“I will. As for my people?”
“They are now free subjects of the Greater Unified Realm and may do as they wish within the confines of the law. However”—Vaelin raised his hands, gesturing at their surroundings—“Captain Nohlen tells me the seams are rich here. If you wish, it’s within my power to grant licence for you to remain. All gold mined within the Reaches belongs to the queen, but you will receive one-quarter of the price gained for every shipment sold.”
“We are hunters, not miners.”
Vaelin glanced at a huddle of Moreska nearby. Unlike Alum, most were stick thin and hollow cheeked from lack of food, many with glistening wounds from recent whippings. “Your people need a home,” Vaelin said. “At least for now. As for hunting, the surrounding forest is yours as far as the broad river to the north. Beyond that the land belongs to the Bear People. They’re a generous folk, but jealous in guarding their hunting grounds.”
Alum looked away, his furrowed brow bespeaking both puzzlement and contemplation. “I am not Clan Chief of the Moreska. He died fighting the pirates. But we were brothers in war if not blood. Together we answered Emperor Aluran’s call when your people came to steal the ports on the Erinean coast. Together we marched with the host and together we witnessed the night when the man they called the Hopekiller came out of the desert to wreak fire and fury upon us.” He blinked and met Vaelin’s gaze. “The name they gave you, it doesn’t seem to fit.”
A small laugh escaped Vaelin’s lips, surprising in the bitterness he heard in it. It all seemed so long ago now, and yet the name Hopekiller still lingered like a ragged, stinking cloak he could never cast off. “It fit well enough then,” he said. “But I’ve earned a few more since.”
“I consider any blood debt settled by your actions this night,” Alum said, his voice possessed of a grave note that implied a sense of formal agreement. “But still, I feel the scales are weighed in your favour. Even so.” Alum’s gaze tracked to the small cluster of captive outlaws. “I find I must ask for one more thing.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“You can’t hang this one, Uncle. He’s far too pretty.” Ellese favoured the captive outlaw with a smile, running a finger along the youth’s jaw to the tip of his chin. “Can’t I keep him? As a pet, I mean.”
The outlaw stared up at Vaelin, pleading eyes bright in a pale, delicate face that contrasted with the brutish aspect of his fellow captives. “This is the one?” he asked Alum.
The Moreska nodded. “It was him.”
Vaelin moved closer to the captive, watching him tense in fearful anticipation. “Name?” Vaelin demanded.
The outlaw swallowed and coughed before forming a thin, barely audible reply, Vaelin detecting the broad vowels of southern Renfael in his voice. “Sehmon Vek, my lord.”
“Kin to Jumin Vek?”
“My cousin.”
“Your cousin’s dead. My niece killed him in the forest.”
Sehmon Vek glanced at Ellese, who replied with a broad smile. “Then she saved me a job, my lord,” the youth said, narrow shoulders moving in a shrug.
Vaelin grunted and inclined his head at Alum. “This man tells me you aided his people. Gave them extra rations, brought water when it was forbidden. He also says you unshackled their chains upon hearing our attack. Is that true?”
At this the other outlaws stirred, an angry murmur rising and one attempting to get to his feet, raising his bound hands in an effort to club the young outlaw. “You treacherous little fucker!”
One of the North Guard stepped forward and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man’s face, sending him sprawling and bloody to the ground. The others soon quieted as Vaelin’s gaze tracked over them.
“Never wanted any part of this, my lord,” Sehmon Vek said. “My family’s been outside the law for as long as any can remember, that’s true enough. But the Veks have always been smugglers, not slavers. After my pa died, Jumin came back from the north with promises of more gold than we’d ever seen.” He paused, casting a glance at Alum, rich in shame. “Didn’t tell us we’d be knee deep in filth whipping folk raw every day. It weren’t what I was raised for. But I did my part in it and I’ll take my due. It’s said the Departed take a dim view of those who die with lies on their lips.”
Vaelin searched Sehmon’s face for some sign of deception, some artifice hidden beneath the mask of his contrition. He found nothing, only the misery of guilt and the knowledge of impending death.
“The Queen’s Word decrees that slavery has no place in her Realm,” he said, addressing the outlaws as one. “Any found engaged in this vile practice are subject to execution without trial. Captain Nohlen.”
The captain stepped forward, saluting smartly. “My lord.”
Vaelin pointed at Sehmon Vek. “Release this one. Hang the others.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The youth’s bonds were cut whilst the remaining captives were dragged towards the gate. A couple shouted pleas for clemency; the rest either struggled vainly and hurled obscenities or slouched dumbly towards their end.
“Alum Vi Moreska has asked for your life,” Vaelin told the young outlaw. “I am minded to give it to him. This is my sentence for you, Sehmon Vek. You now belong to him. You will serve him as he sees fit until the day he decides to release you. This is not slavery, merely indentured servitude, which is within my province to impose. Under law you do, however, have the right to refuse.” Vaelin gave a pointed glance at the gate where the noose was being thrown over the lintel.
“I . . .” The lad faltered, swallowed hard and tried again. “I most happily agree, my lord.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Could’ve just given him to me,” Ellese admonished Vaelin as he stood in the centre of the compound to watch the executions. “I saw him first.” She fidgeted for a moment, her agitation increasing as a noose was slipped over the first outlaw’s head. “Do we really have to watch this?”
“You don’t,” Vaelin said. “I do. And if your mother had ordered it, she would watch too. When you order a killing, you need to see it, lest it becomes too easy.”
Tallspear appeared at Vaelin’s side with his typical absence of noise, his gaze dark as he watched a trio of North Guard haul on the rope. The outlaw’s desperate sobs for mercy died as he was dragged aloft, legs kicking in a frantic dance.
“I recall a time when your heart was more merciful, my lord,” the hunter said. “Even at the dawn of war.”