Энтони Райан - Queen of Fire

“I put us fifty miles south of New Kethia,” Thirty-Four advised, examining an unfurled map. “If the captainʼs reckoning is to be trusted.”

“Good navigation is about the only thing Iʼd trust a Meldenean with.” Frentisʼs gaze tracked to the nearest villa, perhaps a quarter mile off with outbuildings large enough to be stables.

“Itʼll be home to a black-clad,” Thirty-Four said, following his gaze. “Too grand for anything else. They are likely to have guards; house Varitai. An estate this large will keep perhaps a dozen.”

“All to the good.” Frentis gave the sign for the company to adopt the loose skirmish formation he had taught them in the Urlish. “We need to start somewhere.”

They managed to take a Varitai alive, a guard posted on the villaʼs western side, roped and beaten down by Draker with Thirty-Fourʼs assistance. His comrades were not so fortunate, running to confront them with weapons drawn when a panicked slave gave the alarm, screaming shrilly of bandits as she fled back to the house. Frentis had ordered no chances taken and the fight was short, half the Varitai cut down by their arrows and Illianʼs crossbow before the company closed in with drawn swords to finish the others.

How much they have learned, Frentis thought, finding a grim satisfaction at the efficiency with which his people dealt with the Varitai, lanky Dallin ducking under a short sword to jab his own into a slave soldierʼs eyes then moving behind him to finish it with Drakerʼs trick. Beyond them Illian deflected an overhead slash and delivered a deadly counter-thrust, finding a gap in the Varitaiʼs armour just above the breastbone. It was over in a few moments, the company kneeling beside fresh corpses to claim weapons and trinkets, a ritual born in the forest.

“Leave that,” Frentis barked. “Search the villa. If he hasnʼt fled, the owner will be in the upper rooms. Draker, take Thirty-Four and gather the slaves.”

“Redbrother.” Lekran stood at the arched entrance to the villaʼs courtyard, wiping blood from his axe, his expression dark. “Something you should see.”

The man had been strong, the muscle on his arms and back clearly revealed as he hung from two posts, dried blood streaking his wrists where the shackles held him upright. His head hung forward, still and lifeless, the length of his broad back striped with two-day-old whip strokes. Frentis noted his left foot was stunted, the front half having been hacked off at some point, the standard punishment for slaves who run from their masters, death being the fate of any who run twice.

Opposite the dead man a young woman had been chained to another post, arms drawn back and legs tied in place so she couldnʼt turn, a leather gag secured about her mouth. She was partially naked, breasts and shoulders showing the signs of repeated beatings. She collapsed in Illianʼs arms as Lekran smashed the chains with his axe and the sister cut away her bonds. She choked on the water from Illianʼs canteen, an expression of utter confusion on her face fading slowly as she took in the sight of Frentis, her eyes tracking over his garb, the blue cloak and the sword on his back. “Brother?” she asked in Realm Tongue, her accent unmistakably Asraelin.

“Yes, Brother Frentis.” He knelt at her side. “This is Sister Illian.”

The womanʼs head lolled, her gaze losing focus. “Then I am finally dead,” she said with a shrill laugh.

“No.” Illian took her hand, squeezing it gently. “No. We are here. Come to save you at our queenʼs orders.”

The woman stared at her, apparently unable to comprehend the reality of her survival. “Jerrin,” she said after a moment, raising herself up, gazing around with a wild animation. “Jerrin. Did you save him too?” She stopped as her gaze found the man hanging from the posts. She sagged in Illianʼs arms and voicing a despairing wail. “I told him we shouldnʼt run,” she whispered. “But he couldnʼt stand the thought of him touching me again.”

Frentis turned at the sound of a fearful whimper. A plump little man in loose robes of black silk stood trembling beside the ornate fountain in the centre of the courtyard, his chins bulging somewhat as Master Rensial pressed his sword blade harder, forcing him to stand on tiptoe. “Where are the horses?” he demanded.

The plump man raised a shaking hand, pointing to an arched doorway off to the left. Rensial raised a questioning eyebrow at Frentis. He turned back to the woman they had freed, seeing the depth of hatred in the stare with which she fixed the plump black-clad. “Not just yet, Master,” Frentis told him. “If you donʼt mind.”

They found another six Realm folk among the slaves, none more than forty years in age, all possessing skills of some kind. “Jerrin was a wheelwright,” his wife explained. Her name was Lissel, a chandler from Rhansmill come to live in Varinshold at her husbandʼs insistence. “Money grew tight after the desert war. Varinshold would be our fortune, he said.” She began to voice another of her shrill laughs but mastered the impulse with a visible effort, her gaze moving to the villaʼs owner, now stripped naked and chained to the posts where her husband had died. Thirty-Four had questioned him for a short time, his skills unnecessary as the black-clad had been all too eager to cooperate.

“He tells of a larger estate twelve miles to the east,” Thirty-Four reported. “The master there is a renowned breeder of horses and has also purchased many slaves from the recent influx.”

“The nearest garrison?” Frentis enquired.

“Ten miles north of here, a single battalion of Varitai, though fewer in number than they should be. It seems the Council has been concentrating forces on the capital recently.”

“Not for much longer.” Frentis took the whip they had found on the overseerʼs body. He had tried to run, displaying an impressive turn of speed for such a large man, but Slasher and Blacktooth were faster. Frentis placed the whip in Lisselʼs lap. “I leave this matter in your hands, mistress.”

He went outside where Draker had gathered the slaves, the Realm folk standing apart from the others, some already holding weapons taken from the Varitai and greeting Frentis with bows and expressions of grave intent. The others numbered over forty people and displayed only fear. A clutch of girls, the youngest no more than thirteen, clustered together in a protective huddle, casting tearful glances at the men surrounding them. Only one slave was prepared to meet Frentisʼs gaze, a trim man of middle years dressed in a clean dun-coloured tunic. He winced a little as the first scream came from the courtyard, the crack of the whip an indication that Lissel was a quick learner.

“You are One here?” Frentis asked the trim man.

He winced again as another scream sounded, then bowed low. “I am, Master.”

“I am not a master and you are not a slave. What is your name?”

“Tekrav, m— Honoured Citizen.”

Frentis studied the manʼs face, seeing the keen intelligence he tried to hide with a servile stoop. “You were not always a slave. Those born to slavery have no names. What was your crime?”

“An overfondness for dice.” Another scream pealed forth, longer and louder, followed by a babble of desperate entreaties and promises. Tekrav swallowed and forced a smile. “And a dislike of resultant debt.”

“Your skill?”

“I am scribe and bookkeeper here. Should you require my talent, Honoured Citizen, I am at your disposal.”

“Iʼll have need of it in time. Whether you choose to offer it is a matter for you.” Frentis stepped back, raising his voice to address them all. “By order of Queen Lyrna these lands are hereby seized for the Unified Realm and all who reside here afforded the rights and privileges due free subjects of the Crown.”