The Power of Distribution (1)

Not everything for sale in Gerona’s item market was a magic item. The mages were not all elementalists, either. Some sold chimeras they had pieced together themselves, the way another might keep a familiar, and others put tamed monsters on the block.

The alchemists went further still, dealing in refined magical metals and raw reagents, in drugs such as healing potions — and, of course, in poisons.

“One drop will kill a man. A paralytic toxin.”

I asked the mage, who was presenting the vial with undisguised pride, how the stuff was meant to be used.

“If a single drop kills outright, how far would it have to be cut if I only wanted simple paralysis?”

“Simple paralysis?”

“Enough to keep someone from moving for about an hour.”

“For that, you’d turn it into a vapor and have them breathe it in.”

“A vapor?”

“Yes. Boil it into a smoke screen and release it into the air. Anyone who inhales it will have their nervous system seized.”

A smoke screen. The words lit something in my head, and I bought the paralytic along with its antidote.

We circled the outskirts of the orc village again and again, laying the smoke down until it blanketed the whole settlement. A short while later the sylph that had been holding it in place spent the last of its strength and vanished. The moment the spirit was gone, the shifting wind tore the trapped smoke apart. It thinned, frayed, and was gone without a trace.

Where the smoke had been, silence lay over a village of hundreds of orcs. I brought the vehicle to a stop and looked in. Orcs sprawled across the ground like corpses.

“Looks like it worked, Number One.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Call the mercenaries. Have them collect the goods.”

By the time Marcus came running at the head of the company, every orc had already collapsed and could not so much as twitch.

“How in the world did you pull this off?”

“Don’t tell me you killed them all?”

“No. Look — they’re ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠alive. Their chests are moving. These bastards are alive.”

I turned to the dumbfounded mercenaries.

“Hey. Let’s move. The quick ones might start stirring any minute. Wrists behind their backs, and bind them with these for now.”

The slaves passed out thick cable ties. The mercenaries, only just taught how to use them, gawked even as their hands grew quick, and one orc after another was trussed. Once the slaves and all thirty mercenaries were at it together, the pace of the binding picked up sharply.

A paralytic does not take every man the same way, though — nor every orc. Marcus and I stood off to the side, ready for an attack that might still come.

And, just as expected, it did.

“Guh—!”

Trainer No. 2 had been closing in with a tie, meaning to bind the ankle of a massive orc. There was a wet crack. The orc that had snapped his neck snatched a club off the ground and charged.

“Grrrh. Human! You dare use poison! I’ll kill you, you coward!”

“Figures. The big ones burn through the paralytic fast.”

I gave ground, threw up a hand, and shouted.

A shaft of lightning tore through the air like an arrow. The orc saw it coming and smashed it aside with his club. The bolt burst apart in a crackling spray, scattering into the empty air — and in that instant Captain Marcus drew his longsword, as if he had been waiting for nothing else, and stepped in front of me.

Steel met ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the orc warrior. The brute was no small thing. Every time the club came down it struck the earth with a boom, as if a bomb were lashed to the end of it, threatening to blow the ground apart. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. The strength behind it was monstrous, and the speed of the swings was nothing to dismiss. Even Captain Marcus, an aura user, could not put him down easily.

It did not last. The orc had not fully shaken off the paralytic, and little by little Marcus began to drive him back. Green blood spilled as cuts opened across that huge body. Swordwork meant to sever muscle did its work, and at last the strength went out of the warrior. The club slipped from his hands.

“Grrrh. Damn it! If it weren’t for the poison…”

Captain Marcus moved to finish the raging orc. I stopped him.

“Wait!”

The blade halted a hair from the throat. I lunged into the gap and thrust my hand out again.

The current cracked and snarled.

“Grrraaaagh!!!”

Broiled just enough by the lightning, the orc dropped where he stood. I had the slaves bind him again, and only once I was sure he was properly subdued did I break out a clotting agent and bandages and stop the bleeding.

“High-grade stock, just by the look of him. Can’t go ruining valuable merchandise.”

He was not the only one. Several more orcs shook off the paralytic and either rampaged or tried to run, but in the end I had the mercenary company drag every last one of them in. Every orc in the village was taken. Some eighty head had died, but the haul was hardly small.

The tally:

The children could not be put on the block right away, but leaving them on the plains was no option either, so I decided to take them along. Loaded aboard the truck, the orcs packed it so tight there was not a gap left.

Taking stock of what I held:

I had burned through a fortune buying items like a madman, stocking up to deal with the thieves’ guild, the merchants, and the mafias back on Earth. Spend without looking and even a rich man ends up dressed like a beggar. That is the way of it.

The regret passed quickly, and I turned back to the numbers. Four hundred orcs was no small catch. Even so, it did not look like enough to land a real blow on the merchants who had tried to screw me.

Marco came over just then, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠loading finished.

“Guild Master. The truck is packed solid, right to the back.”

“Yeah. Still feels thin, though.”

“Sir?”

“They say something like four thousand slaves move through the peak season. Dump four hundred of them at a fire-sale price and how much of a dent is that really going to make?”

“Ah. That’s true.”

“I’d need a thousand, at the least, before it would feel like enough. Anywhere else we can get them?”

“Slaves? If you want them, you can get as many as you like.”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“When I was in Sorbon, I heard that the slaves they raised in the capital, Drail, for the Battle of Albredo have been put back on the market.”

“What?! And you’re only telling me now?!”

“I— well. I figured that even if we bought them, there wouldn’t be anywhere decent to sell them right away, so I didn’t bring it up.”

“Nowhere decent. Why?”

“Getting slaves from Drail all the way to Gerona would take twenty days at the very shortest. By then the peak season will already be over. Whatever we fail to sell just sits as inventory and eats through the food stores.”

Marco said it as if it were obvious. He was not wrong. A slave you buy and cannot sell in time keeps consuming food, and that kind of climb in fixed costs is exactly how a trading house takes a serious loss.

But.

“Listen, Marco. I think you’re overlooking something about me.”

“Sir? What would that be?”

“This. The fact that I’m a mage.”

Marco set out for Sorbon with the slaves. Argon and the mercenaries went with them, as expected. From Sorbon they would take ship again for Gerona. The journey back would run about ten days.

While they made for Sorbon, I took IS-1, IS-2, Istanbul-1, and Trainer-1, drove the pickup through the gate at Baldar Fortress, and came out in Damascus. I called over IS-1 and IS-2, the two who had worked this city before.

“Boss. A large box truck, you said?”

“The bigger, the better. Don’t worry about the price — get them in the best condition you can. I’ll pay cash. And find ones that don’t need registration or insurance.”

“Yes. We’ll look into it.”

While the IS slaves went out into the market, I put in a call to the lawyer in Istanbul.

A day after I had set the Istanbul matter in motion, IS-1 and IS-2 came back with the vehicles: three five-ton trucks, bought used out of Europe. The bodies were in decent shape, so I purchased them on the spot. Eighty thousand euros apiece, cash — two hundred and forty thousand for the three.

The slaves took one vehicle each, and I left IS-1 behind in Damascus.

“Stay here and find us a route through to Beirut. If a week passes and we haven’t come back, kill yourself.”

With the order given, I got behind the wheel and headed for the northeastern border. Out there was a gate point that opened onto the outskirts of Drail Castle, capital of the kingdom.