The Queen's Blade Prequel I - Conash: Dead Son (7 page)

“Bring
her!”

Sharem pulled
Conash into the circle once more, and the other man brought his boy
forward. The man shoved his slave at Conash, who stepped back.

“Fight her,
Runt,” Sharem ordered.

The boy glanced
at him in surprise and shook his head.

“Fight her, or
I'll beat the stuffing out of you!”

The other boy
received the same kind of encouragement from his owner, punctuated
with slaps. It took a few more slaps to force the boy to face his
opponent, and the men settled back to watch, sniggering. The youths
circled, making ineffectual swipes at each other, and a wine bottle
bounced off the other youth's back, making him yelp.

“Fight! Don't
dance!” a shout came from the crowd, and a mutter of agreement
followed it.

The other boy,
who was taller and huskier than Conash, charged him and knocked him
down, straddled him and punched him in the face. Sharem jumped
up.

“Hey! Stop
that!”

“It's supposed
to be a fight, Sharem,” the other boy's owner shouted.

“No hitting the
face! You'll damage her! She has more competitions to win!”

The crowd
laughed, and the other boy received a nod from his owner. He
punched Conash in the chest and arms, boxed his ears and smacked
his face. Conash tried to fend him off with raised arms, but was
hopelessly outmatched. After a beating that lasted several minutes
and brought roars of laughter from the men, the bigger boy's owner
called him off. Sharem took Conash back to his tent and shackled
him for the night, giving him a kick for losing him a silver.

The following
morning, when Sharem's kick woke Conash, he was feverish and
sweating. The Cotti cursed, glaring at him.

“You've caught
the fever, stupid boy. You'll probably die in a few days.” He
looked thoughtful. “I should use you for sport, like your sister.
But no, you're worth ten silvers now. I turned down an offer just a
few days ago, and now I wish I'd accepted it. Maybe you'll survive.
Some do, but only a few.”

Sharem gave
Conash a flask of water and left him to sweat it out. Conash stared
at the tent roof, fighting the shivers that racked him and the
nausea that churned his stomach. He hoped he would die. That would
end his hopeless, miserable existence, at least.

Chapter Four

Conash gazed
across the desert, which the sunset's ruddy light burnished.
Somewhere out there, across the sea of sand, was the verdant land
of his birth. He sensed it, as if some remnant of his cat traits
lingered, and he could almost smell its rich fecundity. After four
years, it was a distant memory, tarnished and dim. The longing to
return was the only thing that touched him now. The humiliation,
beatings, endless insults and sneers did not touch him. There was
nothing to touch; his heart was dead. Most of it had died with
Rivan and his parents, the rest had perished with his sisters and
younger brother.

A moon-phase
after Ryana's death, Shinda had performed the same hopeless dance
and fallen to the hot sand to lie still. A tenday after that, he
had been given Orcal's body to bury. Only Alenstra's fate remained
a mystery, but he assumed that she was dead too. A year after he
had recovered from the fever that had killed his younger siblings,
Sharem had sold him for a golden, as a salted slave. Now he
belonged to a drunken reprobate named Arlec, who treated him far
worse than Sharem had. He had not thought that possible until Arlec
had bought him.

The sub
commander was a cruel man who delighted in inflicting pain and
humiliation. Several times, he had forced Conash to lick his boots
clean, and twice, in drunken furies, he had thrown the boy down and
threatened to kill him. Cotti men scorned buggery, but took immense
pleasure in humiliating the Jashimari slave boys in the camp.

At sixteen,
Conash was a willowy youth, and clearly the Cotti men found him
attractive, especially when Arlec dressed him as a girl and paraded
him at the gatherings. Conash always won the competitions, and had
become a popular sport boy, forced to sit on the soldiers' laps and
endure their lecherous pawing. Several men treated him with a good
deal of kindness, gave him wine and stroked his hair. Although
there were plenty of broken-down whores in the camp, none of them
were especially pretty.

Sharem and
Arlec had protected Conash's looks, since they profited from them,
and he still had all his teeth. Arlec had purchased a pretty dress,
and used water bags to fill the bodice, perfecting Conash’s
costume. Newcomers were, at times, fooled by him, to the vast
amusement of the veterans. His hair hung to his waist in a
straight, silken fall, which Arlec insisted that he keep clean and
brushed.

During the day,
it was braided while he dug fresh latrine pits, carried stores, ran
errands and polished armour. Arlec hired out his services to other
officers, and a pile of tarnished armour always stood ready for
him. In the evenings, he stood at Arlec's side and filled his wine
cup, brought him meat from the fire and water to wash his hands.
Most of all, he was Arlec's whipping boy, there to vent his anger
upon whenever the urge took him. On those occasions, Conash would
crouch and cower while Arlec punched, kicked and spat on him.

Arlec also
enjoyed slapping Conash's face for the slightest excuse, and
sometimes for no reason at all. The Cotti's big, rough hands hit
hard enough to make Conash yelp and his eyes sting, the only time
he ever cried out. Which was, he reflected, probably why Arlec
enjoyed it so much. The powerful slaps made his skin burn for
time-glasses, and now he flinched whenever anyone touched his face,
a reaction that had become instinctive.

Conash stumbled
forward when Arlec tugged on the thin chain, his conversation with
another officer, which had caused him to stop, over. They were on
their way to a gathering, and Conash wore the dress, his hair loose
about his shoulders. New boys were brought to every gathering to
compete, but as yet none had beaten him. After about two years of
complete dispassion, Conash had rediscovered hate, and it fuelled
his will to live, which had faded with the deaths of his sisters.
He hated Arlec and Sharem, but then, he hated all of them. His
mother's words rang often from his memory, and he treasured them.
He had hardly spoken in four years, and was not certain he still
could.

Arlec led him
into the light, and the men greeted his arrival with mutters of
admiration and derision. The fire was smaller than usual, and
Conash surmised that there was a shortage of wood. The Cotti stole
it from the borderlands, but it was precious.

One of his
admirers came over and gave him a sip of wine, stroked his hair and
pinched his cheek.

“You're going
to win tonight, pretty boy,” he murmured. “I'd buy you, if only
Arlec would part with you.”

Conash stared
into the fire. Other boys were brought forward, and the competition
began. He took no interest in it, although another of his admirers
gave him several sips of wine when he won. The fire died down too
soon, and the men grumbled. Arlec drank himself into a stupor and
snored on the sand. Conash sat beside him, waiting to be taken back
to the tent. A number of whores mingled with the crowd, and
vanished into nearby tents every so often, to re-emerge dishevelled
and battered.

The boy glanced
down at Arlec, who gripped the end of the slender chain in a meaty
fist, and it was also tied around his wrist. He needed to use the
latrine, but Arlec was not going to be of any use in that regard.
One of his admirers sat close by, and Conash edged over to him and
touched his shoulder. The officer looked around, and Conash mimed
his need. The man glanced at Arlec and grimaced, then put aside his
wine cup and rose. Freeing the chain from Arlec's limp hand, he led
Conash towards the nearest latrine pit.

While the boy
was busy, a scream made the officer turn, then head towards the
fire. Remembering Conash, he stopped and looked back.

“Stay here.
Don't try to run, boy, you won't make it very far. I'll be back
soon.”

The officer
dropped Conash's chain and trotted towards the ruckus, which had
escalated to shouting and the clash of weapons. The boy gazed
across the undulating dunes, turning in the direction in which he
was certain Jashimari lay. What did it matter if he died? It would
be better than continuing this hopeless existence. It was, in fact,
what he craved. What did he have to live for? Why did he persist in
living? His heart was already dead, and bitterness and loathing
steeped his spirit. The lure of his homeland drew him like a
magnet.

Conash picked
up the chain and walked into the desert. The night was moonless, so
his tracks would be invisible. With Arlec comatose, no one would
bother to hunt him. They knew he could not walk all the way to
Jashimari.

The boy
crawled. His legs had long since lost the strength to carry him.
The sun cooked his back, and sweat dripped onto the sand in front
of his face. The water in the bags that had filled his bodice had
run out a day ago. His hair dragged in the sand, and the dress was
worn to rags. The thin chain, which he had wrapped around his neck,
weighed him down. The sand burnt his palms and clogged his nose.
His arms were red and blistered and his breath rasped in a dry
throat. He moved a hand forward, then a knee. One hand, one knee.
The other hand, the other knee. The sand crept past his face.

Conash became
aware that he was toiling up another dune. One of many. Countless,
endless, unrelenting dunes. He hated dunes. He hated sand. He
detested the desert and the Cotti and the dress in which he was
clad. There was nothing he did not hate. He loathed the daytime
heat and the cold at night. Everything deserved his fury. No one
had helped him or cared about his fate. No one had saved him. He
would save himself or die trying. How far had he crawled? How many
man-lengths? How many days?

The pain of his
burning palms and blistered skin goaded him. The agony of his raw
throat and shrunken belly gave him strength. He could not lie down
and die, the sand was too hot. He could not slake his thirst, there
was no water. One hand, one knee. Dragging, sliding, burning. One
hand, one knee. No one had helped him. He hated them all. They
would all rot in Damnation. He crawled.

The sand
crumbled under his palms, and he tumbled down a slope. Sand filled
his mouth, but he could not spit it out, he had no spit. Pain
flared from his raw skin, abraded by the sand. He rolled onto his
stomach and levered himself onto his hands and knees. Crawl. One
hand; one knee. Where was he going? He had forgotten. Somewhere.
Anywhere. So much pain; so much hatred. It was all he had left. He
was dead; his body just had not received the message yet. Soon it
would, and then the pain would end. Rivan was waiting. Why did he
struggle onwards?

The cat gazed
at him from his memory, golden eyes aglow. A set of paw prints
appeared in the sand before him, and he frowned at them. He raised
his head. Rivan sat in the sand ahead, waiting for him. He crawled
faster. Hand, knee, hand, knee, hand, knee. Flee flee flee flee.
Why had he not listened? Rivan waited for him. He would reach the
cat, then he would die in his familiar's warm presence. Rivan stood
up and walked away.

Conash tried to
call his familiar's name, but only a hiss came from his parched
throat. Crawl faster. Hand knee hand knee hand knee.
Move!
Rivan waited ahead, watching him.
Wait for me! I'm coming,
Rivan. I'm coming. Soon. I'll get there.
Hand knee hand knee.
The cat rose and walked away. Conash gazed at him in despair.
Wait!
He could not go any faster.
Wait for me.
Harsh
breaths came to him. His own. Rivan purred, and his warm vibrations
gave Conash strength, but not enough. His arms buckled, and he
ploughed into the sand. It filled his mouth. He shook it out, his
tongue rustling.

Rivan walked
back to him and flopped down. Conash reached out and touched the
cat, his burning fingers sinking into soft, cool fur. He sagged
with a sigh. He could die now, Rivan was with him. A shadow. A
shadow cat. A ghost. Rivan had come for him. He was shadows. Cool,
calm, dead. Like Conash. The boy who had been Conash, but was no
longer. Dead boy. Dead Son. Born dead in a river of blood under a
Death Moon in a blizzard, and given a grave-name. How many ill
portents were needed for one boy's birth? He was not even a boy
anymore. He was nothing. He was death.

Rivan rose and
walked away, and the creature that had been Conash followed. Paw
prints marked the sand, leading him on. Leading him where? Hand
knee hand knee. What was he now? What was left of him? Only hatred,
bitterness and fury. His dead familiar had returned to lead him out
of the desert, or was he dead, and this was Damnation? It looked a
lot like Damnation. It was certainly hot enough. The creature that
had once been Conash chuckled. It came out as a rustle.

Soon his body
would realise that it was dead. The sooner the better. He did not
know how much more crawling he could endure. He had been crawling
for centuries. Ages had come and gone while he had been crawling
through the desert, and still there was no end to his torture. This
was his punishment for being born dead. For betraying his people.
For bringing death through the pass. He had unleashed it, now he
would suffer it. The ages turned, now the Age of Plants, then the
Age of Elements, now the Age of Beasts.

Rivan walked
ahead, his tail twitching. He had such a long tail. Conash had
spent many happy time-glasses playing with it. As a child, as a
boy, when he had been alive. Now he was dead, like Rivan. He
followed the paw marks in the sand. Hand knee hand knee. He would
get there, wherever Rivan was going. It was all he wanted now. He
had to find his dead familiar. Dead boy. Dead cat. So much blood.
He crawled.