Lord of Raven's Peak (Viking Era 3)

“I’m sorry that you were used in that way. I cannot allow that to happen to

Taby.”

“You are helpless to prevent it. You are a slave yourself. It matters not if you have royal blood flowing through your veins. You’re nothing now, less than nothing, a pawn in Thrasco’s endless games.”

“You speak very well for a wretched slave, Cleve!”

He grinned at her. “The master who used me also educated me. It gave him pleasure to discuss philosophy with me whilst he raped me. Also, when he was done with me and well sated, he enjoyed lying there, toying with my hair, speaking of the ancient Greeks and their strange ways. Your spirit will get you beaten to death, if you do not measure your words. Keep your mouth closed, little girl, else this magical cream won’t be able to heal you.”

She thought furiously, but gave it up, saying, her voice slurred with sleep, “Aye, you’re right. I’ll forget about him. What is one little boy? Naught to anyone.”

Cleve frowned at those words. Even after such a short time he recognized them as not sitting well on those thin, scrappy shoulders. Still, he said nothing. He rose and stared down at the girl’s back. “There is no more bleeding. Thrasco said I could bathe you on the morrow and give you clean clothes. He will come and inspect you himself. You will mind your tongue.”

“Clean clothes would be nice,” she said, and nothing more.

Still frowning, Cleve said, “He won’t think to demand you appear naked in front of him since he has no liking for boys, so you will be protected for a little while, but I cannot imagine that you will look much like a boy once you’re clean.”

“I’ve been a boy for a very long time. No one has guessed. It was my only protection and it worked.”

“Then you have been in a land of stupid people.” Cleve turned to leave her, though he worried, and wondered why he did so. She was naught of anything, just a slave, and she would be gone soon to Old Evta—that or Thrasco would discover her sex and she would probably be sold to a brothel or beaten to death.

“Thank you, Cleve,” he heard her call after him. Aye, if Thrasco discovered her sex, he just might kill her for ruining his plans. He knew the sister of Khagan-Rus, Old Evta, would never want a girl in her household. She had only female slaves who were older than the murky swamp that lay just to the west of the Dnieper.

It wasn’t his problem. What would happen would happen. She had courage, but of course she was stupid to show it. Look what it had gotten her. Flat on her belly with a raw back. It just made him sad to think of that girl dead, or worse.

Although what could be worse than death? He could not even bring the image of his long-dead mother’s face to his mind. Death was the last thing anyone could wish for.

It was dark, finally. From the single narrow window in the chamber, she could see only blackness. There was no moon and the stars were laced over with billowing dark clouds. Aye, it was very dark, thank the gods.

Laren had finished another bowl of broth, spoken only briefly to Cleve, for Thrasco needed him to serve at the evening meal. She begged him to leave her the basket of soft bread for the night. He’d left it, the fool. She wrapped it in a bit of torn cover from the bed. She wished she had something other than her rags, but she didn’t. At least she’d wrapped the rest of the cover around her body beneath the rags. She looked like a boy now, no one would ever suspect. She was thin, her breasts weren’t all that lavish and she’d flattened them to almost nothing with the cover, and her hair was short and ragged. Too, she was so dirty, smelled so rancid, she doubted anyone would even notice what sex she was, or care. She wished her back didn’t nearly send her to her knees with pain, but she locked it away from her, this pain that wouldn’t stop, and gritted her teeth against any sound she wanted to make, any moans that would attract attention.

The door wasn’t locked. If it had been, she would have managed to ease through that narrow window. She eased out into a dim narrow corridor like a dark shadow. Beneath her feet was a rough wooden floor, not packed earth, and overhead was a low ceiling of whitewashed beams. There were no furnishings in the corridor. She tried to remember being brought into the household. She pictured it in her mind and took a left turn when the corridor forked.

She heard men talking—surely they were guards—and pressed her back against the wall. It was rough and she gasped with the pain in her back. How many were there? The boards creaked beneath her feet.

“What was that?”

“What? You’re hearing yourself eat, you fool, naught else.”

“I’d best go see. You know Thrasco.”

Laren forgot the pain in her back. She was as still as a stone. She saw the shadow of a man. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He took a step toward her, then paused, listening.

Another man called out, “You see, I told you there was naught. Be quiet and drink. Or give the ale to me. No one is there, no one is ever there.”

There was a grunt, followed by a deep belch. Another man laughed.

She slowly let out her breath. She waited and waited still longer. Then she walked as quietly as she could, skimming against the wall, always going left when she had a choice. She heard many voices now, even Thrasco’s, if she wasn’t mistaken. If it was Thrasco, it had to be the dining quarters, the gluttonous heathen.

Finally she reached a narrow door. She turned the iron handle, and eased out into a foul-smelling alley. She smelled fetid water and wondered how Thrasco could have such a clean house and such filth at his doorstep. It didn’t matter, she’d managed to escape. She nearly yelled with relief. She did let out a huge pent-up breath, jerking at the pain it brought her. She stopped a moment, just standing there, trying to gain control again. Her back burned and throbbed. She thought she felt damp stickiness and wondered if some of the slashes were bleeding again.

She was nearly free. It didn’t matter. Her back would heal, only not here, not in Thrasco’s house, not in Kiev. She would get Taby and they would travel north to Chernigov, a town just on the east bank of the Dnieper—she’d heard a slave speak of it. Surely it was not more than three days’ walk from here. She would steal them clothes; she would become a widow, Taby her child. She would survive, and she would see that Taby survived. It was her first opportunity to escape and she intended to succeed. In the past she would never have managed to get this far. She supposed she had the beating to thank. Thrasco would never imagine that anyone would try to escape with a back in shreds.

Suddenly she heard men’s voices. They were speaking quietly, from just down the way, to her right. They were sneaking toward her. They were thieves. Or they were Thrasco’s men. It didn’t matter. She closed her eyes a moment, wondering if every god of every country were against her, then she shrank back into the blackness, knowing she was trapped against the house. She couldn’t run, she couldn’t move, else she would run into the men. She wouldn’t go back into Thrasco’s house.

They were silent now, but she could hear their soft footfalls. There were two of them. No more. Just two men. If they were thieves, surely they wouldn’t be interested in her. She was nothing, less than nothing. Ah, but she would be there and thus they would probably kill her.

She wanted to scream at the unfairness of it. She was trapped and any second now they would see her and that would be the end of her. And of Taby. She crouched down, trying desperately to press against the house, to become just one of the shadows that clung to the night.