14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY
Highport, The Pomarj
Aslan awoke with a start.
Pain and fatigue instantly reacquainted themselves with his body. He had doubts he was going to be able to move out of the space he was wedged into in less than a hour. The paladin shook his head, trying to clear it. He had had a terrible nightmare, but it was fast fading away from his mind, and there was no time now to try and recall it. He glanced over at Elrohir and Nesco. Both rangers looked asleep, but Aslan couldn't fault them for that. He knew what terrible shape they were both in. Being invisible had helped protect them-
Wait a minute. Invisible?
All three of them were visible again. Aslan didn't know if the potions had worn off or what, but the truth was (if he dared indulge himself in a pun) plain to see. As he looked on, Elrohir's eyes snapped open and he bumped his head against the shelf above him. His muffled curse/exclamation awoke Nesco, who looked around at the others guiltily.
Aslan was starting to uncork his body from its resting position. He spoke quickly, to avoid any needless conversations on whom might have fallen asleep first, or why. "The potions must have worn off," he whispered. "Try to be as quiet as possible, people. Let me know when you're ready to move out."
Elrohir looked as if he wanted to say something, then decided to drop it. The three of them managed to return to a standing position with a minimum of groaning. Elrohir slid Gokasillion up just an inch or so, giving just a bit more light for them to see by.
"How long do you think it's been, Aslan?" Nesco asked.
Aslan concentrated, trying to sense the power within himself. His resulting expression, barely visible in the dim light, was not encouraging.
"Not long," the paladin said. "A couple of hours, at most. I still don't have much yet, I'm afraid. It wasn't a very restful sleep. I could heal us a bit more if you'd like. I might have enough for one teleport or psionic blast, but I'm not even certain about that, and that would probably wipe me out again."
"Depends," Elrohir said, his face just inches away from those of his companions in the cramped space. "We came down here to find another way out. We haven't done so yet, and this space isn't big enough for all of us to rest up in, even assuming that it's safe enough, which I doubt. So the question is, do we go on?"
"We didn't come here to fail," Nesco said grimly. Her eyes flickered over to Aslan's. "Heal us, Aslan, but you make damn sure you leave an equal amount for yourself. And that's logic talking, not sentiment. You may well wind up being our only ticket out of here."
"Thanks", Aslan replied, placing each hand on a ranger's shoulder. "I think."
The trio moved down the corridor. Luckily for them, this section was also lit with torches in wall sconces. It seemed somewhat cleaner and straighter, with wooden crossbeams every ten feet or so now.
Aslan had used up most of his remaining Talent on healing the three of them, but it wasn't nearly enough. They were all still little more than the walking wounded. At Elrohir's insistence, he had saved what he thought was just enough for one more polymorph. The ranger told him to use it to flee back to the others if he and Nesco were killed.
Aslan had nodded, but in fact had no attention of doing so.
The corridor continued for about thirty feet and then turned to the left. Even from here, the fighters could hear voices coming from beyond. The language was Common, but they couldn't make out the words.
The three looked at each other.
"One more time, my friends" Aslan said with a deep sigh. "One last time."
And his features began to change.
"Aslan!" "No!" came two rebukes, but it was too late. Elrohir and Nesco gaped at the figure that now stood before them.
Elrohir's voice went cold. "If this fails Aslan; if he's actually around that corner, we're dead. We're all dead. You know that?"
Aslan turned around and started to walk down the corridor. No longer (effectively) clad in plate mail, he did not make the clanking noises his partners still did.
"That's right Elrohir," the paladin said over his shoulder. "But then, that's usually what happens when you unretire from this life, isn't it?"
Elrohir was silent. Nesco looked from one figure to the other. Aslan gave her a smile (which looked rather hideous in his new form), then jogged around the bend.
"That one. Definitely that one. The male."
Mugrik followed Finn's finger. The human noble was pointing at the cage closest to them. That particular ten by ten cell held two slaves. The one Finn had indicated was a strapping young man of perhaps thirty years. He had an impressive amount of body hair (for a human anyway, thought Mugrik), but his heavily muscular physique was still plain to see. His body bore a number of scars, but theyl looked old and would probably not detract from his final selling price. Cold gray eyes stared out at them above a thick, bushy black beard and mustache. He had his arms crossed and his feet planted apart; the very picture of defiance.
Mugrik smiled to himself. The orc knew that attitude would not last long. He made one final check mark on the sheet of parchment he carried. That was it. They had checked out all fourteen cells, and the twenty-seven slaves within them. Finn had selected fifteen to take on his journey. The aristocrat was now fiddling with some odd-looking contraption Mugrik had never seen before.
It looked like a small wooden frame, about eight inches to a side. Three parallel wooden dowels spanned the frame, and on the dowels were small circular pieces of wood, which Finn now flicked back and forth with rapid movements of his delicate, bony fingers. The noble noticed the orc staring at it and smiled condescendingly at him.
"This, my curious friend, is an abacus. It's a calculating device, and it's just calculated that I shall make a handsome profit indeed from this trip." Finn glanced down at the abacus in his hand. "It's from Kara-Tur. The battle commander of the stockade is originally from there. He sold it to me on my last visit.."
Mugrik was only half-listening. He was bristling at the way the human had managed to make the word curious sound like the word stupid. Mugrik prided himself on his degree of sophistication. His grasp of Common was better than any other orc he knew, except perhaps for the very-recently deceased Chief Arrn. It was the main reason that Arrn had appointed Mugrik as the chief liaison to the various flesh traders who brought the selected slaves from here to the stockade, a journey of some days inland. The other four orcs with Mugrik were mere lackeys, useful only for slave handling. As he sourly eyed the foppish aristocrat, Mugrik thought how easy it would be to just chop him into pieces, and toss them into a stew pot. At least as a meal, Finn might provide the good taste that he was always claiming to have.
Easy to do, except for his bodyguards. Mugrik glanced at the two humans accompanying Finn. They looked dangerous.
"Well then," Finn mused. Having put away his abacus, he was now cleaning under his long fingernails with the slender dagger he was carrying and nodding towards the door at the end of the room that they were standing by. "If you would be so kind as to prep the slaves, I'll be waiting for-"
At that moment Rezshk rounded the corner at the far end of the room.
All three humans and five orcs standing in the corridor between the two rows of cells stared at the approaching witch doctor.
Rezshk looked terrible. He had clearly been wounded several times, his yellow and red robes stained with blood. The orc was trying to run but looked so fatigued that he could barely manage to stay on his feet. Mugrik knew this was bad news, although he could have sworn, only for a second, that he had seen a look of... relief on the witch doctor's face as he came stumbling up to them. Just happy to be still be alive, he guessed.
Thank you, Great Watcher, Aslan thought as he lumbered up the corridor. Thank all the Hosts of Asgard that I'm not here already- er, I mean that HE's not here- oh, you know what I mean, Odin!
His ragged appearance was no trick. Aslan was so tired he couldn't have run if he tried, and his wounds were all too real, no matter what physical form he might be in. There was no time to think about that now, he thought. There was only time for some more of his patented paladin manipulation of the truth.
"Humans!" he burst out. "Two humans who come in with ogre before! They attacking all! Me badly hurt! They coming this way!" He pointed back down the corridor he had just come from, while trying to size up the opposition here.
The orcs were a question mark. Most were no trouble, but some had fighting skills equal to any human and in the party's weakened state, that could be very bad news for Aslan and his friends. The fool with the dagger was no problem, but the other two with him...
The woman was short, barely clearing five feet, but she looked as sturdy and as powerfully built as any dwarf. With her pale skin and long, straight, platinum blonde hair, she looked mostly, if not pure, Suloise. Aslan guessed her to be about Talass' age. Underneath a white fur wrap, she wore a suit of chainmail. A longsword awaited action, its scabbard attached to her weapons belt.
The magic-user was clearly Baklunish, with tan skin and dark brown eyes. In stark contrast to his fellow bodyguard, he wore the robes of a desert traveler, and a turban covered his head. The mage carried no visible weapons, but his face expression carried the same grim expression that the Suloise woman's did.
Finn's face went pale with fear, and he backed up against the door behind him. "What?" he exclaimed, his eyes leaping between Aslan and Mugrik. "What? How can this be? You two told me that had been handled! You told me this place was secured!" He cast a covetous glance down at Mugrik's belt, and made a grasp for a keyring that was loosely hanging on his belt, but the orc swatted his hand away with a snarl.
"Only I handle keys!" he growled at the noble.
Aslan, cursing himself for not noticing the keyring earlier, assumed what he hoped was his position of authority.
"Chief Arrn dead, so I command orcs now!" He pointed at Mugrik. "You and others- go and help others kill humans! I prepare spells to help!"
He saw Mugrik hesitate. Guess Arrn never bothered to pick a successor Chief, he thought. Aslan concentrated on trying to stare the orc down... quickly.
"Unlock this door, you savage!" Finn, shaking, was pointing at Mugrik. "I'm not paid to do your fighting for you!"
That seemed to clinch it. Mugrik shot a vile look at the aristocrat, then motioned to the other four orcs to follow him. As he passed Aslan on his way back down the corridor, he muttered something in orcish to him. The paladin couldn't understand it of course, but it was a pretty safe assumption that it didn't bode well for poor ol' Rezshk.
The five orcs, weapons drawn, rounded the bend in the corridor and charged straight on into death.
The sounds of combat and orcish screams carried clearly back into the slave chamber. Aslan concentrated on moving subtly into the exact position he wanted to be in. Always look for a tactical advantage, no matter how slim it might be. Both he and Elrohir lived by that creed. Aslan hoped he wasn't about to die by it, as well.
The corridor between the twin rows of cells was about ten feet wide. The door to who-knows-where was on the right half of the far wall, as one gauged the room coming into it from the corridor. Finn was currently trying to pick the lock on the door with his dagger, which was badly shaking, along with the hand holding it.
"Anya! Zanthar!" He called over his shoulder. "Stand ready!"
The two looked at each other, and a silent smirk passed between them. Aslan guessed they were used to the fop's idiocy and stayed with him only for coin. Anya was standing about five feet in front of Finn, with the mage Zanthar covering the left side of the corridor.
This is going to be tricky, Aslan thought. Very tricky. He began mumbling gibberish and waving his arms, as if casting a spell. The paladin was now standing right next to Finn, facing Zanthar. The cell to his right contained a powerful-looking, bearded man who was eyeing them all, as if he hoped an opportunity to escape would present itself. He noticed Aslan staring at him and glared back.
Aslan tried to wink at him, but forgot he only had one eye currently, so it came out as more of a odd blink instead. There was no reaction from the man. Aslan could only hope he'd understand and be able to react quickly enough when the moment came. There wasn't going to be a second chance for this.
Elrohir and Nesco came around the corner. Like Aslan, they were too exhausted to run, but they were nonetheless moving as fast as they could.
Anya did not draw her sword, but with blinding speed produced a hand axe from somewhere and flung it straight at Nesco's face. It scraped along the left side of her helm hard enough to draw a cry of pain from the ranger, but she kept on coming.
Aslan made his move. He reached out, grabbed Zanthar from behind and shoved him against the bars of the nearby cage.
"Now! Grab him!" Aslan screamed.
The slave reacted instantly, grabbing Zanthar's right arm and pinning it behind his back. The magic-user yelled in pain and tried to reach into his spell component pouch with his left hand. Finn was standing in total shock, but Anya was already drawing her sword. The two rangers were coming up, but they couldn't move fast enough.
Anya swung at Rezshk, but was startled as her swing, which was intended to decapitate the 6 1/2' tall witch doctor, sailed over the head of a stocky, bearded human male a full foot shorter instead. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, wearing plate mail and carrying a longsword and shield. The man looked at her.
"You just can't trust anyone these days, can you?" he said.
He swung his own sword at her, but she parried.
Meanwhile, Zanthar had not yet been able to cast a spell, but the slave hadn't been able to grab the mage's left arm either. The prisoner was yelling for assistance from his cell's other occupant, a teenaged girl with a blackened and infected foot, but she merely cowered in the far corner of the cell and covered her head with her arms.
Aslan grimaced in pain as Anya's sword avoided his shield and slid along his side, the blade passing through one of the many gashes already present in his plate mail. The edge of the sword felt like fire as it sliced open his skin. The wound was long, but at least it wasn't deep. He slashed back, but merely put a rip in her fur wrap. She was good, Aslan thought.
Maybe too good.
Zanthar, still struggling, shot a look of pure hatred at the still cowering Finn. "Spawn of camel droppings!" he yelled at him. "Get over here and help me- now!"
Apparently shaken out of his stupor by the command, Finn moved in. He raised his dagger to stab at the hand holding the wizard's right arm fast.
Zanthar's shouted warning came too late. The nobleman never saw Gokasillion slide into his left side. The blade passed through lung, heart and lung before being drawn back out. With a whimper that turned into a groan that turned into silence, Finn collapsed to the floor a dead heap, his abacus sliding out of his clothing and bouncing along the floor several feet before coming to a halt against the far cell.
Nesco joined Aslan in his battle against Anya. They were flanking her now, but she had yet to take a serious blow and seemed to show no sign of wavering, let alone surrendering.
Zanthar watched as Elrohir turned his back on the mage as he joined his companions in their battle against Anya.
With a mighty effort, the Baklunish wizard twisted until his right arm came out of his robe, leaving the slave holding uselessly onto the sleeve.
"Ah, ha!" he yelled, pointing his arm at the stunned prisoner and preparing to incant.
A cold white light appeared in front of Zanthar as Gokasillion's point erupted from his left shoulder blade and then withdrew.
"Ah, ha, yourself!" Elrohir shouted back.
Zanthar squinted his eyes briefly shut, every nerve ending in his torso afire. The ranger's move had been a feint to deceive him. He whirled back on Elrohir however, and with sheer determination, finally managed to cast his first spell.
Elrohir felt a wave of magical energy wash over him, but it was gone before he even fully realized what it was. There was no immediate effect as far as he could see, but he saw a giant frown appear on Zanthar's face, so that made him happy.
Anya continued to battle her two attackers. Unhurt, Aslan and Nesco would have at least given even money on their odds of defeating her, but that was not the case here.
Zanthar backed up down the corridor and incanted again. What looked like a glowing green arrow sped out from his fingertips and disappeared into Elrohir's chest. The ranger cried out in agony as he felt acid burns starting in his chest. He moved up and stabbed at the mage. Zanthar cried out as he felt the agony of a sword strike starting in his chest, but the wound was not deep enough to be mortal.
We need some help here, Nesco thought frantically as she barely avoided a lethal swing of Anya's sword.
Suddenly a dagger came flying between her and Elrohir and sliced into Anya's neck before falling out.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nesco could see the prisoner smiling. He had apparently grabbed Finn's dagger when the aristocrat had fallen. The wound was not a critical one.
But it was a distracting one.
The Suloise fighter cried out for the first time as both Nesco and Aslan's swords found their mark. Anya's white furs were soon dyed a dark red.
A bubble of blood burst on Zanthar's lips as he sneered at Elrohir. "That spell will eat you alive as long as I concentrate on it, no matter where I might be!"
And with that he turned to run.
"Thanks for the information," Elrohir whispered.
Zanthar had almost made it to the bend in the corridor when an arrow struck him right in the back of his head. The wizard's momentum carried his corpse into the earthen wall of the corridor before it crashed back to the floor.
Elrohir turned to rejoin the battle with his friends, but his vision suddenly grew blurry. He had to drop his bow and grab hold of the cell bars to keep himself upright. Most of the slaves had been yelling nonstop since the battle started, and the noise was getting overwhelming.
Anya was now seriously wounded, but Aslan and Nesco were both back down to where they had been before their last healing.
"Let us out! Let us out!"
The slaves were continuing to shout. Elrohir swore if they didn't shut up, he was going to... to...
The ranger's head abruptly snapped back up.
"Aslan! Nesco!" he shouted. "Play it safe! Just hold her off! I'll be right back!"
"You'll be WHAT?" yelled Aslan in disbelief, but Elrohir had already vanished around the bend in the corridor.
The paladin found himself wishing that Argo was here, as much for his wisecracks as for his sword-arm. He hadn't realized until now how much Bigfellow's constant banter actually contributed to his ability to keep his spirits up in battle.
I'll never be able to tell him that though, Aslan thought sadly. I'd never hear the end of it.
He and Nesco grimaced at each other as they continued to try and fend off Anya's seemingly never-ending attacks.
"Surrender or die!" yelled the paladin.
Anya said nothing. She merely shook her head and then continued her assault.
Elrohir came staggering back. In his hand he held the ring of keys.
"Over here!" came a voice from his right.
The very first cell on his right contained only one occupant; a human male, perhaps in his late twenties. He looked lean and strong.
"I can fight!" he yelled.
At a quick glance he was by far the best choice, thought Elrohir, so after some initial fumbling he was able to unlock the door. The man rushed out and tore down the corridor, towards the battle. Elrohir continued to unlock cell doors.
Anya's sword slammed into Nesco's shield, which looked to be just on the verge of cracking apart. Suddenly, a figure clad in little more than a loincloth appeared besides her and bent down to the ground. A familiar voice came up to meet her ears.
"Nesco Cynewine! Always a pleasure, especially now!"
The ranger's eyes widened. Anya thrust her sword down at the man's exposed back, but Nesco slammed her sword away with her own. He was standing up again now, holding the bloody dagger, a cocky smile in his brown eyes.
"Sir Enkos! I can't believe it!"
"The shock is all mine, Lady Cynewine!" The man feinted at Anya with the dagger but was unable to land a telling blow. "Thank the gods you're here! I knew His Majesty wouldn't abandon us!"
"Friend of yours?" Aslan shouted out, dodging yet another attack.
Nesco smiled. "Sir Enkos was on the last expedition here!" She then frowned and turned toward him as much as was prudent under the circumstances. "Sir Enkos- my brother, Miles. Is he still alive?"
The knight's expression turned serious. "He was taken away to the stockade some weeks ago, Nesco. Sir Murtano, the others- dead, as far as I know."
A roaring noise interrupted their conversation. A mass of freed slaves, some wielding weapons taken from the dead orcs, swarmed over Anya, pulling her down to the floor. Aslan and the others turned away. I can't fault them, the paladin thought soberly, but I wish she had surrendered.
The slave chamber was a mass of people, all milling around and talking simultaneously.
Elrohir was examining a map they had found in one of Finn's pockets. He looked up at Aslan, who was making his way through the crowd of people, headed towards the door.
"The slaves in these pens are destined to go to this stockade, Aslan. A journey of several days, at least. There may be more Slave Lords there."
The paladin nodded grimly but said nothing. They had pocketed a rather rich haul of gems and coins from the bodies of their opponents, but it meant nothing to him.
Right now he would trade them all for a solid hour of uninterrupted sleep.
Nesco handed one of the orcish swords to Sir Enkos.
He looked at her and gave her a bitter smile. "Thank you Nesco, but with this shoulder injury, it'd be hard for me to lift that. I'll stick with this dagger for now."
"Oh. I'm sorry." Nesco hadn't noticed the large, black-purple bruise on Enkos' right shoulder before. How could I have missed that? She thought. She felt stupid but didn't say anything. She handed the sword instead to the fighter, Sarkos by name, who had earlier grappled with Zanthar. He accepted it gratefully. He and Sir Enkos seemed to be the only two warriors in a crowd of nearly thirty, however. Some of the slaves could only limp along, and Aslan was again depleted of his Talent.
"We've got nothing left but momentum, people!" The paladin shouted out as he unlocked the door to reveal a corridor leading onwards. "We keep going!"
As the crowd began slowly to file through the door, Enkos grabbed Nesco by the arm.
"Lady Cynewine," he said, his expression deadly seriously now, "there is something important I must tell you!"
Nesco looked at him with concern. "What is it, Sir Enkos?"
The knight looked around him, then back at Nesco. "I cannot say it here, Lady Cynewine", he said, leaning in close to her. "There are dangers here you are not yet aware of. I must tell you privately! Can we go off somewhere where we will not be overheard? It will take but a moment!"
At that moment, Sarkos' cellmate, the teenaged girl with the bad foot, fell down on the floor near the two fighters. She began crying.
"We do not have time now, my good Sir Enkos", Nesco replied, as she helped the girl to her feet and put an arm around her to keep her up. "I promise you, as soon as is possible, I will speak with you alone on this matter. Will that suffice?"
Sir Enkos bit his lip. "Of course, Lady Cynewine," he said. "As you wish."
This particular corridor was only five feet wide, so the crowd of people was stretched thin. Elrohir, Aslan and Nesco were out in front. They had recruited Sarkos and Sir Enkos to act as rear guard, and they seemed to be doing at least a passable job at keeping the horde under control. Several carried torches, as this section of corridor had no torch sconces. Elrohir wielded Gokasillion.
"Aslan?" Elrohir inquired as they began walking.
"Yes, Elrohir?"
"Since desperate actions are pretty much all we've got left, would you mind if I took that last vial you have?"
The paladin regarded his friend, and then shrugged. "Why not?" he said, as he retrieved the tiny flask of black liquid and handed it to the ranger, who downed it quickly, then made a face.
Aslan and Nesco peered intently at their companion. Elrohir looked thoughtful, then looked at them and shrugged, a guilty smile on his face.
"Tastes like ale gone bad. I don't feel anything, though."
Just then, the corridor ended. Stone steps leading downwards stretched about thirty feet ahead of them. At the bottom was a small landing, at the far end of which was a door.
Elrohir looked back at his companions. "Have the others stay back until we know what's on the other side of that door." This was swiftly communicated down the line.
"All right. Look sharp, my friends", said Aslan as the three of them began their descent. "We don't want any more surprises."
The stairs dropped out from under them.
Tumbling down what had abruptly become a slide, the trio landed on a stone circular platform about twenty feet in diameter. Slowly, feeling the last vestiges of strength in their bodies announcing their imminent departure, the three fighters rose unsteadily to their feet and looked around them.
A moat of sewage, about seven feet wide and of unknown depth, surrounded the platform. Beyond that a narrow ledge, perhaps only three feet wide, marked the perimeter of this large circular chamber. Torches on wall sconces illuminated the entire room. Three arched stone bridges, each the same width as the ledge, were spaced equidistantly around, spanning the moat.
Ten orcs stood around the ledge. Two stood at the edge of each bridge, while four where spaced between them. All carried short swords at their sides and had crossbows out and pointed at the party.
A door was set into the ledge at its rightmost point as the trio looked forward. Directly across from them, a large alcove, perhaps twenty-foot square, was set back from the ledge, spoiling the perfect symmetry of the chamber. In this alcove were a table, two chairs and a number of boxes and crates. Behind the table a ladder set into the back wall of the alcove led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling.
A man sat at the table, looking at the three fighters.
He was not very remarkable looking, being perhaps a few years shy of thirty. His face, clean-shaven and a bit chubby under slicked-back black hair, seemed to show an almost childish glee that was barely restrained. He weighed perhaps a few pounds more than the ideal for the leather armor that he wore, yet even his smallest movements belied an easy grace. A longsword was stowed in a scabbard on his hip, but he made no move to draw it.
Moving all around the alcove were five very large animals. Elrohir immediately recognized the tawny fur, the wedge-shaped heads, the short legs, and stumpy tails. They were weasels. Very large weasels.
They were not however, seven feet long.
The smallest was at least ten.
They milled around the seated man like gigantic kittens, one going so far as to lay its head upon the table. The man smiled and obligingly stroked the animal's fur. The weasel scrunched its eyes closed in pleasure.
Aslan looked up as a loud grinding noise signaled the return of the stairs/slide into the ceiling above. The paladin then looked back at the seated man with a grim expression.
"You must be one of the Slave Lords?"
The man looked up from petting the weasel and eyed Aslan and the others again. He slowly looked up and raised his arms upwards, as if stretching in a yawn, but showed no inclination to answer Aslan's question. When he did speak, his voice was a little high-pitched, but soft in tone.
"And you must be..."
His eyes snapped back to regard the party. His right arm came down fast.
"Dead."
All five giant weasels jumped the moat and attacked.