She let him take hold of her hair and haul her free of the water, keeping her features slack and uncomprehending as his brutish face came closer, eyes moving over her in expert appraisal. He called over his shoulder to an unseen companion, confirming he wasn’t alone. She kept her eyes half-open as he dragged her from the sea, counting six more shapes standing on the beach, and many more lying prostrate and unmoving.
The overseer dumped her on the sand where she forced herself to remain limp and immobile, breathing deep but soft, gathering strength. They made the mistake of waiting several minutes before returning to examine their catch, the overseer who had found her pulling her onto her back as his companions gathered round. She counted two with spears as her head lolled to one side, the others with short swords. The overseer pulled up her blouse, revealing her breasts as he voiced a question to his companions. There were a few murmurs of agreement, one of them adding something with an appreciative cackle.
“My friend . . . like you,” the overseer said in broken Realm Tongue, taking hold of her face and turning it so she could see his leer. “Want to . . . fuck you. Might lower the price . . . But I owe him. You . . . want fucked, pretty thing?”
It was really the smile that killed him, not so much the blow, making him frown in puzzlement at her welcoming, lustful grin, drawing back in surprise just enough to expose his throat. Vaelin had taught her the blow; the priest’s lessons in unarmed combat had never been so thorough, nor so effective in practice. Her stiff fingers drove into the overseer’s neck with enough force to crush his larynx, leaving him writhing on the sand, bloody froth gouting from his mouth. Reva rolled on the sand, dodging a plunging spear-point then grabbing the haft before its owner could withdraw for another try. She flicked a kick into his face, sending him reeling, then surged to her feet with his spear in her hands.
She whirled as they closed, the spear-point slashing the disarmed spearman across the eyes, another the face. The second spearman came at her with an overextended thrust, indicating a level of expertise best confined to abusing helpless captives. She parried the thrust without difficulty, deflecting the spear with the haft of her own and spinning to slam the blunt end into the back of his neck which snapped with a gratifying crack.
She stood watching the others as they dithered, casting wary glances at the man she had blinded, screaming as blood seeped through the hands he held to his face. “Come on!” she whispered as they exchanged uncertain glances. “You cannot think I deserve to live.”
A horn sounded somewhere close by and Reva’s eyes found a group of horsemen cresting the dunes a few hundred paces distant. She turned to see more riders approaching from the north end of the beach. Any thought she might soon be rescued faded at the sight of the slavers’ evident relief.
The lead rider pulled up next to the body of the overseer with the crushed larynx. The riders differed from other Volarians Reva had seen, clad in red breastplates and greaves. She would have taken them for Kuritai but for the patent amusement on the leader’s face as he regarded the overseer’s corpse, an amusement shared by the thirty or so riders at his back.
The slavers greeted the red-armoured man with a babble of outrage, suddenly less cowed now there were other eyes to witness the scene. The rider ignored them, shifting his gaze to Reva, his grin growing wider. He held up a hand to silence the slavers then asked a question, raising his eyebrows at the response, the slaver with the slashed face seeking to staunch the blood with a rag as he gesticulated at her, voice shrill with fury.
The man in red armour, however, seemed unmoved by their entreaties, reclining in his saddle and nodding at Reva as he voiced a short command. The slavers’ confidence visibly waned on hearing his words, casting wary glances in her direction, fidgeting in uncertainty. The rider spoke again, voicing a single word, the other riders all drawing swords with identical speed and fluency. The leader pointed his own sword at the slavers then at Reva, repeating his first command with slow deliberation.
The slavers, now pale of face and shrinking from the many blades surrounding them, began to advance towards Reva in a slow crouch. She saw little point in prolonging the encounter, choosing the tallest and sending the spear into the centre of his chest, then sprinting forward, rolling under the wild slashes of the remaining slavers to claim his sword. After that, the others offered no more challenge than a light practice.
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