Queen of Fire

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

 

“It’ll 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 villa’s western side, roped and beaten down by Draker with Thirty-Four’s 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 Illian’s 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 soldier’s eyes then moving behind him to finish it with Draker’s trick. Beyond them Illian deflected an overhead slash and delivered a deadly counter-thrust, finding a gap in the Varitai’s 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 hasn’t 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 villa’s 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 couldn’t turn, a leather gag secured about her mouth. She was partially naked, breasts and shoulders showing the signs of repeated beatings. She collapsed in Illian’s arms as Lekran smashed the chains with his axe and the sister cut away her bonds. She choked on the water from Illian’s 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 woman’s 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 queen’s 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 Illian’s arms and voicing a despairing wail. “I told him we shouldn’t run,” she whispered. “But he couldn’t 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 don’t mind.”

 

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