Hunter: Warrior of Doridia (The Saga of Jon Hunter Book 1)

by Ronald Watkins

  The laughing children were preadolescent and like myself, naked. They played an elaborate game of tag, involving much shouting and running about though they always remained near the wagons. Guards unlike any I’d ever before seen watched their play.

  These were men like myself, mostly bearded with short hair. They wore leather straps in intricate patterns on their upper torsos or breastplates of hardened leather with bright metal plates here and there for added protection. Each wore or carried a bronze helmet with an elongated nose guard and broad cheeks. On two were plumes which bristled as if made from horse hair. Each as well carried a round or oval shaped shield and sported a short sword on his right hip. Most held a stout metal-tipped spear upon which a few leaned casually. The tips were half the length of their swords, broad at the waist in the shape of a tear looking much like small swords. Others paced back and forth casting furtive looks toward the wooded area about the caravan. The moment I saw them, I moved quickly behind an ancient, gnarled tree.

  With considerable effort, I forced myself to think clearly. The presence of armed men meant trouble. I struggled to think just where I could possibly be, what had happened. My memories of the ship, of the crew and my friends was incomplete and distant, as if it existed in a dream.

  Where was I? We’d been coasting along a vast expanse of desert I seemed to recall. Even more, this was nothing I’d ever experienced before. Who were these travelers? Where on Earth did people still live like this? I had no idea.

  It was self-evident that I had few choices. I could remain hidden and wait until these people moved on, but eventually desperation would force me to approach someone. Or I could go ahead now. The forest about me appeared immense. Although the dirt road looked well-traveled, I had no means of determining when the next travelers would pass. This might be my only chance for some time to approach people, even primitive ones such as this. And frankly, I had no way of knowing if the next group would be any more or less friendly than these were.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped from behind the tree and left my cover, slowly approaching the armed men, planting smile on my face. One of the burly men watching the children spotted me first and called out sharply, the children scattering beneath the nearest wagons. Two of the uncovered guards placed helmets upon their heads and all three approached me warily, spears and shields before them.

  I continued smiling and did my best to look friendly, rather embarrassed at my nakedness. They spread out without command, quickly encircling me, two more intent on the forest to my rear than on me. The first guard merely looked me over and then without warning struck me on the side of my head with his spear butt. I blacked out before hitting the ground.

  I came awake face down in the dirt not long after, still naked and tethered by my wrists to the rear of a wagon. No one paid attention to me and a short time later the caravan broke camp and resumed its journey. No one rode as there was no room in the tightly packed wagons. I called out once to explain who I was when a guard growled disapproval and struck me on the ear with the flat of his sword.

  Plodding along behind the gaudy wagon, I returned completely to reality. To some extent I had been euphoric since coming to my senses in the clearing earlier. The fresh air and tranquil beauty of the forest had been captivating when compared to my wretched physical condition during the night.

  My transition from Ensign, secure in my own place to naked stranger in an alien world had been abrupt and to a large extent beyond comprehension. All illusion as to my true condition was rudely dispelled by my capture and the harsh reality of my present circumstances.

  I lived but only as a captive in some primitive society.

  ###

  That first day I plodded silently behind the wagon until dusk when, at a clearing, they pulled into a circle, the oxen placed to the center. Sentries were situated about the stockade- like arrangement, and as darkness fell I observed that they became ever more vigilant.

  The travelers clustered in several small bands, each with its own large cooking pot. Flickering fires fought the blackness while they conversed in subdued voices, casting occasional furtive looks to the forest beyond the protective circle. As I’d observed through the day they wore a wide assortment of tunics, robes and capes. There were few women and the handful of children I had first heard were the only offspring on the caravan. Each band of travelers kept to itself, courteous though never overtly friendly to the others.

  I’d observed them throughout the day and formed the belief the train was composed of several different groups joined for the common purpose of safety. The guards focused on certain wagons and I soon realized their garb differed. One group wore a more pointed helmet with a metal studded leather neck guard. Another’s was round with what resembled a spear point on top. The shields of each group, worn across their back when we were moving, were slightly different as well. All were mostly round but some were smaller than others while one set of guards bore oval shaped shields. The markings on these were different as well and served to confirm that there were five distinct bands traveling together.

  A white bearded old man, apparently blind, accompanied by a preteen boy finished his meal and stood holding a heavy staff in his right hand. The boy sat at his feet and drew a harp from his bag then strummed the cords with deft fingers. The people turned silent. Even the guards looked back and moved more closely toward the pair.

  Then, in a clear firm voice, the white haired man began to speak. The words were set to a distinct and recurring cadence and I could hear many rhythms. He chanted, nearly singing though not quite, telling a story as those within the wagons were soon enthralled. It was an exciting tale as from time to time there were gasps and young children scurried to their mothers and wrapped themselves in their arms. Portions of the story were recurring and well known because when the bard reached them all chanted them respectfully in unison with him.

  The boy played the harp at regular intervals, the tune different for each occasion. There were in parts a love story and there was betrayal, but most of all there was fighting. The tale lasted more than an hour and no one took his eyes from the man. He did not act out the story though at times he cut his one free arm in a chopping motion and there were then gasps. The story came to what was a tragic ending from the expressions of those who had listened, but there were nods of appreciation as to whatever lesson it had taught.

  After the telling the travelers pulled bedding from the wagons and all slept upon the ground beside the wagons. I slept fitfully, uncomfortable on the hard ground, tethered still to the wagon, the night passing windy, forlorn, and overcast.

  The journey resumed the next day following their quick breakfast. It was an overcast, chilly day. The wind gusted from above kicking up clouds of dust that choked me. By midday I was hungry and very thirsty having been provided with no food or water since my capture. I was greatly relieved when a skinny white- haired woman, dressed in belted plain shift, with a slender iron collar about her neck, placed a wooden bucket of water near me and tossed a hunk of course sour bread to my feet. I nearly drained the container and found the bread palatable, if not exactly a feast. When I was finished the same woman removed the bucket and tossed a cloth before me. There was a hole in the center and I pulled it over me like a poncho.

  I watched the caravan make camp again at dusk with a sense of unrest and discontent. No one spoke to me. No one was friendly. I was a captive and I feared for my destiny in this strange, alien land.

  The heavy clouds continued and long before midnight the setting moon left the camp in utter blackness. Guards were alert and kept their weapons at hand. The camp settled at last into silence but sleep escaped me as I lay huddled in my rag. I became as depressed and unhappy as I’d ever been in my life.

  I was suddenly very alert and for a moment could not imagine why. Then I realized that the forest had become suddenly silent. I saw one or two men near me wrapped in cloaks stir from their sleep. Perhaps, I thought, they sense what I do. The guards murmured a
mong themselves.

  Suddenly a blood curdling cry came out of forest beyond the wagon circle and a stream of wild men poured toward the camp. Two or three guards threw bundles of dry combustibles into the coals. They flared immediately, bathing the wagons and men in a flickering, amber light, casting long shadows.

  The attackers were a motley bunch, filthy, savage and cruel, for they slew all before them, young and old, child or guard, awake or asleep. They surrounded two wagons very near me, a protective line formed inside the circle while the rest ransacked the wagons. The guards marshaled their forces and within a minute or so a force of some twenty armed men, shields before them, heavy metal tipped spears jutting in front as a phalanx, threw itself against the defensive line of the attackers with a war cry.

  The adversaries met in savage, brutal combat, bodies of each falling to the ground to be trampled by the living. As yet the attackers held the numerical advantage, but as the battle raged, reinforcements from throughout the camp entered the fray and soon held the upper hand.

  The forest attackers began yielding ground as I crawled the full extent of my leather rope to witness what transpired just beyond the wagons. I saw some of these filthy men carrying away goods and a single screaming woman, hardly more than a girl.

  A shouted command brought the last of the attackers from within the wagon circle and in an instant the entire force retreated into the black forest.

  The guards did not pursue.

  Everyone was talking at once. Men and women rushed about calling out the names of loved ones, turning over the dead, cries of anguish gradually taking command. Women threw themselves prostrate across bodies, several knelt, tore at their hair and cast dirt and ashes on themselves. The children stood nearby sobbing.

  All the while the fires were brought to fullness and new ones lit. Then torch bearing armed men went without the camp to retrieve the bodies of the slain.

  I slept no more that night. No one did. I had seen the face of their enemy.

  Shortly after dawn the survivors joined in gathering wood and constructing a platform. Once completed the dead were carefully laid upon it. One of the old men with us spoke a few words, raised his eyes to the heaven, then pointed into the forest with a curse. The fires were set and the travelers stood mute as their loved ones were consumed. Only after the last of the fire was burned to embers did we resume our journey.

  We traveled cautiously, most of the remaining journey taking us through primeval forest. I found the continuing forest dark and forbidding, especially since the second night’s events. The overcast sky never delivered its promised rain.

  Two days later, on the last day of the trek, there were increasing stretches of open land. We passed farms, isolated and small in this still lonely region. The unfriendly farmers were hardened to frontier life and disdainful of those with the caravan. Their log dwellings were stout, surrounded by a wooden wall and predictably resembled nothing so much as stockades.

  The land now transformed from wooded forest to relative openness as we descended from the low lying forest covered hills leaving the last vestiges of the mountains behind us. We descended into a fertile valley of carefully cultivated fields, workers stooping to their tasks. A wave of relaxation swept through the caravan as though we had passed from a land of danger to one of safety.

  The cultivation grew more extensive as we crossed the valley towards a distant walled city. Orchards, vineyards and fields become more common the farther we traveled. The dwellings became increasingly elaborate and the larger ones more closely resembled villas than family farms as had been the norm at forest’s edge.

  I continued to be totally ignored except by the old woman who came each midday and by the children who enjoyed heaving stones at me for sport. Rather than discourage them, the guards enjoyed the spectacle immensely. One had urged a young lad into throwing an even bigger rock than he had originally intended.

  Well before we reached the city walls the first guard I had seen on the day of my capture came to me and cut my tether with a quick flash of steel. He led me to the roadside near a pathway leading to one of the largest villas we had passed thus far. He was relaxed, even jovial, pleased with himself. He spoke directly to me for the first time. I suppose he thought I feared to reply for he smiled reassuringly and spoke directly to me again.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, hesitatingly, not entirely certain that I was permitted to speak, “but I don’t understand you.”

  His eyes grew in astonishment and he stopped in his tracks. Apparently surprised at what I’d said, he called to his two companions. They looked skeptical while he spoke to them, frequently pointing to me. Again he faced me, as an owner smiling reassuringly to a newly acquired puppy. He said something.

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, “but I really don’t understand you.”

  The man looked to his companions as if to say, “See, what did I tell you?” They were first surprised, then amused.

  By that time, an elderly man from the villa had reached us. He was slight of build with thinning, white hair. After a brief exchange during which he checked my teeth and limbs, he handed a few coins to the first soldier who grinned, turned towards me, patted me good naturedly on the shoulder and trotted off with the other two back to their places with the caravan. As they ran, they split the coins. Thus I arrived, a slave, to the villa.

  The overseer, as I soon learned him to be, led me up the path to the villa’s rear. I was taken to the slave quarters and given to a muscular slave in his forties who gazed at me through black eyes. The overseer became quite agitated when he realized that I could neither speak his language nor understand him.

  The slave to whom I was given, named Dubak, supervised all the slave workers. As he was unaware of any skills I might possess, he assigned me menial tasks to perform. My case was even more special than most new slaves as I could not be given more than the most basic instructions and these by sign language.

  The other slaves were amused that I could not understand them and most assumed I was a moron. I was generally treated as such by everyone but a young, pleasant household servant called Lena. She had taken the trouble to learn my name, as had Dubak, who was determined I do my fair share of work, regardless of any language difficulties or my alleged mental condition. It was his job to obtain the maximum output from everyone for whom he was responsible. He found my work acceptable. I intended to keep it that way.

  ###

  “Jon! Jon!”

  I turned to see who was calling my name. It was Lena, of course. I should have

  known it would be her. She waved excitedly for me to hurry. I put my tools aside, climbed out of the cellar and trotted up the graveled path to her. I had learned already that in this strange place one moved quickly when one was a slave.

  The discipline administered to slaves such as myself was harsh and quick, but it had not been at least, until then, particularly cruel. It served to cause me to move with alacrity and to perform my work in a thorough and meticulous fashion.

  No attempt had been made to teach me and so I still did not speak their language; fortunately, Lena was more patient with me than most. I kept my eyes and ears open but still knew virtually nothing concerning this new place.

  The spacious villa was a completely independent, functioning farm with orchards, vineyard, grain fields and all of the processing equipment and buildings required for them. Armed guards wandered about leisurely, apparently bored with their assignment. I avoided them as much as possible, remembering my experiences on the caravan.

  The grounds were pleasantly landscaped and meticulously maintained by a large force of slaves, both male and female. The work was not excessively demanding but all labored each day at some task. We were then primarily occupied with the harvest and in preparing the villa for approaching winter.

  Lena smiled as I reached her. I found it pleasant to be in the bright sunlight again after laboring all morning in a storage cellar. Young, lithe and vivacious, she gestured frantically
and pushed me toward the wash room to the immediate rear of the villa. An elderly female slave usually occupied this shed and was there as Lena shoved me through the doorway where I was greeted by a tub of cold, sudsy water. Lena began pulling at my tunic and made it clear that I was to bathe quickly.

  I did not understand her words, but from the looks of things, I was being cleaned for someone, most likely someone important as no such effort would be made for anyone else. Shrugging at the lack of modesty permitted, I stripped the clothing from my body and plunged into the large wooden tub. Lena and the old slave woman began scrubbing me vigorously with stiff brushes. I kept looking to see if they were leaving any skin.

  They did not take any skin off but that was not for lack of trying. Lena pulled at me in vain when they had finished but she was much too small to make any headway. I took the hint and lifted myself from the wooden tub. Lena gestured for me to stand aside. I did and missed seeing the old woman toss a bucket of frigid water over me. The women squealed in pleasure at this little prank.

  I was soon dry and slipped on a clean coarse tunic. Lena led me to the main house and gestured for me to stand beside the rear doors where I remained over one hour. It was a great deal like the Navy, I thought; hurry up and wait.

  I did not mind. It was better than working in the cellar, and anyhow, I thought my owner was about to see me. Perhaps things would improve. Fingering the metal collar about my neck, I wondered just how they could become any worse.

  2. I MEET MY MASTER

  The overseer came for me at the doorway. Pointing to a mat just inside the villa he bade me wipe my bare feet. Slaves did not wear sandals. I was then led into the immaculate, marbled villa for the first time. Modest by my previous life standards, it was a mansion when compared to the slave quarters I occupied. I stepped from the foyer into a rectangular courtyard. On its far edge opposite a fountain and just under an overhang sat an elderly, rather frail gentlemen working before a desk of dark polished wood, a quill and parchment scattered about.