Lord Aaron Clapton stared at his blood-soaked gauntlets, then hastily peeled them off, tossing them to the ground, unable to get them away quickly enough.
He clenched his fists, his hands trembling. He couldn’t understand why he was so shaken. It was far from his first battle. He’d killed before. He’d almost been killed before, many times.
He’d seen many terrible things. But he had never seen anything quite like that. Not by a mere girl.
Savage or not.
And those eyes—black with so much hate.
He still wore her blood on his breastplate. It was probably in his hair and on his face, along with the blood of the rest of the savages he’d killed.
“Lucas!” His squire hurried over. “Help remove my armor.”
Lucas glanced warily into the trees. “But there could be more of them.”
Lucas bobbed his head. “Yes, my lord.”
Aaron clutched at his head with a grimace. It had been hours since the spear throw that had almost killed him, but the throbbing in his head was only getting worse.
If it hadn’t been for his helm, he would be dead right now. That girl. That throw. He’d never seen anything like it.
Women simply couldn’t do things like that.
It no longer mattered. She’d still been alive when the physician had taken her away, but with an injury like that, it was unlikely she would survive.
He pressed his fingers to his temples with a wince. He should have been pleased with the outcome. The forest had been taken, the savages routed. They’d captured a number of slaves.
And once they cleaned the forest of the dead, the real work could begin.
If all went to plan, the land of Toth would become a force to be reckoned with.
He shouldn’t have just felt pleased, he should have felt elated.
He unbuckled his waterskin and drank and spat, but it did nothing to wash the sour taste out of his mouth.
Later that evening, the camp was celebrating. The battle was over.
Most of the soldiers would soon return to their families, while the farmers and builders could start working on clearing the forest, constructing homes and farms, and building a new fortress.
Lord Aaron went to join his brother as he stood at the edge of camp, watching as the light from the flickering torches wove in and out through the trees.
Lord Jeffrey turned at the sound of his approach. “Well met, brother.” He slapped him on the back, then slung an arm around his shoulders, leaning against him heavily. “How goes the head?”
Aaron reeled back, catching his brother’s wrist before he could prod his wound.
“Fine, just fine.”
Jeffrey chuckled, burped, then wiped his mouth. Aaron could smell the ale on his breath.
Aaron wasn’t much better himself, staggering under his brother’s weight. His headache was much improved, and his recollection of the battle was blurry and faded. Ale was often the best medicine.
“It’s all ours, brother.” Jeffrey shook him. “And see how excited our people are?” He waved his hand toward the forest and its flickering lights.
“Already they’re hard at work, eager to seize what’s rightfully ours.”
Aaron’s ears pricked up at the muffled whirring of machinery before the sound was lost beneath a burst of shouting and laughter from the soldiers behind him.
“We’ll open a new trade route with the Sand People to the east. Then there’s the harbor. The Crantic Ocean will be ours. Fleets of ships, brother.”
Jeffrey shook him again. “With any luck, we will begin our invasion of the Sand People within the decade. Just think of it.” His eyes glittered as he gazed at the forest. “Nobody will be able to stop us.”
Aaron felt the excitement swell in his chest. Magnificent cities, prosperous people, a sprawling population that would only grow bigger and more powerful. More spectacular.
He grinned along with his brother.
Zin woke slowly and in agony. There didn’t seem to be a single part of her body that wasn’t on fire. If this was death, it certainly wasn’t what she’d expected.
She gasped as she slowly raised her left arm to touch her throat—fabric. She tried to move her right arm, but her shoulder seized up in a terrible cramp that made her cry out.
There came a hiss, followed by a string of English. She blinked. A fuzzy figure hovered over her. Everything else was in shadow.
There was another string of English, and this time she caught a few words.
“…move…still…hurt…”
Zin reached deep into her brain. It had been a long time since she’d spoken a word of her mother’s language. “What?” she croaked.
The figure looked over its shoulder and spoke. A second blurry figure approached.
She blinked rapidly, and finally she could see.
A Paleskin with a smooth chin and wispy white hair that barely covered his shiny, bald crown was looking down at her. He looked thin and weak, but there was a sharpness to his face she didn’t like.
And those eyes—they were something else. They were so pale they were almost colorless. Colorless and cruel.
She clenched her hands into fists, gritting her teeth, but she still couldn’t move. Her body had never felt so heavy.
“You…speak…English?” he said slowly.
She glared up at him.
His eyes glittered. “Good. Keep still. This will hurt.”
She cried out as they shoved her legs up, bending her painful knee. Next, they pushed her legs apart.
Her heart thudded. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing!” she choked out in Quarthi. “Keep away, you filth.” She thrashed against them, trying to kick out, but somebody held her feet.
Another Paleskin pushed down on her shoulders.
She no longer cared about the pain. What was the pain to the violation? She sucked in a breath at a sharp sting.
He was inside her! He was inside her! He was using something cold and hard. No doubt some terrible Paleskin tool.
She screamed and screamed to no effect, and when he finally pulled out, she wept. Not from grief or fear, not even from humiliation—but fury.
The old man looked pleased. He said something to his companions, only half of which she understood. “The…will be pleased. She will…a…price… A…price.”
The next morning, Lord Aaron strolled through the camp. His head was still thumping, but he wasn’t entirely sure whether it was from the attack or the ale.
The sun had barely risen, and those who were already awake sat listlessly, their eyes red-rimmed, or else slumped over with their heads in their hands.
Some nodded as he passed, others wobbled to their feet respectfully.
Banners whipped in the wind. Horses nickered. From the distance came the whirring of machinery as eager farmers began the long process of demolishing the forest.
It was going to be another hot day. His tunic was already sticking to his back, and sweat trickled under his arms.
Unsurprising, considering how close they were to the Windy Mountains, beyond which stretched the long, empty sands of the White Desert, where the Sand People lived.
He ran his fingers through his hair, wincing as he accidentally pressed on his left temple. The savage had done a good job. The whole left side of his face was bruised, the eye pink and swollen.
The throw had meant to kill.
He felt more lighthearted today after his brother’s words last night. There were far more important things to think about than the life of a savage. Their lives held no meaning in the eyes of God, after all.
Besides, after what she’d done to him, it would be God’s justice if she died.
Aaron shook his head. He couldn’t even believe his own lies.
The pastor’s pavilion and the slave pen lay ahead, but he detoured toward the edge of camp, where he knew the bodies lay. There were only three natives, those who hadn’t survived the night.
There was usually a pile at every slave camp, only growing bigger as the days passed. As usual, they were left to rot—no burial rituals, no dignity. They weren’t worth the effort.
They weren’t covered, and their eyes peered emptily into the sky. Flies buzzed. A couple of crows hopped hopefully nearby.
Two bodies bore deep abdominal wounds, the third had half his face smashed in. All men. Aaron stared, both puzzled and alarmed that he should feel such hope.
“Lord Aaron.”
Aaron turned with a start. “Fair morning, Father Peter.”
The old pastor bobbed his head. “It is. Another fair morning. God smiles on us.” He pursed his thin lips as he ran his pale eyes over the bruise on Aaron’s face but said nothing.
He wore the simple brown robe that all ministers donned, sandals on his feet, and a long neck chain bearing a glittering cross. The shiny crown of his head was heavily spotted and pink.
He dropped his gaze to the bodies. “A waste. I had high hopes for them. Tall, strong men. They would have done well in the mines. But alas, their wounds were too severe.”
Aaron looked over at the slave pen, where the still living prisoners resided. “And what of the rest of the haul?” He squinted but couldn’t see much except hazy figures.
The pastor eyed him sharply over his long nose. “She is alive.”
Aaron hardened his jaw. It seemed word had spread about his incident. “I asked about the haul, Father.”
The pastor’s lips twitched, but he bobbed his head. “Of course, my lord. It is a sound haul. Bishop Compton should be pleased. They should fetch a good price for the church. You want to take a look?”
Each of them was chained by the neck to an iron stake hammered into the ground. A few had their own stake, but most were made to share.
They couldn’t stand, only able to crouch or lie on the hot ground, and all they had for shelter was a thin, ragged awning that managed to cover only the central few, leaving those on the edges to burn in the glaring sun.
The place stank. They shat and ate where they slept. Flies buzzed all over them. They wore the usual slave tunics, short and sleeveless, high collared and backless. They were shockingly white against their dark skin.
Their wounds had been tended to; he could see their clean white bandages.
It seemed odd to him that the pastor bothered, considering the overall state of them, until he remembered something Father Raymond had said a while back.
“The purpose is to break them. A slave is useless if they can’t do what they’re told. Withhold food, withhold sleep, torture them, abuse them. It’s the only way they’ll know their masters.”
He counted sixteen—ten men, six women, all with varying amounts of damage. “I thought you said it was a sound haul,” Aaron said. “So few. And where are the children?”
“There are no children, my lord. What we have here are soldiers.”
Aaron frowned. “Even the women?”
“Even the women.” He clutched at his cross.
They did look strong, Aaron thought as he studied them, tall and muscular and hard faced. Still… What kind of people forced their women to fight?
“But that means there are more of them out there. A lot more.”
“Hiding,” Father Peter agreed. “Our business here is not yet done.”
Aaron stroked his stubbled throat. He could sense the old pastor waiting.
He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right about his interest in the girl, but what else could he do? He needed to know.
“Where is she?”
They kept her sheltered in an annex off the pastor’s pavilion. The room had no bars, and it was cool and airy. Her head was on a pillow, her dark hair brushed out. Her body was covered in a sheet.
They had washed away the blood and grime from her face. She was younger than he’d originally thought and almost pretty now that her face wasn’t screwed up in a snarl.
She was breathing gently, relaxed and peaceful.
“We’ve given her some tonic for the pain and to keep her calm. Once she’s healed enough, she can join the others.”
Aaron studied the bandage around her throat. It was dry. “Too shallow, or did she miss?”
“She missed. Any higher and she would have died on the spot. But it was deep enough. She meant to die.”
“Of course she meant to die!” Aaron didn’t know why he felt so angry. He shook himself. “She looks different from the others.”
“Yes, a mix—half Toth, half savage.”
Aaron nodded. He could see it now. He’d seen them on the streets of Fairmont often enough, the progeny of slave women raped by their masters, the new generation of slaves.
Unlike the usual deep bronze, her skin was a brown-golden color, almost like burned honey.
Her facial features were softer, but her native heritage still dominated in the broadness of her nose and chin and in the sharpness of her cheekbones. An unusual combination, but not displeasing.
He felt Father Peter watching him. “Apparently, she can speak some English.”
Aaron raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“And she’s untouched. I checked her myself.” He clasped his bony hands together. “I could make her ready within the week, for the right price.”
Aaron narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting, Father Peter?”
“Nothing at all, my lord.” His pale eyes glittered. “Nothing at all.”
Aaron gave him a hard look and left.
