One by one the prisoners were hauled away from the table by their necks and locked into one of the two pillories. Two demonslavers pulled the rods from the black kettles; the ends of the rods came out glowing bright red. Branding irons.
Before each of the slavers pressed his hot iron to skin, he looked up to Krassus, waiting for a sign. And each time, before giving his blessing, the wizard in the two-colored robe would look down for an indication from the men at the tables. Then he would indicate with either his right hand or his left.
As the demonslavers pressed the heated irons into the left shoulders of the prisoners, screams resounded through the night. Many if not most of them fainted away in the stocks, and were dragged by their necks to separate areas on the pier. When one prisoner was finished, another immediately took his or her place. As the excruciating process continued, Tristan saw that one group of slaves was becoming noticeably larger than the other.
Faegan lowered his head. Shailiha closed her eyes, brushing tears from her face. Only Tristan's eyes remained locked on the gruesome scene, his hands balled up into fists and his jaw clenched with the frustration of not being able to take action. Finally he, too, could take no more, and he slowly closed his eyes against the spectacle.
Those prisoners were his people, the prince realized in shame and horror, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to help them. Was that what Krassus' taunts had meant? What in the name of the Afterlife was it all about?
At last, blessedly, the branding stopped, all of the prisoners having been marked with a rod from one kettle or the other. The moaning and crying of the victims was softer now.
Those who had fainted were revived by having cold seawater splashed in their faces. Then the two groups were marched down the piers to the waiting frigates and forced up the gangways. Full of despair, Tristan lowered his head.
Suddenly a long, silent, moonlit shadow flowed darkly across the roof between him and his sister. Then came another, and yet another. Tristan tugged silently on the sleeve of the wizard's robe, slid the dreggan from its scabbard, and smoothly rolled over onto his back. He was on his feet in a flash, his dreggan in a strong, two-handed grip.
Three demonslavers stood near the ladder at the other side of the roof, the rose-colored moonlight glinting off their alabaster skin. Each of them held a short sword. Two of them smiled.
Just then Shailiha turned to see why Tristan had risen, and the air left her lungs in a rush. Turning over, Faegan also looked. But before anything could be done, all three slavers charged at once.
Tristan ran across the roof, his dreggan slashing as he went. The first of the slavers he met died quickly, its head cleanly severed from its body.
But the next two would not be so easy. They hacked savagely at Tristan, who fended them off as best he could, his sword almost a blur. But inexorably they came on, forcing him to keep backing up toward the wizard and the princess, as the three blades clanged coldly, harshly against one another.
Shailiha looked aghast at Faegan, silently beseeching him to intervene with the craft, no matter the consequences.
The demonslavers were closing on Tristan, and it was plain to see that the prince was tiring. Faegan relaxed his mind and stopped cloaking their endowed blood.
Just then Tristan lost his footing on the slick roof and fell hard on his back. Sensing victory, the two monsters rushed in, swords held high. Faegan raised both his arms.
Twin azure bolts tore across the roof directly over Tristan. He could feel the searing heat, see the blinding azure light, and sense the rush of the wind as the force of them ripped at his hair and clothing and almost tore the dreggan from his hands. Turning his head and gritting his teeth, he held on to the sword with all his might.
Shailiha glanced down at Krassus and saw him suddenly stiffen. With a smile, he motioned to a group of about twenty demonslavers, then pointed to the roof of the inn.
Faegan's bolts struck each of the slavers squarely in the chest. Tristan, his eyes still closed, heard their bodies being ripped apart; he felt and smelled the sickening offal, blood, and sinew splattering down on him. In a matter of seconds, it was over.
He opened his eyes and saw one of the monsters' short, shiny swords lying quietly beside him in the moonlight.
But where was the other?
Wildly turning his head to the sky, he saw the shiny, silver point of the second sword. Launched skyward by the explosions of the wizard's bolts, it was free-falling straight down at him.
He started to roll to one side, realizing even as he moved that he was too late.
Suddenly an azure hand grasped the sword only inches from his throat. Wasting no time, Tristan rolled away, coming to his hands and knees in the slick, bloody mess. As the glow of the craft disappeared, he watched the sword fall harmlessly to the roof with a clang. He picked it up with his free hand and ran to Shailiha and Faegan.
The wizard was already seated in his chair, but the look on his face was far from reassuring. Tristan shoved the demonslaver's sword into Shailiha's hands. "Do you remember your fencing lessons?" he shouted urgently.
Smiling, she nodded.
"There is no time for talk!" Faegan growled, pointing toward the opposite side of the roof. "By now Krassus will surely know we are here! Make for the horses!"
Tristan, sword still in hand, looked briefly into his sister's eyes. Then they both sprinted across the slippery, blood-soaked roof. Faegan levitated his chair and soared ahead of them.
The wizard reached the edge first and looked down. Other than the tied horses and the abandoned cart, he saw nothing, but he knew that the relative peace of the alleyway wouldn't last much longer. He swung the chair back near the prince and his sister.
"Both of you-onto my chair, now!" he ordered.
Somewhat bewildered, the two of them did as they were told. Shailiha sat on the wizard's lap; Tristan clung to one of the chair arms. Then Faegan steered his chair over the side of the roof.
On the way down Tristan saw about twenty demonslavers working their way through the crowd and up the side street, viciously using their whips, swords, and tridents to clear a path.
Faegan hurried his chair downward as fast as he could safely manage. About one meter above the backs of the horses, he stopped and looked frantically at the prince and his sister.
"Jump!"
Tristan immediately let go, falling the remaining distance to the ground. As he ran to untie their horses, out of the corner of his eye he saw Shailiha drop directly into her saddle, the demonslaver's sword still in one hand. She masterfully whirled her horse around.
Faegan levitated himself from his chair and, with a wave of one hand, let it go. The centuries-old chair fell to the ground, smashing into pieces. Ignoring it, he lowered himself into the saddle atop the third horse. Tristan leapt into his saddle and wheeled his mount around, his back to the wall of the inn, to look down their escape route toward the end of the alley.
The rear door of the inn opened a crack. A gleam of soft, yellow light cut through the darkness of the alleyway, spilling out onto the ground.
It was the greasy innkeeper. Raising a demonslaver sword high in both hands, the point forward, he charged at the prince's back.
Shailiha noticed the sudden light and raised her sword. Spurring her horse forward, she used the momentum to shove her blade directly into the man's throat; it went through his neck and came out the back. She pulled her weapon out hard and swung it.
Tristan wheeled his horse around just in time to see his sister swing her stolen blade in a perfect arc, taking the innkeeper's head cleanly off at the neck. The headless body remained standing for a moment, as if it were still somehow in control of itself. Then what was left of the innkeeper fell forward, into the alleyway in front of Shailiha's horse. Blood poured from the ravaged neck into the thirsty dirt.