by C S Marks
Galador was revolted; Rogond could feel him trembling as the highly distasteful scene unfolded before them. This was an evil of the highest order, and Rogond forgot for a moment that some of these terrible folk were men—this was more reminiscent of Tûr Dorcha. Ulcas were bred to be enslaved and knew of nothing else. Men were destined to be born and die in freedom. To see the wretchedness of these was disheartening, no matter which side of the bidding they stood upon.
Rogond noticed that the tall man he had observed earlier was now present in the auction-tent, seemingly quite occupied with the goings-on. He turned his eyes toward Rogond once, as though he felt his gaze, but did not see him, for he was apparently bidding on the elderly woman who stood miserably on the auction block.
Things were apparently approaching some climax—one could feel it in the air. The crowd was becoming excitable, as though they had been awaiting some special event that was about to unfold. Rogond looked once more toward the tall man, who had raised his bidding card high over his head, causing the sleeve of his robe to drop back, exposing his right arm. This was not an unusual act, but as Rogond looked upon the man’s arm he beheld the swirling designs graven there…the beautiful, flowing Elvish script was clearly visible, though only for a moment. And on the back of the right hand—a scar, dark brown, as from an Ulca-blade.
Rogond could not breathe. He barely felt Galador’s arm as it gripped him, and he swayed as a wave of dizziness threatened to take him to the floor. Why had he not known it earlier? His brother was here…here in this dreadful place, apparently bidding for slaves. His father would weep if he knew it, but Hallagond was indeed the tall man who now lowered his bidding card, turning his penetrating grey eyes to meet those of the brother he had not yet known.
When their eyes met, and each realized the truth of the other, they stood frozen in disbelief. Hallagond’s sun-weathered face went pale, and his eyes at first grew wide with wonder, then narrowed with dark dismay. How could this have happened? He had paid Radeef’s associates very well to divert his brother, and yet he was here? Hallagond spat an oath and tried to turn and disappear before Rogond could think to make his way toward him, but the crowd pressed in as the voice of the auctioneer announced that the event they had been awaiting was at hand.
Galador gripped Rogond’s arm more tightly. “What’s the matter?” he hissed in his friend’s ear. “What have you seen that has unsettled you? Turn your attention back now, for I have just heard the name of Castor from many in the crowd. Please, Rogond, your attention!”
As Galador looked into the face of his friend, he could see that all was not well. Rogond was now standing rigidly beside him, trying to pull away from his grip so that he could make his way toward the tall man who shared his father’s grey eyes and brown hair. Hallagond had been trapped by the crowd, and was now making a point of not looking in their direction. Rogond turned to Galador.
“My brother, Hallagond, is here in this place…I have just seen him. Galador, my brother is here!”
“What? Are you serious? How can you be certain?” said Galador, scanning the crowd.
“He is standing over there—no, there! That tall man who is presently trying to hide himself from our gaze. I must go after him, Galador, before he can slip away. I won’t be long…I promise.”
“You dare not leave now...remember your purpose in being here. We are here to find and restore my beloved! There will be time later to find your brother again.” He looked back toward the auction block, and his blood froze in his veins. “See, now, why you cannot turn from your purpose!”
Castor, the slave-trader, had brought in his wares, and they stood in a miserable line behind him. There was nothing remarkable about most of them, but there was one, tall and lithe, apparently none too hale, who sagged against the one who stood beside her. She was wrapped in sand-colored silk so that you could not see her features at all, but both Galador and Rogond recognized the remains of their gold silken sunshade. Nelwyn was here, and from the sound of the crowd she would be the climax of the night’s dark business. Neither of her would-be rescuers could move for a moment as they realized the extent of the task before them.
There was nothing Rogond could do about Hallagond now. At least he knew that his brother still lived, but to find him here, in this place…it might have almost been better if he had not known. For now, he could not leave Galador, for his friend was rapidly losing control. Color had risen in his face, and Rogond could feel the heat of anger and grief radiating from him. He trembled slightly, and there was conflict in his eyes, as though he warred with himself. Rogond could not blame him—Nelwyn was in a bad way. She could not stand firmly on her own feet, but needed support from Castor, who had left the selling of his other “wares” to his subordinates. He would allow no one but himself to touch Nelwyn.
When the time came, Castor stepped forward—a tall, powerful man dressed in garish red and gold flowing robes. His full beard was neatly trimmed, his dark eyes cold and glittering with the promise of profit. He placed an arm around Nelwyn’s waist to support her, and the restive crowd grew silent.
Castor announced to the buyers that what he was about to offer them was so rare and beautiful that its like would not again be seen. Slowly and with great ceremony, he removed the gold silken wrap from his precious jewel, and the crowd gasped and muttered as Nelwyn was revealed. Galador swayed beside Rogond, crying out in a broken voice at the sight before him.
Her graceful form was covered only by the barest of garments, sequined and embroidered, with many glittering medallions and bells tinkling musically with the slightest movement. Her wrists and ankles were bound with silken cord, but there was truly no need, for she was largely unaware of anything going on around her. Her green eyes were open, but they were glazed over and unseeing. Her beautiful hair was immaculate and held in place with combs made of pearlescent shells. Castor had done everything in his power to enhance her beauty, yet none of his efforts would have made the slightest difference, for Nelwyn’s beauty was plain to all who beheld her, even if she wore garments made of cobwebs.
Such a large crowd in so small a space had made the auction-tent uncomfortably warm, yet Nelwyn trembled as she stood before them on unsteady feet. When the drape was removed, the crowd gave a collective gasp, followed by a brief moment of total quiet. Then a great cheer went up, indicating that the crowd was very pleased and excited.
Galador did not understand the sutherling tongues as well as did Rogond, but he knew from the expressions and gestures of those around him that there were things being said of his beloved that were most lascivious and unseemly. He ground his teeth together in silence.
Castor held up his hand, signaling that the bidding would soon begin. Many reached into their robes to take count of their coins, for hope of acquiring this beautiful creature surged in their hearts. Galador would not be able to bear this for long, and Rogond gripped his arm.
“Steady, now. At least we know that she is alive, and they have not truly harmed her. Steady, my friend. They hold the mastery for the moment.” He had not seen this level of white-hot fury in Galador’s eyes ever before, and it worried him.
The crowd was relatively quiet as Castor began to speak. “Ah, my fine friends, I have brought before you tonight the rarest of jewels. You will never find another like her! She is of an ancient race, and will never sicken, age, or die naturally. Just think of it—here is beauty immortal and unending, eternal perfection, and she is yours for the taking! But I must warn you that the price will be high, for I will not part with her otherwise. Free your gold, if you would have her!”
As Castor continued to describe the virtues of his fine offering, one of the men standing nearby turned to his fellows, and, with a look of unbridled lust on his sneering face, he began to describe the many uses to which Nelwyn would be put should he acquire her. His companions leered and laughed as he continued; regrettably, his descriptions were punctuated by hand gestures that did not require a translator to understand.
Gaelen shivered in the chilly night air as she stood watch over the horses, trying to perceive the goings-on inside the auction tent. Alas, it was difficult to hear over the crowd, but when the cheer went up in response to the unveiling of Nelwyn, a feeling of unease took hold of Gaelen. Her slight frame trembled and she suddenly grew tense. She missed her weapons and decided to make no further attempt to disguise herself, for she would soon go into battle—she could feel it. She pulled off her black garment and replaced her blades and quiver, relaxing slightly as she felt the comfort of cold steel against her leather jerkin.
She was observed only by a single onlooker, and she drew her blades quickly, daring him to say a word about it. He did not do so, but dropped his eyes and backed away, for the light in her face left no doubt that she was not of his world. Later he would tell his companions of her, and they would laugh, telling him that he should not drink so much.
Gaelen’s intuition that she would soon do battle was correct. When Galador beheld the leering, unseemly expressions and gestures going on around him, knowing they were directed at his beloved, he could no longer keep silent. He gave a cry, lunging toward the worst of the offenders, as Rogond tried to restrain him. Galador wrenched free, falling upon the surprised men in a rage, attempting to throttle the one who had made the obscene gestures.
The man’s fellows were quick to defend their comrade. They wrestled with Galador, and it was a good thing weapons were not permitted, for the Elf would have been taken quickly. Yet they now had to contend with Rogond, who leaped forward in defense of his friend. Galador fought with the strength of twenty men; he had injured several of his opponents, including the one he had grabbed initially, who lay unmoving upon the dirt floor. Yet he could not hope to prevail against a tide of outraged sutherlings.
In a shadowed corner of the auction-tent, Sajid the Spider lurked quietly, witnessing both the uprising and the suppression of Galador with satisfaction. He was in disguise, but had come to the auction because he wanted to witness the humiliation of Nelwyn for himself. Not even Castor knew of his presence, but he had no difficulty gaining entrance, for he was much wealthier than he had been, oh, yes indeed. Now, as he learned that the Company had discovered his plan and followed Nelwyn to the market, his heart was filled with fear. He could not risk being seen, for surely Rogond and Galador would want to avenge the deaths of Gaelen and Fima.
He would not wait now until Nelwyn was sold...better to make his escape while Galador and Rogond were restrained and helpless. He slithered through the crowd to the side doorway, bowed to the attendant, and handed him his bidding card. Appropriately, it was inscribed with the image of a yellow serpent.
The auctioneer bellowed over the din. “To disrupt the bidding is strictly forbidden. You all know it!” He looked over at the men restraining Rogond and Galador. “Drag the offenders outside, and make certain they remain there. Punish them as you see fit, but they will not be allowed back inside on this night.”
The men did so, snarling at their captives. Many were also laughing ill-naturedly at them. “The slave auctions are no place for sentiment,” they said. “If you would defend the honor of a maiden, better to make certain she does not come here. Once she is here, better you should stay away!”
Galador cried out to Nelwyn, and she perceived his cry, turning her blank eyes toward him, but she could not respond. The men laughed and dragged him from the tent along with Rogond. Once outside, where weapons were permitted, neither would live long. Sajid shook his head as he made his escape. He almost felt pity for Galador, but at the same time, better that the Elf should be dead than witness Nelwyn’s fate.
Gaelen had heard the melee inside the tent, and she heard Galador’s impassioned cry. She grabbed the weapons and sprinted to the aid of her friends, only to behold a shadowy figure slinking from the side entrance. Something made him turn toward her, and, as their eyes met, they both froze in astonishment. “Deceiver!” yelled Gaelen in a loud and terrible voice. “Betrayer and murderer! Your hour is at hand!”
Mother of Mercy! The Vixen is alive…how is it possible? And how in the name of heaven can she have found me already! Sajid panicked, knowing that he would never evade her unless she was diverted. He ran as fast as he could around the back of the large tent, toward the westward entrance, where even now Rogond and Galador were being dragged to an uncertain fate. Gaelen gained ground rapidly, for she was swifter and very, very motivated.
Yet as she rounded the corner, she beheld her beloved Rogond with a dagger at his throat, and her friend Galador, forced to his knees, a bright blade aimed at the back of his neck. She could do nothing but turn from the pursuit, hissing under her breath and skidding to a halt so that she might draw her bow. Sajid would not fall this day.
One of the men raised his curved sword to take Galador’s head; he struggled against his captors, but the light had gone from his eyes to be replaced with resignation. He seemed to know that his hour had come, and that he would not be able to aid Nelwyn. He had failed her—his lack of restraint had come at a terrible cost.
Rogond was trying to stay the men from killing Galador, but to no avail. Apparently, one of their friends had died at Galador’s hands, for his strength had been guided by a terrible rage, and he had broken the man’s neck unaware.
The swordsman stood with raised blade, but he did not lower it to cleave Galador. Instead he staggered back, staring in dull confusion at the arrow-shaft protruding from his chest before he fell.
“There are more of them! Kill these at once!” cried the man who held Rogond. He pulled the Ranger’s head back, intending to cut his throat, but dropped his blade as a tall, bearded man leaped into the fray. He had cast a bright dagger into the throat of Rogond’s would-be executioner. Rogond was now trying to avoid being grabbed by the other sutherlings, while looking around in confusion.
“Thaylon! Your blades!” cried Gaelen as she dashed in to aid him, cleaving any who stood in her way. Their eyes met briefly; Gaelen’s were bright with the heat of battle and Rogond could tell that it was not just Galador and himself that she would fight for this day. She would cleave sutherlings as long as any stood before her, to avenge Nelwyn…and Elraen.
The sutherlings had recovered their wits, though the sight of Gaelen and the sudden appearance of Hallagond had startled them. Gaelen had returned Galador’s blade to him, and he now fought with new hope. None would stand before him for long, yet the tide of numbers was still against the Company, and they were beleaguered, especially Hallagond, who was fending off three enemies by himself.
Meanwhile, inside the tent, Castor ground his teeth in frustration, knowing he would be disappointed this night. The bidding had been disrupted, and many of the bidders had gone outside to witness the excitement. Others had fled, for they did not truly know or understand the cause of the confusion, but they could hear the cries of men dying, and they did not wish to learn any more.
The auctioneer turned to Castor. “How do you wish to proceed?”
“I will not offer her in the midst of this uproar,” he said. “And I fear someone may try to take her from me. She is withdrawn until further notice.” He wrapped Nelwyn once more in the gold-colored silk and lifted her in his arms. She was light to carry, and he made his way to his own encampment, his well-armed henchmen clearing the way before him. Rogond saw them leave, but could not break free of the melee to pursue them.
The battle was not going well. One of Hallagond’s opponents had managed to slash him across the right shoulder, and he was in a bad way. His sword-arm now hung at his side, for there was no strength in it. The sword was his preferred weapon, and he was not as adept with his other arm. His enemies stood ready to take him, until a smallish, bright-eyed She-elf (was it a She-elf?) leaped in front of him, blades flashing. She cast them with deadly precision, and two enemies fell. She drew her bow without thinking, sending three more to the Eternal Realm as her hands blurred with motion.
She called back to him. “I know yo
u understand Elven-speech, Hallagond Tuathan! Get ready to run, for there are too many of them! You must flee with us!” She then whistled as loudly as she could for Finan.
Rogond likewise called for Eros, and in moments the horses appeared, bearing their gear. “Fly, all of you!” cried Rogond, leaping onto Eros’ back.
“Not without Nelwyn!” cried Galador, who still stood firm, defying any to take him who wished to meet their fate. Hallagond needed no urging, for he saw that he was outnumbered and could not prevail. He swung onto Malvorn as Finan rushed toward the surprised sutherlings, striking at them with his deadly forefeet, swinging his powerful jaws, his mouth open, teeth bared. Gaelen had retrieved her blades, and now leaped astride him as he charged forward, not caring what unfortunate stood in his way. He was indeed a war-horse, and his skills were apparent to all. He swept the enemy back like a tide.
Rogond rode up behind Galador, leading Réalta and calling frantically: “There’s no time! We don’t even know where they have taken her! You cannot prevail alone. Look beyond your madness…you cannot help her if we are all dead!” He looked into the eyes of his friend. “They will not harm her.”
Rogond’s voice somehow made its way through the haze of despair that had clouded Galador’s reason. He sent two more of the Ravani to their eternal reward, fending off a killing blow from one of them, before mounting Réalta and turning to follow his friends.