Magistrate of the Dark Land

Part Three

by G. Lawrence

The Battle of Wagon Bridge

This is a fantasy novel providing high adventure and romance, but there are no dragons or wizards. There may be unexplainable mysteries. All characters in this story are over 18 years old.

Recap; On the road to Arbor searching for two kidnapped daughters, Owen came upon a woman being held captive by mercenaries. Having no sword skill and little physical courage, Owen seeks to free Jalana through deception.

* * * * * *

Chapter Three (continued)

JALANA'S AUCTION

I led Jalana into the circle, walking her around the fire for all to see, occasionally slapping away hands that dared to touch my property. We stopped before Thory.

"Leader of the Black Axe, here is the woman you've sworn vengeance upon. Is she not beautiful?" I suggested.

"None can say otherwise," Thory agreed.

"Meet me with a sword, coward of the ax. I'll make you squeal like the pig you are," Jalana cursed.

"There is only one sword I wish to use on you, she-devil, and it's not yet ready to be unsheathed," Thory answered.

I took Jalana around the bonfire again, her lovely form captivating has she struggled against the short chain. We stopped before Golan and Pinet.

"Well, brothers, is such beauty not worth your effort?" I asked.

"I've seen better," Pinet groused.

"And had better, too, but it will be worth a few coppers to teach this harpy a lesson," Golan added, looking at her with an evil expression.

Jalana spat on him. What boldness! I thought. That Golan would seek reprisal was obvious, and she was well aware of the consequences. I sensed the slightest tremble in her bare shoulders. Her feet rested a bit closer together. Her jaw clenched tight. Jalana had no death wish, but her sense of honor could brook no compromise with fear, nor could her spirit encompass surrender. How I envied her courage.

"Have your coins ready, brothers, for the auction is soon to begin. Refill my cup, Nilo, I'll be thirsty when I return," I declared.

It wasn't necessary to drag Jalana away from the campfire, but the moment we reached the tent, I felt her resolve breaking. She dove down on our bedding, burying her face in the fur, quiet sobs coming that she couldn't suppress. We could be seen from the bonfire but not well, the light dim and clouds breaking over the moon. I fussed with the leather binding her wrists and reattached the collar to the pole.

"Kill me, Owen. I beg you kill me now," she said so quietly I could barely hear her. I lay down next to her, my hand in her hair. My lips were but inches from her ear.

"I'm going to speak now, war captain of the Red Leather. You will not answer. Shake your head when you understand, but nothing more."

"I can play no more games. I--"

"Shut up and listen, woman. Your life depends on it," I whispered. "Your hands are not tied, the leather is only looped around your wrists. The last link on the collar chain is bent open, easily freed. Do you remember the old merchant who wanted to buy your freedom?"

Jalana was no longer crying. Her body was rigid, her attention focused. She dipped her head in understanding.

"They say Farina see in the dark like cats and swim like otters. In a few minutes, I want you to slip out the back of this tent and cross the creek. Do you remember the red rock I pointed to this morning?"

She nodded again. Her breathing was excited. I could feel the rush of adrenaline in her veins.

"The old man arranged to place weapons behind that rock, and a suit of red leather, and enough food for several days. Go east over the ridgeline down to the Great River. Once across, turn south to Bridger Creek. Several days ago a group of your sisters were seen on the Blue Mountain Road. Do you understand?"

She nodded once more.

"The auction will take twenty minutes. There will be much drinking and shouting. When I call for the first bid, fly like a hawk."

I smacked her on the butt and she yelped in surprise, twisting to stare at me. I quickly turned away, unable to look her in the eyes. I could only pray the Dread Goddess would be generous in her protection.

I did not tie the tent flap shut for fear of raising suspicion, but it did drop down far enough to keep the interior obscured. Nilo met me at the edge of the circle, offering a cup of black wine. I drank half without taking a breath.

"Now, brothers, you have all seen the enticing morsel awaiting your amorous attentions. It's time to set the first price," I proclaimed, standing on a tree stump near the fire. "Tell me, have any of you ever had such an opportunity? You, Denart? What about you, young Nilo? Have you ever embraced such worthy femaleness?"

"I bid five coppers," Nilo said, his youthful face flushed.

"Seven," Farlenger said, pushing Nilo away.

"Eight," Denart said, raising his hand.

"A silver flat," Kaska declared.

"Brothers, be kind," I asked. "This is the only woman for miles and miles. You will need to pay dearly in the towns, and even there, the liberties you take will have limits. Believe me, for I have lived in these lands. The women are so chaste that even their husbands have never seen them naked. The tavern girls charge steep prices, in advance, and often leave the room before you're done. You might not have this chance again."

"A silver circle," Farlenger called out.

"A silver and two. And that's three times her value," Golan said.

"A silver and five," Charnon countered.

"That's ridiculous and you know it. Do you even have a silver and five?" Golan asked, walking to where Charnon and Kaska were sitting. Charnon held up a silver circle and five copper rounds.

"A silver and six," Golan said.

"Two silver circles," Charnon bid.

"Two? Is this a jest? That's what Thory paid for the whole damn woman! No ride on a she-slut is worth two silvers."

"Then stop bidding," Charnon said, leaning back with arms crossed.

Golan hovered over Charnon for a moment, anxious to cause trouble before storming back to his log and sitting next to Pinet.

"Two silvers is a fair price for men of modest means, though I still think the woman's favors are worth more. Are there any more bids?" I asked.

I walked around the fire twice looking at each man with the question, doing my best to kill time under the pretense of building suspense.

"What about you, Thory? Maybe your short sword is more ready than you think?"

"Two silvers to ride a woman I already own? I think not, Magistrate. In a few more days I'll take the woman for free," Thory said, watching me with an expression that was unsettling. It seemed he suspected something but was keeping his own counsel.

"Two silvers it is then. Congratulations, Charnon, you get first ride," I announced, going over to collect the coins. Charnon wore a big grin and started to get up. I waved him back down.

"Not yet, the auction isn't over," I said.

"What do you mean?" Golan said, jumping back to his feet. "Charnon has high bid, I have second, Farlenger the third."

"The auction was for first ride and Charnon has won. Now I will auction second ride. Nothing was said of combining the bidding. Am I not correct, Thory?" I asked.

"One would be a fool to argue law with you, Magistrate. The bid was for first ride only," Thory agreed.

Golan stormed around the bonfire to glare at Thory, sure the leader had decided against him out of spite. Not many others agreed, wanting a second chance to bid.

"A silver circle, and no one else had better interfere," Golan said.

"A silver and two," Kaska said, leaning back with a leg crossed over his knee.

"Gods damn you!" Golan yelled. "Two silvers! No, three! Three silvers!"

"Half a gold robbin," Kaska calmly raised.

"Gold! You dupe! You idiot! How in the devil's realm can a flea-bitten whore slut be worth a half-robbin? You test my patience, Kaska. You test it greatly," Golan said.

"The bidding is not over. Have you gold to offer?" Kaska asked, holding up the gold coin I had given him for all to see.

"You know I've nothing but silvers," Golan said.

"Then it looks like I have second ride," Kaska said, slapping Charnon on the back as they laughed.

"Maybe we can ride double, cousin?" Charnon suggested, causing many to grin.

"I'll have third ride. By the gods, it is sworn," Golan declared.

"I'm sorry, friend Golan, but I never promised to auction the third ride," I said, being sure to stand well back from the angry warrior. "All I offered was three rides. I have decided to gift the third ride to Nilo in appreciation for the help he's given me."

"Nilo? You give the woman to a wet-pants kid? A pimple-faced dishwasher? No, this is not acceptable. Not acceptable," Golan protested. "This is your doing, Magistrate. You set out to make a fool of me. A fool!"

Golan took a step towards me, then stopped and drew his broadsword. My heart leapt into my throat as I responded in kind, drawing the fine sword Sir John had provided at the beginning of my journey. When Golan charged with blade held high, I struck back, the clash of steel ringing off the trees. My arm shook from the impact. The man was strong, the blow bending me over like a willow in the wind. He struck again, driving me backward like a helpless child. Had I truly thought to stand against Golan even for a moment? How could I have been so stupid?

I retreated, holding the sword out for what little protection it offered. Golan pursued, waving and striking, occasionally meeting metal against metal but only as I continued to flee, stumbling between those watching the fight. The brothers laughed as cups were kicked over. Swords clashed again, loud and hard, Golan yelling foul curses upon me. I sought to reach the woods but he cut me off, having anticipated my desire to disappear among the trees. I circled around the bonfire, crouching low and weaving. He followed me to the cooking fire where I tripped on the pots and pans, drenching myself in soapy dishwater as the dinner plates clattered all about me. Golan swiped as I tried to free myself from a leather water bag. I jumped up to run but was again cut off.

Golan was breathing hard, but I was breathing harder. He thought only of attack, exerting himself with the heavy sword. I thought only of evading death. In this respect we were evenly matched.

I moved left but Golan blocked me, swinging high from his shoulders. Though I held my sword with both hands, the blow shook me to the bone. It seemed impossible to survive another such stroke, but there was no place to go that Golan didn't reach first. Step by step, I found myself backed against the bonfire. The brothers of the Black Axe were finding great amusement as I taught them new ways of ducking.

"How long will you run from me?" Golan asked, gasping for breath.

"As long as you're chasing me," I said, hands trembling and knees shaking.

Those watching laughed at my nervous joke, but when Golan swept the sword around and knocked the blade from my hands, all were on their feet. I avoided the next swing, dropping to the ground with my back nearly in the flames, and tried to crawl away. An angry foot blocked my escape. I turned only to be blocked again. Then Golan shoved me backward and knelt with his knee on my chest. His sword went to my throat.

"Let's see if you like this joke," Golan said, preparing to add my head to the flames.

Suddenly the warrior was knocked away, landing roughly on his side with a grunt. I rolled in the other direction to find Kaska and Charnon standing close by. Golan got up, the sword gripped in rage. I crawled between Kaska and Charnon to hide behind them, hunched on my hands and knees.

"This is none of your affair," Golan said.

My protectors stood firm with swords sheathed. They would not draw on a brother, nor would I expect them to. Nor would Golan violate the brotherhood to strike at them. The laughter was gone from the camp, all watching to see what Golan would do. And what Kaska and Charnon would do. I knelt in the dirt desperately trying to reclaim my breath.

"Come out and fight like a man," Golan said, leaning down to peer at me through their legs.

"I think not," I replied.

"You're a miserable coward," Golan sneered.

"I'll not dispute your opinion," I answered.

"I'm taking the woman whether you like it or not," Golan threatened.

There was a momentary silence. Did Golan expect me to object? I heard the crackle of the bonfire, thankful not to be in it. Thory emerged into the firelight.

"Taking the woman will be difficult," Thory said. All looked at the leader in sudden surprise.

"What do you mean?" Farlenger asked.

"The she-devil is gone," Thory reported.

* * * * * *

Chapter Four

THE BATTLE OF WAGON BRIDGE

"I think you owe me a woman, Owen," Thory said as his men searched the woods in vain.

"Have I not offered a silver circle in bounty for her return?" I said, eating a bread roll to settle the churning in my stomach.

"They think the wench runs naked through the forest with her hands bound behind her back. I would join such a hunt myself if it were true, for the capture would be lushly rewarded. But we both know it is not true."

I glanced over my shoulder. Thory and I sat side-by-side on a log next to the cooking fire, the only men left in camp. Most would return soon enough.

"Did you really think I'd let you hurt her?" I openly admitted.

"At first I didn't know what you intended. Not until you put a shirt on her."

"That was two weeks ago," I said, surprised by his observation.

Thory merely nodded.

"Now what? Will you seek retribution for a woman you had no right to own?" I nervously asked.

"Calm yourself. I seek no retribution. I lost my desire to hurt her when I saw the care you gave her. And the care you gave me. Honor bespeaks honor. And the words of the old tradesmen struck harder than the she-devil's knife. I had not perceived the wrong so clearly until I saw the loathing in the old man's eyes. Yet I was deeply looking forward to a night in the furs with the insolent vixen before I let her go. For that I would be repaid."

"Were I still a magistrate, I'd swear out an indictment against you for kidnapping and attempted rape," I said.

"But you are not a magistrate, and in these lands the law has disappeared. And the only one who raped her is you." Thory took a long drink from the flagon we were sharing, enjoying the irony.

"For that I will be held answerable," I told him. I rolled back my sleeve to show him the slash marks in my arm. Thory's thick eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You are too grim, Owen. Too grim. Wake up. See the world as it is before it's too late, for men such as you are dearly needed."

I was going to ask for an explanation when we were interrupted by a group of returning searchers, tattered by climbing through tumbled brush in the dark. They appeared frustrated that their prey was nowhere to be found, much to my satisfaction. Kaska looked at me with hidden mirth, indicating his plan to lead the search parties astray had been successful. Thory laughed and refilled my cup. The man was no fool.

"You have no woman to trade. I'll take a horse," Thory said.

"You can have Parasol," I said too quickly.

"I may have Parasol, but I'll take Skippet," Thory said.

I objected. He got Skippet.

* * * * * *

I rode with the Black Axe along Walnut Creek until we reached the Rohana River two days later. The road north to The Angle lay ahead, Arbor just to the east. I had been to Arbor during my days as county advocate, the port only fifty miles from Freehold. The countryside around us was rich in farms and orchards.

"We part trails, Magistrate," Thory said. The town was still two miles away but the bridge over the Rohana was in the opposite direction, the Piedmont Road leading to Alcester.

"Tread softly, leader of the Black Axe. Plunder may be the order of the day, but there will come a reckoning," I replied.

"And will you be a judge of this reckoning?" Thory asked, a hand posed on the hilt of his sword.

"I am judge no longer, but there is still a God who judges us all," I said, looking him straight in the eye.

Thory nodded and spurred his horse toward the bridge, the Black Axe following. Golan glared at me with contempt as he passed. I had refused to fight him in honorable combat, and he had refused to murder me, though I suspected he wanted to. He was one mercenary I sincerely hoped never to meet again. Kaska waved, wishing me well. I raised my hand in the gesture of friendship, offering a quiet prayer for his safety.

As the company disappeared up the road, I lingered behind until their dust settled before riding to Arbor's western gate. Behind me the lush green valley ran all the way to the purple mountains off in the distance. Thick forests ranged along the opposite side of the Rohana, small villages to the southwest.

The villains who had kidnapped the young women from Falmouth Crossing would inevitably pass-through Arbor on their way to Kannae, keeping their victims hidden for fear of discovery. The townships of Ravenshire would be dangerous for their trade. The authorities I had known would brook no traffic with slavers and I refused to believe times had changed so greatly.

Located at the conjunction of the Rohana and the Great River, Arbor has docks for barges and piers for small boats. The walled town of two thousand people rests on a low plateau, the Rohana swinging around on the north side and a deep ravine protecting the town on the south. The gray walls stand twenty feet high, capped with beautiful burgundy shale. Crenellated towers rise above the western and eastern gates, each with a bell to raise alarm. Most important for the town's commerce, the Great River narrows above a rocky gorge where a sturdy bridge arches to the opposite shore bringing produce from the eastern shires without need of a ferry.

On this day farmers were keeping the main gate busy, the area used to sell their produce from wooden stalls. There is no drawbridge, the town lacking a moat, the primary defense being a heavy iron gate and a set of thick oak doors. Murder holes above the opening allow boiling oil to be poured on attackers, though I doubt it had ever proved necessary. Two young guards with pikes watched for trouble.

I got down from Parasol and walked into town, patting her flank to keep her calm. Twice I had to stop the stubborn animal from stealing apples from distracted vendors. Once I had to pay for some that were stolen. I finally bought a pouch of apples that kept her satisfied until we found an acceptable stable.

Though lively commerce indicated a flourishing town, I sensed tension. As Baron Lackston's minions encroached on Ravenshire, it was inevitable that towns such as Arbor would feel the pressure. But such was not my concern. I was no commander of men. Not even a warrior by any credible description. I only wanted to find two missing daughters and return south as fast as possible.

Arbor has a wide main avenue with a charming civic square in the middle of town. A marble water fountain is surrounded by four flag poles, three of the flags representing allied shires. Arbor's banner, a golden bridge on a blue field, waved gently from the tallest pole. Leafy elm trees provide shade in the summer. The tightly packed storefronts on Main Street have stained glass windows and wooden doors, most of the buildings being two or three stories high. The side streets tend to be narrow but cobblestone paving and gutters keep them passable in the rain. A beggar playing a flute on the corner opposite town hall was surrounded by a crowd of children. He was quite talented.

Parasol and I turned down a quaint street to the Lost Prince Inn, an interesting name given the realm's state of affairs. A clean livery large enough for a dozen horses invited Parasol to stay the night and I gave her over to the stable boy's care, providing an extra copper for the trouble I knew would ensue.

The Lost Prince Inn is pressed between a shoemaker and a saddler. The sign hanging above the door shows a black crown. I entered to find a tavern on the ground floor to my left and a small registration desk at the foot of a steep staircase. One of the region's famous wheat beers immediately became my priority.

"Greetings, sire. You look like a man of substance," the inn keeper greeted from behind his desk, a middle-aged man growing wide in the waist. His smile was genial, the expression searching.

"Then your eyes must be weak," I dryly replied. The innkeeper laughed, for my clothes were well-soiled from life on the road.

"The third floor?" he offered, those always being the cheapest lodgings. I nodded and trudged up the narrow plank stairs to a surprisingly pleasant room overlooking the street. The bed was wide enough for three but I was, thus far, the only roomer. Not a good sign for the innkeeper. Perhaps tensions in the town were more serious than I knew.

After hiding my money belt in a dark corner of the rafters, I lay down on the feather mattress for a few hours rest. The black-market vendors I needed to find wouldn't crawl out of their dank alleys until the moon rose.

The sun was long set when I dressed and went downstairs for the evening meal. The tavern had several patrons seated at the dining tables and a few more sitting at the long oak bar. I sat at a private table next to the window and waved for attention. A roast chicken and half pitcher of beer put me in an optimistic mood, though I was careful not to show more than a silver flat. A lovely tavern wench with long brunette hair and vivid hazel eyes took an interest. We arranged to meet later in exchange for a modest gratuity. City life can be good.

Oil lamps lit the dark streets of Arbor even after the stores were closed. Most working folk had retired for the night. I wandered down toward the docks just outside the east gate where the bargemen gathered for their sport. Gambling, drink, swearing and whoring were the usual dusk to dawn occupations, though a few of the ruffians occasionally took time to sleep. I wore hunting leathers with a knife on my belt, Sir John's sword left safely in my room.

The harbor is located in a deep blue bay where the two rivers meet. Large enough to accommodate ten barges, only four were tied at the Rohana moorings. Three more sat anchored in the middle of the bay, which I thought curious. Most of Arbor's docks are solid rock, some eight feet above the river. There is a wide decking for loading goods and long stone ramps leading down to the water.

Arbor's famous bridge was off to my right near a long, sturdy breakwater that protected the bay from the current rushing into the gorge. The bridge is constructed of stone at either end, but the center span is made of oak, arching high enough for barges to pass underneath if they lower their masts. There is no road on Arbor's side of the river and the far embankment is too steep to climb. Once across the bridge, a wagon can take the King's Road along a narrow route south to Varna and the Blue Mountains, or the wider road north to Crowley and the lands below The Fork. Because the river cannot be forded for many miles in either direction, Arbor's bridge is much valued.

"How fares the river trade?" I asked a grizzled barge captain.

"Trade be fine dependin' on what ye look for. Peter Mates, at your service," the guff old captain answered.

"Owen Vander. I'm looking for women," I said, shaking his hand. It was well calloused, befitting his thick, stout frame.

"How much can you pay?"

"It depends on the women."

Captain Mates rocked back on an old cracker barrel and lit his pipe. "We have plenty of women about. Sometimes we see a few fresh ones up from the south. Are you up from the south?"

"I am."

"Do you like women from the south?" he asked.

"I do. Two in particular. About eighteen years old. A blonde and a brunette. Fair skin. Schooled. Old farm stock."

"Silver or gold?"

"Gold. One each. But it will take a few days to fulfill the contract."

Mates nodded that he understood my meaning. I wasn't carrying the gold with me, not being a total fool. He noticed I wasn't wearing a sword.

"Bounty hunters sharing the hunt?" Mates asked.

"Not so far. I would keep the partnership limited. They are worth little to any but their fathers. Fewer partners provide more profit," I offered.

"Inquiries will be made," Mates said, satisfied with the arrangement.

I reached in my belt and produced a half-silver flat, enough to prove I was serious but not enough to make me worth robbing. Mates bit the coin with his yellow teeth and tucked it in his breast pocket.

"We have pastimes here about," Mates said, waving toward the gaming tables and makeshift saloon draped in canvas.

"Perhaps I'll get lucky," I responded, realizing a connection with the river rats might help my search.

I played some cards, won a few coppers, and generously spent the booty on ale for my new companions. My experience as a storyteller helped, making me entertaining company. Though in this instance, none of the tales involved the legal anecdotes that the Black Axe found so interesting. A barge whore attempted to ply her trade with me but I politely declined the stanky beast, preferring the choicer selection waiting for me back at the Lost Prince. One particularly rough fellow wanted to fight and sought me out as a possible opponent, but I backed away protesting my unworthiness, much to the amused derision of my fellows.

Jasmine was waiting for me when I returned to the inn, a lovely young lass not long from the farms making a new life in town, perhaps twenty-two or twenty three years old. Jasmine wasn't her real name, and she wasn't a professional yet, though I paid her as if she were. She was smart, well-schooled for a country girl, and anxious to please, which she did. With no other lodgers sharing the room, we had the bed all to ourselves and used every inch of it.

"Will you be in Arbor long?" Jasmine asked as we relaxed after a good deal of commerce.

"A week at most," I replied, twirling her long silky hair between my fingers. Her soft white skin reminded me of Martha, though Jasmine's hair was of a richer shade and more full-bodied. Actually, much of Jasmine was full-bodied, and in the best places.

"I know little of the south. Is Falmouth Crossing a big town?" she asked.

"It's hardly a town at all. A tavern. General store. A blacksmith. The church is larger than average, but not by much. Festival only draws a few hundred people."

"My village was like that. My father was a smithy. The best in the entire shire. We'd have parades at festival and dress up like jesters," she wistfully remembered. "He's gone now these two years, taken by the plague. My mother, too."

"No brothers or sisters?" I asked.

"My brother died fighting in Lord Hasting's service. My sister disappeared one day while coming home from the fields. No one ever saw her again."

I sighed, having heard such tragedies too many times.

"Maybe you can return someday. Many farmers must come to town on market. You would have little trouble finding a husband," I suggested.

"The valley is too dangerous these days. Even in Arbor there is danger. They say marauders linger in the woods watching our walls."

"I doubt freebooters would attack a town this large," I said to reassure her, though her observation troubled me.

"Do you really think I would make a good wife?" she asked.

"For someone else, yes," I said.

"If I have more experience, it will be easier to entice a husband. Are you ready to give me more experience?" she asked.

"I can give you all the experience you want," I assured her.

"For five more coppers?" she hinted with wide-eyed innocence.

"Yes, for five more coppers," I agreed, convinced she would be worth it.

* * * * * *

It was late morning when I rose from a deep sleep, feeling refreshed for the first time in weeks. I checked on Parasol, ate a hearty breakfast of eggs and sausage, and sought out the hot baths on Royal Street where the wealthier merchants took leisure. The innkeeper's wife had cleaned my clothes so I wouldn't look like a vagabond.

"The new volume by Hogarth?" I asked, peering over a portly gentlemen's shoulder at the pamphlet he was reading. The older man looked up, surprised to see a man in hunting leathers remarking on his journal.

"What do you know of such things, woodsman?" the merchant asked.

"I was not always a woodsman. In better days I gave rulings from the bench," I answered, boldly taking a seat next to him outside the barber shop.

"A magistrate?" he asked in surprise.

"Arthur County in the times of King Tarten."

"Those were indeed better days," he nodded sadly. "What think you of Hogarth's Dilemma of the Faithful?"

"Disturbing," I confessed.

"I take it you disagree with his premise."

"Such radical thoughts can have unforeseen consequences."

"Don't the people have a right to protect themselves? To protect their families?" the merchant asked.

"I see no precedence for the people to create their own laws," I answered.

"There must be law, youngster. In the absence of royal authority, law must be created. Do you not find it so?"

"There's a dangerous line between law and vigilante justice."

"Isn't vigilante justice better than no justice at all?" he said, genuinely seeking my opinion.

"I've seen much tragedy on the highways. Even now, I'm embarked on a quest to amend a great wrong, but my training demands that punishment originate from a lawful source entitled by writ. I think it better we reestablish such authority than take it upon ourselves," I grimly replied.

"Now I truly believe you are a magistrate," the merchant said with a grin. "You've had many hard days on the road. Would you care for a bath and shave? Barber Sam has a bronze heater for his tubs and the sharpest razors in Arbor."

"You've convinced me. Fondly do I remember what it's like to feel like a civilized man. Perhaps later I can speak to you of my quest?"

It was such a bath that the stars come out for, gloriously steamy with mild soaps and a beautiful towel girl to flatter me. I met with several merchants in the sweat lodge and explained my mission, hoping they had heard rumors. They were reluctant to speak on so sensitive a subject, for dealing with slavers is indeed a wretched business.

For the next few days, I made casual inquiries, left messages, and relaxed from the hardships of the trail. A youngster was bribed to inform me of suspicious wagons arriving from the west, and Jasmine turned out to have a wider range of talents than originally suspected, helping sort out the best leads. One morning she gathered a particularly good tip from a customer about a pair of gray wagons. A visit to the records office indicated the wagons were still in Arbor, and the city clerk told me where they might be found. The tax receipt didn't show anything unusual, just tools and a few bars of raw iron, but I thought it might be worth investigating.

After a hearty meal of roast beef on rye bread, I strolled among the shops near town square. A new royal blue cloak soon adorned my shoulders, and I considered buying a felt hat with a wide brim, though I wouldn't need it until time for the ride home. With fares on the river being modest, I even considered taking the daughters back by barge, downriver to Wheat Harbor and then up the Mohana by keelboat. The journey would only take a week instead of a half-moon. That is, if I found them without too much trouble.

A little past noon, I went to visit the wagon camp located in a large grass field south of the warehouse district, an area normally used for football or archery practice. In less turbulent times, shipments were unloaded at the gates and the wagons parked outside, but recent raids required they be brought within the walls for protection. Not all of the townspeople were pleased with such a necessity, the wagon drivers being rowdy, but their rights were protected by a powerful guild. The bustling corral down at the far end of the field wasn't helping the town's hygiene.

The variety of wagons impressed me. I found ten heavy freight wagons used to move ore or grain when pulled by teams of oxen. Five other wagons seemed better suited to more delicate merchandise, with carefully latched doors and solid tops to keep out the weather. Two wagons with peeling gray paint had canvas covers that could be thrown open for fresh air, but though the afternoon was seasonably warm, these covers were tied down with curtains drawn. I went to see what might be hiding there when stopped by a long-bearded teamster.

"What business have you with my cargo, stranger?" the coarse fellow asked, his manner none too friendly.

"Merely a merchant's interest, friend. Have you fresh goods for market day?" I asked, holding my hands out in a gesture of peace.

"Maybe on market day you'll find out. Now step away," he ordered.

I was still close enough to hear noises inside the wagon, if there were any. A muffled cry or sob, but the wagon was quiet. Most noise was coming from other parts of the park as products were unloaded for sale. Merchants and tradesmen mingled about examining goods and negotiating prices. The lack of activity around the gray wagons thus aroused my suspicion.

"I said to step away. And don't let me catch you here again," the teamster bullied. He pushed me back with both hands. Then pushed again. I fell down and scooted backward before he could step on me.

"No need for violence, good sir, I only seek a fair profit. Would the proprietor be about?" I asked, regaining my feet.

"Where Mister Marlston goes is none of my damn business," he said, returning to the wagon and preparing the hitch for a harness team. Possibly in anticipation of leaving town. There was nothing more I could do without risking a fight, so I went to visit the other nearby wagons, seeking information by more subtle means.

"We should reach Kannae in three weeks if the weather holds," one of the drivers said, perhaps too optimistically.

"The markets there are thriving, especially for hard-to-find goods," his friend added, squeezing his eyes closed in a telling manner.

"There are some goods I'd like to find here. Two in particular. Fair skinned. A blonde and a brunette," I said, jingling a few coins.

The drivers shook their heads, but another man took interest in our conversation, walking over from a freight wagon. He didn't look like a teamster, slenderer with small hands. Possibly a guide. A broadsword swung from his hip but not with the confidence of a mercenary.

"Buy me a beer?" he asked, sly brown eyes gazing from a ruddy face.

I suspected he had information and nodded, going to a canvas-covered stall where ale and beer were sold. A small wooden table under a blue tarp provided us with a place to sit, tree stumps being used as stools. His name was Pogg. He ordered a cup of amber.

"I recall two women taken far south of here. Had trouble at the ferry not long after. Bloody business, if you ask me," Pogg began.

"Go on," I requested, refilling his cup.

"Women can't be sold hereabouts. Market's bad, if you understand."

"I do."

"A fellow who offered me work had two such as you describe. Smart, too. The dark-haired one knew all kinds of important words. I only helped with the wagon, you understand. Not the best pay, either."

"Is he still in town?" I asked.

"Hard to say. Said he was taking to the river soon and didn't need my services no more." He looked at me. I drew a half silver flat from my pocket and laid it on the table, but didn't remove my hand.

"Long ride. Hard work," Pogg hinted.

I took out another flat but kept hold of the coins.

"He took Logger's barge ten days ago. Don't know about the cargo."

"Kannae?"

"Don't know. Honestly, he wouldn't give out."

"How are the they?" I asked.

"Not violated. Fetch a better price that way, but mighty tempting. Specially the yellow hair. Quite a looker, and spunky," he said.

"Your employer's name. How many men?"

"Cyril Bekins, as worthless a piece of scum that ever walked. Goes with his cousin and one other. Can't say for sure where their headed, though Baron Lackston is said to encourage such trade."

I pushed the coins across the table and stood up.

"Kidnapping is a crime punishable by death," I said, studying the villain for his reaction. He put a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Got to catch me first. You ambitious?" Pogg asked.

"Not today," I answered, topping off his cup. I'd rather have cut the son of a bitch's throat but lacked the ability. Perhaps, in time, he would face appropriate judgment.

Suddenly there was a commotion. I could not see from where I stood, but church bells were ringing and people began shouting. Pogg grabbed his coins and took off.

"Need work?" a teamster asked, hurriedly putting his team in harness.

"Not of the guild, friend," I said, heading back toward Main Street.

More men were running for their rigs. I saw black smoke bellow from the west and hurried past the warehouses toward the Lost Prince. The streets were suddenly crowded, making it hard to get through. A young soldier stopped nearby, panting for breath and wiping blood from his forehead.

"The west gate is fallen," he said to an old woman trying to help. "Run for the bridge. Have everyone run for the bridge."

"What of you?" the old woman asked.

"The guard makes a stand in the square. Be quick," the youngster urged.

I couldn't believe it. The town under attack?

"Is it truly so serious?" I asked.

"I fear so, sir. A hundred freebooters. Maybe two hundred," he reported.

"What of the garrison?"

"Swept away, sir. Swept away. God help us."

And with that he tugged down his steel plate helmet and trudged toward the town square where the militia was gathering.

I would be of no help in the plaza with my poor sword skills and tendency to panic. I called upon the women and children to run for the docks while there was still time, hastening them along as best I might. Main Street opened before me, shopkeepers bolting shutters before rushing families to safety. Hundreds of people were jamming the narrow lanes and squeezing through the East Gate. The clash of steel from the square warned everyone to hurry.

I reached the Lost Prince and ran upstairs for my weapons. The money belt was left in the rafters, safer hidden than carried through chaotic streets. There was no time to fetch Parasol from the stables. I carried my pack over one shoulder, my longbow and quiver on the other. Sir John's sword dangled from my belt, giving me a swagger I didn't deserve.

The east gate was thrown open and under no immediate pressure. Two archers in the tower were alert and waiting for the enemy, but that was all. Every other man old enough to carry a weapon was either behind us preparing to make a fight or fleeing for safety. Beyond the gate I reached the docks. All but one barge had already cut their lines and started upriver, the rowers straining at their oars. Before me lay Wagon Bridge. Women, children and old men were streaming across carrying what few possessions they had gathered.

I looked beyond the river at King's Road. Going south, the road grew narrow and the forest thicker, but to the north broad meadows allowed the fleeing population to spread out. Watchman's Point stood tall on its rugged peninsula two miles upriver, a sturdy old castle guarding the approaches to the docks. If Arbor had sent a call to their neighbors, the refugees would be safe in the fort until help arrived. But that would not be for several days. If the enemy pursuit was quick, many of the women and children would be taken hostage or killed.

The docks were chaos as merchants threw what they could into the remaining barge and bribed a few able hands to take them out. A mob struggled to find room on the bridge, squeezing together. Shouts of despair were heard everywhere, the people crying with fear and loss. I tossed my shoulder bag on the ground near the bridge and did what I could to help, yelling encouragement and pushing people forward.

A few soldiers emerged from the gate, most of them wounded. The last of the women followed, the flow of frightened people slowing to a trickle. The archers in the tower fired arrows at targets I couldn't see. Smoke rose from the center of town as the raiders began pillaging, the bellowing clouds darkening the sky.

One of the archers fell, a spear in his shoulder. The other abandoned his post, both having done what they could. They still might escape if they went over the town wall toward the Rohana, for the enemy would find no profit pursuing two young guardsmen. At least, that's what I hoped for their sake.

A fat merchant emerged from the gate dressed in red and gold silks with a long gold cape, slowed by the baggage he was dragging. He was not carrying supplies or leading a goods laden donkey, but yanking two beautiful young women on leather leashes. The women were stripped nearly to nothing, their hands tied behind their backs, slender muscles straining against the collars around their necks. The merchant was a big man with powerful arms, and even then, he was having trouble pulling his reluctant cargo.

I was astounded. Arbor was no slave town. What rumors I had heard were whispered, and what little black-market trade may occur was done in the alleys with the human product kept hidden. One of the lasses had long flowing yellow hair, the other locks of auburn red. Judging by the way the fought their captor's hold, they had not been slaves long.

"Where is my barge? My barge is gone!" the fat merchant yelled, seeing the dock empty. "You. You there. Help me with these she-devils. A silver crown if you help me find a boat."

I looked around, and in total surprise, realized the merchant was talking to me. He held a demanding gaze, a wealthy man accustomed to being obeyed. Such beautiful women must have come at a dear price and he wasn't willing to accept their loss. The women stared at me in furious contempt, outraged that their efforts to escape might now be frustrated.

A group of horses thundered through the gate, most being ridden double by bloodied soldiers. Their expressions were bleak. One clung to the tattered town banner. Only a few had kept their weapons.

"The guard is broke! The guard is broke! To the castle!" a young man shouted, probably no older than I had been at Barlington. He had a desperate wound and I doubted he would live long. Another man, possibly the guard's captain, had his arm slashed open. He stared at me as if puzzled, and then the small troop rode over the bridge. Of the fifty or so men who had gone to defend the town square, I saw no more. They were either captured or killed, having given themselves up so that their families might escape.

"Hurry, mothers," I called to a final group of women, running as fast as they could with grandchildren in tow.

"To hell with those peasants. I need a boat. For God's Sake man, help me!" the fat merchant cursed.

The captives pulled at their leashes, forcing the merchant to dig in his heels. They were indeed lovely, shapely in every desirable way, with dark eyes rich in fierceness. Men who enjoyed breaking such spirits would pay dearly for these prizes. And then I recognized what remained of their clothing, skimpy halter tops and shredded skirts made of red leather. Farina. Probably two of Jalana's missing sisters. Tattoos on their upper arms confirmed my guess.

I looked around the deserted dock. The barges were gone but there was a rowboat tied at the bottom of a steep staircase.

"Over here, sir. A fine craft with two oars," I said, pointing down to the mooring where the boat bobbed at the river's edge. The man huffed as he dragged the women to the top of the staircase and looked.

"Hardly fit for one such as I. How can these she-devils be secured in such a craft?" he contemptuously complained.

"That may not be a problem. Here, let me show you," I answered, my breath short.

I took hold of the leashes in one hand and pushed the merchant off the dock with the other. He tumbled head over heels into the river, painfully hitting the rowboat on the way down. I did not feel sorry for him.

"Male," the auburn-haired woman scorned, spitting at me in defiance. She undoubtedly thought I was stealing the merchant's goods for myself.

"Jalana looks for her sisters on the Blue Mountain Road," I said, taking off my new cloak and wrapping it around the blonde woman's shoulders.

The women stepped back as if struck. Neither could believe what I had said, so great was their surprise. I drew my hunting knife and cut their hands free, handing the blade to the auburn-haired warrior. Then I took off the sword belt and gave it to the yellow-haired woman. They would make better use of such weapons than I. My pack had an extra cotton shirt that I gave to the other, not wanting her to run around half-naked.

A shout rose from the gate a hundred feet away. One of the raiders, having crossed through the town, was looking for more booty. He saw the refugees on the far side of the river and called to his comrades. I pulled the longbow off my shoulder, nocked an arrow, and let fly, hoping to scare him back by shooting over his head. A deep fright was on me, however, and the shot went low, striking the villain squarely through the forehead. He dropped dead against the massive gate. The forest women looked at me with respect, no doubt thinking it a fine shot.

"I am Yana, hunter of the Red Leather," the yellow-haired woman said, taller than the other but with slimmer shoulders. She looked sleek and graceful in my cloak.

"My name is Obina, warrior of the Red Leather. We thank you, male," her companion said, a rare acknowledgment for any Farina.

"Your words are welcome. Now hurry, sisters. Pursuit comes and you have a long path to travel," I recommended, turning toward the bridge.

We had only taken a few steps when more raiders appeared at the gate, cursing angrily when they found their dead companion. I fired another arrow that missed, but it forced them to be more cautious. Across the river, hundreds of people were struggling toward Watchman's Point, but their pace was too slow to avoid capture. I saw skins of whale oil stacked on the dock.

"Sisters, I need your help," I said, dropping my pack over the side of the bridge to the muddy embankment below.

Yana and Obina only hesitated a moment before following, grabbing as many skins as we could carry. At the point where the bridge's stone support gave way to oak, I stopped.

"Here, cut the skins open. All of them," I urged.

I had no flint. I ran back to the dock, shot another arrow that came very close to striking a careless raider, and found a flint next to a dockworker's tobacco pipe. There was also a stout pole used for pushing off the boats that I could use as a staff.

The skins were empty by the time I returned to the center of the bridge, the slick oil seeping into the wood. I struck a spark that didn't catch. Another failed. The third strike started a slow blue fire that gradually spread.

"Thank you, sisters. If you feel any debt to me, it is now paid. I wish you safe journey back to your forest," I encouraged.

The young women smiled, thankful to be so easily relieved of their obligation, and ran for King's Road, turning south toward the Blue Mountains. They paused to wave farewell. I waved back. Perhaps, in some small way, freeing them might relieve the debt I owed Jalana. Not much of the debt, but I was willing to grasp at anything that would soothe the ills of my guilty conscience.

A spear struck near where I was standing. A group of freebooters had gathered at the gate, a grimy lot with shaggy beards dressed in old leathers. More would be following. The thick oak planks weren't catching fire with the necessary speed, and if the raiders could take the bridge in the next few minutes, the flames would not be difficult to suppress. I stepped back into the smoke, huddled against the railing, and fired another arrow, hitting an unlucky raider in the chest. They shouted in outrage, screaming oaths of terrible revenge. My next arrow flew wild.

I truly wished to flee. The familiar panic was seizing me once again, my lungs fighting for breath, sweat running down my face. A horseman appeared at the gate waving his sword, trying to inspire a charge. I fired at him but hit the horse instead. The animal reared up and threw the rider off its back, the painful neighing ringing off the town wall. A raider grabbed the horse's reigns to pull the arrow free.

The road behind me had cleared but the meadows were still filled with townspeople. The bridge burst into flames but needed more time. I thought back many years and suddenly remembered it had been the men of Arbor who held the field at Barlington while cowards such as I fled. How badly were those men needed now? How much more safety would their women and children have if they were here defending their town? I felt a sickness in my stomach.

There were still six arrows left in my quiver. With more patience than I imagined having, I selected the most promising targets that might keep the enemy at bay. One received a minor wound in the arm. An arrow found a solid hit in a plump thigh, the man falling to the deck screaming. A third missed, but a quick following shot delivered death to a careless rogue, passing through his throat into his spine. When the last of my arrows were gone, I threw the bow into the river and crouched in the smoke with my borrowed staff. Flames behind me now engulfed the highest arch of the bridge. I coughed, finding the air black and my eyes stinging. The enemy gathered their strength, some twenty or thirty that I could see. And then they charged.

My first instinct was to retreat, but the raging fire now blocked my path, and I fully understood that the raiders' vengeance would be terrible. Even a coward can prefer a quick death over the thought of endless torture and mutilation. I briefly considered jumping off the bridge, but the enemy spearmen were close at hand. A moment after landing in the water, I would be an easy target, sinking slowly into the murky depths with spears sticking in my back. I pictured those last moments in my mind, the terrible pain of the wounds, the green water filling my lungs. My body turning end over end until coming to rest on the river bottom, a rotting corpse for fish to feed on. My eyes would be picked out first, torn to fleshy bits by their tiny, vicious teeth. Then the fingers and toes would be gnawed away. And then--

No, I decided in quivering fear. To fight may be hopeless, but flight would be worse.

The raiders reached the foot of the bridge with drawn swords, heartened by the lack of arrows. I stood up with the staff held before me and swung, the flames at my back so hot they pushed me toward the enemy. A stocky freebooter slashed with his broadsword. Through blind luck, I blocked the thrust with the lower end of the staff and swung again, whacking him over the head. He groaned and fell back. I raised the staff to hit him again, but a second raider closed rapidly, his sword ready, and pain suddenly burst through my left side. I instantly lost grip on the staff, feeling it fall as I clutched the sword sticking below my ribs. The raider pulled the sword out and thrust again, ripping my new shirt. I staggered backwards against the side of the bridge. Something struck me on the head. I was jabbed. Punched. And then, without the slightest effort, shoved over the railing.

I hit the water hard, losing what little breath I had, one hand splashing to stay afloat, the other hand pressed against the god-awful pain in my gut. A spear struck so close I heard it cut the surface. As I began sinking, I twisted and kicked in blind panic, a wounded animal struggling to survive. Somehow, I took another breath, believing the gasp would be my last, waiting for the next spear to strike home. Then the swift current of the gorge took hold of me and I sank back under the water, swept helplessly downstream.

I have no clear memory of the next few hours. Eventually, I washed up against a rocky beach and crawled from the river. Night had fallen with a deep chill. My clothes felt like an icy shroud. The cloak I'd bought in Arbor was missing. Snagged on branches somewhere? No, I had given it away. To who? I couldn't remember. My boots were gone, leaving my feet freezing.

Stars soared overhead for the first hour as I lay in damp grass trying to breathe, then clouds rolled in and it started to rain. There were no trees nearby. I tried crawling again, seeking some sort of shelter. An overhanging rock or large bush. I didn't get more than a few yards. My strength was gone, my body bled white. I shook uncontrollably from the cold. And that's the way it remained throughout the long night and well into the next morning.

I woke up to the sound of birds. That vultures would find me a worthy morsel was no surprise, but the sounds I heard were harmless warblers. Some few feet away, a worn dirt path led toward a stand of trees. All about me was scrub grass. My clothes were still soaked, and when it began raining again, I gave up any hope of getting dry.

The wound in my side was bad, deep enough to defy easy treatment. My efforts to sit up failed. There was a lump on my head, possibly from a club. In time I began to thirst. Where had the river gone? I lapped at a puddle of muddy water instead, choking as dirt filled my mouth.

Hoping to reach the sheltering trees or die in the attempt, I dragged myself through the wet grass, but after half a day and only managing a few yards, this effort was finally abandoned. Night fell, the rain coming even harder, and I curled into a ball praying for death. The cold that was my torturer was also keeping me alive, for my wounds had stopped bleeding, thus prolonging my agony. Had I possessed a sharp blade and the courage to use it, I would have gladly ended my miserable existence. I wondered if the raiders would be along to accomplish what they had failed to do at the bridge, but realized they would go toward the castle, not roam aimlessly downriver. My mind began to crumble, drifting in and out of consciousness. I felt a feverish heat even as I shivered.

Would there be no end to my suffering? As another long night passed, tears blinded my eyes and I cared not. A wish to find the river and drown myself was for naught as I could no longer move. I cursed when the sun rose once more, but sleep claimed me, at least for a short while.

I awoke in midmorning to find an unwelcome visitor. The vultures had found me. I saw one fluttering on a rock only ten feet away, studying me with curiosity. I remained laying on my side, half curled in the grass with no more chance of fending the creature off than I did of flying. Another bird appeared, this one bolder, advancing forward to peck me on the forehead before retreating. I feebly struck out, causing the bird to join its feathered cousin on the rock.

God had finally answered my prayers for death, but in my coward's fear, I wanted no part of the ugly birds. I thought it exceedingly cruel to die in such a manner. And then suddenly, the vultures were gone.

I heard a noise, soft but approaching. Footsteps. Then someone was standing over me, feet covered in soft leather boots. A shadow drifted nearby but I had not the strength to look up. The person knelt close. I could make out a face. A woman, the eyes dark and eyebrows bent in a frown.

"Jalana," I whispered.

"Owen?" Jalana asked in a puzzled voice.

"Thank God," I said, my prayers answered at last.

"You have little to thank him for," she said, probing me for wounds. I groaned when her fingers pressed against my side.

"You swore to cut my throat, war captain of the Red Leather. Keep your oath," I said, beseeching her with an outstretched hand.

Jalana motioned to someone I couldn't see. Others were close by. What are they doing? I wondered. Why hasn't she answered? I saw a hunting knife in her belt but she made no move to draw it. Would she not keep her promise? In her spiteful vengeance, would I yet be left to the vultures? Picked apart one tiny bloody bit after another? Jalana stood up as if to leave.

"Oh, God no," I hoarsely grunted, lunging for the knife.

The agony of my wound ripped through me and all I managed was to grab her ankle. Jalana knelt to break my grip. I could no longer see her face, my eyes clouding.

"Keep your oath, woman. You promised. You promised," I begged with flowing tears. I sobbed and scratched the wet dirt, trying to crawl after her, but I couldn't move. Even the mercy of a quick death was denied me, and in wrenching despair, I put my face against the cold earth as all about me turned to darkness.

* * * * * *

To be continued in part four, Crossroads at Varna