Authors: Deborah Chester
Caelan
didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. His heart was bursting in his chest with
fear, but he refused to let himself look away from that evil stare. Dragon
fodder or not, he wasn’t going to let this overgrown lizard see that he was
afraid.
Dismounting,
the Thyzarene stepped between the dragon and Caelan and inspected the dragon’s
bloody snout. He spoke to the creature in a low, soothing voice, taking out
some salve that stank of rancid fats and something else impossible to identify.
Smearing it on the wound, he cooed and crooned to the dragon until it swayed
from side to side. Its crest folded flat against its skull, and the red eyes
slitted half-closed with apparent contentment.
Disgusted,
Caelan looked away.
It
seemed the attack was over. More and more raiders landed outside the walls of
the burning hold. The dragons formed a stinking, jostling, snapping horde that
showed far too much interest in the scant remains of the pony carcass. Those
that had eaten looked sluggish and sleepy. The rest sniffed and craned necks
and snorted, but their riders chained them away from the food.
Two
more Thyzarenes came along and dragged Caelan bodily across the trampled snow
to where the rest of the prisoners huddled. Still wrapped in the net, Caelan
found himself sending hopeless looks at his father. Beva sat impassive and calm
in the midst of the others. Raul had an ugly burn across his shoulder. He kept
trying to chew through the net swathing him, but his teeth were even less
successful than Caelan’s knife had been.
The
gates of the hold stood wide open, showing flames and smoke still tearing down
what had been E’nonhold.
His
home. Caelan found his eyes stinging, and he struggled not to let his emotions
get away from him. For once he wished he could take refuge in
severance
like his father. Then it
wouldn’t hurt like this.
Picking
up a handful of snow, he pressed the wet stuff against his jaw. The cold numbed
the pain, giving him relief, but he saw blood drip through his fingers and run
down his wrist.
The
Thyzarenes chattered and laughed among themselves as they came and went
purposefully. They dragged out bulging tarps, which were flung on the ground.
Looted contents spilled out for inspection.
They
left nothing in the hold unexamined. Clothing, scrolls, herb jars were all rifled.
The cooking pots were brought out. The barrels of food stores. Spoons, cloak
pins, shaving razors, writing ink, chairs, even the beds were dragged about and
scattered. The raiders pawed through the items, selecting and rejecting with
grunts and arguments.
Helpless
and enraged, Caelan watched them. This was a violation such as he had never
known. Home had always been a place of security, of absolute and utter safety.
He kept looking at the destroyed ruins, and he couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t
supposed to happen. Imperial auxiliaries were not supposed to kill and pillage
imperial citizens. How could the army commanders have turned these barbarians
loose on the populace?
Caelan
found himself confused, resentful, and angry. For the first time, his belief in
imperial right was shaken. He prayed the gods would strike these savages down,
but the heavens remained calm and uncaring above him. Were the Thyzarenes
merely robbers, it would be bad enough, but they destroyed what they did not
want with brutal callousness.
Beva’s
earnings chest and strongbox were both found and dragged outside, the men
sweating to carry them. Locks were shattered with hammer and chisel and the
lids flung back. Parchment scrolls—the deeds to this land—were ripped and flung
to the winds. It was the coinage that made the raiders cry out in delight and
crowd around.
Their
leader drove them back with fierce commands; then he alone crouched over the
chests, sifting the glinting coins through his fingers.
Within
the strongbox was a small casket of rosewood similar to the one in Caelan’s
room. Its contents held a few baubles—an amber necklace, a ring, and a few hair
jewels that winked in the fading sunlight.
Caelan
kicked at the netting. “Those were my mother’s, you dogs! You can’t have them.
They’re for—”
A
kick in his ribs shut him up. He collapsed in the snow, hurting and trying not
to cry. The other prisoners looked away in sympathy, except for Beva.
When
Caelan finally sat up, wincing, he saw his father’s emotionless gaze on him.
“Father—”
“You,
quiet!” It was the Thyzarene who had captured him. He cuffed Caelan’s head and
glared at him. “No talk.”
Caelan
glared back, but he made no further effort to talk to his father. Beva was a
man of stone. He probably didn’t even care what was happening. After all, he
had
severance
to console him.
The
jewels vanished quickly, shared out and tucked into the belts of the few who
were favored. The man who had captured Caelan was one of the recipients. He
glanced at Caelan and grinned with a flash of white teeth in his beard.
Beva’s
medicines were sniffed and poured out. Then the jars and bottles were smashed.
Caelan could see his father’s lantern still hanging over the gate, unlit and
forlorn. The sign of a healer was supposed to be respected by thieves. Now it
hung over the looters as a symbol of Beva’s futile trust in decency and mercy.
Would
it have made a difference if the holdspeople had had weapons with which to
defend themselves? Probably not.
Caelan
scowled to himself and pulled up his knees against his chest. He wanted to
scream, and kick, and fight—anything except sit here and take what was
happening.
Then
they came and surrounded the prisoners. Raul drew in his breath with an audible
hiss. Gunder was trembling, his eyes darting back and forth. Tisa had her face
buried in her hands, probably crying. Anya, a burned thing swathed in Beva’s
cloak, had already been dragged out. She lay unmoving beside the healer, and
now and then his hand touched her with the lightest possible touch, drawing off
the agony with an effort that quivered in his face.
One
of the raiders shoved Beva aside and bent over Anya. He drew his knife and
struck cleanly.
Caelan
jumped, and someone else cried out. Caelan closed his eyes, feeding on hate.
Surva
and Old Farns were dragged out and dumped on the ground. Both were obviously
dead.
With
prods and kicks, the Thyzarenes gestured for the remaining prisoners to stand
up. The netting was pulled off Caelan. He glanced around, but there was no
possibility of escape.
Beva
tried to speak to the raiders, but one of them slapped him. With blood
trickling from a corner of his mouth, Beva made no further attempt to plead for
mercy.
“They’ll
sell us,” Raul whispered from the corner of his mouth, his gaze nowhere,
everywhere. Beneath the grime streaking him, his face was as white as chalk. “Sell
us to the slave market.”
Caelan
frowned at him. “But we’re freeborn—”
“Don’t
matter to these dogs.”
“It’s
illegal. The emperor has forbidden it.”
Raul
didn’t appear to hear him. “They’ll sell us. We’re the youngest and the
strongest. We’ll bring a good price.” He blinked, gazing at the others. “Some
of us.”
Caelan
tried to go on breathing normally as the raiders examined each of them and
argued among themselves, but his lungs were choked by growing fear. At least
Lea was safe, he reassured himself.
But
for how long? How long would she wait? She had food and shelter for now. When
her food ran out, would she be able to follow the stream and find E’raumhold?
He didn’t think so. She was too little to be on her own in the dangers of the
forest.
Besides,
even if she made it to E’raumhold, what if it had been burned out too?
Caelan
found himself praying, his lips moving soundlessly. He had promised her he
would come back. But he couldn’t.
Gault forgive me,
he prayed, knowing he had
failed her.
Tisa
began sobbing, each sound louder and more out of control. The men prodded her
breasts, lifted her hair, looked at her teeth. She cringed away from them,
screaming. One of them shook her hard, but that only increased her hysteria.
With
an oath, the knife came out.
“No!”
Caelan shouted.
But
it had already struck. Tisa fell to the ground and was kicked aside, her
lifeless body rolling across the snow with a bloody trail.
Raul
moved closer to Caelan. “The fool,” he whispered angrily, tears filling his
eyes. “The stupid little fool.”
Gunder
bawled at that moment, and two of the Thyzarenes grabbed his arms. He was
dragged away, fighting and yelling, then knocked down where he lay spitting and
flailing in the snow. One raider sat on him while another trussed his arms and
legs, fitting a collar around his throat. Gunder snapped like a wild dog, and
almost managed to bite one of the raiders.
With
a snarl the Thyzarene struck him across the face. Sobbing in the snow, Gunder
lay there, his brief force spent as quickly as it had come, until they yanked
him upright and led him away.
“The
master’s next,” Raul whispered.
Caelan’s
throat constricted. He looked at his father, and for a moment he saw only a
skeleton standing there, the bleached skull white in the sunshine, the robe
flapping on exposed bones. A horrified shiver ran through Caelan, and the
vision was gone.
He
felt dizzy and cold. He didn’t want to believe his vision. Let it be false, he
prayed desperately. Let it not happen.
“A
healer will bring a good price,” Raul was saying.
Watching
the Thyzarene walk toward Beva, Caelan barely heard Raul. “No,” he whispered.
As
though he sensed something, Beva turned his head and met Caelan’s gaze. Father
and son stared at each other, one expressionless, the other filled with what he
could not utter.
In
that moment the Thyzarene slashed Beva’s throat.
Blood
spurted. His head tipped back.
Screaming,
Caelan lunged forward and caught Beva as he crumpled to the snow. His father’s
weight carried Caelan to the ground also. The Thyzarenes kicked Caelan back
from the body, and he fought them, wild with grief and hatred, spewing
obscenities, until his captor pinned him to the ground and slapped him
repeatedly.
Head
ringing, Caelan finally tumbled out of madness and lay still. Tears choked his
throat, and his mind felt numbed with shock. Again and again, as though the
scene would be forever frozen in his brain, he saw the slash of the blade, the
flare of pain in his father’s face, the brief surprise in those gray eyes. In
spite of his philosophy, Beva had not been prepared for the ultimate
severance
after all.
The
Thyzarene hauled Caelan to his feet and dusted him off. “Strong and young,” he
said proudly.
The
leader of the band faced Caelan, looking him up and down. Caelan barely
noticed. He was lost in the fire of his own emotions.
The
leader asked a question in a language Caelan did not understand.
His
captor translated it. “How old?”
Caelan
said nothing. They struck him, but he didn’t
care.
“How
old?”
There
was blood in his mouth. It tasted thick and sweet. His cut face throbbed
brutally. “Sixteen,” he replied and felt sick. “Almost seventeen.”
“Ah.”
They
discussed him in their own rapid-fire language.
His
captor kept shaking his head and pointing to Caelan’s face. “Battle wound,” he
announced. “Kuvar clawed him. The nick will heal fast.”
The
round of argument continued. Finally his captor grinned and turned to Caelan. “Forty
ducats we will ask for you in the marketplace. I am a rich man.”
Laughing,
he clapped Caelan on the shoulder.
Another
came forward and broke the thong of the medallion around Caelan’s neck. Then he
pulled out the pouch from beneath what remained of Caelan’s tunic.