From his higher vantage, Jeralund could see a fight still raging around the fountain. He hesitated but a moment before smacking his horse’s flank with the flat of his sword. The animal sprang toward the distant fracas.
Nalaryn and the Lioness had their backs to the obelisk. Thus far they’d fended off every attempt to storm the platform. The lancers had been drawn off by the escaping slaves, but the Kagonesti archers had ceased firing too. A solid group of bandit foot soldiers had surrounded the fountain and showed no signs of giving up. They were inching closer. They well knew the penalties Lord Olin would exact if they allowed the Kagonesti female to escape.
After knocking out an especially persistent bandit, Kerian tossed a quick thank you to Nalaryn. “This is a much better death than I expected to have today, brother,” she panted.
Nalaryn swung his maul, catching a bandit under the chin and sending him flying. “The Great Lord will come,” he said. “Have faith!”
Kerian almost laughed. Faith? He sounded like Gilthas.
Jeralund was halfway to the fountain when he noticed the Scarecrow, standing alone and unmolested in the midst of the shrieking riot. The mysterious elf leader had shed his slaver guise, except for the hat pulled low on his forehead. People ran screaming all around him, some shouting for mercy, others for blood, but he stood silent and solid, like a tree amid a herd of stampeding cattle. Jeralund guided his horse toward the robed figure.
“Quite a storm you’ve raised,” the sergeant called out.
The mask framed burning eyes. “It is only the first of many to come.”
The tiny island of calm around them abruptly vanished. A swarm of people rushed eastward, away from the rampaging slaves. A tide of traders trying to get out of the way of Lord Olin’s enraged troops. They crashed together where the Scarecrow stood. It seemed inevitable he would be trampled to death. He disappeared beneath the crush. Jeralund lashed out with controlled fury, keeping the terrified people from toppling his horse. The mob parted for him, and the Scarecrow was gone.
Jeralund looked to the desperate fight at the fountain. Even as he watched, Nalaryn sustained a stunning blow to the back. The female elf prisoner, wielding nothing more than a knife, leaped forward and drove back his attacker, giving the Kagonesti chief time to struggle to his feet. Three more bandits bore down on them. She faced them, a broad grin on her dirty face.
“Pestilence!”Jeralund cursed, and drove his heels into his mount’s flanks.
The Lioness saw the rider coming. She shifted the knife in her hand, ready to throw it. Nalaryn caught her wrist.
“No, wait!”
She stared at him as if he were mad, and the arriving horse bowled over three of Olin’s men before skidding to a stop by the fountain.
“Need help, forester?” the rider bellowed.
“Every soul needs help sometime,” said Nalaryn.
The human slid off the horse’s right side. The two elves mounted from the left, and the Lioness took the reins.
Touching the sword hilt to his chin in mocking salute, the human said, “Good luck, forester! You and the Scarecrow will need it!” He jumped aside and melted into the surging press. They saw him no more.
Kerian urged the horse into a canter. Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t give way were knocked down as she made straight for the western gate. The stockade was undoubtedly locked up tight, but they stood a good chance of escaping under cover of the terrific confusion. Kerian’s hand ached for a sword. She felt naked without one-worse than naked. Modesty she could live without, but a sword was an absolute necessity.
Outside the square, the mob was reduced to random folk running away and bandit patrols trying to catch slaves and restore order. Kerian and Nalaryn galloped by a company of twenty mercenaries who failed to recognize the Lioness as an escaping prisoner. Eventually the Kagonesti arrived at the approaches to the west gate. To their surprise, the timber portal was open.
They rode up slowly, wary of a trap. Dead bandits littered the street. The guards seemed to have been overwhelmed.
Nalaryn told her to stop. He dismounted and helped himself to a spear lying next to a slain guard. He retrieved a sword and handed it up to her.
Kerian turned the horse’s head back to the gate. A single figure stood in the opening, silhouetted against the sun-drenched meadow beyond. Kerian rode forward slowly, the sword’s wire-wrapped pommel heavy in her hand. Like the weapon, she felt hard and dangerous. The scum in this town owed her a great deal for the mistreatment she’d suffered and the deaths they’d caused.
Nalaryn, walking alongside her horse, raised the spear over his head and called, “Great Lord!”
The silhouetted figure waved in response. Kerian cursed silently. All set to have at somebody, instead she’d come upon her savior.
He gestured for her to stop. “Turn around,” he said. “We’re not done yet.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Freeing you was only part of this day’s work. The balance will be done when we liberate Bianost.”
Gods protect us, he’s mad, Kerian thought. She said, “Worthy goals, stranger. Exactly how do you plan to liberate the town?
The garrison must number several thousand.”
“Two thousand, by my estimate.”
“Only two thousand! That makes it easy, then!”
“You have performed greater feats of arms than this, Kerianseray. “And you forget,” the stranger added, “we aren’t facing disciplined troops. If we storm the mayor’s palace and slay Olin, the common bandits will flee.”
She glanced at Nalaryn. He obviously was prepared to do whatever his Great Lord desired. She asked how many troops they had. Twenty, Nalaryn said, if all yet survived.
Her laugh was short and harsh. Twenty! Against Olin’s household guard? “Even if we can do it, what’s the point, here in the heart of occupied Qualinesti? Samuval will send an army to retake the town, and his revenge will be ferocious!”
The stranger came forward until he stood by her horse’s nose. He patted the animal then tilted his head to look up at her. She frowned at the mask he wore, wondering what this odd creature was playing at. His accent told her he was Qualinesti, although it was possible that could be faked.
“All fires begin with a single spark,” he said. “Besides, a rebellion must have steel as well as arms, and there’s a treasure hidden in this town. Olin hasn’t been able to find it. I can.”
“What kind of treasure?”
He didn’t answer but looked beyond her as new shouting welled from the center of town. The swell of noise rolled over them like a great wave. The riot in the slave market was spreading. If the town rose up, the bandits were doomed. Many in Samustal hated Lord Olin’s rule.
“The town may be sacked before Samuval comes, Great Lord. If there is treasure, we’d better act swiftly,” Nalaryn said. He went to stand at his leader’s right shoulder. They waited in silence for Kerian’s answer. It wasn’t long in coming.
“I’ll fight for you on two conditions.” Her chin lifted.
Nalaryn raised an eyebrow but made no objection. The masked elf nodded solemnly.
“Second,” Kerian said, “I must know your identity. If I’m to follow you and believe in your cause, I have to know who you are. After all, this could be some strange Nerakan plot to undermine resistance in Qualinesti.”
For a long moment, he stood motionless, pondering, then spoke quietly to Nalaryn. The Kagonesti chief moved away to the gate and turned his back. When he was gone, the masked elf came to stand only inches from her horse’s side.
Very softly he said, “On the scaffold, you revealed yourself to me, sol will do the same. But believe me when I tell you that if you betray this confidence to anyone, you will die.”
Threats did not usually impress her, but something in his voice, and in the eyes that bored into her own, told her he was in deadly earnest. She nodded once. She would keep the secret of his identity.
He put a finger below the bottom edge of his mask. A heartbeat passed, and another, then he lifted the cloth up to his forehead.
