Slaves of Socorro

by John Flanagan

  It was the merchant he had knocked out the previous time they were in the souk – the one who had unmasked Lydia as a girl. His jaw was marked with an ugly blue and yellow bruise where Gilan had hit him.

  For a moment, the man merely regarded him angrily, annoyed that the stranger had jostled him. Then Gilan saw recognition dawning in his eyes.

  ‘You were here before!’ the man said. ‘When that thief tried to escape!’ Then he pointed an accusing finger at Lydia. ‘She’s a female!’ he yelled. ‘There’s a woman in the souk!’

  Instantly all his companions were yelling. Inevitably, hearing the word ‘thief’ in the gold market, someone got the wrong end of it all and began shouting that there was a thief trying to escape. The men formed a solid wall in front of Gilan, preventing him from shoving through. Several of them were trying to draw their scimitars, but the close quarters and the crowding prevented them.

  ‘Dooryeh! Dooryeh! Thieves in the market! Call the dooryeh!’ one of the men shouted.

  ‘You’re already doing that,’ Gilan told the Socorran through gritted teeth. He had one of his strikers in his left hand and he used it now – a short, hooking punch that nevertheless had the power of his shoulder and his turning upper body behind it.

  He caught the man on the side of the jaw and the Socorran’s eyes glazed over. He collapsed like a rag doll, bringing down the man behind him.

  Then Lydia heard the rhythmic tramp of hobnailed sandals running in step, and a detachment of eight dooryeh rounded the corner. The corporal in charge looked at the milling group in front of him and called a brief order.

  ‘Swords!’

  Eight scimitars rasped from their scabbards and the armoured men began to move forward in a wedge formation. They hit the back of the men grouped around Lydia and Gilan and began shoving them out of the way. The merchants and their servants reacted instinctively, shoving back and turning to berate the new arrivals. Gilan looked back over his shoulder, down the alley. There was another narrow roadway intersecting it about twenty metres away. He pointed his sword at it and yelled to Lydia.

  ‘Back! Back to the next corner!’

  At that moment, one of the dooryeh broke through the melee that had formed between them. Seeing Gilan and Lydia, and recognising them as foreigners, he aimed a cut with his scimitar at the taller of the two figures facing him.

  Gilan parried the blow easily, and as the scimitar came to a ringing, arm-jarring stop, Lydia took a pace forward and punched her dirk into the soldier’s upper arm.

  The heavy blade sliced through the man’s chain mail shirt like a hot knife through butter. He felt a sudden burning pain in his arm. His fingers opened involuntarily and his sword dropped on the cobbles, bouncing and ringing off the stone.

  ‘Run!’ Gilan shouted at her. But now they found themselves facing the bodyguard from the store Lydia had entered. The store keeper, no man of action, had wisely retreated behind a display counter. But he added his voice to the growing clamour.

  ‘He’s a thief!’ he yelled, pointing to Lydia. ‘He stole a pendant!’

  He had no way of knowing if that was true. But he’d heard someone call the word ‘thief’ and this person had been looking at his pendants and handling them, so he decided to take no risks.

  ‘She’s a girl!’ the trader they had encountered the day before yelled, as if this were somehow worse than being a thief. Maybe it is in this part of the world, Lydia thought grimly.

  The bodyguard, a big Arridan from the southern forests, with skin almost as black as coal, barred their way with his massive bulk, his club raised threateningly. Gilan assessed him quickly. The man was no skilled fighter. His stance was clumsy and unbalanced and the Ranger had no wish to kill him for merely doing his job. Gilan raised one booted foot and planted it into the man’s solar plexus, then straightened his knee rapidly, sending him flying back.

  The bodyguard crashed into one of the original six men who had rounded the corner and started all the trouble. This man staggered in his turn and crashed against the old door to the store room. The door, secured only by the jamming of its warped frame, offered virtually no resistance. It flew open and he stumbled inside. As the door opened and admitted a draught of air, flames and smoke billowed out into the alley.

  Now a new cry joined the confused chorus of ‘Thief’ and ‘Female!’ and ‘Call the dooryeh!’

  ‘FIRE! FIRE IN THE MARKET! HELP!’

  Thick, choking smoke filled the narrow alleyway and cries of alarm went up from the other store keepers on either side. For the moment, the dooryeh were unsighted and baffled. The flames and smoke were unexpected additions to the rapidly growing confusion in the little alley. Gilan seized Lydia’s arm and began to drag her towards the junction to their left.

  They ran with their arms up over their noses and eyes to ward off the stinging, stinking smoke. They reached the turnoff to the new alley and stopped in despair. A party of dooryeh were advancing along the cross street towards them. There were at least a dozen of them. Lydia and Gilan were cut off from their planned retreat route. Gilan cast wildly around. Several of the first group of dooryeh were emerging from the clouds of smoke behind them.

  ‘Come on!’ he said, and dragged Lydia down the alley, moving away from the main thoroughfare and their planned escape route. The second party of dooryeh saw them hesitate, then turn and run. Instantly, the warriors doubled their pace. A person who was running was a person who was guilty, they all knew.

  As they moved further into the alley, the air cleared a little. Gilan, whose eyes were stinging and running with tears, took stock of their position and felt his heart sink. They had run into a blind alley. Ahead of them was a curving row of stalls and store houses, with no way out. One of the store keepers ran out to shout at them, grabbing at Gilan’s left arm. Quickly, the Ranger stunned him with a blow from his sword hilt and the man crashed down on the cobbles. Seeing the ease with which the Ranger had dealt with him, the others drew back. Then, staying well clear of the glittering sword, they ran for it, pushing one another in their haste to get clear, and tangling with the dooryeh who had just rounded the last bend.

  Gilan turned to face the oncoming guardsmen. Quickly, he tossed aside the hampering white robe and kheffiyeh. He unslung the huge longbow and passed it to Lydia.

  ‘String this,’ he ordered. Then he added, ‘Do you know how?’

  She nodded and took the bow, while he continued to face the oncoming dooryeh. Stepping her right foot in between the bow and the string, she locked the back of the bow against her left ankle. Then, grunting with the effort, and using all the strength of her body, thigh and back muscles, she bent the bow and forced the string up its length until the loop at the end of the bowstring slipped into the notch at the bow’s tip and held fast.

  ‘Done,’ she announced.

  ‘Good. Keep it ready,’ Gilan told her. He didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on three of the dooryeh who were advancing, shoulder to shoulder, along the alley towards him. They eyed the long, straight-bladed sword in his hand warily. It weaved and flickered from side to side as he kept it moving constantly, the tip of the blade low, threatening them, warning them against coming closer.

  Then he heard a grunt of exertion from the girl behind him, and a hissing sound as something flew past his ear.

  The dooryeh on the left of the slowly advancing line suddenly staggered back, spun around by the force of a speeding metre-long dart that seemed to come out of nowhere and transfixed his right shoulder. He screamed in pain as he fell on his side. His companions looked at him in horror, looked up and saw Lydia preparing to cast another dart.

  They turned and ran back around the bend, leaving their comrade, sobbing with pain, to drag himself awkwardly after them.

  ‘Good work!’ Gilan said, turning to look admiringly at Lydia. Like him, she had discarded her robe and kheffiyeh. She held the second atlatl dart ready in its thrower.

  She grinned at him. ‘Might make them respect women a l
ittle more.’

  ‘I should think it will. But I doubt they’ll be in any hurry to admit women into the markets.’ He sheathed his sword and took the bow from where she had set it resting against one of the store counters. An arrow seemed to appear on the string and Lydia looked impressed in her turn.

  A head came round the bend in the alley, twenty-five metres away from them. Before Lydia could move, Gilan had drawn, aimed and shot, sending an arrow thudding into the fabric-covered store front half a metre from the curious face. The face disappeared immediately, with a yelp of fright.

  ‘What now?’ Lydia asked. ‘I assume we have a plan B?’

  He shook his head. ‘We’re way past plan B,’ he told her. ‘And we’ve gone past plan C as well. We’re up to plan D now.’

  ‘And what’s plan D?’

  He jerked his head down the alley to the corner. ‘Anyone comes round that corner, we shoot them.’

  She pursed her lips critically. ‘Doesn’t sound too ingenious,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not good at ingenious. I’m good at dangerous.’

  As he spoke, the head appeared again and he shot again. But it had jerked back almost as soon as it was exposed and his shot missed. Almost instantaneously, one of the dooryeh broke cover and dashed for a stall five metres down the alley and on the left-hand side. He disappeared into cover as Gilan shot again. Another guardsman tried to follow, seeing Gilan’s bow was empty. But he reckoned without the speed and accuracy of the Ranger’s shooting and a fourth arrow hit him in the side as he was halfway across the alley.

  The first head appeared again, bobbing rapidly in and out. But Gilan was wise to this trick now and he held his shot.

  A dark mass flew across the open space by the bend in the alley and Gilan’s arrow hit it before it had gone two metres. He cursed as he realised he had been tricked. The dooryeh had thrown a cloak across the gap and he’d shot it. While he did so, two more of them dashed across the gap and made it to the cover of the stall.

  ‘Feel free to take a hand any time you like,’ Gilan said mildly.

  But Lydia shook her head. ‘I’m not as fast as you. I’d be wasting darts.’

  He smiled. ‘It’s a wise person who knows their limitations,’ he said.

  There was a cracking noise of splintering wood from the stall where the dooryeh had gone to ground. Lydia frowned.

  ‘What was that?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d say they’re breaking through to the next stall,’ he said. ‘They’ll work their way down from stall to stall until they reach us.’

  There were five stalls between the one they were sheltering in and the one where the dooryeh were concealed, each one only a few metres wide. Gilan cursed. While they were talking, another two dooryeh had darted across the alley, diving into cover in the stall.

  ‘I’d better keep my eye on things,’ he said. ‘If you have any ideas, remember to speak up.’

  There was a short pause. Then Lydia replied:

  ‘What about the roof?’

  From their vantage point at the top of the tiers of benches, Hal and the others had a clear view of the dark bulk that was the slave market. They had been crouching in the shadows of the roofed structure over the gateway tunnel, waiting for something to happen.

  For what seemed like an age, the slave market remained dark and depressingly silent. Then they heard the faint sound of shouting, followed by the clanging of an alarm bell. As the warning was passed along from one person to the next, they made out the word, ‘Fire!’

  More shouting followed – indistinct and muffled. The words couldn’t be made out but the tone of alarm was all too obvious.

  Another bell began clanging. This one was closer and Hal realised it was in the guard area of the arena itself. Lights began to show in the windows of the guardroom opposite them, and orders were being shouted. After a few seconds, a stream of half-dressed, half-armed men began to make their way out of the ground-floor doors. The massive gates creaked open and the men formed into squads and headed at a jog for the gold market.

  The main garrison building was thirty metres away and lights were coming on there now as well. Hal realised that the time was right. The level of confusion would be at its highest now, as men asked what was happening and ran to take up their stations.

  He tapped Jesper on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

  Jesper had the rope ready, tied to the base of one of the fixed benches. He tossed it over the edge, letting it fall into the sand-floored tunnel leading away between the tiers. He wriggled over the edge and went down the rope hand over hand. Stig followed, then Thorn. The old sea wolf could manage the downward climb easily enough. He wrapped one end of the rope round his upper right arm, above the club-hand, taking up the tension in the bight of rope around his arm. Then he seized the rope with his left hand, clamped his feet together over one of the knots, and lowered himself over the edge of the railing, sliding down rapidly to the sand below.

  Hal was close behind him and they grouped together before the large wooden door that led into Mahmel’s office. Jesper sorted through his supply of keys and picks and finally settled on one. He inserted it into the lock and turned slightly. Then he inserted a pick with a rounded protrusion on it and ran it gently into the lock, his eyes closed in concentration. He felt the tumblers of the lock as his curved pick slid over, depressing them.

  Then there was a distinct click and he opened his eyes and grinned at Hal.

  ‘After you,’ he said, making a bowing gesture.

  Hal drew his sword. The sound of the steel rasping gently against the leather and brass of the scabbard was reassuring. Holding it down by his side, he turned the door handle and pushed the door inwards, flattening himself against it to allow Stig and Thorn past him, as they had arranged.

  The two Skandians leapt into the room, their soft boots making barely any noise as they moved lightly and stayed on their toes. Seeing the way clear straight ahead, they fanned out left and right, advancing into the room with their weapons ready.

  The room was empty.

  Mahmel’s table, the main piece of furniture in the room, was neatly covered with a light piece of cloth. His chair was pushed in against the table. There was no lamp and the only light came through the large open door behind them. Hal pointed to a lantern on the table.

  ‘Get that lit,’ he ordered and Stig moved quickly to comply. The wick caught and the yellow light flared up, casting giant, wavering shadows of the four Skandians against the walls in the room.

  ‘Nobody home,’ Stig said, relaxing. He lowered his battleaxe to rest its head on the floor as he surveyed the empty room.

  ‘There’ll be plenty downstairs,’ Thorn said.

  Jesper was already moving to the second locked door, sorting through his picks again. Dimly, through the open door, they could hear the cries of alarm and the strident clanging of the two bells.

  ‘I’m surprised nobody’s come up to see what that’s about,’ Stig said, but Hal shook his head.

  ‘They probably can’t hear it down there. They’re quite a way below ground.’

  It also occurred to Hal that the dungeon guards were probably briefed not to react to alarms heard outside the slave market. Their job was to contain the slaves in the vast prison pen below the arena, nothing more.

  ‘Are you two going to stand there nattering all night?’ Jesper asked. He had the door to the top of the stairs open. Once again, he gestured for the others to go before him and, once again, Stig and Thorn led the way, weapons ready to greet any guard who might be on his way up the stairs.

  But the stairs were deserted. They crept quietly down to the first turn and paused. Stig leaned around the wall and peered down. The stairway was lit by torches set in the walls, as they had seen on their first visit. The flickering yellow light showed the stairs were empty. Stig gestured for the others to follow and they went down. As Hal had surmised, the thick walls cut off all sound from above. The only noise evident was the soft patterin
g of their sealskin boots on the stone.

  Thorn and Stig reached the bottom of the stairs, facing the massive wooden door set in the arched opening in the stone wall. Jesper moved forward, his lock-picks ready. But Thorn put out his left hand to restrain him. Jesper looked at him, puzzled, then Thorn gestured for Hal to move up to them. They could see a thin line of light underneath the door.

  ‘Lights are on,’ Thorn said. ‘Where’s the table?’

  Hal closed his eyes, visualising the layout of the room. Thorn, of course, hadn’t accompanied him and Jesper on their previous visit. He pointed ahead and a little to the right.

  ‘There,’ he said. Thorn stared in the direction he had indicated, fixing it in his mind, then asked in the same quiet voice:

  ‘Is it end on to the door or set crossways?’

  ‘Crossways,’ Hal said promptly.

  Thorn nodded in satisfaction. That would make things easier, he thought. ‘And the bunks?’

  Again Hal pointed. ‘To the left of the door, ranged along the left-hand wall. And about three metres from the door,’ he added, before Thorn could ask.

  ‘Good.’ Thorn paused, setting the positions in his mind, preparing himself for sudden, blindingly fast action. He glanced at Stig. ‘You got that, Stig?’

  Stig nodded confirmation.

  ‘I’ll go for the table first,’ Thorn told him. ‘You go left and take care of anyone who’s trying to get out of the bunks.’

  ‘Got it,’ Stig said. His voice was calm and matter of fact. But Hal could see his hand clenching and unclenching on the haft of his battleaxe.

  Thorn turned to Jesper.

  ‘Jes, can you get that lock open without making too much noise about it?’ he asked.

  Jesper smiled. ‘Trust me.’

  Thorn rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘Why do I never trust people who say that to me?’ he asked. Then, before Jesper could answer, he motioned towards the door with his club-hand.