Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“What is it?” Dahrena groaned at his side, her pale and bleary-eyed face appearing above the furs.

“I think someone has finally come to welcome us,” he said, reaching for his boots.

Astorek, Kiral and Wise Bear waited at the foot of the south-facing slope, a line of wolves spread out before them and a cluster of spear-hawks overhead. “How many?” Vaelin asked, coming to Kiralʼs side.

“Just one.”

Vaelin peered into the distance, picking out a single figure, hooded and cloaked, striding towards them without any apparent alarm at the cloud of spear-hawks descending to circle him at head height. Vaelin went forward to welcome him as he came to a halt before the line of wolves, a man of average height, broad but not overly muscular, drawing his hood back to reveal lean but deeply lined features, and eyes that spoke of a depth of experience Vaelin now knew to be vast.

“Ah,” said Erlin. “I thought it might be you.”

She awoke to pain, a fierce, piercing ache in her right hand, banishing the blackness with a persistent, pulsing agony. She groaned, shaking her hand, but the pain flared rather than faded. She winced as her eyes opened, sunlight sending a bolt of white fire into her brain. For a time all she could see was a faint yellow blur, her ears constantly assaulted by a roaring hiss. Forcing herself to blink, she managed to focus, the yellow blur resolving into a beach, the roar the rushing waves that jostled her, and the pain in her hand the result of a small red crab attempting to eat her thumb.

She pinched its claw and tugged it free, tossing it into the surf, gritting her teeth against the sting of salt in the wound but finding herself oddly grateful for the sensation; it confirmed she was, much to her surprise, alive. Barely able to move and lying prostrate on a beach whilst waves pounded her, but still undeniably alive.

Why? she asked the Father, more curious than angry. You cannot think I deserve to live. You cannot reward one whose lie has killed so many.

The voice was so unexpected, and shocking in its volume, she thought for an instant the Father had actually deigned to respond. Her heart calmed when she realised the voice called out words she couldnʼt understand, her still-cloudy vision finding the owner, a hulking shape in black labouring through the surf towards her. The details of his garb became clear as he neared, a black leather jerkin, a silver medallion worn around the neck, and a whip on his belt. Overseer.

She let him take hold of her hair and haul her free of the water, keeping her features slack and uncomprehending as his brutish face came closer, eyes moving over her in expert appraisal. He called over his shoulder to an unseen companion, confirming he wasnʼt alone. She kept her eyes half-open as he dragged her from the sea, counting six more shapes standing on the beach, and many more lying prostrate and unmoving.

The overseer dumped her on the sand where she forced herself to remain limp and immobile, breathing deep but soft, gathering strength. They made the mistake of waiting several minutes before returning to examine their catch, the overseer who had found her pulling her onto her back as his companions gathered round. She counted two with spears as her head lolled to one side, the others with short swords. The overseer pulled up her blouse, revealing her breasts as he voiced a question to his companions. There were a few murmurs of agreement, one of them adding something with an appreciative cackle.

“My friend… like you,” the overseer said in broken Realm Tongue, taking hold of her face and turning it so she could see his leer. “Want to… fuck you. Might lower the price… But I owe him. You… want fucked, pretty thing?”

It was really the smile that killed him, not so much the blow, making him frown in puzzlement at her welcoming, lustful grin, drawing back in surprise just enough to expose his throat. Vaelin had taught her the blow; the priestʼs lessons in unarmed combat had never been so thorough, nor so effective in practice. Her stiff fingers drove into the overseerʼs neck with enough force to crush his larynx, leaving him writhing on the sand, bloody froth gouting from his mouth. Reva rolled on the sand, dodging a plunging spear-point then grabbing the haft before its owner could withdraw for another try. She flicked a kick into his face, sending him reeling, then surged to her feet with his spear in her hands.

She whirled as they closed, the spear-point slashing the disarmed spearman across the eyes, another the face. The second spearman came at her with an overextended thrust, indicating a level of expertise best confined to abusing helpless captives. She parried the thrust without difficulty, deflecting the spear with the haft of her own and spinning to slam the blunt end into the back of his neck which snapped with a gratifying crack.

She stood watching the others as they dithered, casting wary glances at the man she had blinded, screaming as blood seeped through the hands he held to his face. “Come on!” she whispered as they exchanged uncertain glances. “You cannot think I deserve to live.”

A horn sounded somewhere close by and Revaʼs eyes found a group of horsemen cresting the dunes a few hundred paces distant. She turned to see more riders approaching from the north end of the beach. Any thought she might soon be rescued faded at the sight of the slaversʼ evident relief.

The lead rider pulled up next to the body of the overseer with the crushed larynx. The riders differed from other Volarians Reva had seen, clad in red breastplates and greaves. She would have taken them for Kuritai but for the patent amusement on the leaderʼs face as he regarded the overseerʼs corpse, an amusement shared by the thirty or so riders at his back.

The slavers greeted the red-armoured man with a babble of outrage, suddenly less cowed now there were other eyes to witness the scene. The rider ignored them, shifting his gaze to Reva, his grin growing wider. He held up a hand to silence the slavers then asked a question, raising his eyebrows at the response, the slaver with the slashed face seeking to staunch the blood with a rag as he gesticulated at her, voice shrill with fury.

The man in red armour, however, seemed unmoved by their entreaties, reclining in his saddle and nodding at Reva as he voiced a short command. The slaversʼ confidence visibly waned on hearing his words, casting wary glances in her direction, fidgeting in uncertainty. The rider spoke again, voicing a single word, the other riders all drawing swords with identical speed and fluency. The leader pointed his own sword at the slavers then at Reva, repeating his first command with slow deliberation.

The slavers, now pale of face and shrinking from the many blades surrounding them, began to advance towards Reva in a slow crouch. She saw little point in prolonging the encounter, choosing the tallest and sending the spear into the centre of his chest, then sprinting forward, rolling under the wild slashes of the remaining slavers to claim his sword. After that, the others offered no more challenge than a light practice.

Crouched in her chains in the back of a caged wagon, two of the red-armoured Volarians standing close by, she forced herself to watch as the other captives were inspected. She had managed to scar one of them back on the beach, throwing her sword at the first to come close. He dodged with an uncanny swiftness, but not before the spinning blade had left a long cut on his jaw. She had expected death to follow quickly but the scarred man seemed to find the event as amusing as his companions. They were already greatly entertained by her treatment of the slavers, slapping their hands to their breastplates in appreciation when she killed the last one, a gangly man who had tried to flee only to be kicked back to face her. He hadnʼt lasted long.