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  At the far end of the courtyard, a hundred yards away, a very small white target was tacked to a pile of sandbags. The target was stark against the black wall.

  Waymark lowered the front of the bow to the ground. He pressed a button and a plate opened. Breetan had been mistaken about the method of loading the weapon. The bolt was not loaded butt first into the front of the stock, but point first into the hidden opening. Waymark inserted three short bolts, then closed the hinged butt plate. Rather than a single shot, he would have three before needing to reload.

  He cocked the bow by means of an iron lever, inlaid in the bottom front of the stock. The buried bowstring bent the steel limbs of the bow and locked over the trigger nut with an audible snap. With no more sound than the soft snap of the waxed bowstring over the trigger nut, the crossbow spat its black missile at the distant target.

  Waymark handed the bow to Breetan and retrieved the target. The disk of paper was no wider than her palm, but the bolt’s keen point had neatly pierced its center.

  Lord Liveskill, who had been watching Breetan rather than the demonstration, said, “You try.”

  After cocking the bow, Breetan put the weapon to her shoulder. The dark tunnel of the sighting tube made the fresh white target stand out like a beacon. Her bolt hit low on the target, tearing the sandbags. Not bad for a first shot with an unfamiliar weapon.

  Liveskill sent the craftsmen away. When they were gone, he told Breetan the crossbow was hers. She knew there was more to come. The master of the Black Hall did not bestow gifts.

  “Go to the Southward, find the masked leader of the elves, and kill him,” he said with uncharacteristic bluntness. “In the arsenal is a leather-bound case. It contains various bolts for the weapon. Each has a special use.”

  The kind she and Waymark had used was called a whisper bolt, which flew silently over its effective range of two hundred yards. There were also lightning bolts that could penetrate an inch of steel armor plate at a hundred yards. Fire bolts were loaded with an incendiary paste that ignited three seconds after being loosed. Dragon tooth bolts had gilded heads coated with poison.

  “Use the dragon tooth bolts only when you have the rebel in sight. A scratch will cause certain death in a day. A deeper wound, and the victim may last an hour. Bury the bolt in his flesh, and he will be dead before his head hits the ground. You leave today.”

  “And my support?”

  “None. Hire what porters or guides you need. Kill them when you’re done with them. Understand?”

  She did. Left unsaid but understood by both of them was that Breetan must succeed or die.

  He departed, leaving Breetan alone in the vast courtyard. Wind swirled hair in her face. She’d been given a second chance. She would not fail. Her honor as an Everride was at stake, as much as her life.

  Neither especially gifted as a fighter nor valiant in the accepted knightly sense, Breetan had long ago realized she would never come close to matching her famous father’s deeds. She was determined to make her own mark, so she had chosen another path, away from battlefield glory. Lord Burnond had disapproved of his only daughter’s decision to join Liveskill’s order. Long retired to his estate near Lemish, he lived like any successful elder warlord, chasing bandits, banqueting on the anniversaries of his victories, hunting, and training men-at-arms. Concealed daggers and poisoned cups might sometimes be necessary, he said, but a true warrior did not seek them out. He likened the Black Hall to a tombstone, and branded it no fit home for honor. Breetan had braved his censure and taken her own path. If it lay in the shadow of a tombstone, so be it.

  Beneath the lightening sky, she shouldered the new crossbow and put the third and last whisper bolt into the exact center of the target.

  6

  The journey to Samustal passed largely in silence. Naturally taciturn, the Kagonesti communicated among themselves with gestures and facial expressions. The captive Nerakans had little to say, and little breath left with which to say it. The elf in charge kept them moving, allowing only brief stops for food, water, or rest.

  Among themselves the humans dubbed their masked captor the Scarecrow for his ragged appearance. It was obvious from his speech and manner he was an elf, and the men wondered why he kept himself so thoroughly covered. Near their destination, as they crossed a steeply banked creek, Sergeant Jeralund caught a glimpse of the elf beneath the rags.

  In ages past, the Speaker of the Sun had maintained a forest patrol to inspect the bridges, roads, and tunnels in his realm and keep them in good repair. That necessary service had been neglected by the invaders who infested Qualinesti. As Jeralund, last in the line of prisoners, neared the end of the bridge over Claymore Creek, he felt the planks drop away from his feet. He cried out, expecting to be dashed to pieces on the boulders eighty feet below. Instead he was jerked to a halt, booted feet dangling in midair.

  Gasping, he looked up. With one hand, the Scarecrow had clutched the vine connecting Jeralund’s bound wrists to those of the man ahead. His other hand was clamped on the arm of the prisoner in front of Jeralund.

  “Pull!” he commanded, teeth clenched with the effort of bearing the human’s full weight.

  The captives and Kagonesti fell to, hauling Jeralund up. The sergeant scrambled onto the bridge and crouched on hands and knees, breathing heavily and shaking with relief.

  He looked up, eying the ragged figure standing over him. “You’re stronger than you look.”

  Jeralund halted abruptly. The Scarecrow’s robe had split across his stomach. The ragged gap revealed not pale skin or visible ribs, but vivid red flesh, bisected by angry scars.

  The glimpse lasted only a moment. The Kagonesti jerked Jeralund to his feet, and the line of captives moved on. In the interim, the Scarecrow disappeared into the trees, leaving Jeralund to ponder the significance of what he had seen.

  Their masked captor had been burned very badly. His flesh looked like the skin of a Karthay beach lizard. If the rest of him was anything like that, it was no wonder he covered himself from fingers to toes. As a soldier, Jeralund had known many disfigured men. The back streets of any garrison town were littered with men missing hands, feet, limbs, eyes. Such was to be expected among those who made their trade from fighting. The worst cases ended their days as beggars. But those were humans, not elves. Disfigured elves were a rarity for one simple reason: they usually took their own lives. Jeralund had known a Qualinesti officer who lost an arm in the battle that preceded the fall of the Dragon Overlord Beryl. The fellow had thrown himself from a high tower as soon as he had sufficient strength for the task. Obsessed with beauty and purity, elves could not bear disfigurement. Only the Kagonesti were different. With their body paint, tattoos, and ritual scarring, they seemed to revel in a tortured appearance.

  The Scarecrow was city bred, Jeralund was certain of that, but there he was, dreadfully scarred and still alive. For a human, such an existence would be painful; for an elf, it was unthinkable. As he trudged along with his fellows, Jeralund wondered why the elf hadn’t taken his own life.

  Concealed behind an oak tree, Porthios felt as if his body had hardened into stone. He had thought himself beyond any sensation of shame, but when the barbarian looked upon his scarred flesh, he knew he’d been wrong. Humiliation surged through his veins like fresh fire. Strong as the raging river that had drowned Qualinost, it filled his throat with bile.

  “Great Lord?” Nalaryn called out, unable to see his leader. “Great Lord, the band has moved on.”

  Porthios replied loudly, “Go. I will rejoin you.”

  The faithful Kagonesti departed. When Porthios was alone, he seated himself on a rock and took a small sewing kit from a pocket in his robe. Born to rule Qualinesti, he was no tailor, but of late he’d had a lot of practice sewing. His stitches were uneven but tight and strong. In minutes his shame was covered once more.

  Night had fallen by the time they beheld Samustal. The dark seemed to hang all the heavier over the squalid town. An overcast sky
pressed the smoky air down like a damp, choking mantle.

  Porthios ordered Nalaryn to make camp at a nearby stream. He would enter the town alone to penetrate its defenses and find out what he could about any elves being held there. Unarmed as he was, he probably could have used the main gate with no more hindrance than a bribe to the guards, but that would mean submitting to a search—an intolerable notion—so he chose a stealthier course.

  He circled away from the gate, moving carefully over the open killing ground beneath the walls while watching the parapet above. Lord Olin had built the stockade quickly. His men hadn’t bothered leveling the ground first, so some places were closer to the top of the wall than others. Porthios found a spot where the sharpened points of the stockade were only eight feet above the ground. He backed until he came up against a line of bark-covered lean-tos then ran at the stockade wall. He leaped and jammed his right foot onto the scant toehold offered by the stump of a branch sawed off the side of one of the stockade palings.

  His muscles screamed, and his lips drew back in a grimace of pain. The hand-to-mouth existence in the woodlands and the ravages of his wounds had left him weakened. Tight, scarred skin pulled over his emaciated frame as he levered himself upward.

  The pain was unbelievable, but just as fierce was Porthios’s will. He flung his left hand at the wall of logs. His nails bit into the wood through his gloves. With his right hand, he reached higher, finding a chink between two timbers. When at last he grasped the rough-sawn peak of the stockade, he felt a warm wetness soaking through his gloves. His hands left dark stains on the wood. Still he moved with deliberate care, making certain no one had observed him. He finally dropped onto the battlement and lay still. He trembled all over and his gloves were stiff with drying blood, but he was inside.

  This was the secret of Porthios’s new life: dogged indifference to any level of pain and the willingness to go where others dared not. He’d lived long enough with his disfigurement to have given up luxuries such as fear or worry. What had he to fear? His own body was a horror worse than death.

  The only sentinel in sight was a human seated in a plank sentry box twenty paces along the wall. A dented pot helmet rested over his eyes, and he snored with great dedication. At his feet a clay jug lay on its side. The sentry wasn’t going to awaken any time soon.

  Porthios sidled up to the sentry box. Pulling the torch from its bracket, he dropped it to the hard-packed ground outside the stockade. It went out. Keeping clear of the snoring sentinel, he squatted in the narrow sentry box and carefully peeled the bloody gloves from his hands. He rinsed his gloves in the filthy water of the guard’s fire bucket. Lifting the discarded clay jug, he heard liquid sloshing within. He poured it over his hands. Unfortunately it wasn’t wine, but brandy, and it burned like vitriol on his insulted hands. Violent words bubbled in his throat, but he choked them down as he shook his stinging hands to dry them. Ablutions done, he tucked the damp gloves into his sash and slipped out of the sentry box. He descended the ladder to the ground.

  By night Samustal was busy. The clang of smiths’ hammers striking anvils mixed with incoherent shouts of revelry and the sound of glass shattering. Dogs barked and donkeys brayed. Porthios hoped he wouldn’t encounter any animals. Human senses were feeble compared to those of elves, so wily raiders such as Samuval and his lieutenants kept packs of fierce hounds with them in Qualinesti. Dogs could see or scent elves where a human never would.

  The elaborate arbors of Bianost had been hacked down and its famous gardens turned into pasturage for war-horses. Free fountains, found in every square of a Qualinesti town, were broken, and the basins were filled with garbage. Over everything hung the same ugly stench he had detected while still in the woods outside of town.

  Evidence of looting and violence was everywhere. No glass remained in the street-level windows of any house, and the openings were boarded over. If any of the original inhabitants remained, they didn’t dare show any sign of life to the marauding brigands outside. Some houses had been burned out, leaving only blackened shells, like the gaping mouth of a corpse. The smell of fire still clung to the ruins. Every gutter was clogged with broken stones, burned timbers, smashed crockery, and innumerable rats, living and dead.

  Fortunately one landmark remained: the town hall tower. Porthios had learned the slave market was held in the town’s central square. The town hall 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!

&nb
sp; 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 pavers. 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.

  She had been abused, though not so thoroughly as Kasanth. One eye was ringed with a black bruise. Cuts and older bruises decorated her face, neck, and arms. Her hair was filthy, and stood up in stiff spikes all over her head.

  He thought her asleep, but suddenly she sprang at him, only to be jerked up short by her heavy fetters.