The storm’s fury disappeared in an instant, replaced by the silence of the world beneath the waves. She could see only varying swirls of grey as she descended, borne down by the weight of mail and weapons. She let go of her bow, knowing this time Master Arren’s wonder would be lost forever, then unclasped her sword belt, letting the blade fall away. She tore at the straps to her mail shirt, writhing in the cloying chill, bubbles spouting from her mouth in a torrent.
No! She forced calm into her thoughts as the straps resisted every desperate tug. Panic will kill you.
She formed herself into as still and straight a pose as possible, facing towards the surface to slow her descent, then drew her dagger and cut each of the straps in turn. The mail shirt came loose in an instant and she felt herself rise, but too slowly judging by the now-agonised burn in her chest. She kicked for the surface, forcing every ounce of strength into her lungs and sternly refusing the compulsion to draw breath.
She broke into the air with a shout, dragging in rain-clogged air and coughing, carried high and low by tall waves. There was no sign of Arentes, or anyone else. Then a sudden cacophony, loud enough to reach her through the storm, a great cracking sound, like a thousand trees splintered at one blow. The swirl of the storm shifted for a moment, lessening the darkness to afford a view of the Marshal Smolen, the great vessel’s hull shuddering as it scraped along some unseen barrier, her sails torn from her rigging and what seemed to be dark droplets cascading from her sides, droplets Reva soon realised were people, her people, casting themselves into the sea as the ship was torn apart beneath them.
The storm shifted again, taking the spectacle with it, but Reva continued to stare, as the cold rose to numb her limbs and she shuddered, knowing death was coming soon and she had no desire to fight it.
I killed them all, she thought as the waves covered her head. With a lie.
CHAPTER THREE
Frentis
The villa was the largest they had yet encountered, more a fortress than a home, its walls thick and tall, the gardens extending for several acres all around. It had clearly been home to a master of considerable wealth, enough in fact to maintain a garrison of two hundred Varitai. Despite the strength of the villa’s defences, however, the master had felt little compunction in abandoning it at the first sign of their approach. His Varitai were easily counted, lying in four neat rows in the inner courtyard, each bearing an identical ear-to-ear cut across the throat.
“All valuables gone,” Draker reported, “along with the horses. Found most of the slaves inside. Unlike this lot, looks like some put up a fight. Didn’t save them though.”
“Two hundred of their own men,” Illian said, shaking her head in bafflement. “I can make no sense of it.”
“They know what we’re about now.” Frentis nodded at a silent cluster of their own freed Varitai nearby. “Didn’t want us to have them.” He caught Master Rensial’s eye. “From the state of the bodies they can’t be more than a day’s ride north. See to it, please Master.”
Rensial nodded and moved to his horse, his mounted company following as he galloped through the villa’s gate. Frentis briefly pondered going with them, given the master’s erratic nature, but resisted the impulse. Recent days had seen a change in Rensial, his gaze not quite so blank, even occasionally given to unbidden speech requiring less deciphering than usual. Only in war does the madman become sane.
Not all the villa’s slaves had been slain before their master’s flight, some having been at work in the fields when the slaughter began. Many were seen fleeing in all directions, though a sizeable minority made their way to the villa, cautious and bemused by the welcome they received, some collapsing in grief at the sight of their murdered fellows, mostly men weeping over fallen women. Marriage was forbidden between slaves but everywhere they went there was evidence that people were capable of forging their own bonds regardless of whatever barriers or threats constrained their lives. It was to these bereaved souls that Frentis gave the villa’s owner when Rensial returned the following day, dragging the unfortunate black-clad along behind his horse, hands bound and mouth firmly gagged.
“He had a wife and children,” Rensial reported as the slaves closed in around their former master, knives and whips raised. “I let them go.”