When the bloodshed was over, a mul raider, copper-skinned and hairless, his naked torso plastered with tattoos, rode up to Rieve’s grandparents. “This is your family?” he asked. He regarded the others with a sneer on his face. “They look soft.” He took Grandfather’s hand and turned it over, touching the man’s palm. “Soft hands. Nobility.”
“You can do anything you want to me,” Grandfather said. “But let the women go.”
“Why would we do that?”
“To prove that you’re not completely heartless beasts!”
The mul laughed. “Oh, but we are.”
Other raiders rode around the family, examining their belongings. There were no pack animals or wagons, everyone carried what little they had brought.
“They’ve got nothing,” one reported.
“A noble family, traveling off the main roads, with only six guards and few possessions?” the mul asked. “Now you’ve got me curious. Where’s your treasure?”
“We have no treasure,” Grandfather said. “As your man said, we have nothing. So you might as well leave us alone.”
The mul sat back on his mount, gazing skyward, as if giving the idea serious consideration. “You know what I think? I think there are two possibilities here. We can hold you, and send a message back to wherever you come from—Nibenay, from the looks of you—instructing whoever controls your fortune that they need to send a large portion of it here to secure your safe release. On the other hand, you appear to be on the run from something—you packed quickly and left home with very few belongings. So I can hold you, and unless you arrange to have a ransom sent to me, I’ll report your whereabouts to the Nibenese authorities. Either way, the result’s the same for me. I have to feed you for a while, and then you pay me.”
“That will never happen,” Grandfather said.
“There is one more possibility, old man. I can start killing you one by one, beginning with little red there.” He indicated Rieve. “And keep killing you until you agree to pay me. Once again, same result, but this time I have fewer to feed.”
“You’re a monster!” Rieve shouted. “We’d never give you a thing.”
The mul calmly walked over to her, his eyes fixed on her as if trying to bore a hole through her. He reached up and slapped her across the face. The blow nearly knocked her off her kank, but she managed to hang on. She spat blood at the mul, who simply chuckled and wiped it off.
“Give me back my weapon,” Corlan insisted, “and I’ll make you regret you ever saw us!”
“On second thought,” the mul said, “maybe I’ll start with that one. He’s trouble, he is.”
“We’ve got to go home with something, Shen’ris,” another raider said. “It’s been a rough few days.”
“Indeed it has,” the mul said. “We’ve suffered major losses in battle,” he explained. “And with no treasure to show for it. I think, though, that when we ride back to the fort with you, noble friends, we’ll be greeted with enthusiasm.”
“There … there is a certain amount of wealth, back in Nibenay,” Grandfather allowed. “Harm a single one of us, and you’ll never see the first bit of it. But if we’re treated well, with respect and dignity, then we might be able to work out some sort of accommodation.”
“Tunsall, no!” Grandmother cried.
“We have no choice, Sheridia,” Grandfather said. “These people will kill us all if we don’t cooperate.”
“Now you’re making sense,” Shen’ris said. He scratched his chest with a big, blunt-fingered hand. “Come, let’s get away from these corpses. After we help ourselves to their weapons and armor, of course. We won’t make the fort tonight, I’m afraid, but we’ll be there tomorrow, and then we can see about getting that message composed to send back to Nibenay.”
A few hours later, they were camped around a roaring fire. Each of the captives had a length of stout rope looped around their necks, and they were all connected in a line. Their hands had been tied, their weapons confiscated. Rieve couldn’t sleep this way, so she sat up as well as she could, letting the fire ward off the night, and wishing there was something she could do.
So far, wishing had not brought tangible results.
XIX
The Fort
Advance riders had reached Nibenay with news about the caravan’s approach. So much metal filled the wagons that even the huge mekillots had a hard time hauling it, and several times the caravan had stopped to repair or replace wheels and axles.
Word spread quickly. Even though everyone knew the trove belonged to the sorcerer-king, who would use it for his own ends—outfitting the standing army of goliaths and slaves was the most common guess—there was still a general sense of excitement. No one, or so the rumors had it, had ever seen so much metal. Everybody wanted a glimpse, even though they would never own it.
Among Nibenay’s templars, the mood was even more agitated. The excitement was high, but so was the tension, as sister templars tried to outmaneuver one another, seeking some advantage. Kadya’s allies were smug, certain that their loyalty would be repaid. Others, especially those on the outs with Kadya or Siemhouk or both, struggled to find a way back into their good graces. Because Siemhouk was already so well placed, nobody expected a power shift so much as a settling of power, a further entrenchment of the existing structure.
And the Shadow King, for his part, waited with growing impatience for the caravan’s arrival. He knew better than to trust Kadya or Siemhouk. Or Dhojakt. Or any other of his wives, for that matter. Not completely. When a man had hundreds of wives and almost limitless power, he was surrounded by intrigue, double-dealing, backstabbing—sometimes literally—and naked ambition, every day of his long, long life. Nibenay knew that, and was no longer surprised when those things presented themselves. He wished for smooth, agreeable relations among his many wives, but he did not expect them. Nor was his son any more trustworthy—when Dhojakt told him to welcome Aric with open arms, Nibenay immediately put a price on the smith’s head.
He wanted the steel. He wanted Kadya to return so he could see how much truth there was, if any, to his son’s warning. He was curious about what Siemhouk’s reaction might be.
But during the long days and nights of waiting, he made plans. Whatever the future brought, he meant to be ready for it when it got here.
Sellis was a natural tracker, and following the trail the party from the House of Thrace had made was easy. Finding the bodies of the dead guards, stripped and left to rot in the son, had been worrying, but Aric already knew Rieve and her family were in trouble. It was clear what had happened—someone had captured them. Even without the visible trail, Aric would have known whom to blame.
Those raiders from Fort Dunnat.
They’d been humiliated, and many of their number killed, at Myrana’s false ambush site. Seeking revenge for that, they’d been turned away from the village of Yarri, again sustaining heavy losses. Following that battle, they had lingered about the area for several days, doubtless looking for another way to avenge their losses.
Now, obviously having no knowledge of Rieve’s connection to Aric, they had come across a party of nobles. Profit, not revenge, had dictated that they take those nobles captive—in addition to having their forces devastated in two separate battles, they had wasted time that might otherwise have been spent raiding caravans or other, less fortified villages.