EPILOGUE
Ilianwe woke from an uneasy sleep, memories of dreams fleeing even as she tried to grasp them. Was this what it felt like to be merely human? If so, she did not like it. Bad enough that she be chained like a slave, unable to stand or ease her aching limbs, but the iron that encircled her flesh caged her very soul. No wonder her dreams were full of panic and fear. No wonder she woke in cold sweats, her head pounding.
No, it was not her head. Heavy wheels rumbled overhead like thunder, then an answering boom shook the entire ship. Her captors were under attack. She scrambled across the deck to the full extent of her chains, trying to see up through the hatch. Shadows moved to and fro, orders were shouted, but the language of these sailors was strange to her: the speech of a clan distant in both space and time from her own kin.
Ilianwe was flung back against the mast as the ship took another hit. As she lay there, breathing shallowly to spare her battered ribs, she could hear the trickle of water coming through a breach in the hull. For the first time on this voyage she considered the very real possibility that she might drown whilst still chained and never be reborn. She twisted her hands in the manacles, wondering how much damage she would have to do to the bones to work them free. The seawater was swirling across the deck now, back and forth like the incoming tide as the ship rocked under fire. She spat on the iron, hoping saliva might provide enough lubrication to pull free, but her mouth was dry and only a few miserable drops spattered her flesh. Perhaps seawater would suffice?
Footstep sounded on the deck above, and other voices. Human voices, speaking… Arabic?
"Help!" she called out in that same language. "For the love of Allah, help me!"
The hatch creaked open and a man looked down into the hold. She could not make out his features, silhouetted as he was against the light.
"Who is that?"
"I am Islah bint Mehmed, a captive of these godless creatures." It was her mother's name, but would gain her more respect from these men than if they thought her a Christian.
Two men descended the ladder, dragging a skrayling with them. The skrayling unlocked Ilianwe's shackles, and one of the men helped her to her feet. She stretched her cramped limbs and allowed them to escort her up onto the main deck, blinking against the harsh sunlight. She smoothed her skirts, hoping she did not look too disreputable after so many days of captivity.
A tall, beturbaned figure strode up and down before the captive skraylings who knelt in a line before him. One of Ilianwe's escort spoke to him, and he looked round in evident surprise. When he caught sight of her he lowered his gaze respectfully.
"Madam? My men tell me they found you chained in the hold."
"That is correct. Thank merciful Allah you rescued me."
He glanced up briefly, but did not meet her eye. "You give a Muslim name and call upon God, yet you dress as a Christian."
"They stole my hijab and forced me to dress like this," she said, letting her voice quaver a little. It was not hard, after the privations of the past few weeks. "I think they wanted to sell me as a slave in Christian lands."
"How did you come to be a captive of these demons?" he asked.
"I…" She thought quickly. "I am a widow, sir. My husband was a captain in the army of Telli Hasan Pasha, but was sadly killed in the retreat from Senj. I was making my way to Constantinople to rejoin my family when the ship I travelled on was attacked by these creatures."
The corsair captain muttered a lengthy curse on the skraylings and their descendants, then gestured towards his own ship.
"Please, madam, allow me to escort you to my vessel. I would be happy to set you ashore, perhaps in al-Jaza'ir?"
"Thank you. I am afraid I have no money with which to pay for my passage–"
"I do not need your money, madam." He grinned. "The price I will get for these painted demons will make me richer than the pasha himself."
Ilianwe ventured a coy smile in return. A rich corsair who had no idea who or what she was, and a new start in a country halfway to England. Catalin might have succeeded in betraying her, but he had been so intent on guarding his plans that he had not noticed her more subtle intrusions into his memories. There were others of his kind in England, other young upstarts from whom she could take her pick. If she could not rule her beloved republic, she would have a kingdom in its place.
About the Author
Anne Lyle was born in what is known to the tourist industry as "Robin Hood Country", and grew up fascinated by English history, folklore, and swashbuckling heroes. Unfortunately there was little demand in 1970s Nottingham for diminutive swordswomen, so she studied sensible subjects like science and languages instead.
It appears that although you can take the girl out of Sherwood Forest, you can't take Sherwood Forest out of the girl. She now spends every spare hour writing (or at least planning) fantasy fiction about spies, actors, outlaws and other folk on the fringes of society.
Anne lives in Cambridge, a city full of medieval and Tudor buildings where cattle graze on the common land much as they did in Shakespeare's London. She prides herself on being able to ride a horse (badly), sew a sampler and cut a quill pen but hasn't the least idea how to drive one of those new-fangled automobile thingies.
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