Dulnear grabbed a bottle of whisky from behind the bar and took a sip. “I am afraid that this rubbish cannot help us, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps we should tend to his wounds.” He then began pouring the drink onto the open wounds on Tcharron’s face and neck.
“Yeargh!” the slaver shouted before releasing a string of expletives that were so foul that some of the words were actually unknown to Son.
Unmoved by the man’s pain, Faymia continued to hold her blade to his neck. “Think hard, wastrel. This is not what we wanted. You have brought this on yourself. Where is she?”
“I’m going to put a bounty on your worthless hides for this!” Tcharron threatened. “The three of you are as good as dead! Just wait until—”
Interrupting the tirade, the man from the north continued to pour the whisky onto the slaver, eliciting a fresh release of curses. “That is not the information we are seeking. However, I take comfort in the fact that you have an ample supply of drink here to pour out.” He then nodded toward Faymia, adding, “Perhaps we need to go deeper.”
The woman returned a knowing look and plunged her sword into the flesh along Tcharron’s underarm, provoking a howl louder than any previously released. “Now,” she said coolly. “Don’t make us waste the rest of the bottle. Just tell us what we need to know.”
Son could feel sweat running down his spine as he stood there. The heaviness he felt from allowing Maren to go off with slavers returned in greater measure as he watched a man tortured because of his own lack of diligence. He watched Dulnear dangle the whisky bottle over Tcharron’s fresh wound and wanted to close his eyes. He was just about to turn away when the slaver shouted something.
“Ocmallum!” the man cried.
“What did you say?” Dulnear boomed.
“Ocmallum,” Tcharron repeated. “He would know where she is. Or at least how to find Sevuss.”
“Who is this person?” the man from the north persisted.
“He’s the most powerful slaver in Aun,” the man seethed through curled lips. “No slave movement happens here without his notice.”
“Where is he?” Faymia grilled.
Tcharron glowered at the woman. “You think you’re so mighty with your sword and your northern friend. You’ll always be a slave, no matter how you’re dressed.”
Interrupting the man’s ugly speech, Dulnear began to empty the whisky bottle into the deep, fresh wound beneath his shoulder. “That is not the information we seek,” he added with gravel in his voice.
“South!” the slaver shouted with a shrill wail. “Near the village of Dorcadas. You would do much better to forget about the girl though. You will not speak to Ocmallum and live.” The corner of his mouth then twisted into a sadistic grin as he caught his breath and he added, “On second thought, go. Please go. I look forward to hearing how he tortures you and ends your pathetic lives.”
The man from the north flicked the bottle at Tcharron’s bruised head, knocking him out cold. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he added. Then, turning his attention toward Faymia and Son, he continued, “We must make our way toward Dorcadas with great haste. If we do not find Maren before a buyer employs her, she may be lost forever.”
As the three of them left the pub and untied their horses, Son wondered if they would actually be able to bring his young friend home. “Do you know Dorcadas?” he asked Dulnear.
“I know of it,” the warrior answered. “It has a reputation for being a dark place. It is not the type of village where one goes for a holiday.”
Faymia mounted her horse. A look of concern began to manifest in her eyes. “I’ve heard mention of it before. When I was enslaved here, Tcharron would take trips to Dorcadas. I never knew why until now.” She swallowed and added, “Even the name is gloomy and bleak.”
A chill fell over Son as he mounted the horse behind Faymia. He knew that the only way out of this storm was through it, but he wasn’t prepared for the journey. Thinking about the situation, he asked, “How will we find Ocmallum once we reach the town?”
“A man like that is proud of his wealth and power. He will not be difficult to find,” Dulnear answered.
“Let’s hope Tcharron isn’t able to warn him before we arrive,” Faymia added.
The man from the north stopped himself from swinging his leg over the back of his horse and stood firm on the ground.
“What is it?” his wife asked.
“You have brought up an excellent point, my bride,” he said. “Please wait here a moment while I go back inside.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tie up loose ends,” the man said, and moved with a jog back into the tavern.
Son shivered at the thought of what Dulnear was likely doing inside the tavern. He was well aware of the man’s poorly tamed violent streak, and the sound of thrashing about and mutterings of misery did little to set the boy at ease. He flinched when the door flung open and the northerner stood with the limp body of Tcharron over his shoulder. His voice trembled as he asked, “What did you do?”
“I thought we could use this piece of swill as a guide to find Ocmallum,” the northerner answered. “He may also be useful as a bargaining chip to get the information we need.”
“So, he’s alive?” the boy asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Dulnear answered as he bound the man’s hands and feet and flung him over the back of his horse. “For now.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Cost of Pie
“Pssst, Maren. Wake up. Maren!” Micah urged from outside the cage.
The young girl now had her own pen, and many more cages were added to their camp. Some were stacked on top of others, with makeshift ladders leading to their openings. The people came and went from the enclosures as they pleased, but they were not allowed to leave the
