The Jewel of Turmish (7 page)

“It’s not my concern.”

Haarn kept walking, his thoughts already turning from the slaves and the slavers.

Broadfoot snuffled in the distance, the sound lost amid the night’s other myriad noises. Haarn knew no one else would have heard it unless they were standing close to the brown bear. The druid cocked his head slightly, listening for what Broadfoot had sensed.

Furtive footsteps neared their position.

Quietly, Haarn considered the choices before him. The footsteps belonged to men. He’d gotten so caught up in the disagreement with Druz that he hadn’t been as attentive as he usually was.

“What?” she challenged. “Don’t tell me you suddenly decided that you care about those people down there.”

“No,” Haarn replied.

The footsteps paused. The druid smelled the spicy meat on the breaths of the men around them and even heard a few garbled and raspy whispers. He marveled at the fact, with the men so near, that the woman didn’t know they were there.

“Then why are you—”

Druz reached for her sword as Haarn heard footsteps rush from the forest around them. The sword cleared its leather scabbard and she stepped into a defensive posture.

Knowing the men formed a loose semicircle around them, Haarn lifted his hands slowly from his sides and held them straight out.

“Put down your weapon,” Haarn advised.

“No,” Druz replied. “I won’t be taken as a slave.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Broadfoot shifted in the trees, edging closer. None of the slavers around them noticed the slight noise the big bear made.

Haarn growled, drawing the rumbling sound from deep in his chest. Broadfoot stopped in his tracks, but snuffled his displeasure at the command. Even with the magic available to him and the years of association he had with the bear, the druid couldn’t talk directly to Broadfoot, but he could make his wishes known.

“What the hell was that?” one of the men demanded.

Another man spat. “He’s one of those damned druids,” he cursed. “We’d be better off killing him now, Brugar. There ain’t no easy way we’re going to take him with us.”

“Lord Vallis is paying by the head,” a gruff voice said. “As long as that druid’s head stays on his shoulders, it’s worth gold.”

“The woman’s worth more,” another man said. “Look at her. See how pretty she is?”

Haarn watched the dark stain of embarrassment touch Druz’s features.

“Well hold her back from Vogalsang’s auction block in Nimpeth then sell her to Warryl,” the man went on. “Warryl can sell her to one of those fleshpots along the Golden Road down by the Nagawater.”

“You’ll have to kill me first,” Druz promised, lifting her long sword meaningfully. “A quick death now is preferable to a slow death later.”

Haarn watched the woman’s eyes and felt his respect for her grow. Despite the clumsy way she interacted with the forest and let the men’s taunts embarrass her, she

knew her own true balance. Most men he’d met, the druid felt from his limited experience with those outside his order, had never been tested enough to reach that. The woman suddenly appeared more intriguing to him.

“Tell her to put the sword down, druid,” Brugar commanded.

He was a mountain of a man, standing nearly seven feet tall. His skin was swarthy, almost black. He wore dark leather armor and carried a battle-axe. His shaven head gleamed in the moonlight. Scars littered his arms, shoulders, and face. He glared fiercely at Haarn.

“She won’t listen to me,” Haarn replied.

“Make her,” Brugar ordered, “or I’ll kill you both.”

Haarn didn’t reply. He sensed the greed in the man, knowing that Brugar was already counting the gold he’d be paid for those he captured. The druid also heard the quiet footsteps coming up from behind them. He made himself wait.

At the last moment, a twig snapped under the approaching man’s foot. Haarn glanced over his shoulder, already hearing the mercenary in motion as she reacted to the unexpected sound.

Druz spun quickly and moonlight flashed on the naked blade in her hand. She took a step away and almost succeeded in escaping the cruel blow that smashed into her head. Her fleeing step turned into an outright fall as she dropped bonelessly to the ground. The other man Haarn had heard creeping through the forest stood over the mercenary.

The slaver was thin and unkempt, rawboned and ragged. His gaze was feral and fleeting, never looking in any direction too long. He grinned at the druid then spat contemptuously on the ground.

Aware that all the crossbows were now turned on him, Haarn held his position. No emotion touched him as he faced his captors.

“Hyle,” Brugar called out, “you better not have crushed her damn skull.”

“I ain’t crushed her skull.” Hyle knelt gingerly and held a palm over Druz’s face. “She’s breathin’ all right. Anyways,

any wrong I coulda done her coulda been fixed by the tree-lover over there.”

Standing his ground, Haarn glanced down at the mercenary lying helplessly on the ground. Dark blood trickled through her red-gold hair. Anger stirred within the druid.

The fact that the men were slavers had nothing to do with the dark emotion that moved restlessly inside Haarn. This part of the forest had been given over to him for his protection and he had never forsaken that charge. The presence of the slavers was an encroachment upon that territory, but even worse—they knew the group he represented and they had chosen to ignore that. Behavior like that couldn’t be tolerated.

Broadfoot huffed and growled out in the forest again, chafing at the restraint Haarn had urged him to.

“Hyle,” Brugar commanded, “take that man into custody.”

The tattooed man stared deeply into Haarn’s eyes for a moment, then broke the contact. “This’n gonna be trouble, Brugar. Be best to just cut him and gut him.”

Haarn stood easily, his manner relaxed, but he remained ready.

“Try to kill him,” Brugar said, “and I’ll slit your throat myself, Hyle. Bind him and gag him. Alive, he’s worth a few gold pieces that I’ll enjoy spending.”

Moving warily, the tattooed man took a leather string from his kit and strode toward Haarn.

“Stick your hands out.”

Conscious of the crossbow quarrels pointed in his direction, Haarn held his hands out. Hyle pushed the druid’s wrists together and wrapped them tightly with the leather string, then confiscated his weapons. Breathing shallowly through his nose, Haarn distanced himself from the degrading treatment. In all of his years he’d never been taken captive.

He glanced wistfully at the forest. If the woman hadn’t been with him, he could have escaped and wreaked vengeance from the protective shelter of the woods. However, he hadn’t been in control of his life since he’d started finding the executed and scalped wolves.

Hyle checked the tightness of the leather and seemed satisfied, but the man’s mocking, cruel grin faded as he looked into Haarn’s face. Suspicion narrowed the tattooed man’s eyes.

“What are you doing, druid?”

“Praying,” Haarn answered simply.

“You got nothin’ to pray for,” Hyle said.

“I’m asking Silvanus for the quick deaths of the men who have chosen to become my enemies tonight.”

Haarn kept his face impassive.

Scowling, Hyle pulled out a dirty rag, jammed it into Haarn’s mouth, and tied a knot behind the druid’s mouth to keep it in place.

“If I had my way,” the tattooed man promised, “I’d have you sacrificed on an altar to the Beastlord.”

A chill threaded up Haarn’s spine as he heard the reference to Malar the Stalker. Malar and Silvanus were old enemies, and those who followed each of those gods carried the enmity between them. The druid looked at the other slavers, noticing tattoos upon a couple more of them as they stepped confidently from the forest’s darkness. Perhaps all of them followed the Beastlord’s teachings. Perhaps everything that was happening followed a grand design Silvanus had put into motion.

Hyle shoved Haarn from behind, pushing the druid down toward the valley floor.

Forcing himself not to resist, Haarn stumbled then began walking ahead of the slaver group. He gathered his power within him, drawing it from the earth, the trees, and the very air around them.

The pounding echo trapped inside Druz Talimsir’s aching skull woke her. Rough leather bound her hands at the wrists, and she’d lost feeling in most of her fingers. The scent of loamy ground filled her nostrils, threaded through by the thick odor of a cookfire and the stink of meat charred on the outside while grease dripped from the center. Men’s voices carried on constant conversations and evidently never-ending arguments.

“There’s nothing to fear by letting them know you’re awake.”

Druz recognized the calm voice as the druid’s and opened her eyes. She didn’t move. Even if the druid was right, she didn’t want him to think she was responding to his voice. He was part of the reason she’d been taken by the slavers. There was no way she was going to believe the slavers had managed to approach him without him knowing, but she had no idea why the elf hadn’t warned her.

For one brief moment, she thought that maybe he was working with the slavers. No one knew for certain what the Emerald Enclave’s true agenda was in the Vilhon Reach. Most were in agreement that the druids didn’t care for cities or further expansion of civilization, but taking up with slavers from Nimpeth was surely something they wouldn’t even consider.

They’ve settled in for the night,” the druid said a moment later.

The cookfires had told Druz that. She opened her eyes and saw the druid sitting next to her. Leather strips bound his hands as they did hers, attached to a padded, heavy chain that lay across the ground. All of the other slaves were bound to the same chain. Druz pulled at the leather with all her strength, but she succeeded only in drawing the attention of one of the guards.

They caught you, too?” she asked as she pushed herself into a sitting position.

The druid hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

Druz knew at once that the druid was lying. There was no way the slavers would have been able to keep up with him in the forest.

“Why did you stay?” she asked.

He turned toward her and said, “Because I agreed to let you accompany me on the hunt for the rogue wolf.”

“Getting captured isn’t going to get that done.”

Druz struggled to keep the defeat from her voice, but it was hard. She knew what lay in store for all of them— including the druid if he wasn’t as good at escaping as he evidently thought he was.

“I didn’t want something to … happen to you,” the druid replied.

“I’m not going to believe you’re concerned about my welfare.”

His green eyes regarded her dispassionately as he said, “Would you be concerned about mine?”

“No more than anyone else I don’t know,” Druz replied truthfully. She held up her hands, dragging the heavy chain up after them. “I wouldn’t have wished this on you.”

The druid nodded. “Nor I you.” He paused for a moment, glancing back at the campsite, then said, “However, if something happened to you, there would be no witness to tell the man who hired you that his son had been avenged. Other hunters would be employed, and more wolves would die.”

“And that’s what worries you?” Druz didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

Shifting his dark gaze back to her, the druid said, Those men would die, too. Would that concern you?”

Druz considered the possibility only for a moment. Images of other hunters getting picked off one by one in the forest filled her head.

“If you killed those men,” she said, “they would put a bounty on your head.”

“Yes.”

Or maybe there already is one. The thought occurred to Druz in a flash. It wouldn’t have been the first time a druid from the Emerald Enclave was marked for death by one of the cities of the Vilhon Reach.

She said, “I don’t even know your name.”

The druid was silent for a time. He shifted against the tree, uncomfortable, and said, “I am called Haarn Brightoak”

Druz shook her head. Knowing his name now, when they were both captives, somehow made the situation worse. She pushed her breath out and tried to relax.

“You should have escaped.”

“I couldn’t,” Haarn replied.

“Because of me?”

The druid gazed at her and said, “Partly, but if I hadn’t surrendered myself, these men might have tried to get away.”

A chill spread across Druz’s shoulders and ran down her spine. She’d heard terrible stories about druids. Some sages maintained that the druids, including members of the Emerald Enclave, were good and honest men and women whose reverence for nature clouded their judgment and made them do things that didn’t fit in with civilized thinking. Others proclaimed the druids as savages, capable of torture and brutal killing.

Most of the other people tied to the slaver chain slept. Druz counted twenty-seven men, women, and children other than herself and the druid. One woman held a small child to her breast. All of the slaves looked hard-used, as if they’d been on the chain for days, perhaps even as much as a tenday. Their skin was sunburned and their clothing, common and homespun at best, hung in rags.

“Where did these people come from?” Druz asked.

“A small village somewhere close by,” Haarn answered.

“You don’t know where?”

“Some of the outlying villages don’t have names. They learn to be autonomous, trading only occasionally with passing merchants or each other. Many of them don’t see the need to pay the taxes cities like Alaghôn levy on people who only try to survive.” The druid turned to her and added, “Living in such conditions, paying faceless tax agents of Lord Herengar and the Assembly of Stars, isn’t much better than living in the servitude they’re bound for now.”

Druz bridled at the comment. Though she didn’t know Lord Herengar personally, she knew of him.

“Lord Herengar is a good man,” she said, “a fair man.”

“Before he was named as ruler of Turmish, acting on behalf of the Assembly of Stars,” Haarn said, “he was a leader of a mercenary band called the Call of Arms. He acted in his own interests then, and he continues to do so now.”