Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

The gale was strong enough to pitch her from her feet, the rigging above resounding with the sound of snapping rope and wood, sailors tumbling to the deck or snatched by the wind to be cast into the sea. Reva found herself sliding across the deck, now awash with water. She was carried past the entrance to the hold, close enough to hear the frightened cries of the Scarred Daughters rising from below as water cascaded down the steps. She managed to grab onto the rail before the pitching deck sent her over the side, both arms wrapped tight about the balustrade as wind and rain tore at her. A dark shape tumbled past, a hand scraping over her mail shirt for a brief instant, a sudden despairing wail soon swallowed by the storm.

The deck suddenly descended, the angle of its pitch reversing, swinging her around so that she lay on the deck, gasping in the sudden lull. “My lady!” It was Arentes, running towards her across the deck, arms outstretched. She was reaching for him when the crash came.

The impact jarred her grip from the rail, the pitch of the deck too steep to allow any purchase as she and Arentes were carried towards the starboard side. She saw the guard commander hit the rail, shattering the wood with a bone-snapping crunch, and leaving a gap through which she descended into the roiling sea.

The stormʼs fury disappeared in an instant, replaced by the silence of the world beneath the waves. She could see only varying swirls of grey as she descended, borne down by the weight of mail and weapons. She let go of her bow, knowing this time Master Arrenʼs wonder would be lost forever, then unclasped her sword belt, letting the blade fall away. She tore at the straps to her mail shirt, writhing in the cloying chill, bubbles spouting from her mouth in a torrent.

No! She forced calm into her thoughts as the straps resisted every desperate tug. Panic will kill you.

She formed herself into as still and straight a pose as possible, facing towards the surface to slow her descent, then drew her dagger and cut each of the straps in turn. The mail shirt came loose in an instant and she felt herself rise, but too slowly judging by the now-agonised burn in her chest. She kicked for the surface, forcing every ounce of strength into her lungs and sternly refusing the compulsion to draw breath.

She broke into the air with a shout, dragging in rain-clogged air and coughing, carried high and low by tall waves. There was no sign of Arentes, or anyone else. Then a sudden cacophony, loud enough to reach her through the storm, a great cracking sound, like a thousand trees splintered at one blow. The swirl of the storm shifted for a moment, lessening the darkness to afford a view of the Marshal Smolen , the great vesselʼs hull shuddering as it scraped along some unseen barrier, her sails torn from her rigging and what seemed to be dark droplets cascading from her sides, droplets Reva soon realised were people, her people, casting themselves into the sea as the ship was torn apart beneath them.

The storm shifted again, taking the spectacle with it, but Reva continued to stare, as the cold rose to numb her limbs and she shuddered, knowing death was coming soon and she had no desire to fight it.

I killed them all, she thought as the waves covered her head. With a lie.

The villa was the largest they had yet encountered, more a fortress than a home, its walls thick and tall, the gardens extending for several acres all around. It had clearly been home to a master of considerable wealth, enough in fact to maintain a garrison of two hundred Varitai. Despite the strength of the villaʼs defences, however, the master had felt little compunction in abandoning it at the first sign of their approach. His Varitai were easily counted, lying in four neat rows in the inner courtyard, each bearing an identical ear-to-ear cut across the throat.

“All valuables gone,” Draker reported, “along with the horses. Found most of the slaves inside. Unlike this lot, looks like some put up a fight. Didnʼt save them though.”

“Two hundred of their own men,” Illian said, shaking her head in bafflement. “I can make no sense of it.”

“They know what weʼre about now.” Frentis nodded at a silent cluster of their own freed Varitai nearby. “Didnʼt want us to have them.” He caught Master Rensialʼs eye. “From the state of the bodies they canʼt be more than a dayʼs ride north. See to it, please Master.”

Rensial nodded and moved to his horse, his mounted company following as he galloped through the villaʼs gate. Frentis briefly pondered going with them, given the masterʼs erratic nature, but resisted the impulse. Recent days had seen a change in Rensial, his gaze not quite so blank, even occasionally given to unbidden speech requiring less deciphering than usual. Only in war does the madman become sane.

Not all the villaʼs slaves had been slain before their masterʼs flight, some having been at work in the fields when the slaughter began. Many were seen fleeing in all directions, though a sizeable minority made their way to the villa, cautious and bemused by the welcome they received, some collapsing in grief at the sight of their murdered fellows, mostly men weeping over fallen women. Marriage was forbidden between slaves but everywhere they went there was evidence that people were capable of forging their own bonds regardless of whatever barriers or threats constrained their lives. It was to these bereaved souls that Frentis gave the villaʼs owner when Rensial returned the following day, dragging the unfortunate black-clad along behind his horse, hands bound and mouth firmly gagged.

“He had a wife and children,” Rensial reported as the slaves closed in around their former master, knives and whips raised. “I let them go.”

“Of course, Master.” They always beg. Frentis watched the black-clad collapse to his knees, bound hands raised in appeal. He was a tall man, impressively built with the look of a soldier, attested to by the various military souvenirs found in the villa. An officer of renown? The villa, the family, the slaves. All fruits of an illustrious career. A heroʼs reward. He was far from heroic now, just a terrified, piss-stained man begging for his life. They always beg.

He turned away as the torment began, going to where Illian was engaged in training the latest batch of recruits. There were fewer Realm folk now but their numbers had begun to swell since the victory over the Eskethian garrison, the Free Swords they had allowed to flee carrying word of the calamity with impressive speed. Within days a hundred more runaways had arrived in the mountains, the armyʼs numbers swelling to over four thousand in the space of a month. Feeding so many had forced Frentis to order a move to the north-west, into the rich farmlands that stretched towards New Kethia, this villa being the first to fall.

He watched the training for a short time, taking satisfaction from the accustomed ease with which Illian marshalled the recruits, displaying all the authority of a master on the Order House practice ground. She had them learning the staff, the basis for eventual use of the pole-axe or the spear, but also a sign that they still lacked sufficient weapons. He had set the former blacksmith to work in the villaʼs forge with orders to remake the copious stocks of farming tools into as many axe blades as possible. It meant they would have to linger here for a time, weeks probably, and he chafed at the delay. Keen to maintain the impetus of their rebellion, he had sent Lekran and Ivelda in opposite directions with two hundred fighters each and orders to free as many slaves as possible.