Alliances

Jeralund was halfway to the fountain when he noticed the Scarecrow, standing alone and unmolested in the midst of the shrieking riot. The mysterious elf leader had shed his slaver guise, except for the hat pulled low on his forehead. People ran screaming all around him, some shouting for mercy, others for blood, but he stood silent and solid, like a tree amid a herd of stampeding cattle. Jeralund guided his horse toward the robed figure.

“Quite a storm you’ve raised,” the sergeant called out.

The mask framed burning eyes. “It is only the first of many to come.”

The tiny island of calm around them abruptly vanished. A swarm of people rushed eastward, away from the rampaging slaves. A tide of traders trying to get out of the way of Lord Olin’s enraged troops. They crashed together where the Scarecrow stood. It seemed inevitable he would be trampled to death. He disappeared beneath the crush. Jeralund lashed out with controlled fury, keeping the terrified people from toppling his horse. The mob parted for him, and the Scarecrow was gone.

Jeralund looked to the desperate fight at the fountain. Even as he watched, Nalaryn sustained a stunning blow to the back. The female elf prisoner, wielding nothing more than a knife, leaped forward and drove back his attacker, giving the Kagonesti chief time to struggle to his feet. Three more bandits bore down on them. She faced them, a broad grin on her dirty face.

“Pestilence!”Jeralund cursed, and drove his heels into his mount’s flanks.

The Lioness saw the rider coming. She shifted the knife in her hand, ready to throw it. Nalaryn caught her wrist.

“No, wait!”

She stared at him as if he were mad, and the arriving horse bowled over three of Olin’s men before skidding to a stop by the fountain.

“Need help, forester?” the rider bellowed.

“Every soul needs help sometime,” said Nalaryn.

The human slid off the horse’s right side. The two elves mounted from the left, and the Lioness took the reins.

Touching the sword hilt to his chin in mocking salute, the human said, “Good luck, forester! You and the Scarecrow will need it!” He jumped aside and melted into the surging press. They saw him no more.

Kerian urged the horse into a canter. Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t give way were knocked down as she made straight for the western gate. The stockade was undoubtedly locked up tight, but they stood a good chance of escaping under cover of the terrific confusion. Kerian’s hand ached for a sword. She felt naked without one—worse than naked. Modesty she could live without, but a sword was an absolute necessity.

Outside the square, the mob was reduced to random folk running away and bandit patrols trying to catch slaves and restore order. Kerian and Nalaryn galloped by a company of twenty mercenaries who failed to recognize the Lioness as an escaping prisoner. Eventually the Kagonesti arrived at the approaches to the west gate. To their surprise, the timber portal was open.

They rode up slowly, wary of a trap. Dead bandits littered the street. The guards seemed to have been overwhelmed.

Nalaryn told her to stop. He dismounted and helped himself to a spear lying next to a slain guard. He retrieved a sword and handed it up to her.

Kerian turned the horse’s head back to the gate. A single figure stood in the opening, silhouetted against the sun-drenched meadow beyond. Kerian rode forward slowly, the sword’s wire-wrapped pommel heavy in her hand. Like the weapon, she felt hard and dangerous. The scum in this town owed her a great deal for the mistreatment she’d suffered and the deaths they’d caused.

Nalaryn, walking alongside her horse, raised the spear over his head and called, “Great Lord!”

The silhouetted figure waved in response. Kerian cursed silently. All set to have at somebody, instead she’d come upon her savior.

He gestured for her to stop. “Turn around,” he said. “We’re not done yet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Freeing you was only part of this day’s work. The balance will be done when we liberate Bianost.”

Gods protect us, he’s mad, Kerian thought. She said, “Worthy goals, stranger. Exactly how do you plan to liberate the town? The garrison must number several thousand.”

“Two thousand, by my estimate.”

“Only two thousand! That makes it easy, then!”

“You have performed greater feats of arms than this, Kerianseray. “And you forget,” the stranger added, “we aren’t facing disciplined troops. If we storm the mayor’s palace and slay Olin, the common bandits will flee.”

She glanced at Nalaryn. He obviously was prepared to do whatever his Great Lord desired. She asked how many troops they had. Twenty, Nalaryn said, if all yet survived.

Her laugh was short and harsh. Twenty! Against Olin’s household guard? “Even if we can do it, what’s the point, here in the heart of occupied Qualinesti? Samuval will send an army to retake the town, and his revenge will be ferocious!”