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.
He raised his gaze to the ragged host of risen slaves. Instead of surging forward to avenge their fallen king, they had retreated several paces, each face displaying a gratifying level of shock and dismay. Vaelin turned and beckoned Astorek to his side.
“Translate every word as I say it,” he told him before addressing the crowd, “I hereby claim this province in the name of Queen Lyrna Al Nieren of the Unified Realm. Until such time as she makes provision for fair and just governance, you will conduct yourselves as free citizens of the Realm, refraining from murder and thievery. If you do not, the queen will be swift in making judgement, and”—he paused to nudge the large man’s head with the toe of his boot—“she is not so forgiving as I.”
He flicked the blood from his sword and returned it to the scabbard, walking back to Scar. “Now get out of the way.”
• • •
The land grew more populous farther south, but no less troubled. They would often catch sight of people on the road ahead, weighed down with goods, either their own or the product of looting. Most would flee at the sight of a large group of mounted warriors, scattering to the surrounding fields where, incredibly, some slaves continued to labour. Not all would flee however, some, mainly the old or those burdened with children, would shuffle to the side of the road and stare in dumb fascination as they rode by, the young ones shushed to silence as they pointed at the strange men. Nor were all so cowed, they endured many insults from the dispossessed, those who had lost everything to marauding slaves seemingly had little left to fear. One old man in a torn black robe assailed them with missiles drawn from a pile of horse dung, his face a mask of unreasoning fury as he spat unintelligible insults. Alturk rode forward to stare down at him, war club resting on his shoulder until the old man finally collapsed, sinking onto his odorous munitions as he wept.
“These people are very strange,” Alturk said, trotting back to the column. “Seeking out a good death then falling to tears when it’s offered.”
They covered two hundred miles over the next week, at no point encountering a single Volarian soldier, though they did find evidence of battle. They lay strewn across the road, perhaps over a hundred bodies, mostly men but women too, Astorek judging them as a mingling of slaves and free folk from their garb. Many had died in mid-struggle, hands still clutching throats or knives, one young woman lying with her teeth clamped onto the forearm of the black-clad who had killed her.
“If this continues for much longer,” Astorek said, “your queen will have nothing left to conquer.”
