by Ed Greenwood
Halidon. She'd heard it mentioned once or twice during her years in Canorate. A small place—logging village, most likely, as it stood at the edge of the Backar Forest. A usual waystop because it was near mid-journey, when taking the most direct roads between Braganza and Canorate.
So they were that close to Halidon. Good. This gods-cursed wagon just might make it.
KeeEEERAKKh.
Or not.
The wheel that was thankfully farthest from Tantaerra rode up over a particularly sharp stone and then thumped down its far side—and the axle that had been spitting grease all over her for days shivered and split, from the hub of the wheel halfway to where a certain small and uncomfortably cramped halfling was grimly watching it from.
The wagon—and the caravan it was part of—lurched right on. No one had heard, of course. No surprise there. This lot saw and heard nothing that didn't jump up and dance for coin under their very noses.
The constant groaning of the wagon was different now, as the dying axle added its own protest to the general din. A sort of rising, wobbling, wandering shriek that—oh, how could they not hear it?
When someone stuck his head in and under for a look, a certain non-paying passenger would be discovered. Though there were halflings in Molthune who weren't slaves, Tantaerra had never known any personally—and stowaways of any height were rarely greeted with much kindness. Moreover, to a certain breed of merchant, a female slave—even a two-and-a-half-foot-tall halfling, well out of girlhood and approaching middle age—would be something to cage and make use of.
Neither the wagon in front of this one nor the one behind had ramp boards or anything else slung underneath. The wagon three back trailed a broken-off length of rusty chain and the dangling remains of a ramp-board frame, but she doubted they'd carry much more than the weight of a few spiders or flies before tearing free and falling to the road.
The light was failing, the sun sinking low, and by the rattling of slowing iron-shod wagon wheels and the clip-clop of hooves rising ahead of her now, there was less mud and more stone underfoot. Voices, too, and some excited shouts. Children.
The caravan had entered Halidon proper. Which meant, the gods being the gods, that it was just about time for this axle to—
SheeEEEEEREEAKH!
Tantaerra dropped and rolled even before the far wheel came off the separating axle and the wagon lurched and then sank down into a nightmare of splinters, amid a chorus of surprised and angry shouts.
She had a glimpse of the wheel wobbling away on its own, bouncing and swaying like a drunkard leaving a tavern late. Then her own hasty escape snatched her view of it away. Out and back, to scuttle like a crab under the next wagon and hope its oxen weren't fast enough when stamping at her to—
"Hoy! You! Crannor, what's that? It just went under your wagon! Like a halfling, but smaller!"
Like a halfling, but smaller.
Tantaerra growled silently at that and kept scuttling, running on hands and knees just as fast as she knew how, trying to—
"There! I saw it! Over there, under Derethrai's wagon, now!"
"What's all this?" Sharper voices, and unfamiliar, not from the caravan. She risked a look.
Molthuni soldiers. Big, clomping hobnailed boots, dark breeches, blood-red tunics, helmets too big to stay on without chinstraps, and spears. Led by an officer without a spear, who was instead carrying some sort of short battle-hammer with a wicked-looking spike where its pommel should be.
"Stowaway, or a thief, under the wagons. It broke yon turnip cart, somehow."
Oh, aye. Blame me for your born-of-neglect breakdowns, now!
"'It'?" the Molthuni officer snapped. "Some sort of beast?"
"Don't rightly know, yet. Small, and fast—and something's been stealing food from us, all the way from Canorate! If you'll look under that wagon!"
"Trail thefts are your problem, citizen, not the duty of the soldiers of Molthune to ..."
Boots, tramping closer, the sharp points of spear-heads dipping down into view, and Tantaerra had run out of wagons.
Cursing silently, she doubled back. The one place they'd not be so enthusiastic when thrusting spears would be in among the mud-spattered legs of the oxen at the front of each wagon. Oxen cost coin, good coin, and so did harness, and—
"Hah!" One of the soldiers, too dim-witted not to thrust his spear right into the snorting, stamping midst of the oxen. "I see it—a boy, a really small boy, a—no, a girl! Barefoot—"
"Croel, haven't you ever seen a halfling before? Slave Pits of Absalom, boy, but they're—mind! You'll have—"
Whatever else the older soldier might have been going to say was lost in a dozen shouts of alarm. An ox had felt the burning bite of a careless spear-slice, and tried to rear back and kick out at where the pain had come from. The wagon it and three fellow beasts were yoked to shuddered under its buffeting, and frightened and angry muffled shouts arose from within it.
Shouts that grew suddenly louder as doors banged, and the ox kicked again and soldiers leveled spears at the beast as if it were some sort of battlefield foe.
"What by the ponderous teats of Lamashtu are all you idiots doing? We just about got a dozen jars of Mereth's best honey-wine sauce in our laps! D'you have any idea how much that goes for in Braganza? Nearly lost a handful of Crysta's map-painted plattercloths, too! Stand back from my oxen, you spear-waving idiots, or I'll have your guts for my next batch of sausages, I will!"
"Citizen, have a care for how you speak to soldiers of Mol—"
"I am having a care, helm-for-brains! If I were treating these louts of yours like mere brigands, they'd be choking around my fists run far down their gullets right now! You in charge of this untrained, murderous rabble, then? Well, let me tell you a thing or two about how officers conducted themselves when I was wearing a uniform as ugly as yours, and going up against real foes of Molthune rather than handy oxen! Why, back in those days, we—"
Tantaerra grinned. Good old Bryhraun, and his Finest Sausages, too! He could keep this up right through the night, and would, if someone didn't put a spear through him to shut him up.
Bryhraun! Yes! His wagon was crammed with edibles, and it had those little light-windows up by the front that opened from within. If she scampered just right, she could snatch and be gone onto its roof before anyone could grab her.
Bryhraun was still spewing oaths and belligerence at the Molthuni officer, who was busy putting one of those sneeringly weary "I'm only going to put up with this for so long, old windbag, and my patience has just about run out" expressions on his face.
Tantaerra stuck out her tongue at him as she raced into view, caught hold of the trail-step of Bryhraun's wagon, and swung herself into a backflip and roll up and into the wagon—right between the merchant's legs, where she hoped they'd not be foolish enough to thrust spears at her, given the old merchant's temper.
Ah, but they were. She found her feet only to see Bryhraun's stout and hog-ugly wife and daughter converging on her, shrieking.
Tantaerra plucked up a fat "dragonsmoke" sausage as long as her arm, sprang to the high shelves beside the little window on her left, hauled on its dog-lever as hard as she knew how, and was out into the breeze and the gathering dusk before Bryhraun's wife could draw breath for her next scream.
And up onto the wagon roof, thanks to a hard swing on the frame of the window itself. Only long enough for a deep breath and a wild peer all around, before she took a firm grip on the sausage—sinking her fingers into it, that was the trick—then sprang into a wild leap for the roof of the next wagon. Dingy blue, which meant it housed Maraskho's Fine Garments.
She only just made it, landing hard and bruisingly, skidding along most of its dirty, warp-boarded length.
Behind her, Bryhraun's wagon rocked. Its oxen grunted and shrieked and tried to snarl as their hooves sliced into each other, and general mayhem erupted. She could hear falling goods crashing around in the merchant's wagon and his family's screams rising int
o wild and frightened incoherence, but was more intent on all the villagers converging to see what was happening.
No more soldiers yet, which was good, and some of the patrol that had gathered around Bryhraun's wagon were being jostled by arriving locals, spears waving wildly as they tried to follow her yet not gut someone. Even better.
It would be dark soon, but not soon enough. Everyone who cared to could see her, and it seemed Halidon bred or reared hardened folk. If any of them got a grip on her, she'd have to be fast and vicious with a knife to get free.
And her left hip was aching from that landing. Time to get gone. On her left, not much more than two streets away, the forest loomed up like a great dark wall. That's where she'd have to hide—and climb, because a village next to a forest meant skulking beasts with sharp teeth prowling by night.
Tantaerra dropped onto Maraskho's oxen, her landing and swift run along them setting them to snorting, bucking, and twisting, too. Perhaps she could get work as an ox-tamer, if—
Blast! More soldiers were coming, hurrying down those streets she had to get through to get to the woods, and they were alert and hard-eyed—and had spotted her already. Keeping in formation, carrying the same long spears, and led by an officer whose swift hand-signals were being heeded. No slouches, these soldiers. She'd not get past them alive, unless they wanted her taken for questioning.
And when they discovered the slave brand under her chin ...
Her escape must be the other way, using the halted wagons of the caravan as a barrier to these Molthuni reinforcements, and it must be now.
She sprang off an ox that seemed heartily glad to be rid of her, landed with a wince, and ran, ran as she'd never run before, keeping close to the line of wagons as she darted along it, a racing arrow more than a thing of stealth. She could tell by the thunder of boots and the waving spears that soldiers were running, too, on the other side of the wagons, which meant she'd have to time this just right ...
Here, and now! Where this knot of village women were standing hands on hips gossiping, obviously sourly amused at seeing soldiers having to run. She dug at the slits in her belt as she ran, her thumb finding the sharpened edges of the coins she kept as handy slicers and moving on to—yes, the gold piece that wasn't sharpened. Absalom minting. She could clearly recall the disbelieving face of the merchant she'd plucked it from, and she was going to miss it, but—
"Blessed coin," she called, pitching her voice as low and loud as she could, "lend me some of your luck now!"
Still running hard, she flung it past the heads of the staring women. It rang off the side of a wagon just beyond them, at about the time the meaning of her words sank home. Then in almost perfect unison they turned, in a swirling of skirts, and went after the coin.
In their wake, Tantaerra swerved out, straight away from the line of wagons, and sprinted down a handy street ahead. Past a few hanging signs and their shops, away from the caravan, away from the great forest. If she couldn't reach the trees now, she'd have to wait for deep night to try for them, and in the meantime she needed somewhere high enough that she could climb out of the reach of spears, somewhere that was hopefully also large enough for her to hope to hide in, on, or atop.
Which meant the watchtower she could see ahead, standing like a stubby lance against the setting sun, and the Molthuni military barracks attached to it.
As the old Nirmathi saying put it: When hunted by wolves, the best place to hide is among them.
Come to think of it, the "wolves" those words referred to were Molthuni soldiers like these. Fair enough. Like a wolf, then, she would be.
The street was full of older villagers strolling to see what was going on at the caravan. She got more than a few curious looks, but no hindrance or pursuit. And thankfully no dogs.
Which might well mean there was something in the forest that prowled Halidon by night, hunting such barking beasts.
Something to mull over later, when there weren't Molthuni soldiers pelting along after her, still far behind but waving their spears and yelling at her to stop.
Did that ever work? Did they really think someone running from them would be foolish enough to stop and give up? Or that common folk who increasingly resented the ever-increasing laws and little rules, and the heavy-booted zeal of the crimson-coated soldiers who enforced them, would leap to catch or hinder a fleeing fugitive?
No one was leaping in Halidon, that was for sure.
She ran past staring villager after staring villager, her hip really starting to ache, now. Ahead, the street ended in a muddy open space in front of a long row of empty paddocks, with the barracks looming up on her left. No palisade or gatehouse, and no door guards, just a tall, ugly stone building with a shake-shingled roof, various sections of it having different pitches, as the building had been expanded over the years by builders with their own ideas of what a barracks roof should look like. No gables, nor anything as fancy as a spire or a turret, except the lone, square watchtower, which was wrapped around with rotting wooden gutters sloping down from the surrounding roofs and jutting well out into the street. Evidently it rained hard in Halidon.
Good. If those gutters weren't too rotten, they'd be her climbing aids and help to hide her, once she was up and—
Light flared, at the far end of the barracks. Panting for breath, Tantaerra slowed to peer. A soldier on a ladder, his back to her, was swinging shut the shutter of a massive, rusty hanging metal lantern ...and starting back down to the ground.
He'd be heading this way to light the next one, and the next. Stout bars jutted out up there beside each lantern, the ladder hooking over them for stability. She had to get up onto the roof, and hide in the angle where it descended to meet the watchtower, before he—
No. Impossible.
She'd have to do this the other way.
She raced to the streetside wall of the barracks and flattened herself against it, just before he reached the base of the ladder.
Then she waited, shuddering to catch her breath and trying to ignore the pursuing soldiers getting nearer. It was dark enough now for not every idle glance to notice her, if she kept still.
This should have been about long enough ...
She went to the ground, crawled to the corner, and peered around it, chin almost in the dirt. The lamplighter was just settling the ladder into position by the next lantern. She waited, in case he was one of those sightseers who liked to take a look around every so often, but his attention was entirely on the tinderbox slung on a loose baldric at his hip, and positioning it to avoid banging it against himself as he climbed. He started up.
Like a small and silent wind, Tantaerra raced to the ladder and went up it behind him, moving only when he did, stretching with great care for silence, and keeping over on the left side, because the tinderbox was hanging down the soldier's right side.
She waited until he was right at the top and had swung the lantern-shutter open before climbing up on its far side, to hang right beside his head. He was intent on striking a striker, inside the box on a short-chain, against the box's row of flints so as to catch sparks on a taper—a fiddly task that really needed more hands than he had, and was consuming all of his attention save enough to mutter tunelessly, "She was only a shopgirl from Canorate, but she was a jewel to me ..."
Wrapping her legs around the bar that the ladder was hooked over, Tantaerra let herself dangle head-down beside his left shoulder and pushed against the lantern until she could murmur a provocative purr right into his ear.
"All the way from Canorate I've come, dreaming of your manly strength, and now at last, lover—"
The lamplighter stopped humming and stiffened.
Tantaerra licked her lips, then planted a wet kiss on his earlobe.
The resulting startled shriek and fumbling clatter were gratifying. The soldier's head snapped around to look, and slammed into the open lantern-shutter, setting the lantern to swinging and the startled man to falling back—
With a sudden, arm-
flailing shout, the lamplighter was gone, and the abandoned ladder was swaying ...
The crash, below, was impressive.
Delicately, Tantaerra gave the top of the ladder the little push necessary to send it toppling slowly over and down, then swarmed along the bar onto the roof and clawed her way up it as hastily as she could, ending on the roof side of the watchtower. The gutter there was in deep gloom, and sturdily wedged between the wall just under the roof and the rising side of the watchtower. She made herself as small and slender as she could, and snuggled down into it, prepared to become a motionless part of the building until full night came.
The sausage was more than a little battered, but tasted delicious.
Chapter Two
A Halfling on the Run
The squeal sounded like someone low-voiced and very surprised being torn apart. Very close by.
Tantaerra was awake in an instant, trying to grab for the hilts of her knives and knowing a moment of panic as she felt her arms pinioned by the—oh. The gutter.
She was lying in the roof-gutter she'd snuggled herself into, a little stiff and more than a little cold. With determined speed she heaved herself up enough to turn over, clapping hands to reassuring hilts, and blinked up at—the stars.
She was wedged between the barracks roof and its watchtower, on a clear and rather chilly night, with nary a cloud to be seen, nor anything moving. No rats, no perching birds ...so what had that sound been, so loud and so near?
"Kisses of the banshee, Rolph, do you ever oil these windows?"
That voice was coming from right above her.
Whoever it was spat onto the roof, then leaned out—Tantaerra froze, staring up in silence—and fastened back the noisy shutters by thrusting dangling hooks into loops set ready for them in the watchtower wall. The man had to stare right down at her to do that, and he did. Yet didn't seem to see her, ere he withdrew.
"Why would I?" a deeper voice asked sourly, from farther back in the room beyond that window. "This isn't Canorate. They give us scarce enough oil for our blades and armor; we don't waste it on hinges opened once a year—if that. Get that screen up, or we'll be plagued by moths and stingers before I can get this flagon filled."
