The Wanderer's Mark: Book Three of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 3) by Beth Brower Read Free Book Online Page B

Your Grace where you may find him.”
    Hearing this, the hairs on the back of Basaal’s neck lifted. “Lead on, then, soldier.”
    They rode down the line, passing thousands of soldiers, supply lines, and pack animals: an endless array of might. Basaal received glances from the men as he rode past, but he did not meet any of their eyes. When they reached the rear companies, consisting of his own men, the messenger pointed to a small knot of figures out across the desert, waiting.
    “He asked you come alone,” the messenger said, appearing worried to send Basaal without a guard.
    “Then, alone I will go,” Basaal replied. “Zanntal must have reason for it.” Leaving his officers, Basaal continued towards what increasingly appeared to be a pathetic merchant’s caravan. Zanntal pulled his horse around, intercepting Basaal twenty feet out.
    “My prince, these men approached the rear column, eager to sell their horses and a few humble goods.”
    “Yes?” Basaal ran his eyes over the filthy men.
    Zanntal paused. “I—I recognized the horse, the brown mare. Is that not Hegleh, the horse you gifted to Queen Eleanor?”
    Basaal narrowed his eyes and cursed. Then he spurred Refigh forward, and Zanntal spun his mount quickly to follow him. As Basaal came upon the two men, he saw instantly they were slavers. They had half a dozen horses, Hegleh and Dantib’s gray mare among them.
    “Your Grace,” one of the slavers said, grinning a dirty grin. Then he bowed. “Your servant thought our beautiful mare would please you. Indeed, she is fine enough, even for a prince.”
    Basaal dismounted and grabbed the man by his throat. “Where did you get such a horse?” he demanded.
    The slaver’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. “I found them. Found—”
    “Liar!” Basaal threw the slaver to the ground and dropped down, closing his hand around the man’s neck. “I asked you where you found that horse,” Basaal hissed. “Which of the filthy slave holes did it come from?”
    The man struggled in Basaal’s grip, before he said. “It was—” He gasped for breath, and his companion, standing nearby, spoke out.
    “The edges of the east desert, Your Grace!”
    Basaal released the man’s throat and looked up at the filthy slaver who had spoken.
    “And the people?” Basaal asked, his voice all fury.
    “There were none—” the second slaver began. But Basaal jumped to his feet and drew his sword. “Katerah!” the man yelled as he stepped back, away from him. Basaal was too quick and caught the slaver by the arm, shaking him.
    “Where?” Basaal demanded.
    “They were going through Katerah for market,” the slaver said, stumbling over his words.
    Basaal threw the second man to the ground. “You know better than to operate the slave trade in Imirillia. I should kill you outright. I’ll not reimburse you for the stolen horses.” The slavers did not protest but, from their knees, looked towards each other with wide eyes.
    At Basaal’s signal, Zanntal dismounted and secured the stolen mounts.
    “Do you carry any other goods from these travelers?” Basaal asked, standing over the men, his sword tip hovering above the sand near their faces.
    “The saddlebag of the brown horse,” the second slaver said. “Just some clothing and a leather traveler’s purse.”
    Basaal’s breath was constricted by the anger he was trying to control, and he kicked sand at the men’s faces, before turning away in disgust.
    “If I see you heading back in the direction of the Shera Shee, I will send my men after you. Go!”
    The slavers rose from the ground and gathered their four remaining horses. Then, mounting two of them, they rode as fast as they could away from the anger of their emperor’s seventh son.
    Basaal cursed under his breath as he paced in the sand, trying to think if he’d ever heard of a place called Katerah.
    “Zanntal.” His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “I need you to do something for