“Redbrother,” he greeted Frentis, coming to a halt, panting a little from the exertion. He had forsaken the razor since his liberation and a dark stubble had formed on his face and head. “Your chief-woman sent a slave with this. She makes a mighty gift.” He hefted the axe, grinning broadly. It was a double-bladed weapon of Renfaelin design, the flat steel of the inner blades inlaid with an intricate pattern of gilded gold.
“There are no slaves here,” Frentis told him, a fact he had been obliged to repeat several times. Lekran seemed to have difficulty conceiving of a land free of slavery. He was fulsome in his description of his homelands, apparently lying somewhere among the wild mountain country beyond the northern provinces, his tribe’s principal occupations seemingly digging for ore and waging constant war on their neighbours.
“Good stuff.” Lekran said after a hearty gulp of wine. “You have any more?”
Frentis gestured to a stack of bottles nearby, found beneath the bed of the Free Sword officer who had command of this place. The city had turned out to be rich in hidden stashes of wine and assorted loot. The Volarian army permitted looting on a formalised basis, as long as all booty was declared and subject to a one-tenth tax, but clearly many had felt disinclined to abide by this policy.
“Your chief-woman,” Lekran said, sitting down again with bottle in hand. “She has a man?”
“She’s called a queen, and no.”
“Good. I’ll claim her.” He took a long drink and burped extravagantly. “How many heads will it take, do you think?”
Apparently it was the custom of Lekran’s tribe to offer the heads of fallen enemies to prospective brides as proof of husbandly worthiness. “A thousand should do,” Frentis advised.
Lekran frowned and gave an annoyed huff. “So many?”
“She’s a queen. They’re expensive.” He watched the former slave exhaust the bottle in a few gulps and knew, for all his bluster, this was a man attempting to drown the many horrors in his head. “How long were you Kuritai?” he asked him.
“I had nineteen years when they took me. Now I see my father’s face when I look in the mirror. Time is lost to the binding.” Lekran grimaced at the empty bottle and threw it against the flagstones.
“You don’t remember it?” Frentis pressed. “I recall every instance of mine.”
“Then you are greatly unfortunate.” Lekran sat fidgeting for a moment, muscular arms bulging as he clasped his hands together, casting a hungry glance at the wine. “I remember . . . enough.”
“Alucius Al Hestian, you remember you were set to guard him?”
A very faint smile played over Lekran’s lips. “Yes. He wanted a drink too.”
“He died a hero, trying to kill a much-hated enemy of mine.”
“That fuck-brain on the big chair?” Lekran gave an amused grunt. “Well, good for him. Let’s drink to his memory.” He rose to fetch another bottle.
“You know our course?” Frentis asked him as he rummaged through the wine, unstoppering a bottle to sniff the contents before grimacing and tossing it aside. “You are content to follow me?”
“My father was the only man I ever followed willingly.” Lekran sniffed another bottle, raising his eyebrows in appreciation. “But I’ll lend my axe to your cause on the way home.” He sat back down, grinning as he took another drink. “Your queen is owed a thousand heads, after all.”
• • •
“Belorath,” the captain introduced himself, regarding Frentis with obvious suspicion, deepening even further at the sight of Lekran stepping off the gangplank complete with twin swords on his back and axe in hand. “Welcome to the
The morning air was bracing, the sea-borne wind adding a cutting edge as they came aboard, the cluster of familiar figures on the deck huddling in their cloaks as Frentis advanced on them, his chill banished by a sudden anger. “What is this?” he demanded.
“Come to follow the queen’s command, brother,” Draker said, getting to his feet, the others rising at his back. “In truth, brother. She was kind enough to grant our request, since none of us relished the thought of life in the Realm Guard.”
Frentis’s gaze swept over the thirty survivors of his company from the Urlish, hard-faced men and women garbed in muted colours and bristling with a variety of favoured weapons. Although there was one exception. Illian made a striking figure in her dark blue cloak, seeming to have grown somewhat in the few days since their last meeting. On either side of her sat Blacktooth and Slasher, both gazing up at him with wide eyes and heads lowered as they licked their lips; pups greeting the pack leader. Frentis knelt to run a hand over their heads, provoking a welcoming whine.
“Brother Sollis has a message, I assume,” Frentis asked Illian, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.
