“Then I am yours,” cried Zacharias, beginning to weep. After so long, he had found what he sought. “I am yours.”
4
“BRING the slaves.”
Sanglant indicated the thirteen men who knelt in front of the cell where Blessing was confined. Sergeant Cobbo herded them over. These were not foolish men, although they were barbarians and infidels. They recognized him for what he was, even if they seemed to have offered their allegiance to his young daughter. They knelt before him, a ragged but defiant looking crew, half naked, sweating profusely in the heat, but unbowed by his appraisal.
Six were Quman, stripped down to loincloths. Despite the dirt streaking their bodies, they had made an effort to keep their hair neat, tying it back into loose braids with strips of cloth. They had pleasant, almost docile expressions. They looked like the kind of young soldiers who are happiest singing a song around the fire, good-natured, easy to please, and unlikely to fight among themselves. The seventh of their number bore tattoos all over his torso, twisted animals amid scenes of battle and carnage, griffins eating deer, lions rending hapless men, and a belled rider mounted on an eight-legged horse riding over corpses.
Of the other six, four might have been any manner of heathen —Salavii, Polenie, Starviki, or otherwise—with matted dark hair, wiry arms, and thick shoulders, and stolid expressions that did not conceal a rebellious spark in their gaze although their ankles and wrists bore the oozing scars of shackles.
“Are any of these men Daisanites?” asked Sanglant.
Breschius knew an amazing store of languages, and he spoke several now, getting responses from all four of the men.
“They are all heathens, my lord prince. Sold into slavery by raiders. This Salavii man says it was Wendish bandits who took him prisoner and sold him to an Arethousan merchant. He wishes to return to his home. The other three say they will gladly enter the service of your daughter if they will be allowed a servant’s portion, a meal every day, and her promise as their lord never to abandon them.”
“Let the Salavii go, then. I want no slaves in my army.”
Breschius spoke in a guttural tongue. The Salavii man rose nervously looking as though he expected a whip to descend.
“It is a long road to Salavii lands,” remarked Captain Fulk. “If he can make it home safely, then he’s both strong and clever.”
“Give him bread, ale, and a tunic,” said Sanglant. “I’ll not have it said I turned him out naked.”
Even as Breschius began to speak, the man bolted for the gate, ready for a spear thrust to take him in the back. Fulk whistled, a piercing signal, and the guards leaped back so the man could sprint out of the fort unobstructed. The remaining three heathens shifted fearfully, but Breschius calmed them with a few words.
“He had no reason to trust us,” said Sanglant, “but I doubt me he’ll get far.” He turned his attention to the last two slaves. They were much darker and wore torn robes and ragged pointy felt caps over cropped hair. Sanglant frowned as he studied them. These two kept their heads bowed, their gazes lowered, although they also looked to be young, strong men.
“These two are Jinna, are they not?” he asked Breschius. “Are they believers?”
“Do you see the brand on their cheeks?”
“Is that their slave mark?”
“Nay, my lord prince. Or rather, I should say, yes, but not in the way you think. Every young Jinna man marks himself in this way when he becomes an adult. It is the way he enslaves himself to the god’s worship. No Jinna man may marry if he has not branded himself a slave to their fire god.”
“Yet it’s men who made them slaves on Earth, not their god. Tell them they may go free if they wish.”
“I do not speak their language, my lord prince.” He spoke to them anyway, giving up when they made no response. “They must not be merchants, my lord, or they would know at least one of the languages commonly used by traders.”
“Then we must hope that gesture will suffice. What of these Quman? But you do not speak Quman as well as did Brother Zacharias, do you, Breschius?”
Anger flowed back quickly, although he had thought he had banished it. He clenched his left fist and glanced toward Blessing’s cell. In the interval while he was gone she had fallen quiet. Maybe she had just screamed herself hoarse.
“Very poorly, my lord prince. I never preached among the Quman. I beg your pardon—”
Before Sanglant could respond, the old tattooed Quman man lifted both hands, palms facing the heavens. “Great lord,” he said in passable Wendish, “hear me, who goes by the name Gyasi. Many seasons ago, when I am young, the spirits speak into my ear at that day when the moon is dark and hungry. They tell—told—me that in the time to come, a child will save me from the iron rope. Her I must serve. So it happens, this day, that their prophecy comes to pass. I act as the spirits tell me. I do not disobey my ancestors. I will be as a slave to your daughter. These sons of my tribe will also follow her.”
