Dragons Over England, page 14
And now, his troubles overwhelming him, and his best friend in the world missing, Bakkeris was unable to decide what to do.
"All I ever wanted was a chance to settle down, and enjoy my life, instead of scrounging. If I leave to go look for him, I'll lose everything." And in that moment of self-pity, Bakkeris realized that he really had no choice. He locked the door as he left the Pub, headed for the "Mixed Quarter," where the dwarves, and some half and lesser folk lived. It was as good a place as any, for Gypsor had many friends in those neighborhoods. In the window of the Satyr's Pub was a small, hand-lettered sign that read, "Closed Until Further Notice."
Bakkeris wished he'd listened more to Gypsor when he'd talked about his adventures in the city. Now he found himself in the Mixed Quarter, and he was worried that his ignorance of the neighborhood would get him into trouble — quickly.
Bakkeris knew that Gypsor was quite an explorer, and seemed to know every nook and cranny of the city. By contrast, Bakkeris had gotten over his wanderlust when he was younger. These days he tended to stay close to the tavern and his apartment over the bar. It was a quiet lifestyle, and one he much preferred, for 's Luck three years serving under Uthorion in his various campaigns had quite beaten the adventurer out of him.
And now, fate was about to force him into that lifestyle again.
When asking directly about Gypsor proved useless, Bakkeris decided to start investigating the slaver angle. The encounter with the dwarves were the only unusual thing to have happened late, and Gypsor knew the streets well enough to avoid random crime. This tack was either going to work, or get his throat slit.
As he turned down another darkened alley, on his way to yet another meeting with a shifty merchant he knew of, he heard a rattle of garbage cans. He took a quick step backward, sinking his foot into a deep puddle of cold muck, and he remembered the last time he had felt so alone and in danger. A quick moving shadow off to his left allowed him to see a flicker of light off a knife blade. He started looking for defensive positions, or an exit.
Three figures, tall enough to be humans, emerged from behind crates. Two were about twenty feet down the alley from him. One was barely five feet from Bakkeris, and he cursed himself for not being more observant. One of the far figures lowered his hood, showing himself to be a young human teen, with stringy brown hair and a ruddy complexion. "You're out of your neighborhood aren't you, old man? Don't know where not to go? That's okay, 'cause we'll give you a lesson you won't forget." The man-child then pulled a small pistol out from under his cloak, while the other two thieves produced knives from under their cloaks.
Bakkeris didn't want to fight, but he knew that going down peacefully would still result in his death. On the other hand, his combat training would come in useful. He tried to back himself around so that he could watch all three of the punks at once, but his reflexes were no longer what they once were. The youth nearest him grabbed him by the neck, and made a quick flick with the knife blade, leaving a trail of blood down Bakkeris' left forearm. The gun-wielded thief laughed menacingly, as Bakkeris tried to think of some way to get himself out of this situation. He twisted quickly, shifting the lower half of his body to the right, throwing the punk over his hip and into a pile of garbage. The punk got one last slash in, and it dug deeply into him, but there was one less thief to worry about, at least for the immediate future.
The gun-wielding youth laughed again, with a taunt. "So, the old man wants to fight. Cut him, Robert!" As the other knife-wielding thief closed in on Bakkeris, a blast of light exploded in the alleyway — someone's portable light spell had chosen this moment to malfunction and cease working. Taking advantage of his tremendous luck, Bakkeris rushed the thief, who was momentarily blinded by the flash. Tumbling back into the other thief, the knife dropped at Bakkeris' feet while the gun went spinning into the air, landing in a pile of garbage.
Bakkeris leaped for the gun, but was tackled by the first thief that had injured him. He felt a sharp sensation in his back as the boy thrust the blade into him. Blindly swiping back with the captured blade, Bakkeris knew he made contact as a shrill scream broke the air of the alley. Bakkeris tried to see what had happened, and saw the boy holding his abdomen. Then, he looked to where the gun and landed, and found himself staring down the barrel of the pistol, levelled at his forehead by one of the youthful punks. Bakkeris prepared for the death blow and closed his eyes, but the scream was not his. Looking up, he saw that the boy had dropped the gun as an arrow had pierced his hand.
The boys seemed ready to surrender now that an unknown foe had joined the battle. They pulled back down the alley, as a deep voice announced, "Run back to your mothers to nurse your wounds, little human pups."
With the boys long gone, a solitary figure emerged from the shadows, bearing a short bow and a quiver of arrows.
He was a satyr. He had dark brown hair, a little darker than Gypsor's. He was also younger, probably not even out of his teens yet. Aside from his bow, he had a sword and knife scabbarded about his waist.
"You almost died, you know. Not even carrying a knife. Not a wise thing to do around here."
Bakkeris was trying to think of an appropriate response, but all he could get out was, "I know. Thank you."
The satyr seemed to have a sly grin on his face. Extending a chubby hand, he helped the human back up to his feet. "I'm Bendas. I noticed you wandering around a few blocks back, and figured you might get into a ... situation like this. You know, you really stand out around here."
Bakkeris looked incredulously at the satyr. "And you don't? And besides, I didn't want to come down here, but I'm looking for someone."
Bendas went to search for the pistol and the dropped knives. He found them, and wiping the blood off the blades, he handed them to Bakkeris. He pocketed the pistol for himself. The satyr's eyes were lit up with curiousity. "That is interesting. You think that if the dwarves know anything they'll tell you?"
"For a price."
"You got that right. Give me a few coins, and I can clue you in."
"Look, Bendas, I appreciate your help. I'm indebted to you. But, I've got things I've got to do, and I don't have time to play games. So, if you don't mind, I want to get out of this alley before the Home Guard shows up."
Bakkeris managed to get halfway down the alley when he heard the satyr call out, "It's about the satyr that got clubbed yesterday, isn't it?"
Bakkeris turned to face this ever mystifying individual. "You know about Gypsor?"
"So that's his name? Yeah, I know something about him. You really set the underworld around here spinning. Asking around about 'buying a couple of slaves, and where you could get one.' No one's going to believe that someone dressed like you is going to be buying slaves. And coming straight to this neighborhood. That's like screaming, 'Hey, all you dwarves, I know you're all slavers, so come help me or else.' Not a polite thing to do. You were lucky these common thieves got to you before some of the hired help found you.
"Anyway, I found out about what happened. Your friend was kidnapped by a dwarven slaving company. He's being sent to the mines of Moorestock, in Wales. This wasn't easy to find out, you understand?"
"Okay, Bendas, I'm doubly indebted to you. What do you want?"
"Let me help. This may seem strange, but your friend is well known among our kind. Think of it as kind of my job to make sure he's okay, at least for now. There's a lot in it for me, so don't think I'm doing it for charity."
Bakkeris considered the stranger's words. "Motivation is not what matters, it's action. I could use your help. I guess it's off to Moorestock."
The grinding screech of metal on metal no longer registered in Gypsor's fatigued mind. Between the injuries sustained in his abduction, and the fatigue of the ten hour work day, he was incapable of anything beyond reactive thought. He no longer thought — he just understood and acted.
He pushed another cart up the steep rails. This was his tenth trip of the day, his first day in the mines. Each journey, over a half mile up an unyielding incline, had taken a tremendous toll on the spirit of the satyr. His first day. He wondered how many more days there would be.
Each trip brought a fortune of nearly incalculable worth to the surface, feeding the coffers of the Vareth slavers. The ore carts were filled with precious gems, including diamonds, rubies and emeralds, but the satyr seemed immune to the charm of the wealth he moved.
He considered himself lucky. It was grueling work, but he could handle it. He was surprised to see how quickly his military conditioning returned to him. He was thankful as well. He could have been sentenced to permanent mine duty, which was even more grueling and certainly more dangerous, with hardly any food or water, and certainly no chance of escape. Now, with his assignment, he might be able to escape.
He had quickly learned the rules of the slave camp. He learned to ignore the pleadings and complaints of those around him. The dwarven guards had already shown an incredible callousness toward life, from those of the dwarves to that of the lesser and half folk. The
guards had made it clear that nothing was to stand in the way of production. This was graphically made clear to him, and all of the other new slaves, during one of his early trips.
When he arrived at the bottom of the mine shaft and began shoveling the gems into the cart, Gypsor saw that one of the goblins had fallen. Gypsor could easily see the severity of the injury, and the guards had brought the poor creature to the rails, near Gypsor's mine cart, where a healer had been summoned. After a cursory examination, the healer had declared that the slave would die within the day, and it wasn't worth bringing him into town for healing. The guards dragged the slowly dying goblin over to Gypsor's fully loaded ore cart, and just threw the body on top of the gems, with a gruff, "Get that body out of here before it starts stinking up the place."
Gypsor heard the dying creature's dying words.
"Kalim, help me ..."
Kalim. A lesser folk god of corruption. But, a god who had promised to protect the faithful nonetheless. Kalim, Dunad, Shali and all of the other gods of Aysle ... even Mithorl. They had promised to protect. How much the people of Aysle had given in the name of religion, and how little they had received.
Where indeed had the gods and their promises of protection gone?
***
Moorestock was a small village, with little more than a few dozen houses, a small market, and a pair of pubs. This particular evening was foggy and damp, and Bakkeris felt chilled to the bone, despite the thick cloak he wore. Bendas showed no signs of discomfort, but instead pranced about with excitement.
The two of them were an odd combination — one, a retired foot soldier turned tavern keeper, and the other, a young urban adventurer. Bakkeris was here out of duty, friendship and more than a little guilt; Bendas' motivations remained a mystery. They had come to take on almost impossible odds, to tempt fate and all that might be. To possibly die to save a friend. It seemed so noble in the myths, and so frightening now that he was living the life. One thing that his years of combat experience taught him was that skill had very little to do with survival on the field of battle. More often than not it was pure, blind, stupid luck.
The worst part of the situation was that they had convinced themselves that they were ready to take on a group of dwarven slavers, probably sanctioned by House Vareth itself.
Bakkeris could see that the cold had finally gotten to the young satyr. "Well, my friend, it seems we have arrived. Our best bet is to lie low and stay out of sight. Once we spot one of the dwarven slavers, then we can simply follow them back to the mines, and proceed from there. A good plan?"
"The best we can hope for."
Picking a grove of trees not far from the village, the two travelers set up a quick camp. It was far enough from the village that a camp fire wouldn't attract any attention, and while they had to walk nearly a mile to get close enough to observe the village, the security was a fair trade.
Bakkeris took first watch shift and carefully made his way toward the village. After several hours of watching through his spyglass, with no sign of the dwarves, the town quieted down. He knew that things were shutting down for the night and there was no point in a continued vigil. Besides, one would have to watch the other while they slept so they wouldn't be attacked by any animals or creatures.
When Bakkeris returned to camp, Bendas' hunt had turned out to be successful and he had already cooked a rabbit stew. With the stew and hardtack consumed, Bakkeris finally spent some time learning about his companion. Bendas seemed to be the most driven individual he had ever met. Most people seemed to wander through life, falling into whatever they managed to stumble upon. Bendas, from his tales of wandering Upper Aysle as a young teenager, to his stories of his life in England since the invasion, seemed to have a certain sense of destiny about him. It was not that the satyr was even aware of this, it was just that his events all seemed interrelated somehow, by a sense of constant knowledge and luck. And, for a satyr, he was remarkably sedate.
Finally the conversation turned to religion. Bendas looked at the campfire rather than Bakkeris. "Tell me, Bakkeris, whom do you worship?"
"No one."
"You don't worship a god? That's unusual for a human."
"Bendas, from what I've seen, I have no reason to believe that the gods care about us. I was raised to believe in Dunad, and it was explained that it was my duty to Dunad to join the armies and fight for the honor and glory of Aysle. Little did I know that the honor included slaughtering children in their beds, and killing enemy troops who surrendered. After that I came to the conclusion that the gods, if they existed at all, were too busy to care about us. There is too much suffering in this, and all of the other worlds."
"Bakkeris, you are a bitter man. Do you not believe in a higher purpose?"
"Oh, I believe in a purpose. But it is a purpose that we must take upon ourselves. It is entirely in our hands. If we become evil, it is not because of the gods; it is because of a choice we have made. If we save this world, it is because of a choice we have made. I, for one, am done making those choices, for they always seem to be the wrong ones. And what of you, who do you worship?"
"In many ways, I feel aligned to Mithorl, the satyr god. There is more to it though. I feel we make our own gods, and, when we do, they are real; they are in us. I agree that our fate is truly in our hands and not someone else's. I must rest now, Bakkeris, my most intriguing friend."
The night passed uneventfully. As morning approached, they took up their positions just outside the village. The unlikely partners watched the town for several hours, by which time the morning mist had burned off. It had turned into a fine, but chilly, fall day.
Finally Bendas exclaimed, "I think our quarry has revealed itself!"
Bakkeris followed Bendas' directives, adjusting his spyglass to look far down the road. Over his right shoulder he could hear Bendas commenting on the scene. "It's those three dwarves coming into town. One of them has been injured and must be a slave. Look at the rags he wears. I bet they're bringing him to a healer. But look at the other two dwarves — see the objects bulging in their packs. You can see the rifle barrels. They've had to hide them going into town. Fortunately for us, it will take them a few moments to get those rifles out of the packs."
"Bendas, what are you talking about? You sound like you want to attack them. That wasn't the plan!"
"Come, Bakkeris, look at the situation. The slave will be able to guide us there, and tell us what they're defenses are like. Besides, if we can stop them now, we won't have to fight them at the mine. Follow me!"
Without another word, the satyr was running toward the road and the hiding spot they had found the previous day. Bakkeris didn't like the idea of changing plans like this, but Bendas' logic sounded reasonable.
The two companions carefully crept up to an ideal hiding spot along the road. A series of high reeds gave them excellent cover. Bendas gave Bakkeris the pistol, while he notched an arrow into his short bow. Being careful to stay out of sight of passing farmers and townsfolk, they still had to wait at least an hour for the dwarves to return the way they had come.
The dwarven guards marched right up to the reeds, with no awareness of the ambush that was waiting for them. The taller dwarf, on the left, was discussing the merits of the new slaves that had been brought in. He was in mid-sentence when Bendas counted a silent "three" and the ambush was sprung. The dwarf on the right went down as a bullet struck him just below the chin, while the other dwarf was taken out by an arrow in the chest. It took less than ten seconds for Bendas and Bakkeris to drag the bodies into the reeds, where they could be hidden. The startled slave didn't know what to say, but simply nodded when the two attackers told him that he had been freed from his slavery. The dwarf was still too terror-struck to respond when asked about the location of the mine, but after a few minutes, he reluctantly agreed to lead the human and satyr to the mine entrance.
With some prompting from the dwarf, Bakkeris and Bendas decided to scout the mine area from a small hill nearby. It was close enough to allow observation of the mining in process, but far enough away that guards seldom patrolled the area.
As the trio watched the slaves pushing carts filled with gems, Bendas realized that he had stumbled upon a fortune. He started pumping the dwarf, Indric, for information. The poor dwarf barely had time to answer one question before another was thrown in his direction. Bakkeris quickly learned that the gemstones weren't natural to the area, but there did seem to be a wealth of them. He surmised that they were created during the axiom wash. Once the gems were discovered by the dwarves, the Vareths, led by Dwurgven, quickly set up a slave mining operation. Dwurgven wasn't actually present most of the time, leaving the management of the mine to Voladikyn. There were at least a dozen armed guards on duty at all times, with about half at ground level and half beneath the surface.
