Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [183]
Galladon shook his head. “Then why don’t Jindos ever get taken? There’s plenty of them living along the spice route.”
“I don’t know,” Raoden said.
“Listen to him pray, sule,” Galladon said scoffingly. “As if the rest of us hadn’t tried that already.”
“I wonder how long he’ll wait.”
“Three days already,” Galladon said. “Must be starting to get hungry. Kolo?”
Raoden nodded. Even after three days of almost continual prayer, the gyorn’s voice was firm. Everything else considered, Raoden had to respect the man’s determination.
“Well, when he finally realizes he’s not getting anywhere, we’ll invite him to join us,” Raoden said.
“Trouble, sule,” Galladon warned. Raoden followed the Dula’s gesture, picking out a few huddled shapes in the shadows to the gyorn’s left.
Raoden cursed, watching Shaor’s men slink from the alleyway. Apparently, their food had run out even more quickly than Raoden had assumed. They had probably returned to the courtyard to look for scraps, but they found something much more promising: the still full basket of food at the gyorn’s feet.
“Come on,” Raoden urged, turning to climb down from the roof. There was a time when Shaor’s men might have gone directly for the food. However, recent events had changed the wild men. They had begun wounding indiscriminately—as if they had realized that the fewer mouths opposed them, the more likely they were to get food.
“Doloken burn me for helping a gyorn,” Galladon muttered, following. Unfortunately, he and Raoden moved too slowly. They were too late … to save Shaor’s men.
Raoden rounded the side of the building as the first wildman jumped at the gyorn’s back. The Fjordell leapt to his feet, spinning with near-inhuman speed and catching Shaor’s man by the head. There was a snap as the gyorn cracked his opponent’s neck, then threw him against the wooden gate. The other two attacked in unison. One met with a powerful spinning kick that tossed him across the courtyard like a pile of rags. The other received three successive punches to the face, then a kick to the midsection. The madman’s howl of rage cut off with a whine as the gyorn placed another kick at the side of the man’s head.
Raoden stumbled to a halt, mouth half open.
Galladon snorted. “Should have realized. Derethi priests can take care of themselves. Kolo?”
Raoden nodded slowly, watching the priest return smoothly to his knees and resume his prayers. Raoden had heard that all Derethi priests were trained in the infamous monasteries of Fjorden, where they were required to undergo vigorous physical training. However, he hadn’t realized that a middle-aged gyorn would maintain his skills.
The two wildmen who could still move crawled away, while the other one lay where the gyorn had tossed him, whimpering pitifully with his broken neck.
“It’s a waste,” Raoden whispered. “We could have used those men back in New Elantris.”
“I don’t see what we can do about it,” Galladon said with a shake of his head.
Raoden stood, turning toward the market section of Elantris. “I do,” he said with determination.
They penetrated Shaor’s territory so quickly and directly that they got nearly to the bank before they were noticed. Raoden didn’t respond when Shaor’s men began to howl—he continued to walk, resolute, focused on his goal. Galladon, Karata, and Dashe—Karata’s former second was one of the few experienced fighting men left in Raoden’s camp—accompanied him. Each nervously carried a medium-sized sack in his arms.
Shaor’s men followed them, cutting off their escape. After the losses they had received over the last few weeks, there could only be a couple of dozen men left in Shaor’s band, but those few seemed to multiply and shift in the shadows.
Galladon shot Raoden an apprehensive look. Raoden could tell what he was thinking. You’d better be sure as Doloken you know what you’re doing, sule….
Raoden set his jaw firmly. He had only a single hope—his belief in the rational nature of the human soul.
Shaor was much the same as before. Though her men must have delivered some of their spoils to her,