* * * *
As the guards unfastened their leashes, Sham looked down on the sea of faces. The cheering roared in his ears. He caught sight of Laylan, still standing in front of the castle door. As Sham looked at him, their eyes met and held for a moment. Sham remembered their conversation in the cell. “And were you born a Raider?”
Perhaps I was, thought Sham.
A tug on his collar brought Sham back to reality as they positioned him over the trapdoor. They fitted the noose around his neck and finally removed the hateful collar. The cheering ended in an abrupt silence. Sham scanned the distant city wall. He had tried not to think about it before, but now his thoughts tumbled. Where are you, Fenrah? He heard Chance murmur, “Good-bye, Sham,” and the floor gave way.
Chapter 5. The Curious Construction of a Gallows
I had thought to be entertained today, but the actual event exceeded all expectations.
—Syrill of Undrun, 42nd day of red month, 1700
Sham’s body fell through the trapdoor and landed with an unpleasant thump on the lower platform. The crowd began to murmur. Chance stared through the opening at his feet. For a second nobody moved. Then several guards hurried up from below, carrying Sham back to the high platform. Chance was having a furious discussion with the executioner. “The rope’s frayed,” babbled the shelt. “Had nothing to do with me, sir. I only turn the lever.”
Chance paced like a caged animal while a guard shimmied up the beam to re-knot the rope. They made a new noose and repositioned Sham. The murmuring crowd watched as Sham hobbled onto the trapdoor again.
This time when Sham hit the boards, he let out a yelp. Chance’s eyes blazed, and he rounded on the unfortunate executioner. “Gabalon’s fang! Are you completely incompetent?”
The faun shrank away. After a quick consultation with his subordinates, he reported that the metal ring that held the rope had come loose from the beam.
“Then tie the rope around the beam!” snarled Chance.
“It’s tall; I’ll give you that,” commented Sham as he made his third arrival on the upper platform. “If you keep dropping me, it should eventually do the job.”
Chance glared at him. “If you have anything to do with this, I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Kill me?”
The crowd was becoming increasingly restless and noisy. Some whispered the name “Fenrah,” but a horde of murderous wolflings completely failed to materialize. The shelts on the scaffold re-knotted the rope. The crowd began to relax.
The executioner looked at Chance.
“Oh, just do it!” he snapped.
The lever turned.
Sham cringed.
And nothing happened.
Chance jerked Sham out of the way and bent to examine the trapdoor. The executioner continued to jiggle his lever, but without success. The guards slunk to and fro, trying to look busy. “Maybe it’s jammed,” offered Sham unhelpfully.
Chance turned slowly. “One more word out of you, and I will run you through myself.”
The guards began to tap the door with their hooves. “It’s not a baby faun,” grated Chance. “It’s a dead tree. Put some muscle into it.” He moved forward and stamped on the trapdoor, which opened with surprising ease. Chance let out a startled yell as his hooves slipped into empty space. He flailed and managed to catch himself before he followed Sham’s path to the lower level. Chance hoisted himself out, eyes murderous, face crimson.
A titter of laughter started in the crowd. Sham was grinning, but his face became serious as Chance’s eyes fell on him. The wolfling shrugged. “Seems to be working now.”
Thump.
“Sir,” stammered a soldier. “The door has...has fallen off, sir.”
Now the crowd was laughing loudly.
“We’ll fix it,” spoke up an officer desperately. “Someone’s already gone to get a ladder.” At that moment the gong and the city tower bells began clanging wildly. Suddenly the entire central pole of the scaffold creaked and gave way. Sham wriggled desperately to get out of the noose, but he needn’t have worried. The rope was already falling free. As the timber struck the ground, a noise like thunder rocked the earth, and white smoke fountained out of the scaffold.
The crowd went mad. Another explosion sounded from somewhere in the castle grounds and then another. The smoke made the area around the scaffold impenetrable. Over all the noise rose a high, thin wail—a wolf howl.
Sham had not moved from his place on the top tier. His hands were still tied, and he could barely walk. His guards were running into each other in panic and confusion, and he could no longer see Chance. The smoke streaming from the scaffold had turned blood red. Through the ruined hole where the beam had broken, a figure emerged. She was black as night, and she went through the terrified soldiers like a scythe through wheat. She stopped beside Sham. “How many times have I told you to wear your boots?”
Sham grinned at her. “I like the smoke and thunder, but did you have to keep dropping me?”
Fenrah turned to block a blow aimed at her head. “Had to wait for the signal from the others. We stalled as well as we could. You can thank Sevn for the thunder. He’s desperate to explain the process, and everyone else is bored of listening. It took two other packs and some irregulars to get you out of here.”
“Oh?” Irregulars where Fenrah’s term for sympathetic fauns. “I can’t walk very well, Fenny.”
“You won’t have to.”
Sham saw that another wolfling had crawled out of the broken beam. By the size, it must be Xerous. In seconds, he’d cleansed the platform of all remaining fauns. Another howl sounded quite close, and Fenrah answered. A moment later, two wolves bounded up out of the smoke. “Enden!” Sham threw his arms around the shaggy neck.
Fenrah and Xerous both got on Dance, Sham on Enden, and they reached the ground in two bone-jarring leaps. Then they were running through the clearing smoke, past hysterical shelts and cats, towards the wall and freedom.
* * * *
Laylan and Shyshax found Chance at the foot of the scaffold bellowing for archers. A dead faun hit the ground beside them. If Fenrah comes off that platform and finds Chance, she’ll cut him to pieces, thought Laylan. He grabbed the faun and half dragged him out of the smoke, back towards the castle, shouting something about finding more organized troops. At the entrance, they did indeed meet a small group of soldiers, still in some semblance of order.
“Wolflings!” gasped one. “Near the east gate. I think we put them to flight.”
“Idiot!” snapped Chance. “They were a decoy. The prisoner has escaped with Fenrah and perhaps another Raider. They’ll be on wolves by now. FIND THEM!”
“Yes, sir.” The faun scurried away before Chance could hit him.
Chance paced for a moment, then slumped against a pillar. “They’re gone.” He ran a blood-stained hand through his hair. “We can chase them all the way to Danda-lay, but we won’t catch them today.”
In the silence Shyshax made a little cough that sounded like “told you so.”
Chance raised his head slowly.
The cheetah grinned. “Hairball.”
Chapter 6. The Road to Danda-lay
Fifty years ago, the wolflings competed with the centaurs for quality of weapons. What with their iron and tin and copper, some of it mined in cat-country. Wolflings sold some of the best swords in Panamindorah, plenty of them still around. But did their weapons do them any good when Demitri came calling? No, and the worst part of it is that the wood fauns stood around with wolfling steel in their hands and did nothing.
—Syrill in a letter to Jubal
The wolflings had escaped through a breach in the old western gate—a crater wide enough to drive a cart through. No one was sure how they had caused the explosions or rigged the scaffold. Laylan prowled the broken areas, collecting samples and sniffing. Chance set off for Danda-lay that evening, unwilling to face the jeers and accusations of the wood faun community. Four cliff faun guards had died
fighting on the scaffold. A handful of wood faun soldiers had been wounded, and eight civilians had been trampled in their flight from the parade ground.
In the taverns, however, the event was hailed a success for entertainment value and well worth attending further installments, though perhaps at a greater distance. Syrill certainly thought so. His mood had improved considerably, and he chattered and joked more than Corry could remember since the feline ambassadors arrived in court.
The snows came two days later, and traffic through the city dwindled to a trickle. The drifts were chest-high in the forest. Bandits, both wolfling and faun, were reported on the roads and in the wood. The Raiders, however, were not seen again that winter.
* * * *
Char sat at a small table, staring morosely at a cup of tea. He had never drunk tea until last red month, and he still found the taste unpleasant. He was wearing clothes, too—an odd, confining sensation. His long furry tail twitched nervously where it hung down behind the chair. He was fairly certain he was the first slave ever to enter Daren’s private study. Beside the fire, Daren’s anduin hound growled softly. He wasn’t used to seeing slaves in here, either.
On the other side of the small table, Daren sipped his tea. “I am told you are acclimating to your new quarters. I trust the food is to your liking?”
Char’s eyes flicked away. He was unaccustomed to looking fauns in the eyes unless he wanted their attention, and right now Daren’s attention was making him uncomfortable. “Yes.”
“Good. And the sleeping arrangements?”
Char nodded.
Daren frowned and toyed with his tea cup. “Please don’t hesitate to tell me if anything is not to your taste.”
Char met Daren’s gaze for a moment. “Why are you doing this, sir?”
Daren smiled. “Do you really require a reason?”
“I—” Char bit his lip. “Yes.”
A pause, then, “You see that dog?” Daren motioned to the anduin hound.
Char nodded.
“What is he for, do you think?”
Char’s brow furrowed. “Hunting?”
“Yes, and what are you for?”
“The gem mines,” said Char meekly.
“Yes. I also have slaves for tracking, bred for their sense of smell. They’re better than the hounds, actually, but slow and no good at bringing down the quarry once they’ve found it. The dogs have their purpose, and the tracking slaves have their purpose, and you have your purpose.”
Char nodded. He could feel a familiar knot in his stomach. He had no name for it, but he didn’t trust himself when it was there. Unconsciously, the twitching of his tail increased to lashing.
Daren smiled. “We breed our slaves for docility, but you’re an aberration, Char. You have courage, spirit.” He watched the lashing tail. “Anger. These qualities could be put to good use.”
He stood up and leaned against the mantel. “Many fauns disagree with me. They think it’s dangerous to breed fighting slaves.” He glanced down at his dog. “Ah, but most useful things are dangerous, aren’t they?”
Char shut his eyes and gripped the table. He was seeing red. “You want me to mate with that female in my quarters, don’t you?”
“Do you dislike her? I have a few other specimens in—”
“It’s not that.” He was amazed Daren was allowing him to speak this way, but the lack of reprimand made him bolder. “It’s...it’s...” What is it? He’s given me clean, comfortable living quarters, better food than I’ve ever had in my life, and a beautiful female to bed. All this when I tried to kill him. An image leapt into Char’s mind—his sister, dripping wet, her eyes frantic.
“Why didn’t you include Gleam in your...your project?”
“Because she didn’t fight back. I saw beauty, but no spirit. Her purpose was not—”
The knot in Char’s belly had grown unbearable. “She was my family!”
Daren hesitated. Char was fairly certain that Daren had never been interrupted by a slave who lived to tell about it. Daren took a deep breath. “Quite. Perhaps I should have brought her here. It would have been a small price to pay for your cooperation.”
Char was stunned. It was the closest thing he’d ever heard to an apology from a faun. He hesitated. “What is your lordship’s purpose?”
Daren laughed aloud. “Very good! You are able to think and also to attack. That is good. I want those qualities.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Char, but another idea had come to him. “The dog was a desert dog...or a wolf,” he said quietly, “and you made it an anduin hound.”
“My family made it, yes, over many generations.”
“And I am a slave, and you will make of me...what?”
“You are a gem mine slave, and I wish to make fighting slaves.” Daren stood up and pulled a rope by the mantle. “You know what I want, and I’m not asking anything unpleasant. But the breeding season for your kind will be over soon. Do you understand?”
“My kind?” repeated Char. He thought he saw Daren hesitate. He didn’t mean to say it that way. A faun servant had appeared to take him away, but Char ignored him. He looked straight at Daren. “What is my kind, sir?”
“A slave,” said Daren with a stiff smile.
Char shook his head. “But you just said that was my purpose. What I am is something different, isn’t it? Your purpose isn’t to be a faun, any more than the dog’s purpose is to be a dog. My purpose can’t be the same thing as what I am.”
Daren motioned at the servant. “Take him back to his quarters.”
* * * *
Corry looked up from the book he was copying. Someone is trying to sneak up on me. The scriptorium was cold and quiet at night after the others went home. The shelves were a shadowy labyrinth, his single candle the only light. He felt, more than heard, the vibrations of footfalls through the stone floor. This is it. Whoever sent the centaur has sent someone else. He let the intruder get a little closer, then jumped up and spun around. This time he had a sword. He’d been practicing.
Syrill raised his hands in surprise. He’d come in without a light, apparently following the gleam of Corry’s candle. Corry sheathed the sword, feeling foolish. “Syrill. I didn’t know you’d come back.”
“Got here early this evening. You’re a bit jumpy.”
Corry didn’t try to explain. “Are you home for a while, then?”
“Yes, I was wondering what your plans are for Lupricasia.”
Corry raised an eyebrow. Lupricasia was the spring festival in Danda-lay, said to be extravagant. He gathered up his tools from the table. “Come back to my rooms and we can talk.”
Syrill followed him, chatting about the weather and the condition of the roads. When Corry reached his rooms, he stirred up the fire, then rang for a servant and asked for hot drinks. “All three moons should be full next yellow month,” Syrill was saying as they sat down, “and the early flowers are blooming, which should please everyone. Fauns enjoy flowers for Lupricasia. You’re welcome to travel with me if you like.”
Corry looked at the fire. “I’ll think about it.”
Syrill seemed surprised. “I generally get excellent accommodations, and I know where to find all the best food and dancing. A stranger could get lost, and shelts are a bit leery of an iteration traveling alone.” He hesitated. “Do you have other travel arrangements?”
Corry said nothing.
“Ahhh...” Syrill nodded knowingly. “There’s a fauness involved. Do her parents know yet? They may not be keen on the idea, but—”
“There’s no fauness,” snapped Corry. He turned to look at his friend. “Syrill, I want to know why you told Capricia about my shifting. You promised not to tell anyone; you gave your word.” He felt a burst of relief even as his voice flamed in anger. He’d been wanting to bring up the topic all winter, but had never found suitable opportunity.
Syrill’s brown eyes slid away from Corry’s angry green ones. “Oh, that.”
&nbs
p; “Yes, that! I told her I couldn’t shift, and I believed it at the time. She was very angry when I came back, and I’m still not sure she trusts me.”
Syrill toyed with his drink. “Corellian, you disappeared for a red month. She was frantic to find you. I thought maybe you’d shifted and couldn’t shift back. You didn’t seem to have much control over it. I thought maybe you were ashamed, had run away.”
Corry sat back. It was a reasonable conclusion. But you still lied to me, Syrill.
“You never have told me where you went,” said Syrill.
“I had unfinished business,” muttered Corry.
“I thought you couldn’t remember anything before you came here.”
“My memory is spotty. I don’t want to talk about it. Besides, you’re the one who kept disappearing this last year.”
“A good point.” Syrill took a deep breath. “So, while I may not be a good repository for secrets you hope to keep from the princess, I do make an excellent traveling companion.”
Corry sighed. “Alright, I don’t have any plans for Lupricasia.”
* * * *
They left eight days later. By then, Laven-lay was full of shelts and animals in transit. Syrill took only two mounts and no servants, but they would clearly not be alone on the road. It was still called the Triangle Road, although only this arm of the triangle was in current use. The road had been paved with large, smooth stones in the time of the wizards. It connected Laven-lay to Port Ory, where one could take tunnels to Danda-lay on the cliff. The third point on the triangle was Selbis—the old wizard capital. No faun town lay closer than a day’s journey to the ruins. Corry had heard all kinds of ghost stories. Naturally, he was interested.
The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Page 12