Yarblek's way.
"You mean me?" Yarblek laughed uproariously. "Don't be a fool. I'm too busy to play soldier."
"That's a shame," the Mallorean replied.
"I'm Yarblek, a merchant of Yar Turak and a friend of King Drosta himself. I'm acting on a commission that he personally put into my hands. If you interfere with me in any way, Drosta will have you flayed and roasted alive as soon as you get to Yar Nadrak."
The Mallorean looked a trifle less sure of himself "We answer only to 'Zakath," he asserted a bit defensively. "King Drosta has no authority over us."
"You're in Gar og Nadrak, friend," Yarblek pointed out to him, "and Drosta does whatever he likes here. He might have to apologize to 'Zakath after it's all over, but by then the five of you will probably be peeled and cooked to a turn."
"I suppose you can prove that you're on official business?" the Mallorean guard hedged.
"Of course I can," Yarblek replied. He scratched at his head, his face taking on an expression of foolish perplexity. "Where did I put that parchment?" he muttered to himself. Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes," he said, "now I remember. It's in the pack on that last mule. Here, have a drink, and I'll go get it." He tossed the wineskin to the Mallorean, turned his horse and rode back to the end of his pack string. He dismounted and began rummaging through a canvas pack.
"We'd better have a look at his documents before we decide," one of the others advised. "King Drosta's not the sort you want to cross."
"We might as well have a drink while we're waiting," another suggested, eyeing the wineskin.
"That's one thing we can agree on," the first replied, working loose the stopper of the leather bag. He raised the skin with both hands and lifted his chin to drink.
There was a solid-sounding thud, and the feathered shaft of an arrow was quite suddenly protruding from his throat, just at the top of his red tunic. The wine gushed from the skin to pour down over his astonished face. His companions gaped at him, then reached for their weapons with cries of alarm, but it was too late. Most of them tumbled from their saddles in the sudden storm of arrows that struck them from the concealment of the ferns. One, however, wheeled his mount to flee, clutching at the shaft buried deep in his side. The horse took no more than two leaps before three arrows sank into the Mallorean's back. He stiffened, then toppled over limply, his foot hanging up in his stirrup as he fell, and his frightened horse bolted, dragging him, bouncing and flopping, back down the trail.
"I can't seem to locate that document," Yarblek declared, walking back with a wicked grin on his face. He turned the Mallorean he had been speaking to over with his foot. "You didn't really want to see it anyway, did you?" he asked the dead man.
The Mallorean with the arrow in his throat stared blankly up at the sky, his mouth agape and a trickle of blood running out of his nose. "I didn't think so." Yarblek laughed coarsely. He drew back his foot and kicked the dead man back over onto his face. Then he turned to smirk at Silk as his archers came out of the dark green ferns. "You certainly get around, Silk," he said. "I thought Taur Urgas had finished you back there in stinking Cthol Murgos."
"He miscalculated," Silk replied casually.
"How did you manage to get yourself conscripted into the Mallorean army?" Yarblek asked curiously, all traces of his feigned drunkenness gone now.
Silk shrugged. "I got careless."
"I've been following you for the last three days."
"I'm touched by your concern." Silk lifted his fettered ankle and jingled the chain. "Would it be too much trouble for you to unlock this?"
"You're not going to do anything foolish, are you?"
"Of course not."
"Find the key," Yarblek told one of his archers.
"What are you going to do with us?" Besher asked nervously, eyeing the dead guards with a certain apprehension.
Yarblek laughed. "What you do once that chain's off is up to you," he
"You mean me?" Yarblek laughed uproariously. "Don't be a fool. I'm too busy to play soldier."
"That's a shame," the Mallorean replied.
"I'm Yarblek, a merchant of Yar Turak and a friend of King Drosta himself. I'm acting on a commission that he personally put into my hands. If you interfere with me in any way, Drosta will have you flayed and roasted alive as soon as you get to Yar Nadrak."
The Mallorean looked a trifle less sure of himself "We answer only to 'Zakath," he asserted a bit defensively. "King Drosta has no authority over us."
"You're in Gar og Nadrak, friend," Yarblek pointed out to him, "and Drosta does whatever he likes here. He might have to apologize to 'Zakath after it's all over, but by then the five of you will probably be peeled and cooked to a turn."
"I suppose you can prove that you're on official business?" the Mallorean guard hedged.
"Of course I can," Yarblek replied. He scratched at his head, his face taking on an expression of foolish perplexity. "Where did I put that parchment?" he muttered to himself. Then he snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes," he said, "now I remember. It's in the pack on that last mule. Here, have a drink, and I'll go get it." He tossed the wineskin to the Mallorean, turned his horse and rode back to the end of his pack string. He dismounted and began rummaging through a canvas pack.
"We'd better have a look at his documents before we decide," one of the others advised. "King Drosta's not the sort you want to cross."
"We might as well have a drink while we're waiting," another suggested, eyeing the wineskin.
"That's one thing we can agree on," the first replied, working loose the stopper of the leather bag. He raised the skin with both hands and lifted his chin to drink.
There was a solid-sounding thud, and the feathered shaft of an arrow was quite suddenly protruding from his throat, just at the top of his red tunic. The wine gushed from the skin to pour down over his astonished face. His companions gaped at him, then reached for their weapons with cries of alarm, but it was too late. Most of them tumbled from their saddles in the sudden storm of arrows that struck them from the concealment of the ferns. One, however, wheeled his mount to flee, clutching at the shaft buried deep in his side. The horse took no more than two leaps before three arrows sank into the Mallorean's back. He stiffened, then toppled over limply, his foot hanging up in his stirrup as he fell, and his frightened horse bolted, dragging him, bouncing and flopping, back down the trail.
"I can't seem to locate that document," Yarblek declared, walking back with a wicked grin on his face. He turned the Mallorean he had been speaking to over with his foot. "You didn't really want to see it anyway, did you?" he asked the dead man.
The Mallorean with the arrow in his throat stared blankly up at the sky, his mouth agape and a trickle of blood running out of his nose. "I didn't think so." Yarblek laughed coarsely. He drew back his foot and kicked the dead man back over onto his face. Then he turned to smirk at Silk as his archers came out of the dark green ferns. "You certainly get around, Silk," he said. "I thought Taur Urgas had finished you back there in stinking Cthol Murgos."
"He miscalculated," Silk replied casually.
"How did you manage to get yourself conscripted into the Mallorean army?" Yarblek asked curiously, all traces of his feigned drunkenness gone now.
Silk shrugged. "I got careless."
"I've been following you for the last three days."
"I'm touched by your concern." Silk lifted his fettered ankle and jingled the chain. "Would it be too much trouble for you to unlock this?"
"You're not going to do anything foolish, are you?"
"Of course not."
"Find the key," Yarblek told one of his archers.
"What are you going to do with us?" Besher asked nervously, eyeing the dead guards with a certain apprehension.
Yarblek laughed. "What you do once that chain's off is up to you," he
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