The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1)

by Warren Thomas

  "Damn them all," she cursed, angrily urging her mount through the crowds.

  Suddenly the same small girl she had almost trampled earlier stepped up beside her and smiled. Danica flashed a smile back and began trying to force her way through the crowd again; it wasn't going well. She was travelling against the current.

  Then her left foot was yanked from the stirrup and the boot pulled off, revealing the wide silver slave bracelet.

  "It's the elf slave!" the girl cried, pointing at Danica.

  "Little brat!" she said angrily, then spotted a large group of older street urchins coming towards her. Pulling her scimitar, she brandished it wildly and shouted, "Make way!"

  The bugler atop one of the towers sounded the gate closing. She looked up in horror as the portcullis began its slow descent. People were still running through both ways. She kicked the unicorn again, harder.

  Her left leg was grabbed again, this time by a boy in his late teens. She punched him in the face and tried to ride on, but another teen, a filthy looking girl with black matted hair, grabbed her by the belt on the other side. By this time the Unicorn destrier had decided they were in battle. He kicked out to the rear, then reared up and screamed his defiance.

  Danica was taken by surprise and clung onto the saddle horn desperately, with the girl hanging onto her. When the destrier dropped back down to all fours, two more urchins grabbed Danica. Then as the stolen mount leapt forward, screaming shrilly, she was jerked from the saddle.

  "Glorious Gods!" she cried and grabbed the stallion's long tail as it raced away through the terrified crowd.

  Being dragged across the cobbles at dizzying speeds, Danica fought to hang onto her only chance at escape. She could feel the rough horseshoe chipped cobbles through her worn breeches, thanking the Gods that they were so thick and prayed they held a bit longer. The people scrambled out of the enraged beast's way, allowing it to run straight to the gate and out just before the portcullis boomed shut for the night.

  Chapter 12

  Feeling her fingers slipping from the Unicorn's long tail, "Whoa! Whoa, boy!"

  The stallion did stop, but only to kick back at her. Releasing its tail, she then ducked under the lethal kick known to cave men's chests in even through thick armor. Rolling away, she cursed her rotten luck as the Unicorn raced away through a chorus of shouts to be lost in the night and thick press of mercenaries. As soon as he stopped some lucky dog would seize him and sell him for a bloody fortune. Which is exactly what Danica had intended to do. With what she got from the unicorn's sale she could've bought all new clothes, a more suitable mount, and a pack beast, and still have coin left over to buy food and lodgings for the twelve hundred mile trip to Ismat al-Haratha. Better yet, she could have bought a warhawk and made the trip within days. Well, at least she still had the bejeweled scimitar and the silver slave bracelet around her ankle was pure silver. Worth more than most commoners made in three months.

  Slipping into the nightshadows of a ramshackle timber and mud building, she set to work cutting off the hated slave bracelet. The thin silver parted easily before the scimitar's fine sharp steel. With the bracelet off, she found a pair of largish rocks and started pounding the thin silver while folding it repeatedly, until it was reduced to nothing more than a crude square no bigger than a crown silver and worth even more. Slipping the silver piece under her belt, she stepped back into the crowded street.

  It was full night now, the sudden desert sunset gone. Danica glanced back at the dark looming city walls a hundred paces back, glad to have at least escaped the fate of being trapped inside them. She seriously doubted even the el'Lacir would bother pursuing her now, if the urchins even told them she escaped the city. Knowing the wild street urchins, they would just shrug and go about their business of mischief making and survival. The Jordani had made a profit off her, so would be heading back without much thought or concern for her fate.

  The makeshift shanty town that sprung up outside Samulla's walls to service the needs of some ten thousand mercenaries was another problem. There seemed to be little or no organization or plan to its layout or governing. Wild packs of bored and drunk mercenaries roamed about singing and starting fights. Eager-eyed merchants tried to sell them worthless trinkets for obscenely high prices on the streets, while others sat in dark, ramshackle shacks and bought their war booty for equally obscene low prices. The many taverns and open air "ale gardens" were filled with the laughing and singing warriors, both male and female, and the cutpurses and whores who also preyed on their good fortune.

  With the darkness covering the poor condition of her stolen clothes, Danica was able to walk the dusty streets all but unnoticed. Most of the mercenaries were Jarlanders, Amazons, and Tyrians, all with coloration similar to her own. Making her nothing special. Thankfully.

  Then Danica's thoughts turned dark.

  "Trapped without food, water, or transportation," she muttered. Glancing down at her feet, "And only one boot." Ripping off the boot and throwing it away. "Barefooted," she amended.

  Caressing the jeweled hilt of the stolen scimitar, she started looking around. She would have to sell it. Danica suddenly smiled, spotting a group of laughing Amazon warrior women approaching.

  "Peace be with you!" she cried, giving the traditional Amazon greeting. "A word please."

  They looked her over curiously. She fought the urge to squirm and cover herself under their frank appraisal. By their looks they thought her some street beggar, or worse.

  "I lost a bet," she said, indicating her clothes. "Taliope wasn't nice to me tonight."

  "That explains it," a plain looking brunette laughed. "You do look the vagrant type, sugar."

  "What can we do for you?" a thin blonde asked, looking impatient.

  Danica held up the bejeweled scimitar, "The last of my war booty. Indeed, my last worldly possession. Would you know of a merchant who would buy it and won't cheat me too terribly much?"

  The brunette laughed heartily. "No we don't, but you can try old Abdul. He'll rob you blind, but pays a bit better than most."

  "He's a camp follower, so has a little more respect for mercenaries than the city merchants," another said.

  "My thanks," she said, not sounding too happy. "Where can I find him?"

  "Keep on this street about two blocks. His trading post is on the right and painted red. You can't miss it."

  "Peace be with you," the Amazons said.

  "Peace be with you."

  As she walked, Danica passed countless coffles of dark, thin, hawkish looking Hau men, women, and children kneeling or sleeping in the dirt. These once proud people now looked desolate in their chains, awaiting slavery. She tried to ignore them; they only brought back painful memories of her months of slavery to the Jordani. Their coming ordeal wouldn't be any better than hers had been. Probably worse.

  As promised, Abdul's trading post couldn't be missed. Painted bright red, even in the dark, it stood out from the surrounding structures of grey-faded wood and beige mud brick. It was only a single story affair of warped and rotting timbers, looking as if the first strong wind would tear it apart. Four large warriors, Tyrians by their look, stood guard out front.

  "Tschüss!" Danica gave the Tyrian greeting and farewell heartily.

  "Tschüss!" they all returned just as happily, eyeing her many charms.

  Danica found herself standing straighter and prouder under their admiring looks. Realizing what she was doing with a jolt of shock, thankful for the darkness to hide her deep blush, she started to cringe and hide her femininity in poor carriage and shyly slip away, but stopped herself. Tyrians were generally a friendly people, open and honest with friend and stranger alike, but they were also much like the wolf. Her shy demeanor might be taken as a sign of weakness by them, causing them to see her as prey.

  "Is Master Abdul open for business?"

  "Yes, woman, Master Abdul is always ready to trade," a big man with grey-streaked mustaches and goatee said. He eyed her shabby clothes
a second, then his eyes lit up at sight of the bejeweled hilt of the scimitar thrust through her belt. "Go right in."

  "My thanks, warrior," she said.

  Once safely past the Tyrians and behind the closed door, she let out a great sigh of relief. Strange, her initial reaction to their looks of approval. Though she was loath to admit it, even to herself, there was a pang of disappointment at their loss of interest as her threadbare clothes became evident. Their laughter carried through the thin walls, but not what they were saying. She wondered if she was the subject of some snide remark, and bristled.

  Gods, look at me! I'm getting mad because some stinking men might not like the way I look, she thought. Why should I care what some man thinks of me? It's not like I'm a real woman. Am I changing in more ways, becoming more of a woman? Is there a point where I can't go back to being a man? Could I reach a point where I wouldn't want to go back?

  Driving away those disturbing thoughts with a deep breath and iron discipline, she turned her attention to the trading post. The trading post's interior was brightly lit, displaying Master Abdul's merchandise nicely. He seemed to sell a little bit of everything. She saw swords, knives, and daggers of every description, clothes and armor from half a dozen lands for both men and women, and even shelves of luxuries like sugar and salt. One corner contained sacks of trail biscuits and jerky and potatoes and dried fruits. She saw blankets and tents and saddles.

  Shaking her head in amazement at the selection, "I wonder if he sells horses, too."

  "That I do, fair mistress," Abdul said, startling her. "Would the fair flower of exotic Amazonia care to examine a poor trader's stock?"

  Chuckling, "I'm an elf, Master Abdul, and definitely not Amazon."

  Abdul was almost as shocked as Danica at the admission. He had taken her by surprise. Up until then she had been going out of her way to hide the fact, but to her deep satisfaction he quickly recovered and became the consummate trader again.

  "And their fair lands are surely the poorer," he said without any sign of revulsion or superstitious fear. He was a thin man in desert robes and a white turban. Though his grey-streaked beard was thin and unkempt, he had a cheerful face. "Your golden radiance has surely given this poor, poor old man reason to go on, just knowing such beauty and grace does indeed exist."

  Smiling brightly under the praise, which strangely pleased her to no end, "You are too kind, sir. I am Danica of Drakehorn — and before you go on and on about how sweetly my name rolls off the tongue, let us get down to business." Pulling the scimitar, "What will you give me for this?"

  Abdul's black eyes flashed almost as brightly as the rubies, diamonds, and emeralds in the hilt's cross guard and pommel. He gingerly took the blade and hurried over to a counter in back. After a careful examination of each and every jewel, then a thorough check of the fine steel blade, he raised sly eyes to Danica.

  Before he could say a word, "We both know that the blade is worth more than all your merchandise combined. But times are tough, what with all the war booty being unloaded in the city. I could take it to Tamera to sell, then live like a Princess, but you can see that I've had a nasty turn of luck...so, now what is your first offer?"

  Master Abdul bowed with a chuckle, "Mistress Danica, I do believe you aren't one for haggling. What you say about the current situation in Samulla is true, but my greatest weakness is pretty women, so I ask you not to take too much of an advantage of me."

  "Gods, if your tongue was anymore silvery, you could buy Samulla with it," she said, smiling. "I need a horse and gear, clothes for crossing the desert, weapons, and the other necessary supplies."

  "Please, mistress, you will beggar me."

  Danica mused out loud, "You know, if I only sold a few of the less valuable rubies here in Samulla, I could still get enough to travel to Tamera. Once there, I could sell the remaining jewels for far more than I'd ever get here."

  He cringed dramatically, "Mistress Danica, what you say may be true, but surely you realize that the very items you seek are what is most in demand. Their value has risen as dramatically as the value of your precious gems have fallen."

  Smiling sweetly, "Let me see what you have to offer, then we can work from there."

  Two hours later Danica stood behind Abdul's Trading Post beside her new chestnut mare. The horse wasn't war-trained, but was one of the fine desert-bred Hau coursers, captured in battle. Though not particularly pretty to look at by Jarland standards, she was the perfect horse for crossing the desert in summer. Abdul swore it had been a Hau Sheik's favorite horse before his clan was captured. Her new saddlebags were full of hard biscuits and jerky and dried fruit for her coming journey. She now wore a pair of worn red leather breeches stuffed inside black pointy-toed steppe boots, white cotton shirt, and a wide belt holding her belt knife, sword, and purse. A sand-colored burnoose was rolled up and tied to her war saddle's high pommel for when the scorching sun came up.

  Abdul stood before her, sadly shaking his head.

  "It was your blazing sapphire eyes that cut out the heart of my resistance, Mistress Danica. Though my purse is lesser, my soul is greater for the rare honor of knowing such a beauty as yourself."

  Danica rolled her eyes, "Save it, Master Abdul. You can't have these last three crowns I still have."

  They both chuckled as she swung up into the saddle. Both had made out better than they anticipated. The sword was more valuable than Danica thought, since she had gotten more for it than she considered possible under the circumstances. She doubtlessly would have made out even better if the silver piece that was her former slave bracelet hadn't fallen out at an inopportune moment in the negotiations.

  "May the Gods smile on you, Master Abdul," Danica said as she nudged her mare down the alley to the street.

  "May your water always be sweet, Mistress Danica," he returned.

  Danica kept to the wider streets as she rode through the night-shrouded collection of makeshift villages and mercenary bivouac sites encircling the walled city. There were few fires, wood being scarce in the desert, but the rapidly cooling air was still filled with the heady scent of roasting meat. Her stomach rumbled to remind her how long it had been since her last meal.

  Squeezing her near empty purse hanging limply from her belt, she felt a moment of unease. She only had enough coin to stay one night in an inn. After that, nothing else for food, drink, or shelter. She could survive on the trail rations in her saddlebags, but that would be a poor existence. Perhaps a caravan was heading west to Tamera tomorrow and she could hire on. It was the only option she could see at the moment. Besides, crossing the desert alone wasn't a good idea.

  A chorus of cries caught her attention. A mixed group of Jarlanders and Amazons crowded around a small lantern gambling. Easing her horse over, she looked over their shoulders to see the dice roll again, followed by more cries of joy or frustration.

  Pulling her purse with a smile, "Mind if I join you?"

  Men and women more than happy to relieve her of her coin waved her down into the circle. She knelt in the opening made for her between a blonde youth with a sparse beard and weather-beaten Amazon in mismatched armor.

  "The game is squares," one of them said. He was a dark-haired, dark-eyed Jarlander with nasty white scar across his right cheek from ear to chin. No taller than Danica, he was burly and looked hard-bitten and bitter. "One crown bet per square, minimum." He extended his hand. "I'm Faiser."

  "I'm Danica," she said, shaking his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

  The game was simple enough. Two die were used, each with six numbers on their sides in the form of dots. A cloth with eleven squares drawn on it, numbered from two to twelve was laid out in the circle. The gambler's job was to bet on a number between two and twelve. After the roll, the sum of both numbers was the winner. The winner collected all the other wagers made. If more than one person bet on a given number, or square, then the pot was divided among them. If the number rolled proved to be a square no one bet on, then the pot was ad
ded to the next. It was permissible to bet on more than one square per roll.

  Danica placed a crown on both the two square and the ten square. Once all remaining bets were made, Faiser rolled the dice. Six and three. Danica moaned, then fished out her last crown copper as Faiser and two others divided up their winnings.

  Placing her coin on the five square, "Roll."

  "Hurry up and make your bets," Faiser said, smiling at Danica. "The lady is eager to part with her coin."

  Looking to the heavens as Faiser shook the dice, Danica prayed vehemently to the Goddess of Chance, Taliope, Blessed be your name, grant me just this one roll.

  The Jarland warrior threw the dice. Everyone held their breath as they ricocheted off the flat-sided rock and settled into the fine beige sand. Three and two.

  "Taliope be praised!" Danica cried.

  One other Jarlander had wagered on square five. Danica's half came to twelve crowns copper. About a week's wages.

  Next she placed bets on six, eight, and ten. Faiser rolled a one and five. Between the two of them they split the pot.

  An hour later the game broke up. Danica now had a purse with forty crowns copper, and numerous eagles, half-eagles, and copper bits. She knew most of the gamblers by name and even some their histories. All in all, she was feeling pretty good.

  "We seem to have split the night between ourselves," Faiser said with a brief smile that never quite made it to his eyes. "Care to join me for a mug of what these desert folk call ale?"

  "That's the best offer I've had in months."

  Walking over to a collection of tables under a thorny acacia tree, they found some of their fellow gamblers at a table and joined them. During the day, the tree's canopy would provide the ale garden's patrons some respite from the unrelenting desert sun. The ale proved to be watery and warm, and not very potent. Exactly what Danica had come to expect from the desert folk. In her opinion, they made the worst ale, but Danica could count the number of ales she'd had since being turned into a woman on one hand. To her, at least, the mug was a godsend.