Blinded by the Sun: Erythleh Chronicles, #4

By Catherine Johnson

King Kavrazel has been leader of the country of Vuthron for a long time, more than half his life. He was young when the crown became his, a burden borne on a wave of grief following the death of both his parents. He's tried to be a good king and a good man, but he's had to find his own way. He cannot boast many guiding lights in his life. 

There are certain traditions that Vuthron embraces; traditions that have been the cause of wars in the past, but the country holds its customs sacred. Their practices have become more refined over the centuries, but they still require living bodies to fulfill them, and the slavers of the south deliver what the Vuthroans need. 

Lyssia's home is in the unforgiving desert of Sannarrell, or at least, it used to be. She was almost captured as a child by slave traders from Veltharesh, so her family sent her away to safety. Now her home is with the other refugees and rebels in Sken, a city hidden under the baking sands of the Southern Wastelands. They raid passing trade caravans to survive, and do their best to save their people from the clutches of Vuthron. 

A trap is set, and Lyssia is caught and sold. She finds herself in the royal castle, in the seat of the ruling power of Vuthron, beholden to her new master's whims. Her prison is not as secure as one might think, but the momentary break brings terror rather than freedom. Lyssia finds that, perhaps, escape isn't everything she thought she wanted. 

And when all is said and done, King Kavrazel finds that perhaps he's the one who's been ensnared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Johnson
• Release date: Jun 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533754431

Catherine Johnson

Catherine Johnson, PhD, is a writer specializing in neuropsychiatry and the brain and is the author of three previous books, including Shadow Syndromes with John J. Ratey. She lives with her husband and three sons in New York. Two of her sons have autism.

Book preview

Chapter One

The sun had passed its highest point in the heavens. By Lyssia's best guess, the raiding party didn't have much time to waste. The message they'd been given from their spies in Nari had contained news of a trade caravan leaving the city, one ripe with supplies that would be valuable, in some cases essential, to the Skenites. It was an opportunity that was too good to miss. It had taken them longer than usual to find a sand dragon and coerce it into the right position to be useful in their attack, and Lyssia was beginning to be worried that their mission would fail. Their successes relied on good fortune and good timing. They'd been fortunate again today, so far. Lyssia hoped that their luck held out, and that no one got crushed against the spiny hide, or whipped by the deadly tail of the wild and enraged beast.

Yah! Yah! Braedeth yelled, giving the lizard enough of a poke with his long lance to send it forward. It bared the rows of razor teeth in its stunted snout, but scuttled forward, looking for all the world like it was obeying the commands of the man who was a quarter of its size. The spike-covered lizards were aggressive and easily irritated. Those characteristics made them ideal for this purpose, but everyone had to keep their wits about them, and eyes in the backs of their heads.

Yah! Apparently Fett couldn't resist getting his lance in, too, but he'd prodded the lizard too soon, and in the wrong direction.

Lyssia debated sticking her lance into Fett, but that wouldn't have helped Braedeth, who was in imminent danger of being eaten. Braedeth was shouting, trying to drive the lizard back in the proper direction, whilst trying not to become a snack.

Move to the rear! Take my place! Lyssia yelled, shoving Fett out of the way with her shoulder.

He was going to argue. He was huge and intimidating. He had the advantage of half a man's height over her, and he was as dark as a slice of midnight come to life. Fett didn't like women being part of the raids at the best of times, but Lyssia wasn't going to give the arrogant giant a chance to fuck this raid up. Get out of the way! And try not to stick it in the arse.

She lowered her lance, and it seemed that Fett thought she might carry out such a threat on him. He backed away, slowly, but he gave her enough room to take over the left flank. Between the three of them, they persuaded the sand dragon to crest the dune, without losing a limb.

There was no time to wait around; the sand dragon wouldn't sit patiently until they were ready. Squinting, blinded between the harsh glare of the sun and the shadows of the dunes, Lyssia could just about make out the caravan below them, trudging along the valley between created by the steep peaks. Fett's little mistake had cost them valuable moments. Now they'd be attacking the middle of the train rather than confronting it head on. There was a chance that people could get hurt, Skenites and traders alike. Lyssia steeled herself not to think about the consequences of what they were about to do. Sken need the supplies that the traders carried. That was all that mattered.

Braedeth let out shrill whistle, the sign to attack. Lyssia muttered a count of three, and together, timed perfectly considering they couldn't see each other for the body of the beast, she and Braedeth yelled and jabbed at the same time. Miraculously, so did Fett. The sand dragon took off down the dune with an indignant, squawk-like roar. Lyssia had a moment to watch the faces of the traders turn upwards at the sound, to recognise the danger coming, and to see their fright.

The next moment, their ragtag party of twenty was hurtling down the dune. Lyssia was at the front of the pack, running and sliding down the sandy slope, yowling some incomprehensible battle yell, her lance held ready in both hands, its point aimed at a target.

~o0o~

Fucking dense, ignorant beast, Fett swore, and spat at the madavath's claws.

The lizard snapped, making Fett jump back. He was a massive man, and had no business being afraid of the lizard. However, calm as it was, the madavath had sharp teeth. If he didn't stop provoking it, he'd be reminded of that in a very painful way.

They're not ignorant, Lyssia defended the lizard. There, there. He didn't mean it. Fett scowled at her as she cooed at the madavath.

Whilst they were as large as the sand dragons, madavaths could be domesticated. The traders used them to move their goods across the desert. Wagons were no use; their wheels sank into the sand and found no traction to turn. Any other sort of cart or sled required something to pull it, and few animals found purchase on the shifting sands when burdened with such weight. The traders had come up with the solution of attaching the goods to the only thing capable of carrying anything across the desert.

Madavaths were infinitely easier to deal with than sand dragons, not least because their skin was smooth and not covered in sharp horns, but also because the traders ensured they were docile, and as a breed they were slower to aggravate. Or, at least, they were when they didn't have a tall, muscled man swearing at them. Lyssia edged forward, her hand out, palm upwards. She knew the madavath wouldn't be hungry; it was unlikely to bite her. It would see the passive gesture for what it was. Sure enough, the lizard lowered its mammoth head and took a sniff of her palm.

See, you're a friendly little fellow, aren't you?

Ignorant, fucking stupid, dense sand donkeys...

Hey! Lyssia exclaimed, interrupting Fett's diatribe. Instead of scaring it so much that it runs all the way to Velth, how about you go gather some of those packages the traders left?

When the traders had started to run, the Skenites had let them go. They weren't interested in staining the sand with blood without reason. They had no desire at all to kill anyone they didn't have to. The traders' deaths would bring them neither food, fortune, nor luck, so they let them run away.

Raiding had been easier these past years. Felthiss, the country that had previously supplied soldiers to guard the caravans, had been preoccupied by their war against Litt. All the experienced soldiers had been despatched to the front lines. Only the newest raw recruits had been left to guard the caravans, and that made them easy pickings. Lyssia foresaw that changing soon. The war in Litt had ended, and Felthiss had a new leader, one who seemed intent on negotiating peace with all countries, even Vuthron. Lyssia would bet her last skin of water that those negotiations hadn't included putting a stop to the slave trade, which was the reason for the Skenites' existence.

Some people, even some important people, had decried the Vuthroans' need to perpetuate their custom of the blood toast. Those people had also decried the way the blood drinkers procured their source, paying silver and gold to the greedy bastards who would sell a fellow human being for a pocket full of coins. Some had tried to stop the brutal traditions, all had failed, so still the slavers kept plucking their human wares from the sand.

Serwren was the new leader of Felthiss. Erkas, her brother, who had held the seat of power before her, had declared war on Vuthron over its gruesome traditions. That action had ensured that Erkas would forever be a hero to the people of Sken and Sannarrell, those most at risk of ending up at the point of a Vuthroan dagger. Erkas had had the confidence, the audacity, the courage, to stand up to the Vuthroans, and he'd been murdered for his bravery. Babies in Sken were named in his honour, toasts were drunk in his name. A forgotten nation mourned his passing.

The madavath was still sniffing her palm, looking for all the world like it wanted a nut to eat.

Come on, boy. She reached out and scratched it behind its ear hole. It leaned into her touch, much as a dog might have done, a dog that had a head larger than her body. Let's get you home. She kept her hand on its head, and started to walk. The madavath followed her, waddling along, with its tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth.

~o0o~

The middle of the desert was an area where lost people were never found, that wanderers never returned from, and where the traders never ventured. It was too hot, too desolate, too inhospitable, and too far from anything for anyone to bother with. The sands that made up the deserts of the Southern Wastelands were different in this region. Elsewhere, the sand was loose, it shifted into great dunes, and trapped the unwary. Here, the sand was packed into a hard, dense, deep layer and was baked to a brick-like solidness by the sun. There was covering of fine sand that could blind eyes or flay skin when the wind stirred it, but that only made it a more perfect location to make a home in.

There was a canyon that split the centre of the desert, but it wasn't charted on any maps, because no one who cared to document its location had ever lived to tell that they'd found it. Lyssia, Braedeth, Fett, the rest of their troop, and the laden madavaths, all made their way down the slope that heralded the southern end of the canyon. The walls were all smooth; their banded undulations, showing the history of the sands, had been worn smooth by the grit and wind.

As they ventured farther, the canyon became deeper. The shadows were impossibly cool in the heat of the blazing sun. A pole of rock, worn away from the body of the canyon, heralded the offshoot. The smaller channel was a kind of tributary for the wind. It was darker and barely wide enough for the madavaths to waddle down. The channel became a tunnel, and the floor began to slope downwards more sharply.

Eventually, the corridor opened out into a vast cavern that contained a subterranean lake. The ceiling was covered in stalactites, slimy fingers that dripped constantly into the water. There was an underground water system that allowed the Skenites to live as they pleased, within reason. It was the intense heat that killed everything and anything that tried to survive on the surface, not lack of liquid. Everything that was exposed to the sun was burnt to a crisp in hardly any time at all.

Almost immediately, all the huge lizards wandered off to lap up some refreshment. They were so absorbed in drinking that they didn't so much as twitch as they were relieved of their cargo. There were several boats waiting. The boatmen had been expecting their return, and now they were helping to fill the bows of their vessels and were picking up their long punts. The lake was large enough that the shore was not visible from one point of the compass to the other; the waters simply merged with the shadows. Each boat had oil lanterns fixed to the prow and the stern, and several along the low sides. Lyssia always found the journey across the still, glassy waters unnerving to the point of claustrophobic.

On the opposite shore of the lake to the tunnel was the gateway to the city of Sken itself. The cavern had been excavated and made habitable over time, and was now a complicated structure of tunnels and rooms that had been added to and improved as each new generation had sought their sanctuary within it. The high vaulted ceilings in the main hall overlooked staircases cut into the rock of the walls. The flights of steps took people to different levels of the cave system: living quarters, workshops, places of healing, and schools. An embryo nation was hidden and thriving in the caves.

There was a flurry of activity as the boats ground up onto the shallow banking. A small crowd was jostling to be first to the waterline. The cargo was handed off to the traders who would sell it on to the residents. Everything had a fixed price, so that no one could make an unreasonable amount of profit. Commercialism was against the principles of the way that the Skenites wanted to live in this new world they were building. They had tried simply giving away their hauls, and that hadn't worked out all that well. There had never been enough to be shared equally, and they couldn't justify a first come, first served basis. Riots had broken out when supplies had run low. That everything had a price was an anathema to the Skenites, that was the slavers' justification for turning on their brethren, but the system had its uses, if it was controlled.

The city was a shade warmer than cool. Entering the cave system that formed the city of Sken brought a clammy sweat to Lyssia's skin. The sun produced intolerable temperatures on the sand above, but those were unable to penetrate to the caverns below. The shadowy caves should have been cool, but the absence of sunlight was mitigated by the heat produced by so many bodies, and the result was stale and tepid air that felt unnatural to walk through. Since the city was underground, there was no wind. The only way the air moved was by people passing through it, but it was the same temperature as blood. Usually, it felt to Lyssia as though she was moving through fog, unless she had been on a raid, or they'd been fighting the slavers; then her body felt as if it was trying to turn itself inside out whilst the adrenaline took its sweet time to fade.

Lyssia had called Sken home for years. She had been thirteen when the slavers had first tried to abduct her. She had been fifteen when they had nearly succeeded in their second attempt. Her father, knowing that it wouldn't be the last time his daughter was sought out, had packed her off to the desert. For the next fifteen years she had remained hidden. For fifteen years she had made her life under the sands rather than over them. If her life had continued uninterrupted, she would likely have been a wife and mother, with half a dozen children tugging at her skirts.

She was not a mother, but she was a protector and a provider. She looked fondly about her at the knots of people going about their daily business. There was a ripple of excitement running through the city, as there always was when a raiding party returned. Their success meant food, medicines, cloth, and perhaps a few luxuries. Those that ventured beyond the safety of the hidden caves were also the soldiers, the protectors of those who could not fight, those that had to stay behind. Her other duty was to interfere with the work of the slavers wherever possible, and that was a duty that Lyssia relished. She felt a measure of recompense for the life that had been stolen from her when her blade sank deep between the ribs of some bastard attempting to abduct innocent children from an unsuspecting village.

The cave that she called home, her personal space, was at the end of a warren of staircases and tunnels, some of which she had to duck to pass through so that she didn't scrape her scalp or knock her skull. Her cave was compact, but comfortable. Since she was not messy by nature, it was tidy; everything was in its place. Such was the way of things in Sken, everyone lived simply, no one lived beyond their means. No one had wealth to flaunt; it wasn't a concept that would be tolerated, even if there were means to aspire to such lofty heights. Everything about the city, about all of its spaces, about the dwellings, could best be described as sparse.

The rush of adrenaline was ebbing. Raiding was the activity that Lyssia enjoyed least. It was necessary to the survival of the Skenites, but it left her feeling grimy with guilt; it was stealing. The nomadic traders depended on the success of their caravans every bit as much as the Skenites depended on the success of pillaging them. Most of the Skenite warriors felt exactly the same way, and subscribed to one of two techniques to avoid the yawning pit of self-recrimination. One method was to start drinking, and Lyssia was sure that Fett was already making a start on that course of action. The second, which she was equally sure that Fett would indulge in, was to fuck the misgivings away.

Lyssia didn't like the woozy feeling of disconnection that came from being drunk; she preferred to be in control of herself and aware of her surroundings at all times. Unless she truly wanted the half dozen children tugging at her skirts, the second option was not a practical one. There were plenty of opportunities to find a mate in Sken; indeed, she had a casual connection with Braedeth that both took advantage of when they felt the need arise, but their relationship had well-defined limitations.

Now, following the raid, Braedeth would be seeking more than Lyssia was willing to give. For all that they indulged in the quest for mutual pleasure, she had never offered her virginity to him. It wasn't that she disliked the idea of being joined to him by parenthood should she catch with child, it was that she abhorred the idea of raising her children in Sken. Years before, Lyssia had determined that she would rather die without having known the love of her own child, than to raise one in fear, in hiding. She would rather strive for a better life for the children both within and beyond the caves.

Having shut and locked the door to her room, Lyssia lifted the heavy mass of her hair from the back of her neck to allow the damp skin access to the dry air. She chose to braid her long hair, rather than attempt to wash it, or live with it shorn. The numerous thin braids were woven with colourful strands of wool, beads and feathers that clinked as she moved, unless she bound them with a scarf. Although water was available in Sken, there was not so much that it could be used without caution, and the systems for transferring fresh and dirtied water between the reservoir and all the dwelling places were still somewhat primitive.

Feeling only the merest bit relieved, Lyssia set about undressing. She unwound the long length of cloth that protected her skin and scalp from the brutal sun, and folded it into a neat square. She unfastened the leather strips and pieces that were the closest thing to armour that could be worn in the heat, and placed them to one side to be oiled at a later time. In the extreme temperatures and an atmosphere full of dust, if the hides weren't kept supple, they would soon stiffen and crack. She placed her clothes in a neat pile and, once naked, went to the bowl and pitcher that were tucked into a hollow in the wall. She lifted the scrap of cloth from the bowl and poured some water from the earthen jug so that she could wash herself. The water was not cold; it was the same temperature as the air. Its only redeeming quality was that it was wet.

The feeling of being clean barely lasted past the moments it took her to drop the cloth back into the bowl of gritty water. She was hungry, but she didn't have the energy to seek out food. Such an effort would have involved dressing and leaving the cave to mix with people. Lyssia wanted to be alone. She stumbled over to her bed, a low pallet in the corner of the cave, which was strewn with cotton cloths over rough woollen blankets in place of any kind of mattress. She wanted to give in to the overwhelming need to sleep, to fall into a blank space of no thought and no care. Finally, she let the last dregs of tension seep out of her muscles. Her mind relaxed, and she found the oblivion she sought.

Chapter Two

Your Majesty.

Kavrazel turned at the sound of Consul Otal's voice. The Thrissian diplomat had been resident in Vulc since Kavrazel had been a child. A newcomer to the country, but expert in the intricacies of politics and diplomacy, the stern man had become a mentor, and something of a father figure to the young king, and had remained so for all the years since. If not for Otal's calming, measured advice, Kavrazel would have razed Thrissia to the ground for this latest insult.

Kavrazel had been ready to march his armies through the forest of Thorak and into the streets of the Felthissian capital itself, following Erkas' declaration of war. But Erkas was dead now, and his sister was ruling their country, and she did not hunger for conflict. She had travelled to Vulc to speak peace with him, and to negotiate terms for an entente between their countries. Kavrazel was watching from the window of the tower, a good vantage point to observe Serwren and her entourage as they began their journey home. He had watched as the convoy followed the twisting turns of the road until they had been hidden from view in the depths of the forest that surrounded Vulc.

All he'd ever known, and judging by the books of the history of his country, all the Vuthroans had ever known, was denigration and condemnation for the sacred practices they held dear. They had traditions just as any other culture did, but for some reason, every other culture felt it their duty to break the Vuthroans of their customs.

Except maybe now things were changing, or at least the stalemate had been put in place once more. He'd just concluded a series of tense negotiations with Serwren. Erkas' twin did not share his belief that the Vuthroans were barbaric, she had seemed almost enlightened on the subject. Kavrazel had heard the reports, the whispers carried as fact about Serwren's relationship with Seddrill, Vuthron's emissary in the Forum of Felthiss, but he hadn't credited the gossip with much truth. At least, not until Seddrill had sent his own reports.

The two countries, Vuthron and Felthiss, were never going to be staunch allies, but they were no longer on the verge of war.

What do you think? Kavrazel asked Otal. The emissary had been present at the negotiations, but Kavrazel wanted to hear his final, private, verdict.

You did well. Peace is always an achievement.

Do you think it will last this time?

Peace never lasts. It's the nature of men to wage war, to be discontent with their lot. Some last longer than others, but it's never forever.

Kavrazel sighed heavily. That makes me tired. He was, in truth, exhausted. The negations had been arduous, and it had taken much of his concentration to not simply kill Serwren on her arrival, and take matters into his own hands. He constantly seemed to be managing the whims of other countries. All he'd ever wanted for Vuthron was for the country to be left to itself. Such imprudence would have solved nothing, and it certainly wouldn't have brought peace to Vuthron, not immediately. The hard way had been the best way, as it usually was, as Otal had counselled.

He wanted nothing more than to retire to his chambers, but the king of the country could not disappear in the middle of the day, even if he had done his duty. However, he was tired, his nerves felt stretched, his muscles were tense, his mind was whirling. He needed peace, some time to gather his thoughts, or to clear his mind. There was only one place where he could find such respite during his working day.

Do we have any more business to attend to?

No, not today.

Good. I shall go and make a sacrifice at the temple of Taan, to thank him for blessing our talks.

There was a thin thread of sarcasm in Kavrazel's tone, and Otal chuckled in answer. In private, between his most trusted confidents, Kavrazel made no secret of the fact that he did not devoutly believe in the gods. Vuthroans worshiped the same deities as many other countries, but they held Taan, God of fire, in prominence. Aweer, Goddess of air, Doohr, Goddess of water, Thyar, God of earth, were considered lesser gods, almost nonentities. All Vuthroans paid tribute to the fire god, by blood or by fire, and it was expected that their king do the same with regular piety.

Better make it something worthy, maybe a bull, just to show how well the talks went.

A goat, I think, will do. Kavrazel scrubbed his palm over his short hair and down over the scruff of beard that he'd let grow over the past few days, to show how unaffected he was by the presence of another monarch. I wouldn't want anyone to think that I wasn't confident about the outcome. I might even make it a chicken. Taan's might will always overcome, after all.

A goat might be prudent. There's no profit in arrogance.

Kavrazel shrugged. It doesn't much matter to me, but a goat is less mess than a chicken. Damn things run around without their head spurting blood everywhere if you lose hold of them.

Both men laughed, remembering an incident at the temple only a moon or two before when just such a thing had happened to a wealthy merchant, decked in his finest silks and jewels, making a sacrifice that was insultingly small for his obvious wealth. Kavrazel was not devout, but he appreciated that a person should make sacrifice in accordance with their status.

Will you change first? Otal asked.

Kavrazel looked down at himself, and made a few movements to examine his clothing. Nothing was out of place. There was no particular style to Vuthroan clothing, other than that all the citizens uniformly only wore black. On this day, he was wearing a suit cut from finely woven wool. He had unfastened the coat at the earliest possible opportunity, finding the high, stiff collar too restrictive, but he closed the silver hasps now.

No, I'll do. Kavrazel sighed heavily. He really did feel immensely tired. This latest threat had been neutralised, and the excitement of their foreign visitors would soon be forgotten. The coming days loomed, one after the other, with numbing predictability.

Otal moved, as if to take a step forward. Are you feeling well?

Yes, Kavrazel exhaled, and tried to expel the tedium that clouded his mind with his breath. It's just... Sometimes... he tailed off, unsure how to put his emotions into words.

Aaahhh, Otal nodded understandingly. You'll have thirty-nine years next year. Maybe it's time...

No, Kavrazel interrupted with a wave of his hand. No more talk about wives, for Taan's sake. I've heard everything everyone has to say on that matter.

Taan forbid some of them might have a point, Otal said dryly.

Kavrazel motioned at the ceiling and the walls of the room. I have a castle full of people surrounding me. How could I be lonely?

Company is not the same as companionship, Otal said.

Kavrazel was stuck for a moment by the simplicity of his advisor's words, and how they pierced his soul. Regardless, old friend. Now, I go to kill a goat. Perhaps I should kill a bull, and ask for a wife as well?

I still think a goat will suffice, Otal muttered.

You think so little of my worth? Kavrazel asked, heading for the sole door in the room.

No, I think so little of your prospects, based on the young ladies that have been paraded before you, Otal answered, following him through the door and down