[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers Read online

  When the wagon was nearly emptied out, Yim discovered that the robbers had taken the Seer’s boots. She spotted them, along with his bloodstained cloak, among a small pile of her and the Seer’s clothing. A pinched-faced woman arrived and began rummaging through the garments. As she held up Yim’s cloak to inspect it in the light, Yim’s captor said, “Twenty coppers for the lot.”

  “Twenty! Do ye think I shit money?”

  “’Tis a bargain, lovey. Ye know it.”

  “Ten coppers.”

  “Pah! There’s two pair o’ boots here and a cloak what’s nearly new.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Fifteen and I’ll throw in these ribbons.”

  As the woman made a show of deliberating, she glanced at Yim, who had retreated to a corner. “And the lot includes her shift? It goes with the cloak.”

  “Aye, lovey, ye can have it.”

  “And the undershift if she’s wearing one.”

  Yim’s captor reacted with mock horror. “’Twill leave her naked!”

  The woman laughed. “So what? ’Twon’t affect her price.”

  Yim, who had been listening to the conversation with growing alarm, shrank against the wagon’s wall as her captor advanced. “Don’t give me trouble,” he said as he pulled Yim to her feet. He spun her around and untied her wrists. “Take off yer shift. Are ye wearin’ an undershift?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want that, too.”

  “Please…”

  “Please won’t get you nothin’. Now be quick. Most like, yer clothes have fetched more than ye will.”

  Yim obeyed because she had no choice. After she shed her clothes, her wrists were bound again. Yim slumped to the floor and huddled in the corner, drawing up her knees in an attempt to cover herself. The woman departed with her purchases and the wagon moved on. When it halted again, Yim was dragged from it to stand upon the muddy street before a small stone building with an iron door. Near the door was a knee-high stone cube, marking the building as a place where slaves were bought and sold.

  Yim stood shivering in the chill morning air, unable to hide her nakedness while one of her captors pounded on the iron door. She was painfully aware that when the door opened someone would emerge to exchange a few coins for her. Yim had never felt more miserable or so utterly forsaken. Soon someone else would claim her body, and only her soul would be wholly hers.

  FOUR

  TO THE north in Lurwic, the duke’s castle was burning. The duke didn’t care; he was dead. So were his family, his servants, his soldiers, and everyone within the surrounding town. Lord Bahl’s men had been thorough. After the battle ended, Honus had walked through its aftermath. Although a veteran of many engagements, he was appalled by the wantonness of the destruction. Whatever wasn’t looted had been destroyed. Every house was burning. Not a single crock or chair or bit of cloth remained intact. But the owners of these things fared worse. They had been slain with such ferocity that Honus often had to avert his eyes. None of the dead were completely whole, as if their attackers had been unsatisfied with merely killing them. No one had been spared indignity, not even tiny babes. As far as Honus could determine, he was the sole survivor.

  After performing his reconnaissance, Honus returned to the castle. By then, it was late afternoon. He removed his chain mail, sharpened his sword, and washed the gore from his clothes and body. Then he sat cross-legged in the center of the castle’s cobbled courtyard. There, surrounded by the slain and drifts of ever-thickening smoke, he meditated. Gradually, the disciplines that he had learned during his childhood in the temple permitted him to master his turbulent mind. He conquered his fear, cooled his rage, and struggled to shut away his grief. The latter proved the most difficult, and dusk arrived before he was calm.

  While Honus was meditating, Yaun cautiously pushed up the cover of the latrine, poked his head out, and listened. The castle was eerily quiet. Yaun decided it was safe to emerge from hiding. He climbed from his foul refuge, shed his ruined clothing, and washed the filth from his body in a bathing pool. Its water was cold and also pink with the blood from a floating corpse, so Yaun scrubbed as quickly as possible. Emerging from his hasty bath, he lifted an overturned stone basin and was pleased to find his things untouched. Yaun smiled at his cleverness.

  Yaun dressed himself, something he had seldom done before he became a squire. Out of habit, he sometimes snapped his fingers to summon the servants he had left behind when he joined Alaric’s band of mercenaries. Yaun regretted his decision to become a soldier, but at least he had survived it.

  When he was dressed, Yaun made his way through the castle, skirting the burning portions and ignoring the carnage all around him. Eventually, he reached the entrance to the wine cellar. Using a burning brand as a torch, he descended to the subterranean vault. He found its floor littered with broken glass and awash in wine and blood. Yaun stepped over a mutilated woman who still clutched half of an infant to reach the wine casks. The casks had been hacked open to spill their contents, but a few weren’t completely shattered. Yaun drew his sword for the first time since the battle had begun and swung at one of the more intact casks, chopping through oak to reveal what wine remained. The cask was large and had been resting on its side, so a sizable pool was trapped within its curve. Lacking a drinking vessel or the patience to look for one, Yaun poked his head and shoulders into the newly made opening. Then he drank. The wine was new and harsh-tasting, but Yaun didn’t mind. There was enough to get him drunk. For the moment, that was all that mattered.

  A hand gripped Yaun’s shoulder and shook him awake. Yaun cried out in terror, before he realized that the face gazing down at him wasn’t that of a foe. It was tattooed, marking its owner as a Sarf. Yaun recalled that the Sarf’s name was Honus, and that he served a holy man whose name Yaun couldn’t remember.

  “Aren’t you Alaric’s squire?” asked Honus.

  “Yes. How fares he?”

  “I’d think you’d know.”

  “We were separated.”

  Honus gave no sign as to whether he believed the lie or not. He simply replied, “Alaric’s dead, as is everyone else. I’ve found naught alive but crows, rats, and you.” Honus rose. “Are you done celebrating your good fortune?”

  Yaun got unsteadily to his feet. “It’s been a trying day.”

  “I think you speak of yesterday,” said Honus. “The battle’s long over.”

  “So it’s morning already?”

  “Well past then. But there’s still daylight. Come see for yourself.”

  Yaun was affronted by Honus’s manner, but he took care not to show it. He needed protection, and Honus was renowned for his deadly skill. Yaun’s difficulty was that Sarfs served holy men and were aloof to those things that bought the loyalty of worldlier folk. In fact, Yaun was surprised that Honus had spoken to him, for he had never done so when they supped at the duke’s table. In light of that, Yaun was encouraged that Honus had bothered to rouse him. It seemed evidence that the Sarf had some need of him, a need that Yaun might turn to his advantage.

  The two men who emerged from the cellar were a mismatched pair. Yaun was scarcely out of his teens, and his face bore the softness arising from a life of privilege. His apparel reflected a noble birth. He wore a helm engraved with battle scenes. Fur trimmed his cloak. His fine leather boots were elaborately tooled. The sword that hung at his waist was expensively, if gaudily, decorated.

  In contrast, Honus had an ascetic air. His dark blue clothes were plain and threadbare. His feet bore sandals, the straps of which wound about his leggings. Loose pants covered the leggings to below the knee. He wore no helm and his long, jet-black hair was pulled back and tied with a bit of cord. A simple long-sleeved shirt and a long woolen cloak, both without ornament, completed his austere apparel. His sword was undecorated and forged in the style of his order—slightly curved, with a hilt long enough for two hands, yet a blade sufficiently light to wield with one.

  The midnight hue of Honus’s clothes
extended into his face. The lines tattooed there made it look older than his nearly thirty winters and also fierce, as if frozen in an expression of rage. Blue lightning slashed down his brow. His pale blue eyes peered from pools of permanent shadow. Scowl lines had been needled into his cheeks along with ancient charms. His dark blue clothing proclaimed him as one chosen to serve Karm, the Goddess of the Balance, and his face marked him as a Sarf, a master of the martial disciplines.

  Yaun spoke first. “If all are slain, does that mean your master has perished?”

  Grief briefly visited Honus’s eyes. “He’s gone.”

  “So what will you do now?”

  “Return to the temple and receive a new master. But first, I must find someone.”

  “Who?”

  Honus gazed at Yaun, seemingly mulling over some distasteful choice. After a prolonged silence, he spoke. “On the night before the battle, my master studied portents. Afterward, he said that I must never carry my own burden.”

  “Why?”

  “It was not my place to ask, nor his role to explain. All I know is that I cannot leave until I find someone to bear my pack.”

  Yaun smiled. “And Karm’s temple lies to the south?”

  “It does.”

  “Then I’ll carry your pack.”

  “Don’t make that promise lightly. The temple lies far from here and the way is hard.”

  “I’ll bear your pack. I so swear by Karm. Does that satisfy you?”

  “It must,” replied Honus. “We should head out now. Bahl’s gone north to ravish the duke’s lands. But when he’s done, I think he’ll turn his army south.”

  The Turmgeist Forest lay south of Lurwic, a dense tract of trees that took three days to traverse on foot. It was densest toward its southern edge, where the onset of spring was barely perceptible. In the gloom beneath the pines, the undergrowth remained brown and crowded the path. Honus led the way through this maze, with Yaun lagging behind. The two seldom walked close enough to converse, an arrangement that seemed to suit them both. The pair plodded onward in this manner until the sky darkened. By then, pines had given way to oaks that were in first leaf, and the forest pathway had become a road. Honus halted. “We’ll camp here,” he stated.

  Yaun put down the pack with relief and rubbed his sore shoulders. The Sarf removed his sandals, sat cross-legged on the ground, and closed his eyes. Yaun had seen Honus assume this position before, and it always made him uneasy. He knew that although the Sarf was perfectly motionless, he was roaming the realm of the dead. Yaun shuddered at the thought of it and set off to gather firewood. When he returned, he was disappointed to find Honus still trancing, for only the Sarf had the skill to strike a fire. Yaun wrapped himself in his cloak to ward off the evening’s chill and impatiently waited for the trance to end. Eventually, Honus’s eyes opened.

  “What did you see?” asked Yaun in a hushed voice.

  “Many crowd the Dark Path. There’s much confusion.”

  “What of our comrades?”

  “Some of their shades still journey with us, but not the one I seek,” replied Honus. He gazed at Yaun and added, “Alaric is nearby.”

  The blood drained from Yaun’s face, and he glanced anxiously about the twilit forest. “Did…did he speak with you?”

  “I cannot speak with the dead. I can only sense their memories.”

  “What’s on his mind?” asked Yaun.

  “He’s troubled by regret; the newly slain usually are.”

  “Anything else? Does he think of the battle?”

  “He yearns for a child with golden hair, nothing more.”

  “That’s all?” asked Yaun, sounding relieved.

  “The girl was dear to him.”

  “I would have thought he’d dwell upon his glory.”

  “Glory?” said Honus, his voice hard with incredulity. “The dead care not for glory. The Dark Path doesn’t ring with song.” He took up the iron and flint. Soon, he had a fire blazing.

  Yaun watched as Honus poured some water and a handful of grain into a brass pot to make porridge. After Honus set it on the fire to cook, Yaun gathered his nerve and spoke. “When Alaric died, I was released from my vows.”

  “You don’t wish to remain a squire?” asked Honus without surprise.

  “I rode forth on a charger, seeking renown.”

  “Renown?” Honus seemed amused. “I thought you were seeking your fortune.”

  “Yes, that, too,” replied Yaun. “And now I return bearing another man’s burden.”

  “Then you’ve found your fortune after all.”

  “I wasn’t born to carry a pack.”

  “You seemed eager enough to carry it earlier.”

  “But now we approach my father’s lands. I’m a count’s son. I mean no disrespect…”

  “I won’t travel encumbered,” said Honus. “You pledged an oath.”

  “Yet I need not bear your burden to fulfill it,” Yaun replied. He drew a purse from his pocket and emptied its coins into his palm. “We’re close to Durkin.”

  “And its thieves’ market,” said Honus. “So?”

  “We could go there tomorrow,” said Yaun, seemingly unaware of the disdain in Honus’s voice. “This is enough to buy a slave.”

  Honus glanced at the coppers in Yaun’s hand. “But not enough for a horse.”

  “It’s all I have.”

  “What times are these,” mused Honus, “when people are cheaper than horses?”

  “It’s been that way for a long time.”

  “That doesn’t mean it should be so.”

  “Such sentiments remind me of your master,” replied Yaun. “Yet his holiness couldn’t save him.”

  A shadow crossed Honus’s face. “The Balance is indeed askew.”

  Yaun noisily dropped the coins back into the purse. “So…What say you, Honus?”

  “You’re likely to discover your father’s lands are no safer than Lurwic was.” Honus shook his head. “But then, perhaps nowhere’s safe.”

  “I’ll take my chances. I’ll get by.”

  Honus shot Yaun a penetrating look, and the young man grew tense under the scrutiny. Honus saw more than ordinary men, and in Yaun, he disliked what he saw. It was what he didn’t see that bothered him most. How can he be untroubled by what we’ve witnessed? Yet Honus found only self-concern in Yaun’s face. The Sarf released him from his gaze. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go to Durkin. A slave will do.”

  The tenseness left Yaun’s face. He bowed his head. “Thank you, Karmamatus.”

  The term meant “Karm’s beloved,” and Honus had often used it to address his master. Thus it sounded wrong coming from Yaun’s lips. “Don’t mock me with flattery,” replied Honus. “I’m not worthy of Karm’s love.”

  FIVE

  HONUS AND Yaun left the forest the next morning to travel through abandoned farmlands that were rank with weeds and tangled scrub. It was a melancholy landscape, even in springtime. Well before noon, the smoke of Durkin was visible in the distance. Yaun halted by a copse of trees to remove his helm and his boots. Then he hid them in the pack. Afterward, he wrapped a rag around his sword hilt to cover its jewels.

  The marks on Honus’s face exaggerated his look of contempt. “I see you’re no stranger to Durkin.”

  “It’s a lawless place,” replied Yaun, “but goods are cheap there.”

  “If you don’t mind their source.”

  “Few men wish to live as you do. A good price matters to them.”

  “Other things should matter also. The Balance, for example.”

  “Oh yes, Karm’s holy Balance,” said Yaun. “What does that mean? What does she weigh on her divine scales?”

  “Everything,” replied Honus. “What a man gives and what he takes. Both sides of a dispute. The worth of a soul.”

  “And to what end?”

  “Harmony. Peace. Justice.”

  “After what we’ve seen, how can you say that?” asked Yaun. “Small wonder men
look elsewhere for strength. What has your faith gained you?”

  Honus didn’t immediately reply. “That’s my concern,” he said at last. “Durkin is corrupt, regardless.”

  “That’s because it’s not in some divine realm, but in the living world, where folks weigh contentment by the heft of their purses and the fullness of their bellies.”

  “You grow bold, now that we approach your father’s domain,” said Honus. “Shoulder my pack one last time. I’m eager to finish this business.”

  When the travelers reached the crest of a rise, they saw Durkin for the first time. Even from a distance, the place’s appearance reflected its reputation. The surrounding fields were haphazardly marked and rank with last year’s weeds. The town’s neglected walls seemed to signal that there were as many dangers within as without. When Honus and Yaun passed through the sagging and unguarded gate, the smell of sewage assaulted their noses. The rude buildings inside the walls were shoddily built and blackened by smoke from foundries that stood ready to melt down gold or silver at a moment’s notice. Most were marred by graffiti, and none looked caringly maintained. Despite the warmth, only the taverns had open doors and unshuttered windows.

  The narrow streets seemed remarkably crowded, considering the town’s isolation. Most of the pedestrians were inspecting items laid upon the ground; some were haggling with vendors; and the remainder were drinking or brawling. Everyone seemed edgy, causing Honus to speculate that they’d heard news of the battle. More than a few he spied seemed preparing to flee.

  Yaun was obviously familiar with the tangled lanes, for he led Honus without hesitation to a small stone building near the town’s center. A knee-high stone cube stood in front to display the establishment’s human wares. Yaun pounded on its iron door, and eyes appeared behind the slot near the door’s top. “We wish to purchase a slave,” Yaun said.

  The eyes traveled from Yaun to Honus. “Is the Sarf with you?” asked the voice behind the door.

  “Yes.”

  “He must leave first.”

  “The slave’s for me,” stated Honus.