Emerging Legacy Read Free Page B

at them. “Don’t spit it out.”
    He didn’t have to add the threats. They hung loudly enough,
if unspoken, in the air between captives and captor.
    They each took a swallow, making terrible faces. Kelyn took
her turn last, and siphoned the concentrated, intensely bitter liquid under her
tongue, scrunching her face in an uncontrollable reaction to the taste.
    A trickle of stone came from above. The slaver glanced
overhead, and Kelyn soundlessly pushed the mouthful out between her lips,
letting it dribble silently down her chin. By the time the man looked down
again, she’d scrubbed her chin against her shoulder, removing the traces.
Behind her, the pack held its collective breath, facing the suspicious glare.
    But if the slaver saw anything amiss, he never had the
chance to say so. The trickle of stone turned into a thump and a thud, and the
slaver jumped back just in time to avoid the falling body of his companion.
    The limp, falling body.
    The leader shouted in surprise and anger, dropping to his
knees to roll the man over, shaking his shoulders.
    Almost dusk now. Hunt time for the big cats. Kelyn glanced
anxiously back at her pack mates, her eyes full of question. As one they shook
their heads — all but Gwawl, who mimed wiping his chin. He, too, had spat out
the drug.
    And the others were already drooping, quickly taken by the
warm liquid in empty stomachs no matter how they struggled against it. Kelyn
closed her eyes in resignation. Only two of us. And with Gwawl tied
more restrictively than she.
    Clumsy Kelyn.
    “He’s dead!”
    Kelyn turned back to the slaver leader, unable to dredge up
surprise. She didn’t try to fake it--she was supposed to be drugged, anyway.
She watched warily, knowing the leader might well take his ire out on her; her
hands tightened on her staff. When the moment hung in the air, she gathered
her courage and her most practical, faked muzzy manner and said, “Only three of
you to split the profit, then.”
    He glared, crouched over his friend and taking no apparent
notice of the four deep, bloodless puncture wounds on the man’s neck — the blow
of a rock cat so irate it hadn’t even bothered to play. This man’s neck had
been broken long before he hit the ground. Kelyn glanced back at her friends.
    They’d seen it. Of course they’d seen it, even through the
drugs. Their tension filled the little overhang. But the slaver didn’t pick
up on that, either, muttering about his clumsy companion and his deadly fall. He
patted up and down the dead man’s sides, hunting — and finding — the seed pods the
man had gone to acquire. To Kelyn’s surprise, he left the dead man where he
lay and went to the fire. The other two men waited, wary and tight-lipped; the
three of them huddled together to exchange terse words, glancing frequently at
their prisoners. Then they seemed to come to some conclusion, for the leader
settled in and though they had dried meat and a handful of dried tubers already
set aside for a meal, they turned their attention to the choi buttons.
    Within moments they’d crushed the seed pods to fine,
precious dust that they cupped in their palms, applying glowing sticks pulled
from the fire. Pungent smoke drifted briefly toward the overhang, but most of
it ended up inside the slavers’ lungs. After a few moments, they didn’t seem
to notice when their aim grew less precise and the odor of burnt skin mingled
with that of the choi. And a few moments after that, they stood, staggering
against one another, raucous and jovial.
    Gwawl muttered, “I’m not sure...”
    He didn’t have to finish his words. Kelyn, too, had hoped
the potent choi of this altitude would hit the slavers hard, but they were
apparently well-accustomed to the effects of the herb. They didn’t lose their
sense of purpose as they headed for their prisoners, three swaggering slavers
standing before a sorry group of drugged, huddled youngsters.
    The leader announced, “Now that Grolph is dead,