Savage City, page 23
As the chaos of hot blood and cold steel swallowed him up he could hear prayers, curses, screams of pain. He could also hear laughter, a maniacal sound that he never did realise was his own.
By the time she got to the seventh man, Katerina had perfected her method.
As methods went, it was simple enough. The slavers’ deep hoods meant that they could see little apart from the chained captives who walked ahead of them, the stumbling line becoming more orderly beneath the constant whisper of the slaver’s whips.
This was all the advantage that Katerina needed. All she had to worry about was the timing of her sudden, silent rush. Then, once within striking distance, all it took was the twist of a garrotte and that was that.
Easy.
But the problem with the seventh man was that the sudden, silent rush wasn’t. Before she had covered even half the distance to him, the water-smoothed rock beneath her feet disintegrated into a shale of sharp-edged pebbles. The rocks bit into her naked soles, the sudden agony tearing a cry from her throat even as it sent her spilling to the ground.
Her target turned to see the cause of the commotion, his wooden torch flaring as he swept it around. In the sudden brightness, he saw Katerina as she scrabbled back to her feet. Her blaze of red hair shone like copper as her hood fell back, and she tossed her cloak aside with an impatient gesture.
‘Get him!’ she yelled, and even as she raced forward her lurking comrades burst from the shadows to grab the slaver.
The man wasn’t eager to be grabbed. Beneath the permanent shadow of his hood, his jaw dropped with surprise, and then he was running, throwing his torch back towards his pursuers as he sprinted through the sliding shale.
‘Help!’ the slaver screamed as he skidded around a bend in the passageway.
Katerina cursed as she heard a voice raised in answer.
Well, too late to stop now, she thought, and barrelled around the twist in the passageway.
The slaver had stopped running, although not for long. Even as she watched, he abandoned the comrade he’d been warning, and bolted.
His comrade, after a split second of hesitation, turned tail and followed him.
Katerina yelled after them, her voice twisted by the confines of the labyrinth into an inhuman bellow, and their footsteps speeded up.
The two men disappeared around another twist in the tunnel and Katerina bellowed with wild laughter. After all the sneaking about it felt wonderful to be in such hot pursuit.
‘Come on,’ she encouraged her followers. ‘Let’s see how far they run!’
As a third slaver joined her enemies in their wild flight, the stone walls began to spread out and the ceiling grew higher. Katerina felt the shale turn to sand beneath her feet, and realised for the first time that she could hear the ocean. It pulsed within the confines of the widening cave, the beat of it like the heart of some great hungry beast.
Ahead, she saw that the slavers were in full flight, cloaks billowing as they kicked their way past the frightened captives and their bewildered comrades.
But as Katerina followed them, the cave ended. The dead blackness of its unseen heights ended in a high arch and, beyond that, the cold spray of stars across the night sky. Mannslieb was high tonight, its pale light bright after the darkness of the depths, and it lit up the beach onto which Katerina emerged.
The slavers paused in their flight as they stumbled out into the sand. Perhaps it was the realisation that there was nowhere left to run that ended their panic. Or perhaps it was the confidence of their leaders, the two men who stood amidst the confusion like a pair of iron pegs driven into frozen earth.
Whatever the reason, the slavers’ rout ended as abruptly as it had begun. They lined up on the sand behind their captains, the frightened sounds of their chained captives lending them a fresh reassurance.
Katerina held out an arm to stop her own handful of followers rushing out to meet them. Despite her predation, there was almost a score of the enemy left, and they were well-armed and well-disciplined. For the first time since the exhilaration of the chase, Katerina wished that she had stopped to release more of the captives. Freed, they would have given her the numbers she needed to win this thing. As it was, most of them remained chained and terrified, as useless as a flock of sheep.
The slavers seemed to have already reached the same conclusion. They were moving back onto the offensive, responding to a series of short, efficient orders as they fanned out on the flanks.
‘Here,’ Katerina said, turning to the first of her men. His eyes looked wide in the dark skin of his face, but at least his hands were steady.
‘Take these wires,’ Katerina told him. ‘And try to release some more of us. The rest of you, stay back in the cave. Come on, back up. That’s it. You in the chain, you too. Get back inside and we’ll defend you.’
As the chain gang started to shuffle back into the darkness, another voice rang out, clear and sharp.
‘Come here,’ it ordered, the echoes that followed it adding to the lazy confidence. ‘Come here, now.’
The captives paused, confused, until the slavers’ leader snapped his whip through the darkness.
Although out of range of the captives, the sound of the whip combined with their confusion to bring them marching obediently out onto the beach.
‘Come back!’ Katerina cried, appalled at their stupidity, but it was already too late. A pair of the slavers had darted forward to grab the first of their captives and they dragged them mercilessly forward, ignoring their protests as they started to pull the whole chain gang out of the cave as easily as a crow plucking a worm from a hole.
The man Katerina had set to unlocking the chains was dragged past her. She almost turned to give him a hand when she realised it was too late. One of the slavers’ leaders was already rushing forward, leading his men into the tangled confusion of captives that now clogged up the mouth of the cave.
Katerina realised that she had only one option left.
‘Follow me!’ she yelled as, cutlass in one hand and torch in the other, she led her ragged band of followers forward to meet the attack.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Emir Fauzi Bandar, of the House of Jubail, had been waiting on the beach since his boats had landed that evening. He’d taken advantage of the fog that still remained to have a cooking fire built, and his cook had risen to the occasion most satisfactorily.
After all, although he prided himself on his ability to rough it, the emir could see no reason to take things to extremes.
So it was that whilst his followers had waited in their positions, hungry and unseen, the servant had prepared a supper of roast lamb and stuffed avocados for his master. They were followed by a tray of almond cakes, delightful little confections that glistened like jewels beneath their coating of honey, and some jellied fruits. After he had worked his way through them, the emir had slumped back, lolling onto the divan that had been set up for him beneath the cliffs. There he nibbled on dates and drank an endless succession of tiny cups of tea the cook brought him. The liquid was delicious, as sweet and as hot as an Estalian girl he had once known, and as the moonlight started to burn its way through the dying fog the emir considered his blessings.
It took him a long time, for they were many. Not the least of them was his bodyguard, who stood as ever in permanent attendance. Bran had been a chance acquisition from a Tilean arena, where he had lost a particularly vicious fight against a pack of orcs. In truth, the emir had bought him for the meat on his bones. The battered muscle and fat on his fallen form would have been just the thing to fatten up a gaggle of skeletal slaves the emir had just bought. But somehow the beast had recovered before the butcher got around to him. Ever since then he’d followed the emir like the world’s most hideous puppy, a monster whose loyalty required no more than a daily bellyful of meat.
His mind wandering ever further, the emir toyed with the idea of having the beast taught how to sing. Maybe even how to tell stories. Despite the fact that he hardly ever spoke a word, the emir had come to the conclusion that that was because he had wits, not because he lacked them.
Anyway, when he did speak, Bran had a voice that was as deep and melodious as the ocean. What a baritone he would make!
It was with such peaceful thoughts that the merchant dropped off to sleep. Slumbering beneath the stars of this barbarous northern shore, the emir felt at peace with the world, which was just as well.
He didn’t have much longer to enjoy it.
His doom began with the arrival of his business partners. The Bretonnian slavers wailed as they fled out onto the beach, their faces masks of fear in the unsteady light of their lanterns.
Without a single conscious thought, the emir responded to their distress. Vaulting from his divan he pirouetted to hide behind Bran’s reassuring bulk. Only then, blinking sleep from his eyes, did he begin to assess the situation.
His first reaction was to make a dash for the boats but as he began to sidle away, he saw the slavers form a line, their panic giving way to renewed discipline. The mob that had been pursuing them hesitated just as the emir had done, evidently surprised at this turnaround. The emir licked his lips thoughtfully, eyes twinkling in the darkness. The crack of a slaver’s whip ended his indecision. He watched as most of the captives stumbled obediently forward, and his fat face split open in a cherubic grin. Far from being the battle he had feared, this was obviously no more than some minor scuffle amongst captors and captives. A scuffle which he could, no doubt, turn to his advantage.
‘What shall we do, effendi?’ his bosun asked, as the slavers began to manoeuvre towards the handful of figures that hid within the shadow of the cave.
The emir pretended to be shocked. ‘We’ll help our friends, of course,’ he said, disapproval furrowing his brow.
‘Very well, effendi,’ the bosun said and, with a quick bow, started to order his men forward.
‘What are you doing?’ the emir snapped.
‘Helping our friends,’ his man replied, suddenly doubtful.
‘Not yet, you fool,’ the emir sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘Wait until they’ve regained control of the situation. Then we’ll help them.’
‘Aaaaah yes, effendi. I see.’
The emir shook his head, amazed as always by the stupidity of his subordinates. From along the beach, the discordant symphony of steel against steel rang out, the sound occasionally lost beneath screams and curses. More wailing followed as the chain of captives was dragged down the beach, and more of the slavers poured into the opening of the cave.
Eventually, it seemed that they were fighting no more than a single figure. And then their mysterious attacker was down, tripped by a whip and lost beneath a rush of black-cloaked figures.
‘Off you go, then,’ the emir told his men.
‘And hurry!’ he called after them, raising his voice so that it could be heard all the way up the beach. ‘Quickly to help our beloved friends! ’
By the time his men had reached their beloved friends, the fight was over.
When he was sure the last trace of resistance was over the emir followed them. Picking his way cautiously through the shifting sands, he squinted in the moonlight, trying to make out exactly what had gone on.
Along one side, the chained captives huddled beneath a towering cliff. Their miserable cries mingled with the constant hiss of the slavers’ whips, the men taking their revenge for the uprising where they could. Higher up the beach, framed by the gaping maw of the cave, the rest of the victors waited, gathered around their surviving assailant. Although little more than indistinct shadows in the flickering torchlight, the emir could see that many of them had been injured.
As he puffed and wheezed his way nearer, he could see how many had been killed.
‘My friends,’ the emir called as he approached the survivors. ‘Thank the gods we got here in time to save you.’
He tried not to look too smug as, in a sudden flare of torchlight, he recognised the slavers’ leader.
‘Thank the gods you are all right,’ he told him. ‘And… oh. This is your captive?’
The emir tried not to look too interested as he studied the girl. Unfortunately, her flawlessly white skin was flawless no longer. Bruises were already blackening on her chin and cheekbones. Her clothes hardly showed her curves to their best advantage either. They were little more than a collection of rags, the torn and bloodied cloth rumpled around the grimy chains that the slavers had heaped upon her. But the glistening, autumnal fire of her hair, that was still clear to see. The emir watched the lustre of it as it shifted in the lamplight, a cascade of living embers.
Then Katerina looked up. A feral fury glistened within her emerald eyes, the animal brightness a match for any cat’s, and in that instant the emir knew that he must buy her. There were caliphs that he knew, men of certain dispositions, who would pay almost anything for such exotic beauty.
Almost anything at all.
‘Ugly thing, isn’t she?’ he grimaced carefully and looked away.
‘Oh, shut up,’ his business partner snapped, his face hardening beneath his hood.
The emir didn’t have to pretend to be offended. ‘What a way to talk to me,’ he spluttered, but before he could continue, the Bretonnian gestured him into silence.
‘I said shut up. This silly little floozy is my niece.’
‘No need for talk like that, Gilles,’ his brother cut in.
Gilles just snorted and glared down at Katerina. ‘You’re as bad as your bitch of a mother.’
Katerina glared back up at him and, despite the weight of chains that were wrapped around her, managed to struggle to her feet.
‘You’re even worse than her,’ she hissed at her uncle, shoving her face towards him. ‘You’re a disgrace to our family. You have no honour.’
Gilles shoved her away, cursing as she collapsed back into the sand but his brother didn’t share his anger. Quite the opposite. Bouillon seemed to find the whole thing most amusing.
‘She’s Franz’s daughter all right,’ he chuckled. ‘Remember how he used to go on about honour?’
‘Yes,’ Gilles grunted, and scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Funny how it always seemed to work for him.’
‘If it had worked that well,’ Bouillon reminded him, ‘then Franz would still be here and we wouldn’t have this dilemma.’
‘She’s certainly a most remarkable dilemma,’ the emir ventured, his eyes flitting across the black-cloaked corpses that lay behind her. Somehow, even without the bloody clues that soaked Katerina, he knew that most of them had been her doing.
‘Isn’t she just?’ Bouillon agreed.
‘What shall we do?’ Gilles grumbled. ‘I don’t fancy killing her. She’s Franz’s, after all. On the other hand, will she keep quiet?’
‘Would you?’ Bouillon asked his niece, but her only reply was a look of absolute contempt.
‘No,’ he sighed. ‘Thought not.’
‘Perhaps I can help,’ the emir said. ‘You know that I have many businesses, and many clients. Some of my slaves go to the fields, others to the salt mines.’
‘Yes, and others to whorehouses,’ Gilles snapped. ‘You can forget about that. She’s our blood, when all’s said and done. I’d sooner kill her now than have her doing that.’
‘Let me finish, my friend, let me finish. I should be angry that you would even accuse me of having such thoughts, but no matter. I know how upset you are.’
‘Get to the point,’ Gilles told him.
‘The point is that there are many palaces full of many women. Women with nothing to do. A young lady such as your niece here would do very well in such a place. She could teach them her tongue and perhaps learn how to sew. As well as being comfortable she would be absolutely safe.’
‘It’s our absolute safety I’m more interested in,’ Bouillon muttered. ‘What if she escapes? If you knew her as well as we do, then I wouldn’t put it past her.’
‘Nobody escapes the caliph’s harem,’ the emir said, and for once his words had the ring of truth about them.
‘What do you think?’ Bouillon asked Katerina. ‘Fancy learning to sew?’
But Katerina was no longer paying attention to him. Instead she was staring at the emir’s bodyguard, her eyes alive with sudden calculation. Ignoring her uncle’s repeated question she started to speak. Her voice grew guttural as she did so, hoarsening into an alien accent that made her words almost unintelligible.
The emir smiled nastily. He’d seen many a brave soul reduced to a gibbering wreck by the sight of Bran.
‘Ah, she’s noticed my bodyguard,’ he gloated. ‘See how thoughtful she becomes. Bran had that effect on my prisoners, doesn’t he? Here, Bran. Step forward. Let the girl see what will happen if she causes any trouble.’
‘Remember,’ Gilles warned him as the ogre thudded forward into the torchlight. ‘She’s our niece.’
‘No problem. It’s just a demonstration. Bran, show her your teeth.’
For once, Bran seemed not to understand. Instead of threatening the girl he just looked at her, the beaten expanse of his face as expressionless as always.
Katerina jabbered some more.
‘Yes.’
The sudden volume of the beast’s voice sent the men around him jumping back with alarm. Once more, the emir misunderstood.
‘Yes, well, go on then. Show her your teeth,’ he said, his podgy hand fluttering towards the beast’s mouth like a fat moth towards a flame.
Bran turned to his master and snarled. The saliva that coated his teeth gleamed in the torchlight with a reddish, bloodied sheen, and the abattoir stench of his breath washed over his master. The emir scowled, embarrassed by the beast’s stupidity.
‘Not me, her,’ he scolded the thing that loomed above him. The other men, both Arabyan and Bretonnian, backed away, uncomfortably aware of just how big the slab of a creature was. The top of the emir’s turbaned head barely reached the grotesque swelling of its midriff but the emir stood his ground. Even now it hadn’t occurred to him just how delicate a thing Bran’s loyalty might be.
