident with the rebels!”

Nir grunted. “And the beast?”

“It escaped into the forest, wounded. I sent men after it, but
Diwo didn’t smile on them.”

“A follower of Nir doesn’t rely on the Goddess of Luck’s fickle
favour,” Nir said, voice hard.

Silence.

Sara held out her tray to a centurion, but he ignored her.

“Did you identify the dead rider?” Nir asked.

A hesitation. “Not for several hours.”

“But you knew what direction he came from. Why didn’t you
investigate his backtrail?”

Silence. The legate was perspiring so hard, Sara could smell
the rank scent of sweat.

“I thought it best to concentrate on the immediate threat of
the beast,” he said.

“How many men did you send after the racha?”

“Seven.”

“Seven. Out of the five thousand you command,” Nir said.
Another long silence, during which no one wanted a meat skewer.

“I erred.” The legate trembled. “I see that now.”

“Yes, you did. Which is why I am taking personal command. From
now on, you will take your orders from me.”

The legate bowed.

Nir turned back to the hook-nosed scribe. “Continue with your
report.”

Finally, all the meat skewers were distributed. As instructed
by Wettar, Sara offered wine next. Cassia spilled some on Sara’s bare foot,
narrowly missing the hem of the white shift Wettar had insisted Sara change
into.

By the second refill, the men began to pinch them. To Sara’s
puzzlement, this made Cassia giggle and jump. Where was the humor in a small
pain? And after the first two times, how could Cassia be surprised?

“I’ve compiled a list of places the rebels have already
attacked.” The scribe unrolled a paper. “Except for the second attack at the
bog, they have not revisited a target—”

Wine carafe empty, Sara received a platter of cheeses from a
sanguon standing just outside the open tent flap. Suddenly realizing she was
hungry, Sara selected a wedge of cheddar and popped it in her mouth. It tasted
better than usual, sharp and flavorful. The sanguon stared at her with his mouth
open, then frantically shook his head.

Sara paused, but when he didn’t explain himself, she began to
make the rounds with the tray.

“—by the process of elimination, the rebels are most likely to
attack the following locations next...” the hook-nosed scribe droned on.

The first five men scorned the cheese, so Sara ate another
piece. Then another.

One of the brawny centurions across the room raised his
eyebrows at her and made a sound that was half laugh, half cough.

Nir stared at him. “Yes?”

“I just wondered why Tolium isn’t on the list,” the centurion
said, smiling. He had bright blue eyes.

“The rebels don’t have the forces to take the city,” the scribe
said, frowning.

“But we’ve already established the rebels like to raid,” the
centurion pointed out pleasantly.

“Since the rebels are Gotians, I doubt they’ll attack a Gotian
city,” the scribe said acidly.

The centurion lifted his dark brows. “And Grasslanders. I did
hear you right, earlier? You said their cavalry was made up of Grasslander
barbarians.”

The scribe scowled. “Yes, but their leader is a Gotian. He’s
rumoured to frequent Temples of Wine in the city.” The scribe looked anxiously
at Nir. “In my opinion Tolium is a very remote possibility.”

“Continue.” Nir gestured with his fingers.

Sara knelt and offered Nir the tray of cheese.

He ignored her. By the time the scribe finished, Sara’s arms
ached from holding the tray aloft. Though Nir never once glanced at her, Sara
sensed he was perfectly aware of her. Wettar had instructed her to always wait
until the men noticed her and declined before moving on, and to never
interrupt.

So Sara locked her elbows and waited, while the ache in her
arms turned to discomfort and then to pain, until it seemed every nerve from
shoulder to wrist was afire. Her muscles began to tremble. The tray rattled
slightly.

Nir stopped speaking and glanced at her with hooded eyes.

“Would my lord care for some cheese?” Sara asked.

“In a moment.” He returned to discussing ambush plans with his
centurions. “The target needs to be both tempting and appear to be unguarded.
This Fitch may try for a diversion, which we should appear to fall for before
circling back around to smash him...”

Sara was amazed at how such a simple thing as holding a tray
aloft could produce such high levels of pain. Both arms were trembling now.
Sooner or later her muscles would give way.

Cassia made the round of the tent with a platter of grapes,
offering them up with a dimpled smile. Nir took a handful, then dismissed her.
Cassia shot Sara a significant look, swinging her hips as she walked away. Nir
ate the grapes one by one, chewing thoughtfully, while his centurions discussed
and discarded targets.

The brawny blue-eyed centurion looked at Sara with something
akin to sadness. Pity, perhaps?

In a flash, Sara understood. Nir had no intention of either
eating the cheese or declining it. He wanted her to drop the tray.

Why? If she dropped the cheese, it would be too dirty to eat,
but if Nir didn’t want cheese all he had to do was decline it. Did he want to
deprive someone else in the room? There were still half a dozen men who hadn’t
partaken. But he’d let them eat grapes and meat skewers.

Inescapably, Sara concluded Nir’s action was aimed at her.
So...what would happen to her when she dropped the platter?

She would be punished by either Wettar or Nir.

Sara still didn’t understand. She was a slave. Nir could hurt
her anytime he wanted to. Why the elaborate charade?

Agony in her shoulders, shaking arms...The tray was rattling
noticeably now, all eyes on her. Sara became convinced her arms couldn’t hold
the tray aloft for ten heartbeats longer. Curious, she began to count.

She reached twenty-six before her spasming muscles failed. Her
left arm gave way first. The tray tipped, cheese sliding off, then dropped to
the floor.

The brawny centurion winced, but said nothing. Silence.

Nir turned his pale gaze on her. His lip curled. “Clumsy
twotch. Clean. That. Up. I will deal with you later.”

By the time Sara picked up the last of the dirty cheese—her
hands and arms didn’t want to work, nerves still sending up messages of pain—the
meeting had ended. Sara suspected the meeting could have ended long before.

The tent had barely cleared before Nir crossed over to her and
ground his sandal onto the last piece of cheese. “Well, slave, what excuse do
you offer for your clumsiness?”

“None,” Sara said after a moment’s thought. The accident wasn’t
caused by clumsiness.

The anticipation on his face turned to anger. He kicked over
the tray. “Clean it up. On your hands and knees.”

Sara obeyed.

He kicked it over again. “Clumsy slave.” He kicked her, but in
the thigh not her swelling stomach.

Sara cleaned up the cheese a third time, then a fourth,
garnering two more bruises in the process.

Nir loomed over her. “Have you learned your lesson yet, slave?”
Spittle flew from his lips.

“Yes.”

“What have you learned?”

“That you seek excuses to beat me. You wish to convince me that
it’s possible to avoid pain by altering my behavior. This is untrue. My behavior
has nothing to do with your decision to hurt me.” Sara saw it quite clearly.
Cassia and Wettar both strove to please him, but it couldn’t be done, because
Nir didn’t want to be pleased.

From his scowl and harsh breathing, Sara deduced her answer
hadn’t pleased him either.

* * *

The muscles in Nir’s throat corded, his head thrown back
in a death’s head rictus that looked more like pain than pleasure as he finished
rutting on her. Nor did he relax for more than a dozen heartbeats. Instead his
eyes slitted open, and he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head
back. “You’re hiding from me again. I warned you,” he rasped.

Although she was naked, Nir had kept his clothes on this time
and only shoved his leathers up so his penis sprang free. His leather armor
creased her skin, and his weight compressed her ribcage.

“I’m not hiding,” Sara denied.

His hand tightened in her hair. “All this time I thought it was
your body I wanted, but I was wrong. I want your trembling fear and subjugation.
You may think your precious contract protects you, but it doesn’t. I will have
all of you, Sarathena.”

His eyes bored straight into hers, waking a strange urge to
look away. Sara didn’t understand the impulse, so she didn’t give in, returning
his stare.

“You’re a slave,
my
slave.” He
bared his teeth. “I think you need a reminder.” He climbed off her aching body,
strode to the doorflap of the tent and bellowed, “Wettar!”

“Yes, my lord?” Wettar couldn’t have been far away. He answered
immediately, shaven head bowed.

Had he stayed close in case Nir tried to choke her again?

“I’ve been remiss.” Nir sneered. “My new slave hasn’t yet been
branded. Heat the irons.”

Wettar bobbed his head and hurried off.

Nir turned back to Sara. “Dress yourself, twotch.”

Silently, Sara donned the white shift. It now had a large rip
down the back from when Nir had torn it off her and gaped open at the bosom.

Nir dragged her out of the tent, his grip crushing her wrist.
She trotted to keep pace.

Full night had fallen, but the Legion’s campfires dotted the
rows of tents. Wettar bent in front of the largest fire, holding a branding iron
by its wooden handle. “A few moments more, my lord,” he said.

Eight legionnaires sat on logs or crouched by the fire. Cassia
was also there, sitting on the brawny blue-eyed centurion’s lap. He pushed her
off when Nir came into view.

Nir didn’t seem to notice. He hauled Sara closer to the fire.
Sweat began to prickle on her skin.

“My newest slave needs her brand,” Nir said and ripped the
white shift from her shoulders again.

Why hadn’t he just left her naked in the first place? The man
made no sense.

The brawny centurion winced, but the rest stared at her breasts
and pubis. Cassia laughed.