Chained By Fear: 2 Page 18

  “Hallo, friends!” the leader said. “We were passing through and couldn’t help but notice the contents of your cart. We’ve come to offer you a better price than you can hope to receive in the markets.”

  Still concealing his face within the folds of his hood, Torg walked over to the leader. Torg was a span taller and also thicker in the chest and shoulders, though not nearly so large in the waist.

  “We’ll keep what’s ours,” Torg said. “If you and your friends wish to live, you’ll run as fast and far from this place as your legs can manage. But all of you must empty your pockets first.”

  The heavy man seemed amazed, and for a moment could think of no response. But when he regained his wits, his voice sounded threatening.

  “There are ten of us and five of you,” he said, and then looked at Elu. “Make that four and a half.” Then he guffawed, mucus spurting from his wide nostrils.

  “Were there ten hundred of you, you would not be our match,” Torg said.

  Elu brandished a dagger, causing the thug to laugh even louder. But Torg was not amused. “I’m in no mood for debate. I’ll give you one more chance. Empty your pockets—and flee. If you do this, I’ll allow you to live.”

  Bard and Ugga joined Torg and Elu. Rathburt remained by the cart, looking uneasy.

  “Let Elu kill the nasty fat man,” the Svakaran said, his face flushed.

  Howls of laughter ensued but were cut short when Elu lunged and buried his dagger in the leader’s lumpy thigh. As the bandit howled, Torg struck him between the eyebrows with a closed fist, delivering the blow with superhuman strength. The man’s skull shattered, and the front portion of his brain burst apart, killing him instantly.

  A wiry man, the most courageous of those who remained, leapt at Torg. But Ugga was quicker, striking at him with his axe. The man’s head flipped in the air and landed near Rathburt’s feet. In quick succession, Bard struck three more of the men in their chests with arrows loosed from Jord’s bow. The others screamed and fled toward the woods, with Elu in hot pursuit. The Svakaran caught up to one, jumped on his back, and cut his throat. The pair tumbled head over heels, but Elu scrambled to his feet, unharmed. The four remaining thugs escaped into the nearby forest, but not before discarding their purses and weapons. Elu returned with their purses while Bard and Ugga searched the dead men nearby.

  Rathburt walked over to Torg, his slump more pronounced than ever. “Was that really necessary? Wouldn’t a ‘no thank you’ have sufficed?”

  Torg gestured toward the refugee camp. “Anyone despicable enough to take advantage of such pitiful people must be a friend of the sorcerer—and therefore, my enemy.”

  Elu emptied the purses and held out his small hand to Torg. “Just a dozen pence.”

  “The fat guy had one gold coin and a few pence,” Ugga said. “That’s all we can find.”

  “What should we do with the bodies?” Bard said.

  “Throw them in a gully and cover them with stones,” Torg said. “I doubt any soldiers from Kamupadana will come this way, but it’s best we don’t make it too easy to arouse suspicion.”

  Torg held the Silver Sword in his right hand. With his left, he lifted the fat man’s corpse by its scraggly hair and hacked off his head with a single stroke. “I’ll dispose of this myself. There are those in Kamupadana who might recognize his injuries as the work of a Tugar.”

  After that dirty business was done, they started down the hillock toward the ninth wall, skirting the edge of the refugee camp to avoid as much of the stink as possible. A deluge of people now flowed along the paved processional leading to the massive exterior wall. Carts, oxen and mules toted food, fabrics, spirits and a variety of narcotics. They saw merchants, noblemen, village folk and whores of both sexes. Most were probably headed for the congested markets within the ninth wall where an astonishing variety of goods could be purchased, sold or traded.

  Though Torg and his companions had seen the ninth wall before, it still amazed them. It was the tallest and broadest of the nine, standing one hundred cubits high and forty wide. A series of merlons and embrasures protected the soldiers on the walk, and more than two hundred watchtowers rose another thirty cubits above the crenellation. An army of sorcerers had built the perfectly square wall fifty millennia ago, or so it was believed, molding it out of a cream-colored stone that resembled obsidian in feel and granite in strength. All told it was ten miles long, two and a half miles per side. No army could scale it, no war machines could assault it. In all of Triken it had no equal, except for the three concentric bulwarks that enclosed the fortress of Nissaya.

  On this particular morning, tens of thousands made their way toward the gateway. A single slab of stone guarded the lone visible entrance, and it was raised and lowered like a titanic portcullis. When closed, it was as impenetrable as any other part of the wall. But with the strength of Avici protecting its back, the keepers of Kamupadana lived without fear, leaving the door open day and night to admit and release the inundation of vendors and visitors. Despite the width of the entryway, a funneling effect occurred that created a dangerous crush of flesh, wood and metal. Torg knew that the soldiers of Kamupadana, all of whom were female, watched the influx from the ground and from above. Occasionally, a visitor who looked especially filthy, diseased or troublesome was dragged away, never to be seen again in this world.

  Once inside the gate, the mob split left and right, heading toward whatever vendor held the most promise for their needs. A staggering array of markets—some huge, some managed by single merchants—was arranged side by side within the ninth wall. Just three hundred paces separated it from the eighth wall. The most prosperous markets were near the entryway, while the least prestigious booths were almost five miles from the gate, making for a wearisome journey.

  Ugga and Bard headed to the right and moved down a narrow dirt road choked with hordes of people. The crossbreed didn’t hesitate to shove them aside. Few protested, once they got a good look at him. Torg and Rathburt guided the oxen while Elu rode in the cart to avoid being trampled.

  It took the rest of the morning for them to reach the first corner of the giant square. At least the crowds had thinned enough to permit steady progress.

  “How much farther?” Torg said to Ugga.

  “Less than a mile,” the crossbreed said. “But we don’t have to go hungry till then. There is a vendor just a little ways ahead who sells skewered meat and roasted corn. Bard and I knows her well. Our gold coin will buy us hefty meals and goblets of the best wine around.”

  “Lead on,” Torg said. “We’re all hungry as bears.”

  “Elu has had the skewered meat too,” the Svakaran said. “People from my village used to come here a lot. But now . . .”

  He bowed his head.

  “Don’t cry, little guy,” Ugga said. “Ya won’t enjoy your wine as much if ya get all weepy.”

  As it turned out, the gold coin bought ten skewers of beef, twenty ears of corn, five loaves of bread and a large keg of wine—and they even received four silvers as change. The vendor, a woman not much taller than Elu, allowed them to sit beneath a tarp out of the sun. She seemed to like Ugga, but she obviously adored the handsome Bard, even if he was currently disheveled.

  “If you get sick of the Blondies, come and see me before you go,” she said. “I’ll treat you better than any of them, and it won’t cost you a pence.”

  Rathburt laughed at every word she said, slapping Bard on the back several times.

  “Why would you want a Blondie when you could have such a diminutive beauty?” Rathburt said.

  “If ya keep saying that, I’ll knock off your head and have her skewer that too,” Bard whispered harshly. “Quit giving her ideas, Master Slump. It’s hard enough for me to get away with my breeches still on, as is.”

  “Master Slump?” Ugga said. “That’s a good one. Master Slump!”

  Now it was Bard’s turn to laugh, while Rathburt seethed.

  After yet another tedious walk, t
hey finally came to the merchant who paid the most for quality hides. He was a grouchy old man used to standing up to people more dangerous than he. Ugga and Bard argued with him until midafternoon before agreeing on a price. After the skins and coins passed hands, they seemed to become great friends, hugging and laughing. Torg, Rathburt and Elu sat in the shade with their backs against the eighth wall, watching the proceedings.

  When Bard and Ugga strolled back to their three friends, they wore rascally smiles.

  “Welllll?” Rathburt said.

  The woodsmen snatched Elu’s cooking utensils off the cart and rushed away.

  “Wait!” Rathburt said. “Where are you going?”

  But Bard and Ugga trotted several hundred paces before feeling comfortable enough to tell the others what happened.

  “We robbed him,” the crossbreed finally said. “He paid us more than ever before. He even bought the cart and oxies!”

  “We’re rich,” Bard said. “Thanks be to our dear Jord, wherever she might be.”

  “What exactly is your definition of rich?” Rathburt said.

  “Ten golds for the skins,” Bard said, “and twenty silvers and a hundred pence for the cart and oxies.”

  Rathburt let out an exaggerated gasp. “Oh my, we are rich,” he said, rolling his eyes. He then turned to Torg. “For Anna’s sake, you or I could have gotten three times that much in any market in Senasana.”

  Bard scrunched his face. “Ya are a mean old man, Master Slump. Ya are always saying bad things about me and Ugga.”

  Torg stepped between them. “The coins you received are more than enough to meet our needs. I don’t plan to stay here long—probably not more than a single night. And it’s good you sold the cart. When we leave here, we’ll be carrying our provisions on our backs. That is, whoever still wishes to go with me. Anyone who would rather stay here and spend the rest of our newly acquired riches on Blondies and Brounettos is welcome to do so. Where I’m going, coins won’t have much value.”

  “Ya know we’re all going with ya,” Ugga said. “But can’t we have a couple days of fun before we head back into the wilderness? Bard and Ugga know where to find a comfy inn with soft beds, good food, and great beer. It even has copper tubs with lots of sweetsy soap. And nice robes to wear while they’re washing our clothes. Later on, we can go to the brothels. One silver will buy a Brounetto for the whole night.”

  “Lead us to the inn,” Torg said. “I need a bath least of any of you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy one. Just remember our plan. I’m to be called Hana. And stay out of trouble. The Kamupadanan soldiers are quick to anger.”

  “They’ll be good boys, I’m sure,” Rathburt said. “But let’s stop all this chatting. A hot bath in a copper tub sounds more attractive than an army of Brounettos.”

  The ninth wall had only one visible gate. But the eighth wall, which was miniature in comparison, contained hundreds of doors leading to the inns and taverns, all of which employed their own warders. The brothels within the seventh wall also were self-policed, while Kamupadanan soldiers frequented the public baths within the sixth wall.

  During the height of day, more than one hundred thousand were said to occupy the Whore City, and ten thousand female soldiers, whose quarters were within the fifth wall, were said to patrol it. The royal personnel who served the Warlish witches lived within the fourth wall. A dozen temples were within the third. Four castles housing noblewomen and their slaves stood within the second. And the ziggurat, home of the Warlish witches and their hags, dominated the heart of the city within the first.

  Finally rid of the cart and its skins, the men felt as free as parents who had arranged a nanny for a brood of squalling brats. As a cool breeze began to swirl, Ugga and Bard led them through a small bronze gate in the eighth wall.

  “Winter isn’t finished yet,” Rathburt said. “It appears this beautiful day will end on a sour note. How far is the inn?”

  “Not far, Master Slump,” Ugga said.

  “So . . . we hold grudges, do we?”

  “Hmmmph!”

  More than a thousand paces separated the eighth and seventh walls, creating a much roomier feel than the cramped space that contained the markets. Inns and taverns stood side by side as far as the eye could see. But few had vacancies. Kamupadana was a gathering place for almost everyone and everything that traveled the wilds of the north. Humans were the most numerous visitors, but Torg knew that it wasn’t unusual to see monsters of various shapes and sizes wandering the streets. Some who visited the Whore City were mortal enemies outside the walls, making murder and mayhem a common theme within. But crimes almost always occurred in dark rooms or back alleys. The soldiers treated harshly anyone who disrupted order in plain sight. And if the occasional monster was too difficult for the soldiers to handle, the Warlish witches were more than equal to the task. A single witch was dangerous enough, but when witches fought in groups, they ranked among the deadliest beings on Triken.

  How many witches resided in Kamupadana? Only the Warlish knew the exact number, but Torg had heard that as many as one hundred were there. Plus, each witch traveled with as many as a dozen hags as personal servants. The hags were failed witches, born either hideously ugly or wondrously beautiful but without the ability to change appearances. They lacked the magical powers of a full witch but were physically strong and adored their mistresses, fighting to the death in their defense.

  Ugga and Bard’s favorite inn was sturdily made out of smooth stone blocks. A turret stood ten cubits above the inn’s flat roof, with an archer serving as lookout. A grated gate protected the front entryway. Ugga rang a bell enthusiastically.

  After a short wait, Rathburt impatiently reached for the string, but Bard stepped in front of him.

  “She gets mad if ya ring it twice.”

  Ever cautious, Rathburt backed away.

  Finally, a heavy wooden door inside the gate swung open, and an obese woman eased her way into the foyer.

  The crossbreed approached her, his arms spread wide. “Surely ya remembers your good friends Ugga and Bard! Do ya have any rooms to spare? There be five of us needing a turn in your tubs in the worse way.”

  The woman tugged on a thick chain and the grated gate rattled inward. At first she glared at Ugga, as if infuriated. But then she surrendered her ruse and laughed good-naturedly.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you,” she bellowed. “Do I have rooms to spare? As a matter of fact, I’ve a pair on the third level that will hold all five of you. As for your needing baths, I wholeheartedly agree. Each one of you, except for your hooded companion, smells like a wild beast.”

  “Even I crave a hot bath, good lady,” Torg said softly.

  “Aaaah! A man with manners. Will wonders never cease? Come in, gentlemen. The comforts of my inn are yours to enjoy—for one gold coin per night.”

  Rathburt eyed her suspiciously. “Is that one for all of us? Or apiece?”

  “One for all, of course. Do you take me for a thief?”

  “My pardon, madam. That’s certainly a fair price for such a fine establishment. It’s just that we’ve dealt with unwholesome characters lately, and I’ve become distrustful.”

  The woman wrapped a flabby arm around Rathburt’s shoulder. “Well, it would be one apiece if you weren’t so damn handsome.”

  “Madam, you honor me. And the feeling is mutual. What’s your name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  She frowned. “Around here, folks don’t reveal their names. Madam, good lady, missus, or even fatso will suffice.” Then her expression brightened again. “Come in, gentlemen. It’s been a gorgeous day, but I do believe it’s about to rain. Allow me to show you to your rooms. And it just so happens I have five copper tubs sitting vacant. I’ll prepare your baths while my assistant beats the dust out of your cloaks and washes your underclothes. Will you be dining out or in your rooms? This late in the day, I can only provide a cold meal with warm beer. But if you prefer something hot, the tavern next door s
erves supper past midnight.”

  “We’d like to eat in our rooms,” Torg said. “But we may go to the tavern later in the evening.”

  Compared to what they had become used to over the past several months, the accommodations were luxurious. They lathered up with the “sweetsy soap,” eventually smelling even better than the Blondies and Brounettos. Afterward, they neatened their hair and beards with wooden combs and metal scissors. Torg examined his face in a polished mirror. Over the winter, his hair had grown past his ears and his teeth to full size. Even his skin had healed, though he was pale by desert standards.

  “If you admire yourself too long, you’ll miss dinner,” Rathburt said.

  Torg laughed. “Even a Death-Knower is allowed a moment of vanity. Especially after what I’ve been through. I’m not used to being mistaken for an ogre.”

  “Don’t worry . . . you’re as handsome as ever, you bastard.”

  27

  When the men returned to their rooms, the sun was setting over the mammoth ninth wall. It had rained a bit while they bathed, but the storm had passed quickly, leaving much cooler air in its wake. The nameless innkeeper supplied them with bathrobes, and they wore only those—legs spread unabashedly—as they sat in wooden chairs around a sturdy table, eating cold beef sprinkled with salt and garlic and dark bread slathered with chestnut butter. For dessert, they had ripe cheese and dried berries. The beer, as Ugga had promised, was excellent. By the time darkness arrived, they had eaten all the food and drunk an entire keg. Except for Torg, their spirits were high. Ugga and Bard seemed ready for a party, and even Rathburt and Elu were laughing. The Svakaran, however, was the first to notice Torg’s melancholy mood, and he climbed out of his chair and placed a small hand on Torg’s knee.

  “What troubles you, great one?”