Slaves of Socorro

by John Flanagan

  Mahmel frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘What did they steal?’

  The colonel shrugged. ‘I don’t think they stole anything, sir. They lit the fire, then they were recognised and a detachment of the patrol gave chase. They escaped by breaking through the roof.’

  ‘And your men simply let them go?’ Mahmel’s voice was dangerously soft.

  The colonel drew himself up angrily. ‘I lost two men and three others were badly wounded, sir.’

  ‘To a man and a woman?’ Mahmel asked.

  The colonel took a deep breath. He was about to answer angrily. But he recognised Mahmel and he knew the man had a vindictive streak. He was not a good person to get on the wrong side of.

  ‘They were apparently skilled fighters, sir,’ he explained.

  Mahmel snorted disgustedly. ‘So it seems. In any event, what did you do?’

  ‘When the alarm went up, I mustered the garrison and led them here – along with the guard detachment from the slave market. I thought we might need as many men as possible to get the fire under control. I sent a runner for the fire monitors as well.’

  ‘And is the fire under control?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It hadn’t spread too far and we managed to localise the danger. Mind you, if we hadn’t got here when we did, it might be a different story,’ he added.

  Mahmel nodded distractedly. ‘Yes, yes. I’m sure all your men were very brave and very efficient, Colonel.’ He frowned as a thought struck him. ‘You say you brought the entire garrison, and the detachment from the slave market?’

  ‘As I say, I had no idea how big the fire was. I thought we might need a lot of men.’

  ‘So the slave market is currently unguarded?’

  ‘No, sir. The eight duty guards in the dungeon guardhouse are still there.’

  ‘But nobody else?’

  The colonel shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘Um . . . no, sir. But I’m sure they –’

  ‘Let me summarise, Colonel.’ Mahmel had no wish to hear what the colonel was sure about. ‘Two foreigners, a man and a woman, come in here, set a small fire, steal nothing, create all sorts of confusion, then escape over the roof, after killing several of your men. Why do you think they would do that?’

  ‘I . . . um . . . I’m not sure, sir.’ The colonel was beginning to perspire. He had a good idea what the administrator was getting at, but he didn’t want to voice the thought.

  ‘It doesn’t occur to you that perhaps they wanted to draw you and your men here – away from the slave market? That this was all an elaborate diversion while someone else broke in and set the slaves free?’

  ‘That could be the case, sir . . . I suppose,’ the colonel replied.

  Mahmel’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the four Hellenese men who had brought the big slave into the market two days previously. They hadn’t been happy about leaving him there, he remembered. And he recalled that two of them made sure they had a good look at the security arrangements in the cellar.

  And now two foreigners had broken into the market, set a fire and escaped.

  ‘Get your men back here immediately!’ Mahmel snapped. ‘Form them into squads and throw a cordon around the city. Send a runner to the harbour fortress and get more men from there to block off the streets. I want ten men to come with me to the slave market.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The colonel snapped his fingers to the signaller who had accompanied him. ‘Sound the withdrawal, then the assembly,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now!’

  As the horn began sounding its wailing summons through the streets of the souk, the colonel looked round to find Mahmel’s angry stare fixed on him.

  ‘Squads of ten. Send them out through the city. Tell them to recapture the slaves if they can. If not, kill them.’

  ‘You think there’s really been an escape, sir?’ the colonel asked. His blood ran cold with the thought. If any slaves were killed or made their escape, someone would have to pay for it and he had an uncomfortable feeling who that person might be.

  ‘You’d better hope there hasn’t been, Captain,’ Mahmel told him.

  The colonel cleared his throat awkwardly as the first of his troops came running out of the souk in answer to the horn’s call.

  ‘I’m a colonel, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Not any more,’ Mahmel told him.

  Thorn and Stig led the way across the arena, weapons at the ready. Jesper was close behind them, then Ingvar and Hal shepherded the twelve Araluans across. There were nine men and three women in the Araluan party. Their clothes were all rags and several of them were injured – with wounds roughly bandaged in dirty scraps of cloth.

  ‘They’re in pretty bad shape,’ Hal observed to Ingvar.

  The big youth shrugged. ‘They’re half starved,’ he said. ‘Tursgud fed them barely anything, and since they’ve been here it hasn’t been much better. Plus some of them have been badly beaten.’ He scowled angrily. ‘The Socorrans seem to think that if they mistreat slaves and starve them, they’ll be weak and easier to control. Apparently they feed them up just before the sale to put some condition on them.’

  Hal could see that Ingvar was right. ‘Doubt they’ll be much use if we have to fight our way out,’ he said.

  Ingvar shook his head. ‘They’re not warriors anyway, Hal,’ he replied. ‘They’re farmhands and house servants. Most of them wouldn’t know one end of a sword from another.’

  ‘Well, if we run into a patrol, keep them back behind us and we’ll let Thorn and Stig take care of the fighting.’

  Ingvar grinned. ‘I imagine they’re more than capable of handling that.’

  Thorn, Stig and Jesper were at the main gate now. Thorn and Stig took up positions either side of Jesper while he applied himself to the lock. After a few seconds’ work, the gate swung open, making no sound on its well-oiled hinges. Stig and Thorn went through, weapons ready for trouble. But there was no sign of any guards on the other side and they beckoned for the others to follow.

  As he went through the massive gates, Hal turned back to the tunnel they had recently vacated. He saw movement there and waved his arm. Instantly Jimpani and his countrymen began to sprint across the sand in a tight group, followed by a raggle-taggle band of the other slaves who had chosen to take the chance of escaping.

  Thorn turned to Hal as he emerged from the arena. ‘Which way?’

  Hal pointed across the open parkland and to the right. ‘Back the way we came,’ he said. ‘Keep to the side streets.’ The main roads would be the first to be blocked off once word of the escape got out.

  They set out across the open ground, with Hal and Ingvar working to keep the Araluans in a cohesive group. It wasn’t easy. Some of them were weaker than others and those who were wounded found it hard to keep up.

  ‘Keep going!’ Hal ordered. ‘Run! If they recapture you, you’ll be in big trouble!’

  It was a race against time now, to get clear of the slave market before the Socorrans had a chance to throw a cordon around the city streets. The former slaves did their best to obey him, but the pace was still painfully slow – restricted as it was to that of the weakest. Hal glanced back and saw Jimpani and his band emerge from the gates, look around, and head off in the opposite direction to the one the Skandians had taken. Then more figures appeared, running haphazardly, without any sense of co-ordination or organisation.

  As he reached the concealment of a narrow alleyway beyond the park, Hal heard a shout and the ringing clash of weapons being drawn. He looked back, peering around the corner of the alley. A group of dooryeh had appeared, running from the direction of the gold market. Their leader was the green-turbaned Mahmel and, as Hal watched, he yelled a command for the slaves to stop, and for his men to advance on them.

  Some of the escapees, alarmed by the sudden appearance of the soldiers, threw up their hands in surrender, blocking the exit of others behind them through the gate. About a dozen of those already outside chose to run.

  It was a fatal mistake.

&nb
sp; The dooryeh were carrying short, powerful bows and, at a command from Mahmel, they began shooting at the fleeing slaves. At such short range, they couldn’t miss and the would-be escapees began to fall, some crying out in pain, others ominously silent.

  Almost immediately, the survivors stopped in place, hands raised in surrender.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Hal said, and Thorn and Stig began to lead the way through the winding streets, keeping up a steady jog.

  The prisoners couldn’t maintain the pace, however. One of the women among the Araluans was in particularly bad shape. She limped painfully after Stig and Thorn, but fell behind, even with two of her countrymen trying to support her. Two others were nursing injuries as well and gradually the group became strung out over a fifty-metre distance until Hal called for Stig and Thorn to stop. One of the Araluan men, a former ploughman named Walton, seemed to be their leader. He shook his head apologetically to Hal as the skirl tried to exhort the Araluans to greater speed.

  ‘Ophelia can’t manage it,’ he said. ‘She’s weak from starvation, and two of the guards beat her yesterday until she was unconscious. And both Ambrose and Silas were wounded when we were first captured.’ He nodded his head to two of his other countrymen who had taken the opportunity to sink to the cobblestones. Hal noticed both of them had severe leg wounds. It would be impossible for them to run in such a condition.

  ‘Can we let them rest for a few minutes?’ the Araluan pleaded.

  Hal bit his lip, then nodded. There was no point coming all this way to rescue them, he thought, only to leave them behind once they were free.

  ‘Just a quick rest,’ he said. He walked to where the woman was sitting leaning against the stone wall of a building that fronted the alley. She was young – he guessed she was in her mid-twenties. She was small and looked quite frail. She was gasping with pain and exhaustion and he could see the dark bruises on her face and legs. There was fresh blood showing through an improvised bandage around her waist. He dropped to one knee beside her and her eyes opened. She reached out a hand and seized his wrist in a weak grip.

  ‘May the gods bless you for coming,’ she said, wincing with pain as she spoke. ‘Ingvar told us you’d come for us. Thank you.’

  Hal waved her thanks aside. ‘Never mind that,’ he said gently. ‘But we have to keep moving. Can you make one more effort? Just for a short while?’

  She nodded, but he could see that even that small movement caused her pain.

  ‘I’ll try,’ she whispered. ‘Just give me another minute.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll give you two,’ he said and she smiled weakly at him. He glanced up at her companions, one of the other women and a young man.

  ‘Do all you can to keep her moving,’ he said and they nodded. Then he moved to the two wounded men. One of them had a gaping wound in his thigh. It had been bandaged, but the exertion of running across the park had opened the wound so that it was bleeding heavily once more. The other was nursing his right ankle, which was hugely swollen and black with a terrible bruise – or worse. Hal wondered briefly whether the ankle was broken. If so, it would be enormously painful to walk on.

  He looked around at the other Araluans, who were all watching him with a mixture of hope and despair on their faces – hope that they were being rescued. Despair because they were moving so slowly. He appealed to two of them who seemed to be in better condition than the others.

  ‘Can you help him?’ he asked, indicating the man with the injured ankle. ‘We have to get to our ship, and then you can all rest. But the patrols will be sent out shortly to block our way – and we have to keep ahead of them.’

  The two men shifted their feet and lowered their eyes, unwilling to meet his gaze. He felt a surge of anger.

  ‘Do you want to leave him here?’ he demanded sharply. ‘Is that the way you care for your friends?’

  ‘All right. We’ll take him,’ one of the two said. But the reluctance in his voice was all too obvious and Hal shook his head in disgust.

  ‘You do or I’ll leave you here with him,’ he snapped. ‘Now get him on his feet and help him!’ He glanced around and saw Ingvar’s huge bulk silhouetted against the light from the end of the alley. ‘Ingvar, can you carry the one with the leg wound? If he tries to walk, it’ll just keep bleeding and it could kill him.’

  ‘Not a problem, Hal,’ Ingvar said.

  Hal felt a surge of affection for the big youth. No questions, no complaints. Hal smiled his gratitude.

  ‘See if you can bandage that wound a little tighter,’ he said. ‘Anything you can do to stop the blood.’

  Ingvar moved to the wounded man and checked the bandage on his leg. It was totally inadequate for the huge wound. Ingvar took off his shirt, tore out one sleeve, and began to bind it tightly around the man’s leg. In a few seconds, the new bandage was red with blood, but it seemed to stem the flow a little.

  ‘Let’s get you up,’ Ingvar said and, without any apparent effort, he swung the man up, carrying him piggyback like a child. He glanced at his skipper. ‘Ready when you are, Hal.’

  ‘All right,’ Hal called softly. ‘Let’s get the injured ones on their feet and let’s move out.’ He gestured for Thorn and Stig to go ahead. ‘Jesper,’ he said, ‘stay with me and we’ll bring up the rear.’

  Slowly, painfully, the party recommenced its journey towards the harbour.

  Tursgud had spent the evening in a tavern. He’d been forced to go further afield than normal, as several of the drinking places he’d frequented in the past week had banned him and his crew. They’d caused too many fights and too many disagreements. And while dockside tavern keepers expected, and tolerated, a certain amount of violence, too much was bad for trade. When people were fighting, they weren’t drinking.

  So on this night, he’d ventured ashore alone. He tried to gain entry to several places close to the docks, but he was recognised and rejected. He considered objecting. He was a big, well-muscled youth and he carried a saxe at his side, like all Skandians. But the taverns were well supplied with even bigger, more heavily muscled, guards, whose job it was to enforce the tavern keepers’ edicts, and so he rejected the idea.

  Grumbling to himself, he moved further away from the familiar streets close to the docks until he found a small, rather dingy bar where he wasn’t known. He spent the night there, hunched over a table in the corner, repeatedly calling for his ale cup to be refilled, and becoming more and more unpleasant each time he did so.

  He was angry about the way things had worked out in Socorro. He had assumed he could bring his cargo of slaves to the city, sell them to the people who organised the slave market, and move on. But he discovered, as Hal had, that the market didn’t buy slaves directly. The auctioneers acted as middlemen, organising the auctions and paying only when the slaves were sold – and keeping a hefty commission of thirty per cent for themselves.

  Which meant if Tursgud and his crew wanted to be paid, they had to wait until the auction, which wasn’t due for another day. And in the meantime, they were being stung for harbour dues and mooring fees. Hence his current bad mood.

  That mood hadn’t been improved when the owner of the bar he’d been drinking in had abruptly told him to leave several minutes ago. He was the last remaining customer and the barkeeper had approached his table and seized the empty tankard from in front of him.

  ‘Get me another,’ Tursgud demanded, his words slurring a little.

  The barkeeper snorted derisively. ‘That’s all you get,’ he said. ‘We’re closing. Take a look around you. There’s no one else here.’

  In fact, there was one other person. He was a big, heavily muscled southerner who worked for the bar, and he was casually swinging a heavy blackthorn club from side to side, smacking it into his left palm. Tursgud studied him through hooded eyes. He’ll be slow, he thought. I could easily take him with my saxe before he could swing that club at me.

  Then good sense prevailed. There was no logical reason to suppose
that the other man would be slow in his reactions. Big men often moved as fast as a small man could – and very few men survived as guards in a bar if they were slow. On the other hand, Tursgud had the intelligence to realise that he’d been drinking all evening, and his reactions would almost certainly be impaired.

  Snarling to himself, he rose and shambled out of the bar. He hadn’t gone more than two metres before he heard the door slam behind him, and the noise of the bolts being shot home. He turned back and made an obscene gesture at the closed door, then, reeling a little, he began heading back along the narrow street towards his ship.

  At the intersection with the next alley, he paused, hearing the sound of running feet. He drew back into the shadows. There seemed to be a large party of people coming his way.

  He was startled when the first of them appeared, and he recognised Thorn and Stig, both armed and both scanning the streets to either side. Even though he knew he was in shadow, Tursgud drew back even further, watching as a group of a dozen people followed the two Skandians. His eyes widened as he recognised the dozen Araluans he had delivered to the slave market. Then he cursed silently as he saw Hal and Jesper bringing up the rear, both with weapons drawn and ready.

  What are they doing here? he asked himself, and the answer was almost immediately apparent. They had pursued him off the Araluan coast. But when he had led them into the maze of shoals and reefs, he assumed they had either given up the chase or, better still, been wrecked on the reefs.

  Now, he realised, they had followed him here and released the Araluan slaves. At the same moment, he realised where they would be heading. Their ship, that cursed Heron, must be somewhere in the harbour. His mind worked overtime as he tried to overcome the fog of alcohol. He hadn’t seen it in the outer harbour, so they must have found a mooring in the north-eastern arm, where they would be out of his sight.