Authors Note:
This is the second story about Zhura, following
While the Gods Slumber
chronologically.
This story should stand on its own, but many of the details will make more sense after reading through that story.
They lurched across the beach in a parade of sorrow, flowing robes and gowns fluttering in the ocean breeze. The starless sky, lit only by torchlight, bled away the bright colors of their garments. Rope bound the eight captives' hands behind them, and each to the next in line. When one stumbled, their tormentors struck him with whips and cudgels. The bitter procession headed towards a slim boat their captors had hauled up on the shoreline.
"Four guards," Ngo counted, gaze riveted on his quarry like the hunter he had been. He smeared mud on his face, covering over white tribal marks on his dark skin. "Two more waiting with the boat."
Zhura eyed her second companion as the three crouched in the long grass. Bayati drew a
mambele
from her leather pack, the hooked blades of the axe jutting from its haft like spiky branches from a tree limb. Fierce determination set the young woman's expression.
Bayati was a village merchant's daughter. She had less than a year's hard training with weapons. She had proved quick and strong, but this would be her first real fight.
The guards were burly and bare-chested, but appeared entirely human.
We can take six.
Zhura couldn't help but recall her encounter with bandit slavers in the hill village of Kichinka. That village had been Bayati's home. Zhura was sure her companion thought to her own friends and family who had met a similar fate. Slavery was a loathsome practice, virtually unknown in the forest that Zhura called home.
One of the captives slowed, wailing some appeal to the slavers. She was yanked to her knees in the sand and lashed with a whip. Out on the dark expanse of Silmani Bay, a light flashed briefly. A boat waited out on the water. Whoever was on that boat would be too far away to help these guards.
"Stay behind us," Zhura said to Bayati. "Free the captives as quickly as you can. Watch for any guards we miss."
She exchanged a glance with Ngo. The spearman hefted his shield, and leveled the black iron point of his weapon.
"Ready," he said.
They raced across the low dunes, the pounding surf matching Zhura's own even breaths. The sand was damp, but firm under her toes.
Demonic vigor coursed through her veins.
The slavers were too occupied with their captives to notice Zhura and Ngo coming, until it was too late. The first barely had time to see her and raise his cudgel before she whipped her staff around, the steel shod tip smashing into his jaw. He dropped. Zhura spun her weapon in her hands, and brought the end of the shaft down hard on his knee.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Ngo drive his man down with a shield charge and finish him. Ngo then turned upon the man leading the line of prisoners with torch and whip.
The captives tried to scatter. But tied together, they stumbled and presented a barrier, blocking Zhura from the guard on their seaward side. He called to his friends at the boat. They came running, short, curved swords in hand.
One of the boatmen staggered to the sand as Bayati's thrown
mambele
sunk into his side, the hooked blade piercing him just under the rib cage. Then Zhura was past the captives and upon the fourth guard.
He swung his club viciously, lunging to try to push her off balance. She sidestepped easily, letting him swing and miss. Flush with arcane energy, Zhura was much quicker. When she saw a clear opening, she bore his weapon down and offline. With a smooth pivot of her staff, she rammed the haft into his nose. He fell back, and she finished him with a blow to the throat.
Five guards were down. The last boatman sank to his knees and surrendered.
As soon as Bayati cut them loose, two of the captives fled across the sand towards the grass. The city of Namu, where they had been marched from, was only a couple of hours away up the strand.
"We came to help you!" Bayati cried, to no avail. The two soon vanished in the night.
"Who are you?" asked one of the captives. She was graceful, with arched eyebrows, and thin, shoulder-length braids that escaped her cowl. Like the others the three friends had freed, she was young and healthy-looking.
"House San hired us," Zhura said, "to catch slavers."
House San did employ Zhura and her friends. But it wasn't really slavers the nobles were interested in.
Out to sea, the light flashed.
"You're safe now," Ngo told the former captives, "we'll bring the Goldshields. If you need it, we can provide food and shelter for the night."
"What's out there?" Zhura asked the boatman who'd surrendered. She nodded towards the flashing light as Ngo tied the man's hands. "A slaver named Bluejar?"
The man, broad-faced and balding, said nothing.
"Tell us the truth, and we'll let you go," Zhura said.
He stared back at her and spat in the sand.
"As you wish," said Zhura. She turned back to the sea.
"You're not thinking..." Ngo began.
Zhura was thinking it. She and Ngo could take the ship.
But that would be reckless. She didn't know what was out there, and she couldn't risk either bringing Bayati into that fight, or leaving her onshore alone.
Bluejar, if he was out there, would have to wait.
"No," Zhura said to him. "Take anyone who wants to go to the guard post at Dugong Marsh. Bring the Goldshields back. Tell them we have captured slavers, with their ship still offshore."
Minutes later, the three friends had bound the three surviving guards with the palm fiber ropes they'd used on their captives. The Sung spearman set off through the marsh, leading five of the people they'd rescued -- each of them with captured weapons.
Zhura, Bayati and the elegant Ikanjan woman retreated to the cover of grass. From there, they could keep watch over the length of beach where they left the bound prisoners, guttering torches, and the boat.
"Why didn't you go with the others?" Zhura asked the stranger.
