Out of Omiesh (M/M flash fiction: adult content advisory)

(This is set in my Lonhra Sequence universe, which readers of my Cleis Press story ‘Saints and Heroes’ might remember. These two men aren’t lovers yet, but I thought their meeting deserved more than the two sentences it has in my notes.)

The bribed bailiff walked around a corner, her sandals slapping on dusty pavement.

In an alley behind Abar Omiesh’s least frequented flesh market, the mercenary Ralseur Evini stared down at his new slave.

Golden skin indicated a Danessa native far from home in this hostile eastern land. The youth’s russet hair was hacked short as another mark of servitude. These days, most slaves were war prizes, usually aristocratic Great House soldiers. This one looked almost too frail to be any kind of warrior. He was branded with the Omiesh Shell on his left shoulder blade and wore a plain bronze collar welded around his neck.

Ral said, “Understand this. I did not buy you for pleasure. You’re pretty enough, but I don’t bed slaves or the unwilling. Behave, and I’ll treat you fairly. Can you walk?”

The slave nodded, flickers of suspicion and hope showing from behind his blank expression. He was dressed in cheap brown cotton breeches, his upper body exposed and striped pink with whip scars. Above his bare feet, his ankles still showed the half-healed abrasions of metal restraints and rope.

“Walk a step behind me. Carry these.” Ral unloaded his lesser gear on the younger man, arranging straps so the slave could run without dropping anything: Ral’s bedroll, an oiled canvas greatcoat, a tiny valise of cooking gear and basic medical supplies, and a ten-inch steel knife in a scabbard with a spring loaded clip. The latter piece, Ral fastened to the carry strap concealed between the bedroll and the slave’s chest. The slave could draw it with one move.

The slave knew better than to look surprised, which gave Ral some hope.

Ral looked around as he tossed his formal pale blue and black surcoat over his left shoulder. The Cold Coast colors of his birthright would stand out nearly as well as if he’d worn them over his armor.

From the knapsack he’d kept, Ral eased out a small codex bound in iridescent blue-gray gir wood.

The slave sucked in a startled breath.

“It’s worth more than you, and I spent half my war pay to get you out of the Queen’s hands. Can you translate this?” Ral opened the book, riffling through gray gir-paper pages inscribed with arcane symbols in dark blue ink. Like the wood, that paper never rotted.

The slave kept his mouth shut and glared back at Ral.

“Please. Do you know how many bribes I just paid for you? Your cohort was taken forty days ago in the first battle between Omiesh and Danessa, on sanctioned battlegrounds. The Danessa dispatches were burned in a good, hot fire, then pissed upon to scatter the ashes. That’s a scribe’s work, or an intelligencer’s. Someone wanted you silenced enough to cut out your tongue, but not enough to kill. So you are of use to someone who trusted someone else to hide you in plain sight. My coin got in the way, but my ownership won’t last if the Queen finds you missing. So. Can you translate this? It’s ancient Dana, and Danessa’s the last place still using it.”

The slave’s warm brown eyes narrowed. He glanced down again at the revealed pages, then nodded. Ral saw a glimmer of sharp interest on his face. A new goal. The lad would follow that book halfway across the world.

With a charcoal pencil, Ral wrote a name on a scrap of tan paper, folded the note, and tucked it into the book. He shoved pencil stub and codex back into the knapsack, and secured it to the slave’s pile. “Good. We are leaving this city now. Stay with me until we reach a neutral caravan waiting past the bridge. After that, your erstwhile masters will think twice about meddling.”

They passed onto the bridge unchallenged. The bridge itself was a wonder worth more than two or three lesser cities: eight hundred feet of seasoned gir wood pylons, slats, and twisted gir fiber cables, its working span forty feet wide.

Nearly across the bridge, Ral noted a commotion far behind them. He caught a glimpse of spears in sunlight, of ornate red and white surcoats.

“Don’t run yet. If we part, keep the codex. Go for the northern caravan stages. Find a convoy under the flag of a silver leaf on a green field. Seek a sorceress called Harilka, the name on the note. She’ll get you back to Danessa.”

Ral steered them close to another group of mercenaries showing off their own draped colors. Ral tapped the slave’s shoulder, then tugged his surcoat. The slave gave a small nod. He nearly tripped into the mercenaries. While they laughed and pushed him away, Ral ducked behind to deftly exchange his own dangling surcoat for one in Throngland’s dark blue and gold.

He drew the slave aside, ducking to the other side of a hay wagon. They passed the land-gate guards, then reached the northern ramp that led up to the crowded and dusty camps of the disbanding army.

Shouts behind them told Ral when the Queen’s guards caught up to the mercenary carrying Cold Coast colors. Ral took the slave’s arm and half-dragged the youth under the formal gir wood arch signifying a treaty zone. “Keep walking –” he said.

Someone else grabbed his free arm and pulled both men under a shadowy awning.

The slave drew his hidden knife, forcing himself between Ral and the newcomer.

“Oh, please,” someone mocked in the gloom. Brilliant green light whirled around them. Ral felt no ground under his feet. When the world righted itself, he and the slave were nowhere near Omiesh. Golden dunes rose on his left hand. He smelled a different sea.

“Harilka, you like stopping hearts?” Ral grumbled, easing his bewildered companion away from the newcomer. The emerald gauze mantle hinted at a woman’s face and body.

“You were almost too slow. I don’t think the Queen’s guards saw you, but I didn’t want to chance it. I like your coins, and I want you to have many more chances to earn them for me.” She held out green-gloved hands.

The slave coughed, hands going to his newly bare throat, then his mouth. “What?” he croaked.

“I’m an Illarhun sorceress,” said the hidden woman. “Part of Ral’s coin paid for your restoration while in transit.”

Ral sighed and counted off another fifty gold inlaid gir wood coins. As he dropped them into her hands, they vanished in sparks of emerald fire. “Couldn’t you conjure coins?”

She snickered. “Gir wood resists such magic. My master has rules about earning wealth. Have fun, Ral.” She vanished in another wash of green sparks.

“Her name isn’t really Harilka, I’m sure,” said Ral. “We’re safe enough now. Omiesh is on the other side of the continent. I can get you home to Danessa from here.”

“My name is Benian,” said the freed slave, slowly. His eyes tracked over Ral’s height, broad shoulders, and thick icy blond braids. “My kin weren’t going to ransom me. So I’d rather stay with you and the codex. I – am a free man now. And not unwilling,” he finished, blushing.

It was a good look on him, Ral decided.