Alliances ee-2

by Paul B. Thompson

  All seemed normal in the forest. Alert for ambush, Breetan saw only squirrels scampering from branch to branch, heard only birds singing in the treetops. Her dark red mantle hung limply from her shoulders. No breath of breeze stirred the air. Beneath her helmet, her sunbrowned face was flushed from the heat.

  Dusk had fallen by the time the column reached Shattered Rock. The soldiers tensed as they neared the crossroads.

  Shattered Rock had earned its name from a great boulder on the southwest side of the intersection. The sharp-edged block of gray granite, roughly cube shaped, resembled none of the native rock in the vicinity. Local lore held that it had been dropped by a giant in centuries past.

  Opposite the boulder was the sentinel post, a thick- walled, flat-roofed stone hut. The windows were covered by stout planks, with loopholes for archers. Out front, an iron tripod perched atop the ashes of a cold campfire. At Breetan’s command, the company broke ranks and surrounded the hut.

  No one answered Jeralund’s calls. The brass-strapped door was bolted. Both windows were shuttered and likewise fastened from the inside, It required two men with war axes many minutes to hack through the heavy door. While they labored, Breetan ordered a large fire laid where the roads met. By the time the battered panels yielded, darkness was almost complete and the bonfire’s light was welcome indeed.

  Jeralund brought a brand from the fire to light the way, and Breetan entered, crossbow at the ready.

  The missing men were not inside. The single room was a shambles. Everything in it, from the two cots to the bowls that held the sentries’ provisions, had been smashed. The soldiers’ bedding had been trampled into the muck on the floor.

  The ladder to the roof trapdoor had been torn down. The trapdoor itself, like every other opening, was secured from the inside. Jeralund had himself boosted up. He threw the thick bolt, pushed the panel upward, and levered himself onto the roof. It was bare but for a scattering of leaves. The hut’s walls continued up past the roof, creating a two-foot parapet. Jeralund turned to survey the crossroads and the woods beyond. He exclaimed hoarsely.

  “What?” demanded Breetan from below. “What do you see?”

  Jeralund’s face appeared in the trapdoor opening. “Bodies. In the trees!”

  From his vantage point, with the light of the bonfire to aid him, Jeralund had seen what no one on the ground had been able to: corpses hanging from high tree branches. The dead were lowered to the ground and identified as the members of the overdue patrol, plus the two guards assigned to the sentinel post.

  Breetan glared at the bodies, now decently covered with their own cloaks. More than the Black Hall must know of this outrage. She would have to send word to the Knights’ headquarters in Jelek. Unfortunately, her return to Alderhelm would have to be delayed until morning. A night march through hostile territory was too dangerous. They would have to pass the night here.

  The decision was not popular with the men. Numbers and a stone stronghold hadn’t saved their comrades. They clamored to return to the fort at once, but Breetan wouldn’t consider it. She ordered half the company, led by the sergeant, to stand guard while the others rested. The fire would be kept burning throughout the night and, an hour after midnight, the sleepers would relieve those on guard.

  Breetan placed her bedroll below the east face of the great boulder, so the first rays of the morning sun would wake her. She set her helmet and crossbow within easy reach and settled in. It wasn’t the first night she’d bedded down in full armor. The bonfire and alert eyes of the watchers eased the worry of ambush. Bright embers drifted skyward with the smoke. Breetan fell asleep watching them wink out like dying stars.

  She had positioned her bedroll just right. The light of the rising sun, filtered through the forest, fell on her face. As was her way, she went immediately from sleep to wakefulness. The smell of wood smoke hung heavy in the muggy morning air. Above, the sky was cloudless and blue as a robin’s egg. Birds trilled in the trees. What Breetan did not hear was the bustle of a soldiers’ camp coming to life. The rough voices of her company were completely absent.

  Carefully, she stretched out a hand and felt the stock of her crossbow. She eased the weapon to her but suffered an unpleasant surprise. The bowstring was cut, the bolt gone.

  She rolled to her knees, groping for her sword. Her scabbard was empty. Astonishingly, her blackhanded dagger had been taken from her boot sheath without awaking her. Her helmet was just where she’d left it, but it sported a new decoration: the bolt from her crossbow pierced it.

  With a curse, Breetan jumped to her feet and put her back against Shattered Rock. Jeralund and her twenty men were gone. The clearing was littered with blankets, utensils, and dropped weapons. A confusion of footprints covered the road, giving no clue to what had happened. Even Breetan’s horse was gone. Every living soul had been spirited away in the night and she had heard nothing, though she had always been a light sleeper.

  “Yes, you’re alone.”

  The male voice, coming from behind and above, sent her whirling away from the boulder. Atop the landmark rock stood a weird figure. A patched and faded brown robe covered his thin body. His head was enveloped by the robe’s hood, and his face was further concealed by a close-fitting cloth mask that covered everything but two eyes, light in color, but cold and hard as a draconian’s.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “A ghost. Who might you be?”

  “Breetan Everride, Knight of the Lily!”

  “Any relation to Burnond Everride, by chance?”

  She blinked, surprised out of her hauteur, and claimed the kinship. The masked man said, “A bold and fierce campaigner. He never would have allowed himself to be taken like this.”

  The taunt angered her, but she reined in her emotions. His cultured voice and knowledge of her illustrious warlord father meant the fellow was no illiterate forest bandit.

  Breetan saw no sword or other weapon on him and considered rushing him. With a running jump, she could reach his ankles, drag him off the boulder, and thrash the impudence from his voice. The memory of the dead soldiers hanging in the trees caused her to hesitate. One person could hardly have wreaked all that havoc. The wretch must have followers nearby. Why else would he be so confident?

  “What do you want?”

  He gestured with a gloved hand. “You. I knew if I made enough trouble, the humans would send someone like you. Not a warrior, but an enforcer.”

  She scowled at him, but her thoughts were racing. The humans, he had said, so he wasn’t human himself. An elf then. Perhaps a Qualinesti not driven out with the rest of his kind.

  “I want you to deliver a message to your masters,” he added. “A simple one: The forest is mine. From here to Ahlanost, where the trees meet the mountains, it is mine. You and your Order will depart or be destroyed.”

  She laughed. “A few rogue elves with a Qualinesti lordling at their head? The Order does not flee from trash like you!”

  Her shot yielded fruit. For the first time, her words penetrated his shield of amused condescension. Thrusting a finger at her, he spoke in a loud, trembling voice. “Do not befoul the name of Qualinesti or speak to me of trash! You, with a lineage like a mongrel dog, aren’t fit to judge even the least of my kind!”

  Careful to let nothing show on her face, Breetan stored the small jewels of information he’d let slip. He was indeed a Qualinesti elf, and a well-born one at that, judging from his voice and vocabulary.

  “I will deliver your message. It will be your death warrant.”

  He was master of himself once more. “Murder affects only the living. You cannot kill the dead.”

  “Very well, dead elf. Until we meet again.”

  She picked up her useless crossbow and ostentatiously turned her back on him. Head high, she walked away, west toward Alderhelm. She crested a slight hill and disappeared beyond it.

  When the Dark Knight was gone, Porthios slid from the tall boulder to the ground. He clapped his han
ds once and the bushes on the east side of the clearing disgorged eight Kagonesti. They were covered from head to toe in borrowed greenery. Their faces and hands were smeared with malachite paste, staining them dark blue-green. Even standing in plain sight, they were hard to recognize as persons and not foliage.

  “She’ll bring many soldiers, Great Lord,” said one of the camouflaged elves, the tarnished silver torque around his neck the only sign of rank.

  “I hope so, Nalaryn.”

  Porthios pushed back his hood. Despite the warming temperature, he did not remove the mask. “The more force our young whip brings here, the better for my plan.”

  Nalaryn whistled, drawing more green phantoms from the woods. They set to cleaning the site, removing every item left by the Nerakans. In part, it was to preserve an air of mystery, to deny the enemy clues to their methods, but it also served to supplement their own stores. Every scrap of metal and leather was precious.

  “How are the prisoners?” Porthios asked.

  “Cowed, Great Lord.”

  Porthios followed the Kagonesti chief into the brush. Twenty yards off the north road, they came upon seven Nerakan soldiers, bound hand and foot, sitting in the undergrowth. All were blindfolded. The knight’s fine horse was tied nearby, another green-camouflaged Kagonesti standing by its head.

  “Who is senior here?” Porthios asked. One soldier grunted through his gag. At Porthios’s nod, he was hauled to his feet and the gag and blindfold removed. Porthios asked his name and rank.

  “Jeralund of Werim, sergeant of the garrison of Alderhelm.”

  “You should have stayed in Ergoth, Sergeant,” Porthios said. “Your lives have been spared, but if any one of you offers the slightest resistance, all will be slain. Do you understand? If one of you errs, all will suffer.”

  The sergeant nodded. “What do you intend? None of us has rank enough to be ransomed.”

  “I’m not after ransom, but I do expect to turn a profit on you. We are going to Bianost, called by the scum who infest it ‘Samustal.’

  “What’s in Samustal?” Jeralund asked before his gag was restored.

  “A great many evils, including, unfortunately for you, a slave market.”

  The captives were hauled to their feet and their blindfolds removed. Each man’s bound wrists were joined to those of the man behind and before by vines, then the group was led out of the morning-bright clearing and into the shadowed forest. Their Kagonesti captors were each armed with along, willowy spear, stone-headed maul, or light bow. Several had metal daggers gleaned from captured Nerakans. Most sported necklaces of goblin teeth. Some were female, although the distinction was difficult to make, what with the face paint, long hair, and lean physiques.

  Since his fateful encounter in the forest, Porthios had begun putting into action the lessons the god had imparted. The most difficult part had been making contact with the elusive Wilder elves. They avoided Silvanesti and Qualinesti alike, regarding their city-dwelling cousins as arrogant, effete, and nearly as treacherous as humans.

  Many Kagonesti had spurned him, calling him a soulless ghost who would lead them to ruin. Then he met Nalaryn. A former scout for the Qualinesti army, Nalaryn was more worldly than his fellows. When Porthios explained his purpose, Nalaryn readily agreed to join in. That had been the first step forward on Porthios’s long journey.

  Twenty-three of Nalaryn’s clan, fourteen males and nine females, had followed their chief. They made up Porthios’s small army.

  There were few greater horrors for elves than bondage. Samuval had declared all free elves in Qualinesti to be rebels, condemning them to slavery whenever and wherever they could be captured. Several slave markets had sprung up. One of the largest was in the town of Bianost, which the invaders called Samustal. The town was ruled by one of Samuval’s most ruthless lieutenants, Olin Man-Daleth, who styled himself Lord Olin.

  Porthios needed slaves to sell, to give him and his followers an excuse to enter the occupied town. Loud and clumsy as only humans could be, the prisoners were no prizes, even by the low standards of their race, but they were perfect for his plan. He was confident the Dark Knight would unwittingly do just as he wished. As the daughter of one of the Order’s battle lords, she was bred to obedience. She would do her utmost to awaken her superiors to the menace facing Alderhelm. In the meantime, Porthios and his small band of Kagonesti would be heading in the opposite direction, herding their captives to the slave market of Samustal. With the Order’s forces in Qualinesti marshaled to defend Alderhelm, the region around Samustal would be free of their troops. Porthios would have to contend only with Samuval’s bandits.

  And there was another reason Porthios was headed to Samustal. When Kagonesti met in the primeval forest, they always exchanged information about intruders or newcomers in their territory. Nalaryn had heard of a stranger who appeared quite suddenly by the Lake of Death. An elf, female and of quiet tread, Nalaryn was told. She smelled of blood, not her own, and even more of danger, so the Kagonesti avoided her.

  Porthios was little impressed by Kagonesti gossip. He asked who the female was.

  None of the Wilder elves knew. From the signs they’d found at a goblin camp, she had killed several before being taken by slavers, who were also traveling in the direction of Samustal.

  “Soon enough all elves in Qualinesti will be free,” Porthios said, regarding the lumbering humans.

  Nalaryn nodded. He did not understand how selling humans into slavery would free elves, but the Great Lord had spoken and Nalaryn was pledged to obey.

  Chapter 4

  Kerian awoke in pain. Her arms were tightly bound behind her, and she lay on her side in a noisome, rickety cart. The cart had barred sides and a wooden roof and was traveling along a heavily rutted road. Every bump caused her head to throb unmercifully.

  Since her capture, she had been beaten and starved. The ogre-goblin gang she’d found in the forest had sold her to a large party of humans. The going rate for a female elf was twenty-five steel. The goblins sold her for only ten. Despite beatings from the ogre, she had managed to kill another goblin and assault all the rest. She had become a liability they were only too eager to be rid of.

  The human slavers didn’t question the low price; they assumed they were putting one over on the ignorant goblins. That feeling did not last. She was put in chains immediately. The instant one of the humans passed too close as the small group of slaves trudged along, Kerian cold-cocked him with a length of chain. Rather than beat her, the humans simply stopped feeding her. For three days she received no crust of bread, no drop of water. Nor would her fellow slaves share their meager rations. The penalty for helping a prisoner evade punishment was the loss of a finger, a toe, or an eye. The other captives were all Qualinesti. Floggings and starvation they could endure, but mutilation filled them with dread.

  The human slavers sold her to a large band of mercenaries escorting several hundred captive elves to the slave market they called Samustal. During the exchange, she slipped her bonds and tried to run. Starvation and dehydration were her undoing. Recaptured, she was given over to the “trouble” cart. Its half-ogre driver beat her, tied her hand and foot, and flung her in a cage with other recalcitrant prisoners.

  Hungry, thirsty, and in pain, she was in no way cowed.

  “Someone’s going to pay,” she groaned as soon as she regained consciousness.

  “Tell it to the driver,” said a deep, gloomy voice. “Orkosham are such good listeners.”

  She hauled herself upright. Crowded into the wooden cage with her were three male elves and one dwarf. All were bound as she was. The dwarf had spoken.

  “What did you call him?”

  “Orkosham. Ogre-men. That’s what the goblins call them. Mercenary captains like them because they’re stronger than humans and work for less pay.”

  She rested her forehead on her knees, willing her abused skull not to split in two. Something touched her bare foot and she looked up. One of the elves had pushed
a covered bucket to her. Using his teeth, he lifted the cover by its rope handle, set it aside, then took the curved end of the metal dipper in his mouth. As he held it steady, she drank tepid water from the cup on the other end.

  When she was done, the elf covered the bucket again and pushed it to one side. Kerian thanked him. Grimly, he replied, “Don’t be grateful. It’s no mercy to live like this.”

  His sympathetic expression was reflected on the faces of the others. Even the dour dwarf was regarding her with pity.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “We were free. Now we are slaves,” the elf answered. He lifted his head and sniffed the air. “I can smell the slave market already.”

  She too could smell it. They were approaching from the east, and the wind carried the odors of wood smoke, open privies, and unwashed bodies. Kerian put her face to the wooden bars and peered ahead.

  Like most Qualinesti towns, Bianost had been built to be, as much as possible, a natural part of the forest. With characteristic finesse, the elves shaped the living trees into homes and shops, and natural clearings were planted with the flowers and fruit trees for which the town became famous. Bianost apples and figs were renowned throughout Ansalon, and the honey collected from enormous hives on the perimeter of the orchards made the most potent mead in a thousand miles.

  The floral glory of Bianost was gone. In its place squatted Samustal, a fetid settlement named for Captain Samuval and ruled by Lord Olin Man-Daleth.

  Dusk had come, made darker still by the pall of smoke overhead. Fed by several large bonfires and thinner columns rising from innumerable cook fires and street torches, the wood smoke acted like a shield, holding in the odors of rotting garbage, open latrines, and hordes of unwashed inhabitants. The structures lovingly shaped from living trees by generations of Qualinesti were twisted and gnarled, bark black and peeling. A stockade of dressed timbers encircled the heart of the town. Outside that twelve-foot fence was a patchwork assortment of tents, huts, and lean-tos. The invaders had felled many trees to construct additional structures, but the new buildings showed signs of hasty workmanship: timbers poorly joined, walls leaning, roofs canted.