frown at ShadowHelm. “If we don’t get moving, we won’t reach the next pen before nightfall. Cut that Or from that tree. You and you”—he pointed to Certamen and Cor—“carry him. DuskJoy, we must have a chat about this incident in private.”
While the two captains remonstrated, the slaves were herded onward.
Defensor’s head lifted a little, then dropped again. Certamen bent down near his ear. Perhaps Defensor couldn’t hear him, but Certamen had to say it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Defensor looked up. “Don’t be. You did what needed to be done.”
“What did DuskJoy say to you?” Cor asked.
“He wanted to know where his knife was. And… and as he hit me, he said he’d kill me if I didn’t tell him where it was. He said… he said in a few days, my death wouldn’t matter.”
Cor’s face mirrored Certamen’s shock. What were the Sables planning to do to them?
The knife shifted awkwardly, forcing Certamen to reposition it. Defensor’s theft of it had the feel of divine providence, but a single weapon, no matter how wondrous, could not prevail against the might of the Sables.
VII
For three days, the routine was the same. The slaves marched through the day to be incarcerated in a new stockade each night. Bread and soup were doled out in the morning and the evening, bread and water at noon. The companionship of his own kind greatly cheered Certamen, as did Defensor’s slow recovery from his whipping.
The Ors were inseparable. They walked together and ate together. At night, they took turns guarding against thieving Mixies while the rest slept in a huddle. As other gangs of slaves merged with theirs, more Ors joined them. For some, the eviction from their farms had been very recent. Others had traveled from the extremities of the Sables’ realm—the hem of the Bony Mountains and the coast.
They agreed Certamen should remain the knife’s guardian. It was both an honor and a burden. As the days passed, the blade’s preciousness grew. This hope wrought of metal was surely a gift of Aurelian, but its promise was tempered by the uncertainty of its purpose. How could a single knife save them?
On the fourth day, just before noon, the slaves entered a large encampment on the crumbling banks of the Rim. They were hemmed in on one side by its sluggish waters and on all others by Sable spears. Above them loomed a large boulder, on which were perched two figures. One was a female Sable clad in armor. The other sat hunched on a black throne, the details of his features lost in dancing shadow.
The Champion.
A peculiar ecstasy gripped Certamen. The knife hidden beneath his tunic could pierce that veil of night. Pressing it against the Champion’s throat would be enough to force the Sables’ surrender, to wrest freedom for the Ors. This must be why Aurelian had given them this weapon.
There must be some way to reach the Champion. But how could Certamen get past the wall of spears? The cordon enclosing the slaves was six men deep.
Bound Purpures were hustled into the enclosure. Staffs pinned them to the ground as their handlers removed their chains. The Sables withdrew in unison. The Purpures leapt up, their howls brimming with menace.
“The Sables have let the beasts loose amongst us!” someone cried. People began to wail.
As the Ors formed a protective circle, Certamen shook his head at the irony of what was unfolding. His concern for the Purpures’ survival had proved to be misplaced. The Sables had intended to use them to massacre the other slaves all along. That was why they had starved the brutes.
He slipped his hand inside the tunic, undid the cloth wrapped around the knife, and gripped the hilt. He had to draw it at the last possible moment. A glimpse would be enough for the Sables to recognize it.
Stones rained down on the Purpures, no doubt to rile them further. No, the battering of missiles was forcing them to retreat. They backed toward the river, turned, and dashed into its turquoise water. They waded across its vast girth, the water reaching their waist and then their shoulders, till the river threatened to swallow them entirely. Some of them emerged on the far bank, only to disappear into the forest. It was difficult to be sure if they had all made it or if the river had swept some of them away.
The woman on the rock addressed the assembly. “I speak for the Champion, paramount servant of the Dark Light, the steward of his people, the speaker of his word, the enforcer of his law, the ruler of Elysion and its peoples. Know this, you children of vanquished Lights—the Champion gives you your freedom. He decrees that the lands on this side of the river Rim belong to the Sables alone. You and your descendants are henceforth banished. The punishment for trespassing is death, irrespective of reason. The ford before you is your means of departure.”
The Mixies roared and wailed. Some cried that this was murder. The water was too high. The Purpures had nearly drowned. Others protested their unpreparedness for exile. They had no food or tools, no means to survive in the wilds.
The Champion’s voice boomed above them. “Your Lights shall provide!”
Lines of warriors closed like the jaws of a terrible predator, kneading the crowd in on itself, pushing it toward the river.
“Hold hands,” Certamen yelled to his companions.
The chain of Ors twisted and strained as panicked Mixies buffeted it. The crowd compressed into a single mass that slid blindly toward the river. Faces were ugly with fear. A man held a screaming infant above his head. Another tried to cling to those around him as he slipped beneath the trample. A woman begged in vain for her missing child.
Water lapped Certamen’s ankles. The river washed the crowd apart. Libamen and Cor slowly waded deeper, carefully probing for the shallowest route, stretching the chain of Ors behind them. Certamen fought against the current, his legs struggling to carve labored steps through the icy water. As the water rose, the numbness in his feet spread up his body to his chest. He glanced back at the lines of Sable warriors on the shore sweeping the last of the slaves into the Rim. The river was full of slaves wading, swimming, struggling, drowning.
A Mixy, insane with panic, seized Galea and dragged him under the water. Cor and Defensor, who held his hands, strained to pull him up against the combined force of the Mixy and the river. Breaking the chain, Urbanus rushed to their aid and beat Galea’s assailant with his free fist, but the Mixy refused to let his victim go. Twisting one hand free of his neighbor, Certamen drew the knife and pulled the chain after him. The sun flashed on the blade as he thrust it at Galea’s attacker. His roar became a gurgle as the river swallowed him. The wounded man drifted away from his victim, a feathery cloud of blood spreading from his corpse.
With agonizing difficulty, the broken links in the chain reformed. The Ors drew nearer to each other. Still clutching the knife in one hand, Certamen held on to the chain with the other. Whatever else happened, he must not lose this weapon.
As they started to move forward again, the riverbed plunged beneath him. The icy waters coiled around him, squeezing his chest, prying at his mouth and nose. He might be still clinging to the chain, but he was too numb to be sure. Lost in the shapeless murk, he thrust the knife upward, uncertain if it reached the surface.
Take the knife. It’s more important than me.
The chain refused to let him go. Hands seized him, pulled him upward. His head emerged from the river, permitting him to take a shivery breath.
“Are you okay?” Defensor asked.
Certamen nodded. His jaw shook uncontrollably.
Defensor grinned. “Watch your step in the future.”
The water rose until it closed around Certamen’s throat like icy fingers. The little wooden tablet bobbed against his chin. The current strengthened. It threatened to lift him off his feet and carry him away, but he put his trust in the hands holding his and pressed on. The water gradually receded, and trembling with exhaustion and cold, the Ors emerged from the river.
A Purpure burst from the foliage.
Certamen
waved the dagger at the beast. “You know what this is, don’t you? This will cut through you like butter if you come anywhere near us.”
The Purpure winced as the sun’s reflection on the blade danced over its face. It disappeared back into the forest.
Certamen collapsed onto his knees. His whole body ached.
“Look!” Fidelis cried, pointing at movement in the bushes. Lots of movement.
Certamen stood and readied his knife while the others seized stones and bits of wood.
“Consilium!” Galea cried, pointing to one of the emerging Ors. They were armed with crude clubs.
Consilium, the Legate of the Eleventh Legion, grinned. The disparate clumps of Mixies still struggling across the river, intimidated by the Ors gathering on the bank, veered away to seek another place to exit. So many Ors had not been gathered in one place since they arrived on Elysion.
“Good afternoon, friends,” Consilium said. “Welcome to south of the Rim and its freedoms, such as they are.”
“Freedom to starve,” someone chirped, earning a couple of chuckles.
Consilium’s grin didn’t waver. “Take heart that it is little different from the Sables’ domain. When the first of us arrived here, we assumed we had been driven into a wasteland, but we quickly realized the boundary of the Sables’ domain was as arbitrary as our banishment. The Sables have foolishly given away the world to keep one little corner for