The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 by Martin Hengst Page A

shoulder. He all but ran down the hallway, through the curtain into his room. From the rafters he took an intricately carved longbow. Sliding the tip of the bow against his instep, he bent the top of the shaft and hooked the waxed sinew over the other end. The string made a satisfying twang as he strummed it. He slipped the bow over his shoulders and went to the stable.
    Out on the trade road, Royce pulled up on the reins and brought the stallion around in a slow circle. He stood at a crossroads. There were two main routes out of King’s Reach. North and south. If Royce were a betting man, he'd bet south. The slaver had already been north. Had already visited the Frozen Frontier and taken everything there was to take. South would take him through the heart of the Imperium and eventually to Dragonfell. Slaves were an unwelcome commodity in Dragonfell, but there were plenty of little towns and villages between here and there. Cerrin could probably unload his cargo in any number of them. Then he’d have heavily lined pockets when he arrived in the capital.
    Spurring his mount onto the southern track, Royce dug in his heels. They rode for such a long time that Royce began to doubt his instinct. He was ready to turn around and try to catch up on the northern track before he saw a thin curl of smoke climbing into the darkening sky of evening. There were no other signs of travelers along the road. He urged his beast into the woods and tied the reins to a low tree branch. He paused only long enough to take a feed sack and a handful of oats from his saddlebag to settle the horse.
    It was full dark before Royce found the slaver's wagon. He lay on his stomach on the ridge, surveying the scene below. A number of girls, chained wrist to wrist, were seated on a fallen tree, huddled together. He suspected this was more for comfort than for warmth, as the night was mild and a large fire burned in the center of the makeshift camp.
    Tiadaria was there, and Royce sighed with relief. Her arms were pulled up over her head, new shackles looped over a branch that kept all but her toes from touching the ground. Her face was drawn and haggard. Dried blood caked her lips and her left eye was hidden in a swollen mass of black and purple bruises. Her torment pained him, but the fact that the slaver was taking sadistic pleasure in drawing out her torture had given him time to come to her rescue.
    “Hang in there, little one,” he whispered to himself. “Just a little while longer.”
    In the clearing, Tiadaria turned her head ever so slightly, as if she had heard him. Then her chin fell to her chest and she went slack against her shackles, her arms pulled up at a grotesque angle.
    The door at the back of the wagon banged open and two men appeared. The slaver Royce immediately recognized. The other was unknown to him. They were passing a bottle of amber liquid back and forth, laughing loudly at words Royce was too far away to hear. Every time they roared, the girls seated on the tree would shudder and shift closer to the wagon. The tall, unknown man crossed the clearing at a trot and punched Tiadaria in the stomach, sending her swinging against the shackles. Her head snapped back and she screamed; it was a high, unearthly keening that Royce had heard before. He had watched enough men die to know that sound and know it very well.
    Royce had had enough. He picked his way down from the ridge, careful that no loose scree or dead twigs give away his approach. The tall man had become bored with his singular torment of Tiadaria and had returned to the fire and the bottle that waited for him there. Royce circled the clearing, coming up on the dark side of the wagon, using its shadow to hide him from the view of the girls and the men. The fire would work to his benefit, dazzling their eyes and making the shadows that much darker.
    He waited for what seemed like hours. The tension was driving him mad. He wanted to act, and act quickly, but he hadn't stayed