Alliances

Fortunately one landmark remained: the town hall tower. Porthios had learned the slave market was held in the town’s central square. The town hail fronted the square. Using the tower as a landmark, and keeping to the darkest alleys and side streets, he worked his way toward the square.

A bonfire blazing in the middle of the intersection of two broad streets halted him. Illuminated by it was a quartet of armed bandits talking in loud voices.

“Goin’ to the execution?” asked one.

“Can’t,” replied a second. “Got guard duty at the gate.”

“Too bad. Should be something to see.”

“Ah, it’s not like she’s a real woman, just an elf one.”

Porthios stiffened.

“Should be a sight to see, though. Lord Olin ordered her flayed alive. He brought an ogre all the way from Broken to do the job proper!”

Harsh laughter sounded, and the third bandit said, “Olin knows how to send a message! She helped a dozen slaves escape the holding cage, and was riding off on Lord Olin’s own horse when they caught her!”

More laughter erupted. Ugly remarks were exchanged, ignorant speculation about the anatomy of elves compared to that of humans. Porthios felt his initial anger swell to cold fury.

The first bandit gestured at a dark heap lying on the ground several yards away, just beyond the fire’s glow.

“How’s he doing?”

One of his comrades went and prodded the heap with a booted foot, Porthios realized the shapeless pile of rags was a person, lying facedown on the pavement.

The bandit returned, reporting, “Out cold, but still breathing.”

They debated whether they should rouse their captive. Evidently the four had been questioning him rather vigorously and the poor wretch had passed out, unable to bear his suffering.

Porthios circled around the bonfire, keeping to the deep shadows. When he reached the prone figure, he knelt and rolled the fellow over.

The unfortunate captive was an elf of considerable age. He’d been badly beaten. Porthios lifted the lid of one eye to see if he still lived.

The blue iris fixed on him, eye going wide in fear. “Peace. I will not hurt you,” Porthios whispered.

“Do not give me away,” the elf gasped, speaking Qualinesti as Porthios had. “I need this respite.”

“Who are you?”

“Kasanth, once councilor to the lord mayor.”

“Why do they torture you?”

“They seek the treasury.” Kasanth swallowed with difficulty. “It was hidden before they came.”

“Why not tell them what they want to know?” A town’s treasury couldn’t be worth so much suffering.

The aged elf’s eyes gleamed with pride. “The Speaker himself charged me with its protection.”

For a moment Porthios thought the poor fellow meant him, but of course Kasanth was referring to Gilthas. He admired the old councilor, enduring such agony for the sake of honor, but that it should be done on behalf of Gilthas disgusted Porthios. Gilthas might be the son of Porthios’s sister, but that could not erase the taint he carried, the human ancestry of his father, Tanis Half-Elven.

In the seconds it took for those thoughts to pass through Porthios’s mind, Kasanth’s expression altered, and he seized Porthios’s arm. With a surprising burst of strength, he pulled himself up until they were eye to eye.

“My lord! Is it you? You’ve returned!” he gasped, joy suffusing his bloodied face. “The treasure is in the sky!”

Porthios shushed him, but the damage had been done. As the old fellow collapsed, dead, the bandits turned to spot the intruder. They yelled at him, but he melted into the shadows, easily eluding their clumsy pursuit.

My lord! You’ve returned!

Had the old elf recognized Porthios, even through the mask? Or was it a last delusion? The dying sometimes were granted more than mortal vision. Either way, Kasanth’s murder was added to the many outrages Porthios had witnessed in the town. Very soon there would be a reckoning.

It was nearly midnight when he reached the town square. Wooden cages ringed the plaza, holding pens for slaves waiting their turn on the block. The pens were empty. The auction block itself was a wooden platform on the east end of the square, facing the lord mayor’s residence. Twenty feet long and ten feet wide, the stout platform held five equally stout posts spaced along its length. From each post hung thick iron manacles.

In the center of the square was a public fountain, a marble obelisk from which (in better times) four streams of water flowed. Only one still worked. The fountain basin, carved by dwarf masons from a single block of soapstone, was cracked in three places. Moss grew on the payers. A prisoner Porthios saw, was chained to the obelisk.

Was the prisoner the rebellious female, awaiting her terrible execution?

Porthios studied the scene a long time before leaving the shelter of the slave pens and approaching the fountain. Few people were about. None paid the tattered figure any heed. He halted by the seated prisoner’s feet.