The dog's nostrils crinkled as it sniffed at the dirt. It bared its teeth in a low growl. Torkenbrand grinned at the sight. "He's found one, brothers!" he hissed. "He's picked up the scent!"
The men behind him licked their lips and smiled. Deep in the buzzing bush they lurked, soaked by the ferocity of the eastern sun. "You have him, boy," Torkenbrand whispered to his hound. "You have him, by Almighty Khuda. Keep on his scent."
The hound broke into a long, slow lope, his snout inches from the earth. Torkenbrand and his men dogged its steps, fingering their rickety old pistols, their lassos, their gladiator nets. "I've heard a whole tribe of paleskins escaped the slave blocks," Torkenbrand had told them weeks ago, deep in the nameless wild. "And they're somewhere out in the country near Chah Salar. Now see, we could nab them quick as lightning, and we could sell 'em for a pretty penny in Farkhar. Or better yet, drive them to the Tartar country. Those slant-eyed pagans haven't ridden west in two hundred years, they don't believe that white men even exist. Think how much some Tarkhan would pay for a girl with white skin and red hair! Or even a bloody boy!"
"Especially a boy," Toumani Silla had said. "My cousin's friend's nephew said that he visited a brothel in Farkhar, and spoke to a whore who said she serviced a Tartar warrior in recent months. He told her Vuldai Tarkhan, the biggest of the Tartar chiefs, is a buggerer who only keeps his wives for show. He said that Vuldai Tarkhan maintains an entire bloody harem of boys and men, who he stashes in a tent decked with gold."
A murmur had gone around their campfire at that. They were slavers, men who roamed lands that rang with the laughter of hyenas, men who charged howling into godforsaken campsites and dragged women away by their hair. They were rough vile people from every color and creed, black men from blazing Surda, scarred Tartars from the oceans of grass, even ugly green-eyed Broddrings from Dras-Leona.
Months ago they had haunted the borderlands of Ghor, the lawless rockribbed country that bounded the empire's southern extremity. They charged into the Barakzai nation and fell upon the village of Andizhan and aback their stallions they crashed straight through the grubby mudbrick hovels, burning the gardens of melon and pomegranate, riding the screaming Barakzai beneath their hooves. Toumani Silla and ten others destroyed the menfolk with roaring musketfire while Torkenbrand and his band swung far around the village, flinging lassoes at the howling veiled womenfolk, hauling the shrieking children aback their horses. They rode away from Andizhan driving forty captives before them, and laughed around their campfires, dreaming of the gold they would receive in Surda, where Skandar's laws rarely reached.
But a surprise awaited them at the mouth of the Barakzai Pass, a day's ride from Andizhan. As they straggled into the badlands that bounded the realm of Ghor, they saw the sun blaze on the swords of the fighting men of the Barakzai tribe, their Akhal Teke horses bigger than wild bulls, their dragon banners burning crimson in the sunlight of Ghor. For a moment the two sides simply stared at each other. Then, with a roar of "Har har Khudaya! They steal our children no more!" the Barakzai lunged forward, their hooves gonging the earth, the world filled by the thunder of their charge.
As one, the slavers dropped their captives into the dust, wheeled their horses around, and fled like gazelles into the hills of Ghor.
They found no refuge in the lands of the Sarangzai, who loosed staghounds on them, nor were they welcome in the snowbound territory of the Warozai, where a white tiger fell on them and mauled three of their horses. Two evil, starving months later, they found themselves in the wilds south of Chah Salar, hiding in forests that buzzed with ticks, forced to attack peasants and peddlers for food.
One peddler, however, had laughed when they surrounded him. "I apologize for my poverty, good slavers," the red-headed gypsy had said, sipping a cup of salt tea. "But all I have for you to steal is tea. You're going to be taking all of Chah Salar's tea for the next month. I'll part with it if I must, but really, what are you lot going to do with twenty pounds of tea?"
"That's a good point," Toumani Silla had muttered.
"It is," Torkenbrand had said. "So why shouldn't we just capture you and ransom you to the next pack of gypsies who come along?"
"There are no other gypsies in this part of the world, my friend," the redhead told them, a lazy smile on his face. "I wish there were, but my people rarely make the trek all the way out here. But I'll give you lot a bit of help. I used to be a bastard scoundrel bandit myself, back when Emperor Skandar was new to the throne, and I remember how bloody hungry I was all the time. Have you lot heard about the three northmen who stole from the Emperor's personal vaults?"
"We've heard some whispers," Torkenbrand said. "What did they steal?"
"Something important to the emperor. Some say it's a precious jewel, others say it's some kind of relic, like the Prophet's skull, or the first kitab al-khuda, the first holy book. I even met one madman who claimed that the northmen stole the last of Skandar's dragon eggs."
"A dragon egg?" Toumani had frowned at that. "Aren't they supposed to be extinct?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not. Regardless, whatever they took, Skandar's marshalled half the empire to hunt these northmen down, but they're a devious lot, these northmen, they love their freedom, and they're very good at running away. And I don't mean that to disparage them. Skandar set his adopted son Murtagha on them when they passed Uru'baen, and they evaded him. In Surda, Sagabato no Fadawar fell upon them with dogs and horsemen—and they slew him. They even passed through Ghor unscathed, can you believe it?"
Torkenbrand spat into the dust. "Would that we shared their luck. What about them? Why should we care about them?"
The gypsy looked at him, a twinkle in his eye. "Here, my good man," he said. "Look at these papers. Skandar is promising a princedom for them, dead or alive."
The wanted posters scowled up at Toumani and Torkenbrand. Toumani had frowned at the sight. "One of them is a woman?"
"Yes, these northmen are a strange and heathen bunch. I watched Skandar fight them at Gil'ead and at Therinsford and in both places their women fought alongside their men, screeching like demons, their faces painted blue. That right there is Arya Tialdari. Her folk are the most barbaric of the northmen. They live in trees, like great pale monkeys."
"These are bloody expensive monkeys, then." Torkenbrand whistled. "Ten thousand gold pieces each, dead or alive. You're right, gypsy, that is a princedom. If we caught even one of them, we'd live like bloody kings…but even if we did catch them, we couldn't go to Skandar directly. You know that, gypsy, you know that as well as we do. We can hunt for men out here in these godforsaken wilds, and we can sell them in Surda, but our bastard of an emperor won't let slavers operate within a hundred furlongs of Uru'baen."
"We're criminals across the empire," Toumani remarked. "It's only in Surda that we're welcome, and only in the east where Skandar's lawmen won't hunt us like deer. And even then, the jagirs of Farkhar or Chah Salar would shoot us down before they allow us near their gates."
The gypsy laughed at that. "Believe me, friends, I've seen your wanted posters as well. I know you, Toumani Silla; there's a bounty of a hundred silvers on your head in six different provinces. And you, Torkenbrand of Dras-Leona; the jagirs of Kunduz, Maraqanda, and Taleqan have each offered forty head of cattle to the man who brings them your head. And if any of you show your faces in Ghor again, you'll all be castrated. But take heart, my friends! Northrons are rare this far east of Uru'baen, and they are rarer still in the lands beyond. The Tartars haven't seen white men in two hundred years. If you capture either of these northmen—or better yet, the woman—you might win a handsome prize in the ocean of grass."
In the buzzing, dripping bush, Torkenbrand crouched by his hound, peering through the leaves. What he saw made him smile. "Toumani," he said. "Look at this."
Toumani squatted beside him. "The northman," he breathed. "He's even paler than you, can you believe it? He's whiter than a pile of birdshit."
"Fuck yourself, you bloody black ape," Torkenbrand whispered, grinning. "He might be whiter than birdshit, but unlike you, he'll actually get me good money if I sell him into slavery."
"A fair point. Is he crying?"
"Can you blame him? He's a long way from home." Absurdly, Torkenbrand felt a flash of pity for the man. "Wouldn't you despair too, if you were a hundred thousand miles from home?"
"Surda's a long way from here, and you've never seen me crying. But I will admit, I did piss myself when the Barakzai charged us." Toumani peered at the hunched, sobbing northman. "Weren't there supposed to be two others with him? A woman and another man?"
"We'll find out where they are once we take him. It'll pain me to make a gift of his arse to Tarkhan Vuldai, but I'm sure that the gold will make us feel better." Torkenbrand assumed a voice of command. "Take a couple men and attack from the right when I give the order. I'll swing out from the left and the center and we'll surround him. After that, we'll find out what happened to the other two."
Toumani took a last peek through the leaves, staring at the freak weeping beneath the tamarind tree, and shook his head. He'd hunted people of a hundred hues and a thousand nations, but never had he gazed upon a man who looked so alien. The paleskin's hair was bloody red!
He skittered through the bush and found his stout little Basuto pony, tethered to a teak tree. Beside her waited Atalan and Ajuuran, lassoes wrapped around their fists.
"Are we ready, Toumani?" Ajuuran whispered. "I've sweated enough to drown all half of Ghor."
"We are, and you'll never guess what this creature looks like. If you thought Torkenbrand was ugly, wait until you see this one."
Atalan grinned at that. "Bloody paleskins. What's our signal?"
A pistol shot blasted the air asunder. "That would be it," Toumani growled. "Mount up, damn you! Move, move, move!"