Drakis took another step, but his mind was churning. The dwarven crown! He must have taken it while it was still in transit to House Tajeran. Maybe they could go back. . barter the crown for their freedom. Maybe they could. .
“Maybe he’ll give me back my sons that he sold, eh, Drakis?” Vashkar grinned. “I didn’t remember them, Drakis, but I do now. I can see them both screaming at the slaver as he dragged them away. Such fighters! That slaver nearly clubbed one of them senseless he put up such a fight-and him only eight or so years along. What good boys! Surely old Timuran will give me my sons back for a dwarven crown!”
Drakis stopped. He was finding it hard to breathe. He glanced down the slope and saw the others had stopped, too, transfixed by the terrible image at the crest of the hill.
“No, no. . I’ve got it!” Vashkar nodded as his eyes darted from side to side. “Maybe he can return my daughter. She had gone lame on the march to the Provinces. You should have seen her before, but she was always such a delicate flower.”
Drakis took another step. “Please, Vaskhar. .”
The blood-soaked warrior suddenly sat down, his weight pressing down on the chest of a fallen manticore, forcing blood out of a gaping wound. Vashkar took no notice, holding the crown in front of him with both hands as he spoke. “I tried to carry her, but Timuran caught on that she was lame. He had me butcher her right there by the side of the road. Is she worth a crown, Drakis? Could it buy back her breath? I felt it leave her body.”
“I–I don’t know,” Drakis said softly.
“What do you think, Drakis?” Vashkar said, as he looked up with pleading eyes. “Do you think he will give me back my soul?”
He held the broken, bloody metal ring above his head.
Drakis took in a long, deep breath.
It was not the crown at all, he realized. It was a jagged-edged, metal hoop torn from a small cask. It was cut in places, slivers of metal sticking out from it.
Worthless.
“Come with me, Vashkar,” Drakis said, extending his hand. “We’ll take care of you. Figure this out. .”
“THIEF!” Vashkar screamed, leaping to his feet with unholy speed, his hand reaching at once for the hilt of his blade. “You can’t have it! It’s mine! My life! Mine!”
Drakis barely managed to avoid the blow, leaping to the side. He rolled, his body flopping over the dead, their filth covering him. Drakis tried to regain his footing, but Vashkar’s blade flashed in the light of the globe-torch. and Drakis could only scramble out of the way again. His hands reached down to stop his fall, sliding among the bodies, scraping against the broken armor. . a small dagger handle suddenly pressing against his palm.
Vashkar screamed above him, raising his sword as he ran wild-eyed across the slain.
Drakis leaped toward the insane warrior, connecting so hard that it knocked the wind from his lungs, yet he held fast to the slick grip of the dagger, pressing it upward into Vashkar’s ribs.
Both warriors collapsus atop the knoll. Drakis rolled away, pulling the dagger free but his hand was caught beneath the gasping human’s head. He tried to pull away, but Vashkar reached across with his left hand, gripping Drakis at the back of the neck and pulling him toward himself.
“Please,” Vashkar wheezed, his lungs filling quickly from the wound. “Please, Drakis, don’t take it from me! Please. . my sons. .”
Drakis grimaced, then held still. His face was inches away from the dying man. “As you will,” Drakis said. “You may keep it. . for your sons.”
“And my daughter. .”
“Surely,” Drakis looked away as he spoke. “Surely for your daughter.”