Tower Lord (Raven's Shadow 2)

Her eyes peered into the shadows, seeking a face, seeing only the dim outline of a shaven head, blocky and gleaming from the light above. A grunt as the blocky head tilted. “Don’t look so mad now. Pity, you’ll soon wish you were.”

Lyrna tried to speak, but found the words caged by whatever was clamped into her mouth, secured in place by leather straps about her head. She looked down at her hands, seeing a faint glint of old metal on her wrists. She gave a tug, chains snapping taught, the shackles chafing her skin.

“Overseer thought you were a nuisance,” the voice said. “Wanted to toss you overboard. The master wouldn’t have it. My Volarian isn’t good, but I think he said something about breeding stock.”

Lyrna heard no malice in the voice, just indifferent observation. She grimaced as the pain returned, closing her eyes as tears seeped forth, the agony sweeping across her scalp and face in waves. Her skin, her hair, burning . . .

She abandoned herself to the sobs that wracked her, collapsed to the damp wooden planking, shuddering in sorrow, drool flowing around the gag. It could have been hours, or days even, before exhaustion took her. She was always grateful there were no dreams lurking in the void that claimed her.

? ? ?

She jerked awake as something hauled on the gag, straining her neck as she was dragged to her knees, staring up at a very large man in a black leather jerkin. He leaned close, eyes staring into hers in appraisal, grunting in satisfaction then reaching behind her, undoing the straps and removing the gag. Lyrna coughed, retching and gasping, then choking off as the large man enclosed her face with his hand, pulling her eyes back to his. “No . . . screaming,” he said in broken Realm Tongue. “You. No more screaming. Or.” He raised something in his other hand, something long and coiled with an iron handle. “Understanding?”

Lyrna managed to move her head in a fractional nod.

The large man grunted again and released her, moving away, boots splashing in the bilge water. He paused to nudge a huddled shape with the handle of his whip, voicing a tired curse, leaning down to unlock the shackles with the key hanging around his neck then barking something over his shoulder. Two men, not quite so large, appeared from the shadows to lift the shape between them, carrying it towards the steps above Lyrna’s head, the only feature of the hold to be fully bathed in the light from above. Lyrna glimpsed a face through the gaps in the steps as they took the body aloft, a woman, her features slack and pale in death, but Lyrna had a sense she had been pretty.

The overseer, as Lyrna had intuited him to be, found two more bodies amongst the host of huddled shapes, both also dragged aloft, presumably to be cast overboard. She couldn’t tell how many others were shackled here, the furthest reaches of the hold were too shrouded in shadow, but counted over twenty within view. A space of ten yards square, holding twenty. The average Volarian slave ship is eighty yards long. There are perhaps one hundred and fifty people in this hold.

Off in the gloom the key rattled anew followed by a fearful sob. The overseer appeared again, pulling a stumbling figure behind him, a girl, slender, young, dark hair veiling her face, tears audible as she was led aloft.

“Third time for that one,” the shaven-headed shadow said. “Not a good place to be pretty, this ship. Lucky for us eh?”

Lyrna tried to speak, finding the words stuck in her sand-dry throat. She coughed, summoning as much moisture to her mouth as she could, and tried again. “How long?” she asked in a rasp. “Since Varinshold.”

“Four days, by my reckoning,” the voice replied. “Puts us maybe two hundred miles across the Boraelin.”

“You have a name?”

“I did, once. Names don’t matter here, my lady. You are a lady, are you not? That dress and that voice don’t come from the streets.”

Streets. She had been running through streets, screaming, the pain taking all reason as she ran from the palace where all was flame and death, ran and ran . . . “My father was a m-merchant,” she said, a tremor colouring every word she spoke. “My husband also. Though they hoped to ascend one day, by the King’s good graces.”

“I doubt anyone will ascend again. The Realm has fallen.”

“The whole Realm? In just four days?”

“The King and the Orders are the Realm. And they’re gone now. I saw the House of the Fifth Order burning as I was led to the docks. It’s all gone.”

All gone. Malcius, the children . . . Davoka.

Her gaze was drawn upwards as more feet sounded on the steps. One of the overseer’s not-so-large servants led a slim young man down into the hold, securing him to a free set of manacles a few feet from Lyrna.

“Another popular pretty face,” the shaven-headed man muttered.

“Necessity breeds forbearance, brother,” the young man replied in a light tone that jarred on Lyrna’s ear. She had to agree he was pretty, his features delicate, reminding her of Alucius, before the war and the drink.

“Filthy degenerate,” shaven-head said.

“Hypocrite.” The young man grinned at Lyrna. “Our screaming lady has regained her senses, I see.”

“Not a lady after all,” the gravelly voice replied. “Just a merchant’s wife.”

“Oh. Pity, I should have liked some noble company. No matter.” The young man bowed to Lyrna. “Fermin Al Oren, Mistress. At your service.”

Al Oren. Not a name she knew. “Your f-family has property in Varinshold, my lord?”

“Alas no. Grandfather gambled away every bean before I was born, leaving my poor widowed mother destitute and me obliged to restore our fortunes through guile and charm.”

Lyrna nodded. A thief then. She turned to shaven-head. “He called you brother.”

The shadowed face gave no response but Fermin was quick to reply in his stead. “My friend is fallen from the sight of the Departed, Mistress. Cast down amongst the wretched for his grievous attempt on the . . .”

The shaven head lunged forward, chains straining, the slatted light revealing brutish features and a misshapen nose. “Shut it, Fermin!” he ordered with a snarl.

“Or what, exactly?” the noble thief returned with a laugh. “What can you threaten now, Iltis? We’re not fighting over scraps in the vaults any more.”

“You were in the dungeons together,” Lyrna realised.

“That we were, Mistress,” Fermin confirmed, grinning at Iltis who had slumped back into the gloom. “Our hosts came for us the morning after the city fell, killed the guards that had been foolish enough to linger, killed most of the prisoners too. But preserving the strong and”—he winked at her—“the pretty.”

Slave, Lyrna thought, crouching to peer at the bracket to which her chains were fashioned. I am a slave-queen. The thought provoked a shrill giggle, threatening to build to more screams. She forced it down and concentrated on the bracket, her fingers describing a half loop and plate of iron, secured into the oak beam with two sturdy bolts. She couldn’t hope to work it loose. The only way these shackles were coming off was via the overseer’s key.

“You have a name, Mistress?” Fermin asked as she reclined against one of the beams supporting the steps.

Queen Lyrna Al Nieren, Daughter to King Janus, Sister to King Malcius, Ruler of the Unified Realm and Guardian of the Faith. “Names don’t matter here,” she said in a whisper.

? ? ?

The following day the overseer found no further corpses which seemed a signal to begin giving them better food, thick porridge with berries replacing thin gruel. Weeded out the weaklings, Lyrna surmised. And starved slaves are no use.

She watched the overseer closely during his visits, her eyes constantly on the key about his neck as he stooped to examine his stock, the key dangling, but never low enough to grab. Even if I could, he would beat me down before I could use it. She glanced over at Iltis slurping his porridge, meaty fingers scooping out the dregs from the bowl, licking them with gusto. Fourth Order, she decided. One of Tendris’s Ardent brutes. Not so easy to beat down.

She dropped her gaze as the overseer stopped beside her, leaning down to unlock the chains from the bracket. “Up!” he commanded, nudging her with his whip handle.

She rose, swaying on unsteady legs, muscles shuddering with cramp. The overseer pulled her into the light, taking hold of her face and turning her head from side to side, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, lip curled in disgust. “Too much damage,” he muttered in Volarian. “Even the crew won’t fuck you with a face like that.” Without a pause he reached down to lift her skirt, rough hands mauling, exploring. Lyrna choked back vomit and kept as still as possible. “Or maybe they would,” the overseer mused, rising and unlacing her bodice, hands and eyes exploring her breasts.

No screaming, Lyrna thought, closing her eyes and clenching her teeth as his thumb traced over her nipple. No more screaming.

“Not stupid either,” the overseer said, turning her face to him again. “What were you I wonder? Rich man’s whore? Prize daughter of a wealthy house?” He searched her face for understanding as he spoke. Lyrna stared back with eyes wide, her fear only half pretence.

The overseer grunted, stepping back and gesturing with his whip. “Sit!”