fighting men and cooked meat.
It was too good to be true. I felt sure I was being watched. All my thief's instincts sang out together. Nevertheless, I kept walking, and aimed for the centre of camp. If they came for me, I'd run — that way they were more likely to shoot me and less likely to take me alive. Moaradrid had chased me for two days. He wouldn't let me off with a spell in the volunteer brigades this time.
After a while, I thought I could make out Saltlick, still hunched beneath the tree as I'd seen him from the cliff. He was apart from the main region of the camp, perhaps due to that distinctive smell I'd often noted. Still, there were the store tents and corrals further out, and a perimeter of guards, not to mention more than ample moonlight for archers to pick us off at their leisure. The plan didn't seem any less preposterous close up.
On the positive side, there were no guards near Saltlick himself. I realised as I drew closer that it would have been a waste of manpower. He was securely bound, with his arms tied behind the tree and countless coils securing his waist, torso and neck to its trunk. He could move his head and perhaps twitch his fingers, nothing more. It might take me the rest of the night to cut him free.
I approached him from the front. It was too late for subterfuge now. No one came running. Either I really wasn't being watched or my disguise had actually worked. I learned early in my thieving career that once you get into somewhere and don't look dramatically out of place, nine guards in ten will assume you're supposed to be there. Even my interest in Saltlick wouldn't be suspicious in itself. Not all of Moaradrid's men would have seen a giant close up; passers-by had probably been stopping to gawp at him all night.
What worried me more was how Saltlick barely glanced up as I approached. Gruesome theories sprang to mind. Perhaps they'd burned his eyes out, or beaten him into a stupor? As I got close, I could see that I wasn't far from the truth. None of the wounds were deep or mutilating, but that was only because the intent had been pain rather than longterm damage. There were cuts beyond number, bruises clustered on his arms and legs, even a few raw-looking burns. A half-hearted effort had been made to clean the worst of them but none were bandaged, and some of the nastier gashes were still leaking sluggishly.
'Saltlick.'
I could have cried, seeing him like that. It was a horrible sight — not just the physical damage, but his utter helplessness.
'Saltlick, I'm here to rescue you.'
Except perhaps for the twitch of an ear, there was no response. Surely they wouldn't have deafened him? Or cut his tongue out? Only an idiotic interrogator would make his victim unable to hear or answer questions.
'Saltlick, old friend?'
It wasn't my imagination. There was definitely some acknowledgement in the fractional tilting of his head.
'Old pal?'
'Go away.'
The words began as a deep rumble and ended in a whisper, like a landslide in reverse.
'Saltlick?'
'Leave alone.'
I couldn't believe it. Here I was, risking my life, and this was the thanks I received? All right, maybe I'd contributed to his current predicament, but shouldn't freeing him from slavery in the first place have guaranteed his eternal gratitude?
'I said I'm rescuing you, you pig-ugly monster!' That came out louder than I would have liked.
'Not want.'
Struggling to keep calm, I dragged down a deep breath. 'Well, it's not open to discussion. You're going to shut up before someone finds me here, I'm going to cut you free, we'll make a run for it and probably we'll be cut down before we've taken five steps but that's what's going to happen anyway.'
Saltlick glared at me. At least, given how difficult I found reading an expression from those lumpish features, I thought he was glaring. It might as easily have been indigestion. Either way, he didn't contradict me.
I hurried round, dragged the knife from my belt, and made a start on his bonds. They certainly hadn't taken any chances. I couldn't begrudge them that, they'd been dealing with a giant after all, but it made for tough work. I was grateful Estrada had picked me a good, sharp knife. 'Saltlick, it would help if you'd relax.'
No reply, and certainly no relaxing. I grunted and began again, thinking how easy it would be to slip and cut something I shouldn't. One rope gave, and the whole bundle slackened a fraction. When another followed it, I found I could work the knife inside the tangle of knots. My progress began to improve.
I was almost there when something — not a sound so much as a change in the quality of the silence — made me stop and tilt my head.
There it was again, a soughing subtly different from that of the wind. I realised it was the swish of footsteps through wet grass, though incredibly quiet. Whoever was approaching walked with an almost preternaturally soft tread. They were coming from the direction of Saltlick's front. Was the risk of exposing myself and trying to pass with my disguise greater than the risk of being caught where I was? It was fear that swung the balance. I made myself as small as I could and huddled in Saltlick's shadow.
The footsteps stopped.
'You know I can't order you anymore.'
I recognised that voice. I'd only ever heard its owner say a half-dozen sentences, yet it was burned into my memory. I'd never heard anyone speak with such cold precision as Moaradrid did.
'But understand. You will tell me. What you've suffered so far is nothing. A proper torturer is on the way, a craftsman who knows his business. You will talk to him. You'll beg him to listen. I am not a cruel man, giant, but I've come too far and I stand too close. Your friends won't fight unless they see I have it. Without them, I'll never take the throne from that preening fool in Pasaeda. So believe me when I say that this is the last time I'll ask you. Where is my stone?'
Saltlick said nothing. I couldn't even hear him breathing.
'Very well. You've made your choice.'
I heard the rustle of Moaradrid's cloak as he turned away, and then his footsteps retreating, louder this time. He was some distance away when he paused.
'If I can't break you,' he called, 'then perhaps I'll go back for your family. Maybe watching them suffer will stir your tongue.'
The steps resumed.
Saltlick was going to cry out, I could sense it. With him sat down, I could just reach his head. I clamped both hands around his mouth.
'Don't!' I hissed. 'I'll help you. We can even go find your family if you like. But if you call him back now then everything's lost.'
I could feel the tension in Saltlick's muscles. After a moment, it eased, by the barest fraction. I hesitated, and then took my hands away.
'Go now,' he said.
'Fine. Just let me…'
Saltlick flexed his wrists. The ropes snapped all together, and fell away in loops. He moved to stand. There was a creaking sound, and then the few remaining cords holding his torso split too.
'Oh. Right.'
He stepped back. His face glistened and his chest was heaving. The exertion had reopened half a dozen cuts, and fresh blood mingled with a patina of sweat. 'Must. Must go.'
'That's more like it. Let me climb up and…'
Only then did it occur to me that they'd stripped the harness from his shoulders before they bound him. 'Oh shit.' No one would ever accuse me of bravery, but that night I was making a virtue of pragmatism. 'Saltlick,' I said, pointing back the way I'd come, 'we're going that way, and you're going to have to run as fast as you can.'
Saltlick's eyes followed my finger, and then came to rest on me. His fingers twitched. I realised he was sizing up whether he could carry me.
Well, there was no way I was about to die crammed beneath a giant's armpit. 'Don't you dare! Run, keep running, and don't stop for anything.'
