Exiles of Forlorn (27 page)

“I didn’t get the chance to finish burning you before,” said Uller, watching the glutton writhe and twist beneath the cloak of flames. “Allow me to remedy that.”

Reiwyn and Front-Strider continued to pelt one of the fat gluttons with projectiles while the rest of the group faced off against the other. He took two dozen hits, but eventually fell. Sharkhart took care of the other one by jumping on his back while Arn and Efrot assailed him from the front. The savage wrapped his spiked whip around the glutton’s throat and tightened, cutting into his flesh and choking him until he fell to his knees. Arn and Efrot finished him off, hacking him up until he collapsed next to his fallen brothers.

We were having trouble with the knots, so Arn slashed them open with his cutlass. Once free, Zindet jumped into his arms and burst into tears. He stroked her hair. “It’s fair, Zin. You’re safe now.”

After she’d finished with him, she ran to Uller, arms open to embrace, until she saw his walking staff and bandaged leg. “It’s nothing, really,” he explained with a smile. Her tears welled up anew as she dove into his arms, almost knocking him over.

That left us with two new friends: a pair of Scumdogs named Struart and Kloph. The latter was an olive-skinned Kettish sailor. The former was an Illyrvolk known to Arn and Sharkhart, as he’d once been an exile in the colony before being sent up the White Road for theft. We replaced their glutton bonds with our own and dragged them back to the beach.

“How far ahead has Ferun gone?” Arn asked them.

The Kettish wasn’t keen for talking, even after Sharkhart threatened him with a lash of his whip. Struart was more pliable. “About a day,” he said, unable to take his eyes off the whip, as though seeing it coming would mitigate its tearing sting.

Arn left Efrot to watch them as Gargath tended to their wounds. He gathered us further down the beach, but it was Sharkhart who spoke first, “We’ve lost all hope of overtaking Ferun. He has probably reached Drullcove already.” Arn looked at him and nodded once.

“What difference does it make?” asked Uller. “We’ve got Zindet. We return to the colony.”

“We can’t go back without Ferun,” Arn said.

“If this is about the key, I can make a new one,” I offered.

“He must face our justice.” This was personal for him. I wondered what he intended to do once he had him. He had already voiced his disapproval for executions. The most severe punishment he typically allowed was making someone walk the White Road, but condemning Ferun to that seemed redundant at this point. For that matter, what did he intend to do with these two prisoners?

“We’ll take the Scumdogs to Drullcove and trade them for Ferun,” said Arn, as though reading the question in my eyes. “Lew, Front-Strider and Efrot are with us.” He looked at Zin, who stood next to Uller with his arm wrapped around her shoulders and hers around his chest, and Reiwyn. “The women will remain behind, along with the others. It will not be safe for them there.”

Zin nodded in agreement, clutching tighter to Uller. Reiwyn was far less amicable about it, but Arn quieted her before she could protest with a voice that brooked no negotiation, “Reiwyn, you will be in command until I return. Take them to the ruins, wait for us there a day. If we do not return in that time, return to the colony.”

She nodded slowly. I looked at her, realizing this could be the last time I ever saw her. There was so much I wanted to say. Things I felt that I couldn’t bear the thought of taking to the ashes with me, if I would be so fortunate to have that as a fate. I doubted the Scumdogs would be particularly considerate of our burial needs, assuming they even killed us. We would probably be worth more sold to the slavers. I doubted having Arn and Sharkhart with us would be much help if they decided to take us.

We parted there on the beach, half our number with the prisoners headed north along the White Road, while the others went south along the waterfront. I thought I saw Reiwyn’s eyes meet mine once before she grew too distant, and perhaps saw a reflection there of my own dread. I would have to ask her about it later, if I ever saw her again.

25.

D
rullcove was aptly named. The White Road came to an abrupt halt at the side of a cliff. When we passed it, we found a deep recess in the cliff face with the water running into its shadowy depths, covered by a ceiling of age-worn rock like a great cave. There was little land to be found in this cove, so the inhabitants had lashed together ships with walkways of worn, weather-beaten lumber. Vessels in similar disrepair served as buildings at junctions and ends. Light was provided only by hanging lanterns and the reflection of sunlight on the water at the entrance of the cove. I imagined this place spent most of its time in darkness, which must have suited the inhabitants just fine.

We were stopped at the entrance, a great gate made from the deck boards of a ship that slid open with a chain. Four guards with rusty cutlasses and crossbows watched us, while a fifth ran along the deck boards to fetch someone in authority. Arn pulled us close and leaned in, saying, “Let me do the talking.”

After a while, a new cluster of figures emerged. At their fore was a barrel-chested man with a thick, black beard wearing what might have once been very regal attire—no doubt stolen. To his right stood the biggest Umbrishman I’d ever seen, a great fat man who I might well have mistaken for a glutton if I’d seen him outside Drullcove. Despite the ambient dimness, he wore a pair of dark black goggles, as the Umbrish often did, and his fists were wrapped with thick, black chains. To his left stood a dark-haired Illyrian with a long, pointed beard and a fancy re-curve bow. He held an arrow at the ready. And behind him, sneering like a skull, was Ferun. I wished nothing more than to spit on him.

“Arn, what brings you to our fair hamlet?” The barrel-chested one put his hands on his hips, right above the blades of a pair of axes hanging from rings on either side of his belt.

“Burlone,” said Arn, with a nod. “I’m only here to talk.”

Burlone held his hand up, open. “Then talk, Sand King.”

“You’ve got one of mine, and I want him back.”

Burlone’s thunderous laugh echoed off the walls. “He’s not been one of yours for some time, Sand King. I’ll tell you, when he first came to us with the proposition, I was skeptical. I thought surely you’d see through his duplicity, given enough time. How pleasantly surprised was I by your dull wits.”

Arn stared past him at Ferun. The bastard did little but stare back, still grinning.

“Do you have any idea how long he’s been helping us? How many people he’s helped us steal from you? How many women? You must feel quite the fool to have learned one of your most trusted men was working for me the whole time.”

“If you’re quite finished insulting me, can we get to the business at hand?”

“Business? We have business, Sand King?”

Arn waved over his shoulder. Sharkhart and I pushed our Scumdog prisoners up beside him. “I have two of yours with which to negotiate. I return them in exchange for safe passage from this place, and for the return of Ferun so he may face justice.”

Burlone stepped forward to look over the two captured men. They did not seem all that happy to be home. He glanced over his shoulder at the archer, who drew back an arrow and let it fly faster than we could react. The arrow took Struart in the throat, sending him to his knees, spitting blood. The archer drew and loosed a second arrow with a speed that would have made Reiwyn jealous, dealing a similar wound to Kloph. He fell beside the other, gasping for air as he drowned in his own blood.

“Daevas!” shouted Arn, stepping forward with his hand on his cutlass. Sharkhart’s hand went to his whip, Efrot’s axe came out, and I grabbed Red’s hilt. Several crossbows came up at us, and the Illyrian archer had another arrow poised directly at Arn’s heart. Front-Strider fixed the bead of his crossbow on the archer in a deadly standstill. We stopped, helpless as our prisoners gagged and choked before falling to the dirt, blood pooling around their heads. Life left them as empty husks at our feet.

Burlone’s laugh echoed through the cove again. This time he was joined by the others, including Ferun. “It seems you don’t have anything to negotiate with now, Sand King.”

Arn fixed him in his icy blue eyes. “We will not be taken.”

“Oh, I have no interest in taking you. It’s not you we want. The slave markets are flooded with male workers. You’re barely worth the stowage.” He looked at the rest of us until his big, brown eyes stopped on me. “Except maybe this one. You’re the wall builder, eh? An engineer-trained slave would fetch a fine price in Boxis.” I felt a chill as he looked back at Arn. “And I suppose you would be worth something as a hostage, if I cared to deal in such things.”

“My people aren’t a threat to you.”

“I know.”

Arn looked past him at Ferun again. “We’ve uncovered your agent in camp.”

Burlone crooked an eyebrow. “You think he was the only one?”

“Leave us alone.”

Burlone chuckled and looked at his men. They chuckled too, except for the archer, who kept a steady arrow poised at Arn. Then he leaned forward and said one word, “No.”

“What will it take?”

“Take? You think you can offer me anything more valuable than flesh to sell? I don’t care about your colony. I don’t care about your ideals. I don’t care about your wall. You have something we want, and we will take it as long as it’s there. The only question is how we get it. You can give it to us willingly, or we can come and take it from you. Either way, it will be ours.”

“What do you want?”

“Five women, each month. Young, preferably. Pretty, if possible.”

“Never.”

Burlone laughed and raised his arms. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” He turned and walked back toward the gate. “It seems our negotiations have concluded, Sand King. Leave, before my mood sours and I have you killed.” Burlone’s men stepped back into the gate, with the archer moving slowly, not taking his arrow off Arn until he was well beyond the walls. Ferun stayed a little longer, staring at Arn and Sharkhart. They gazed back.

“You betrayed us,” muttered Arn.

Ferun chuckled. “It was just business. Nothing personal.”

Arn shook his head. “May the Daevas have mercy on your soul.”

We left as fast as we could, running once we made the beach and not stopping until we reached the ruins. Not a word was spoken. None needed to be. I’d never been so afraid in all my life. Such men were beyond reason. They lived in a nebulous void, beyond the rules and courtesies of even the most liberal of societies. They were predators, ravening beasts that cared nothing for the suffering of others. That we’d faced them down and lived I would count as one of the greatest blessings of my life. We might have had more luck negotiating with the gluttons.

We fell against the ground and walls, panting heavily. Even Sharkhart was winded. Gargath and Zin ran to us and offered skins of water. Once my thirst was slaked, I collapsed to the dirt, rested my head against my crumpled cloak, and fell asleep. Arn woke me some hours later with a shake. I sat up and looked around. It was evening, and the stars were already peeking through the dim sky behind the three full moons.

“I thought you would want something to eat,” he said, handing me a bowl of stew. “Front-Strider hunted some rabbits. At least, I think they were rabbits. We’re not really sure.”

The bowl warmed my hand, and I dug into it with a big wooden spoon. It tasted bland, but inoffensive. As hungry as I was, almost anything edible would have tasted wonderful.

“Burlone is their leader?” I asked Arn with a mouth full of stew in the glowing warmth of the fire. Across it I saw Reiwyn, sitting with Zin and Uller, staring into the flames as the other two chatted intimately. It made me jealous. Not because I wanted Zin, but because I wanted what they now had, but with Reiwyn. She didn’t look like she wanted any company though, least of all mine.

“He was a pirate captain,” Arn explained. “A good one, too good: he became a victim of his own success. Morment, Illyr, even Ket put bounties on his head so great he couldn’t even trust his own crew. So he came here. He was here before we arrived, and built a city out of lost ships for other pirates and slavers too infamous for their own good. He is the worst of the worst of the worst.

“The Umbrish fellow was Noosh, a pit fighting slave who escaped and came to us. He was too violent, too unpredictable. He got into too many fights in our colony, so we sent him up the White Road, where his skills turned out to be more appreciated. The Illyrian is Porger. I don’t know much about him. I would imagine he was a crow’s nester, like our Reiwyn here. Whom you didn’t see, but I have no doubt he was there, was Quanglee. A Kettish cannibal turned pirate. They are Burlone’s lieutenants, probably the only people in the world he trusts. They are no less dangerous than he.”

Something had been weighing on me, festering in my brain like a splinter. “He said we had two choices. Give him our women or he would take them. What did he mean? Surely he knows we’ll be more on guard for treachery now that we know he has people in the colony working for him.”

Arn stared at the flames. “He means to take them.”

“Take them?” asked Uller. “How would he do that?”

The realization dawned upon me like a spear’s strike. “He said he didn’t care about our wall.”

Arn nodded, but it was Sharkhart who answered, “He means to come and take them from us. He will bring an army.”

We received a hero’s welcome when we returned to the colony, but it did little to quell the sour taste in my mouth. Antioc was up again, and greeted Zin with a big hug. For me he had a handshake and a pat on the shoulder, adding to his greeting, “I wish I could have been with you.”

“So do I,” I replied.

Hratoe ran to Gargath’s arms, silent tears streaming down her little cheeks. Some came out looking for Landis and Doten, and were saddened to see they’d not returned with us. We’d been forced to send them to ashes on the White Road. I’d barely known them, probably wouldn’t have liked them if I had, but they’d died bravely, in part to protect me. That made me feel responsible for them, no matter how ridiculous that seemed. I thought of saying something to their friends as they cried, an expression of gratitude, but there wasn’t anything I could think of that would soften the sting of their deaths. I wondered if I’d have been so mourned were I among the fallen?