“Craven sister-fucker,” Ivelda said with a scornful laugh. “Each Garisai here is worth ten Varitai.”
“He’s right,” Frentis said. “We need more fighters.”
“If they come here, they’ll have to assault the walls to take us,” Draker pointed out. “Evens the odds a bit.”
“We can’t linger, much as I’m tempted to. Besides, putting this place to the torch gives a clear signal of our intentions. Perhaps even a rallying call to those in bondage.” His finger tracked to a cluster of hills thirty miles north-east, the route liberally marked with plantations. “We’ll turn to face them there, hopefully in greater numbers. Be ready to march in an hour.”
• • •
They raided four plantations in as many days, their ranks swelling with every attack. The landholdings were larger farther inland, richer in slaves and ample evidence the overseers indulged in a level of cruelty even greater than they had seen on the coast. The bulk of their new recruits were still Realm folk, those born into bondage proving the least willing to forsake a lifetime of servitude, in some cases even striving to defend their masters. This had been particularly evident at the fourth plantation where the most loyal slaves had formed a protective cordon around the owner, a tall grey-haired woman dressed head to toe in black, standing with straight-backed and flint-eyed defiance as her villa burned around her. The slaves protecting her were unarmed but had linked arms, refusing to budge despite Frentis’s entreaties.
“Our mistress is kind and does not deserve this,” one of the slaves told Frentis, a woman of matronly appearance garbed in cloth noticeably less threadbare than most slaves they had encountered. Her fellow slaves were also similarly well attired and he saw little evidence of any scars. This plantation was also unusual in being the only one so far where they had failed to find a single overseer and featured only four poorly maintained Varitai, all but one easily captured.
Frentis looked at the woman in the centre of the cordon, seeing how she avoided his gaze, stoic in refusing to acknowledge an inferior. “Your mistress has grown wealthy on your labour,” he told the matronly woman. “If she’s so kind, why doesn’t she free you? Come with us and know freedom.”
It did no good, they all stood in place and proved deaf to any further persuasion.
“Kill them, brother,” one of the Realm folk said, the former blacksmith from their first raid, snarling as he spat at the cordon of slaves. “They betray us with this disgusting servility.”
There was a growl of agreement from the other slaves and, he noticed, not all of them Realm folk. The freed fighters were becoming more fierce with every raid, each overseer or master they tormented to death seeming to stoke a greater bloodlust. “Freedom is a choice,” he told them, “gather up these supplies and prepare to march.”
The blacksmith grunted in frustration, pointing his sword at the straight-backed mistress. “What about the old bitch? Put an arrow in her and they might see sense.”
He staggered as Illian appeared at his side and delivered a swift punch to his jaw. “This enterprise is under the command of the Sixth Order,” she told him, “and the Order does not make war on old women.” Her hand went to her sword as he rounded on her, spitting blood. “Question Brother Frentis again,” she continued, voice flat and unwavering, “and we’ll settle this with steel. Now pack up and move.”
• • •
That evening Frentis watched as Weaver freed the captured Varitai. They had rested for the night on a rise ten miles north of the old woman’s villa, the Varitai, now numbering some thirty individuals, establishing their own camp at a short remove from the main body. They remained a mostly silent group, uniform in the expressions of wonder and curiosity with which they regarded the world, and rarely venturing far from Weaver, reminding Frentis of new-born fawns clustering around a parent.
The three captives sat in the centre of their group, stripped to the waist and impassive as Weaver crouched at their side, flask in hand. He dipped a thin reed into the flask and touched the tip to their scars, each time provoking a jerking spasm of instant agony and a shrill scream that never seemed to lose its lacerating chill no matter how many times Frentis heard it. The surrounding Varitai came closer as the screams faded, the captives now huddled at Weaver’s feet. He bent to touch each in turn, resting his hand on their heads until they blinked and awoke to their new lives, each face a mask of confusion.
This is a ritual, Frentis realised, watching how the Varitai all turned to raise their hands to Weaver, touching the wrists together then pulling them apart. A broken chain, he recalled from his lessons in sign language, wondering where they had learned it. Despite their obeisance, Weaver displayed no sign of enjoying the Varitai’s supplication, merely replying with a faint smile, his brow drawn in sadness.
“Is he a priest?”
Frentis turned to find Lemera standing nearby, regarding the Varitai with a bemused expression. “No, a healer,” Frentis replied in his halting Alpiran. “Owns . . . great magic-power.”
“You butcher my language,” she said, slipping into Volarian with a laugh. “Did you learn it in my country?”
He turned back to the Varitai, wincing at best-forgotten memories. “I have travelled far.”
“I was only eight when they took me, but memories of home are still bright. A village on the southern shore, the ocean was rich with fish and blue as a sapphire.”
“You’ll return one day.”
She moved to his side, gaze low and sorrowful. “There will be no welcome for me there . . . ruined as I am. No man will make offer for me and the women will shun me for my despoilment.”
“Your people have harsh customs it seems.”
“My people no longer.” She nodded at the Varitai now helping their freed brothers to stand, a few voicing soft words of comfort and reassurance. “These are my people now, and the others. You are the King of a new nation.”
“I have one already, and my queen is unlikely to tolerate another crown in her Realm.”
“The sister says you are the greatest hero in your land. Do you not deserve lands of your own?”
“Sister Illian tends to exaggerate, and servants of the Faith are denied ownership of property.”
“Yes, she tried to teach me your faith. An odd notion to worship the dead with such devotion.” Lemera shook her head before turning and walking back to the main camp, her parting words faint and barely heard, “The dead can’t love you back.”
• • •
They reached the hill country two days later, their number now swollen to over five hundred though many lacked decent weapons, about half armed with nothing more than clubs or farming tools. An increasing number of recruits were now runaways, fleeing their masters upon hearing of the great rebellion as those who had escaped the raids spread word of their exploits. The runaways brought news of the terror they were provoking amongst the free folk of Eskethia, the northern roads now crowded with black- and grey-clad alike, seeking the safety of more heavily garrisoned lands.
Frentis led them deep into the hills, a mostly bare landscape dotted with small trees and distinguished by the monolithic stones adorning the winding slopes. He chose a rock-strewn plateau for their main camp, offering clear views on all sides and shielded on the northern flank by a fast-flowing river. He sent Master Rensial and Illian to scout the western approaches, reporting back after a two-day ride that the Volarian garrison was pursuing with an impressive turn of speed, a thousand troops force-marching at a pace of fifty miles a day.
“This lot can’t face a thousand, Redbrother,” Lekran stated that evening. “The new ones still think it’s a game and most have never seen a real fight.”
“Then it’s time they did,” Frentis replied. “We can’t run forever. I will take the archers, see if we can thin their ranks a little. Sister Illian, get your people to start piling these rocks up into some semblance of a fortification. You and Draker will have charge of the camp until I return.” He turned to Lekran and the Garisai woman. “Can I trust you both to perform a task without spilling each other’s blood?”
Ivelda gave Lekran a sour glance but nodded, the former Kuritai issuing a terse grunt of agreement. They watched as Frentis scratched out a map in the dirt, listening intently as he explained their role.
“Much could go wrong in this,” Lekran observed.
“Even if it doesn’t work, it should at least claim half their number and the people here will have a fighting chance.” Frentis stood, hefting his bow. “Master Rensial, if you wouldn’t mind joining me?”
• • •
They found a shadowed overhang to hide in as they watched the Varitai march into the hills, Frentis using his spyglass to pick out the officers. Identifying the commander proved an easy matter, a sturdy man on horseback in the middle of the column, his authority plain in the curt nods he gave to the younger men who occasionally rode to his side. The column was tightly ordered but had a loose skirmish line of Free Sword cavalry at its head, flanks and rear.
“This fellow’s a trifle too cautious for my liking, Master,” Frentis commented, passing the glass to Rensial.