Olorian army slaves were some of the worst treated slaves in Evendar.

Not that the Olorian army was a disciplined lot with sophisticated needs. Rather the opposite; the Olorians depended on Evendarian slaves for most of their organization, cooking, cleaning, and day-to-day care. Evendarian slaves, who were kept chained in leaky barracks at night, made beds, bread and basically saw to the army’s every need during the day.

Those same slaves were beaten and abused— frequently worked to death because they were one of the cheapest commodities in Evendar. You could always grab another one.

Slaves were cheaper than horses, too, which was why ten of them pulled one cart while teams of disgruntled horses hauled the other three. The guards mostly ignored them, save for yelling or applying the whip when one staggered, or another slowed. After all, the slaves were chained to the cart. Where were they going to go?

The sixteen slaves attached to the backs of the other carts—presumably slaves with specific skill sets who the overseer didn’t want to exhaust before nightfall—were a little better off. But they were still shackled by the wrists, with four attached to each cart. They walked with their heads down and didn’t speak, flinching when one of the guards or the overseers on the wagons glanced their way.

Seven soldiers, four overseers. The latter were armed with whips and daggers, but not swords. The guards wore the typical Olorian falcata-style sword at their belt, but none wore armor. Their eyes focused inwards, too, not looking for external threats.

If they had been, they might’ve noticed a lone rider just beyond the tree line, cloaked and watching them. Like the slaves, he was Evendarian.

Unlike them, he was armed.

Shade counted the guards and overseers again, noting the way the two guards in the back laughed and passed a flask between them. All the guards were mounted, which increased the chance of one of them getting away, even if the rear pair was drunk. Which they were.

Silently, Shade freed a sling from his saddlebags. The sling was at least two decades old, made for an army that no longer existed. The long, braided cords were made from flax, and the diamond-shaped pouch between them was weather-beaten leather, formed by time and used to be a perfect cradle for rounded stones.

Shade slipped the loop over his index finger and loaded the sling with an almond-shaped sling bullet without looking. Once he had the sling in his right hand, he left it dangling and nudged his horse forward with his legs. Slinging from horseback was not the old Evendarian army tradition—accuracy was hard, and it took a well-trained mount—but it was a skill Shade perfected long ago, in another life.

The slave chain was past him now, trudging along the Via Indus towards New Allus. The Via Indus was one of the oldest roads in Evendar, starting down in South Sarin, winding across the Bridge before twisting west to the Ardens Mountains.

Fredi vasGollep’s army camp lay further along that road, Shade knew. It was deep in the Sunder River Valley and undoubtedly the final destination for this slave chain. New Allus, however, was a fishing town, which explained the empty barrels on the carts.

Drunken laughter drifted back to Shade as he guided his horse onto the road. The back two guards were shit soldiers, still sharing that flask. The middle pairs half-watched the slaves as they chatted with the overseers. The officer out front—Shade guessed she was an officer based on her nicer clothes because the Olorian army wasn’t big on uniforms or uniformity— pointedly ignored the rest of them.

Her funeral.

Whipping his arm up and around, Shade released the bullet at the bottom of the arc. It sped through the air without even a whistle, striking the rear right guard in the back of the head with a wet plop. He crumbled out of the saddle without ever knowing what hit him.

By the time his companion twisted around, Shade had already reloaded. His arm snapped around again, and another almond-shaped rock arced out, hitting this guard in the left eye and driving straight into his brain. He never had a chance to scream, collapsing like a sail without wind.

Shade didn’t watch him hit the ground. Instead, he reloaded two more times, taking out the two guards on the left. One took the stone through an eye, and another straight through the throat; both fell from the saddle as bloody messes.

Four down, three to go. One overseer screeched in terror; Shade ignored him, looped the sling around his saddle’s pommel, and drew his sword. Left hand back on the reins, he urged his stallion forward to meet the two righthand guards.

The first was braver or more foolish than the other; she came at Shade with a shouted war cry, her falcata held high. He parried, riposted, and stabbed her in the heart. The second came at him a moment later, but he was left-handed and on the wrong side for his sword to reach Shade. He tried twisting in the saddle, but Shade was quicker. A soft kiss from his schiavona opened the Olorian’s throat from right to left.

That left the officer, who was trying to rally the overseers. One was stupid enough to dismount from his wagon and approach Shade, waving his dagger. A fast downward stab sent him to his maker; Shade didn’t bother to watch him fall.

The officer hesitated too long, pausing in front of the chained-up slaves behind the second cart. With a cry, two of them dragged her out of the saddle, burying her beneath a rain of punches and kicks as she tried to fight. She screamed in fury, but they kept her down, kicking her sword away when she tried to draw it.

The back left slave grabbed for the officer’s falcata, snarling as she raised it over her head. The blade came down; blood splashed up.

Shade nodded approvingly. Slaves didn’t always fight back.

The remaining overseers, eyes wide, jumped off their wagons and fled. Sheathing his sword, Shade freed the sling again, reloading and whipping it around.

One strike.

Two.

Neither overseer made it to the tree line.

Movement caught Shade’s eye—there were riders coming up the road. But these rode two by two and wore armor—Evendarian armor? What kind of fools rode about like some sort of old-style militia, advertising the very weapons that the Olorians made illegal to wear?

Aging and worn down though he might be, Shade’s eyes still worked fine. Those riders wore schiavonas.

Sighing, Shade stowed his sling and dismounted. He’d deal with the imbeciles when they arrived. For now, he crouched and pulled a ring of keys off the dead overseer’s belt.

A few strides carried him to the closest quartet of slaves and the cart they were chained behind. They watched him warily but didn’t draw back, meekly offering their wrists to be unchained.

“Who are you?” one whispered. She was a young woman, maybe fifteen, beautiful beneath the dirt and bruises on her face. Her hair was burgundy, and her eyes dark gray.

“My name is Shade.”

“You’re a Night Rider?” the man next to her said, “I’ve heard of Night Riders!”

The young woman frowned. “What are Night Riders?”

“They help people.” He beamed.