Alliances ee-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  The sergeant shook his head curtly. The travelers would be of no help to them. They were simple traders, local farmers, and craftsmen. The elves were armed, alert.

  The sight of armed Kagonesti, many in full forest paint, sent the local folk scattering off the path. That the elves were escorting human captives excited much comment, but as Jeralund had expected, no one spoke out in the Nerakans’ defense.

  At the stockade gate, a tall human in russet leather demanded to know Nalaryn’s business in Samustal.

  “Same as everyone else,” Nalaryn replied. He gestured with his chin at the Nerakans. “We have slaves to sell.”

  The guard was dumbstruck. He hastily consulted his fellows. There was no order forbidding trafficking by elves in human slaves. The opposite case occurred daily. Unable to find even a flimsy excuse to exclude the Kagonesti, the guard said he’d be happy to admit them as Soon as they paid the entry tax. The amount he named was double that demanded of previous parties.

  “I’ll give you twenty steel pieces. That is enough.”

  The bandit took the threadbare velvet purse Nalaryn handed him, but did not move away. Grinning at his fellows, he demanded more steel.

  The Kagonesti leader regarded him for a moment then said quietly, “I do have more steel.”

  “I’ll take all the steel I can get!” The bandit stuck out his hand.

  Nalaryn wore a dagger given to him by the commander of the Qualinesti Rangers for his service to the Throne of the Sun. In a swift, smooth motion, he drew the dagger and drove its steel blade through the outstretched palm. The bandit shouted hoarsely and dropped to his knees. His comrades reached for their weapons but found themselves facing nineteen Kagonesti bows at full draw.

  Nalaryn sheathed his knife after wiping the blade with two fingers and flicking the blood to the dusty soil. He started through the gate. The guards hesitated then fell back, unwilling to challenge twenty Kagonesti. Once Nalaryn passed through the opening, he stood aside and waited for the line of elves and prisoners to pass.

  None of the injured man’s comrades came to his aid. They turned back to their duties, with a different bandit inspecting the next party waiting in line. Nalaryn fell in at the rear of his band. The human must have been using his position to line his own pockets, and not sharing with his comrades, else they probably would have been more willing to avenge him. He would be lucky if they didn’t cut his throat and rob him of the steel he’d already squeezed out of the day’s entries.

  When Nalaryn was once more at the head of the line, Jeralund hailed him. “You played that well.”

  “I’ve met his type before.”

  “Human trash?”

  Nalaryn shrugged. “I did not say so. It would be easier if all despicable folk were of one race, but they’re not.”

  The crowds grew thicker as they drew near the main square. Aside from the obvious merchants and peddlers, there were many folk unencumbered by wares, dressed well, and discreetly armed with slender, courtly blades. They were called “buntings,” nicknamed for the colorful migratory birds. They had come to Qualinesti after the fall of the elves, bought (or stole) land, bribed the new masters to favor them in business, and exploited the poor with low wages and predatory lending. Most were humans from regions less damaged by the war, but there were a few dark elves among them. If anyone in Qualinesti was hated more than Captain Samuval, it was the richly bedecked buntings who had followed in his wake.

  The progress of the Kagonesti and their human captives through Samustal did not go unnoticed. Windows above street level opened, and hard-ooking men leaned out of them. They were Lord Olin’s men, still bare chested from having been roused from their beds. They followed the procession of armed elves with hostile eyes, but no one interfered with Nalaryn’s band.

  The pens in the square were filled with unfortunates waiting to be sold. Each cage held as many as a dozen captives; slave drivers armed with whips and clubs stood ready to quell any resistance.

  The air of excitement was thick. Jeralund stretched to see over the crowd, looking for the doomed female elf at the heart of it all. An especially tall figure draped in black he took to be the ogre executioner hired by Lord Olin. A ring of bandits, swords drawn, stood shoulder to shoulder around the central fountain. The wall of bandits prevented Jeralund from getting more than a fleeting glimpse of the chained prisoner.

  Nalaryn was unnerved by the crowd, which was especially boisterous, come not only to buy and sell slaves, but to see the bloody execution. His party was drawing a great deal of attention. Many people pushed in to get a closer look at the unlikely spectacle of elves with human captives.

  He finally reached the head of the line at the auction master’s table. “We have eight humans in prime condition,” he announced.

  The auction master squinted, his one-eyed gaze raking over the curious sight before him. “Soldiers don’t usually sell well,” he said, shaking his head. “Tend to be troublemakers.”

  “These aren’t professionals just hired blades. Someone could buy them for bodyguards.”

  The auction master thought a moment then nodded and pulled out a parchment slip. His assistant spilled a blob of molten red wax on the bottom, and the master pressed a heavy brass seal into the wax. He wrote a three-digit number on the slip with a few quick scratches of a quill.

  “This is your seller’s mark. When the lot sells, the buyer will get an identical sealed slip, with the same number. Don’t lose it. You can’t collect a copper without it.”

  The Nerakans were turned over to the slave drivers. As they were herded to the pens, they protested, insisting they were free men, soldiers of the Dark Order. Their complaints were ignored. Most of the slave drivers were goblins, indifferent to the most pathetic appeals for help. With cracking whips, they herded the Nerakans into a cage and secured the heavy wooden door with a brass lock the size of a smoked ham.

  Thinking their last chance to break away had passed, the terrified soldiers fell on Jeralund, cursing him for his poor leadership. That earned them a dousing from buckets of filthy water thrown by the slave drivers outside.

  “No fighting in the cage! Next one who throws a punch gets branded!”

  Nose and upper lip bleeding, Jeralund hunkered down alone on the far side of the cage. Locked into a cage and awaiting the auction block, he still held onto hope. It wasn’t too late. Not yet.

  “You have faith, human.”

  Jeralund was smart enough not to whirl toward the voice. He hissed, “What are you up to, Scarecrow?”

  Something hard pressed against his shoulder. Jeralund put a hand behind his back and his fingers closed on the hilt of a rag-draped sword. His eyes widened.

  “I have four weapons. That’s all I could conceal.”

  Jeralund pulled the swords around and tucked the pommels into his armpit. He called to his comrades. Three sullenly approached. When the sergeant passed each of them a sword, their gloom evaporated. They wanted to know how he had managed to get the weapons.

  “Ask the Scarecrow,” he said, gesturing with his chin over one shoulder.

  There was no sign of him. Jeralund did see a rather thin slave driver walking away. The fellow wore the usual leather jerkin and floppy trews and carried a coiled whip in his gloved hand. He also wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled clown low on his head. None of the other slave drivers were gloved or hatted. He was quickly swallowed by the churning crowd.

  One of Jeralund’s men railed at the strange development. Why drag them to Samustal as prisoners then give them arms to fight? The sergeant realized the truth. The Scarecrow wanted to get himself and his followers into Samustal. A party of armed elves would have been barred, but as slavers escorting prisoners, they would more likely be allowed in. With his need for captives at an end, the Scarecrow was giving them a fighting chance to escape.

  That still didn’t answer the question of why the Scarecrow needed to get inside Samustal. Jeralund didn’t care at that moment. He had to concentrate on their es
cape.

  He studied the cage. The oak bars were as thick as his wrist. Their swords would never chop through before the slave drivers noticed. The same was true of the massive brass lock; hacking through it would take time and draw the attention of the guards. What did that leave?

  Hinges. The hinges of the cage door were thick leather straps. If their borrowed blades were sharp, one or two strokes would be enough to sever the hinges. Jeralund called his men together and quietly shared his plan.

  Porthios continued to wend his way through the crowd. For once, he blessed the mask he wore. It covered the emotions he knew were showing plainly on his face. The proximity of so many nonelves and their revolting activities sickened him. This was what came of allowing inferior peoples too much latitude. How low the world had fallen into corruption and decadence!

  Consider the ants, not the solitary cicada. Like the bloated, doomed cicada, the slave market was about to encounter Porthios and his ants.

  A brace of tin horns blatted, and the crowd quieted a bit. A man wearing a feathered hat and gray velvet tunic stepped up onto the fountain platform and opened a parchment scroll. Apparently he had memorized his speech since he never glanced at the scroll.

  “Pray heed and hear all! Hear all!” he shouted. The throng calmed a little more. “Know you that Olin Man-Daleth, Lord of Samustal, has passed judgment on this wretched, nameless slave. For treason against her rightful masters, for flight from bondage, and for general mayhem, Lord Olin has sentenced this worthless creature to death. So that her paltry end may stand as an example to all, she is to die by flaying, and her miserable remains will be exhibited here until the flies and crows claim her!”

  He let the scroll curl shut. “Executioner, do your duty!”

  The hooded ogre stomped onto the platform. Four slave drivers wrestled a wooden frame toward him. Comprising two lengths of timber, crossed in the center, with shackles on each end point, it was where the prisoner was to be chained during the awful procedure. The men struggled to shift the heavy timber frame into place. The ogre bellowed for them to hurry. As they set the frame into place and began pegging it down, the executioner approached Kerianseray, leering at her with mouth agape.

  An arrow sprouted from his throat.

  The arrow seemed to appear by magic. With a gargling roar, the ogre wrapped a hand around the shaft and jerked the arrow free. Blood welled from the wound. Many in the crowd cheered, thinking the festivities had begun.

  When a second arrow buried itself in the ogre’s right eye, he toppled backward like a felled tree. People closest to the fountain shouted in alarm. The screams increased as an entire volley of arrows rained down around the obelisk, taking out all the sword-wielding guards and several onlookers as well. Those in the crowd nearest the obelisk tried to get out of the way; others, farther away, surged forward, trying to see what was happening. Chaos bloomed. Pushing and shoving led to fistfights and dagger drawing. A second fall of arrows completed the transformation from execution to full-fledged riot.

  When the sword-wielding guards went down, the Lioness stood up, cradling an armload of brass chains. She had been working on them for hours, sawing away with the file slipped to her by the masked stranger. She began breaking apart the weakened links. From a distance, it looked as though the elf woman had supernormal strength, tearing apart metal with her bare hands. New panic erupted in the crowd.

  A slave driver, whip in hand, scrambled onto the stone platform. The Lioness planted a foot on his chest and shoved him back into the melee. The whir of approaching arrows drew her glance upward. With uncanny accuracy, the volley fell in a neat circle around her. People who had ventured too close to the obelisk retreated.

  The Lioness stood over her fallen executioner. The ogre was still breathing. She drew one of the flensing blades from his belt and swiftly cut his throat. Too bad the beast didn’t wear a sword.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a green-clad figure spring onto the fountain beside her. She turned, knife in hand, and found herself facing a Kagonesti armed with a forester’s maul.

  “I’m Nalaryn-a friend! The Masked One sent me!” he cried.

  “Those are your people on the bows?” He nodded. “Good! Let’s get out of here!”

  This was not so easily done. A space three yards wide had opened around the fountain, but as soon as Nalaryn jumped down, ten bandits stormed forward, hacking down anyone who got in their way. The Lioness dragged her would-be rescuer back up.

  With maul and knife, the two Kagonesti fended off the soldiers. A shower of arrows arrived to help, but the missiles were fewer than before. Nalaryn’s archers were fighting their own battles. Above the heads of the boiling mob, Kerian could see mounted, lance-armed bandits boring in as well.

  “Now what?” she shouted.

  “Trust the Great Lord! This moment has been planned!”

  Indeed it had. When the riot erupted, the Nerakan soldiers realized it was their time to escape. They slashed at the hinges of the cage door. Using the door like a battering ram, they bludgeoned their way clear.

  Jeralund shouted to his men, “Open the other cages! Free all the prisoners!”

  The unarmed Nerakans cared only for their own hides. Ignoring the sergeant, they promptly disappeared into the panicked mob. Jeralund cursed them as cowards and led his three armed comrades down the line of cages, cutting the hinges on each door. Slave drivers tried to drive them off, but with swords in hand, the soldiers could not be deterred. In quick succession they opened all the cages. Humans, elves, a gaggle of goblins, and a pair of dwarves poured out. Many of the liberated were in poor condition and could do little more than hobble away. Others put themselves at Jeralund’s disposal. Unfortunately he had little to offer beyond encouraging words. It was every man for himself.

  Lord Olin’s lancers at last managed to cut through the mob, a dozen riders laying about indiscriminately with their weapons. Hard wooden shafts knocked friend and foe alike senseless. Breaking into the open by the slave cages, they rode hard at the escaping prisoners, impaling several before the rest swarmed over their horses and dragged them down.

  A red-haired Qualinesti with a gash on his forehead appeared before Jeralund. He was leading one of the lancer’s horses. The sergeant was taken aback when the fellow handed him the reins. He could have taken the animal for himself, but he presented it to the human who had set him free. Jeralund swung into the saddle and extended a hand to the elf.

  The Qualinesti declined. “This is my city. I stay!” he cried and dashed into the mob.

  From his higher vantage, Jeralund could see a fight still raging around the fountain. He hesitated but a moment before smacking his horse’s flank with the flat of his sword. The animal sprang toward the distant fracas.

  Nalaryn and the Lioness had their backs to the obelisk. Thus far they’d fended off every attempt to storm the platform. The lancers had been drawn off by the escaping slaves, but the Kagonesti archers had ceased firing too. A solid group of bandit foot soldiers had surrounded the fountain and showed no signs of giving up. They were inching closer. They well knew the penalties Lord Olin would exact if they allowed the Kagonesti female to escape.

  After knocking out an especially persistent bandit, Kerian tossed a quick thank you to Nalaryn. “This is a much better death than I expected to have today, brother,” she panted.

  Nalaryn swung his maul, catching a bandit under the chin and sending him flying. “The Great Lord will come,” he said. “Have faith!”

  Kerian almost laughed. Faith? He sounded like Gilthas.

  Jeralund was halfway to the fountain when he noticed the Scarecrow, standing alone and unmolested in the midst of the shrieking riot. The mysterious elf leader had shed his slaver guise, except for the hat pulled low on his forehead. People ran screaming all around him, some shouting for mercy, others for blood, but he stood silent and solid, like a tree amid a herd of stampeding cattle. Jeralund guided his horse toward the robed figure.

  “Quite
a storm you’ve raised,” the sergeant called out.

  The mask framed burning eyes. “It is only the first of many to come.”

  The tiny island of calm around them abruptly vanished. A swarm of people rushed eastward, away from the rampaging slaves. A tide of traders trying to get out of the way of Lord Olin’s enraged troops. They crashed together where the Scarecrow stood. It seemed inevitable he would be trampled to death. He disappeared beneath the crush. Jeralund lashed out with controlled fury, keeping the terrified people from toppling his horse. The mob parted for him, and the Scarecrow was gone.

  Jeralund looked to the desperate fight at the fountain. Even as he watched, Nalaryn sustained a stunning blow to the back. The female elf prisoner, wielding nothing more than a knife, leaped forward and drove back his attacker, giving the Kagonesti chief time to struggle to his feet. Three more bandits bore down on them. She faced them, a broad grin on her dirty face.

  “Pestilence!”Jeralund cursed, and drove his heels into his mount’s flanks.

  The Lioness saw the rider coming. She shifted the knife in her hand, ready to throw it. Nalaryn caught her wrist.

  “No, wait!”

  She stared at him as if he were mad, and the arriving horse bowled over three of Olin’s men before skidding to a stop by the fountain.

  “Need help, forester?” the rider bellowed.

  “Every soul needs help sometime,” said Nalaryn.

  The human slid off the horse’s right side. The two elves mounted from the left, and the Lioness took the reins.

  Touching the sword hilt to his chin in mocking salute, the human said, “Good luck, forester! You and the Scarecrow will need it!” He jumped aside and melted into the surging press. They saw him no more.

  Kerian urged the horse into a canter. Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t give way were knocked down as she made straight for the western gate. The stockade was undoubtedly locked up tight, but they stood a good chance of escaping under cover of the terrific confusion. Kerian’s hand ached for a sword. She felt naked without one-worse than naked. Modesty she could live without, but a sword was an absolute necessity.