by C S Marks
Haifa smiled and nodded. “You are not wrong. In fact, I feel better already.” Both men laughed, raising their ale-tankards to drink to the downfall of the Company.
Rogond, Fima, Gaelen, and Galador sat for the last time that morning with El-morah and Mohani, sharing kaffa and conversation. El-morah turned to Rogond, for he would ask a question of him. “You were forced to leave the Sandstone settlement, and you came directly here, is that right? Why did you not go to the Neela oasis? It is nearer to the Sandstone, and the water there is of excellent quality. In fact, we import water from the Neela to make our kaffa, as the water here would ruin the flavor.”
Fima’s eyes widened, and then narrowed as he listened to the question. “You say that the water in the Neela is of fine quality? I was told that it contained salt. Sajid wanted us to come here, and, like a fool, I trusted him.”
“But you must trust your guide, Fima,” said El-morah. “You really have no choice, when he knows the lands and you do not. It’s natural to rely on his advice.”
“It is not natural to rely on a serpent for anything,” growled Gaelen, regretting her remark at once, for it obviously made Fima feel worse. She offered him her last honey-cake in an attempt to cheer him.
“Fima, why didn’t you share this with us before the decision was made? Should we not all have had a voice in it?” said Galador.
Fima looked downcast. “I was asked not to by Sajid. He said that, if you knew of the Neela, we would waste precious time in argument. He expected Gaelen to do exactly the opposite of what he advised, and he thought she might...you know...go haring off anyway, forcing us all to follow her. He was rather insistent, and I was taken in by it.”
Gaelen might have taken some offense had she felt stronger, but she merely shook her head. “It’s obvious that Sajid has friends here. In fact, I believe he formed this dark plan while we were still in the Sandstone. I sensed that something happened between Sajid and Nelwyn, and I’ll warrant he laid out her doom even then. This rendezvous with the slave-trader was planned long ago, and we had to be in the Chupa so that he could make the meeting-place on time—it’s that simple.”
Galador could not hear any more. He rose and went out into the early morning light, muttering something about looking to the horses.
Shiva had proven invaluable in the healing of Réalta; he had a marvelous salve that seemed to close wounds as if by magic. He had given a container to Rogond, asking no payment of him. “Take this, northman, and pray that you do not have need of it,” he said. “It will burn when applied, but the wound will not fester and will heal quickly. I offer this to raise your opinion of my people. We are not all like Sajid.”
Réalta would keep up with the others provided he was not ridden, and Malvorn would continue to bear Galador until Réalta was sound. The little Kazhi horse would bear much of their gear.
Gaelen had neither saddle nor bridle, for Sajid had required both to ride Siva, but this did not dismay her. Finan wore only a head-collar woven of fine black cord festooned with tassels to keep the flies away. Gaelen had bought it for him in the Sandstone marketplace, and it fitted his fine head beautifully.
Rogond followed Galador, for he would make certain that all was well with him. Mohani clucked softly and shook her head. “I am concerned for them,” she said to El-morah. “I know they have been told where the market is, but can they find their way well enough? Gaelen is not yet strong…does it not make sense to wait until a guide may be found?”
“It does make sense,” Gaelen replied, for she had been likewise concerned. “Yet we cannot wait—Sajid has a two-day head start on us already. We will need to be swift!”
“The swift may lose their way, for signs may be missed…I will worry constantly about you, for to bypass the market would mean disaster for all.”
Gaelen sighed. “Galador will not wait, and neither will I. We’ll just have to trust to luck, and pray that it does not fail us. If Sajid is still with Nelwyn, I will find him, for I will track his stench on the wind!” She quirked a wry smile at Mohani.
Fima was far more pessimistic. “Trust to luck? Good idea. Our luck has been fabulous so far.”
“Yet we are not dead, Fima, and that must count for something. You will remain with these good people, in this fine place, drinking kaffa and eating…Mohani, what is this called again?” She indicated a dark block of bittersweet, waxy material sitting nearby on a salver.
“It’s called koka. It will cheer me when little else can. Do you find it appealing?” Mohani broke a bit off and popped it into her mouth, allowing it to melt slowly so that she could savor it. Gaelen observed this behavior with interest, placing a small piece in her own mouth, trying desperately to control her facial expression as the bitterness of the koka took hold.
“For some reason, I do find it appealing, though it does take a bit of getting used to. I wish I could take you to my home in the Greatwood, Mohani, for there are some interesting flavors to be sampled there. We brew aromatic roots, and flavor the broth with fruits and with honey. I had grown fond of chewing ginger root—if you can do that without flinching, you have a strong constitution!”
“We have ginger root brought in from the coast,” said Mohani. “We use it only for flavoring, and that sparingly. I cannot imagine chewing it!” She wrinkled her face and shook her head.
Fima was still unhappy. “I know I will be well looked after, but I will fret over you and Rogond and Galador until you return. Though I know I must remain behind, it pains me.” A very dark look came over his face then. “I have a personal score to settle with Sajid, you see.”
“Don’t fear, my friend. I will take enough of his hide for both of us,” said Gaelen. “And I will make certain that he knows his pain comes also from you. I now understand why he was left buried up to his neck.”
“Well, don’t you make the same mistake,” Fima growled. “Some other kindly soul may take pity on him.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” she said, her eyes flashing. “I intend to see him quite thoroughly, absolutely, irrevocably dead. I will tell you the tale when we return. Now, I must ride.” She rose and bowed to Mohani. “May I take some of this…for Nelwyn?” she asked, indicating the koka.
“Of course. I have already prepared a package for you,” said Mohani, handing her a sizeable chunk wrapped in waxed paper. “Be careful, my fierce Avinasha. Return soon, that your friends may be reunited.”
Fima raised his clay vessel of kaffa. “I will drink to that day.”
Five horses put their tails to the oasis, heading for the market at Bezaltor. El-morah had drawn the approximate location on the map, though he had never been there himself. He estimated it would take about five days’ swift ride.
“One of my brothers found it once,” he said. “He told me later that it was indeed a seamy and disreputable place. He also stated that he would never go back, as he was afraid for his life. Be very, very cautious, my friends.”
Galador’s face was stony. There would be no need for caution if he had his way; anyone who stood between himself and Nelwyn would regret it.
Even Gaelen was worried by the cold fury in Galador’s eyes, though she shared some of it as she rode beside him. He looked over at her. “I shall be glad of your company, daughter of the Fire-heart. We shall need all of our determination to win this battle, and bring back my beloved. I trust your blades are sharp?”
“They are sharp,” Gaelen replied. “And, just this once, I wish it were true, but I am no daughter of Aincor. As I have said many times, I am only a Wood-elf. Yet you may be glad, for we may accomplish more with cunning and stealth than with recklessness. For that, you need a Sylvan hunter-scout! Now, let’s make time ‘ere the sun rises too high.”
She sent Finan into a canter, which delighted him, as he was eager to test his abilities and prove himself to her. He lifted his tail high over his back and leaped forward, easily passing Rogond, who led the Company. Eros flicked his tail once in disapproval. So foolish, he thoug
ht, to waste energy. Rogond placed a hand on his neck to steady him, but there was no need. Eros was not prideful, and had nothing to prove to anyone.
They would rest during the heat of the day, sheltering beneath the white silken shade that El-morah had given them. It was quite large; even the horses could fit beneath it if they stood close together. They would all be glad of it, for they would be in the open for much of the way, and it was not long past midsummer. Although they would travel mostly by night, they would need to make some distance under the sun to catch up with Nelwyn. They carried enough water for a week’s journey, but Finan again showed his usefulness on the third night, insisting that they divert from their course to find a hidden water-hole.
They decided their course as they rode; when they arrived at their destination they would shroud themselves, refill their water-skins, and scout the market, hopefully locating Nelwyn. Then they would form the plan to recover her.
Poor Malvorn was worn thin by the morning of the third day. He was not designed to travel swiftly in the heat with little water, and Galador was becoming frustrated with him, though he gave his best effort. “Come on, Malvorn. Even the pack horse is swifter,” he grumbled, as Gaelen looked over at him with a disapproving eye.
“He is making a grand effort, Galador. Do not disparage him. I have been watching Réalta…perhaps he could bear you for a while. He is moving well with no sign of pain. I believe that Shiva’s wonderful ointment has healed him, so why not try him?”
Galador needed no urging, and neither did Réalta. Though he was perhaps not up to bearing a rider all day and night, he could carry Galador for a few hours. He was bred from ancient stock, and his bloodline was known for stamina as well as swiftness. The desert wind blew through Galador’s fine, silken hair as he sat once more upon his silver steed, whose magnificence was diminished only a little by the stub of a tail that he now raised high into the air.
Eros snorted at the two of them. What a pretty pair they make! If you didn’t know it, you could always ask Réalta, who would be happy to remind you. Though Eros liked Galador well enough, his heart was given to Rogond, with his understated ways and mortal weaknesses. Rogond had never failed him, and in that regard they were just alike, for Eros would serve his Warrior until his dying day.
The Company made excellent progress, as they had learned much from their time in the desert, and they were determined. They drew near the market by sunset of the fourth day. Smoke could be seen rising from it, and as darkness grew, the light of fires and torches appeared as a faint glow against the sand. They made ready to approach, Gaelen and Galador wrapping themselves in desert garb, as Rogond spoke quietly to them.
“My friends, I know you are anxious, and when we find Nelwyn you may become wrathful, but I would caution you that we will only achieve our goal if we all remain calm and clear of thought. We cannot prevail in open battle, not against so many. We will need our wits to free her.” He looked pointedly at Galador. “I do not know how we will find Nelwyn, or whether she is even in this place. You must trust to hope, my friend, if we are to succeed.”
Galador and Gaelen understood him, though their faces were grim. Rogond could see only their eyes from beneath their garb. They held no humor in them, glowing like embers amid the folds of black and white silk. Rogond was also robed in white, but he trusted his beard to hide his facial features, and of course, Galador had none.
They entered the settlement, going first to the well, where Galador filled the water-skins as Gaelen tended the animals. Rogond was appointed to scout the market, as he would arouse the least suspicion.
He went first to a large tent that seemed to be a center of activity, with folk of all descriptions coming and going, and many voices within. The air was thick with smoke, and he tried not to react as it stung his eyes and strained his breathing for a moment. Approaching what appeared to be a seller of drink, he ordered a flagon of wine and sat thoughtfully in the corner, drinking and listening to all around him. It was well that he had picked up some of the sutherling speech, for he was able to glean some useful information.
Though a variety of goods and services could be had at Bezaltor, its main trade was in slaves. It was, in fact, one of the few such markets remaining in the Ravi-shan. Few could afford such luxuries, yet there were those who could afford them, and they had sent representatives to the market to purchase only the very best. The auction began at midnight, and continued until dawn. Rogond and Galador would need to buy their way in; none were admitted without paying for the privilege. It apparently kept the beggars away.
As Rogond looked out over the crowd, his attention was drawn to one man in particular, who was sitting with a half-full vessel of wine. There was something undeniably familiar about this man, though Rogond was certain they had never met. Though he appeared to be of desert heritage, with brown skin and a full beard, one could see that he was taller than was usual in the Ravani- folk. There was something in his bearing that drew Rogond’s gaze, though the man did not appear to take notice of him.
Remembering that he had promised to return and report what he had seen, Rogond finished his wine and took his leave, paying no more thought to the strange man for the moment.
He found Galador and Gaelen anxiously awaiting his return, and they were quite eager to be informed of what he had learned. Castor was here; Rogond had heard his name spoken several times. This both cheered Galador and worried him. What if Nelwyn had already gone up on the auction block? What if Sajid had met with trouble, and had missed the rendezvous, so that Nelwyn was never here at all? Gaelen had said that Nelwyn had been poisoned—what if Sajid had failed to revive her?
Rogond could feel the uncertainty and distress emanating from his friends. “We will know soon enough, for the auction begins at midnight. It may be that Castor will wait until the time is right to present Nelwyn; he may be awaiting a certain buyer. Who knows? You and I will be there, Galador, and perhaps I can make inquiries. For now, let’s go and pay our fee that we may be admitted. Gaelen cannot come with us, for only men are allowed in such places.”
“Why am I neither shocked nor dismayed?” said Gaelen, who found the very thought revolting. “Yet you will have need of me if things go awry. Rescuing Nelwyn from this place will be difficult. If we cannot spirit her away before she goes on the block, it will be easier to retrieve her once she is sold, and leaves with her buyer. We can follow her, and liberate her at a time of our choosing.”
“I will not stand for my beloved to be taken by any buyer…sold for pieces of gold!” Galador was bristling, and when Rogond tried to calm him he backed away.
“Hush! Lower your voice,” said Gaelen, looking furtively around her. “You will gain nothing for Nelwyn if they hear you.”
“They will not understand our tongue. Do you not realize what terrible things might happen to Nelwyn if she is sold? They will put their hands on her, and force her to do their bidding! You would actually stand by while your cousin bears the indignity of being traded like some common beast? I could not bear it...not for an hour! We will need to liberate her before she is sold.” He threw a venomous look at Gaelen.
“It will not be the first indignity she has endured, Galador,” was the cool reply. “What I will not stand for is failure to free her at all. We must do what is necessary to ensure that her captivity ends, even if it means that she must bear indignity. I would assume that you will see reason, and not end your life tonight with a blade between your shoulders, cast by a sutherling who happens to understand Elven speech.”
She turned to Rogond with an expression of complete trust. “Order me, Thaylon, and I will follow. You know the ways of men far better than we. We await your direction.” She looked over at Galador. “Is that not so?”
“It is so,” said Galador, who dropped his eyes, momentarily chastened. He did trust Rogond. “I will yield to your direction, Rogond, for my judgment in this matter is clouded by passion.” He looked from Rogond to Gaelen. “It appears that some of your
good sense has rubbed off onto her—I expected her to be the difficult one. I’ll try my best to follow her example.”
“If I fall tomorrow, at least I will have lived long enough to hear that admission,” said Gaelen. “I do not begrudge you your passion, Galador High-elven! Only trust that Nelwyn will be returned to us if we keep our heads, and strike when the time is right.”
Rogond and Galador paid their fees, and they each received a card with a symbol identifying them as potential buyers. Rogond’s card bore a picture of a raven, and Galador’s was emblazoned with a scarlet sword. “May it prove fitting,” he muttered as they entered the auction-tent, which was already packed nearly full with buyers. The turnout was much better than usual, for it was rumored that something quite rare was in the offing.
They had already been informed that weapons were not allowed, and had left their blades in Gaelen’s keeping. She waited nearby, guarding their goods and their horses from thieves while keeping a sharp ear on the auction-tent. If things went awry, she would ride to the aid of her friends. In preparation, she had prepared her bow and quiver, and they stood ready beside Finan.
One furtive passer-by appeared a little too interested in their belongings, for they were guarded only by a woman. One glance from Gaelen’s bright eyes, and he changed his mind, dropping his gaze as she drew herself up, her power radiating from beneath her black garb. Their belongings were quite safe.
Neither Rogond nor Galador had ever been in such a place before. They stared in disbelief as one unfortunate after another was put up for bidding. The auctioneer stood beside each frightened soul, while the seller extolled his or her special virtues. The block was surrounded by large, burly men with whips in their hands, and they were highly skilled with them; their task, apparently, was to prevent the crowd from getting too close. A tall pole stood in the center of the block, and some of the more difficult individuals were tethered to it to keep them from leaping into the crowd. Several appeared to have been given some elixir that rendered them dull and listless. They stared blankly at the jeering spectators, slack-jawed and unseeing.