The Nameless Slave 2

by Vitaly Zykov

  The caravan continued its movement. Poor houses replaced with richer ones, made of stone, two-and three-storied. There were stone sidewalks with columns of streetlight too. The city road gradually extended, and eventually turned into an impressive rectangular square. The houses which surrounded or more correctly, formed the square, inspired respect with their beauty and severe solemnity. Columns, stone figures of gargoyleys or other chimeras (or perhaps quite ordinary local animals) decorated each building. At the entrance to one of the most majestic buildings (a real palace!) stood a rank of greenish statues of Tarks. Though not statues! One of the Tarks loudly cleaned his nose and wiped his fingers on his trousers from rough skin. The Tarks were holding their clubs from green stone, already familiar to Yaroslav, in their hands before themselves.

  «Like guard of honor», – Yarik grinned gloomily.

  The vehicles stopped on this square. Probably, here was the ultimate goal of all nomads' travel. The Market square, Place of execution, Fairground – all these words were persistently swirling in Yaroslav's head. The place where he either would be sold or gifted! At this point appeared the local hosts – the wide gate of the palace swung open, the Tarks stood at attention, a procession headed by a fat man of unimaginable dimensions came to the nomads who froze in anticipation. For stability he was supported by two cute youths.

  «Parsan, be damned… – Yaroslav screwed up his face in revulsion. – Bastard!»

  It was simply disgusting to think of that this was his future owner. A sigh full of respect swept somewhere in the distance. Yarik looked back – all the passages between houses were filled with people. They respectfully, but without hiding curiosity and anticipation of action, stood around the square.

  «Of course, what this hog does not buy, they will! Freaks!» – Yarik thought with hatred. He had a painful wish to break off the collar and to crush everything around with the whip of Nergal. His hands were itching from this infeasible desire!

  – We are glad to welcome Sohog the Great with his sons in Polot, at our annual Fair! – It was said by the vile fatman-governor. – Citizens welcome you, valorous warriors!

  At these words as if by a wave of invisible conductor's baton, welcome shouts rang around. Some of citizens even threw their caps up. Some inconspicuous figures, shouting, jumping up and swinging their hands, scurried about in the crowd.

  «Ones celebrate, but others work!» – A vindictive thought warmed Yaroslav's soul. Local pickpockets obviously had a harvest season.

  Unexpectedly an unpleasant chill ran between his shoulders. This was the way Yarik always felt baleful, hostile looks as if someone aims directly at his heart… A moment, and the vile feeling passed. Yarik slowly turned his head and his eye slid over the crowd, facades of houses, then followed to a roof… Well, of course there was a shooter. It was not necessary to possess special skills to notice people with crossbows in places, convenient for shooting. Guards! Probably the best snipers, who could hit a copper coin from eighty yards! No doubt, that Parsan has a lot of enemies!

  At this moment Steward ended his magniloquently praising dignity of arrived nomads and moved on to official part of the meeting:

  – And now, I think, leaders should go to Crimson chamber in my palace to celebrate our new peace meeting. – Parsan made a pause and stared at Sohog. – Your people meanwhile will prepare everything for the beginning of the trade. I ask you…

  And hardly waddling like a duck, he went to the palace. At this moment Yarik saw something strange in Steward's gait. Some artificiality and deliberateness appeared in the way this man moved. As if it was not a fat man, but a person pretending to be one. A moment later everything seemed normal again. Yaroslav blinked and shook his head. It was like a delusion!

  Someone's strong hand seized him by his shoulder and turned face to face. Master!

  – You behave too boldly, slave! – Darg's voice resembled annoyed snake's hissing. – Never, you hear, never stare like this at a freeman, and moreover at your future owner! Never!.. Or you should strongly regret that! Got that?!

  – Yes, master, – Yarik uttered in a low voice, respectfully bowing his head.

  – Follow me! – Already loudly and imperatively said the young leader, – Namir and Gloss, you too!

  Yarik laughed under his breath when he saw Darg's assistants' faces twitched. They were compared to a slave! But discipline and love to the leader won – they silently followed Darg, except they first tossed Yarik behind their backs, it was easy with Namir's impressive muscles!

  The same small groups separated from other clans of nomads. Some of them led slaves too, the others carried subjects wrapped in expensive skins.

  «Gifts, marhuz bite your asses!» – Yaroslav's thoughts were less and less friendly.

  Working activity had already begun behind them: someone was taking out long poles and parcels of skins from the wagons, others were driving away too curious spectators. Apparently, they intended to build hastily a yard for slaves here and a small stage for demonstration. The only thing that surprised Yarik, was that sharpshooters stayed on the roofs. Steward, after all, already disappeared in the palace, so what they were waiting for? Or maybe preparing?

  Yarik shrugged his shoulders and unperturbably walked forward – that was not his problem, and he was not the one to solve it!

  Powerful wings were dissecting the air. Seven armored bodies moved promptly to their goal. The full Wing of dragons gathered at last in the sky over the lands of Steward.

  – What a Steward, after all? Whose Steward? – The Wing commander Cassandra Arrant was talking to herself. – Small fry! It would be better for them to care about their own business, but no, they remember times of the Dusk Empire about which even legends are almost forgotten! They know only that there was Emperor who appointed Stewards, and that's all!

  Dense leather mask completely covered the face, only letting slow thin streams of air inside. The eyes were covered with big glasses. All these things had native aroma of the Nold magic. Nobody had to hear her, but Ro Rukh, the black beauty Ro Rukh, squinted her clever eye with snake pupil on the rider. Dragons always hear everything! Clever, dangerous, having the strongest magic and wisdom of millennia, they surpassed people in many aspects. Only magicians of the highest mastery could withstand a fight against a skilled dragon. Blessed be Ptolomey the Great who had made the treaty of union with dragons.

  Cassandra bent forward and tenderly patted Ro Rukh on the neck covered with scales. To fly on majestic and mighty animal is already happiness in itself, but to be her friend: such a feeling is impossible to describe in any language, even the magicians'…

  Suburb of Polot, the capital of Steward's lands, lay far below. A vile small city! Vile like all the cities of this damned continent. Ancestors were thousand times right, when after the Wars of the Fall Age they placed special observers and forces of the United Protectorate here. Though they did not participate in the War directly, a nursery of ancient evil was exactly here along with the Dusk Empire itself…

  «You are right as always, darling! – The voice of Ro Rukh softly interfered with the smooth current of Cassandra's thoughts. – But maybe you have been carried away too far?»

  «No, but nevertheless you are right, Ro Rukh. Order to the others to turn. There is no need for us to appear in the sky of Polot and frighten this folk in vain. Attack if a signal from our man in the city does not come in two hours!» – The return thought of Cassandra had a shade of shame for her miss: a commander should never plunge into thoughts so deeply.

  «Do not worry, I already gave the order. – It seemed to Cassandra that Ro Rukh made a tsking sound like a human. – But it doesn't matter, you people, too contemptuously think about this land. It disturbs dragons».

  «But why? – It became terribly interesting to Cassandra. Even riders knew very little about dragons. – What is so important here?»

  Ro Rukh mentally sighed and transferred to her rider a reproachful impulse:

  «This is the Ancie
nt Land! The Dusk Empire was located on the land of even more ancient races, it saw the decline of many states and folks. A lot of forgotten things, are hidden in these lands. Dragons remember…» – Ro Rukh broke the thought-message.

  «What does Ro Rukh remember?» – Cassandra froze in anticipation for continuation.

  «Nothing, but nonsense of young dragons like me». – She shook her head as if banishing a delusion.

  Cassandra did not insist as she already knew that in such case Ro Rukh would tell nothing, but only take offense.

  At this moment the stone in a bracelet on her left hand, the one that was responsible for communication with the man in Polot, extinguished. The everlasting spark which used to burn in it had died. It meant that the life of the man connected to the stone was broken. Something unexpected happened there. Mission on the earth had failed. Rage filled her soul.

  – We are coming to an attacking position! Our brother has died there below! We'll avenge for him! For Nold!! – Cassandra's mental message reached each rider and each dragon in the Wing.

  – For Nold! – The old war cry of magicians-warriors was the answer.

  Yarik silently followed his master through the richly decorated halls of the palace. They were walking and walking, it seemed to have no end. Nomads who were here for the first time looked around, trying to keep coolness on their faces. For Yarik all this beauty seemed excessively elaborate and tasteless. There, on Earth, unimaginably far from here, there were palaces better… Though, maybe, he was mistaken. He was not in a proper state to admire beauty. Some muffled anxiety gnawed him from within. At first he thought that it was connected with the fact of his sale (or presenting him as a gift). But after a little thought, Yaroslav swept this assumption aside. Something was wrong. Then like thunder from the blue sky came a thought – what would be if something happens with Darg before he transfers the rights for Yarik to Parsan? Or, on the contrary, with Parsan when Yarik is given to him? Death, a terrible death, that's what would be!

  A scent of a poisonous intrigue soared in the air. Sidelong glances of Teorn and a blood-red luminescence of his medallion, careless behavior of Sohog and excessive hospitality of Parsan – all that forced to think strongly about the possibility of the sensed danger.

  At this moment their procession stopped before the doors to some hall. A couple of guards with halberds stood near the entrance. One of them raised his hand in a warning way and said:

  – It's prohibited to come with weapon into this chamber! – He thought a little and added: – Even for such honorable guests!

  Nomads grumbled in protest. Teorn's voice exceeded all others: – How they dare?! True warrior of the Steppe never leaves his weapon! This is dishonor!

  The others answered with approving rumble. It could not be managed without Sohog's interfering. He turned to the people accompanying him and said:

  – It's wrong to enter into a foreign house with our laws! – Then added, addressing to the guards: – We honor the old agreement!

  And everything was over – as if a knife cut off all the talks.

  At this point, a man puffed up with pride and dressed up like a peacock appeared from somewhere and ordered the guards to open the door. Then he entered into the hall first, and everybody heard his loud voice:

  – The great chief Sohog with his sons and advisers! «Master of ceremony! We know, we read», – Yaroslav thought with irritation.

  All of them entered the hall. Everything what Yaroslav managed to see, were the narrow loopholes of windows, luxurious chandeliers burning with a thousand fires, walls adorned with stucco work and the laid table in the center of the hall. Parsan was already sitting at the head of the table…

  They did not allow Yarik to look around thoroughly: a noticeable blow into his head forced him to bend down.

  – Don't twirl your head, kord! – The hiss of old Bosk was not too difficult to identify.

  «How did he get here? I thought the damned shaman has not actually come with us, has he?» – Yaroslav was surprised. His feeling of danger was itching stronger somewhere inside.

  Servants led the nomads to their places. Yarik tried to keep behind Darg. When Darg sat on his place – opposite a window, back to a wall, Yarik kneeled to the right of the chair, a step behind it. Darg glanced at him and nodded with satisfaction.

  Now Yarik could look around quietly. Nomads were sitting along one side of the table. First Sohog, then his sons and then his entrusted commanders. There were only two slaves like Yarik, and they also kneeled behind their owners. Yarik had no acquaintances among them. Old Bosk sat somewhere in the middle of the table.

  Authorized representatives of Parsan were sitting on the other side of the table. They were all warriors. It was easy to see from the military style of their clothes, military bearing and tenacious eyes. According to the old agreement between nomads and the city there was no weapon, but they were owners here, after all! Servants could bring it at any time!

  «Damn! Why am I thinking about weapon? What makes me think that they need it?» – Yarik was surprised at himself.

  In addition, a weak magic glow on the breast of each Parsan's man inspired anxiety too.

  A pygmy-size man in straw crown and crimson camisole sat at the bottom of the table, his back to the entrance. He had a hooked nose, deeply put eyes and his fingers were continually weaving in a dance like a tangle of snakes in agony. Yarik thought before, that dwarf's function was to make people laugh, but this one obviously was not going to do anything similar. A thin smile slid on his lips when his look ran over the rows of sitting nomads. A cruel smile. Vlad Tsepesh, probably, smiled like that, looking at those who were impaled upon his order. Yarik tried to look more intently at this dwarf and shuddered – a prickly look of the clown fell on him. The dwarf as if glanced into the very Yarik's soul and… contemptuously twitched the corner of his mouth.

  Yarik turned away. Slave should not compete glances with a freeman, even though that was an ordinary clown. But why there were so many magic amulets gleaming with red light on the clown?..

  – Dear warriors, let's drink for the health of Sohog, a mighty soldier and a talented leader! For the chief accustomed to good luck! – With these words, without rising from his place, Parsan the Second lifted a cup of wine.

  It was necessary to support the toast in respect of the host. Welcome shouts and toasts sounded from all sides. Sense of danger played a drumbeat in Yarik's heart. He looked around the entire hall once again and saw a gloomy triumph in the clown's eyes.

  Danger!!! Death danger!!! As if bloody threads stretched to Yarik from behind. Without hesitation he sprawled on the floor. At that very moment he remembered about Darg. His death meant slave's death too! Jurga damn it!!!

  Yarik screwed his neck trying to see his master's unprotected back… At this moment occurred an enormous number of events. A chain of mechanical clicks clanged somewhere in the wall, then something banged on the square facing the windows of the hall. As if in a slo-mo movie, Yarik saw a small thorn aimed at his master's back. He even saw some yellowish substance on the arrowhead and the toothing which purpose was to obstruct removal of the arrow from a wound. Poison!!! And Yarik was powerless. He even had no time to shout. But Darg simply astonished him. Without turning, he moved his hand with a knife behind his back, and the flat edge of the blade stopped the deadly flight of the small thorn.

  A quiet ting-a-ling, and the thorn recoiled somewhere aside. At this moment Darg reeled on the bench, half-turned to the wall and shielded himself with the knife somewhere at the level of his breast. A new ting-a-ling, and one more thorn bounced aside… And time started its relentless run again. Sounds at once gushed into the ears. There were groans and muffled whimpers. Lying on the floor, Yarik quickly looked round. The most part of the nomads sat, with their heads buried in dishes on the table, some were tumbled down and were lying in ridiculous poses with their feet still on the benches. Only Teorn and Darg avoided this fate and a couple of commanders who were cover
ed from deadly weapon with bodies of their slaves, who like Yarik, sat behind their owners.

  The vile dwarf laughed. Parsan echoed him on the opposite end of the table. Steward's soldiers jumped on their feet. The tumbled benches banged. Cups rang on the floor. Servants with short swords in hands ran into the hall.

  – «Oh, abyss! Weapon is already here», – Yarik thought like a hunted animal. He rummaged with his eyes under the table in search of shelter and met the narrowed eyes of the old shaman. The latter swiftly disappeared under the table at the very beginning and now watched the drama unfold with malicious joy.

  – Savage! – The voice from above forced Yarik to shudder.

  Darg bent over the young slave:

  – Savage! Now by the will of owner I withdraw all the previous bans from you and impose a new one. Now you have to protect my life! – As an answer, Yaroslav's collar became warmer for a moment. – Fight!!

  With these words Darg jumped on the table, scattering dishes. One sharp blow, and soldier who sat opposite, fell down with his face in blood. His neighbors could not react as Darg snatched his enemy's sword, and immediately spun around himself a whirlwind of killing steel. The three nearest soldiers bravely rushed into attack, but perfect movements and enormous speed gave Darg indisputable advantages before the ordinary soldiers, even though they outnumbered him. Hostile swords hit with ringing into the wall of sparkling steel and bounced back, powerless to do any harm. But Darg did not remain in the place, he attacked. Standing on the table, he could strike from above not only with his sword, but with his feet also. With a couple of successful kicks in the face he knocked down two enemies and by some cunning blow cut the unprotected throat of the third one. A moment later he already had two swords…