“The red men conscripted their Varitai on the way north,” Astorek surmised after surveying a particularly large villa that had been reduced to its foundations by fire. “The slaves rose and they were defenceless.”
“Why kill the children?” Cara asked. The villa had burned but its owner had not, his body lay spread-eagled and eviscerated in the forecourt alongside a woman and a small boy, both recipients of the same treatment.
“A lifetime of rage is not easily tempered,” Astorek said. “Children born into slavery are taken from their parents and sold, those permitted to live that is.”
“Doesn’t make it right,” Cara murmured. “Nothing about this dreadful journey has been right.”
Vaelin saw the Ally regarding the burnt remnants of the villa with an incurious eye. His demeanour over recent days had been one of boredom, reminding Vaelin of the privileged nobles he had seen suffering through the banal entertainments of the Summertide Fair. He grows impatient for his end. As do I.
? ? ?
Another week’s travel brought them to the first town they had encountered, a walled collection of somewhat mean houses rising from the green fields like an ugly growth. Astorek struggled to place its name but did remember being garrisoned there with his father’s regiment before they proceeded north to their fateful encounter in the mountains.
“The men got drunk and started a brawl with the townsfolk,” he recalled. “Knives were drawn, it got very ugly. The next day Father had one hanged and ten flogged. Oddly the men didn’t seem to mind that much, I think that was the only time he might have won some respect.”
“Stinks worse than the Merim Her hovels,” Alturk commented. “Our numbers are small. We should go around.”
“The Northern Road begins here,” Astorek said. “It’ll take us to Volar. We can pick it up to the south.”
The townsfolk, however, proved unwilling to let them pass. As they neared the road a motley group of about three hundred people emerged from the town gates to place themselves astride it. As Vaelin drew near he saw they wore a variety of clothing, black and grey with the occasional flash of red, and all were armed, though not particularly well and their line was distinctly ragged.
A large man stood at the head of the mismatched host, bare muscular arms crossed and staring at Vaelin with stern defiance. He wore a red tunic and black trews, his meaty wrists liberally festooned with bracelets of gold and silver.
“Tell him he’s in our way,” Vaelin said to Astorek as they closed to within fifty paces of the townsfolk.
Astorek called out to the large man, receiving a loud, and prolonged tirade in response, the man waving his braceleted arms about and pointing in various directions.
“He says he is king of this land for as far as the eye can see,” Astorek related. “He has killed many men to win this city and will kill many more to keep it.”
“What does he want?”
“Tribute and obeisance, if you want to use his road.”
“He’s a slave?”
“A Garisai if I’m any judge. It appears this province has undergone a political transformation recently and, amidst chaos, the strongest are likely to gain authority.”
“Tell him we have seen many murdered children in these lands. I would know if he is responsible for that.”
The large man spat contemptuously on the ground as Astorek related the question, gesticulating with even more fury and pointing at Vaelin in obvious challenge. “He has wiped the cursed blood of the masters from these lands, their seed will never again rise to trouble them. He is master here now, and demands his due.”
“And he’ll have it.” Vaelin climbed down from Scar’s back, approaching the large man with a swift stride. The new-made King’s heavy features tensed in puzzlement then outright alarm as Vaelin drew his sword. He dropped into a fighting stance, short swords appearing in both hands from sheaths hidden beneath his tunic, displaying considerable poise in his stance, one sword held low, the other high.
Vaelin sent a throwing knife between the twin blades, the steel dart sinking into the large man’s eye socket up to the hilt. He staggered, his blades moving in an automatic counter that rebounded from Vaelin’s parry with a clang before Vaelin brought the Order blade up and round in a blurring arc. The blade made it perhaps two-thirds of the way through the Garisai’s thick neck, obliging Vaelin to withdraw it and deliver another blow to sever the head from his twitching corpse.