“The medium-sized tower near us has only a couple of draconians in it.” Rig seemed pleased with himself for collecting that piece of news. “The administrator of the stronghold, a Sivak draconian called Lord Sivaan, has his office there. Humans are held in the area of the castle near it.”
Palin crept to the front of the stall and looked up at the black sand tower. “The draconians are needed for the transformation spell. A portion of their spirit is used to create spawn. We’ll have to kill them to keep Khellendros from using them again.”
“Fine, you do that. I want to go after the prisoners,” Rig said.
“That’s the plan,” Palin replied. “We’ll wait until close to midnight. Most of the knights and brutes should be sleeping then.”
“I want to go after the prisoners now—before somebody decides to bring the elephants some water and discovers about half of their new barrels are broken and empty.”
“What?” Palin asked, almost too loudly. He dropped his voice to a whisper again and edged farther back into the darkness of the stall “What did you do?”
Rig grinned. “When I was helping stack the barrels, I used a dagger to make a few strategic holes. “The sand’ll absorb a lot of the water, but I suspect there’ll be a spreading wet spot that gets noticed sooner or later. I thought drastically cutting their water supply was a great idea. Strike them where it’ll hurt the most.”
Palin inhaled sharply. That would certainly Hurt the knights—and alert them that something was terribly wrong. They’d be scouring the place for saboteurs soon. “All right, let’s move,” he said. He turned to address the mariner. “You’ll have to be careful—and quiet—going after the prisoners. It won’t be easy.”
“Sure it will.” The kender stopped staring at the elephant long enough to reach into the folds of her robe and pull out a bulging leather bag. It had a cork stopper and made a sloshing sound as she passed it to Rig. “Paint,” she said. “Got it off one of the wagons. Figured the … brutes, I think you called them, wouldn’t miss this little bit. And if it does have magical protection properties, more’s the better.”
Several minutes later Rig walked toward the area of the castle that housed the prisoners. He had left most of his clothes in the stall with the elephant—along with all but three of his weapons. His cutlass remained strapped to his side, and he carried a dagger in his right hand. Feril had fashioned a loincloth for him out of part of his robe, and a second dagger was carefully thrust into the waistband. Blister had painted the loincloth to match the mariner’s skin and short hair. He wasn’t as tall as most of the brutes, but he was nearly as muscular, and the growing shadows helped his disguise.
The blue mariner confidently strode past a trio of patrolling knights, who gave him only a casual glance. Then he quietly slipped into the shadows of an archway. A moment after the knights walked by, Palin glided from the stall, clinging to the shadows and heading toward the medium-sized tower. He had two of the mariner’s daggers with him, and retained the hooded cloak. If he was caught, he’d claim he was left behind when the caravan pulled away and was just looking for a place to sleep.
Feril and Blister watched the sorcerer disappear into the doorway. Then the Kagonesti crept forward and stood next to the elephant. She ran her fingers over the animal’s coarse, wrinkled skin, reached up and scratched behind its massive ear. She was awed by the seemingly gentle creature. Next, she fashioned her lump of clay into an approximation of the elephant, and within minutes she and the elephant were involved in a meaningful conversation filled with “wuffles” and snorts, which Blister complained about not understanding.
There were two brutes with pointed ears in a small chamber just inside one of the outside archways of the castle. They were sharpening their swords on pieces of stone and initially paid the mariner no heed. A shadowy corridor stretched beyond them, and Rig started to walk toward it. But the brutes sniffed the air, eyed the mariner a little more closely, and then decided that he wasn’t one of them.
The largest, nearly seven feet tall, was the first on his feet, barking words at Rig in an unknown language. The mariner answered by throwing one of his daggers. It lodged in the brute’s throat. The large man backed up against the wall, sliding down into a seated position. He pulled the dagger from his throat, and pressed his hands over the wound. His breathing was labored, but he did not die.
The wounded brute’s companion rushed forward, swinging his blade and yelling.
Rig darted below the brute’s swing and at the same time, thrust upward with his cutlass, intending to skewer the fellow. But the blue man was agile and deftly stepped aside. “Intruder,” he sneered at Rig through clenched teeth. The brute was no longer speaking the mysterious tongue.
The brute lunged again, and the mariner barely missed being run through, pressing himself up against the sand wall just in time. As the brute stepped past him, Rig pushed off and drove his elbow into the man’s side. But the force of the blow didn’t faze the warrior, whose blue-painted skin seemed to function like armor. The mariner ducked to avoid another slash.
To buy himself several feet of maneuvering room, Rig started down the corridor, then turned to face his charging opponent. His left hand dropped to his loincloth and the dagger there. In one motion, he grabbed the weapon and flung it. The mariner’s aim was good, and the blade sank into the brute’s stomach up to the pommel.
He didn’t topple. The healing properties of the paint sustained him and the muscular blue man looked down at the dagger, gripped the pommel, and tugged it free. Bright red blood poured from the mortal wound, but the brute was determined to keep on his feet until he could take the intruder down with him.
With a guttural growl, the brute darted forward, raising his sword high above his head. Rig crouched and raised his cutlass, ready to meet the blow. Then suddenly the brute was flying through the air, his sword clattering at Rig’s feet.
The brute had slipped on his own blood. The mariner jumped to the side to avoid the falling warrior, and drove his cutlass between the man’s shoulder blades. The brute didn’t get up.
Rig took a few deep breaths and glanced around. The other brute sat against the wall, his eyes open and unblinking. The effect of the paint had not been enough to overcome the mortal wound.
The clamor had been brief, and likely muted by the thick sand walls. No one had come to investigate—yet. He retrieved his two daggers, wiped them on the fallen brute’s loin-doth, and tugged his cutlass free. Then he hurried down the corridor in search of the prisoners.
Palin made his way up a curving staircase. With Rig’s daggers he had dispatched the pair of unprepared guards at the bottom of the stairs. The sorcerer had briefly considered using a spell that would put them to sleep, but realized he needed to save his energy for future spells.
He thought the way was clear until he suddenly encountered another knight at the top of the stairs.
“You’re not supposed to be here, nomad,” the knight sneered. He stared into the recesses of Palin’s hood. “You’d best leave and catch your caravan.”
“It left a while ago,” Palin said.
The knight reached over to remove Palin’s hood and the sorcerer ducked below the man’s grip.
“Intruder!” barked the knight, bringing his blade above his head and driving it down.
Palin lunged away, but not fast enough. The sword cut into his arm and he couldn’t help but cry out.
“I haven’t time for this!” Palin hissed between clenched teeth.
The man charged him. The sorcerer cast a summoning spell on himself and disappeared. The knight rushed through the empty space where Palin had once been and clattered down the stairs, ending up in a motionless heap near the bottom.