She pulled back and the heavy bar clunked into place. Moz would’ve liked to stay and guard them, but he needed to find those other marauders. Ella would have to manage on her own.
Moz was getting too old for day-long running battles. But he didn’t stop as he jogged through the village listening for any sounds that might give him a clue as to the remaining three fighters’ whereabouts. Instead all he heard was the distant shouts from the wall where the settlers still battled to keep the bandit army at bay.
If the first group he fought was tasked with killing the women and children, a nasty job for sure, then what would the second group be assigned to do? His first thought was firing the buildings, but that could wait until they won the battle. Moz and his squad had burned down a village or three during the war. How would he have handled this settlement if he were tasked with its destruction?
He snapped his fingers and turned back toward the wall. All the village’s fighters were focused beyond the wall. If those three attacked them from behind, it would be a slaughter. Moz picked up speed. He couldn’t let that happen.
When the top of the wall came into view, he let out a sigh of relief. The archers were still plugging away and there was no sign of the intruders. But he knew they were there. What other mission could they have?
Moz stopped in the shadow of an empty cabin to catch his breath and scanned the area nearest the defenders. It was only a matter of time before they showed themselves. He could be patient. Time was on the defenders’ side after all. The longer the intruders waited, the more bandits died.
Maybe the enemy had the same thought. Moz spotted the first one edging his way around a different cabin. He was dressed in leather and carried a heavy spiked chain. That would be a pain to fight. Now where were the other two?
On either side of a cabin to Moz’s right, a duo of marauders appeared, each armed with two-handed swords like the men he already killed. He’d have to take the chain wielder out first, that was too unorthodox a weapon to fight in a group. Moz pulled one of his throwing daggers. If he could slow the man down even a fraction, it would be enough.
As if on a silent signal, all three fighters charged the wall. Moz broke a step behind them, hurling his dagger at the back of the chain wielder’s unprotected neck. He missed by half an inch cutting a thin line across the skin, but doing no real damage.
He did get the man’s attention. The chain wielder spun around and sent his weapon twirling in a counterclockwise circle.
Moz drew his second sword and shouted, “Bernard! Enemies to the rear.”
Kane and three other archers turned and loosed, feathering the swordsmen and putting them down for the count.
“You could surrender,” Moz said.
“And answer to El-Kalim?” The chain wielder shook his head. “Better I die fighting. At least I’ll take you with me.”
An arrow pierced the man’s right temple and emerged from his left cheek. He collapsed instantly, his chain clattering to the ground.
Moz wiped sweat from his brow. Not the most honorable victory, but Moz had moved past caring how he won, as long as his side survived. The stairs to the battlements seemed steeper than when he went down and his legs wobbled.
Too old, way too old.
When this was over and Ariel safe, he’d take Callie up on that instructor job. Easy work and good food sounded like just the thing right now.
Moz made his weary way to the battlements. When he reached the top, Bernard stood waiting. The archers had fallen silent. Dead or dying bandits covered the field beyond the wall. They’d pushed the ram to within fifty feet of the gate. Far too close for comfort. At the forest’s edge a single figure remained standing, El-Kalim.
“Is everything okay?” Bernard asked.
Moz nodded and told him about the attack on his home. “I dealt with those three. Damn lucky I figured out where the others were before they hit you from behind.”
“It’s over then?” Bernard said. It was half statement and half question.
“If it’s over, what the hell’s he waiting for?” Kane jerked his head toward El-Kalim.
That was a good question. El-Kalim had no army, no crew, nothing beyond the sword on his back. He couldn’t possibly harbor thoughts of victory. They watched the giant man, who watched them right back. If it was some sort of intimidation tactic, a warning that he’d be back with more fighters, it was kind of pointless. By the time he gathered a second force and marched them to the settlement, winter would be here.
After a minute of silent staring, El-Kalim reached back and unhooked his great sword from its harness. He crouched, gathering himself.
“The lunatic means to attack us himself.” Kane fitted an arrow to his bow. “That’s the same as suicide.”
It felt that way to Moz as well, but from what Alva told him, El-Kalim had a few tricks up his sleeve. He didn’t seem the sort to throw his life away pointlessly. He must believe he had a chance of winning. Moz couldn’t see it, but if your enemy believes, you’d better believe too.
El-Kalim burst forward like a runner out of the blocks. He sprinted toward the ram, far faster than an ordinary man.
Kane loosed his arrow. It gashed El-Kalim on the arm but didn’t slow him. More arrows arced out, striking him in the chest and thighs. If the numerous shafts caused the giant man any discomfort, he didn’t show it.
When he reached the ram, El-Kalim used his momentum to strike it with a mighty kick. The ram shot forward, slammed into the gate, and smashed it to splinters.
Moz and the archers were forced to grasp the wall to keep from falling.
“Gods’ blood,” Bernard said. “How can we stop such a brute?”
That was something Moz would have liked to know. The dust cleared and they could see El-Kalim once again. He plucked the last of the arrows out of his leg and tossed it aside. The wound closed before their very eyes. Clearly more than his size and strength had been augmented.
“What do we do?” Bernard asked as if Moz had any idea.
That wasn’t true. He knew exactly what he had to do, but it wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, more likely than not, Moz was about to die.
“You’ll have to back me up. Your best shots only. Look for any opening to hit his hands. If we can disarm him, I might be able to strike a killing blow. Just be sure not to hit me.”
Moz hurried down the stairs. The ram had smashed three-quarters of the way through the gate. The power necessary to do that with just a kick was insane. On the right side, between two timbers, was a gap barely wide enough for him to wriggle through.
Out on the field El-Kalim stood stock still, huge sword resting on his shoulder like a lumberjack’s axe between trees, as if waiting for Moz. Or perhaps he was daring the archers to take another shot so he could show just how pointless it was. Break their spirit. He’d done a fair job of that already if Moz was being honest.
“I knew you’d come to face me, brother,” El-Kalim said in a voice deeper than any Moz had ever heard. “My men are dead?”
Moz stepped away from the ruined gate and drew his swords. “They are. Sending them over the wall from the rear was a good strategy. I nearly didn’t see it in time. Is this battle necessary?”
“That depends. Will you swear allegiance to the Dark Sages? A man of your skills would be a valuable asset to our cause.”
“Would you leave the settlement in peace?” Moz asked not because he had any intention of accepting the offer, but to see how serious it was.
“No. My master requires that this place die and so die it must. I speak of avoiding our personal battle.”
Moz dropped into a combat stance. “The settlement is under my protection so I can’t step aside.”
“Pity.” The giant shook his head slowly. “I see so few people from our homeland it’s a shame to have to kill one of them. Master Kranic has made me stronger than any man, so strong that you have no hope of defeating me.”
Moz rolled his shoulders. “One way to find out.”
The first strike came so fast Moz barely had time to duck a horizontal slash that would have cut him in half, dragonscale armor or not. He didn’t dare think about blocking a strike from that massive sword. His blades would instantly shatter.
Moz spun away from an overhead chop.
An instant later he jackknifed to avoid another slash. How could El-Kalim maneuver such a big sword so easily?
Moz leapt a low sweeping slash that would have taken him out at the knees.
“You’re skilled, brother. Perhaps the most skilled I’ve ever faced.”
“Thanks.” Only a lifetime of fighting and the fact that the huge sword made his opponent’s attacks easy to read had kept Moz alive so far. Counterattacking seemed a dim prospect.
El-Kalim shifted his sword to high guard.
An arrow streaked in and struck his dominant hand.
Now or never.
Moz lunged in and cross slashed the hand still gripping the blade. It felt like cutting dry oak but cut it did.
El-Kalim’s left hand fell to the ground along with his giant sword.
Moz didn’t stop.
As El-Kalim staggered back Moz bore in. His blades moved in a blur, slicing deep grooves in his opponent’s chest.
None of them were more than a nuisance to the giant man.
El-Kalim roared and charged. He struck Moz with a shoulder tackle that sent him flying twenty feet through the air.
Air rushed out of him and the impact knocked the swords from his hands. Moz gasped and scrambled to his feet.
A huge hand wrapped around his neck and hoisted him off the ground. The wounds in El-Kalim’s chest had nearly healed already. The stump of his left arm no longer bled. Moz expected at any moment to see little fingers growing out of the wrist.
“I honor your skill, brother, by killing you with my bare hands.”
Another arrow zipped in, burying itself in the side of El-Kalim’s face.
The giant roared in pain and dropped Moz.
He snatched up his sword, leapt, and stabbed it up under El-Kalim’s chin, driving it deep into his brain.
The giant collapsed but didn’t die instantly. He managed a few final, barely intelligible words. “Your name, brother?”
“Moz.”
El-Kalim’s lips tried to form a smile and failed. “Your true name.”
Moz sighed. He hadn’t spoken his true name to anyone in a long time, not since he left home. “Mozes-Ra.”
“My… thanks… brother.” With those final words El-Kalim died.
Moz pulled his sword free, cleaned it, collected its twin, and sheathed them. Cheers rained down from the battlements. The archers pumped their fists and hollered.
The battle was really over.
They’d survived.
Chapter 12
“I look like a clown,” Silas said, drawing smiles from Yaz and Brigid.
After a successful day of shopping the group had returned to their inn to prepare and make any alterations Silas’s disguise required. Brigid claimed to have sewing skills, which was lucky since while Yaz could sew up a wound, he’d never put thread to cloth. Fortunately, the tailor they bought the outfit from knew his business and everything fit perfectly. They even had a fine silk pouch for Wicked to ride in.
The little undead flew around above Yaz’s bed watching the proceedings with serene indifference. Yaz envied Wicked a little. It seemed all he could do was worry. So much could go wrong that the more he thought about it the more he considered calling the whole thing off and coming up with a new plan. He wouldn’t, of course. This auction was their one, best chance to get the information they needed. No way could he pass it up, risks be damned.
Their magical infiltration had gone off without a hitch at least. Yaz had the directions Silas provided memorized. Once he left the auction hall, he’d follow them to the records room and search until he found the books he needed. After talking with Randall, they had a pretty good idea when the auction happened which would help a great deal when it came to locating the records he needed.
Yaz blew out a breath and set his worries aside. He couldn’t do anything until they were inside so speculating was just a waste of time and mental energy.
He turned his focus to making preparations, where it belonged. Brigid was eyeing Silas critically. The yellow-and-black silk tunic made the wizard look a bit like an overgrown hornet. His mustard-yellow beret did nothing to dispel the illusion.
“You need something else,” Brigid said at last.
“What more could I possibly need?” Silas asked in complete exasperation.
“A cane,” she said. “When we visited the tailor, I saw several men in fancy outfits twirling canes. They seemed more for decoration than to help with balance.”
“We don’t have a cane,” Silas pointed out.
“No, but we have a staff.” Brigid grabbed her oak staff and handed it to Silas. “It’s kind of plain.”
“But if one of us needs a weapon,” Yaz said. “It’ll be good to have. Smart. We’ve still got an hour before the carriage arrives. I can carve some Water Kingdom runes on the sides and we can pass it off as some expensive relic.”
“Can you read that ancient language?” Silas asked.
“No.” Yaz took the staff and drew his dagger. “But I remember all the markings from the ruin we explored before the world went crazy. I can duplicate those. Besides, how many people at a slave auction do you think will be able to recognize a language that’s been dead for a thousand years?”
“Fair point,” Silas said. “And if they do, I can claim I’m a dumb rich guy who thought they looked impressive.”
Yaz finished his carving with ten minutes to spare, just time enough to put on the simple black tunic and trousers that served as his servant’s uniform. It matched Brigid’s except hers had a skirt and bonnet that hid her hair. It was far from the most flattering outfit, but when she hunched up and cowered a little, she made a passable servant. Yaz didn’t even have to scrunch up he was such a little guy already.
“Well if we’re going to do this, let’s do it,” Silas said. Wicked flew into the silk pouch and he pulled the drawstrings tight.
The three of them left Yaz’s room and marched down the inn steps. There were only three people in the common room and none of them felt the need to comment on the bizarre sight before them, thank the gods.
Outside it was warm, but not blazing. Maybe the worst of the summer heat had come and gone. Yaz could hope anyway. There were a few people walking opposite the inn, but this time of day most people were at work. The ones that went by looked like wives out shopping. There were a couple double takes when they saw Silas, but for the most part no one paid them any mind.
Eventually, the carriage they’d rented for the trip across town clattered up to the inn. It was a simple wooden enclosure with iron-bound wheels. A surly looking man with a whip in one hand and the reins in the other sat on the driver’s seat. When he made no move to climb down and open the door for them, Yaz did the honors.
The smell that wafted out gave the impression of an ill patron the night before. Whoever was in charge of cleaning hadn’t bother to deodorize. At least there wasn’t a puddle on the floor.
Yaz helped Silas and Brigid inside before joining them after a final deep breath of relatively clean city air. The seat squished and squeaked when he sat beside Brigid facing Silas.
“Maybe we should’ve sprung for the nicer carriage,” Brigid said.
“It’s not that long of a ride and we’ll need every scale before we finish this mission,” Yaz said. “We still need to buy horses when we leave the city.”
“I know.” Brigid lifted her hand, grimaced, and wiped it on her skirt before Yaz could see what she got on it. Probably just as well.
In addition to its pungent aroma, the carriage didn’t have a very good suspension. By the time it stopped they were all eager to exit. Once again Yaz did the honors and opened the door. When they were outside, the driver crac
ked his whip and rolled off without a word.
Unlike their last stroll past the Slavers Guild, today the main gate was open and a trickle of people ranging from nobles dressed far nicer than Silas to merchants to a pair of what appeared to be ship captains if their knee-high boots and the way they swayed as they walked were any indication. Looked like everyone needed a slave for something.
“Is this a typical crowd?” Brigid asked.
Having never been to a slave auction, Yaz had no idea. Though a big crowd might work to their advantage if it forced the guild to position extra guards in the auction hall.
Yaz and Brigid fell in behind Silas who strutted across the street. He wasn’t holding back, that was for sure. Yaz had never seen such an arrogant stride. He’d pass for noble with no trouble. A pair of guards armed with swords and wearing heavy leather armor gave them a passing glance, but otherwise made no move in their direction. Seemed they weren’t concerned about the guests sneaking weapons in.
They followed the other bidders toward the main building. Outside one of the long houses, a line of half-naked men and women stood waiting for their turn on the block. A few of the bidders angled their way to examine the merchandise. That didn’t seem to be a problem either, though when one man reached out to touch a female slave the guards waved him off. No free samples apparently.
“This is horrific,” Brigid said. “Just thinking of my parents coming through here makes my stomach hurt.”
“Mine too,” Yaz said. In truth it made him more angry than sick. Had he the power, Yaz would have freed every slave and killed every slaver. But he didn’t have the power. All he could do was stick to the plan and hope he could at least save his own people.
“Keep silent, you two. I pay you to fetch and carry, not jabber.” At least Silas was keeping in character.
“Apologies, Master.” Yaz lowed his gaze to the ground, as much to avoid looking at the slaves as to show contrition.
With everyone now fully in character, no more words were exchanged as they entered the main keep. The interior of the guild hall was devoid of decorations. The stone floor had a simple gray rug running straight from the entrance to a large open room filled on three sides with chairs facing a raised stage. There was a lectern with a gavel resting on it, but no auctioneer or merchandise. It had to be close to starting. Maybe once the last of the buyers finished up outside.
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