by Andre Norton
She stood up slowly, and held her empty hands over her head in what she hoped was a universally accepted gesture of surrender. Mero and the two dragons followed her example.
It must have been the right thing to do, since the warriors relaxed, just a trifle, although they did not lower their guard or their spearpoints. They all stood staring at one another for several moments.
Their captors were a striking people; this close, it was quite obvious that the dark skin was natural and not a dye or cosmetic. Their armor was of extremely fine make; beautifully finished with first-rate craftsmanship. Beneath the armor corselets, they all wore loose trousers of light, brightly colored fabric, and half-boots of felt.
Shana wondered how she and her group looked to them.
Finally one of the warriors said something to Shana directly, very slowly, in a complex and musical tongue. It sounded from the inflection as if it was a question. She glanced over at Kalamadea, who shrugged. It isn't a language I understand, he said softly.
She turned to the warrior who had spoken and made a cautious gesture of apology. Sorry, I'm afraid we don't speak your language.
The warrior muttered something, his tone conveying his frustration, and after a brief conference with his fellows, gestured with his spearpoint, nodding at the wagons below. That was clear enough. He wanted them to go down to the wagons, presumably without making any more trouble.
:I think we'd better do as he wants, Shana,: Mero said uncomfortably. :We might get a chance to explain ourselves later.:
Since there didn't seem to be any choice in the matter, Shana nodded, then turned and headed down the slope of the ridge in the direction he'd indicated, leaving her gear on the ground where she'd left it. After a moment, the others followed. She glanced behind, briefly, and saw that two of the warriors had snatched up the discarded gear and slung it across the backs of their bulls before mounting up again.
All of the warriors took to their bulls before following the prisoners: Shana didn't think it would be a good idea to try and test the agility of the cattle by trying to escape. Cattle weren't horses, but she'd already seen how agile these beasts were, and over a short distance there was no way a human would outrun one.
Curious eyes followed them down the slope of the ridge, although no one stopped to question any of the warriors who'd captured them. The dark people had a very simple solution for the keeping of prisoners, it seemed. The warriors took them directly to a particular wagon; the driver stopped it briefly while someone produced a set of iron collars and chains from within, and they were all chained by the neck to the back of the wagon itself. That was all there was to it, but it proved to be very effective. The collars were too well made to break, the locks too intricate for either Shana or Mero to pick, and both of them discovered to their complete astonishment that elven magics would not work on the collars at all. They could still speak mind to mind, thank goodness, but at least as far as Shana and Mero were concerned, the collars themselves were impervious to tampering.
The oxen kept up a slow pace, but it was a very steady one; they simply never stopped. That, too, was an effective means of keeping them from causing trouble. It wasn't hard to keep up with the wagon, but that was all one could do. Even when Shana and her group had been scouting, they'd taken frequent breaks; she and Mero were not used to this. Kalamadea and Keman didn't have much problem with the steady walking, but Mero and Shana were tired and footsore by the end of the day, when the nomads finally made camp.
If circumstances had been otherwise, Shana would have admired the efficiency of the nomads' arrangements. The wagons were pulled into a formation of several concentric circles, and the wheels staked down. The oxen were unhitched, and taken to the common herd. Fire pits were carved out of the sod and cleared out down to the bare earth, and that was all there was to it. This was all done with the ease of something that was more than habit, it was custom. Once camp was set up, people could get about with doing their chores: fetching water, starting fires, cooking, the lot.
As it was, Shana was too busy sitting in the grass and rubbing her sore feet and calves to offer much in the way of admiration. I hope someone remembers us and brings us food and water, she thought forlornly. Not that she and Mero couldn't both fetch for themselves—or at least, she hoped they could. It would be pretty rotten if all of the magic they knew was no longer working. But she wasn't certain she wanted these people to know everything the four of them could do—not yet, anyway.
Sunset was approximately an hour or so away, and it was pretty clear that no one was going to even approach the prisoners without permission from some authority. People would glance at them covertly, but without wasting time to gawk, and without interrupting whatever chore they were engaged in. Shana began to wonder if she and her group were going to be left all night, chained like dogs to the tail of the wagon. But it seemed that their original captors were not yet done with them; six of the warriors appeared from between two of the wagons, finally, and marched purposefully toward them. All four of them got to their feet warily as the six surrounded their prisoners, just as warily.
So at least they think we might be dangerous. I wish I knew if that was good for us, or bad.
One of the dark people—Shana thought it might have been the one who'd led the group that captured them—unfastened all four of the chains and marched off with the four prisoners, exactly as if they were his pets and he was taking them for a walk. The other five warriors, following with their spears at the ready, made certain of the captives' obedience. The one with the chains did not, however, try to pull them along too quickly, or torment them in any other ways. It was all very brisk and businesslike, quite impersonal, without malice.
The camp was full of all of the normal noise and activity of any large group of humans, although the language was nothing but sheerest babble to Shana. Children dressed in short tunics of the same brightly colored fabric as the warriors' trousers shrieked in shrill voices, and played incomprehensible games that involved a great deal of running and shouting. Women in loose, comfortable robes or wrapped skirts, and men in more of the loose trousers, walked by with burdens, pausing to stare at the captives with curious wide brown eyes. Women nursed babies, stirred pots suspended over fires, or laid out bedding and clothing to air in the last of the sunlight. Young men idled about, shoved each other, and laughed; young women pretended to ignore them and giggled together behind their hands. There were no animals in the camp at all, however, and no sign of any other beasts than the cattle. That seemed odd; Shana would have expected that they would at least have dogs.
The closer they got to the center of the encampment, the larger, more elaborate, and more decorated the tent-wagons became. Finally they reached the center, and a set of four wagons that were the fanciest of the lot. It must have taken teams of ten or twelve oxen to pull these monstrosities. Presumably these belonged to the leaders of this group of people.
Shana noted that the four tents were set at the precise compass points; they were taken to the eastern-point tent. There was a clever set of folding stairs at the side of the wagon, now unfolded, that gave access to the tent door. The man holding their chains climbed up it, leading them the same way; the other five stayed behind on the ground beside the wagon. There was an extension of the flat bed of the wagon that formed a kind of porch all around the tent, wide enough for them all to stand together on, with the warrior holding their chains about an arm's length away. He paused at the entrance and called something; from within, someone raised the flap of the tent, and they all paraded inside.
The tent was very dark after the bright sunlight outside. It took a little time for Shana's eyes to adjust. When they did, she saw that they had been brought before an older man, whose close-cropped hair showed a few threads of gray in it, and whose many scars attested to the fact that he was no stranger to combat. He had a rather square, stern face, and was as muscular as any gladiator, although, like many retired gladiators, he had gone just a trifle to fat around the midsection.
He wore an iron torque, iron bracers, and a belt made of flat, round iron plates cleverly hinged together. All of this jewelry was elaborately engraved in abstract designs. His eye-searingly scarlet trousers rather clashed with the orange and green cushions he reclined on. There were two warriors standing on either side of him, faces as impassive as statues, and two more on either side of the tent entrance.
He studied all four of them for a very long time, giving Shana equal time to study their surroundings—which she did, making her study obvious, as if she were here by choice. The interior of the tent had been draped with appliqued hangings; the floor covered with fine hand-woven rugs. Both echoed the same abstract designs Shana had seen in the rest of the camp. There were lamps hanging from the ceiling, too, although they were not yet lit. She had to wonder where these people got the metal, the fabric, and the wool for these things, since there obviously weren't any sheep around and nomads didn't normally operate mines. Surely they traded for it—perhaps with Collen? He hadn't said anything about black herders, but why should he? He had no reason to disclose all his secrets to her, especially not if he intended to trade wizard-goods to these folk and vice versa. If that was so—since Collen would be coming back down the river again after trading with the bondlings, might they be heading for a meeting with him?
She hoped so. He might be able to persuade these people to let the four of them go—or at least to negotiate for a ransom.
Their captor and the leader spoke at some length, with a great many gestures and hand signals. The leader went silent for a moment, then barked an abrupt command, and hangings behind him parted. Another warrior entered, with two more prisoners, similarly collared and leashed.
Shana's eyes nearly popped out of her head with surprise as soon as she saw them, and the other three had similar reactions.
Elves? They have elves as prisoners?
So it seemed, since there was no mistaking elves for anything else. Slender bodies, pale porcelain skin, white-gold hair, long, pointed ears, and those green, cat-pupiled eyes… the new captives couldn't be anything else. Both of them wore the clothing of their captors, and neither of them seemed to be suffering any mistreatment, though Shana could not think if that was a good sign or a bad one.
But what were elves doing here—and more important, how had these people managed to capture them?
Like us, maybe? Could it be possible these two came out here without human fighters to protect and guard them?
One of the prisoners ignored them, but the other's eyes widened as he took in the sight of them. Ancestors! he exclaimed. 'Tell me you aren't what I think you are! Then he shook his head sardonically. Never mind. You couldn't be anything but halfbreeds. To think I've fallen to this—
The leader of their captors interrupted him with a barked command. He shut up immediately, bowed soberly and with every outward evidence of humility, and turned back to Shana.
It seems we're to be your translators, wizard, he told her, with a sour twist to his mouth. Count yourselves damned lucky; we didn't have anyone to translate for us, and we had to learn everything the hard way. His expression was a strange mixture of sardonic amusement and distaste. Much as I hate to admit this to a wizard—you are at least half-civilized, and it has been so long since I have seen a civilized creature, I would be prepared to befriend even a bondling slave at this point. Now, bow nicely to Jamal. He's the Chief of these barbarians, and he is very important They call themselves the Iron People, by the way.
Shana and the others bowed, as gracefully as they could, encumbered as they were by their collars and chains. Their translator took a certain amount of amusement out of that; the silent one ignored it all.
You might as well call me Kelyan. My titles, such as they were, hardly mattered a bean back home and they're nothing here. My sullen companion is Haldor. He poked the other with an elbow; Haldor looked up at them briefly and grunted.
Shana, Keman, Mero, and Kalamadea, Shana introduced, pointing to each of them in rum, and watching Jamal out of the corner of her eye. He was listening, and she didn't think that much got past those sharp eyes without being noted.
Jamal wants to know where you come from, Kelyan continued. That's his first question.
Shana thought fast; she didn't want to inadvertently lead these warriors anywhere near the Citadel! North, she said briefly, waving in that general direction. The river. That was a lot of territory—vague enough to be useless as a direction, specific enough that if these Iron People did trade with Collen, the direction might ring a bell.
Kelyan translated; Jamal pondered the answer, and barked another question. He wants to know why you were here. A sardonic smile. He assumes that you are spies, of course. He's a War Chief; it's his job to be suspicious.
The truth would serve the best. Looking for people to trade with, she said, trying to look clever and harmless. We aren't warriors—well, look at our hands if you don't believe me; there're no scars or sword-calluses. We trade; that's how we get what we need, and we're always looking for new people to trade with.
:Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?: Kalamadea asked.
Kelyan snorted disbelief, but translated anyway.
Jamal made a bark of equal disbelief and said something else, something long and complicated. Kelyan nearly choked; his companion Haldor looked completely disgusted. He wants to know why you paleskin demons have taken to trade instead of warfare! Kelyan said. Unbelievable! He thinks you halfbreeds are really elves!
Before Shana could say anything, Kelyan turned back to Jamal, chattering at high speed, apparently just as eager to convince the Iron Chief that they were not elves as Shana was. Jamal, however, was not going to be convinced. He kept pointing at Shana's ears and eyes, and no matter what Kelyan told him, he clearly didn't believe it. Finally he shook his head and rattled out a series of orders.
You're going to be imprisoned with us, Kelyan said with resignation, as Haldor looked even more disgusted than before. He wants the Iron Priest to have a look at you—meanwhile you're going in with us. Ah well, at least you'll be someone to talk to—
Before he could finish, two more warriors came from outside the tent and picked up the chains to lead them all away. Kelyan and Haldor were taken out first; the second warrior led out Shana and her group.
A spectacular sunset painted the western sky in colors as vivid as the colors of the clothing about them, as the warriors took them all to another wagon-tent, this one just outside the innermost circle, one that bore no decorations at all. At the entrance, the warriors suddenly dropped the chains and walked off, leaving the six of them alone.
Haldor turned his back on all of them and climbed into the tent; Kelyan seemed disposed to continue talking to them, at least.
Pick up your chain, he directed, and come on inside. We've got food and water, and the Chief's servants will be bringing more later. And don't even bother to think about using that as a weapon and making a run for it— he added, as Shana hefted her chain experimentally. These people all learn to fight with chain-weapons from the time they can crawl. They'll have you before you get more than two circles away. By leaving you here, they've signified that you are on your own recognizance and you have the freedom of the camp, but if you try to escape, believe me, you'll regret it
Sounds as if you learned from experience, Mero ventured, as Kelyan climbed the narrow stairs into the wagon. Kelyan waited until they were all inside before answering.
Let's just say that I've seen what they can do, he said, as Haldor flung himself down on a pallet with his back to them.
The inside of this wagon was furnished simply, but with surprising comfort: pallets, cushions, and piles of blankets and spare clothing in baskets, all arranged around the edge of the round tent. A lantern (iron, of course) hung from the center, and there was an iron brazier in a flat box of sand in the middle of the tent below it.
Kelyan helped himself to a cushion and sat down on it, inviting them with a gesture to do the same. Mero was the fi
rst to take the invitation, sitting himself down next to the elven lord with a defiant air. You seem very friendly towards us, Mero said with heavy irony. I have to wonder what your motive is. There's not a lot of love between your kind and mine. I'd give a great deal to know how you ended up out here.
Kelyan shrugged. It hardly matters whether you lot are wizards or elves, does it? It doesn't matter what I am, either. We're not home, any of us. We're all prisoners—and if you have half the powers your type is supposed to, at least you can take some of the burden of entertaining these barbarians off the backs of myself and my companion.
Haldor grunted, but kept his back to them.
Entertaining? Keman asked, puzzled. How? We aren't musicians or anything—
Follow us later and you'll see. Kelyan advised, and turned back toward Mero. I'll tell you the truth, because I don't have a thing to gain by lying to you. We're both useless second sons of hangers-on. The most we can do is make pretty illusions. We went off looking for something to make our fortunes with, and this is what we found. He gestured at his collar and chain. We've been prisoners here for decades. No one knows where we are, and if they knew, they wouldn't care.
Speak for yourself, Haldor growled, the first time he'd actually said anything.
You can live in a constant daydream of being rescued by an army, but I have better things to do, Kelyan snapped, and turned back to Mero. Right now, I'm just happy to see someone with a veneer of civilization, someone who might be able to tell me what's been going on without me back home. He glanced over his shoulder at Haldor. Someone who can speak my tongue—and is willing to do so. His expression took on an unmistakable air of hunger. I want news. I'm starved for news of home.
You won't like it, Shana warned.
Kelyan grimaced. Probably not, but then, you never know. It's been a long time since I left. You might tell me that—overbearing brute Lord Dyran got skewered by an alicorn or something, and that would make me very happy. He's half the reason I ended up out here.