When they arose one morning, a black, square-rigged Nyissan ship rocked in the river current at a nearby wharf. A foul, evil kind of reek carried to them from her on the fitful morning breeze.
“What’s that smell?” Garion asked one of the sailors.
“Slaves,” the sailor answered grimly, pointing at the Nyissan ship. “You can smell them twenty miles away when you’re at sea.”
Garion looked at the ugly black ship and shuddered.
Barak and Mandorallen drifted across the deck and joined Garion at the rail. “Looks like a scow,” Barak said of the Nyissan ship, his voice heavy with contempt. He was stripped to the waist, and his hairy torso ran with sweat.
“It’s a slave ship,” Garion told him.
“It smells like an open sewer,” Barak complained. “A good fire would improve it tremendously.”
“A sorry trade, my Lord Barak,” Mandorallen said. “Nyissa hath dealt in human misery for untold centuries.”
“Is that a Drasnian wharf?” Barak asked with narrowed eyes.
“No,” Garion answered. “The sailors say that everything on that side’s Nyissan.”
“That’s a shame,” Barak growled.
A group of mail-shirted men in black cloaks walked out onto the wharf where the slave ship was moored and stopped near the vessel’s stern.
“Oh-oh,” Barak said. “Where’s Hettar?”
“He’s still below,” Garion replied. “What’s the matter?”
“Keep an eye out for him. Those are Murgos.”
The shaven-headed Nyissan sailors pulled open a hatch on their ship and barked a few rough orders down into the hold. Slowly, a line of dispirited-looking men came up. Each man wore an iron collar, and a long chain fastened them together.
Mandorallen stiffened and began to swear.
“What’s wrong?” Barak asked.
“Arendishmen!” the knight exclaimed. “I had heard of this, but I did not believe it.”
“Heard of what?”
“An ugly rumor hath persisted in Arendia for some years,” Mandorallen answered, his face white with rage. “We are told that some of our nobles have upon occasion enriched themselves by selling their serfs to the Nyissans.”
“Looks like it’s more than a rumor,” Barak said.
“There,” Mandorallen growled. “See that crest upon the tunic of that one there? It’s the crest of Vo Toral. I know the Baron of Vo Toral for a notorious spendthrift, but had not thought him dishonorable. Upon my return to Arendia, I will denounce him publicly.”
“What good’s that going to do?” Barak asked.
“He will be forced to challenge me,” Mandorallen said grimly. “I will prove his villainy upon his body.”
Barak shrugged. “Serf or slave – what’s the difi’erence?”
“Those men have rights, my Lord,” Mandorallen stated. “Their Lord is required to protect them and care for them. The oath of knighthood demands it of us. This vile transaction hath stained the honor of every true Arendish knight. I shall not rest until I have bereft that foul baron of his miserable life.”
“Interesting idea,” Barak said. “Maybe I’ll go with you.”
Hettar came up on deck, and Barak moved immediately to his side and began talking quietly to him, holding one of his arms firmly.
“Make them jump around a bit,” one of the Murgos ordered harshly. “I want to see how many are lame.”
A heavy-shouldered Nyissan uncoiled a long whip and began to flick it deftly at the legs of the chained men. The slaves began to dance feverishly on the wharf beside the slave ship.
“Dog’s blood!” Mandorallen swore, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing.
“Easy,” Garion warned. “Aunt Pol says we’re supposed to stay pretty much out of sight.”
“It cannot be borne!” Mandorallen cried.
The chain that bound the slaves together was old and pitted with rust. When one slave tripped and fell, a link snapped, and the man found himself suddenly free. With an agility born of desperation, he rolled quickly to his feet, took two quick steps and plunged off the wharf into the murky waters of the river.
“This way, man!” Mandorallen called to the swimming slave.
The burly Nyissan with the whip laughed harshly and pointed at the escaping slave. “Watch,” he told the Murgos.
“Stop him, you idiot,” one of the Murgos snapped. “I paid good gold for him.”
“It’s too late.” The Nyissan looked on with an ugly grin. “Watch.” The swimming man suddenly shrieked and sank out of sight. When he came up again, his face and arms were covered with the slimy, footlong leeches that infested the river. Screaming, the struggling man tore at the writhing leeches, ripping out chunks of his own flesh in his efforts to pull them off.
The Murgos began to laugh.
Garion’s mind exploded. He gathered himself with an awful concentration, pointed one hand at the wharf just beyond their own ship and said, “Be there!” He felt an enormous surge as if some vast tide were rushing out of him, and he reeled almost senseless against Mandorallen. The sound inside his head was deafening.
The slave, still writhing and covered with the oozing leeches, was suddenly lying on the wharf. A wave of exhaustion swept over Garion; if Mandorallen had not caught him, he would have fallen.
“Where did he go?” Barak demanded, still staring at the turbulent spot on the surface of the river where the slave had been an instant before. “Did he go under?”
Wordlessly and with a shaking hand, Mandorallen pointed at the slave, who lay still weakly struggling on the Drasnian wharf about twenty yards in front of the bow of their ship.
Barak looked at the slave, then back at the river. The big man blinked with surprise.
A small boat with four Nyissans at the oars put out from the other wharf and moved deliberately toward Greldik’s ship. A tall Murgo stood in the bow, his scarred face angry.
“You have my property,” he shouted across the intervening water. “Return the slave to me at once.”
“Why don’t you come and claim him, Murgo?” Barak called back. He released Hettar’s arm. The Algar moved to the side of the ship, stopping only to pick up a long boathook.
“Will I be unmolested?” the Murgo asked a bit doubtfully.
“Why don’t you come alongside, and we’ll discuss it?” Barak suggested pleasantly.
“You’re denying me my rights to my own property,” the Murgo complained.
“Not at all,” Barak told him. “Of course there might be a fine point of law involved here. This wharf is Drasnian territory, and slavery isn’t legal in Drasnia. Since that’s the case, the man’s not a slave anymore.”
“I’ll get my men,” the Murgo said. “We’ll take the slave by force if we have to.”
“I think we’d have to look on that as an invasion of Alorn territory,” Barak warned with a great show of regret. “In the absence of our Drasnian cousins, we’d almost be compelled to take steps to defend their wharf for them. What do you think, Mandorallen?”
“Thy perceptions are most acute, my Lord,” Mandorallen replied. “By common usage, honorable men are morally obliged to defend the territory of kinsmen in their absence.”
“There,” Barak said to the Murgo. “You see how it is. My friend here is an Arend, so he’s totally neutral in this matter. I think we’d have to accept his interpretation of the affair.”
Greldik’s sailors had begun to climb the rigging by now, and they clung to the ropes like great, evil-looking apes, fingering their weapons and grinning at the Murgo.
“There is yet another way,” the Murgo said ominously.
Garion could feel a force beginning to build, and a faint sound seemed to echo inside his head. He drew himself up, putting his hands on the wooden rail in front of him. He felt a terrible weakness, but he steeled himself and tried to gather his strength.
“That’s enough of that,” Aunt Pol said crisply, coming up on deck with Durnik and Ce’Nedra behind her.
“We were merely having a little legal discussion,” Barak said innocently.
“I know what you were doing,” she snapped. Her eyes were angry. She looked coldly across the intervening stretch of river at the Murgo.
“You’d better leave,” she told him.
“I have something to retrieve first,” the man in the boat called back.
“I’d forget about it!”
“We’ll see,” he said. He straightened and began muttering as if to himself, his hands moving rapidly in a series of intricate gestures. Garion felt something pushing at him almost like a wind, though the air was completely still.
“Be sure you get it right,” Aunt Pol advised quietly. “If you forget even the tiniest part of it, it’ll explode in your face.”
The man in the boat froze, and a faintly worried frown crossed his face. The secret wind that had been pushing at Garion stopped. The man began again, his fingers weaving in the air and his face fixed with concentration.
“You do it like this, Grolim,” Aunt Pol said. She moved her hand slightly, and Garion felt a sudden rush as if the wind pushing at him had turned and begun to blow the other way. The Grolim threw his hands up and reeled back, stumbling and falling into the bottom of his boat. As if it had been given a heavy push, the boat surged backward several yards.