'Where to?' Jashon demanded. 'They'll catch up with us out in the open if we do.' Dread washed through him. His life as a respected doctor in a big city was threatened, and his numb brain struggled to accept it.
She wailed, 'We'll be killed! The Hashon Jahar leave no survivors. They slaughter all in their path!'
'Yes. We must fight! We have an army, the city has walls. We must defend it, not run away.'
'Most of the soldiers have already fled with their families! All that remain are old men and young boys. Everyone is leaving, the bridges are choked!'
Jashon sank into a chair, his legs weak. His wife flapped her hands and wailed, trying to get him to respond to her hysterical demands. He stared into space, and she ran back to her packing. His world had fallen apart, destroyed by the mere rumour of approaching marauders. Now he understood the hysteria in the streets and the dull-eyed panic of the population as they ran about amid the detritus. He would have to leave behind all he had worked for and give up a comfortable life for a slight chance of survival in the woods.
Even if they reached another town, it would take years to regain what he lost today. He rose and went into the lavishly decorated cream and white bedroom to help her pack, filled with despair. The heavy purses that swung from his belt hampered him as he bent to pack his clothes into a leather bag. Jashon straightened with a grunt of realisation. Mujar had the power to do anything.
Excited, he ignored his wife's angry exclamation and abandoned her to hurry to the front door. Even as he reached it, it burst open and Tranton rushed in, almost colliding with him.
'You've heard?' Tranton gasped.
Jashon nodded.
'I've come to ask to ride with you in your wagon. I have no beasts.'
'We don't have to flee. We have the answer in the college.'
'What?' Tranton looked confused.
'The Mujar. He can protect the city.'
'But he won't!'
'We must make him.'
Tranton shook his head. 'You'd be wasting your time. He won't do it.'
'We've never had a Mujar so much at our mercy before. He'll do it to escape the pain.'
'He won't. Forget it, pack your belongings, we must leave at once.'
Jashon thrust his friend aside. 'I'm going to try. It's our only hope. If we flee, we'll be hunted down like rats.'
Grabbing his coat, Jashon marched into the busy street. Tranton hesitated, his expression despairing, then trotted after him, his dirty grey robes flapping around his skinny legs.
Talsy rested beside a run-down house's peeling wall, tucked away out of the stream of fleeing people, carts and horses that had buffeted her since the alarm had been raised. The wild-eyed masses streamed eastwards through the city to choke the bridges across the river, and she wondered how many would be pushed off and swept away to die in the muddy torrent. She had no idea how she was going to find Chanter, she only knew that she must. Her first stop had been the town jail, where they might have held him before they took him to the Pit. Now she struggled towards the soldiers' barracks.
A crier took up his stance not far away and pulled out a rolled up parchment. Unrolling it, he shouted in ringing tones, 'Hear ye! Hear ye! A proclamation from His Grace, the Governor of Horran! The city gates are being closed! No more citizens will be allowed to flee! All able-bodied men are charged to report to the armoury, where they will be given weapons. The city of Horran will fight the Black Riders! We will not run! The penalty for treason is death! This is the order of Cusak, Governor of Horran!'
The panic-stricken bustle slowed as people absorbed this astounding news and checked their mad rush for the bridges and a way out of the city. A great wail of despair and denial went up, and a crowd descended on the crier and beat him senseless. Talsy left her shelter and hurried towards the city gates, stopping along the way to ask a soldier where the barracks were. The harassed man gestured and marched away on some urgent errand. When she found it in a broad cobbled square close to the city centre, the soldiers who usually inhabited it were absent, but the grey stone building's cells held only frightened pickpockets and street thugs who could not be accommodated in the jail.
When she emerged, dusk sucked the light from the sky as the sinking sun drew its veil of luminescence with it, and night crawled in its wake. Talsy's feet and legs ached from a day of walking and running, dodging and climbing steps. She pulled a carrot from her jacket and munched it, settling into a sheltered corner where the barrack's roof overhung. The building's location meant that she had a good view of several broad streets that met at the square. The cries of distant mobs echoed through the city as men armed with torches and swords patrolled the streets to capture looters and deliver summary execution to those they caught trying to climb over the outer walls.
Other groups of citizens marched through the square in protest of the governor's order, clashing with loyalists in brief, bloody, torch lit battles. Surging crowds roared and dying men screamed. Feet pounded on the cobblestones as cowards tried to flee, the shouting pursuit of righteous citizens following them. Chaos reigned in the city this night, and Talsy huddled in her corner, buffered against the night chill by her jacket, unnoticed and alone. Her wounded arm ached. The cut had turned a nasty yellow, and she kept it bound with a rag. It needed to be washed with clean spring water, but none flowed in the dirty city. Cradling the throbbing limb, she closed her eyes and let sleep wash over her in a welcome tide, cutting off the shouts and screams of the beleaguered city.
A rough slap on his battered face woke Chanter, and stabs of pain shot from his broken jaw. He opened his eyes to find a ring of hostile faces looming over him. Numerous lanterns lighted the scene, and the gimlet-eyed throng. A strenuous argument was being shouted in the background, and the man who had slapped Chanter turned his head to call, 'He's awake!'
Chanter's torturer pushed through the ring to kneel beside the Mujar and thrust his hatchet face close. 'Do you want healing, Mujar?'
Chanter gazed at him, unable to speak with a slashed throat. The Lowman gripped the Mujar's shoulders and shook him, sending fresh waves of pain through him. 'Answer me! I'm offering you healing, comforts.'
'He can't speak with a cut throat, Jashon,' one of the spectators pointed out.
Jashon dropped Chanter with a growl and demanded a cup of water. A youngster ran off, returning after a minute to place one in his hand. Jashon trickled a little liquid onto the Mujar's throat and chin. Chanter stiffened as the pain flared, unable to do more than quiver in response to his agony. His broken jaw and slashed throat healed, and he drew in a shuddering breath, blessed air wheezing through his dry, blood-clotted windpipe. The Power of Shissar flowed into his chest, but dwindled to nothing before it could do any more good.
Jashon glared him. 'Now, answer me. Do you want healing, comforts?'
Chanter coughed. 'Yes.'
'There's an army of Black Riders approaching the city. Defend us, and we'll heal you and give you comforts for the rest of your life.'
'No.'
Jashon looked shocked. 'You want to suffer? To go to the Pit?'
'No.'
'Then defend the city, and we'll spare you.'
'No.'
A voice spoke from the back of the crowd. 'Told you he wouldn't do it.'
Jashon glanced around in annoyance. 'I haven't finished yet, Tranton.' He turned back to Chanter. 'I can make you suffer more, Mujar scum. I can make you wish you could die.'
Chanter met the Lowman's small brown eyes with calm hatred. Jashon brought his fist down on the Mujar's mutilated belly, and agony swept through Chanter, dulling his senses again. Rough hands battered his face, pulling him back from the brink of oblivion.
'Come on, you dirty yellow bastard!' Jashon snarled. 'You'll not escape me. I have two whole days to torture you, so make it easy on yourself. Defend the city, and you'll receive healing and comforts.'
'No Wish.' Blood bubbled in Chanter's throat, and he swallowed.
'You're wasting your time,' said Tranton, who had worked his way to the front of the throng. 'We should fetch our weapons from the armoury now that we can no longer escape.'
