Six

Anna shivered, and hugged her knees to her chest. She had spent an uncomfortable night in the wagon, huddled against Marielle. She had awakened not long after sunrise, and spent the next few hours jostled by the wagon's passage over the rough terrain.

Around midday, the wagons came to a halt. Hovering just a few feet off the ground was a wooden galley, floating in the air like a boat on the water. A large hatch had been opened in the side of the airship, creating a gangplank up into the darkness of the hold.

The dwarf in charge of the caravan climbed down off the wagon seat, and crossed over to a tall, thin man dressed in a hooded gray robe. Anna watched as the two talked for a few minutes, and she saw the robed man pass a large leather pouch to the dwarf. The dwarf reached into the pouch, and pulled out several small items. Anna couldn't make out the details, but something in the dwarf's hand reflected the sunlight.

The dwarf was apparently happy with what the robed man had given him, bowed, and turned back toward the wagons. He began shouting orders, and the warriors escorting the wagons drew their weapons. The dwarf walked from wagon to wagon, unlocking the cage doors, and the warriors began herding the prisoners toward the galley.

Anna heard the other people in the wagon whispering, and heard somebody mention "Questor of Dis". Anna looked up at Marielle. "What's happening?"

Marielle looked down at Anna, a strained smile on her face, but she didn't answer.

The dwarf came over to their wagon and unlocked the door. For the first time since the villagers were taken, he spoke in Throalic. "Out." His voice was rough and accented. When the captives hesitated, it took on a sharp, commanding edge. "Move!"

The captives obeyed. The threat of violence, embodied by the armed guards, added to the feeling of barely controlled panic. Outside the wagon, the line of prisoners was being marched up the gangplank.

A wiry young man with sandy hair broke from the line and started running toward the nearby trees. One of the guards moved to intercept him, and clubbed him on the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. The young man fell, and the guard -- an olive skinned human with greasy black hair and scruffy beard -- kicked the youth twice in the stomach for good measure. After the runner stopped struggling, the guard, with the help of a brawny ork, dragged the youth to the ship, dragged him up the gangplank and dumped him into the hold.

Anna clutched at Marielle's leg and whimpered, unable to look away. The older girl rested her hand between Anna's shoulders, pressing her close. "I know you're afraid, Anna. But do what they say, stay calm, and everything will be all right."

Cowed by the treatment of the young man who had tried to escape, the rest of the captives were easily herded toward the galley. The robed man watched them walk up the gangplank. As Anna passed him, she looked up and saw the fine features of an elf.

His gaze met Anna's, and she pressed herself even harder against Marielle's leg. There was no warmth in his expression. The fear and suffering of the captives left no mark on his face.

The wood of the gangplank was smooth and cool on Anna's bare feet. Still holding on to Marielle's tunic, she entered the galley's hold. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the hold, she could see dozens of people huddled on the floor, many of them shackled together. The air was rank with the smell of sweat, waste, and despair.

Marielle hesitated just inside the entrance of the galley, overwhelmed. Two guards stood just inside as well, one a dwarf in dirty brown leathers, the other a greasy haired human with a whip. The dwarf growled something unintelligible, grabbed Marielle by the arm, and shoved her toward the mass of prisoners at the front of the galley.

The sudden movement pulled Anna off balance and she fell. She cried out in fear as she lost her grip on Marielle's tunic. The sound drew a cruel laugh from the dwarf.

Marielle turned, her fear forgotten in the flush of anger at her younger cousin's treatment. The human guard noticed the movement, and pressed the whip in his hand against her breast. It was a casual gesture, but the implied threat was more than enough to keep Marielle from moving.

Anna scrambled to her feet and come face to face with the dwarf. She froze in terror, staring the guard in the eye. A vertical scar ran down the left side of his face, and the eye on that side was clouded over. The dwarf grinned a wolf's grin, and snapped his head forward, chomping his teeth closed with a loud click. Anna quickly backed a couple steps away, pressing her fists to her mouth in an effort to keep from shrieking.

The dwarf laughed again, and appraised the young elf girl. Anna didn't like the look in his good eye. She felt like a something on display in a market stall. The dwarf said something that drew a rough laugh from the human.

Marielle, red with fury, ducked under the human's outstretched arm, and slapped the dwarf's face. The dwarf growled and backhanded her, sending her sprawling to the floor. The human began beating her with the coiled whip, shouting at her in his foreign language.

Terrified for her cousin, Anna threw herself between Marielle and the human. She wept, yelling, "I'm sorry! It's my fault! Don't hurt Marielle, please!" The whip came down several times, its stinging lashes tearing at her nightdress and opening welts on her back.

After half a dozen blows, a troll stuck his head inside the hold and yelled something at the guards. The dwarf answered back, and the troll barked an order. The human stopped beating Marielle and Anna, roughly dragged them to their feet, and pushed them toward the bow.

Marielle moved as far from the guards as she could, and dropped to the floor. Anna wrapped her arms around Marielle's waist and buried her face against her tunic, sobbing. The older girl stroked her hair and made soothing sounds.

They sat that way as the rest of the captives were loaded into the hold. After about fifteen minutes, the hatch was closed. Only the dim glow of three light crystals anchored to the ceiling kept total darkness at bay. Anna could hear people moving around on the deck overhead, and before long she felt the galley start to rise into the air.

"Marielle?"

"Yes, Anna?"

"How is momma going to find us now?"

The older girl was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, Anna, I don't know."

Anna snuggled closer to her cousin as the airship turned south, skirting the eastern edge of the Tylon Mountains.

Five

Davon felt the horse move under him, heard the thunder of hooves on the turf, saw the fires of the slaver camp draw closer by the moment. His left shoulder felt stiff. When the cavalry had stopped for a break, one of the ork riders had come over to him and examined the wound.

"Not bad work," he had said. "But this isn't the sort of thing you want to carry into battle. Wear with pride afterwards, perhaps." The ork had smeared some foul-smelling paste on the wound, which grew warm and began to itch madly. After a few minutes, the itching faded and Davon found that the pain was nearly gone.

"A gift from Garlen," the ork had said. "Magic."

As the troop of riders followed the trail left by the slave wagons, other orks came up to Davon. One offered a stiff leather jerkin, which Davon had pulled over his head and tightened as best he could. Another had brought a short sword, plain but serviceable. In general, the Falcons were friendly and open with Davon. Apparently, his insistence on joining them for their pursuit had impressed them, and they did the best they could to supply him with the equipment he would need in the coming battle.

Only the one called Hrogar was distant. Davon caught the ork glaring at him from time to time, rolling his eyes or snorting with derision when one of the other riders paid attention to him. Davon tried not to let it bother him -- he had embarrassed the burly ork, and no doubt the temperamental lieutenant held it against him.

The forward scouts found the slave camp just before nightfall. There were four wagons, and about thirty or forty armed guards. The commander of the Falcons, Errig, decided to let the slavers get comfortable and complacent, planning their strike for shortly after midnight.

Combat was a loud, bloody, chaotic, and terrifying mess. Errig had been right, though, Winter Cloud carried him well. Davon didn't guide the mare so much as cling to her back, wildly swinging his sword about and hoping he didn't die.

If he died, nobody would be left to take care of his sister.

A figure appeared out of the dark, silhouetted against one of the fires. Davon recognized the outline of the troll at once, and his fear was washed away in a rush of anger. He turned Winter Cloud toward the raider, and kicked her flanks, urging her into a gallop.

The mare's hooves tore up the ground as she sped toward the troll. Davon crouched low over her neck, and his grip on the short, broad bladed sword tightened. The troll filled his field of vision.
The troll's eyes met Davon's, and widened briefly in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed, and his upper lip curled in a sneer. He faced Davon squarely, sword at the ready, his back to the fire.

The sounds of battle faded into the distance of Davon's mind. Everything focused down to a few significant details: the blood pulsing in his ears, the feel of the sword's hilt in his palm, and the surge of Winter Cloud's muscles beneath him.

Something snapped inside Davon... or rather, something opened. Winter Cloud's movements became his movements. The two beings, for an instant, became one. Davon's hooves tore up the turf as horse and rider bore down on their target, two hearts beating with singular purpose.

The sense of unity passed as quickly as it had come, but Davon didn't have time to dwell on it. He found himself flying through the air, arms outstretched, and sword in hand. Winter Cloud adjusted her course slightly, skirting the edge of the fire and kicking at the other raiders who had taken up a defensive position around the flames.

Davon struck the troll full on, and his momentum tumbled the pair backwards into the fire. The smell of burning hair filled Davon's nose. Fortunately, the troll's bulk shielded Davon from the direct fury of the flames.

The troll roared, wrapped his massive arms around Davon, and tried to roll over. Davon found the close quarters made it difficult to bring his sword's blade to bear, and punched the troll twice in the face with the pommel.

The troll cried out, and his grip on Davon loosened. The boy took that opportunity to push himself upright, knees resting on the troll's hips. He reversed his grip on the sword, and drove it downward into the troll's chest, putting all of his weight behind it.

The blade pierced the leather armor, but met resistance just below the flesh. Davon shifted his weight, and the angle of the sword changed. The point of the blade slipped off the rib and sunk further downward into the troll's chest.

His lung pierced, the troll's roar became a gurgling hiss. His eyes widened in shock, and he began to paw at Davon's body, grasping for whatever handhold he could as he slipped into Death's Domain.

Davon struggled out of the troll's reach, drawing the sword free as he did so. The blood lust had faded somewhat, but the rush of battle still held him in its grip. The troll was no longer a concern, but there were other enemies to be dealt with.

He looked around, and saw that Winter Cloud had been fighting a battle of her own, kicking at the nearby raiders, taking the fight out of them and leaving many with broken arms or legs.
Davon spotted one of the slave wagons, and ran towards it, calling out his sister's name. Halfway there, a dwarf in a chain mail shirt and wielding a large hammer spotted him and closed to attack, swinging the hammer in a wide horizontal arc in front of his body.

Davon did his best to keep his sword pointed at the enemy, but the dwarf kept knocking it aside with the hammer. The onslaught made Davon retreat, moving away from the wagons, rather than towards them. Davon started to become desperate, and looked for some opportunity to gain an advantage over the dwarf.

Before he could find one, however, he tripped over the arm of a dead raider. Davon landed flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and the sword fell from his hand. The dwarf grinned, revealing a lone gold tooth in the midst of several dirty and broken ones.

Davon glanced over to see his sword lay just within reach. He extended his arm, and his fingers wrapped around the leather wrapped hilt. Before he could lift the weapon, however, the dwarf stepped forward and stomped on Davon's hand. Davon felt the bones crack, and cried out in pain.

The dwarf's grin widened, and he shifted his weight, putting more pressure on Davon's wounded hand. Writhing in pain, Davon tried to pull free, but his hand was trapped beneath the sole of the dwarf's boot.

The dwarf shifted his grip on the hammer, swung it back, and readied it for an overhand smash. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Davon stared Death in the face.

And once again, Death passed him by. Winter Cloud came galloping up and reared, striking at the dwarf with her front hooves. The dwarf, unprepared for the attack, was knocked off balance. He fell back, and Winter Cloud brought her full weight down on the raider's head. The dwarf twitched, then lay still.

Winter Cloud stomped on the dwarf a couple more times for good measure, and then looked back at Davon. The boy struggled to his feet, cradling his wounded hand against his chest. He walked over to the horse, scratched her chin with his good hand, and laid his cheek against the side of her muzzle.

"Thank you," he said. "You are indeed a noble beast."

Winter Cloud snorted in reply, and gently nudged him with her head.

The immediate danger past, Davon turned his attention back to the slave wagon. He picked his way across the battlefield, Winter Cloud walking alongside. The battle was nearly over -- a few raiders still fought, but the more disciplined ork cavalry was making quick work of them.

Davon didn't encounter any more obstacles on the way to the wagons, a mercy he thanked the universe for. His sword lay somewhere in the bloody chaos behind him, and even if he still had it, his wounded hand would have prevented him from using it.

Davon's eyes adjusted to the darkness at the edge of the raider camp, and the sight that met them made his heart sink.

The cages were empty.