"What? The gold has vanished?" The king’s voice thundered through the marble hallways of the palace.
The trickling of the courtyard fountain filled the silence that followed his words, until a meek voice offered, "Yes, Your Majesty. The gold has been stolen."
"But that gold was to cement an alliance between our people and the nomads! Without it, they may attack!" One of the servants pushed a delicate porcelain vase a little nearer the center of its pedestal, in case the royal outrage cause it to fall.
"Yes, Your Majesty." The aide that stood before the king wrung his hands.
The king stood. "Very well. We shall have to make up for that gold out of our personal coffers." He turned to look at the group of eleven men, wearing the oiled beards and silks of the wealthy. "It is a sacrifice, but, to keep the peace, we must all contribute."
The most richly-dressed of the eleven stepped forward, his voice carrying an easy confidence despite the king’s thunder. "We cannot, My King. Our coffers, too, have been robbed within the last six months, and we cannot give out more for fear our people will go hungry."
"Your gold also?" the king roared. The aide left on the steps hid behind the throne. "These thieves have grown more bold. I have always tried a path of compassion for those who must steal to eat, but this thievery puts lives at risk. It must stop."
The head of the council stepped forward. "We have discussed it, My King. Your compassionate sentence of imprisonment and service is not enough. A stronger message must be sent. Something that will make it cease before the entire kingdom is beggared."
The king nodded, slowly and suspiciously. "I am listening."
The councilor went on. "Forty lashes of the whip for a first offense. If it is proven that the thief has stolen gold before, then the hand that stole it shall be cut off."
The king frowned. The sentence seemed cruel, even barbaric. But if compassion had not worked, perhaps it was the only way. "But what of those who have to steal food to live?"
The councilor straightened. "With a suitable deterrent in place, we may be able to gather the funds to provide for those who are hungry, until the true thieves are caught and stopped. Perhaps," he continued, glancing meaningfully at the others on the council, "if we could be assured that the thieves that stole our gold would be punished strongly enough, we may be able to sell some of our assets to raise the money you need to make peace with the desert nomads."
The king returned to his throne and sat. After a moment or two of consideration, he sighed. "It shall be as you say." He turned to his aide, who emerged reluctantly from behind the throne. "Make an announcement in every marketplace in the kingdom. Those caught stealing will receive forty lashes of the whip. Those who are proven to have stolen more than once shall have their right hand cut off."
Then the king stood and strode from the room while his aide hurried to carry out his command.
"I’d prefer to do this in an easier time, for all of us, but as is, we make do with what the Gods give us. Eric of Montgomery, for your courage and, more important to any mercenary that likes to keep his skin, for your cunning, I name you a lieutenant of the Red Blades. May the Gods see fit to show you mercy."
The Captain handed Eric a sword, well-made, solid steel. Eric slid it into his sheath. He wished he could forget that the lieutenant who wielded it before him had died not three days before. The Captain then pointed to the gray horseman’s shield he held at his side. "You’ve got a better shield there than any I could give you. The Prince of Coulone outfits his officers well." The Captain then limped back towards the camps where the wounded were being tended. "That’s it for ceremony. You’d find more in the Palace, I suspect."
Eric still couldn’t believe that he had made it away from Trebant Fields alive, that any of the Blades had made it out alive. It seemed like a perfect trap. But, somehow, a sixth of the mercenary company had survived the battle, limping and struggling back towards the borders of Darkcruigh. Most of the officers were dead. The Captain was injured. This evening was just a short respite before another day of trying to move a hundred men, mostly wounded, before a fresh wave of fighting began. ‘I’d rather be out-running Venger, even with the dumb unicorn,’ he thought. That set off a fresh wave of nostalgia. ‘God, I wish Hank was here. He’d know some good way to stop this mess. Probably find a way to prevent this whole war. And Diana would know how to rally the troops. Nothing ever got her down. And, hey, Presto at least could pull some food out of his hat. Even if it were just alligator eggs.’ He grimaced. ‘Then again, maybe this isn’t all bad. Besides, they’re better off where they are now. I’d rather be a hundred miles from here, too.’
Eric hurried after the Captain. "Uh, sir. Can I ask a question?"
The Captain looked over his shoulder. "Your horse is with the others. There’s enough without riders. Just pick the one you want." His voice, for all his light words, sounded bleak with sorrow.
"That isn’t what I was going to ask. I meant to ask, why me? Why did you ask me to come to your meetings with the commanders? Why did you say I was ‘highly recommended’ and all that?"
The Captain turned back, rubbing his drooping mustache thoughtfully has he looked over the young man. He nodded. "It’s a long story." He took a deep breath. "I well know the sort of training the Dungeon Master gives his pupils. You see, there were six of us...."
Suddenly, there was a commotion to the south, and the shout went up. "A Spy in the Camp! A Spy in the Camp!" There were the sounds of a struggle, and the ring of metal being struck.
The Captain turned to Eric. "Another time, perhaps." With that, they both started jogging over to the source of the sound.
"Eggs! Eggs! Finest in the land," the hawker called out, displaying his wares. "Chickens, too!"
Another called out, "Fine woven cloth! Buy my cloth! Any color of the rainbow, and then some."
Hank and Presto strolled through the village market place, looking at the various wares. It had been two years, now, since either of them had been in a town of any size, though this could only barely be called that. For a penny, a baker sold them a sugarloaf, and Hank broke it in two to give half to Presto.
The baker grinned. "You look like you're from one of the villages to the North. Here. Take a second loaf. Courtesy of me. We like to be hospitable to the village folks here. Very fine people, they are. Welcome to Ranstead."
Hank grinned. "Thank you, sir. We appreciate it."
Presto took the bread and bit into it eagerly. "Yes, this is great. Thanks!"
The baker smiled. "No problem at all. May I ask, what brings you to this fair town?"
The pair exchanged glances, once again recalling Madelaine's warning words. But the question was bound to come. "We were heading to Coulone. We heard rumors of battle, and needed to...."
The baker raised his hand with a smile. "Say no more. I know exactly the people you need to talk to. There's a booth on the north end of the market place. There are some men there who will be happy to speak with you. You'll find it under the sign of the sword."
Hank thanked the baker again, and the two pushed their way through the marketplace towards the booth the merchant had described. It was hard to miss. A silk canopy, royal blue and trimmed with gold, hung over it, sheltering it from the afternoon sun. In it, there were soldiers, two or three, drinking ale and talking amongst themselves. Hank drew himself to his full height, and walked towards the booth, Presto following closely behind.
"Excuse me, sir?" Hank asked. The soldier, dressed in well-polished armor and an impeccable tabard, looked up. "Can you help me? My friend and I are travelers, and we heard that there was treacherous country ahead, in the kingdom of Coulone?"
The soldier drew up with interest as he surveyed Hank's well-muscled form and the longbow strung over his shoulder. He reached out to tap the arm of the solder sitting next to him. That man to came to attention as they looked over the pair. The villagers that surrounded them pulled back to watch. "You are interested in the fighting in Coulone? You've come to the right place, young man. I can tell you our cause, certainly. How the kingdom of Darkcruigh attacks us blindly and without provocation, how our armies struggle to defend themselves." He pulled out a piece of paper. "Just put your mark here..." He pushed the paper and a sharpened quill towards Hank.
Presto stepped out from behind Hank's shadow, and the second soldier looked him over. "You...don't bother to sign," he said with a sneer.
Presto could feel the disdain in the soldier's voice, and he frowned. For some reason the image of fire sprang again to his mind, and he could feel his fingers twitch. He wouldn't normally get angry at such a little thing. "Hank...."
Hank picked up the pen, but shook his head. "We're not here to sign up, sir...we're just travelling and we'd like to know the roads."
The first soldier stood. "The only road to Coulone, traveler, is with our armies. We need young men like you. It's obvious you can fight, and you have an honest look about you. Not like those mercenary dogs, the Red Knives... villainous scum. Our cause is just. We need men...men like you."
A new wave of the unfamiliar anger flooded through Presto at the words. "Eric's not...." A blazing fire burned behind his eyelids. No...
Hank shook his head. "No...I think we'll just go. Thank you."
The first soldier reached forward and grabbed Hank's arm. "You'll go when I say, boy....For Coulone...."
The fire had a target. His friend was in trouble. Just as Hank yanked his arm away, the fire spilled from Presto's fingertips, scorching the soldier in a gout of flame.
Terror washed through the young magician. This was exactly what Madelaine had warned him about...his powers, here, for everyone to see, and used to harm. He remembered that day at Varla's village, the pain of the fire spilling out from him when all he wanted to do was help. "I'm sorry..." he stuttered, horrified.
The first guard had fallen to the ground, desperately beating at the royal blue cloak which blazed about him. The second guard was already on top of him, also trying to douse the flames. Hank looked about with startled eyes. "Presto...we've got to get out of here!"
"Witch!" The cry erupted from the throats of a hundred villagers who had been standing near by. "An evil witch! A wizard that will kill us all!" The screams of the terrified were quickly matched by roars of anger in their throats. "Catch him! Bind him! Stop him before he kills us all!"
Numbly, Presto nodded at Hank, and the two bolted away from the recruiting booth as fast as they could. The crowd swirled around them, and Hank grimaced as he felt the first stone pelt him through his leather armor. He managed to duck out of the marketplace and into the street.
Out of the crowd, a blacksmith emerged, swinging a heavy hammer at his head. Hank ducked under the blow, rolled, and kept running, unwilling to stop the simple man. He dared a quick glance back to see Presto close behind, narrowly evading the blacksmith also. Confident, he threw himself fully into the run, leaving the villagers behind him. He narrowly ducked between the houses, rolled under a cart, and towards the woods beyond.
But as the shouts of the villagers diminished, he turned. His throat went dry. On the edge of field beyond which he hid, he saw a crowd of people, circled around a splash of blue and brown that lay spilled across the ground. He watched the villagers gather up the limp form and carry him back into the village. Desperately, Hank wracked his brain for options, anything that wouldn't involve killing half a dozen innocent people. Nothing was forthcoming.
How could I have missed him? Have I been alone that long, that I've forgotten how to look out for my friends? He tried to push the dark thought out of his mind. First, he had to catch his breath. He could still feel the heat on his face, the rush of flames from his friend's hands at the senseless attack. He remembered the confusion he had seen in the magician's eyes as he turned to run. He had to think of a way to rescue Presto, or something really bad was going to happen. He just wasn't sure to whom.
Sunlight poured down in long, dusty shafts through the tiny, high windows above the colonnade. The room below was left lit, but cool, despite the desert sun that blazed outside with noonday fury. The dim rays illuminated pillows and rugs of exotic design, embroidered with red and gold. Sheila brushed her fingers gently across the silken threads. 'How long it must have taken to weave these things,' she thought.
"You're thinking again." Amusement lent lighter notes to Randale's smoky voice. "My Desert Queen...always thinking." Randale was stretched out across the rugs, enjoying the luxury of an afternoon nap.
Sheila's head darted up. "Just thinking about the floorplan for the palace," she lied. The lies came easier to her now. Once, she was laughed at because of how poorly she kept a secret. But truths were just lies you haven't found out about yet, so why should she be any different? She had learned that from Randale.
The Master Thief tucked his hands behind his head. "You should be sleeping. We have a few days to worry about that yet, and we both have been busy." He nudged the open coffer of gold coins at his feet with a toe. "To good end, but busy."
Sheila did not answer, staring at the gold that glittered in the sunbeam. It is like the rugs...people put years of their life to create it, and they have never seen it.
"It was stolen long before it got to us," Randale looked at her with those black-ember eyes, as those he were reading her thoughts. "We're just passing it down the chain again."
"I know," Sheila snapped back. At Randale's hurt expression, she dropped back into the pillows. "I just don't like the feel of this job at the palace. There are bound to be lots of guards. And people seem uneasy to me. They're talking."
Randale climbed to his feet. "Guards were never a problem for you, my Love. Don't worry. We'll be together. It won't be a problem at all. Why don't you stop worrying about it for a while? That's my job. If you like, I'll keep watch from here over the marketplace. If there seems like there's any hint of a problem, we'll let the palace go and leave with what we have. It's enough for the passage."
Sheila sighed and lay back on the embroidered pillows, her short-cropped locks falling across her face. "All right. I don't have to think about it now. Let me know if anything happens."
She closed her eyes and let her mind drift in that warm, safe world of moonlight and shadows, where nothing was real and she never really had to think about anything. Randale was there. Let him figure out what they would do next. Let him take the pain of worrying about the future...and remembering the past.
"You cannot keep me here! The Prince will pay for my return!" Diana struggled furiously at the bonds that held her fast. Perhaps if the guards left her alone for some length of time, she could find something sharp to cut the ropes... Yeah...and if I had wings I could fly away. These low-life mercenaries were too professional to leave her alone for a moment. She fell into silence, stewing angrily at the mistep that allowed her to be caught.
It wasn't her fault. She had a perfect position, buried in the bushes on the edge of the mercenary encampment. She had been there for four hours, and not a single patrol had looked twice. But when she saw the young man talking to the captain she had been spying on...the gasp just came out. It looked like Eric.
Now, she cursed herself for being so foolish. Eric was in Tardos Keep, many days journey from here. Foolish sentimentality had gotten her caught, just as Xalen had told her it would. She could hear her teacher now....
"Diana...?" There was a gasp behind her, a choked, half-strangled voice from the entrance of the tent. She rolled to face the speaker, still ready for disappointment.
"Eric? It was you." His puppy-dog brown eyes, dark hair, wiry frame....He was there. He was real. Lady Diana Curry, Knight and Defender of the Realm, did the only thing she could think of. She burst into tears.
Randale watched Sheila as she slept, the long shadows beautiful as they brushed her pale face. He glanced towards the square, where a small crowd of people were gathered. They wore long robes of white and yellow, in strong contrast to the black pants and turban of the guard that posted some sort of sign on a wall in the marketplace.
They were talking. Fah! Let them talk.
The trap was set.
The small town had fallen into a frightened silence at dusk, and now a white glow was brightening the sky, sign of the approaching dawn. From his perch on the rooftop of one of the shops, he could see the group of men guarding the cellar where Presto had been taken. They looked alert, nervous. And too numerous to take down alone. If he shifted slightly, he could see the bonfire that had been erected. A heavy stake, and chains, rose from the middle, testament to the villagers' plans.
Throughout the long night, Hank had worked feverishly. He prayed that Presto wasn’t drugged or unconscious, but it seemed a likely possibility. Unless his magic had just failed him again, but that was too optimistic a scenario for Hank to rely on. But the barrels were in place, the charcoals lit, his bow was strung, the blind was prepared. A slick of oil gleamed off of his skin, and a wet cloth covered his mouth and nose. If this all worked right....
There was a disturbance in front of the doors of Presto's prison. Someone official, accompanied by the two soldiers they had run into earlier, was speaking with the guards. Townspeople began to trickle out of their homes, their words a frightened buzz to Hank's ears. He stayed frozen in place, watching closely. Please let him be standing. It was all luck now.
The sun rose higher, and more people emerged. The guards and the official, a stout man in a blue doublet, seemed to reach an agreement, and the man stepped out before the onlookers, raising his voice so even Hank could hear.
"Citizens! Yesterday, a dangerous young wizard came to our town, burning one of the Prince's soldiers and threatening our very lives! For our safety and the protection of this village, there is only one choice. The wizard must be destroyed! Do any speak for him?"
Hank held his breath, wondering if they would have some ally here, or if they were truly as alone as he felt. But there was no response.
"Very well," the official continued. "He is to be burned, then. Bring him forth!"
The guards opened the cellar doors and disappeared inside. They emerged a moment later, half-dragging, half-carrying the young magician out. Presto stood unsteadily, blinking in the early-morning sunlight. His hands were tied in front of him, and his mouth was gagged. Hank held his breath.
The villagers surrounded Presto, but none dared come too near save the guards, who pushed him forward firmly. Presto stumbled, and began to walk towards the village square and the bonfire there. Some of the villagers ran ahead, lighted torches in their hands. A little farther...a little farther...
The stream of people reached the middle of the narrow street below him. Hank pulled back his bow, and fired. An arrow streaked down to the street right below Presto, so close that it grazed his shirt. Behind it trailed a cord, and then a rope that dropped before the young magician.
"Grab the rope and close your eyes!" Hank shouted, not even pausing to see if Presto did so before releasing again. This time he shot an arrow laced with fire directly into one of the barrels behind Presto. The guards were only just beginning to look up, trying to find the source of the shots, when blinding, acrid smoke billowed up from the barrel. Exposed skin touched by the smoke immediately blistered, and eyes streamed with painful tears as even the guards jerked away. Poison Ivy...or close enough. Hank lined up his bow and shot the other far barrel, seeing with relief that Presto had grabbed the rope. The second barrel began to billow with smoke. Villagers were screaming and running, dropping the torches and trying to get away from the burning itch. Presto’s skin was beginning to turn red and blistered, but Hank didn’t dare stop shooting until the last two barrels of oil, rags, and poison ivy had caught on fire. Then he dropped his bow and heaved on the rope.
Presto was ready. Hank grunted as he pulled the slender Magician up the side of the building and away from the smoke. "I’ve got you, Presto. Just hang in there. It’s a good thing you’re conscious.... It would have been hard to go in there after you. We’re almost there."
First a pair of blistered red hands, followed by red tousled red hair emerged over the side of the building, and Hank reached down to pull Presto up the last foot. "Gotcha." He pulled the gag from Presto’s mouth, and cut the cords that bound his hands.
"Can I open my eyes yet?" Presto said thickly, his tongue still swollen from the gag.
"Yes...put this over your mouth and hurry...that smoke won’t last much longer." Hank handed Presto a second dampened rag, and grabbed his bow. The pair raced across the rooftop to the knotted rope Hank had left hanging down the far side of the building. The two slid down quickly, out into an alley. Hank could hear the sounds of soldiers trying to regain control of the situation in the street. "I’ve got a blind, about fifty feet into the woods. We’ll run out there, and lay low until we can slip past the first patrols. I don’t think they have dogs."
Presto nodded, running hard next to the Ranger. "Thanks...I thought I was going to be a Presto barbecue there for a second." Hank had to grin. He set himself just behind his friend, so if Presto fell, he would be there to pick him up. But Presto was running well for someone who had been trussed up all night. The pair escaped the last row of houses, and out into the open fields. The plowed soil was rough under their feet, rich with the smells of early morning, and birds sang in the woods beyond. The shouts of the villagers were fading in the distance, save for one or two, and the edge of the forest was near.
Suddenly, a whir.... Pain! Light! Hank stumbled past the edge of the trees and Presto tugged him on, through the undergrowth. Protruding from the ranger’s shoulder, the long, black shaft of an arrow. It burned! It caught on the low hanging branches, and the pain was so great that Hank’s head swam. He gestured towards the blind he had made, and he and Presto tumbled in. They landed at the bottom of the tiny pit with a bump. The dawn sunlight through the curled fiddlebreak ferns rising above his head was the last thing Hank saw.