Luin’s Field was in full uproar. Buoyed by the success of the Dom-shu, the rest of the captives were storming the fence. Guards rushed from one point of crisis to another. Prisoners threw rags and blankets over the spikes along the top of the barrier, climbed over, and dropped to the ground. Kender darted through the confusion, tripping soldiers, or pelting them with rocks. Mounted warriors tried to charge the escapees, but instead found themselves fighting to control their horses as kender menaced the animals with stolen torches. No horse would charge into fire. The riders were set upon by throngs of prisoners, dragged from their mounts, and stripped of arms.
The sole entrance to the condemned prisoners’ cage was on the opposite side from the Temple of Corij. Miya fought her way to it through the mob. It was secured by a crossbar as wide as Miya’s waist, and kept in place by a thick black chain. No one had dared climb the gate. It was studded on both sides with sword-sharp bronze barbs.
Miya regarded the gate helplessly. The short, thin sword in her hand was of no use against either the massive crossbar or the chain.
“Need help, lady?” said someone, tapping her elbow.
She turned. Four soot-stained kender stood behind her. The one who’d spoken added, “I’m Curly Windseed, at yer service, and this is Cuss, Juniper, and Fancy.”
“Get this gate open, quick!” she told them. The prisoners had to be freed before the city garrison arrived.
“Sure. Fancy, you got that bar?”
The tallest of the kender pulled a thick metal rod from his collar. It was a straight iron prybar, and evidently had seen a great deal of use. Fancy put one end in the chain and proceeded to wind the bar around and around, binding the chain in the process.
“Lend a hand, big lady,” said the smallest kender, the one called Cuss.
With Miya and the kender pulling and straining for all they were worth, the chain finally snapped. Prisoners rushed forward, and the heavy crossbar was thrown aside.
Before Miya could move, a wall of escapees surged against the gate, swinging it open and almost knocking her fiat. She held onto a gatepost while the torrent flowed past. Of the helpful quartet of kender, there was no sign.
Once the flow of prisoners thinned, Miya saw Zala run into the open pen, calling her father’s name.
Miya yelled, “Your father’s in the shanty. He was too sick to stay out in the open!”
Together they raced across the rapidly emptying compound. Zala’s father lay under a makeshift lean-to. A gray stubble covered his face. His eyes were rheumy and dull.
“Papa!” Zala said, grasping him by the shoulders. “Papa, I’m here. You’re safe!”
“Hurudithya,” the old man whispered. “I knew you’d come!”
Miya looked a question at her, and Zala shook her head. “I was named after my mother,” she explained. “I don’t use often.”
The clatter of iron-shod hooves warned them the city garrison was on its way. Supporting Kaeph between them, Zala and Miya crossed the empty prison compound and quickly moved out the gate.
The great square of Luin’s Field was almost empty. The freed prisoners had not lingered, and neither had the kender. Miya helped Zala get her father to the steps of the Temple of Corij. Leaving them there, the Dom-shu woman raced back to the prison cage to look for her own wounded father. However, save for a few unconscious guards and slain prisoners, the cage was empty.
Miya called for her father, but her cries were lost in the growing thunder of approaching horses. She ran back to the Temple of Corij.
Zala and her father were not where she’d left them.
With a low cry of frustration, Miya dithered on the temple steps. Where was everyone? Where was her father?
A diminutive figure in a brown surcoat came down the steps toward her. His head was covered by a brown hood.
“This way, friend,” he said, holding out a hand. “Enter the sanctuary of Corij.”
Corij, god of war, was served by a priesthood of soldiers and former soldiers. This little person could hardly be one of them. Miya spun him around and tugged back the hood of his vestment.
The Dom-shu found herself staring at a brown, leathery face seamed by hundreds of wrinkles. It was not a visage easily forgotten.
“Queen Casberry!” she exclaimed. Who wasn’t in Caergoth tonight?
“You better lift those big feet!” the old kender said, sprinting nimbly up the steps.
Casberry led Miya through the temple’s open portico. Burning candles lit the dark interior and spread a musky scent. A crowd of people huddled among the thick columns. Among them, Miya was relieved to see, was her father, as well as his warrior escort, the half-elf Zala, and her ailing parent.
A genuine priest of Corij came forward. Although his long beard was gray, he was broad of shoulder and straight-backed.
“I am Almarden, high priest of Corij,” he said. “I will guide you to safety.”
Armed with a hooded lantern, Almarden led the way. The house of Corij was the largest temple in Caergoth. Parts of the complex predated the city itself. Through passages broad and narrow, straight and twisting, the priest never lost his way. The fitful light illuminated shadowy figures lining the passages. These weren’t enemies, but suits of armor belonging to famous, long-dead warriors. It was customary for a family to dedicate a dead warrior’s armor to the god of battle.
Fleetingly, Miya wondered whether Tol would have a suit of armor here someday, or an unmarked grave on the endless plains.
The high priest reached a bronze door and halted. Holding his lantern aloft, he whispered, “Outside is the Street of the Coopers. It runs straight down to the Dermount Gate.”
“Thanks to you, holy one,” Voyarunta said. “You are a true man, even if you are a grasslander!”
Behind the Dom-shu chief, naked blades gleamed. Determined not to be taken without a fight, the escapees had helped themselves to the weapons of the ancient heroes on display.
Almarden raised no objection, saying only, “May Corij and Mishas favor you. Good luck.”
Voyarunta and his warriors moved out first, and the rest of the escapees followed them into the dark street of the barrel-makers. Queen Casberry had shed her priestly garb somewhere along the way. She tossed the high priest a cheery, “Thanks!” as she departed.
Last in line were Miya, Zala, and Kaeph. The old man was moving on his own now. To Miya’s surprise, he and the priest of Corij embraced before parting. Zala, her short sword back in her hand, surveyed the street outside, then waved her father forward.
As Almarden gave Miya a saber, she asked, “Why do this, holy one? We were prisoners of your governor. Why help us escape?”
“The rulers of our land are not always just. When Queen Casberry came to me, my duty was clear. Corij will judge my actions, not Lord Wornoth.”
Almarden watched Kaeph and Zala move slowly away. “Besides, what man could refuse to save his own brother’s life?”
“Enough.”
Wornoth, seated in his governor’s chair, frowned. Despite the best efforts of two brawny guards, Helbin still refused to say why he was in Caergoth, or how he had entered the city.
“Why are you here?” he demanded yet again. “Who came with you?”
Helbin lifted his bloody face. One eye was beginning to swell shut, so he peered at his captor through the other.
“I came with the Queen of Hylo!” he said, and no one believed it.
One of the guards raised a meaty hand, but the governor waved him off.
“I have a death warrant for you, wizard, signed by the emperor himself. Tell me what I want to know, and your death will be quick and merciful.”
Helbin made as if to speak again, but a fit of coughing interrupted him. At Wornoth’s direction, the soldiers dragged the wizard to a sitting position.
