by Vitaly Zykov
The world of Toarn is old, very old! Under a ruthless wind of time civilizations were disappearing, great races were being overthrown into Abyss…
By magic and sword new people founded an order. The balance was established.
In this time some earthmen fell into Toarn, not at their will. The bowls of scales became unsteady again, followers of the forgotten cults began to move, became dissatisfied with authority, words of ancient prophecies began to sound, and special services started a new game… Above everything, are the puppeteers, indifferent to destiny of a handful of people expelled from the Earth, so now only earthmen themselves decide what their life will be like. So one of them chose the way of a magician, and the second was destined to the way of a slave, the way leading to freedom, despite anything!
Vitaly Zykov
THE NAMELESS SLAVE – 2
The Way to Home
Poetry of Nikolay Gumilev was used in this novel
…when the Red Star will shine in the sky, as a herald of disasters and misfortunes, a hope for doomed and death for damned, the Enemy will come, bringing death, famine and darkness upon the long-suffering world of Toarn[1].
Wartags[2], be ready! We shall meet the Enemy well-armed…
Fragment of Fior prophecy (also known as Horror Lists), partially deciphered
under the order of the Academy of General Magic
Part 3
THE LAND BEHIND THE MOUNTAINS
…The threads of Fate entangle the world like a deadly spider web. Today you are a hunchback beggar and tomorrow a convict condemned to die will throw your a gold coin, and… your life would race ahead outpacing chariots of celestials. You could not live without touching these threads, although you could not die without it either. It is difficult for men to live with an idea of predestination, they flutter, breaking some threads, unraveling others, and do not notice that they get bogged down in the web of Fate even stronger. But yet the truth is that there is no predetermination. And only you decide, how deep you would get stuck in someone else's web…
Reasoning about meaning of life of Saint Dominic, rector of Bright Orris temple, known as The Mad Saint, in the year 2470 from A.S.[3]
CHAPTER 21
Teorn patiently waited for an audience with the Steward in a Small Waiting Room. But was the price high for him! Smothering black rage took his breath away and cramped his cheekbones. He, the first son of great Sohog, was forced to wait like an ignoble man!
«Do not worry, you will answer for that, son of a rat. When time comes, and you will answer for everything!» – Only this thought was helping to wait, but the strong face remained motionless, as if carved from stone. Nobody could guess about the hurricane of emotions raging in his soul. Nobody, except for magicians, of course.
Finally came a sound of leisurely steps and the adorned door before the throne opened. The Master of Ceremonies entered first and said solemnly:
– Great Steward of the first emperors, his majesty Parsan the Second!
As if confirming significance of his words, the courtier full of importance hit his staff on the marble floor. The echoing sound rolled through the hall. After that came a shuffle of footsteps. The Master of Ceremonies stepped aside to make way for marching governor. Teorn lightly bent in a welcome bow: the fat worm loved worship!
Then his majesty came into the Small Waiting Room. The first thing that caught one's eye, was a hefty eight-pointed crown, tastelessly decorated with large gem stones. Teorn even thought that the creator of this symbol of power followed principle: the bigger the better! The rich headwear sat on the head like a pot on a rustic fence.
The face of the ruler made another great impression. His small piggy eyes suspiciously looked around through the folds of fat. His thick lips incessantly whispered something. Such appearance was more suitable for a small shopkeeper then for a governor of a state.
His great belly swaying with each step, was hidden under a purple robe and the skirt of the robe reached the floor.
«This freak probably saves well on cleaners!» – Teorn thought gleefully.
Two young cute slaves supported the ruler by hands. Walking heavily, swaying from side to side, Steward Parsan marched to his throne, the decoration of which matched the crown. This bad taste literally offend Teorn's eyes, who was accustomed to severe simplicity of nomadic life.
Finally the ruler somehow arranged his fat bottom on the throne and turned to Teorn:
– Come closer, young leader. A man like you is welcome at the throne of the first Emperors, and we reward for loyalty generously… Come closer.
Teorn with a straight face came to the very foot of the throne. The bodyguards standing there visibly tensed.
– Easy. Teorn, son of Sohog wishes no ill to us, – said Parsan stroking heads of the young slaves. – At least, not yet.
At the last words eyes of the fatty gleamed with steel shine. As if a cold wind gusted on Teorn. It was not for nothing they told legends around all Sarduor about cunning and cruelty of this fat hog. His thick, fat hands hold out to the farthest corners of this mainland forgotten by all gods. The trade of drugs, prohibited weapon, artifacts of Forbidden magic and kords brought unprecedented income to Parsan. And having money, it was possible to achieve much. Especially when it was such money!
– We knew that you accepted our offer. It pleased us very much…
Teorn exhaled air through the clenched teeth and answered:
– I admit that in the letters delivered by your people were drawn very tempting prospects, but…
– But? – Parsan said squeezing armrests with threat and moving forward. – Something does not sit right with you, the first son of Sohog? Or, perhaps, I should offer the same to Darg?
– No, of course not – despising himself for the pleading tone, Teorn began to speak hastily. – But it's unclear to me, what I'll have to do in exchange for your help?
Hearing that, Parsan leaned back on the throne with satisfaction:
– Now this is a business conversation.
With these words he clicked fingers and literally at once as if only waiting the signal, appeared a servant with a tray and a misted wine glass on it. Parsan took a greedy sip and smacked his lips:
– Rensky wine, last year's crop. You know, I adore young wines. They speed up your blood so well! And Rensky wines are the burning mix of grapevine blood and magic…
Teorn was silent. He was the leader's son, but he did not know, whether had he enough money even for one bottle of such wine or not!
– So what was I talking? Ah yes, I heard rumors that your father is dissatisfied with the price that I give for your goods, and looks for new buyers. – One more drink from the glass. – And I very much dislike when my old partners betray me. Do you understand me well? And therefore I hope that such rumors will not arise in your case.
– Certainly, your majesty, – Teorn began to nod enthusiastically.
– Besides that, your father has some prejudice in relation to some areas of your lands. – Parsan kept silent for a while. – The lands which interest me, I would even say, interest me a lot. And I'll need safe access to these lands, free from any kind of savages who could mess us.
– What do you mean?
– Do not pretend to be an idiot! – Parsan knocked his fist on the armrest. – It's necessary to me that my people could move safely across Plaguelands and quietly pass over to the far coast of the Bone.
– But there are Tarks, Urgs and a lot of hostile human tribes… Parsan pursed his lips in disgust:
– Spare me these savage names. Trolls are excellent, strong slaves, and goblins are good clowns and thieves. The more prisoners there are, the quicker you will repay all your debts. After all, I hope, you understand,
that I present my help to you on credit?
– But my people will not go to the Forest and the land of Spawns!
– It's unnecessary to go so far. There is a lot of interesting to catch in the waters of the Bone… Well, I hope, you agree to these conditions? – asked the governor interrogatively bending his right eyebrow, and his face was distorted into a horrible grimace. The bodyguards strained again waiting for an order. Teorn was not a coward and he was a skilled swordsman, though, of course, not as good as damned Darg, but better than any common warrior. But these four lean, sinewy soldiers before him were very dangerous. Controlling all garlun trade, Parsan trained excellent swordsmen in guardsmen barracks, and these four were the best. Teorn understood that, if he does not fit Parsan's expectations, his life will last no more than a minute. But he had no wish to refuse not because of the threat for his life. This fat man showed him a way to the goal to which the young warrior had aspired all his life. He was ready for great sacrifice for that. And what about fulfillment of some conditions, that they would see! Teorn pressed his right hand to his breast, bowed and uttered:
– I agree!
–It's perfect, – Parsan said with satisfaction and again snapped his fingers in a complicated manner.
A new servant entered into the hall and brought a small casket. He approached Teorn and cast the lid away. Inside, on black velvet lay a small golden medallion in the form of a grinning muzzle of some being. There was no good in it!
– Master, give me your hand, – the servant said in a low voice.
– What for? – Teorn asked with his voice shivering for some reason. He was answered by Parsan:
– Well, do you really think, that I would take you word?! You even disappointed me. This trinket will force you to respect your part of our contract! Well, put it on – Parsan shouted sharply.
And reconciled Teorn obediently gave his hand. He already had no other choice.
Yarik cursed himself silently through his clenched teeth. He was engaged in this ignoble business (but what nobility a slave could have?!) the past half an hour. How could he keep his temper when a sixpaw had stepped over his foot quite recently, but all the same he had to walk on the road, badly limping on his injured foot?
– Idiot! Cretin! Shit of Tark! – His lips continually repeated an extensive list of diverse vile curses. His foot hurt brutally, and it was impossible to stop even for a minute. After passing the tunnel, their caravan moved in common order: slaves ran, wagons slid, sixpaws worked, drivers shouted at them, and soldiers caracoled on tirrs along the chain of vehicles. The direct threat of the mysterious Wings' attack had passed and people relaxed. The only thing that could threaten them now were ordinary robbers… or representatives of local government which was the same, as far as Yaroslav could judge by separate remarks reaching his ears. However, Yarik could not really understand what exactly prevented this Wings from attacking a caravan on this side of the mountains. Dukan muttered something illegible about Earth of the Law and got rid of the too inquisitive slave from the carriage.
Exactly at that moment Yaroslav got the trauma. He got his foot hooked in some jut on the vehicle, unsuccessfully landed and appeared too close to the master's harnessed sixpaw in whose microscopic brain at that very minute appeared a thought to step from one foot to another… Why Yarik did not shout then from unexpected sharp pain, he did not even know himself. Luckily for him that shaggy cattle broke him nothing. He could define that at once. But the foot swelled up greatly and rapidly got a bluish shade. Each step caused shooting pain, but it was impossible to stop. Master should know nothing about the trauma. A slave could easily get twenty lashes for that. Severe temper of these nomadic people did not recognize sloppiness and disorder, and if they decided that Yarik had done it deliberately… no, it was better not to think about that. It was impossible to treat too – fast treatment took too much energy, which he should be saving. So Yarik suffered, cursing badly his destiny and his own carelessness.
Besides all, the road here differed from what it was in the Steppe. Covered by layer of dust, even after millennia the ancient track continued to regularly serve people. But this road… if it could be called a road at all. What an ass-handed freak had paved it?! Stones of wrong form, with sharp edges. Here and there were rough chips, here and there on the roadbed cobblestones were turned out from the ground leaving gaps overgrown with grass. Wheels of vehicles constantly got into these holes, forcing the whole wagon to shake… And the feet of the walking slaves constantly got into the holes too.
– Cali be motherin-law for creator of this road!!! – Yarik roared hoarsely, stepping into a hole with his sore foot. Dukan grinned nastily on the coachbox. Yarik's sufferings amused him much.
«Fat-ass marhuz, in the tunnel you behaved in a different way!» – Yarik thought revengefully. For Yarik himself the travel through the mountains was filled with pleasant impressions only and again his thoughts were carried back, to the possession of the mysterious Masters…
In comparison with the race across the steppe their transition through the mountains passed extremely easily. Vehicles slowly slid over perfectly smooth floor of the tunnel. Sitting people never shook! Sixpaws imperturbably performed their hard duties as if there was no layer of stone a mile in height rising above the caravan. Why should they worry? Though, under the ceiling, at the height of three human heights curled darkness, but from the walls there was coming a soft light, illuminating not only the road under feet, but also a few yards ahead. Yarik was wildly interested in the source of light: there were no visible lamps, it was as if that walls themselves radiated the light.
People behaved absolutely differently. Silence filled with human fears shrouded the caravan. Nomads, children of steppe, hardly endured closed spaces. Dukan sitting next to Yarik continually wiped streams of cold sweat from his face. Dust and sweat turned his face into some stiffened grotesque mask.
Nothing similar could be said about Darg and other warriors. It seemed that they feared nothing. With dead-pan expression they prowled along all the caravan as they did it earlier, tunnel width allowed that (as it seemed to Yarik, four vehicles in a row could pass here quietly and never touch with their boards).
Vehicles slid forward. Time seemed to have paused and the world disappeared. There were only sixpaws, vehicles and stone running back away. Yaroslav did not waste time: with closed eyes, pretending to be asleep, he, in trance, was laboriously making his way to the heart of his magic. The work was difficult and deadly dangerous, but with each such immersion he came nearer to freedom. It might be only by a whisker, but still closer. The Chinese say, that a way of thousand li begins with one step… And even if you move on it in short steps, sooner or later your desired goal will be achieved!
– You, bastard! Do you want a lash?!! – Yarik was distracted from his memoirs, as the words were obviously addressed to him. – Am I talking t' you or the sixpaw's ass?!
– What does my master wish? – Yaroslav ran up to the coachbox of the slowly sliding vehicle and looked at Dukan with readiness.
– Why you, worm, daring t' dream when a freeman's talking t' you? – The driver was literally boiling with rage. A day ago Darg promised Dukan to tear off his head if he even touches garlun again. He said then, that even those who had reached much in Art, smoked it strictly in certain time, after a complex of special exercises and with the help of artifact magic, and only blockheads from big cities and Dukan smoked it for pleasure. Dukan, as usual, began to promise that starting tomorrow morning he would never… Yarik's master stopped objections by a sharp wave of his hand and answered that he promised Dukan's father to look after his useless son and it's high time to do so. After that he ordered Yarik to rummage the wagon and to collect all garlun which was dried and pounded to powder and to put it in a couple of bags. When the order was completed, he fastened the bags to the saddle of his tirr and rode to the soldiers who were waiting for him. And now, the absence of the habitual drug enraged the driver.
–
You beast, if Darg were not going t' sell you, I would flay your skin! – Having no opportunity to affect the chief, Dukan was eager to break his black rage on a defenseless kord.
Yarik pulled his head in his shoulders, trying to show complete submission by all his appearance. All his movements gained some fussiness exhibiting full obsequiousness, but deep down he was boiling with rage.
– Find a jar and a rag, quickly! – Dukan continued to order. – It's time for one freak like you t' get a less disgusting appearance.
Yarik silently began searches, but Dukan did not calm down:
– The grass, you beast, have found much quicker! U-u-u, food for a roarer! I hope that you'll be bought for Steward's harem. You know, what they do with savages like you there? Why are you silent?! – The driver enraged by silence of the slave, stuck his goad into darkness of the van. A short exhalation of pain was the answer. Then came a low voice of the kord:
– No, master.
– «No» what?!
– I don't know what they do in harems with slaves like me…
– Ah-ah-ah! Sure! They cut them t' make eunuchs! Do you understand, what I mean?
– Yes, master.
Dukan was getting more and more excited, falling into a sweet reverie of a close vengeance.
– And also they say that Steward has an unusual taste. – At these last words Dukan swore and spitted on the ground, – I think you'll not like it, savage!
At this moment Yarik leaned out from the curtain closing the entrance into the van.
– Who allowed you to divert your attention away? – Dukan shouted again with reinforced rage.
– I've found everything, master.
– Well, then sit down on the bench and don't move! – With these words Dukan smacked his lips, swore and stuck the goad into sixpaw's back.
Yarik obediently sat nearby and calmed down. The jar and the rag he settled on his lap. Though not a jar, but a wooden box with a cover. Apparently, metal ware was quite expensive here. At least, Yarik only saw woodenware with these nomads, though made with rare grace.
