Alliances

A pall of smoke hung over the center of town. Gossip was divided as to who was responsible for the town’s torching: bandits or elf rebels. The old core of the city, which Lord Olin had surrounded with a stockade, was a smoldering ruin. With night fast approaching, traffic was hurrying to the town’s south side, where Lord Gathan had erected a palisade around an earthen mound. Breetan headed for that.

There was no gate, just a baffle of timbers to guard the single entrance. The palisade had been erected in obvious haste. The timbers still carried their bark and hadn’t been squared; gaps existed between nearly every one and its neighbors. Some of the gaps were wide enough to admit longbow arrows. Breetan saw no guard towers, just a few open platforms atop the wall. She shook her head. Grayden was garrisoning a deathtrap.

Three foot soldiers barred her way at the baffle. “Who’re you?” growled one.

“A traveler in search of a meal and a bed.”

He laughed harshly. “This isn’t Palanthas. They’re sleeping on mud in there!”

“Mud protected by a wall,” she said mildly.

He stood aside, and she rode through. The enclosed space within the log wall was only two hundred yards across. In the tight confines, tents and shanties had been thrown up in complete confusion, leaving no clear lanes for defenders to reach the wall if there were a general attack. Breetan was disgusted anew. One determined assault and the place would fall like a rotten apple in an autumn breeze.

Ahead, a long tent bore a hand-painted sign proclaiming that Wine, Meat, and Bread (the last two misspelled) could be had within. She dismounted and tied her animal to the picket line. Crossbow in hand, she ducked under the low canvas roof.

Along the far wall was a bar comprising planks laid atop barrels. A muscular man, his head completely shaved, was pouring drinks with both hands. His apron was shockingly white amid the general squalor.

“Step up and state your pleasure!” he boomed.

She called for wine and-after a brief discussion with the proprietor-beef, bread, and whatever came with it. He bellowed the order toward a flap in the back of the tent. She glimpsed flames and saw a large calf turning on a spit.

The wine was a surprisingly good vintage, a Coastlund red. Before her first cup was gone, a trencher of food was placed before her. A generous slab of beef, still red in the center, was surrounded by boiled potatoes, onions, and carrots. Half a round loaf of bread lay atop the meat.

“No food shortage here,” she remarked.

He laughed. “Not for them that can pay!”

She ate standing at the bar, for there were no chairs in the place. At the waist-high tables scattered throughout the room, various folk worked the crowd of bandits and refugees, offering gambling, soothsaying, and love for hire. A few feet down the bar, a blind man played a flute for alms. His cap contained a great many broken seashells and very few coins.

While she ate, Breetan questioned the bartender. He’d been there less than a week and considered ruined Samustal a “ripe opportunity.” He certainly looked able to take care of himself. Replace his wine urn with a sword, and he’d make a formidable fighter.

He wasn’t stupid, either. Eyeing her as he refilled her cup, he asked, “Looking for rebels, Lady?”

“I’m having a look around,” she replied carefully.

“The Knights might need to come in, if Samuval can’t restore order. Roads are so clogged with fools hightailing it out of the area, he can’t get his men where they’re needed. I reckon he’ll lose the province by autumn.”

Breetan swallowed a bite of rare beef. “Are these rebels really so dangerous?”

“They’re fighting for their homeland. Makes them dangerous enough.”

He was called to the far end of the bar to fill tankards. When he returned, Breetan laid several steel pieces on the bar, making sure her trencher concealed them from the room at large.

“I can see you’re a man of wit. Are you also a man of discretion?” she asked. He put his rag over the steel and smoothly drew the coins off the bar. That was answer enough. “What do you hear about the leader of the revolt?”

For the first time, he lost his jovial, assured air and dropped his gaze. He pretended to mop the plank around Breetan’s trencher with his rag. She kept quiet, allowing him to think it over, and he finally answered.

“He’s a wizard, they say. An elf wizard. And he always wears a mask!”

Breetan covered her excitement by chewing and swallowing another bite of food. Striving to keep a casual tone, she asked, “Any word where he is now?”

He looked uncomfortable and edged away slightly. She put more steel under his rag. He took it as before.

“Lord Gathan is said to be pursuing a band of elves led by the masked rebel. Talk is, they’re fleeing to the Lake of Death.”

That was a strange place for elves to hide. If she could confirm that lead, she would go to the Lake of Death, regardless of the danger.