Alliances

Nalaryn wore a dagger given to him by the commander of the Qualinesti Rangers for his service to the Throne of the Sun. In a swift, smooth motion, he drew the dagger and drove its steel blade through the outstretched palm. The bandit shouted hoarsely and dropped to his knees. His comrades reached for their weapons but found themselves facing nineteen Kagonesti bows at full draw.

Nalaryn sheathed his knife after wiping the blade with two fingers and flicking the blood to the dusty soil. He started through the gate. The guards hesitated then fell back, unwilling to challenge twenty Kagonesti. Once Nalaryn passed through the opening, he stood aside and waited for the line of elves and prisoners to pass.

None of the injured man’s comrades came to his aid. They turned back to their duties, with a different bandit inspecting the next party waiting in line. Nalaryn fell in at the rear of his band. The human must have been using his position to line his own pockets, and not sharing with his comrades, else they probably would have been more willing to avenge him. He would be lucky if they didn’t cut his throat and rob him of the steel he’d already squeezed out of the day’s entries.

When Nalaryn was once more at the head of the line, Jeralund hailed him. “You played that well.”

“I’ve met his type before.”

“Human trash?”

Nalaryn shrugged. “I did not say so. It would be easier if all despicable folk were of one race, but they’re not.”

The crowds grew thicker as they drew near the main square. Aside from the obvious merchants and peddlers, there were many folk unencumbered by wares, dressed well, and discreetly armed with slender, courtly blades. They were called “buntings,” nicknamed for the colorful migratory birds. They had come to Qualinesti after the fall of the elves, bought (or stole) land, bribed the new masters to favor them in business, and exploited the poor with low wages and predatory lending. Most were humans from regions less damaged by the war, but there were a few dark elves among them. If anyone in Qualinesti was hated more than Captain Samuval, it was the richly bedecked buntings who had followed in his wake.

The progress of the Kagonesti and their human captives through Samustal did not go unnoticed. Windows above street level opened, and hard-looking men leaned out of them. They were Lord Olin’s men, still bare chested from having been roused from their beds. They followed the procession of armed elves with hostile eyes, but no one interfered with Nalaryn’s band.

The pens in the square were filled with unfortunates waiting to be sold. Each cage held as many as a dozen captives; slave drivers armed with whips and clubs stood ready to quell any resistance.

The air of excitement was thick. Jeralund stretched to see over the crowd, looking for the doomed female elf at the heart of it all. An especially tall figure draped in black he took to be the ogre executioner hired by Lord Olin. A ring of bandits, swords drawn, stood shoulder to shoulder around the central fountain. The wall of bandits prevented Jeralund from getting more than a fleeting glimpse of the chained prisoner.

Nalaryn was unnerved by the crowd, which was especially boisterous, come not only to buy and sell slaves, but to see the bloody execution. His party was drawing a great deal of attention. Many people pushed in to get a closer look at the unlikely spectacle of elves with human captives.

He finally reached the head of the line at the auction master’s table. “We have eight humans in prime condition,” he announced.

The auction master squinted, his one-eyed gaze raking over the curious sight before him. “Soldiers don’t usually sell well,” he said, shaking his head. “Tend to be troublemakers.”

“These aren’t professionals just hired blades. Someone could buy them for bodyguards.”

The auction master thought a moment then nodded and pulled out a parchment slip. His assistant spilled a blob of molten red wax on the bottom, and the master pressed a heavy brass seal into the wax. He wrote a three-digit number on the slip with a few quick scratches of a quill.

“This is your seller’s mark. When the lot sells, the buyer will get an identical sealed slip, with the same number. Don’t lose it. You can’t collect a copper without it.”

The Nerakans were turned over to the slave drivers. As they were herded to the pens, they protested, insisting they were free men, soldiers of the Dark Order. Their complaints were ignored. Most of the slave drivers were goblins, indifferent to the most pathetic appeals for help. With cracking whips, they herded the Nerakans into a cage and secured the heavy wooden door with a brass lock the size of a smoked ham.

Thinking their last chance to break away had passed, the terrified soldiers fell on Jeralund, cursing him for his poor leadership. That earned them a dousing from buckets of filthy water thrown by the slave drivers outside.

“No fighting in the cage! Next one who throws a punch gets branded!”