by Dragon Lance
She wondered how they were to get close to the prisoners. Helbin offered to go, but the half-elf quickly vetoed that idea.
“You don’t know my father, or the Dom-shu,” she pointed out.
“I know Miya, wife of Lord Tolandruth.”
An argument threatened, but Casberry put an end to it by giving Zala a shove.
“Get under that cloak, girl, and both of you go!” she hissed, then turned away, melting into the shadows beyond the firelight.
Helbin was slightly taller, so Zala stood in front of him while he drew the Mockingbird Cloak around them. The intimacy inside the cape would have been disturbing had she been sharing it with Tylocost or Lord Tolandruth, but Helbin radiated nothing but indifference.
“Walk very slowly,” he whispered. “The cloth must have time to adapt to its surroundings.”
At a snail’s pace they moved toward the condemned cage. The ensorcelled fabric gradually took on the bloody orange hue of the bonfires. Peeking through the open slit in the front of the cape, Zala saw the dark outlines of sleeping prisoners inside the pen, which smelled worse than she remembered.
When they were near enough, she parted the cloak. As loudly as she dared, Zala called her father’s name.
“Shut up,” said a voice from the mass of unmoving captives.
“I must find Kaeph the Scrivener!”
“He’s here. Keep talking so loudly, and you’ll be in here with him.”
Helbin whispered, “Is that Miya?”
One of the shapeless mounds stirred. It was indeed Miya. Moving slowly, as though languid with sleep, she sat up. Although she acted sleepy, her voice was clear and her ears sharp.
“There are two of you,” she said.
“Yes. We’re here to get you out.”
“Just two of you?”
“No, there are forty kender here, ready to help.”
Miya stiffened. “Forty kender? May the gods have mercy.”
She leaned forward and prodded the figure in front of her. He snorted and woke, grumbling noisily. Miya clapped a hand over his mouth, and hissed, “Quiet, all! Guards!”
A pair of foot soldiers approached. Their hobnailed boots struck in unison as they marched along the length of the cage. Zala drew the edges of the cloak together again. She and Helbin stood motionless.
“… out of beef, they said,” one guard was saying. “So I put my knife to the innkeeper’s throat and told him if he didn’t have beef, he could give us his daughter!” His partner joined him in rough laughter.
The men’s voices drew closer. Zala held her breath and wondered if they would bump right into her.
As the men passed, one brushed lightly against Helbin’s back.
“What was that?” he asked, stopping abruptly.
“What was what?” said his comrade.
“Something touched me.”
Zala flexed her fingers around the grip of her short sword. At close range, she could take both men down, if they weren’t wearing heavy armor.
“There’s nothing here but stinking prisoners. Come on. We’re off duty.”
In spite of his comrade’s urging, the first guard drew his saber and swept the air around him. The flat of the blade struck Helbin in the back. The wizard stumbled forward, throwing Zala against the bars of the cage and out of the cloak’s protection. Instantly she was revealed, and out came her sword.
Both guards shouted, tearing the cloak from Helbin’s back. More soldiers came running in response to their yells.
“So much for being rescued,” said Miya sharply.
“Wait,” Zala hissed. “We’re not done yet.”
The Ergothians quickly ringed the wizard and huntress in a wall of swords and halberds. An officer on horseback demanded Zala lay down her weapon. Instead, she cut the air with her blade. The soldiers started to close in.
Miya and the Dom-shu rushed toward the bars, shouting. The sudden movement distracted the guards. Zala thrust the pommel of her sword through the bars to Miya. “Free yourselves!” she said. “Run, wizard!”
Helbin tried. He got about ten steps before soldiers tackled him, knocking him down on the grimy pavement. Zala proved more elusive. When she felt fingers snag the back of her undershirt, she spun, gripped her pursuer’s arm, and used his own momentum to send him flying. Then she took off in a new direction.
The houses along the eastern side of Luin’s Field had been turned into barracks for hundreds of soldiers. As Zala raced down the street, she heard shouting from within the barracks, followed by a furious pounding. Sparing a glance in that direction, she saw that every door was blocked with timbers, piles of masonry, casks, or barrels. Further on, she passed a solitary figure leaning against the columns of one of the fine houses now home to part of Caergoth’s garrison.
Queen Casberry. She and her kender troop had been busy. They had blocked the barracks’ doors.
The commotion near the prisoners’ cages had become an uproar. Zala’s sword had been passed back among the ragged Dom-shu and vanished. The guards who hadn’t chased Zala demanded it back. Miya’s reply was brief but pungent.
The sergeant of the guard summoned a squad of archers. Soon, ten bows were leveled at the foresters, standing shoulder to shoulder just inside the bars. Other prisoners scampered out of the line of fire.
“Give up the blade!” shouted the sergeant..
“Come and take it, grasslander!” Voyarunta bellowed back.
The Ergothian raised his hand. Ten bowstrings creaked as they were drawn back.
“Will you murder us all?” said Miya. “I am the wife of Lord Tolandruth!”
The archers glanced at their commander. “You are all condemned prisoners of the empire!” said the sergeant. “Yield the blade or die!”
Uncle Corpse pushed his daughter behind him. “Enough talk! Dom-shu, time to go!”
The tribesmen rushed the bars, smashing into them with all their weight. Bows twanged, and arrows flashed in a short flight to meet the oncoming wall of flesh.
*
Governor Lord Wornoth’s factotum was a plump, fussy man named Tello. He arrived at his master’s bedchamber to find the doors already closed. Squaring his shoulders, Tello lifted his baton of office and rapped on the portal. A loud voice beyond the door yelled at him to enter. He did so, and the servant behind him scurried in to light the room’s lamps.
Wornoth sat up in bed. Although he was not an old man, the strain of ruling the second city of the empire in Ackal V’s name showed in his hollow eyes, sallow complexion, and thinning brown hair. Tello pretended not to notice the young woman lying next to Lord Wornoth, her face buried in the bedclothes. She was not, he knew, one of the governor’s wives.
“Tello, if the bakali aren’t at the gates, I’ll have you flogged for this interruption!”
“My gracious lord,” Tello said, putting his soft hands together and bowing. “The prisoners in Luin’s Field are rioting!”
“Sweet Mishas, you woke me to tell me that? Tell the guards to quell any disturbance. When they’re done, tell the captain to give you forty lashes!”
Tello bowed again in acknowledgment of his master’s judgment, but added, “There is more, Lord Governor. We have captured one of those who was trying to free the prisoners. It’s the Red Robe Helbin, my lord.”
Wornoth’s annoyance vanished. “Helbin! Where is he?”
“In your audience hall, my lord, under heavy guard.”
The governor slid out of bed. A lackey hurried forward to hold his robe. As Wornoth tied the sash around his waist, he told Tello to rouse the garrison.
“Have them clear the streets,” he commanded. “Anyone caught helping the prisoners escape is to be killed on sight. I will see Master Helbin at once.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Factotum and servants departed, and Wornoth’s bedmate exited through a door concealed in one of the room’s walls. Wornoth donned his rings of office and hung the heavy governor’s medallion around his neck. Th
e golden emblem of the House of Ackal felt cold against his skin.
So, the Red Robe deserter had been caught. The emperor’s pleasure at this news would be great – as would his gratitude.
He went to the small gong by his bed, intending to summon a scribe to take down an immediate dispatch, but he paused. Perhaps it would be better to find out exactly what Helbin knew first. Great discretion had to be exercised in dealing with any important person from Daltigoth, especially Ackal V. Although the emperor had issued a death warrant for the wayward wizard, it was entirely possible Helbin was acting on the emperor’s behalf, and the warrant was only a ruse to confuse Ackal V’s enemies.
Wornoth rubbed his forehead. Countless possibilities chased themselves around in his brain. He could feel a major headache beginning, just behind his eyes.
*
Dirty and exhausted, Tol and a twenty-man escort rode into Tylocost’s dark, fireless camp. They had covered the distance between the Isle of Elms and Caergoth in less than two days. The Army of the East, moving more slowly, was strung out behind them. Its full strength would not arrive for another day, possibly two.
The Juramona Militia cheered Tol’s arrival. The noise brought Tylocost out of his tent, and he bowed to his captor-commander.
Drink was brought. Tol gulped cider as Tylocost apprised him of the discovery of the Dom-shu prisoners and Zala’s father.
The wooden cup fell from Tol’s gloved hand. “Miya is here? And Chief Voyarunta?”
“So I am told. Is Kiya well? I’m surprised she isn’t with you.”
Tol said only that Kiya was well and was coming later with Egrin and the main body of the army. In truth, she had been profoundly affected by her experience at the Isle of Elms. Tol had told her to remain behind and watch out for Egrin, and she hadn’t objected. Oddly, she seemed sad, as though the slain nomads were her own kin and not the enemy.
Tylocost had little faith the kender could prevail against an entire city garrison, but Tol didn’t share these sentiments. The kender, he said, could be a valuable asset to Zala – if the erratic little folk remembered they were on a rescue mission and not in Caergoth to “find” interesting things.
Tol glanced at the eastern sky. It was well past midnight, but daybreak was still marks away. Nevertheless, he made his next decision quickly.
“Muster your troops, General. We go to Caergoth.”
“My lord? You intend to force an entry with only five hundred Riders and a few thousand foot soldiers?”
Tol smiled grimly. “I don’t plan to force anything,” he said. “The governor will invite us in.”
Chapter 19
WHIRLWIND HARVEST
The Caergoth archers loosed a single volley into the rebellious prisoners. Three of the Dom-shu went down, and Chief Voyarunta received an arrow in the upper thigh. Grunting, he broke off the fletched end, pushed the shaft on through, and yanked it free of the hard flesh of his leg. The Dom-shu, with other prisoners, formed a human ladder pushing against the fence. Miya and a dozen captives climbed the tangle of limbs to the top of the cage. Their swift progress unnerved the archers, who shifted their aim to pick off the prisoners as they reached the top of the spiked fence. They never let fly the second volley. A barrage of brickbats and paving stones struck them, knocking some flat and spoiling the aim of the rest.
The sergeant of the guard whirled to see who dared interfere with his men. On the steps of the Temple of Corij were more than a dozen short figures. He took them for children until several in front bent over and bared their bottoms. All heckled the soldiers in loud, high-pitched tones.
“Kender!” the sergeant bellowed. “You men there! Get those stinking —!”
A heavy weight landed on his back, driving him face-first to the pavement. It was Miya. She stepped off the unconscious man and said mockingly. “Thank you for breaking my fall!”
Although Chief Voyarunta’s leg was bleeding, he had taken his place among his men at the base of the human ladder. When he saw his daughter outside, he shouted for Zala’s short sword and tossed it to her through the bent bars. She caught it deftly and hurried to free him and the rest.
Luin’s Field was in full uproar. Buoyed by the success of the Dom-shu, the rest of the captives were storming the fence. Guards rushed from one point of crisis to another. Prisoners threw rags and blankets over the spikes along the top of the barrier, climbed over, and dropped to the ground. Kender darted through the confusion, tripping soldiers, or pelting them with rocks. Mounted warriors tried to charge the escapees, but instead found themselves fighting to control their horses as kender menaced the animals with stolen torches. No horse would charge into fire. The riders were set upon by throngs of prisoners, dragged from their mounts, and stripped of arms.
The sole entrance to the condemned prisoners’ cage was on the opposite side from the Temple of Corij. Miya fought her way to it through the mob. It was secured by a crossbar as wide as Miya’s waist, and kept in place by a thick black chain. No one had dared climb the gate. It was studded on both sides with sword-sharp bronze barbs.
Miya regarded the gate helplessly. The short, thin sword in her hand was of no use against either the massive crossbar or the chain.
“Need help, lady?” said someone, tapping her elbow.
She turned. Four soot-stained kender stood behind her. The one who’d spoken added, “I’m Curly Windseed, at yer service, and this is Cuss, Juniper, and Fancy.”
“Get this gate open, quick!” she told them. The prisoners had to be freed before the city garrison arrived.
“Sure. Fancy, you got that bar?”
The tallest of the kender pulled a thick metal rod from his collar. It was a straight iron prybar, and evidently had seen a great deal of use. Fancy put one end in the chain and proceeded to wind the bar around and around, binding the chain in the process.
“Lend a hand, big lady,” said the smallest kender, the one called Cuss.
With Miya and the kender pulling and straining for all they were worth, the chain finally snapped. Prisoners rushed forward, and the heavy crossbar was thrown aside.
Before Miya could move, a wall of escapees surged against the gate, swinging it open and almost knocking her fiat. She held onto a gatepost while the torrent flowed past. Of the helpful quartet of kender, there was no sign.
Once the flow of prisoners thinned, Miya saw Zala run into the open pen, calling her father’s name.
Miya yelled, “Your father’s in the shanty. He was too sick to stay out in the open!”
Together they raced across the rapidly emptying compound. Zala’s father lay under a makeshift lean-to. A gray stubble covered his face. His eyes were rheumy and dull.
“Papa!” Zala said, grasping him by the shoulders. “Papa, I’m here. You’re safe!”
“Hurudithya,” the old man whispered. “I knew you’d come!”
Miya looked a question at her, and Zala shook her head. “I was named after my mother,” she explained. “I don’t use often.”
The clatter of iron-shod hooves warned them the city garrison was on its way. Supporting Kaeph between them, Zala and Miya crossed the empty prison compound and quickly moved out the gate.
The great square of Luin’s Field was almost empty. The freed prisoners had not lingered, and neither had the kender. Miya helped Zala get her father to the steps of the Temple of Corij. Leaving them there, the Dom-shu woman raced back to the prison cage to look for her own wounded father. However, save for a few unconscious guards and slain prisoners, the cage was empty.
Miya called for her father, but her cries were lost in the growing thunder of approaching horses. She ran back to the Temple of Corij.
Zala and her father were not where she’d left them.
With a low cry of frustration, Miya dithered on the temple steps. Where was everyone? Where was her father?
A diminutive figure in a brown surcoat came down the steps toward her. His head was covered by a brown hood.
“This way, f
riend,” he said, holding out a hand. “Enter the sanctuary of Corij.”
Corij, god of war, was served by a priesthood of soldiers and former soldiers. This little person could hardly be one of them. Miya spun him around and tugged back the hood of his vestment.
The Dom-shu found herself staring at a brown, leathery face seamed by hundreds of wrinkles. It was not a visage easily forgotten.
“Queen Casberry!” she exclaimed. Who wasn’t in Caergoth tonight?
“You better lift those big feet!” the old kender said, sprinting nimbly up the steps.
Casberry led Miya through the temple’s open portico. Burning candles lit the dark interior and spread a musky scent. A crowd of people huddled among the thick columns. Among them, Miya was relieved to see, was her father, as well as his warrior escort, the half-elf Zala, and her ailing parent.
A genuine priest of Corij came forward. Although his long beard was gray, he was broad of shoulder and straight-backed.
“I am Almarden, high priest of Corij,” he said. “I will guide you to safety.”
Armed with a hooded lantern, Almarden led the way. The house of Corij was the largest temple in Caergoth. Parts of the complex predated the city itself. Through passages broad and narrow, straight and twisting, the priest never lost his way. The fitful light illuminated shadowy figures lining the passages. These weren’t enemies, but suits of armor belonging to famous, long-dead warriors. It was customary for a family to dedicate a dead warrior’s armor to the god of battle.
Fleetingly, Miya wondered whether Tol would have a suit of armor here someday, or an unmarked grave on the endless plains.
The high priest reached a bronze door and halted. Holding his lantern aloft, he whispered, “Outside is the Street of the Coopers. It runs straight down to the Dermount Gate.”
“Thanks to you, holy one,” Voyarunta said. “You are a true man, even if you are a grasslander!”