Tower Lord
Page 8
He got to his feet as the alcove doors clattered open to admit the slaves. They were joined by a platoon of Varitai. They circled him with spears levelled as the slaves did their work, dragging away the overseer’s bloated corpse, raking the blood from the sand, then disappearing back to wherever it was they went. Frentis had never seen beyond the alcove doors, but from the sounds of pain and toil that echoed through them at night, he doubted there was much he wanted to see.
One of the Varitai, silent as they always were, came forward to place a bundle in the centre of the pit. With that they trooped out in single file, the door slamming shut behind.
Frentis went to the bundle. They always left him food after a fight. Usually a bowl of surprisingly tasty porridge and an occasional serving of well-cooked meat. Starving him would not serve their purpose. In that respect at least, they were just like the Order. Today was different. In addition to the food he had been given clothes, the plain and serviceable tunic and trews of a Volarian freeman, dyed blue to signify his status as a journeyman of some kind, permitted to travel between the provinces. There was also a pair of solid boots, a belt of leather and a cloak of tightly woven cotton.
He fingered the clothing and recalled the burn of his scars. Where will she take me? he wondered, a new chill in his heart. What will she make me do?
? ? ?
In the morning a rope ladder was lowered into the pit. He had dressed in his new clothes, the feel of cloth on his skin strange after so many years of enforced nakedness. It made his scars itch. He climbed the ladder without hesitation, feeling no need for a final glance at his home of five years. There was nothing here he wanted to remember, but even so he knew every fight, every death, would stay with him forever.
The woman was waiting as he climbed from the pit. There were no guards; she didn’t need them. Her fine robes of the previous day had been exchanged for the more modest gown of a mid-status freewoman, dyed grey. His knowledge of this land and its customs was meagre, confined to what he had learned during his journey here after being taken in Untesh, plus whatever scraps of information he had been able to glean from overheard conversations between master and overseer. The colour grey, he knew, signified a person of property, usually slaves but also land and livestock. If a free Volarian acquired sufficient property, one thousand slaves or assets of equivalent value, they were permitted to wear black. Only the richest Volarians wore red, like the master.
“I hope you got some sleep,” she said. “We have a long way to go.”
The binding was still there, but restrained now, a faint tingle to his scars, enough to prevent him tying his new belt about her neck and strangling her, but with sufficient freedom to allow a survey of the environs. The pits surrounded them on every side, a hundred or more, each thirty feet in diameter and ten feet deep, carved into a broad plateau of bare rock, honeycombed with tunnels and dwellings. From some came the sound of combat, from others torture, screams rising into the morning air, overseers directing the various torments as they strolled the rim of the pits. This was a place of punishment as well as training.
“Sorry to be leaving?” the woman asked.
She had left him enough freedom to speak but he said nothing.
Her gaze darkened and he knew she was considering another punishing burn to his scars. He stared back, still refusing to speak, or beg.
To his surprise she laughed again. “So long since I had something truly interesting to play with. Come along, pretty one.” She turned and began walking to the edge of the plateau. It rose from the Vakesh Desert like an island in a sea of sand; when the midday sun ascended to its full height the temperature on the surface was enough to make even the overseers desist from their labours. Caravan routes ran from the north and west. He had memorised all this when they brought him here, back when he still indulged in the dream that he might one day contrive an escape.
She led him to the winding set of steps carved into the western face of the plateau, where it took them the best part of an hour to descend to the desert floor. A slave was waiting with four horses, two saddled for riding, two more bearing packs. She took the reins from the slave and dismissed him with a wave.
“I am a widowed landowner from the province of Eskethia,” she informed him. “I have business in Mirtesk. You are my journeyman escort, contracted to see me there safely without injury to body or reputation.”
She gave him the care of the packhorses and hauled herself into the saddle of the tallest riding horse, a grey mare which seemed to know her from the way it snorted in pleasure as she patted its neck. Her gown had slits to accommodate riding full saddle and her bare thighs were bronze in the morning sun. He looked away and saw to the pack animals.
Their loads consisted mainly of food and water, sufficient, he assumed, for their journey to Mirtesk. They were well cared for with no signs of infirmity that might lay them low in the desert, hooves shod with broad but thin iron shoes suitable for trekking across the sands. He remembered how the Alpiran desert had taxed his scout troop’s mounts to the limit until they copied the smithing tricks used by the Emperor’s cavalry. Memories of the Alpiran war came to him constantly and, despite all the blood spilled in their doomed attempt to fulfil the King’s mad vision, the months spent with the Wolfrunners, with his brothers, with Vaelin, had been the best days of his life.
His scars gave a short burn as the woman shifted impatiently in her saddle. He tightened the straps on the packs and mounted his own horse, a youthful black stallion. The mount was somewhat feisty, rearing and snorting as he settled onto the saddle. He leaned forward to cup the stallion’s ear, whispering softly. Instantly the animal calmed, trotting forward without demur as Frentis nudged his heels to its flanks, the packhorses trailing behind.
“Impressive,” the woman said, spurring her own mount into motion. “Only seen it done a few times. Who taught you?”
There was a command to her tone and the binding tightened a little. “A madman,” he said, recalling Master Rensial’s conspiratorial smirk as he imparted the secret of the whisper, something, Frentis knew, he had never taught any of the other novice brothers. Looks like the Dark, doesn’t it? he said with one of his high-pitched giggles. If only they knew. The fools.
He said no more and the woman let the binding recede to the now-standard tingle. “There will come a time,” she said, as they rode towards the west, “when you’ll tell me every secret in your heart, and do so willingly.”
Frentis’s hands clenched on his reins and inside he howled, raging at his prison of scars, for he knew now it was the scars that bound him, the means by which each overseer and master bent him to their will. One Eye’s final gift, his ultimate revenge.
? ? ?
They journeyed until noon, resting under small awnings as the sun baked the desert, moving on when the shadows grew long and the heat abated. They stopped at a small oasis, already crowded with caravans setting up camp for the night. Frentis watered the horses and established their camp on the fringes of the temporary community. The caravan folk seemed a cheerful lot, all free citizens, exchanging news with old friends or entertaining each other with songs or stories. Most wore blue, but here and there was a grey-clad veteran with a long beard and a longer string of horses. A few approached them with wares to sell or requests for news from the wider empire. The woman was all charm and affability in refusing the wares and offering minor gossip about the Council’s doings or the recent results of the Sword Races, which seemed to be a major preoccupation.
“The Blues lost again?” one older grey-clad said, shaking his head in disappointed wonder. “Followed them all my life, I have. Lost two fortunes in bets.”
The woman laughed and popped a date into her mouth. “Should switch to the Greens, grandfather.”
He glowered a little. “Man can’t change his team any more than he can change his skin.”
After a while they were left in peace. Frentis completed the remaining chores then sat by the fire watching the night sky. Master Hutril had taught him to read the stars during his first year in the Order, and he knew that the hilt of the Sword pointed to the north-east. But for the binding he would be following it back to the Realm now, however many miles it took.
“In the Alpiran Empire,” the woman said, reclining on a blanket, elbow propped on a silk cushion, “there are men who grow rich telling gullible fools lies about the portents foretold by the stars. Your Faith does not allow such nonsense, I believe.”
“The stars are distant suns,” he said. “So the Third Order has it anyway. A sun so far away can’t have any power here.”
“Tell me, why did you kill the overseer and not the master?”
“He was closer, and it was a difficult throw.” He turned his gaze on her. “And I knew you could deflect the blade.”
She gave a small nod of acknowledgment, lying back onto her pillow and closing her eyes. “There is a man camped next to the water. He’s dressed as a journeyman, grey hair and a silver ring in his ear. When the moon’s fully risen, go and kill him. There’s poison in the packs, the green bottle. Don’t leave any marks on the body. Take any letters you find.”
She hadn’t stopped his speech but he didn’t ask for a reason. There was no point.
One of the Varitai, silent as they always were, came forward to place a bundle in the centre of the pit. With that they trooped out in single file, the door slamming shut behind.
Frentis went to the bundle. They always left him food after a fight. Usually a bowl of surprisingly tasty porridge and an occasional serving of well-cooked meat. Starving him would not serve their purpose. In that respect at least, they were just like the Order. Today was different. In addition to the food he had been given clothes, the plain and serviceable tunic and trews of a Volarian freeman, dyed blue to signify his status as a journeyman of some kind, permitted to travel between the provinces. There was also a pair of solid boots, a belt of leather and a cloak of tightly woven cotton.
He fingered the clothing and recalled the burn of his scars. Where will she take me? he wondered, a new chill in his heart. What will she make me do?
? ? ?
In the morning a rope ladder was lowered into the pit. He had dressed in his new clothes, the feel of cloth on his skin strange after so many years of enforced nakedness. It made his scars itch. He climbed the ladder without hesitation, feeling no need for a final glance at his home of five years. There was nothing here he wanted to remember, but even so he knew every fight, every death, would stay with him forever.
The woman was waiting as he climbed from the pit. There were no guards; she didn’t need them. Her fine robes of the previous day had been exchanged for the more modest gown of a mid-status freewoman, dyed grey. His knowledge of this land and its customs was meagre, confined to what he had learned during his journey here after being taken in Untesh, plus whatever scraps of information he had been able to glean from overheard conversations between master and overseer. The colour grey, he knew, signified a person of property, usually slaves but also land and livestock. If a free Volarian acquired sufficient property, one thousand slaves or assets of equivalent value, they were permitted to wear black. Only the richest Volarians wore red, like the master.
“I hope you got some sleep,” she said. “We have a long way to go.”
The binding was still there, but restrained now, a faint tingle to his scars, enough to prevent him tying his new belt about her neck and strangling her, but with sufficient freedom to allow a survey of the environs. The pits surrounded them on every side, a hundred or more, each thirty feet in diameter and ten feet deep, carved into a broad plateau of bare rock, honeycombed with tunnels and dwellings. From some came the sound of combat, from others torture, screams rising into the morning air, overseers directing the various torments as they strolled the rim of the pits. This was a place of punishment as well as training.
“Sorry to be leaving?” the woman asked.
She had left him enough freedom to speak but he said nothing.
Her gaze darkened and he knew she was considering another punishing burn to his scars. He stared back, still refusing to speak, or beg.
To his surprise she laughed again. “So long since I had something truly interesting to play with. Come along, pretty one.” She turned and began walking to the edge of the plateau. It rose from the Vakesh Desert like an island in a sea of sand; when the midday sun ascended to its full height the temperature on the surface was enough to make even the overseers desist from their labours. Caravan routes ran from the north and west. He had memorised all this when they brought him here, back when he still indulged in the dream that he might one day contrive an escape.
She led him to the winding set of steps carved into the western face of the plateau, where it took them the best part of an hour to descend to the desert floor. A slave was waiting with four horses, two saddled for riding, two more bearing packs. She took the reins from the slave and dismissed him with a wave.
“I am a widowed landowner from the province of Eskethia,” she informed him. “I have business in Mirtesk. You are my journeyman escort, contracted to see me there safely without injury to body or reputation.”
She gave him the care of the packhorses and hauled herself into the saddle of the tallest riding horse, a grey mare which seemed to know her from the way it snorted in pleasure as she patted its neck. Her gown had slits to accommodate riding full saddle and her bare thighs were bronze in the morning sun. He looked away and saw to the pack animals.
Their loads consisted mainly of food and water, sufficient, he assumed, for their journey to Mirtesk. They were well cared for with no signs of infirmity that might lay them low in the desert, hooves shod with broad but thin iron shoes suitable for trekking across the sands. He remembered how the Alpiran desert had taxed his scout troop’s mounts to the limit until they copied the smithing tricks used by the Emperor’s cavalry. Memories of the Alpiran war came to him constantly and, despite all the blood spilled in their doomed attempt to fulfil the King’s mad vision, the months spent with the Wolfrunners, with his brothers, with Vaelin, had been the best days of his life.
His scars gave a short burn as the woman shifted impatiently in her saddle. He tightened the straps on the packs and mounted his own horse, a youthful black stallion. The mount was somewhat feisty, rearing and snorting as he settled onto the saddle. He leaned forward to cup the stallion’s ear, whispering softly. Instantly the animal calmed, trotting forward without demur as Frentis nudged his heels to its flanks, the packhorses trailing behind.
“Impressive,” the woman said, spurring her own mount into motion. “Only seen it done a few times. Who taught you?”
There was a command to her tone and the binding tightened a little. “A madman,” he said, recalling Master Rensial’s conspiratorial smirk as he imparted the secret of the whisper, something, Frentis knew, he had never taught any of the other novice brothers. Looks like the Dark, doesn’t it? he said with one of his high-pitched giggles. If only they knew. The fools.
He said no more and the woman let the binding recede to the now-standard tingle. “There will come a time,” she said, as they rode towards the west, “when you’ll tell me every secret in your heart, and do so willingly.”
Frentis’s hands clenched on his reins and inside he howled, raging at his prison of scars, for he knew now it was the scars that bound him, the means by which each overseer and master bent him to their will. One Eye’s final gift, his ultimate revenge.
? ? ?
They journeyed until noon, resting under small awnings as the sun baked the desert, moving on when the shadows grew long and the heat abated. They stopped at a small oasis, already crowded with caravans setting up camp for the night. Frentis watered the horses and established their camp on the fringes of the temporary community. The caravan folk seemed a cheerful lot, all free citizens, exchanging news with old friends or entertaining each other with songs or stories. Most wore blue, but here and there was a grey-clad veteran with a long beard and a longer string of horses. A few approached them with wares to sell or requests for news from the wider empire. The woman was all charm and affability in refusing the wares and offering minor gossip about the Council’s doings or the recent results of the Sword Races, which seemed to be a major preoccupation.
“The Blues lost again?” one older grey-clad said, shaking his head in disappointed wonder. “Followed them all my life, I have. Lost two fortunes in bets.”
The woman laughed and popped a date into her mouth. “Should switch to the Greens, grandfather.”
He glowered a little. “Man can’t change his team any more than he can change his skin.”
After a while they were left in peace. Frentis completed the remaining chores then sat by the fire watching the night sky. Master Hutril had taught him to read the stars during his first year in the Order, and he knew that the hilt of the Sword pointed to the north-east. But for the binding he would be following it back to the Realm now, however many miles it took.
“In the Alpiran Empire,” the woman said, reclining on a blanket, elbow propped on a silk cushion, “there are men who grow rich telling gullible fools lies about the portents foretold by the stars. Your Faith does not allow such nonsense, I believe.”
“The stars are distant suns,” he said. “So the Third Order has it anyway. A sun so far away can’t have any power here.”
“Tell me, why did you kill the overseer and not the master?”
“He was closer, and it was a difficult throw.” He turned his gaze on her. “And I knew you could deflect the blade.”
She gave a small nod of acknowledgment, lying back onto her pillow and closing her eyes. “There is a man camped next to the water. He’s dressed as a journeyman, grey hair and a silver ring in his ear. When the moon’s fully risen, go and kill him. There’s poison in the packs, the green bottle. Don’t leave any marks on the body. Take any letters you find.”
She hadn’t stopped his speech but he didn’t ask for a reason. There was no point.
