The Summoner (35 page)

“Why didn’t you die, too?” Tris asked quietly.

Vahanian shook his head. “All I’ve ever guessed is that the talisman protected the wearer.

Arontala probably knew that too.”

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“What happened then?”

“Then I took the damned thing back to the caves where I found it, made a pyre of the village and ran as far away as I could get. And I never saw the mage again, until he showed up a year later, behind my commanding officer in Eastmark.” Vahanian bowed his head and leaned against the horse. “Is that enough of a story for you, prince?” he said, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in his tone. When Tris said nothing, Vahanian turned to him and shook his head.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Vahanian said tiredly. “All the fighting in the world won’t bring them back. And if you can’t do that, what use is revenge?”

“Someone has to stop him.”

Vahanian flung his arms wide in a gesture of hopelessness. “Stop him? You might as well darken the moon. Tame the vayash moru. Raise the dead. It can’t be done. You’ll be dead, and Arontala will win.”

“I have to try.”

“Go right ahead,” Vahanian muttered darkly, checking his horse’s provisions. “I’ll ask the bards to tell me the stories. Hopeless causes make great tavern songs.”

Beyond the stable walls, there was a dull thud and a muted thump. Before Tris could reply, Vahanian had doused the lantern, grabbed for his sword and crossbow and dropped to the stable floor, pulling Tris down with him.

“What the hell?” Tris rasped, but Vahanian motioned for silence, and gestured for Tris to draw his sword. Carefully getting to their feet, the two made their way to the open stable window.

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“Look,” Vahanian whispered, his grip tightening on his crossbow. “Out there.”

Tris could see several dark shapes making their way through the shadows toward the sleeping camp. “Bandits,” Tris said.

Vahanian shook his head grimly. “Uh uh. Slavers.”

“How—?”

“Look at how they’re moving,” Vahanian whispered. “They’re too professional for bandits. And that thud was a crossbow bolt. Too expensive for most bandits. We’ve got trouble.”

“We’ve got to warn the others.”

“Head back to camp,” Vahanian said, starting to climb over the stable’s open sill. “Rouse Harrtuck and Soterius—hell, anyone you can find. I’ll cut behind them, see how many I can take out from the back.”

Tris glanced questioningly at the mercenary, who scowled as if he could read Tris’s mind. “No, I’m not running out on you. If my guess is right, you’re going to need all the help you can get.

Now get going,” Vahanian snapped as Tris headed for the door.

“And kid,” Vahanian whispered after him in a hoarse rasp. “Stay low.”

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

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Heeding Vahanian’s advice, Tris stayed close to the underbrush, mindful that others prowled the scrub between the tumbledown stable and the caravan’s camp. At the sound of footfalls to his right, Tris dropped to his belly, reaching for a dagger. Lying still, with his face pressed against the wet leaves, Tris saw the stranger’s boots pass within a hand’s breadth of his hiding place. It seemed to Tris that his heart was pounding so hard that the other must hear it, but the slaver continued past.

Breathing a silent prayer to the Goddess, Tris climbed to his knees, dagger still in hand, and made his way in a low crouch toward the camp. Grateful to fate for placing Soterius’s tent on the side of camp toward the stables, Tris hugged the shadows until he was close enough to dart into it.

“Ban, wake up!” Tris hissed urgently.

“He can’t hear you,” a mocking voice said from behind him, and Tris felt a knife press between his shoulder blades. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened tent, he saw Soterius, bound and gagged, looking at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Tris raised his hands in surrender, letting his own knife fall. Then, as the slaver behind him stepped back to reclaim the fallen weapon, Tris lashed out behind him with his foot, praying that for once, he could replicate Vahanian’s fighting footwork.

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Clumsy as the attempt might have been, it caught his attacker off guard, and the slaver sprawled backward with a curse. Tris lurched for the man, pinning him to the ground, and hitting him hard enough on the chin for the man to fall limp beneath him. Grabbing a leather strap from Soterius’s riding gear, Tris bound the unconscious slaver’s hands and feet, gagging him with a cloth. He retrieved his own knife and headed to where Soterius made garbled cheers through his gag.

“By the Lady, Tris, you got here at the right time!” Soterius exclaimed in a whisper, rubbing his wrists. “What’s going on?”

“Slavers,” Tris said tersely, looking back at their prisoner. “Jonmarc’s circling behind them, but we saw at least a dozen making their way into camp. We’ve got to rouse the others.”

Just then, they heard the clash of steel in the open area beyond the tents. “Looks like the party’s starting,” Soterius said with a nervous grin, drawing his sword and heading for the tent door at a dead run. “Let’s not keep them waiting. ” Tris drew his sword, and breathed a hurried prayer for protection as they charged into the fight.

The attackers had chosen the cover of darkness to strike, but someone, friend or foe, had set fire to two bales of straw near the main caravan tent, lighting the night sky. Before they reached the action Tris and Soterius became separated, and while Tris battled two slavers, he glimpsed Soterius engaging a burly slaver almost twice his size.

A dazzling green flame cut through the dark sky, exploding into a million sparkling fragments with a clap like thunder. Seizing the opportunity his opponent’s consternation presented, Tris dispatched the hapless slaver before the attacker could recover his wits. Tris chuckled as another red flame shot straight into the night sky, recognizing Carroway’s sleight of hand. “Just keep it up, Carroway,” he muttered under his breath as he felled a second slaver. He glanced up 297

to glimpse the bard scooting from cover to cover, the better to launch the fireworks.

Vahanian’s estimate of a dozen was wrong by at least a factor of three, Tris thought grimly.

While the embattled caravan fought bravely, they had already lost half their company—

including many of the guards—to the group Kaine led down the pass. Tris wondered just how much of a coincidence Kaine’s argument with Linton had been, since it made the caravan that much easier for the taking.

Tris’s opponent swung hard, nicking him on the shoulder. Tris could feel himself tiring, but the battle was far from over. By the firelight, Tris saw his assailant’s teeth gritted in a victory grin.

The fighter stiffened just as he readied another blow, staggering backward. A red stain grew from the dagger lodged between his ribs. Without a word, the slaver stumbled and fell, clutching his chest, and Carroway sprang from the shadows.

“Nice night for it, huh, Tris?” the bard shouted, toeing over the dead man and retrieving his knife. Two more of the slavers were heading for them at a dead run, and Carroway’s hand flicked, sending a glimmer of silver through the torchlit night. One of the slavers dropped in his tracks, and Tris stepped forward to meet the challenge, covering Carroway as the bard reached for his own sword.

“Just what I wanted to be doing,” Tris replied. In the distance, Tris could see Carina defending the small tent she used as a hospital—no match for the two slavers determined to enter. Just as Tris met his opponent’s attack, he saw one of the slavers Carina battled close with his sword, engaging her staff as the other slaver swung a broken board with his full might, catching the healer across the shoulder blades and driving her to her knees. Enraged, Tris cut his way through his attacker’s advance, bent on coming to Carina’s aid, even as Carroway’s opponent drove the bard back until Tris and Carroway were fighting back to back.

“I’m afraid I’m out of tricks,” Carroway gasped between parries. Barely fending off his own attacker, Tris saw the slavers pull Carina roughly to her feet as a dark, hooded figure sprang from the shadows, a ball of white light streaming from the folds of its robed sleeves. Alyzza! Tris thought hopefully, and Carina’s captors staggered back a pace. But hope died as two other slavers leapt toward the old witch with a heavy cloak, landing hard on the woman and binding 298

her so tightly that Tris wondered if Alyzza would smother.

“I’m afraid we might all be,” Tris replied, barely parrying his attacker’s blow. Cam, Soterius and Harrtuck were nowhere to be seen in the confusion as the screams and cries of the panicked caravan traders mingled with the battle shouts of the slavers. Tents burned around them, setting the campground aglow in a play of light and shadow.

Just as Tris focused all his energy in beating back his opponent’s advance, a sharp thud sounded near his boot and a crossbow bolt buried itself in the ground barely beyond his toes. His opponent took advantage of the instant’s distraction and swung with murderous fury, snapping Tris’s sword in two. The hope that Vahanian had come to the rescue faded as Tris looked up to find himself ringed by a half dozen cold‐eyed slavers with crossbows notched and leveled, aimed squarely at Carroway and him.

“Drop your weapons,” the taller slaver shouted. “At this distance, we can’t possibly miss. I assure you, you are worth more to us alive than dead.”

Feeling sick, Tris dropped what was left of his sword, hearing Carroway’s weapon thud to the ground an instant later. Four of the slavers ran forward and forced Tris and Carroway to their knees, roughly removing the remainder of their weapons. Tris exchanged a solemn glance with his friend, whose pale expression mirrored his own dim appraisal of their situation. Within moments, the battle was over and the. slavers began gathering their captives in what remained of the camp’s main area. Still struggling, Carina was dragged beside Tris, then dropped uncere-moniously to the ground. With a muffled curse, the healer managed to score a sharp kick to her captor’s ankles. The man gave a cry and wheeled as if to strike her, but a tall slaver barked a reproof.

“No one damages the captives before the captain gets here,” the tall slaver snapped. Carina’s would‐be attacker stopped, and with a growl and a look that promised trouble, limped away.

“Sir,” a runner panted, stumbling to a stop an arm’s length from the tall slaver. “We have a 299

report from the Pass. The other group has been secured.”

The tall slaver smiled coldly and nodded. “Good,” he said with satisfaction. “Very good. Kaine has earned his payment,” he remarked. “Have them meet us here. We’ll take the cargo to the buyers together.”

“As you wish.” The runner headed for the perimeter, and the tall slaver surveyed his captives.

“I think we’re in trouble,” Carroway whispered to Tris.

“Looks like it’s going to take a while longer to get to Principality.”

“You there,” the tall slaver barked at Tris. “Quiet.”

The slavers secured the camp with professional speed. Tris’s spirits sank as he looked over the bound and chained captives. Of the fifty who had stayed with Linton, only two score now remained. The others, Tris presumed, were more likely to have fallen defending the camp than to have fled the attackers. To his bitter disappointment, Cam, Soterius, Harrtuck and Vahanian were among the missing.

“That’s all of them, at least, all that’s still breathing,” a short, pox‐faced slaver reported.

“What about the caravan master?” the tall slaver asked.

The pox‐faced man shook his head. “Didn’t have the heart for it,” he said, clucking his tongue.

“Found him dead in his bed.”

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“The men are getting heavy handed,” the tall slaver said reproachfully, looking over the wreckage of the camp. “They killed too many this time. Cuts into profits. Next raid, every dead captive is a cut in their ale ration.”

“Aye, Tarren,” the pox‐faced man replied. “That’ll get their attention.”

Tarren surveyed the captives once more. Smoke lingered over the camp in a dark, noxious cloud.

Behind the wagons, frightened screams mingled with the guards’ boorish laughter to reveal the location of the female caravan survivors. Tris clenched his jaw and strained against the ropes that bound his wrists, but even a momentary struggle confirmed that his captors had secured him against any easy escape.

“What have we here?” Tarren said, walking over to where Carina sat, just an arm’s length from Tris. The healer’s robe was soot‐streaked and torn, testimony to her spirited struggle, and her dark hair was tangled. She had not looked up since the guards had dragged her to her spot, and Tris suspected that it was the disappearance of her brother that left Carina bereft of hope, even more than their own dire situation. “Speak, wench. Are you a healer?”

Carina looked up with a glare. “I am,” she said tonelessly.

“I wonder,” Tarren said, looking at her disheveled appearance. “Healers bring a fine price.

Perhaps that’s just a healer’s belt you’ve stolen. I must be sure,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “If not, I’m sure you have other… talents… we can use,” he said, and as if on cue, another terrified scream pierced the night from behind the wagons.

“Tarren, we found him,” a slaver hailed, approaching the circle of firelight. As the slaver drew closer, Tris could see that he carried a limp form in his arms.

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“Alive?” Tarren asked, frowning.

“Barely,” the newcomer replied. “Found him out on the edge of camp. And a dozen of our men, with bolts in their backs, to prove it,” he added, joining Tarren in the firelight. With a shrug as if he were unloading a sack of flour, the slaver dropped the body at Tarren’s feet.

Tris caught his breath. Vahanian lay pale and still on the ground.

Tarren looked from Vahanian’s silent form to Carina and back again. “The bounty’s good with him dead, but it’s higher if he lives long enough to… question him,” Tarren said. “Healer,” he said roughly. “A deal. Prove your talent to me with this smuggler, and you remain under my protection.” He grinned wolfishly. “Fail, and I place you under the careful eye of my trusted guards.”