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A two-headed monster? Where?
Elián’s ears pricked up at the mention of a monster. He had seen a few monsters from a distance at sea and had a lively curiosity about them as long as they were dead. Looking around, however, he quickly came to the realization that the cavalryman was referring to the poor two-headed chap who had been killed just prior to Elián’s own arrival into the clearing. As far as monsters went, that fellow seemed about as scary as a flounder. In fact, from Elián’s perspective, he looked just like an ordinary villager. With two heads. Aside from the extra head, there was nothing about him that even suggested the notion of monsterhood: no necklace of severed fingers or baby-sized skulls dangling about his neck. Nothing.
“Old Blackjack Snorrisson is scarier that,” he mumbled to himself, conjuring a mental image of his old ship’s captain. On his bad days, Blackjack Snorrisson could give any ogre or orc a good run for his money in terms of scariness. Elián wondered if Blackjack had gotten away during the skirmish with the guards or if he had been recaptured and hanged back in Belfalas. Guiltily, Elián found himself half-hoping that his old captain had hanged. If he hadn’t and was still running around loose, odds were that he was not too happy with Elián and would take it out of his hide when he found him. Having a well-developed instinct for self-preservation, Elián had seized the first opening and fled during the Great Escape rather than going to the aid of his shipmates. He’d never liked those guys much, anyway, at least not most of them.
Disappointed at the lack of a real monster, Elián backed away, giving the nobleman room to talk to the cavalrymen. The timing of their arrival was actually pretty good for Elián as he had been dreading being questioned by the Eorl, who looked like the no-nonsense type when it came to keeping order under his domain. As long as the Eorl was preoccupied with the cavalry, Elián wouldn’t have to answer any awkward questions. With that in mind, Elián really hoped that the Eorl would forget all about him and concern himself with more important matters.
With the others all pre-occupied with the arrival of the cavalry and the death of the “monster,” Elián found himself at loose ends. He drifted again in the direction of the prisoners, casting surreptitious glances at them, hoping to discover them all to be strangers and, as such, no threat to his anonymity. The first two appeared to be just that: the sort of cut-throats that you would find around any smuggler’s market or disreputable tavern, only more so, as they seemed to be the ringleaders of this particular outfit. They stared sullenly at either the ground or their shackles, giving Elián no mind at all. They had been caught and they knew that things were likely to go ill for them. The third outlaw, on the other hand, the one whose wrists were bound with vines, was staring pointedly at Elián. Catching Elián’s eye, the outlaw gave him a slow wink and tapped his leather bracer.
Elián blanched and looked away quickly. He knew the guy. In fact, a year or so earlier, Elián had sold him a lovely set of lock picks, along with a very fine dagger and sheath that was so small that it could be easily hidden behind a belt buckle or inside a bracer without anyone being the wiser. Barely three inches long and a quarter of an inch wide, the blade, if it had been properly maintained, could slice easily through those vines.
Following his instincts, Elián made snap decision. Careful to avoid any further eye contact with the prisoner, he walked purposefully toward the woman with the dogs as she seemed to be the only one who was not wrapped up in the matter of the dead two-headed villager.
“Don’t ask me how I know,” he said barely loudly enough to be heard over the snarling of the dogs. “But this man has not been properly searched. If you value your life, check behind his buckle and bracers. He still has the tools to free himself.”
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