The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

            Realizing quickly that this was the last place a naked woman should be, she jumped back into the alley and knelt in the shadows. While warily watching the men and women passing by laughing, joking, and flirting outrageously. She considered her options. She didn't have many.

            Angry voices from back down the alley caught her startled attention. Three shadowy shapes engaged in a heated argument could barely be seen at the far end. Finally two ran in opposite directions and the other started down the alley. The way the dark figure was poking through the trash and checking out each shadow and door told Danica her worst fears were coming true. The slavers were pursuing her.

            If she bolted out into the street the drunken warriors would set up a chorus of shouts and offers that would alert the slaver down the alley. However, if she remained where she was, the slaver would definitely find her. Slavers were one and all considerably bettered armed and armored than herself. She gave herself little chance against one of their number, much less the score or so they undoubtedly had sent out to find her.

            Throwing caution to the wind, she pushed off into the crowded street at a dead run. If she could get across fast enough, maybe, just maybe, anyone who saw her wouldn't have time to shout or pursue. But the Goddess of Chance was against her. Danica immediately ran headlong into a group of three drunken Jarland knights, leaving herself and one their number sprawled together on the cobbles.

            The knight recovered first, wrapping thick arms around her squirming body. His fellows started bellowing in drunken laughter, calling out suggestions to their lucky friend. It soon drew the attention of most on the street, and the slaver down the alley. Casting a glance over her shoulder, Danica saw the shadowy figure running her way. With a cry of fear, she slapped an elbow across the laughing knight's jaw and wiggled out of his arms. Before anyone could respond, she charged into the alley across the street.

            A quick look over her shoulder told her that the slaver was only paces behind her and gaining, and was one of the three Amazon slavers she’d seen in the foyer earlier. Danica tried to force herself to greater speeds, but only seemed to slow with exhaustion. Taara apparently wasn't one for exercising and keeping her body strong.

            Stopping suddenly and ducking beneath the slaver's outstretched arms, Danica slipped on a piece of rotten fruit and fell hard. The slaver promptly kicked her in the ribs, repeatedly.

            "Sleazy bitch! We'll teach you to kill one of our own!" she cried in a thick nasal Amazon accent. "Aaron was my friend."

            Teary-eyed, Danica rolled to her back beneath the raging slaver, both huffing from their run. "He was a filthy slaver," she said, then drove her heel into the Amazon's groin.

            As she bent over in pain, Danica rolled to her feet and brought a knee up into the slaver's face. The Amazon slaver went down with a grunt. Danica had an incredible urge to return the favor and kick the Amazon in the ribs, but she was barefooted and the slaver was wearing a steel cuirass. Instead, she stripped the woman.

            Danica quickly pulled the black leather breeches on, and then the red cotton shirt. The shirt fit perfectly, but the breeches were a little tighter than she liked. The scuffed up black thigh boots fit reasonably well, and each had a throwing dagger of fine steel sheathed inside. Buckling on the wide sword belt with its straight sword and belt knife and purse, she regarded the unadorned, battered steel cuirass. It looked to be of good quality and certainly would come in handy, but would impede her if she had to run again. In the end she opted for the superior protection the armor would provide later if her fortunes should take another nasty turn. In any event, she could always sell the armor if she needed additional funds.

            Heart racing, she quickly returned to the crowded street. At any minute she expected the other alley to erupt with angry slavers looking for her. Then with frequent looks over her shoulder, Danica walked down the center of the street amid the swarm of drunken warriors, relieved that she had made good her escape.

            Danica soon found herself before the Ten Horses Tavern. She hesitated. Was Carl still there? It was too early for him to start worrying about Danic. Indeed, it might actually be several days before Carl began to wonder what happened to his friend. That aside, if Carl was there, how to convince him that the beautiful blonde before him was indeed his friend, Sir Danic of Drakehorn?

           
Gods, what have I done to deserve this.

            Danica could think of no argument that would convince the huge, and occasionally quite volatile, Tyrian that she was Danic transformed into Danica. Indeed, Carl would probably recognize her as the last person Danic was seen with. She didn't care to think about what he might do to her in an attempt to force out the truth, or the truth as he could accept it.

            "No," she muttered. "I'll go look for that sorceress."

            But where? Where had the sorceress — sorcerer? Wizard, maybe? — gone? Was he still within the city?

            First things first. She would get her horse tomorrow morning and then decide what to do next. If nothing else, the Amazon she just waylaid and her slaver friends would be looking for her. Her first priority had to be to find a bolt hole and hide. The city gates were locked up for the night, so getting her horse from the stables now would be worse than useless. It might draw attention to herself.

            Glancing down at her shapely body, she ran a hand over a well-rounded hip, "Oh Taara, or Talar, or whatever you call yourself, I'm going to have bloody vengeance for this. By all the Gods, I swear it."

Chapter 3

            "Where's the gray gelding that was in that stall?" Danica asked the stableboy, a swarthy young man. Her hand was tight on her worn leather bound hilt. "It was there just yesterday noon."

            "A big barbarian took him this morning, my lady," he said, watching her warily halfway out the door. An enraged warrior was more than any stablehand could be expected to contend with. "It belonged to his missing friend or something."

            Danica scowled at the young man a moment. She really couldn't push it. If he called the stable's owner, he'd learn it wasn't her horse either. Her interest would be difficult to explain.

            Carl must have figured out something was amiss faster than usual. The big barbarian was actually pretty sharp, but his cheerfulness caused people to underestimate him. She decided he must have become alarmed when Danic failed to return after the romp.

           
He's probably tracking Talar right now
.

            "Did he say where he was going?"

            "No, my lady."

            Silently cursing her luck, she said, "Do you have any horses for sale?"

            "No, but Jason does," he said. He visibly relaxed. Pointing down the street, "His place is that one on the left."

            "My thanks," she said.

            She counted her money as she walked. Her purse had several months pay. The Amazon slaver must have been something of a miser, or more likely had robbed someone who was now locked up in the House of Mikem's slave cells. She counted enough for a good, trained horse and gear, but not enough for any protracted stay in town afterwards, or for a long journey. If Talar was gone, then she'd have to acquire some money somehow.

            The stables proved to be an unpainted, wood structure. From the street the weathered barn looked as if it was thrown together haphazardly. She could see gaps between the boards, and a number of missing shingles. The only sturdy looking structure was the corral.

            Spotting the stable owner, she paused to fluff up her hair to hide her elven ears. The last thing she needed was for people to gawk at her. If word got out about a beautiful blonde elfmaid the House of Mikem was sure to come looking for her.

            Jason proved to be an ancient, skeletal man with a permanent sneer. He looked as old, worn, and dilapidated as his stables. His fair complexion said he was either a Tyrian or Jarlander. He regarded her with what she thought was contempt for an overlong time. His long delay in acknowledging her request to see some horses grated on her already frayed nerves.

            "Is there a problem, old man?" she said after his second head to toe inspection of her. The way he looked at her made her skin crawl. "I'm here to look at horses, not to be gawked at."

            "You got the coin?" he said in a remarkably high-pitched voice. A Jarlander by his accent. Probably Western Jarlands.

            Patting the heavy pouch hanging beside her sword belt's overlarge oval brass buckle, "And then some."

            Grunting, he indicated she should lead with a wave of the hand. He followed her over to the small corral beside the dilapidated barn. A glance over her shoulder caught him staring at her butt as she walked. At the corral he became all business.

            "See anything that interests you?"

            She studied the half dozen horses closely. She was pleased to note that the horses appeared in much better shape than their home and master. All but one were mares. The bay stallion looked a bit young, but spirited.

            "Has the stallion had any training?"

            "He's fully war-trained, my lady," he promised.

            Danica climbed over the fence and approached the stallion. He gave her a wild-eyed look for a moment, then calmed down at her soothing words. Danica was a knight. She was as much born to the horse as to the sword. She couldn't remember a time when she wasn't riding.

            After caressing his velvety nose a moment, she pushed the long mane aside to ensure the crossed sword brand of war training was present on the left side halfway down the neck. But that alone proved nothing. She would test him.

            "Have him saddled," she said. "If his training proves adequate, I'll take him."

            At a signal from the stable owner, two stablehands began saddling the horse. Danica watched them intently, checking to insure everything was done to her high standards.

            She noted with satisfaction it was a good war saddle, with high pommel and cantle. Dyed black, it had a soft padded seat of red leather. There was no ornamentation.

            When he was ready, she swung up into the saddle and dug her plain bronze spurs in before he could show his displeasure. She weaved him through the startled mares with ease. He responded remarkably well. Whether her commands came with the reins, or by shifting weight and knee pressure, he never hesitated. Then bringing him to an abrupt halt, she forced him into the first of many horse katas. She started off with a simple third level kata, then quickly started running him through more difficult katas. He performed the elaborate battle exercises with remarkable finesse. By the time she'd finished putting him through his paces, a small crowd of warriors had gathered.

            Reining in before the still sneering Jason, "How much? For everything."

            As his sneer twisted into a sly smile, she knew she was in for some hard bargaining. He didn't disappoint her. When it was over, he had replaced the saddle with a much shabbier one, and relieved her of the better part of her coin, but both parted satisfied.

            Swinging into the saddle, she frowned. She had really wanted the war saddle, but didn't have the coin for it. She had to settle for a common steppe saddle with its low pommel and cantle. A saddle crafted to herd cattle. Not a good saddle for battle, but better than nothing.

            She glanced at her hands, her face twisted with disgust. They were the delicate, exquisitely soft hands of a lady of high birth. Of a pampered sorceress.
Damn Taara!

            Her hands were still sore and red from the simple task of saddling the horse. Much more and she'd have blisters to contend with. She'd need to have protection.

            After some searching, she found a shop that specialized in women's clothes. Trying on several pairs of leather gloves, she then tested how well she could wield a sword in them, much to the shopkeeper's dismay and alarm. In the end, she bought a pair slightly too small that didn't restrict her hands too much. She didn't like fighting in gloves and snug gloves were the best compromise she could come up with. In addition to the gloves, she parted with a few more coppers and bought a black felt, flat-crowned steppe hat with a braided leather head band. She would need the wide-brimmed hat for protection from the harsh sun.

            "Now I need supplies," she muttered to herself, swinging back into the saddle.

* * * * *

            Pulling her right foot up and hooking it around the saddle horn, Danica pondered what to do next as she tried to get comfortable in the saddle. She now had a sleeping roll and saddlebags with enough food to last a week. It wouldn't be enough, but was a start. She had spent almost every coin she had acquired from the Amazon, the leathern purse hanging limp from her wide belt.

            With a sigh, she glanced up at the only pass through the mountains. Carl was gone, presumably after the sorceress in his old body. She could use her old friend's somewhat twisted sense of humor right now.

           
Enough, he's gone
. Danica had bigger problems. Talar.
Where is Talar? Is he still in the city? And if not, how did he leave? By horse? Warhawk? Magic? And which way did he go? To what city?

            She glanced around the bustling plaza in front of the Palace of the Merchant's Council. Then up at the mountain pass again. Carl probably was up there somewhere, and maybe Talar ahead of him. It could take over a month to reach the other side of the Tyr Mountains by horse, longer during early spring. A warhawk could do it in one day. Only there was nothing saying Talar headed that way. He could just as easily have ridden into the desert a half day's ride north and east of Elfhaven, or, less likely, the steppes. Unlike the desert which boasted many sizable cities, there were no cities on the steppes.