by Philip Smith
His thoughts were interrupted by the jingling of the small bell suspended above the door by an iron hook.
“Good mornin’, Smitty!” Hanburg bellowed good-naturedly. His fiery beard was a tangled mess and his eyes glowed with enthusiasm. Giant, meaty hands rested on his hips. He filled the doorway with his substantial girth, blocking nearly all the light. Dinendale’s master sauntered over to the age-stained counter, grimacing as if the very presence of customers in his store annoyed him. The fat councilman leaned on the counter, the wood groaning under the load. The two men were similar in size, but the blacksmith’s corded muscles had been hardened by years of labor; the councilman’s had not.
“What can I do for you, Councilman Hanburg?” asked the smith, wiping the soot from his meaty hands.
Hanburg smiled. “I seem to have a loose door-hinge at my home. Funny, it just popped off one day! Pop!” he said, snapping a finger for emphasis. He caught Dinendale’s eyes and folded his hands on the countertop. “Anyway, I need a new one immediately.”
“My hinges don’t just pop out,” the smith snapped. “They’re solid craftsmanship.”
“Oh, I heartily agree. I almost wonder if some mischief had befallen my household. As wonderful as all the hinges are in this village, it is strange how easily that pin slid out.”
“I built every hinge in this village, Hanburg. It takes a fair amount of pressure to pop one of those pins.”
“I know you did! And it was a fine job, too! In fact, I rather like my hinges loose. Makes for a backup plan should the door ever be locked!”
As the smith scrawled a note on a piece of paper, the councilman and Dinendale locked eyes for a brief second. The dark elf stared at Hanburg curiously, but the man only inclined his head slightly and winked. The smith didn’t even notice as he finished his note and handed it to an apprentice.
“Your hinge will be ready at first hour tomorrow morning, Councilman,” he grunted in obvious annoyance. Hanburg turned from the counter.
“Excellent; I’ll have my slave girl pick it up. Have a good day, Smitty!” With one last glance at the elf, the councilman left.
◆◆◆
Jesnake was sifting wheat when Paige entered the mill. Five days had passed since their trial, and the Western elf was glad to see her feeling well enough to be out and about again. She strode through the open doors of the dusty mill wearing a doeskin dress and carrying a market basket in one arm, produce poking out the top. Her hair had been scrubbed clean and pulled back into a single braid, and aside from a small bruise on her cheek, she looked better than she had since the beginning of their journey nearly a month ago. She was still wearing her old leather moccasins, and the slight bulge in one of them told Jesnake that the scroll was safely tucked away. Her other moccasin housed a small antler knife. Jesnake wished to be as fortunate as she, knowing he and the rest of the Brotherhood had been stripped of all armor, clothing, and weapons. Bereft of his mail and tunic, Jesnake now wore a simple tattered cotton shirt, baggy trousers, and crude sandals woven from thick hemp cord.
The elf studied his fair hands. These hands were an artist’s hands and his bow had been his paintbrush. Now they were raw, red, and cracking. He wiggled his fingers as she examined them. Duties of the mill had not been kind to him. He’d been tasked with the dangerous chore of pouring grain into the three-ton grindstones. That work alone had cost his master three fingers on his right hand.
He pushed his gloomy thoughts aside as Paige approached the maple counter. The miller came out from the back room, wiping his flour-covered hands on his leather apron.
“Good morning, miss,” he said politely. Jesnake smiled slightly, knowing full well that if any of the Brotherhood had called the princess “miss,” they would have received a sharp kick for their attempted courtesy.
“Good morning,” she replied. “My mistress sent me for a pound of your best flour.”
The miller smiled kindly and left for the storeroom in the back. As soon as he’d left the room, Paige scurried over to where Jesnake was sifting the wheat grains. “How’s it coming?” she whispered.
Jesnake leaned closer to Paige, dropping his naturally quiet voice even lower. “Here’s the thing; it could be possible, but the probability of achievement is slim.”
“Cut the big words, Jesnake,” she snapped, looking into the storeroom to make sure the miller was not yet returning. “Can you do it, or can’t you?”
The elf rubbed his neck uneasily. “I’d give it a two-to-one chance for unhindered success. Even if I did get out, I couldn’t get back into the village to help the others.”
“Forget about them. Hanburg has a plan for everyone. You just focus on getting yourself out. But he needs you to wait for his signal,” Paige replied, reaching into her moccasin. “You may need this,” she finished, slipping a small clasp knife into the elf’s hand. He slid it up his baggy sleeve just as the miller returned.
“Here you are, missy,” he said, handing her the small sack of flour. Jesnake smiled again. The misguided “missy” had turned Paige’s face a shade darker as she paid the miller. She left, glancing once more at Jesnake. The elf allowed himself a slight chuckle as he threw the grain once more into the air. The wheat sounded like rain as it landed neatly back in the metal sieve, half of the chaff blowing away as the breeze wafted through the open door.
◆◆◆
Paige exited the mill quickly, her basket weighing her down as she walked one of the dirt paths toward the edge of the village. She had seen half of the company while running these “errands for her mistress.” She, Abenya, and Hanburg had schemed for the past four days during Paige’s recovery, hashing out a plan that would get them all out within the week. Abenya had a unique talent for healing with herbs, and Paige hadn’t felt this well since her adventure had started.
Their plan was simple yet risky; it would be at the mercy of circumstance, since there were so many moving parts. In three days, the village would celebrate the Hallowed Moons Feast to honor the rise of autumn. Abeyna knew that the dances would not be complete without an abundance of good wine and meade, which Paige knew made for slow swords and deep sleep. In the early hours of the morning following the festival, each member of the Brotherhood would attempt his own escape, meeting outside the palisade to disappear into the night. The only difficulty would be coordinating all the escapes to occur within the same hour.
So far, Paige had spoken to Broadside, Duelmaster, and Jesnake. Most of them had some doubts, but were willing to try. Paige trusted his ability to get out, even if the plan failed.
Paige now hurried to see to Robert and Twostaves at the barracks, where they were being held. It was more of a repurposed tool shed than anything, back behind the warrior’s quarters. The farmer that bought the pair had spent the previous night getting as drunk as a fish swimming in a whiskey cask. Paige could hear him moaning in one of the longhouses, suffering from what she could only assume was the biggest headache in the history of the world.
Paige walked with her eyes downcast, looking at the path in front of her and wishing to give the impression of a defeated slave girl. Part of her wondered why she bothered, when everyone in town knew Hanburg’s anti-slavery beliefs. Most even gave her a nasty look, knowing her to be as free as any of them so long as she lived under Hanburg’s protection. But she didn’t want to cause a riot over Hanburg’s casual ‘ownership’ of her, so she kept her head low. She was so intent on her appearance that she failed to notice a thin shadow slithering behind her.
“You! Slave!”
Paige recognized Locamnen’s voice before she saw him. She tried to continue onward, but the man slid in front of her, blocking her path. “Half-breed, I speak!” the tribesman spat. Although Paige tried to keep calm, the telltale angry flush was creeping up her cheeks. She gritted her teeth, clutching the handle of her basket harder. Her spine began to tingle with foreboding.
“Let me pass, sir. My master is waiting for me,” she muttered.
“Do
you think me such an idiot? I know that Hanburg has always objected to the ownership of slaves. He treats you just as he does any other member of his house, which means you are free to go as you please. No. No one is waiting for you, my dear.”
As Paige’s anger rose, Locamnen stepped forward, his foul breath making her turn her head.
“You will listen when I talk,” he hissed. Paige noticed a few other men edging in closer to them, and judging by the expressions of contempt they wore, they were not coming to aid her.
“Little slave, you can’t avoid me,” the spokesman continued. “I am a powerful man and can make life… unfortunate… for your friends.”
“Yes, that’s why you were so successful in seeing us all executed last week,” Paige quipped, taking a step back.
“A minor setback, my dear, I assure you.”
“I’ll tell you once; get out of my way or things will become unfortunate for you.”
“What are you going to do, half-breed? Faint on me?”
Paige’s only reply was a sly smile, baring her teeth like a wildcat about to spring. Before the scrawny man could twitch an eyelash, Paige swung her basket with enough force to put a dent in a sheet of iron. The blow caught the weasley man in the side of the head, and he was thrown backwards in a cloud of white powder.
Six other men began to close in on the princess. Last time she’d faced the ruffians in this town, she’d been half-drugged and exhausted; this time she was fully aware of her surroundings, and she had been itching to use her fists. All the anger and rage she’d been harboring since the night her parents died came to a boil. She felt her fists tingling and clenched them in preparation.
The men began to circle around for the kill while Locamnen laid in the dirt. There was a reason her mother named her Alwasu, the Elven word for ‘bobcat.’ Clearly, these men had never hunted anything like her before.
The first to jump at her was a mere youth that might have had three hairs on his face. As he awkwardly tried to grasp her wrist, he received a snappy punch to the forehead. The second man took no lesson from the first and found himself subdued by a roundabout kick to the stomach. Paige whipped the momentum into a jump kick that sent another to the ground, her heel smashing and breaking the cartilage in the third man’s nose.
The remaining three attackers advanced simultaneously. She ducked the first man’s blow, clearing a path straight to his comrade’s jaw. He spat several of his teeth out and howled in anger. She threw a fist to the windpipe of the first, knocking him back into the last man with a thunderous crash. Both thugs gasped for breath. As the remaining man leapt from behind, Paige snapped her elbow back into his sternum, then thrust her fist up to his wide-eyed face. She heard the crack of the cartilage as she broke her second nose of the day. Long after the strike, she felt the adrenaline surge through her.
“You were saying?”
Locamnen struggled to his feet and returned the stare as he snarled at her like a wounded animal. His voice layered hate with madness.
“You insolent, pathetic—”
He took a step closer but Paige reached behind her and pulled her small knife from her moccasin and held it threateningly. The weasel hesitated a moment, suddenly less sure of himself.
“One day you will be alone, unarmed, and unaware,” he growled, a bony finger jutted in the direction of her nose. “And then you will learn a lesson in knowing your place, elfling scum.” He spat at her feet then turned and slunk away into a nearby alley.
The princess felt that icy shiver tingle down her spine as a prick of fear stabbed the corner of her heart. Paige shook herself, picking up her crumpled basket off the dirty, flour-covered road. She snuck a peek inside under the lid and pouted. The pies she’d meant to give as bribes to the guards were smashed into a gooey pile of cherry slop. But the loaves of bread she’d made for the lads were still intact. She fixed her hair, muttering chastisement to herself, and decided she would have to make do with what she had. She picked herself up, stretched out the last crick in her neck from the fight, and began jogging quickly to the warrior’s barracks.
The dwelling was constructed out of an imposing square of stacked logs, the walls almost two feet thick. Excepting several arrow slits, the small fortress was covered with plaster wood chips and small stones. She approached it carefully, making sure to not stray from the marked path as she rounded the eastern corner towards the back of the barrack’s grounds to the giant tool shed her boys were locked up in.
Two large guards equipped with heavy spears and round shields stood at the door. Brave as she was, there were few her size capable of toppling a six-foot-three mass of muscle, much less one armed with a weaponed designed to skewer a full-grown man. Rather than confront them, Paige decided to use a different weapon.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she drawled in the sweetest voice she could muster, dropping into a small curtsey. “I hear you’ve been out here guarding these slaves all night.”
Other than a curt nod, neither responded.
“You must be so tired, standing guard all day!” she said with exaggerated pity. One of the guards grunted, and Paige continued, “I thought you might be in need of refreshment.”
She opened the basket and carefully pulled out the bowl containing the remnants of what had once been a beautiful cherry pie with golden crust.
“I was so clumsy, I’m afraid it’s a bit… smushed. It’s a wild-cherry pie that Lady Abenya made. She wanted me to give it to you.”
“Right nice of Lady Abenya,” one of the guards remarked. “I’m sure it all tastes the same. Vlet, you have a spoon in your kit?”
“I’m sure I could have the wife bring me a couple. Just set the bowl over on that table,” the other guard huffed. Paige did so carefully before reaching into the basket again.
“She also sent me with some fresh bread for the prisoners.”
She showed them the rather large loaf of plain brown bread that was smeared with little bits of cherry pie filling. The guards looked uneasy, shifting uncomfortably. Paige smiled sweetly and batted her eyelashes just like Olivian used to back home.
“I don’t know…” said one guard. “Maybe we should check with the Cap’n.”
Paige tried to put on a pout.
“Please? It’s just a loaf of bread. All I want is to see them for a moment.”
One of them simply rolled his eyes. She felt like an idiot; these weren’t young boys that would fall for girlish charm. If one could even call what she was doing “charming.”
“Look,” she said, dropping all pretense of sweetness, setting the basket down and placing her fists on her hips. “I’ve had a long day. I brought this pie all the way across town and had to beat that stupid, snivelingLocamnen and his little posse to a bloody pulp. All I want to do is give my mates something to lift their spirits, and I’m happy to stand here and wait as long as it takes because I’ve already whipped seven other people today.”
The guards looked skeptical, but the first scratched his ruddy beard in interest.
“You punched a Councilman in the face?”
“He was extremely rude,” Paige snapped. “Needed to be taught a lesson. Hence the smashed pie.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” the first guard muttered.
“I hate that prick,” the other guard said with a chuckle.
Paige tapped her foot dramatically as the guards exchanged a look.
“Alright,” the second one said finally, reaching for his keys to let her inside. “But make it quick.”
The first thing that she noticed was the darkness. The little light of the arrow slits allowed her elf-like sensitivity to discern shapes through the pitch black. Then the smell hit her, a foul mixture of mold, wet plaster, mildew, thick sweat, and rotting wood. She gagged, trying hard to keep her breakfast down.
“Thank you ever so much, gentlemen. You’re too kind. Really, Paige?” She couldn’t see him, but Paige knew Robert well enough to picture his smirk. She strained her eyes in
the darkness, and was rewarded with the shape of two bulky forms chained by the south wall. As she made her way over to them, she stumbled over the uneven floor scattered with farming equipment and assorted junk.
“Are you both alive?” she asked, tripping over a mule plow.
“No,” mocked Twostaves. Paige rolled her eyes. She had thought the driver might have whipped some of the cockiness out of them. Fat chance, it turned out.
“Shame, guess you’ll have to share the bread,” she said dryly, a trace of annoyance in her voice.
“How sweet! Do we get tea to go with it? And maybe some of those kiwi slices from the Eastern jungles, while you’re at it!?” Robert snapped. She threw the bread at the shape she decided must be Robert’s head.
