Removing his hand in surprise, he set off after the younger man as they moved considerably more deliberately until what seemed like an hour later a sound greeted his ears.
“Shh!” Charles hissed, and they knelt together almost in unison. Randall cocked his head and listened until he once again heard the sound, which sounded like a group of people laughing.
They crept forward on their hands and knees as they approached the last hill. Randall peeked over the top to see a small campfire with a pair of wagons—one large, the other small—as a backdrop. They were still too far away to see clearly, but Randall could make out at least five figures situated around the fire.
“Is that your wagon?” he whispered to Charles, and he saw the young man nod as his eyes narrowed. “Where is your family?”
Charles looked intently for several seconds before replying, “The Foulchen wagon—the smaller one. My mother and sister are both there.”
“Are there any other prisoners?” Randall asked, unable to make out any figures in the smaller wagon.
Charles shook his head, “I cannot see. We must move closer.”
Much as it pained him to admit it, Randall agreed with the younger man, and they made their way down the hillside. They moved silently as far as Randall was concerned, but Charles shot him several severe looks as they approached the pair of wagons anyway.
Randall could just make out a few phrases as they approached, which were spoken in a strange, thick accent unlike anything he had heard.
“Forga th’stew,” bellowed a loud, masculine voice, “bring th’meat; I’ma starved!”
“Hold your beans,” snapped a woman, “or ye’ll find blackroot in yer portion!”
“Tis a mouthy one,” came a third, “mayhap’s the cause of your exile amongst us ‘lowly’ gatherers?”
There was a roar of laughter and the group continued to mock each other—but mostly the woman, from what Randall heard—as they approached the wagons close enough to make out details.
The people surrounding the campfire had white-skinned faces, but as Randall approached he realized it was simply a coating of paint, or dust of some kind which they wore like some kind of war paint. Randall realized after a few minutes that they were in fact pureblood humans, but they wore strange clothing which was composed as much of animal skins and feathers as it was cloth of any kind.
He even noted what appeared to be…well, the most polite way he could think of it was as extreme body art. Each was heavily tattooed, pierced, and even significantly scarred to their faces and arms.
Randall had never seen this type of body art before and he briefly marveled at the presence of what looked like a six inch long, crescent-shaped bone which had been placed inside one of the men’s nose, with its tips pointing down to his jawline. Another man had what appeared to be the jawbone of some large, carnivorous animal attached to his own jaw, and it moved up and down in conjunction with his mouth’s movements as though it was a part of his face.
All of them sported tattoos of a primitive and mildly disturbing nature—and that was in the dark of night with nothing but a campfire for illumination. The largest man—the one Randall had heard speak with such a strange accent—had scars which covered every inch of his arms, making it appear as though his skin was actually composed of reptilian scales.
Randall had seen similar skin-scarring on a few occasions on Federation soldiers who had frequented The Last Coin, but he had never heard this man’s strange accent before.
Before he could catalogue any more interesting corporal mutilations Randall’s attention was redirected to Charles, who placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Seven,” Charles whispered just loudly enough for him to hear, and Randall nodded as he realized his hand was once again on the metal hilt of the strange sword.
Charles pointed to the small wagon, inside which Randall could easily see a handful of figures—all half-elven.
Randall placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and shook his head, pointing back to the hill they had just clambered down. Charles’ eyes flashed with anger as he pointed sternly toward the wagon with his family, and Randall again shook his head.
The younger man gripped Randall’s arm tightly enough for it to hurt more than just a little, but Randall shook his head as he held the younger man’s gaze and once again pointed to the top of the hill.
After a moment of silent conflict, the younger man nodded curtly and they made their way quietly away from the fire and back toward the hilltop.
When they had reached the safety of the hilltop, Charles growled, “Thou had best give cause for thy flight.”
Randall shook his head and realized that his heart had been beating hard in his chest. He took a few calming breaths before tilting his head toward the wagons, “There are seven of them there.”
Charles nodded angrily, “Aye, seven.”
“How many arrows do you have?” Randall asked.
Charles bristled visibly, “Eighteen. But I’ll need no more than ten to finish them!”
Randall made a ‘slow down’ motion with his hands. “Even if your skill with that bow is legendary and the weapon survives the use, they’ll be on us quickly. I told you before that I’m no warrior.”
Charles snorted derisively. “Only a warrior carries a blade as fine as thine,” he countered.
Randall rolled his eyes. “You can believe what you want, but I’m telling you the honest truth: I don’t know how to fight!”
The young man’s eyes narrowed. “If thou art a coward, then why didst thou come this far?!” he asked, his voice rising dangerously.
Randall placed a finger to his lips and gripped the younger man by the arm. “Listen,” he hissed after hearing the discourse around the campfire had not diminished or been interrupted, “I’m willing to help out here, but I’m not a warrior—and neither are you,” he said pointedly.
Charles jerked his arm away. “If thou wilt not help me, then stay here—I cannot allow mine kin to be abused thusly!”
He made as if to leave, and Randall grabbed him by the jerkin. “Charles, wait,” he hissed, pulling the younger man back down. When the other man did as he was asked Randall shook his head, completely unable to believe that he was actually considering going down there and trying to free these people. The whole time they had pursued the brigands he had assumed they would encounter someone who would help them—or at least find evidence that there was some sort of law enforcement available to them here.
But there had been no such revelation, and in that moment hiding behind the hilltop he knew that the only hope young Charles’ family had was what he and Randall provided them.
He even entertained the thought that he might be able to help out with using the enchanted sword, but he dismissed the thought quickly. Who am I kidding? he asked himself bitterly. I’ll be lucky if I keep from falling down and drowning in swamp water!
Randall looked up to the sky and saw The Wandering Moon was nearly overhead—the first time it had ascended since his last night in Three Rivers. The Wanderer’s appearance was generally an ill omen for Ghaevlians and their offspring, but he shook his head resolutely.
“If we don’t help them…” he began, feeling his fingers grip the hilt of the sword strapped to his back, “…no, we have to help.”
Charles clapped him on the shoulder and an excited look came over his face. “Aye, thou might not be a coward at that,” he said grudgingly.
Randall drew the sword out, hoping against hope that it would fill his body with that same jolting, numbing sensation it had done in the alleyway…but nothing happened. He closed his eyes and prayed silently, If you can hear me: I need you. I don’t know if I’m crazy, or if you’re really there, but right now I’ll take any chance I can get.
He opened his eyes and looked up to The Wanderer and shook his head, knowing that while it had never been the patron of his kind he did indeed need all the help he could get. So he mouthed a short prayer before turning his attention
to the task at hand.
“How good is your aim, Charles?” he asked in a low voice. “Be honest,” he added in a dire tone.
Charles bristled visible before his shoulder slumped slightly. “I missed the game fowl I hunted this morning with both shots—but it was in flight!” he added in his own defense, and Randall rolled his eyes as a wave of despair hit him like a runaway carriage.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Randall nodded. “How close do you need to be in order to take one cleanly?”
Charles bit his lip, looked up at the moon appraisingly and considered it briefly. “Ten paces and I can put one down for certain. At twenty…I can hit them with near each shot, but I can make no guarantee as to effect.”
Randall closed his eyes and tried to remember the distances between the wagons and the campfire, then he calculated the various distances between the five humans he had seen. “Where were the other two brigands?” he asked.
Charles gestured with his hands, “One slept against our wagon, the other made water behind the Foulchen’s while we came back.”
Randall nodded, glad that the other man both saw and remembered their locations, “Ok, then if they’re all gathered around the fire you have to set up behind the large wagon. Use it for cover, and I’ll come at them from our current position.”
Charles nodded eagerly. “Aye, I’ll support thee with my bow whilst you lay into them!”
Randall ground his teeth against each other. “No, Charles,” he growled, “you’re going to be taking them out with your bow; I’ll just be distracting them to give you as clear of a shot as I can. You start with the ones nearest your position and work out—and please, keep your aim away from me!”
Charles’ face darkened slightly but he nodded reluctantly. “Aye…I’ll do my best.”
Randall nodded and gestured for the other man to proceed, “You circle around behind, and when the moon’s at its zenith we’ll move. If you see that I’m in position where we stopped and are uncertain of the time, you take them and I’ll charge while making a ruckus. That will hopefully give you time for a couple more good shots before it all goes to the pits.”
Charles nodded, drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it before setting off toward his destination.
Randall looked down at the magical weapon in his hands and turned it over a few times. He was surprised that its glimmer seemed somewhat duller than it had the last time he had drawn it under the light of The Wandering Moon, but he tested his grip on it a few times before setting off for his own post.
After reaching the spot he had indicated, he waited for some sign of Charles. He waited for several minutes but still he saw no sign of the younger man, which was odd since his vantage point should have given him clear sight of his approach to the wagon.
Then he heard a commotion from behind the wagon and his heart leapt—until he heard Charles’ voice as he spat angry curses at the towering human who appeared to be the leader of the band.
“Look wha’ I fund,” he growled, throwing the young half-elf face-first into the dirt beside the campfire—a distance of nearly fifteen feet—and Randall could almost hear bones break as the young man came to a rolling stop. “Ri’ y’were, Halix; he foll’d us from the farm.”
Randall heard women’s voices from the small wagon, one of which clearly said, “Charles!”
“Ma—“ he began, only to have one of the other humans kick him in the ribs.
“Speak not lest ye’re spoken to, slave,” she growled, and Randall recognized the voice as belonging to the woman who had instructed the leader to ‘hold his beans,’ whatever that meant. She was huge—easily a foot taller than Randall—and muscular as well. It was clear she was a warrior born…but there was something about her musculature that almost seemed unnatural.
Randall gripped the hilt of the sword tightly as his mind raced. Should I flee? he wondered, knowing that what sliver of hope he had held onto with Charles and his bow had just vanished. “I can’t flee…” he whispered to himself. “The Lady only knows what fate awaits them at the end of their journey.”
The group of humans began to abuse the young man with kicks, slaps and punches, most of which were clearly intended to soften him up rather than kill him. Randall knew the difference first-hand from a handful of similar experiences, and his stomach tightened while his face flushed with anger.
He looked down at the sword and shook his head as he saw the barest hint of a reflection from The Wanderer overhead. “This isn’t exactly how I wanted to go out,” he growled, “but I’m not sure I could live with myself if I left now.”
Randall sat there a few moments longer until his mind stumbled onto a possible way through the mess that didn’t involve suicide. It was a very, very long shot—but at that moment he would take it, since it was realistically the only choice that didn’t involve fleeing or charging headlong into a fight he had no business in.
He schooled his features the best he could, took a few deep breaths and stood to his full height as he strode toward the gathering confidently. So consumed were the brigands with their abuse of Charles that they didn’t even notice Randall’s approach until he cleared his throat.
“You there,” he shouted in his most haughty, arrogant tone, “unhand that boy at once!”
The group whirled on him as one, brandishing weapons as they turned. Their movements were so practiced that Randall felt his mouth go dry almost instantly—if he couldn’t talk his way through this, then he was most certainly not going to be able to fight his way through it.
“Who goes there?” the woman snapped.
“Tis as I said,” spoke a smaller, heavily tattooed man, “this one was not alone.”
“Indeed,” Randall barked, pointing his sword at the crumpled, wheezing form of Charles, “you have unlawfully brought harm against my property, and I suggest you cease all such efforts at once.”
“Your property?” the woman demanded, and Randall suddenly realized that the largest man had not spoken—either he was the strong, silent type of leader, or this woman was the real boss. “What proof have ye to support such a claim?”
“Proof?” Randall scoffed, his mind racing to come up with a reasonable reply. Thankfully his tongue was quicker than his mind, and he struck an arrogant pose as he continued, “I need no such proof; the boy—and his family,” he gestured toward the wagon, “are my property. They were legally bought and paid for; to take them from me would be theft of a valuable commodity, for which the punishment in these lands is quite severe.”
There was some truth to Randall’s assertion, since if he really was their owner he would be entitled to a hefty sum of money in exchange for the unlawful appropriation of slaves, even unskilled ones such as farmers. Or, if monetary recompense could not be met to his satisfaction, he would be within his rights to have the thieves executed.
Of course, the entire notion that a person could belong to another was appalling to Randall but this was a matter of life and death. If he couldn’t sell this lie then they were all in deep, deep trouble.
“We see no brands on their hides,” the woman snapped, looking over to the largest man for confirmation. When he nodded, she turned her attention back to Randall and took a menacing pair of steps forward. “And in our lands, an unbranded slave is fair game!”
Randall swallowed the knot in his throat and shook his head theatrically. “These are not your lands,” he countered, taking a step forward of his own as his hands literally began to tremble, causing him to grip the warm, metal hilt even tighter, “they are mine.”
“And who might ye be?” she asked in a venomous voice as her companions began to spread out and advance slowly on Randall’s position.
“I am…” he began, struggling to control his nerves as he saw the others advancing on him. Thankfully, he counted seven in all, which meant he was unlikely to receive an attack from behind. He straightened himself and felt his scalp go numb—a sure sign that things were about to go poorly. “I am Marion von
Pendergast, Baron of the Eastern Hills!” he lied, remembering the title of a character from a book he had once read as a child.
“Baron?” the woman purred as she took a step forward. “Where be yer men at arms, oh mighty Baron?”
The other brigands chuckled, and Randall saw Charles crawling slowly away from the fire and toward the wagon. He turned his attentions back to the advancing marauders and held the sword out before himself. “Do I look like I need guards?” he asked with as much false confidence as he could manage. He was quite certain he would wet himself if he had not already made water recently. “Release my slaves and I will forget this incident,” he said meekly, knowing they weren’t buying the act. But he absolutely refused to collapse to the ground and beg their mercy—he had done enough of that to last a lifetime!
“I have a counter proposal,” the woman said as her men encircled Randall completely. “Ye drop the shiny blade and I’ll see to it that you crawl away from here in agony. Ye ought’ve come with yer guards, Baron.”
Randall felt his hands begin to go numb and he looked up to see The Wanderer had reached its zenith. A flicker of something caught his eye and he looked down to see the blade was reflecting The Wanderer’s soft, white light clearly on its previously murky blade.
The numbness spread up his arms and into the rest of his body, and he actually felt a flash of hope he hadn’t expected. He twisted his mouth into a savage grin and said, “Do I look like I need guards?”
Then, just as in the alleyway, he felt his body become light and his feet stutter-stepped forward before reversing their course abruptly. The woman leapt backward a full step in anticipation of an attack, but Randall’s hands were already bringing the magical weapon around to attack one of the men behind him.
There was a clang as his weapon met the metal of another, but Randall’s blow was too strong and it drove the man’s sword aside just enough that it missed him.
You are unbelievably weak, Randall heard a voice say monotonously as he felt himself lunge inside the man’s now-open guard and deliver a knee to the human’s groin.
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 16
