The man's grip tightened. The raven cawed again.
Walloch stepped to within a pace of her and put the tip of his rapier beneath her left breast. "You're lucky he wants the boy unharmed, or I'd lop off a few of his fingers to show you what happens to those who cross me. But you? My buyer says whoever else I snag is mine to keep. I might sell you. Pretty western wench like you ought to sell well. Or I might keep you and teach you some manners. Eh, bukhla?"
Walloch chuckled and shook his head. "I'm through being nice," he said, then raised his voice to a booming shout. "Boy! Hey, boy! I got your mother! Come back now, boy! Come back and I promise you no harm will come to your mother! You have the word of Walloch! You keep hiding and… well, I may have to start cutting!" The slaver brought his waterskin to his lips, took a long drink, then leered at Amira.
"Or maybe something else, eh?"
Amira wanted to spit in his face, but her mouth was dry as dust, and cold and weak as she was, she was half afraid it might come out a whimper. She clenched her jaw and looked away.
"Come back, boy!" Walloch shouted. "Come back and we go to the fires for some food, eh? I give you to twenty, then I start on your mother!" He took a deep breath. "One!"
The raven cawed again, and Amira heard branches rustling overhead.
"Two!"
The raven cried out twice. Walloch looked up. "Damned bird," he muttered, then-"Three!"
The count continued, Walloch pausing for a few breaths between each shout and drinking from the skin a few times. The raven continued its cawing, but Walloch ignored it.
"Eleven! Come on, boy! Hurry! Your time's half gone!"
Still the raven cawed.
"Twelve!" Walloch swallowed the last of his water, then looked to Amira. "Little bastard does know how to count, doesn't he?"
The men holding her laughed, and the raven called again. The bird seemed to be making the Nar and Tuigan nervous.
"Thirteen! Thirteen, damn it all!"
Amira heard a faint rustling. At first she thought it was only the raven moving around again, but the sound grew stronger-and it was coming from the direction in which Jalan and his pursuers had disappeared. The flickering hope in Amira sputtered and died.
"Fourtee-ee-een!" Walloch roared.
The sound of someone running through the thick brush grew louder.
Walloch nudged Amira with the tip of his blade. "Seems he can count after all. Maybe we forget the cutting and get to the other, eh?
Teach you a lesson. Maybe I let the others have turns and make your son watch."
The sounds of running feet came very loud now, perhaps amplified by the thick mist. Sick to her stomach, Amira forced her blood-caked eye open and watched. The raven cawed and cawed and cawed.
A figured emerged from the mist.
It wasn't Jalan. It was one of the men Walloch sent out-the one who'd held the hounds. His companion was nowhere to be seen, nor were the hounds.
"Iquai?" said Walloch, seemingly more confused than angry.
"Where's my dogs, you worthless-?"
The man fell to his knees, one hand gripping his side and one hand holding on to the Nar for support. Even from several paces away, Amira caught the stench. The man had soiled himself. He twisted to one side, turning toward the torchlight, and Amira saw blood leaking between his fingers at his side. The Nar pushed the man away and he fell. An arrow-wood so pale as to be almost white but with fletching black as a raven's wing-stood out from the man's back. The man tried to speak but could not gather his breath.
"What-?" Walloch's jaw opened, shut, then opened again. He seemed more stunned than angry.
The breeze that had been whispering out of the north suddenly picked up to a full wind, setting the branches to rustling and stretching the mists into thin tendrils that fled like ghosts between the trunks. A pale, horned moon peeked through autumn-bare branches and bathed the little hollow in silver light.
A dozen paces or so behind the dying Iquai, standing just outside the shadow of a large tree, Amira saw two shapes. One was a man, tall and thick with muscle, his black hair corded in a long braid. He held a bow in one hand-not the short bows of the Tuigan, suited for loosing from a saddle, but a long horn bow at least a pace and a half in length. Standing to his left was another figure, his hair white as snow, bits of pale skin peeking out amid sinuous tattoos, but he was dressed like his companion in leathers and animal skins. The pale-haired one held a sword in one hand, single-edged and slightly curved near the end. Overhead, the cawing of the raven ceased.
"Release the woman," said the man. His voice held no anger, no threat. It was simply cold and unyielding.
"And who are you?" asked Walloch.
The newcomers said nothing.
"You feathered my man here, eh?" said Walloch, motioning with his sword at Iquai.
Still the newcomers stood silent.
"You an elf?" asked one of the Tuigan, motioning to the figure behind the large newcomer.
The pale-haired newcomer didn't look at the man who'd spoken. He kept his gaze on Walloch. Amira studied him more closely. His hair flowing in the wind seemed gossamer fine. In the merging light from the moon and torches, Amira could see ears that curved upward into sharp points. An elf. He glanced at her, for an instant only, but in that moment the torchlight caught in his eyes and they shone like embers. After first entering the Wastes so many tendays ago, she and her companions had camped on the open steppe. Wolves had come in close to the camp one night. The Cormyreans and their guides had kept the fires going, and the light from the flames reflected back from the wolves' eyes-exactly as they did from the elf's now.
"That's a vildonrat," said the other Tuigan. His eyes were wide, and even in the dim light, Amira could see his knees were trembling.
"Vildonrat?" Walloch smirked. "What's that? That mean 'pale elf' or something?"
"Your Tuigan sellswords have thick tongues," said the tall man.
"He is Vil Adanrath."
The Tuigan tensed and exchanged nervous glances. One lowered his blade and took a step back.
"Vil Adanrath?" said Walloch. "What's that mean, eh?"
"It means you'd be wise not to anger him."
"Piss on you and the vildonrat," said Walloch. "Off with you both, or you'll join the wench. I could get a good price for you, big one.
You'd make a fine pit fighter, I think."
A crackle of leaves and branches, and Walloch turned to see all but one of his Tuigan men running away. He now stood with only one Tuigan, the Nar, and the two men holding Amira.
"Jodai, what's the meaning of this? Your men just lost their promised gold!"
The remaining Tuigan swallowed hard, his gaze still fixed on the elf. "Keep your gold, Walloch. We'll keep our blood. Only fools anger the vildonrat." The Tuigan sheathed his blade, bowed to the pale elf, then turned and fled after his fellows.
"Damned cowards!" Walloch called after them. "Keep your blood! Ha!
Forget your gold, you bastards! You'll lose your blood, too, next time I see you!"
The two men holding Amira looked after the Tuigan, but the Nar kept his eyes on the newcomers.
"Go after them," said the tall man. "Leave the woman and go. We'll take care of your friend holding my arrow."
"Piss on him!" said Walloch. "And you! You know who I am?"
"You're a slaver. The caravan trails are thick with them this time of year."
"I am Walloch! Battlemage and master of the arcane arts of Raumathar!"
The tall man raised his head and sniffed. "You smell like a slaver."
Walloch stiffened, puffed out his chest, and took a step closer to Amira. He raised the point of his rapier toward her. "Maybe I kill her first, then you, eh? This is no ordinary blade, my friend. I pulled this from the corpse of a great wizard that died hundreds of years before your whore of a mother first sold herself to your father."
The tall man glanced at Amira, then said, "Durja! Aniq, Durja!"
"Mingan! Aniq, Mingan!"
Amira jumped, for it was the pale elf who spoke, his voice both light and cold.
"What's that, eh?" said Walloch, and Amira could hear fear and anger in the slaver's voice. "What's that you're saying?"