bubbled in his throat, but he choked them down as he shook his stinging hands to dry them. Ablutions done, he tucked the damp gloves into his sash and slipped out of the sentry box. He descended the ladder to the ground.
By night Samustal was busy. The clang of smiths’ hammers striking anvils mixed with incoherent shouts of revelry and the sound of glass shattering. Dogs barked and donkeys brayed. Porthios hoped he wouldn’t encounter any animals. Human senses were feeble compared to those of elves, so wily raiders such as Samuval and his lieutenants kept packs of fierce hounds with them in Qualinesti. Dogs could see or scent elves where a human never would.
The elaborate arbors of Bianost had been hacked down and its famous gardens turned into pasturage for war-horses. Free fountains, found in every square of a Qualinesti town, were broken, and the basins were filled with garbage. Over everything hung the same ugly stench he had detected while still in the woods outside of town.
Evidence of looting and violence was everywhere. No glass remained in the street-level windows of any house, and the openings were boarded over. If any of the original inhabitants remained, they didn’t dare show any sign of life to the marauding brigands outside. Some houses had been burned out, leaving only blackened shells, like the gaping mouth of a corpse. The smell of fire still clung to the ruins. Every gutter was clogged with broken stones, burned timbers, smashed crockery, and innumerable rats, living and dead.
Fortunately one landmark remained: the town hall tower. Porthios had learned the slave market was held in the town’s central square. The town hail fronted the square. Using the tower as a landmark, and keeping to the darkest alleys and side streets, he worked his way toward the square.
A bonfire blazing in the middle of the intersection of two broad streets halted him. Illuminated by it was a quartet of armed bandits talking in loud voices.
“Goin’ to the execution?” asked one.
“Can’t,” replied a second. “Got guard duty at the gate.”
“Too bad. Should be something to see.”
“Ah, it’s not like she’s a real woman, just an elf one.”
Porthios stiffened.
“Should be a sight to see, though. Lord Olin ordered her flayed alive. He brought an ogre all the way from Broken to do the job proper!”
Harsh laughter sounded, and the third bandit said, “Olin knows how to send a message! She helped a dozen slaves escape the holding cage, and was riding off on Lord Olin’s own horse when they caught her!”
More laughter erupted. Ugly remarks were exchanged, ignorant speculation about the anatomy of elves compared to that of humans. Porthios felt his initial anger swell to cold fury.
The first bandit gestured at a dark heap lying on the ground several yards away, just beyond the fire’s glow.
“How’s he doing?”
One of his comrades went and prodded the heap with a booted foot, Porthios realized the shapeless pile of rags was a person, lying facedown on the pavement.
The bandit returned, reporting, “Out cold, but still breathing.”
They debated whether they should rouse their captive. Evidently the four had been questioning him rather vigorously and the poor wretch had passed out, unable to bear his suffering.
Porthios circled around the bonfire, keeping to the deep shadows. When he reached the prone figure, he knelt and rolled the fellow over.
The unfortunate captive was an elf of considerable age. He’d been badly beaten. Porthios lifted the lid of one eye to see if he still lived.
The blue iris fixed on him, eye going wide in fear. “Peace. I will not hurt you,” Porthios whispered.
“Do not give me away,” the elf gasped, speaking Qualinesti as Porthios had. “I need this respite.”
“Who are you?”
“Kasanth, once councilor to the lord mayor.”
“Why do they torture you?”
“They seek the treasury.” Kasanth swallowed with difficulty. “It was hidden before they came.”
The aged elf’s eyes gleamed with pride. “The Speaker himself charged me with its protection.”
For a moment Porthios thought the poor fellow meant him, but of course Kasanth was referring to Gilthas. He admired the old councilor, enduring such agony for the sake of honor, but that it should be done on behalf of Gilthas disgusted Porthios. Gilthas might be the son of Porthios’s sister, but that could not erase the taint he carried, the human ancestry of his father, Tanis Half-Elven.
In the seconds it took for those thoughts to pass through Porthios’s mind, Kasanth’s expression altered, and he seized Porthios’s arm. With a surprising burst of strength, he pulled himself up until they were eye to eye.
“My lord! Is it you? You’ve returned!” he gasped, joy suffusing his bloodied face. “The treasure is in the sky!”
Porthios shushed him, but the damage had been done. As the old fellow collapsed, dead, the bandits turned to spot the intruder. They yelled at him, but he melted into the shadows, easily eluding their clumsy pursuit.
Had the old elf recognized Porthios, even through the mask? Or was it a last delusion? The dying sometimes were granted more than mortal vision. Either way, Kasanth’s murder was added to the many outrages Porthios had witnessed in the town. Very soon there would be a reckoning.
It was nearly midnight when he reached the town square. Wooden cages ringed the plaza, holding pens for slaves waiting their turn on the block. The pens were empty. The auction block itself was a wooden platform on the east end of the square, facing the lord mayor’s residence. Twenty feet long and ten feet wide, the stout platform held five equally stout posts spaced along its length. From each post hung thick iron manacles.
In the center of the square was a public fountain, a marble obelisk from which (in better times) four streams of water flowed. Only one still worked. The fountain basin, carved by dwarf masons from a single block of soapstone, was cracked in three places. Moss grew on the payers. A prisoner Porthios saw, was chained to the obelisk.
Was the prisoner the rebellious female, awaiting her terrible execution?
Porthios studied the scene a long time before leaving the shelter of the slave pens and approaching the fountain. Few people were about. None paid the tattered figure any heed. He halted by the seated prisoner’s feet-
She had been abused, though not so thoroughly as Kasanth. One eye was ringed with a black bruise. Cuts and older bruises decorated her face, neck, and arms. Her hair was filthy, and stood up in stiff spikes all over her head.
He thought her asleep, but suddenly she sprang at him, only to be jerked up short by her heavy fetters.
“Want to see more?” she hissed. “Come closer-”
“A charming invitation, which I shall decline,” he said in Qualinesti.
She sank back on the soapstone basin. “Who are you?” she asked in the same tongue-
“Someone who can help you.”
“Then do it!”
“In good time.” Porthios was intrigued. Despite a slight accent, she did not speak as an uneducated peasant. “What is your name?”
She glared at him- lie repeated the question. When still she remained silent he added, “Perhaps you think someone else will come along to help you? Flaying is a terrible way to die, I hear.”
“Step forward so I may see you better.” He eyed her shackled hands, and she snapped, “You’ve nothing to fear from me if you’re telling the truth!”
He stepped forward. The light from the distant bonfires showed her his mask and robes and her eyes widened. “What is this, a masquerade?”
“It is. Give me your name.”
She rose to her feet, standing proudly although weighed down by many chains. “I am Kerianseray, general of the armies of the united elven nations, wife and consort to Gilthas, Speaker of the Sun and Stars!”
