Kerian heard a scream. One of the elves had lost his balance and fallen amid the pounding hooves. There was nothing to be done for him. The horses thundered on.
The escaping elves were poor riders, and riding bareback at a gallop took its toll. Three more fell off and were trampled.
By then mounted mercenaries had appeared from the side streets. They rode alongside the escapees, twirling loops of rope. Expertly thrown, the lines dropped around the necks of the galloping horses, pulling them up short. More and more ropes were thrown, and the whirl of horses dissolved into a neighing mass of confusion.
Kerian slid from the mare’s back, landing in a crouch amid churning hooves. She spied the dwarf among the fallen riders and hauled him to his feet. If they could make it to the other side of the street, they might be able to vanish into the maze of dingy houses.
Something hit her leg, knocking her to the ground. She twisted around, but couldn’t free herself. The dwarf had fallen across her leg. Two arrows protruded from his back. A third pierced his neck. He was dead and she didn’t even know his name.
Hands dragged her roughly to her feet. The horses had been led away, clearing the street. Out of fourteen escaped prisoners, only Kerian and four other elves still lived. None of the others had made it to freedom. The five survivors were bound and hauled back to face Lord Olin.
The former residence of Bianost’s mayor stood opposite the town hall. Bonfires blazed on its stone steps. The number of guards in evidence made it obvious Olin Man-Daleth had taken the mansion for his own. The sandstone façade was streaked with soot, and the elegantly tall windows were crudely bricked up, leaving only narrow openings through which archers could shoot. The ornamental bronze doors were nearly concealed behind a head-high breastwork of timbers and sandbags. The entrance was guarded by no fewer than fifteen armed bandits.
Lord Olin stood on the stone steps as the recaptured prisoners were brought before him. Tall, with iron-gray hair, Olin wore full armor and a heavy dark cape to disguise his thinness. Narrow, close-set eyes and a nose crooked from having been broken and inexpertly set gave him a sinister look. The news of the escape had interrupted his dinner, putting him in a foul mood. Despite his perpetual thinness, he had a hearty appetite, and food was one of the great pleasures of his life. Those responsible for disrupting his meal would know his wrath.
He glared at the bound elves kneeling at the bottom of the stairs. The female he ignored, concentrating his attention on the four males.
“How did you get out?” he demanded.
When no answers were forthcoming, a goblin struck one of the captives, knocking the elf onto his face. Olin repeated the question.
The elves exchanged frightened looks but still said nothing. The goblin lifted its sword, ready to take the head of a random prisoner, but Olin stayed its hand. His face was very red. He stomped down the steps, halting on the last one.
“Rebellion will not be allowed!” he shouted. “I will know who your ringleaders are and deal with them!”
He gestured at two of the elves. “Bring them to the tower. Return the rest to the cages.” He swept up the stairs.
The captives were bullied and buffeted across the square toward the town hall. There they were separated, with Kerian and two elves returned to the holding cage, and the two elves chosen by Lord Olin forced into the long stairwell that led up the town hail tower.
Kerian asked her fellow captives what was in the tower. Neither would answer. They huddled in the far corner of the cage, their misery all the greater for their brief taste of freedom. Soon the three of them heard screams.
When the first echoed through the air, Kerian rushed to the door. Standing on tiptoe, she peered out the small window. Outside were three guards.
“What’s happening, savages?” she demanded.
Two guards ignored her. The third, younger than the others, ambled over, regarding her with open interest.
Another scream ripped through the air, the sound of a soul in terrible torment. Kerian pounded a fist against the door.
The young guard smiled. “Lord Olin wants to know who to blame for the escape. In the tower questions are answered quickly or not at all.”
“Leave them alone! Tell him it was me!”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Laughing, the bandit moved away. Nothing she said mattered. None of the guards believed her.
Only the young one would even speak to her, and then only to make obscene suggestions. The distant screams continued intermittently.
Some time later, a sharp rap on the cell door jolted her awake. She didn’t know how long she’d dozed, but the young guard’s laughter brought her quickly to her feet.
“It appears you weren’t lying. They both admitted you planned the whole thing.” He shook his head, grinning appreciatively. “You’re a firebrand.”
“What has happened to them?”
“Oh, they’re dead. Believe me, they’re lucky. For you, it won’t be so quick.” She did not ask what he meant, but he volunteered the information anyway. “You’re to be executed, as a warning to other would-be rebels. Day after tomorrow.” He walked away.
Sick with guilt and helpless fury, Kerian slid to the floor.
Chapter 5
The cemetery outside Gateway lay between two hills, hidden from the lights of town and the traffic on the coast road. The vale was low and boggy, so the graves were built above-ground. Bathed in starlight, they stood like ordered blocks of ice, white and polished. Most were unadorned stone boxes, but a few elaborate mausoleums bore the names of families long important in the province.
Like the nation itself, the cemetery had fallen on hard times. Weeds sprouted around the foundations of the monuments. Grass grew knee high and choked the pathways. Vines girded graves great and humble. Here and there, the stone boxes had collapsed from weather or the attentions of grave robbers. The broken graves were quickly claimed by weeds. Cemeteries were melancholy places in the best of times. The one outside Gateway was a somber testament to the tragedy of a nation.
Standing alone on one of the overgrown paths was a figure draped in a long linen duster. She stepped from the deep shade of an obelisk and starlight washed her pale features in cool radiance. Her face might have graced an elegant statue atop one of the finer monuments. Her astonishing beauty overlaid by deep pain, Alhana Starbreeze was the living embodiment of mourning.
The whir of a nightjar made her start. Then a figure, cloaked and hooded like herself, emerged from the grass-choked side path.
“What word?” she murmured.
The newcomer drew back his cowl, revealing a lean countenance, almond-shaped eyes, and a high, pale forehead. Like Alhana, Samar was a Silvanesti. There was a glint of iron at his throat, a warrior’s gorget.
“Nothing to confirm the rumors, lady, but nothing to disprove them either.”
The line of her jaw hardened. Every day she lingered in this land was dangerous and expensive. Danger she could bear, but there was little she could do to lessen the drain on her slender purse.
She asked no more questions, preferring to hear Samar’s full report when they rejoined their party. They mounted their waiting horses and, with Alhana in the lead, left the deserted cemetery.
Samar followed three steps behind, as he felt was proper. Long acquaintance allowed him to recognize his lady’s disappointment. Hope had buoyed her for a while, and she’d had precious little of it lately, but she was coming to realize the folly of the dream she chased.