As the guard was intercepted by the first rider, Borric braced himself, then jumped at the horse’s bridle, causing the mount to stumble and throw his rider. The horse’s chest struck the Prince. The impact sent Borric flying back, landing on the ground with a heavy thud. Quickly he was on his feet, poised for the attack he knew was coming. The raider had also come up ready for a fight, but had the advantage of his weapon. Borric pulled the glowing staff from his belt and attempted to defend himself. The bandit swung wildly, and Borric slipped the blow, moving inside the man’s guard. He drove the head of the staff into the pit of the man’s stomach, generating a satisfying explosion of breath as the bandit went down, the wind knocked out of him. Borric then broke the staff over the man’s head, leaving the raider unconscious or dead. The Prince didn’t have time to investigate. He picked up the fallen rider’s sword: a short-bladed, heavy thing, suitable for hacking at close quarters, not as sharp as the scimitar most of the other raiders used, nor as pointed as a good rapier.
Borric turned and attempted to see what was happening, but all that was visible were milling, cursing shadows in sandy gloom. Then he felt more than heard something behind him. He ducked to one side as a blow intended to crack his skull glanced off the side of his head. Falling heavily, he attempted to roll away from the rider who had taken him by surprise from the rear. He rose to his knees and was almost to his feet when the chest of a horse struck him, as the rider used his mount as a weapon. Stunned as he lay upon the ground, the Prince barely understood what he saw as the rider leaped from his mount and came to stand over him. Through dust and his own muddled senses, the Prince watched with some detachment as the man drew back a boot and kicked him in the head.
James spun his horse and moved to intercept a bandit heading toward the packhorses. Two soldiers were down by his count, and Locklear was engaged in a running fight with a raider. The raider veered off, and for an instant James was in an island of relative calm in the midst of the struggle. He glanced about, trying to discover the whereabouts of the two Princes, and saw Erland clubbing a raider from his horse. There was no sign of Borric.
Through the howl of the sandstorm, James heard Locklear’s command, “To me! To me!” Abandoning his search for Borric, James spurred his horse and headed toward the gathering band of Islemen. Quickly commands were given and obeyed, and where moments before a milling band of surprised guards had been fleeing, now a trained unit of the finest horsemen the Kingdom had in service sat ready to receive the next attack by the bandits.
Then the raiders were upon them and the battle was joined in full. Furious cries and screams of pain cut through the constant howl of wind and the sting of sand. James felt the giddy mix of elation and fear, a sensation he hadn’t experienced since the Battle of Sethanon. He struck out at a raider, driving the man back as the severity of the storm increased. Then the storm overcame the battle and all was whirling dust and noise. Each man knew he now had a blind spot, for to look into the storm was impossible. Men vainly attempted to cover their faces with cloths and sleeves, but the only relief was to turn away from the storm. After an instant of screaming wind, the storm diminished.
A grunt of surprise and a wet sound of blood filling a throat gasping for breath was followed only by the sound of metal clanking as horses again moved at their riders’ commands. Steel upon steel rang out, and again men strove to kill strangers.
Then there was only the storm and the fighting was forgotten. The gusts were literally blinding, for to turn one’s face to the shrieking sands was to risk losing sight. Covering his face, James turned himself and his mount away from the wind, conscious of his unprotected back, but there was nothing else to do. He was given at least partial comfort by the knowledge the raiders were as blind as he.
Again the winds lessened, and James spun his mount to face any possible attacker. But like phantoms of dream, the raiders were gone into the storm.
James glanced about and could only see men of the Isles. Locklear gave orders and the company dismounted, each man gripping his horse’s reins firmly as the intensity of the storm alternately increased and diminished.
Turning the animals’ backs to the wind, they waited for the seemingly endless howl of wind to stop. Locklear shouted, “Are you hurt?”
James indicated no. “Gamina?” he asked after his wife.
Locklear pointed to the rear. “She was with the baggage animals. Borric was seeing after her.”
Then Gamina’s voice sounded in James’s mind. I’m here, beloved. I am unhurt. But Borric and another guard were carried off by the raiders.
James shouted, “Gamina says that Prince Borric and a guard were carried off!”
Locklear swore. “There’s nothing we can do but wait for this storm to blow out.”
James tried to look into the dusty murk and could see barely ten feet away. All they could do was wait.
Borric groaned and a rough toe jammed into his ribs brought him to consciousness. Above him, the wind still shrieked as the sandstorm blew itself to full fury, but the sheltered gully where the raiders hid was relatively quiet. He levered himself up on one elbow and found his hands were shackled by a chain of odd design.
Beside him lay an unconscious guard from his own band, tied with ropes. The man mumbled slightly but was not conscious. Matted blood dried in his hair showed he had received a vicious head wound. A rough hand reached out and grabbed Borric by the chin, yanking his head around to face the man who had kicked him. The man squatted before Borric. He was thin, wore his beard cut close so that it looked little more than stubble. His head was covered in a turban that once might have looked fine but now was faded and lice ridden. He wore simple trousers and tunic and high boots. Over his shoulder stood another man, wearing an unadorned leather vest over his bare chest. His head was shaved, save for a single lock of hair down the middle, and a large gold ring hung in his left ear. Borric recognized these as the trademarks of the Guild of Slavers, from Durbin.
The first man nodded at Borric, then looked at the guard with the bloody face and shook his head in the negative. The slaver pulled Borric roughly to his feet without a word, while the thin man took out a dagger and before Borric realized his intent, cut the unconscious guard’s throat.
The slaver whispered harshly in Borric’s ear, “No tricks, spellcaster. Those chains will blank out your magic, or Moskatoni the Trader will have my dagger for dinner. We move before your friends can find us. Speak a single word aloud and I’ll kill you.” He spoke in the northern Keshian dialect.
Borric, still groggy from the blow to his head, only nodded weakly. The slaver pulled him along through the small gully where a group of horsemen were ransacking a bundle of baggage. One of the men swore quietly. The slaver’s companion passed where Borric stood and grabbed the man. “What did you find?” he asked, speaking the patois of the desert, a mingling of Keshian, King’s Tongue, and the language of the desert men of the Jal-Pur.
“Women’s clothing and some dried meat and cakes. Where is the gold we were promised?”
The thin man, obviously the leader, swore as well. “I’ll kill that Lafe. He said nobles brought gold to the Empress.”
The slaver shook his head, as if he had expected this sort of disappointment. “You should know better than to trust fools.” He glanced up at where the wind shrieked overhead and said, “The storm passes. We’re only yards away from this one’s companions.” He inclined his head at Borric. “We don’t want to be found here when the storm is over.”
The thin man turned to face his companion. “I lead this band, Kasim.” He looked to be on the edge of rage. “I’ll say when we move and when we stay.”
The slaver shrugged. “If we stay, we will have to fight again, Luten. They will be ready this time. And I see nothing to make me think we’ll find gold or jewelry with this band.”
The man called Luten glanced around, a near-feral light in his eyes. “These are armed soldiers.” He closed his eyes a moment as if about to cry, then o
pened them and clenched his teeth. Borric recognized a man with a violent temper, who ruled his company through intimidation and threats as much as through any natural leadership. “Ah!” he exclaimed. Nodding at Borric, he said, “Kill him and let us flee.”
Kasim moved Borric behind him, as if protecting him, and said, “Our agreement was I would have the prisoners for slaves. Otherwise, my men would not have joined with yours.”
“Bah!” spit Luten. “We didn’t need them. We were more than a match for those guards. We were both misled by that fool Lafe.”
As the wind began to lessen, Kasim said, “I don’t know who is worse, the fool or he who listens to the fool, but I will have this man for the auction. He is my profit in Durbin. My guild would not look kindly upon returning without at least this small profit.”
Whirling to face Borric, the man called Luten said, “You. Where is the gold?”
Feigning ignorance, Borric said, “Gold?”
Luten stepped forward and struck the Prince across the face. “The gold some nobles brought to the Empress’s Jubilee.”
Borric extemporized. “Nobles? There was a party of nobles we passed along the way. Two, three noblemen with guards, heading for … an inn. The Inn of the Twelve Chairs, I think. We … hurried because … the hide trader was anxious to get his hides to the tanner before they turned rotten.”
Luten turned and shrieked his fury into the wind. Two men nearby put hands to swords, startled by the sound. “Quiet,” said Kasim.
Luten spun, his dagger out, pointed at Kasim. “Don’t order me, slaver.” He then pointed his dagger at Borric. “This one is lying and I’ll have more than these damn boots to show for three men killed!” Borric glanced down and saw the boots he had won gambling were now on Luten’s feet. He had been thoroughly searched while unconscious, it seemed. Luten shoved Kasim aside, coming to face Borric directly. “I’ll have the truth out of him, as well.” He drew back the dagger, as if to thrust at Borric, then stiffened. A sad, almost apologetic expression crossed his face for an instant, then he fell to his knees.
Behind him Kasim withdrew the dagger he had just stabbed into Luten’s back. Kasim then grabbed Luten by the hair and said, “Never threaten me, you stupid man.” Then with a quick jerk he pulled back Luten’s head and sliced his neck, sending a fountain of blood spurting off to one side. “And never turn your back on me.” Luten’s eyes turned up in his head and Kasim released him, letting him fall at Borric’s feet. “Let this be a lesson to you in your next life.”
To the others in Luten’s band, he said, “I lead.” There was no argument voiced. Glancing around, he pointed to a depression in the small gully, overhung by a clump of boulders. “Dump him in there.” Two men picked up Luten and threw him into the depression. “And the other.” The dead guard was carried and tossed in beside Luten.
Turning to face Borric, the slaver said, “Show me no trouble, and you’ll live. Trouble me, and you’ll die. Understand?”
Borric nodded. To the others, Kasim said, “Get ready to leave now.” He then jumped up to the edge of the gully, ignoring the howling wind. The powerful slaver put a shoulder to one of the larger boulders and shoved it over, starting a small landslide that covered the two bodies. He leaped nimbly down into the depression and glanced about as if anticipating trouble from one of Luten’s men. When no one offered him any difficulty, he rose to his full height. “To the oasis at Broken Palms.”
“What are your skills?” The slaver stood above Borric, whose wits were slowly returning. He had been dragged to a horse and forced to ride with his hands manacled. The pounding he had taken had added to the disorientation he had felt since his capture. He vaguely recalled the storm suddenly being over and arriving at an odd oasis, surrounded by three ancient palm tree trunks, broken off by some cataclysmic storm of years gone by.
Borric shook his head to clear it and answered back in the formal court language of Kesh. “What skills?”
The slaver took his answer as a sign of confusion from the head blow. “What tricks? What magics do you do?”
Borric understood. The slaver judged him a magician from Stardock, which accounted for the magic-blanking chains. For an instant, Borric felt an impulse to explain who he was, but thoughts of his father receiving ransom demands on his behalf kept him from answering quickly. He could come forth at any time between now and the slave auction at Durbin, and perhaps between now and then he could conspire to escape.
Suddenly the man lashed out and struck the Prince a backhanded blow. “I’ve no time to be gentle with you, mage. Your party is but a few hours away and no doubt will be looking for you. Or even if they have no love of you in their hearts, there are still many Imperial patrols out. We mean to be far from here, quickly.”
Another man came to stand over the kneeling man. “Kasim, just kill him and leave him. No one pays a good price for a magician at the slave blocks. Too much trouble keeping them in line.”
Kasim looked over his shoulder and said, “I lead this band, now. I’ll decide who we kill and who we take to market.”
Borric said, “I’m no magician. I won the robes in a game of poker.”
The second man ran a hand over his dark-bearded face. “He lies. It’s some magician’s trick to get free of the manacles and kill us all with his magic. I say kill him now—”
“And I say if you don’t shut up and quit arguing, there’ll be another worthless carcass for the vultures to feast on. Get the men ready. As soon as the horses have been watered and rested, I want to put as much distance as I can between those guards and us.” To Borric he said, “We found some pretty baubles in the bottom of the baggage, mage. The lady you rode with had enough gold for me to pay these brigands. You’re my profit.”
With an inarticulate grunt, the raider moved away, signaling the others to ready for riding. Borric managed to sit upright against a large boulder.
“I’m no magician.”
“Well, you’re no fighting man, either. To travel unarmed at the edge of the Jal-Pur, one must either have a great company of guards or a great deal of faith. Faith is for priests, which you’re not. You don’t look the fool, but then I’ve never been one for casual appearances.” Shifting from Keshian to the King’s Tongue, he said, “Where are you from?”
“Krondor”—Borric decided through his aching head he would be best served by obscuring his identity—“but I’ve traveled a lot.”
The slaver sat back on his haunches, arms resting on his knees. “You’re not much more than a boy. You speak Keshian like a courtier and your Kingdom tongue is nearly as fair. If you’re not a spellcaster, what are you?”
Improvising, Borric said, “I … teach. I know several languages. I can read, write, and do sums. I know history and geography. I can recite the line of Kings and Empresses, the names of the major nobles and trading houses—”
“Enough!” interrupted Kasim. “You’ve convinced me. A tutor, then, is it? Well, there are rich men who need educated slaves to teach their children.” Without waiting for any response from Borric, he stood up. As he stepped away, he said, “You are worthless to me dead, teacher, but I am also not a patient man. Do not be too much trouble and you will live. Cause me difficulty, and I’ll kill you as soon as spit on you.” To his band he said, “Mount up! We ride to Durbin.”
CHAPTER SIX
DILEMMA
ERLAND TURNED HIS HORSE.
“Borric!” he shouted over the still-howling wind.
James and the guards watched from where they stood holding their horses. The newly elevated Earl shouted, “Get off your horse before she runs away with you!”
The already excited mount was snorting and whinnying at the frightening noises and stinging blasts from the sandstorm, despite her training and Erland’s firm control. The Prince ignored James’s orders and continued to circle away from the others, shouting his brother’s name. “Borric!”
Gamina stood beside her husband and said, “It’s difficult to concentrate w
ith this wind screaming in my ears, but there are thoughts coming from that direction.” She covered her face with her forearm, turned, and pointed to the west.
“Borric?” asked Locklear, who stood next to James, his back to the biting wind.
Gamina held up her arm, letting the sleeve of her gown shield her face. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t know these men, but none of the minds I’ve touched is his. When I attempt to focus on what I remember of his thoughts during the battle …”
“Nothing,” James finished.
“Could he be unconscious?” Locklear’s expression was hopeful.
Gamina said, “If he’s stunned or farther away, then I would not sense him. My abilities are limited by the strength and training of the other mind. I can speak to my father from over a hundred miles away and he can speak to me across incredible distances. But those who attacked us are no more than a few hundred feet away; I get images and stray words about the fight.” With sadness in her voice, she said, “I can’t sense Borric anywhere.”
James reached out to her and she came into the comfort of his arm. His horse nickered at the change in pressure on the reins and James gave an impatient yank on the leathers, silencing the animal. Softly, so that only Gamina would hear, he said, “I pray the gods let him be alive.”
For an hour the wind blew, and Erland circled his companions to the limit of his ability to see them, while he cried his brother’s name. Then the winds ceased, and in the silence that followed, his hoarse cries rang across a desolate landscape: “Borric!”
Locklear signaled to the Captain of his company for a report. The officer said, “Three men dead or missing, m’lord. Two more wounded enough we should get them to shelter. The rest are fit and ready.”
James considered his options, then decided. “You remain here with Erland and search the immediate area, but don’t wander too far. I’ll take two men and ride to the Inn of the Twelve Chairs and see if that Keshian patrol can help us locate Borric.” With a glance around the barren landscape, he added, “I’m certain I have no idea where to begin looking.”
Prince of the Blood Page 12