“Raise the portcullis,” the slaver instructed. “It is Tcharron of Teiparmhain here to see Ocmallum.”
“What business do you have?” the guard asked.
“I wish to speak to him about the festivals,” the man explained. “Just tell him that I’m here. He’ll be glad to see me,” he declared with his usual cockiness.
Just then, a voice boomed out from the northwest turret, “Tcharron! What an unexpected surprise!”
Faymia could see that the turret had an open window and a long-haired, yet well-groomed, man leaned out of it. “That is the horrible dung of a man,” she heard Dulnear whisper in her ear.
“Ocmallum!” Tcharron called with a great smile on his face.
“What brings you all the way to Dorcadas?” the slaver king asked. “Do you need to borrow some money?” he added with a deep-throated laugh.
Tcharron’s expression changed at the man’s jest and he took a small step back. “No, sir,” he said. “I was just nearby and wanted to share some new ideas that I had to procure our product at a lower cost.”
Faymia’s stomach began to turn. She believed she had made a grievous error and all that she could do now was watch it play out, and pray.
“Then why do you look like you were robbed on the way to my estate?” the old man asked.
Tcharron looked away for a moment, then back up toward the man in the turret. “You’re very observant, old friend,” he began. “I was ambushed by bandits outside of town. They took everything. They beat me, took my silver, and rode off in my carriage.”
“We should go now,” the man from the north said quietly.
“No, wait just a moment,” the woman pleaded.
“Why didn’t you just say so?” Ocmallum asked from the window.
“Well, you know how I like to keep up appearances,” Tcharron answered. “I couldn’t show up here asking for a few coins to get home.”
“Don’t be absurd!” the man shouted. “You’re my top associate. I’ll send a servant down to help you get cleaned up.”
“Thank you, sir!” Tcharron shouted back with a smile.
“Oh, just one thing,” Ocmallum said, gesturing.
“What is that?”
“Why didn’t I see you on the road?”
Tcharron swallowed and asked, “What do you mean?”
“It’s just that I didn’t see you coming down the road. You seemed to just appear at my gate.”
Tcharron looked back toward the woods from which he came, and at the path that led to the gate. “I—” he began to say when an arrow pierced his chest, and then another, and another, until he fell to his knees. He looked up at the gate guard who was drawing another arrow. He then fell sideways, motionless.
Faymia crouched, paralyzed. She was so focused on remaining silent that she hardly noticed Dulnear scoop her up and run through the forest with his shoulder down and sword drawn. The world was spinning, and it felt as if Maren was lost forever.
Maren walked away from Redbramble, smiling. She enjoyed the company of Treyvin and whispered some of the humorous things he had said, laughing an airy, quiet laugh as she recalled him saying them.
She walked along the right side of the road because she knew that the path to the slaver camp was there. She remembered it being well concealed, and had to take regular breaks from entertaining herself to scan the brush for an opening. It was already growing late, though, and the gray, cheerless sky was getting darker.
“Be free!” she said in a dramatic yet hushed voice. “I’ve come to get you out of here!”
Maren imagined approaching the slaver camp with such authority that all of the slavers trembled in dismay and released the slaves out of fear for her terrible retribution. As she stomped along in the ever-increasing darkness, she felt her right foot fall into a shallow rut and she tripped and fell to the ground.
Starting to get back to her feet, she realized that the rut led away from the road and that it must have been the path to the slaver camp. She stood up, peered into the woods, and could see flickering light from a fire in the distance. “This is it!” she said to herself, and curled her upper lip in defiance.
Maren silently made her way down the winding path toward the camp. With each step, she did her best to quiet her breathing and find an approach that would keep her hidden. Drawing closer, she could see that there were fewer slaves than before. Some looked to be bustling about, cleaning up after a meal. Others seemed to be reclining in their cages. Peeking in closer, she noticed a young boy roaming about with a pastry.
“Micah,” she said to herself, and crept out into the clearing to speak to him.
Kneeling just behind one of the cages that encircled the camp, she waited for him to walk by. The fire burned high, illuminating the clearing, and she feared that she would be discovered before catching his attention.
Finally, as he happened to walk by, the girl whispered, “Psssst. Micah.”
The boy looked around with a confused look on his face before taking a bite of his pastry.
“Micah,” she said again, just a little louder.
“Who’s there?” the boy asked with a muffled croak.
Maren stood up straight and sidestepped from behind the cage. “It’s me, Maren,” she announced quietly.
“Maren?” the boy said, dropping his dessert. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to get you out,” she declared, gesturing for him to come to her.
Micah ran closer, cocked his fist back, and punched the young girl in the nose, causing her to stumble backwards as blood began to flow. While she was still stunned, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her around to the front of the pen, throwing her in, slamming the door, and barring it shut. “You are terribly foolish!” he crowed. “I can’t believe you came here.”
The world spun
