THE SLAVE
'Easy now, Big Fellow,' a gruff, but not unkindly voice murmured in Fire*Wolf's ear.
There was a foul taste in his mouth, his head ached as if it had been split through the centre with an axe. Worse still, the World seemed to be in motion like a ship at sea. He became aware of a dull ache in his thighs and backside.
Fire*Wolf opened his eyes, shook his head painfully to clear away the mental fog.
'Easy now,' the gruff voice said again.
He was astride a horse, hands bound behind his back, ankles roped together with a bond which passed beneath the belly of the animal. Two powerful arms flanked him, holding the reins; and a hard, muscular body pressed into his back. He could hear the clink of harness, smell the sweat of beasts and men. He turned his head slightly to discover he was part of a caravan of mounts, wagons, heavily black-bearded and black-cloaked horsemen, and walking men, women and children.
Fire*Wolf half turned to catch a glimpse of the black-bearded figure on the mount behind him.
'Steady,'said the man.
'Where am I?' Fire*Wolf asked. 'Who are you?'
'Me?' came the gruff voice. I'm Tojar. Do you have a name you can remember?'
'Fire*Wolf,' Fire*Wolf muttered. He allowed himself to slump forward in the saddle and slurred his voice as if still only semi-conscious, but already his mind was racing as he attempted to identify his situation. One thing was immediately clear. He was a prisoner.
'That's a Wilderness name by the sound of it. You from the Wilderness then?'
Fire*Wolf grunted.
'Don't find many from the Wilderness in these reaches,' Tojar remarked. 'But you have the accent, that's for sure, even if you don't have the typical look.' To someone further down the line he called, 'You were right, Baj. We've got us a Wilderness Barbarian here.'
'He'll fetch a good price in Xanthus if we can keep him alive,' Baj called back. 'Especially now they're expecting trouble. His race has a reputation for breeding fighters.'
Head bowed, Fire*Wolf took in the conversation word for word. The 'good price' comment told him all he needed to know. Weakly, he asked again, 'Where are we?'
'On the trail to Xanthus,' Tojar told him. 'Know where that is?'
'No,' Fire*Wolf admitted. Not that it mattered, since he had no intention of ever arriving there. Not ever and certainly not as a slave.
'Second largest city in Harn next to the capital,' Tojar said. 'Largest port and largest market. You'll find it a bit different from the caves you're used to.'
Fire*Wolf did not doubt it. Aloud, he asked, 'How long before we get there?'
'Two weeks' march. Time enough for you to get your strength back.'
In fact, despite the aching head and stiffness in his hands and fingers where the tight bindings had cut off the blood supply, he felt far stronger than he had done before his capture. The foul taste in his mouth, bitter and pungent, suggested he had been given some herbal healing brew. If so, it seemed to have done sterling work. He was far from fully recovered, but the intermittent fever seemed to have abated and the weakness in his legs was far less pronounced.
All the same, he allowed himself to slump still further and lapsed into silence. Whatever the reality, it was important his captors did not realize the truth of his condition. They would be far less watchful if they thought him weak and ill.
The caravan travelled for several hours without incident, then, at sunset, halted to pitch camp for the night. Tojar released the bindings from Fire*Wolf's ankles and led him to a communal yurt pitched for those who had been travelling on foot. They were a motley collection, mainly women and children with only a few dispirited men. None cared to speak to him and few even bothered to meet his eye. The fact that guards were posted round the yurt told Fire*Wolf that these were his fellow slaves.
As the yurt flap closed, he began to twist the bonds around his wrists.
'Don't do that,' one of the older women cautioned. 'They flog you if you untie yourself without permission.' She herself was not bound. He noticed that, in fact, few were. The ropes had been reserved for the larger, more dangerous-looking captives like himself.
'Thank you,' Fire*Wolf murmured. He sought out a space in the large tent and lay down to rest and think. Those around him seemed placid, inured to their fate, but that was their choice. Fire*Wolf himself had no plans to languish with this slaver caravan until it reached the port of Xanthus. At the same time, he needed to lay his escape plans carefully. Stronger though he was, he was not yet fully recovered. Tojar and the other black-bearded slavers were relaxed enough, obviously anticipating little trouble. All the same, they were professionals in their trade and as such would always be on the alert and know how to deal with those attempting to escape. To be successful, timing would be all important.
But how much time did he have? Two weeks to reach Xanthus, but would the slavers remain relaxed as they were now? He might have to choose between taking action now, before he reached full strength, or waiting to recover fully and run the risk that when the time came, security precautions might be far more stringent.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance into the yurt of the man, Baj. Like all the slavers, he was dark-eyed and black-bearded, wearing the black cloak over clothing of warm, dark homespun. He looked a powerful man, broad-shouldered and muscular, although smaller in height than Fire*Wolf. He stood silhouetted in the entrance for a moment, staring arrogantly around the prisoners. Something about his gait or carriage suggested he might be just a little drunk.
'You there!' Baj called. He walked forward into the packed mass of slaves, unmindful of attack, as if he knew their spirit to be truly broken. 'You there!' he said again. 'You'll join me tonight!' He was standing before a young girl, scarcely more than sixteen or seventeen years old, with the fair hair and complexion of Northern Ham. She shrank away, eyes wide, as he reached for her.
'No!'
The cry came from an older woman, who pushed between Baj and the girl. But the burly man swept her aside easily with one rough movement of his arm. 'Come on, my pretty,' he said to the young girl. 'A man needs a little relaxation on a journey like this.'
The girl screamed as he gripped her arm and began to drag her towards the entrance of the yurt. No one moved to stop him: this was obviously a regular occurrence.
In the corner of the yurt, Fire*Wolf tucked his feet beneath him and rose, hands still bound, in a single, fluid movement.
You are Fire*Wolf. Barbarian fire is rising in your veins at the treatemnt of this young girl. Your instincts insist you must attack this man: yet your hands remain bound, you have no weapons, and your body has not fully recovered from your last combat.
• Follow your instincts and attack?
• Let events take their course without interfering?
