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

alive through so many battles by being rash. True, he probably could have taken the two drunkards without much effort, but the risk was too great. He dared not gamble Tiadaria's safety against his vengeance.
    Just as Royce had decided that he couldn't wait any longer, the tall stranger got to unsteady feet and announced that he needed to relieve himself.
    “Piss on them!” Cerrin called from the fire. “The lot of ‘em aren’t worth the price of piss anyhow.”
    The slaver and the tall man shared a good laugh. Seeming to take this advice to heart, the man stepped up toward the terrified girls and hooked his thumbs in the waist of his breeches.
    Royce’s dagger slipped out of its sheath without a sound. The old soldier half ran, half sprang toward the man as he struggled with the drawstring on his pants. Seizing the tall man by the hair, he wrenched his head back and drew the blade across his throat. The girls screamed as they were sprayed with blood spurting from the slit throat.
    Turning to the opposite side of the fire, he saw that the slaver had gotten to his feet, knocking the bottle over and spilling the last of its contents into the dirt by his feet. The stain on the ground looked remarkably similar to the stain that was rapidly darkening the crotch of Cerrin’s fine pants. Seeing who had appeared on the other side of the fire, recognition dawned on the little man's face and he made the only smart decision he could. He turned tail and ran.
    Royce slipped the bow from his shoulder and drew an arrow from the quiver, seating it and pulling it back in a single fluid motion. He laid the feather against his cheek and closed his eyes. He gazed into the sphere, correcting his aim through the sightless eyes of the ancients. His eyes snapped open as he loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true, slamming into the slaver's shoulder and sinking an inch into the soft flesh.
    The little man bleated like a wounded animal, but still managed to get to his feet. It was an impressive act for a man in the grasp of strong spirits. Royce fitted a second arrow and repeated his shot, sinking an arrow into the opposite shoulder. The man crumpled, screaming. Without his arms to rely on, he lay face down in the dirt as Royce slung the bow back over his shoulder and walked toward the spot where he fell.
    He lifted the man under the arms and dragged him back to the edge of the fire. He pulled the arrows free, none too gently, and pushed the slaver into a sitting position against the cart's wheel.
    “Your keys,” Royce demanded. “Where are they?”
    The slaver looked up at him, his eyes showing far too much white.
    “In...the...wagon,” he panted, struggling for breath.
    Shock was setting in, Royce thought. Thankfully, it was taking its time. He wasn't done with this little man who made himself feel big at the expense of little girls. He yanked the door open and climbed inside. A small candle lamp illuminated a table and benches, no doubt where the girls would sit for their ride to whatever destination full of horrors they had in store for them. A makeshift bed took up the front end of the wagon, its linens stained and none too fresh.
    Royce's hatred for the slaver abruptly matured as he reached over the foul bedding and took the keys from the nail driven into the corner post. As he exited the wagon, he kicked the man in the shoulder as he passed, causing a renewed round of screaming.
    He glanced at the girls as he passed. They had subsided into weak sobbing. Royce felt for them, but Tiadaria was his primary concern. He ran to her and unlocked the shackles, taking the weight of her body in his strong arms as she fell limp against him. She opened the one eye undamaged by the beating and her split lips parted in a weak smile.
    “You came, Sir.”
    “I promised you I would, little one.”
    “No one,” she said, laboring to form the words. “No one ever keeps promises to me.”
    “I do.”
    Royce shushed her then and carried her to