Blinded by the Sun (Erythleh Chronicles Book 4) (5 page)

Despite the numerous times they had performed this ceremony, Lathriss bit back a hiss of pain.

"May Taan's fire burn forever," Kavrazel intoned. It was customary only to offer the last line of the prayer to the fire god when making the blood toast. There was no time to recite all the lines; no one wanted to waste blood by allowing it to drip onto the floor.

Kavrazel leant forward and quickly drew his tongue over the line of blood that was just beginning to swell from the cut. He paused, and then licked again. If the cut was made with skill, the blood would not flow too fast, and would soon begin to clot.

Blood slaves were expensive. They cost plenty of coin to buy, and then became a member of their owner's household. They needed to be fed and clothed at the very least. It was to the advantage of the owner to make sure that he treated his blood slave with skill and consideration, to look after them. There were some debauched or gauche people who didn't seem to grasp such a simple concept, or who wanted to visibly demonstrate their wealth by exhausting their slaves frequently. Kavrazel was not such a person. To his way of thinking, he was partaking of someone's life essence, whether it was given willingly or not. It was an honourable gift, and he felt it should be treated with the respect it deserved.

He licked the cut twice more before the blood ceased to flow. He passed one of the intricately folded napkins to Lathriss, out of habit rather than the need to bind the wound. If she didn't have a cloth to press against it, Lathriss tended to rub at the cuts, which made them sore and inflamed.

She was looking at him now with quiet confusion, as she shook out the square of silk and pressed it to her wrist, because he was still holding onto her arm.

"Will you dine with me tonight?" Kavrazel heard the question asked in his own voice.

Lathriss stepped back and tried to pull her arm away, but Kavrazel held fast. He understood her surprise. It was their custom that she provided the blood toast, and that she then joined the rest of the household to eat. As a slave, it wouldn't be proper for her to eat with the king. But tonight, he was lonely, and Lathriss would not be part of his household for much longer. A relationship between master and servant that had lasted for five years was drawing to a close.

"Sire?"

Kavrazel smiled to reassure her. "You will be wed to Denryn soon. You'll be a free woman."

"But..."

"Please." Kavrazel motioned towards the seat immediately to his left.

Lathriss didn't look any less anxious, but she took the seat that he pointed to. She sat as still as a petrified rabbit. Kavrazel felt a little guilt for her discomfort, but it felt wrong that she should leave after so much time without some form of... conversation, at least.

Denryn, the head groomsman in the stables of Castle Vulc, had offered a proposal of marriage to Lathriss. After ascertaining that Lathriss wished to accept, Kavrazel had granted his blessing, and Lathriss' freedom, from the day of her wedding. His generosity meant that he would have to find a new blood slave. Although it was likely that no Vuthroan would have batted an eyelid, Kavrazel did not want to take blood from the wife of a free man.

Since Lathriss wasn't moving, only sitting with napkin still pressed to her wrist, Kavrazel began to select some slices of meat and other foods from the platters. He laid them onto his own plate, which he then put in front of her, along with his cutlery. Only one place setting was ever laid for his evening meal, unless there were some official visitors to entertain.

"How are the wedding preparations coming along?" he asked.

"Well, I think." Still Lathriss did not touch the food before her. Kavrazel selected a peach from the dish of fruits. Only when he had taken three bites did Lathriss begin to cut a portion from a slice of beef. "Denryn's sister is positively giddy. Apparently she keeps trying to wear her maid's dress in the house."

"Who will be standing with the lucky groom?" Kavrazel finished the peach and put the stone on the edge of one of the plates. He selected a slice of beef from a platter and tore a bite-sized piece off.

"Henryn, his brother."

"And his little sister is your maid."

"Yes," Lathriss paused. She flushed, which made Kavrazel wonder as to her thoughts, but then she continued. "I wish... I wish my parents could be here, could see this. They'd like Denryn." Lathriss' face fell. Kavrazel wondered if she might not be about to cry.

"Who will give you away in your father's place?"

"There is no one. I will walk by myself."

"Perhaps Shinu?" Kavrazel smiled at the thought of the man who selected, cared for, and trained the blood slaves for the castle household. Likely Shinu considered himself as much of a father figure to Lathriss as anyone, possibly more so than even Lathriss' own father.

"Do you think he would?" Lathriss asked, a note of hope brightening her voice.

"I think he would be honoured to do so. Would you like to ask him yourself? I will speak to him if you prefer."

"No, Sire. I should like to ask him myself."

Lathriss still looked mightily uncomfortable to be occupying a place at his table. Unable to bear it any longer, Kavrazel decided to release her from the torment.

"If you wish to speak to him now, I'm sure he will still be at supper. You might catch him in the kitchens."

"If you don't mind, Sire?"

"Not at all." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Run along."

Lathriss grinned, her eyes full of life once more. She pushed her chair away from the table, and walked quickly, so quickly she was almost running, out of the dining room. The door shut behind her with a hollow sound, leaving Kavrazel to eat in silence once more. When the king looked up, Girogis was still grinning. Kavrazel shook his head at his friend, acknowledging the humour of his own sentimentality, and returned to his meal.

Chapter Five

A million stars were scattered across the heavens. There were so many twinkling silver jewels that the black of the sky was almost obliterated. The moon hung low and fat, too corpulent to rise higher than the horizon, yet still the night felt thick and dark. The silence that had settled over the village was unnatural and unnerving. The Skenites drew their weapons as they approached, whispering over the sand on stealthy feet. No one trusted the blank quiet. Even when all should be asleep, a village was never as silent as this grave. There were no dogs or cats, not even any rats, scuttling through the shadows. There were no moans or groans from the unfortunates afflicted with the sickness. No candles burned to reassure children that the night did not herald ghosts and monsters.

Darron led the group. His dark skin shone vaguely in the starlight, but he seemed to be only one of the shadows brought to life. Fett, who was out on the left flank of the group, melded into the blank spaces between buildings and fences as if he were a demon conjured with spells and herbs. An advantage of fighting at night was that there was no need for the long cloaks that they wore to protect their skin during the day. Lyssia had learned to fight with her head, face and arms swathed in material, but she much preferred the ultimate freedom of movement. Her clothing was modest, and covered much of her skin. Even though she did not glow in the scant light as some of the lighter-hued members of their party might have, she had still smeared gritty mud over her face to dull her skin.

They picked their way between the huts, small, round structures with walls of wooden stakes and thatched roofs. Lyssia felt in her gut as though she had swallowed a ball of lead. There was an ill omen to the silent village, as though those in it were already dead, and that the living who crept through the streets should expect to die soon. Her skin prickled. At fifteen summers she had been sent to live in a strange city beneath the sands, for fifteen summers more she had honed her skills as a warrior, and had proven her stalwart strength, but on this night she wanted to turn and run like a frightened child seeking its mother's skirts.

Fett stumbled. For all that Lyssia could give a dozen faults to his name, stealth was not a talent that he lacked. In deference, or amazement, at his misstep, the whole group had halted. They paused, a moment too long, perhaps. Maybe if they had kept on moving, if they had made it to the other side of the village and determined that they were too late, maybe if they had returned home, this wouldn't have been a problem. Fett crouched down to feel at the shadows at his feet to find the thing he had tripped over. He stood suddenly and took two steps back, unheeding of his surroundings, and stumbled into Braedeth. Braedeth kept his feet, and planted the hand not holding his sword on Fett's shoulder.

Fett looked around their group, his eyes wide, the whites ghostly bright. "All dead," he hissed.

As if his words had conjured some magic to enhance the starlight, Lyssia found that she could now see into the murk through which Fett had tripped. His step had caught a foot, attached to a leg. The skin of the limb had been obscured from the starlight by a thick coating of drying blood.

Fett's words conjured something else. The slavers had been waiting patiently in the huts; now they attacked.

The Skenites were not children who needed to hold hands as they walked through the night. Their group had not been packed shoulder to shoulder as they walked through the village. They had spread out, but they had not split into separate groups. The slavers were fewer in number, but the element of surprise added strength to their attack. The Skenites were immediately surrounded, with little chance of escape and no opportunity to call for aid.

The fight was short and intense. Lyssia saw Darron fall, rendered insensible, or dead, by a club to the head. Fett killed two slavers, before a third spilled his guts into the sand. She lost sight of Braedeth, save the intermittent flash of steel as his sword parried and thrust against his attackers. Lyssia found her double blade all but useless in such close fighting. To be truly effective, it required the full movement of her arm. With four slavers surrounding her, she could make only sharp jabs, and yet she could not discard the weapon. There was no opportunity to drop her sword in favour of her dagger, and thus she was rendered impotent by her own weapon.

Her sense of battle gave her the eyes in the back of her head that she sorely needed to keep track of the slavers around her, but she was not a mystic, she had no knowledge of the future, and she could only fight what she could see. Lyssia could neither see, nor avoid, the club that swung towards her leg. The head of the club had spikes embedded in it. The first wave of pain was caused by the vicious metal ripping into her skin, but it had not even begun to crest when the sickening crack resounded through her body. The limb was pure agony, and would no longer support her weight. Her knee buckled.

Lyssia had the presence of mind to lean to the left so that her uninjured knee hit the ground first. Her now useless leg stuck out, bent at an odd angle below the knee. She tried to jab at the encroaching attackers with her blade, but pain had stolen her strength. She watched in horrified amazement as her double-bladed sword was knocked from her weak grasp. She did not see who or what hit the back of her head, but she accepted the dense blanket of unconsciousness that was thrown about her.

~o0o~

Lyssia woke to a throbbing headache that radiated from the back of her skull, which paled in comparison to the torturous pain in her leg. She blinked in the harsh daylight. The sun was high in the heavens, and the day was already hot. Sweat trickled over her skin, under her clothes. Her head was still covered by her cloak, but the larger pains in her body made it almost impossible to think about any smaller ones that she might be feeling.

Her leg had been bound and splinted. It was now straight, held so between two pieces of timber, and wrapped with swathes of cotton. Lyssia swallowed against the bite of the rank fabric of the gag that had been tied around her mouth. Fortunately, the bindings around her leg appeared to be far more sterile than that used to silence her, although they were stained with dark splotches of her blood. She flexed her fingers, which were almost numb. Her wrists had been bound behind her back. She was in a rickety cart, and every time it rolled over a divot in the ground the resulting jolt sent a spear of forked lightning through her leg.

There were sixteen other women bound and gagged in the cart. No men had been taken. Lyssia didn't think for one moment that female blood was sweeter, or more delectable, than that of a male. Judging by the look of the women that were sharing her horror, it was easy to see why the slavers held a gender bias. The men would have fought, and these women would have been tasked with guarding the children. Maybe the women had been taught a little of fighting, but Lyssia knew that to be rarity. It was tradition that surprised her, still. After generations of the battle, of being on guard against the slavers, one might have thought that those who dwelled in and around the Southern Wastelands would have become warrior cultures. Apparently not, apparently the men still fought and died, and the women still nurtured, and endured entrapment.

Lyssia didn't know whether to be relieved or bereft that there were no children in the cart. Perhaps they had been spared. Maybe, in a way, they had been denied this torment. She could guess at the full events of the night. The slavers had attacked the village, and likely found it an easy enough target. With their strength decimated by sickness, the villagers would have been able to offer little resistance. They would have been easily killed or subdued. The slavers, probably aware that news of their presence would travel fast, had lain in wait. The Skenites, acting on their natural instinct, had walked directly into the trap.

Lyssia blinked against another onslaught of pain. The blinding light of the harsh sun obscured her vision. She blinked twice more, but the third time, her eyes remained shut.

~o0o~

When she next opened her eyes, she was in a stable. It was almost too dark to see, but Lyssia was immediately nauseated by the smell of dung and mouldering straw. She was in a dirty stable, not a well kept one. The ache in her skull had abated, although she didn't want to move too quickly, for fear of resurrecting it. Whoever had brought her in had left her propped against a rough wooden wall, which meant she could feel the tender spot at the back of her head as she leant back. Her legs were straight out in front of her, the broken one still splinted, and still straight. That pain she could still feel, and knew that it would not slacken for days. Beneath the bindings, her skin felt hot and swollen. She could tell from the blood stains that the bandages had not be changed whilst she had been unconscious. If she wasn't given the opportunity to clean the wounds soon, she would be in danger of losing the limb.

She was draped in a cloak, a mercy, she thought, but she was also still gagged and bound. There were small rustlings all around her, the sounds of the other women. Lyssia could hear coughs, sobs, and strangled moans, all made as if trying not to be heard. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness. She couldn't be sure, but she didn't think that all the women from the cart were present.

A small door opened, letting in some light from beyond the building. Lyssia had a brief notion that there was a campfire burning outside the stables. The scant light was enough for her to see the silhouettes of two men, dragging two of her fellow prisoners. The women stumbled over their own feet, their legs seemingly too weak to hold them. They were carelessly tossed down into the straw. Since their wrists were still bound, they could not break their fall, and neither seemed to have enough will to even turn so that they didn't land on their faces. Lyssia couldn't see, but she didn't need vision to comprehend the state of the two captives. If further confirmation were needed, the panicked struggles and whines of the two women who were then yanked from their seats and pushed out of the stable provided it.

The door closed, muting the pleas of the women and the curses and laughter of their captors. Silence reigned in the stable. The two women who had been brought in did not move, they didn't even groan. Only by listening very closely could Lyssia discern their shallow breaths. The other captives were silent, too, as if their minor aches had been forgotten in the horror that had been dropped before them.

Lyssia knew that she was trapped. Even if she could escape her bonds, she was lame. If her wounds were to be allowed to fester any more than they had, she would soon be paralysed by fever. She couldn't run, or fight. She would struggle even to mount a horse, if one were to wait around patiently enough for her to even try. Whatever trials were coming her way, she would have to endure them. She had no choice. She kept her eyes on the door, and waited.

~o0o~

The sound of straw rustling brought Lyssia awake with a start that caused agony to rip through her broken leg. She had been watchful all night, but she had not been pulled out of the stable to be abused as all the other captives had. She wondered if she had been spared because of her injury, or if some worse fate was waiting for her. She had kept her eyes trained on the door. She had seen the men come and go, taking the women out two at a time, and dragging their limp shells back some time later. At some point, after all her fellow prisoners had been made to visit the camp fire, she must have dozed off.

The movement that had woken her was a group of five of the slavers entering the stable. The other women moaned and whimpered and tried to shy away, shuffling backwards in the dirty straw. In the morning light, Lyssia could see that the women were dusty, and all had blood seeping from their nostrils, or eyebrows, or splits in their lips. Where their dresses rode up, she could see that their knees were dirty and abraded. Their eyes were wide and wild with fear.

The men laughed at the commotion they were causing. Lyssia hoped that one day she would have the pleasure of sinking a knife into their guts. She hoped that, if she could not cause their deaths, the next time they thought to raid for their human treasure the Skenites would be waiting. But that thought brought memories of the comrades she had seen fall during that night, who knew how many nights ago, in the village. She pushed those thoughts down deep and locked them tight away. She felt little for Fett, she felt regret for Darron, but she could not bear to think of Braedeth while she was so helpless and so hurt herself.

The men, still chuckling at the strife they caused, came to stand before her. Lyssia knew fear, cold and heavy in her gut, but she tried not to show it. She tried to keep her eyes from darting among all the men, she tried to keep her breathing even. One of the men stepped forward. Although she was tied and hobbled, he kept his hand on the hilt of his sword. Perhaps it was habit, but perhaps he was cautious, and that made Lyssia think that he might be a leader of the group. He reached out, and she made a monumental effort not to shrink back as he pulled the wrappings of the cloak from her head. There was a chorus of appreciative whistles.