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  After knocking out an especially persistent bandit, Kerian tossed a quick thank you to Nalaryn. “This is a much better death than I expected to have today, brother,” she panted.

  Nalaryn swung his maul, catching a bandit under the chin and sending him flying. “The Great Lord will come,” he said. “Have faith!”

  Kerian almost laughed. Faith? He sounded like Gilthas.

  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 and buntings blundered west, 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!”

  The stranger came forward until he stood by her horse’s nose. He patted the animal then tilted his head to look up at her. She frowned at the mask he wore, wondering what this odd creature was playing at. His accent told her he was Qualinesti, although it was possible that could be faked.

  “All fires begin with a single spark,” he said. “Besides, a rebellion must have steel as well as arms, and there’s a treasure hidden in this town. Olin hasn’t been able to find it. I can.”

  “What kind of treasure?”

  He didn’t answer but looked beyond her as new shouting welled from the center of town. The swell of noise rolled over them like a great wave. The riot in the slave market was spreading. If the town rose up, the bandits were doomed. Many in Samustal hated Lord Olin’s rule.

  “The town may be sacked before Samuval comes, Great Lord. If there is treasure, we’d better act swiftly,” Nalaryn said. He went to stand at his leader’s right shoulder. They waited in silence for Kerian’s answer. It wasn’t long in coming.

  “I’ll fight for you on two conditions.” Her chin lifted. “I command your army, such as it is. I answer only to you.”

  Nalaryn raised an eyebrow but made no objection. The masked elf nodded solemnly.

  “Second,” Kerian said, “I must know your identity. If I’m to follow you and believe in your cause, I have to know who you are. After all, this could be some strange Nerakan plot to undermine resistance in Qualinesti.”

  For a long moment, he stood motionless, pondering, then spoke quietly to Nalaryn. The Kagonesti chief moved away to the gate and turned his back. When he was gone, the masked elf came to stand only inches from her horse’s side.

  Very softly he said, “On the scaffold, you revealed yourself to me, so I will do the same. But believe me when I tell you that if you betray this confidence to anyone, you will die.”

  Threats did not usually impress her, but something in his voice, and in the eyes that bored into her own, told her he was in deadly earnest. She nodded once. She would keep the secret of his identity.

  He put a finger below the bottom edge of his mask. A heartbeat passed, and another, then he lifted the cloth up to his forehead.

  Kerianseray, battle-hardened Lioness of legend, recoiled in horror. The mask came back down.

  “I was once Porthios, Speaker of the Sun,” he said. “Now my fate is yours, and yours is mine.”

  7

  Fighting raged in the streets of Samustal all day and into the night. The small band of elves moved through the town, striking anywhere the bandits managed to rally. Despite the intense fighting, not a single Kagonesti was injured. Kerian received a fe
w cuts and bruises—nothing compared to what she’d already been through—and Porthios, unarmed and unafraid, did not get a scratch. He walked through furious skirmishes like a shadow, seemingly impervious to harm.

  Despite the elves’ spectacular showing, the victory really belonged to the oppressed people of Bianost, who rose up when trouble erupted. Armed with sticks, tools, whatever came to hand, they threw themselves on their oppressors. Weapons weighed down by the bodies of courageous attackers, the bandits were overcome as waves of angry townsfolk flooded over them.

  The cost to the elves was terrible, but they took on Olin’s mercenary legion and destroyed it. The last bandits abandoned the town before dawn, piling into carts or riding any four-legged animal they could steal. As they fled, they were pelted with rotten fruit, stones, and the jeers of the townsfolk.

  Porthios, the Lioness, and the Kagonesti band went to the mayor’s palace. The bulk of Olin’s troops were gone, slain in the rioting. His personal guard still stood watch at the mayor’s residence, but they had abandoned the outer porticos to cluster together by the main door, trapped by the riot. Porthios led his band directly to the palace’s front steps. The elves marched in close order, wearing mantles and helmets taken from fallen bandits. Arrows found vital organs, mauls cracked skulls, and the guards fell. Then the way was clear.

  The Lioness dueled with a bandit officer until a helpful archer put an arrow through his throat. Porthios stood apart, watching her wade through the fracas.

  When she rejoined him, bloody and panting, Porthios remarked, “You’re not the fighter I expected, though you have the reputation of being quite a slayer.”

  “I wasn’t born in a palace. I never had fencing lessons,” she retorted, sheathing her captured blade. “I have killed many enemies. It isn’t style that matters, only winning.”

  Porthios couldn’t argue with that. One shouldn’t expect style or finesse from a peasant, no matter how experienced.

  He led the way inside. Ignoring his followers’ objections, he threw open the mansion’s double doors. Three crossbow bolts thudded into the panels next to his head. Unimpressed, he shouted, “Olin Man-Daleth! Come out and face justice!”

  Kerian dragged him aside as more bolts whizzed down the hall. Behind her, Nalaryn had glimpsed the bowmen. With silent gestures, he dispatched four of his people down the side corridors to deal with them.

  “You’re too bold for your own good,” Kerian told Porthios tartly. “This revolution will come to a sudden end if you stop an arrow.”

  “You’re wrong. What has started cannot be stopped by a single arrow.”

  He entered, striding down the center of the ornate hall, calmly examining the bas-reliefs that depicted the rise of the Qualinesti nation. The hall had been defaced by Olin’s men. Statues had heads and limbs hacked off, and the travertine floor showed deep scratches where hobnailed boots and spurs had scored the stone.

  They investigated the entire palace, flushing out a few hidden bandits, who died fighting. When they reached the lord mayor’s audience hall, they found a crowd of servants huddled behind the sky-blue and gold tapestries. Kerian drove them out from concealment at sword point. There were eleven, five women and six men. All wore Olin’s livery, a dark green tabard with a triangle of silver daggers.

  “Please, good lords, don’t kill us!” one quavered. “We’re humble folk pressed to duty against our will!”

  Porthios would’ve dismissed them, but Kerian did not waver. Something didn’t feel right, she said. The servants could have fled at any time, and why were they still wearing Olin’s colors, unless they were supposed to be found so dressed?

  She told the archers to keep them covered and grabbed the closest servant, a middle-aged woman with brindled hair. She turned the woman’s hand palm up then sniffed her sleeve.

  “Kitchen. Scrubwoman,” she announced and pulled the tabard over the woman’s head. “Go on, get out.”

  She repeated this performance for each human, announcing their place in the household by the marks on their hands and the smell of their clothes: baker, wine steward, scullery maid, keeper of hounds.

  The sixth, a man, revealed a pair of callused palms with clean, well-trimmed nails. It didn’t take a sensitive nose to notice he was wearing scent. She laid her sword on his shoulder.

  “Who are you?”

  “Theydrin. Lord Olin’s valet.”

  “Where is Olin?” Porthios demanded.

  The man glanced at his masked captor with curiosity. “I don’t know, sir. May I go?”

  In response, Kerian slashed hard across the man’s chest. His green tabard fell away, showing them a close-fitting shirt of fine mail.

  “It’s Olin!” Kerian shouted, leaping back.

  The fellow’s reply was to take hold of the female servant closest to him and put a curved dagger to her throat. “I’ll slit her gullet if you try to stop me!”

  Porthios shrugged. “So? One less human will hardly distress me.”

  “Wait.” Kerian spoke as much to the Kagonesti as to Olin. Nalaryn’s band had nocked arrows and was preparing to draw.

  “Kill them both,” Porthios ordered.

  Bows creaked back to full stretch. The implacable faces of the Wilder elves were too much for the bandit lord. He released his hostage. Kerian pulled her out of the way. Olin dropped his dagger and held out his hands.

  “I have treasure! I’ll pay a ransom! You’ll all be rich!” he babbled.

  “Treasure stolen from the people of Qualinesti.”

  So saying, Porthios lifted a hand, and two of the Kagonesti loosed. They aimed low, and their arrows took Olin from opposite sides. He shrieked in agony and slumped to the ground. Another Kagonesti finished Olin with a blow from his maul. Horrified, the last weeping servants fled.

  Kerian returned her blade to its sheath. “Is this how it’s to be?” she asked. “No quarter?”

  “You would show mercy to the man who ordered you flayed alive?” Porthios stared up at the ornate ceiling. “Olin was a brutal killer. All murderers can expect the same. Does that trouble you?”

  Kerian knelt by Olin and took his purse. It contained steel coins, several large gems rolled in a silk scarf, and a ring with a dozen iron keys. She shook the ring of keys.

  “We should see what locks these open. Prison cells, or treasure rooms, as he said.”

  “Free the elf prisoners. I don’t care what you do with the rest. Let the people of Bianost have his stolen hoard.”

  His continuing distracted study of the ceiling caused Kerian to look up. The arched ceiling of the audience hall was covered by a mural depicting Kith-Kanan flying on Arcuballis, his famous griffon. The pair soared across a blue sky dotted here and there with puffy white clouds. The painting was well rendered, but the scene was a common one in official Qualinesti buildings. Testily, she asked whether he was enjoying the artwork.

  “Very much,” he murmured. He told them of Kasanth, the councilor he’d found being tortured for not revealing the whereabouts of a royal trove.

  “He said the treasure was in the sky. I think Olin was closer to it than he ever imagined,” Porthios said, pointing upward. “We must get up there.”

  The way proved fiendishly difficult. The Bianost palace was old, with a convoluted layout comprising many rooms. Only by rapping on the walls and finding a hollow spot did the elves locate the concealed door. Behind it was a dark, very steep stairway.

  Gifted with excellent vision in the dark, the elves needed no torches. Porthios immediately entered, and the others were close behind. Kerian commented that although the door had been well hidden, the wooden steps were clean of dust. Someone had passed that way not too long ago.

  The stairs reversed direction, obviously angling out from the wall and following the rise of the arched ceiling. As the party climbed higher, the stuffy heat increased. The passage ended abruptly on a stone wall with no door, no hatch, nothing.

  “No one builds a stair to nowhere,” Kerian muttered. �
��There must be a hidden door.”

  Porthios told his followers not to bother with subtlety, so the Kagonesti battered the walls until something yielded. Low to the floor, a thin wooden panel, painted to resemble stone, shattered under their blows. Wincing with stiffness, Porthios knelt on one knee and peered in, but even his keen eyes could not pierce the profound darkness beyond.

  One of the Kagonesti produced flint and steel. A wad of cloth was tied to an arrow shaft and set alight. Porthios thrust the fitfully burning torch inside.

  Kerian fidgeted at his silence and even faithful Nalaryn couldn’t bear the suspense. “What do you see, Great Lord?”

  “Wonderful things!” Porthios said, hoarse voice filled with emotion. “I see the freedom of our race!”

  Like a drop of oil spreading out on the surface of calm water, the bandits, buntings, and slavers expelled from Samustal raced in all directions, seeking other havens in Samuval’s stolen realm. Some went no farther than Griffon’s Ford, fifteen miles from Olin’s fallen stronghold, where they found another of Samuval’s lieutenants encamped.

  Gathan Grayden was known as Gathan the Good, an ironic appellation earned by his carefully chosen appearance. Most bandit lords affected a fearsome exterior, with garish tattoos, gaudy armor, extravagant weapons, and a loud, blustering manner. Not Gathan. He dressed simply but in the finest style, spoke softly, and carried himself like a nobleman of impeccable lineage. In fact he was easily the most ruthless of Samuval’s underlings. His fief, centered on the town of Frenost, northwest of Samustal, was the most pacified in all of Qualinesti.

  Once a month he led most of his troops on a long, circuitous march through his territory. That kept his soldiers fit and reminded his subjects who was in charge. Gathan was returning from one of those marches when the first refugees from Samustal reached him at Griffon’s Ford. In two days’ time, several hundred bandits had gathered, swelling his total complement to two thousand soldiers. Behind the army, a mob of slavers, displaced buntings, and their lackeys gathered. They believed Gathan would restore order in no time, and they wanted to be close at hand when Samustal was recovered. Most had fled with no more than the clothes on their backs.