Red World Trilogy

by V. A. Jeffrey

  “Excited, are you? I am sorry there are no sheep around for you to abuse but you will not satisfy yourself on this slave. Go rub your lujus down with sand!” The leader said scornfully. The other men laughed and jeered. The man peered into the wagon, then climbed in to check on him. He sucked his teeth at seeing the wound in Demos's hand. Blood was seeping out everywhere.

  “That could become infected. Emaz! Come and treat the boy's hand. Caius, the damned fool, cut him up for fun it looks like.” The man was angry. He jumped out of the wagon after Caius and threatened him.

  “If we do not get the price we are looking for I will beat you like a man beats a stupid dog, you hear me?” He shouted. Caius said nothing. Emaz came in and washed and dressed the wound and fed him some cactus and bird stew. He was then wrapped again in bands and blankets and given wine to drink. Hoping his life would end soon, Demos fell into fitful sleep.

  After many more days of travel he detected that they had reached a city. Yilphaeus. He'd resorted to counting how many times he felt a bump in the road to keep himself from falling into madness. There were so many he stopped counting for a few days but boredom and fear of the unknown got him counting again. At least there was no more trouble from Caius. The loud noisy sounds of a market gradually became louder. A slave market. Demos felt himself being hoisted up and carried, then set on the ground. His bonds and wraps were taken off. The sun was blindingly bright and it pained his eyes to open them. He was stripped naked and pushed into a tent and onto the ground.

  “Only one?”

  “Yes, this time only one. There will be more next time.”

  “He has bruises all over him. What is that on his hand?” Asked a man.

  “A bandage. It was a long journey and he had some spirit still left in him. We had to break him.”

  “Not too much, I hope?”

  “Not too much.” Said the lead tribesman. The stranger lowered his voice.

  “Follow me and bring him. My master hosts a private auction. There are two men at his house who want a look your finds.” They put him in back in the wagon and went to see the stranger's master. Demos peeked out of the covering of the wagon. They passed a large plaza where he saw hundreds of naked people from all over many lands, standing; men, women and children, held in ropes. Slaves.

  After a time of bumpy travel through the dizzying maze of streets they arrived at a palatial house. Demos's body pained him so he did not know what to do. He no longer had the will to weep. He felt dead inside and tried to think about the many ways he could die by his own hand. If he was sold to a brothel. . .

  He was woken abruptly.

  “Wake up, boy!” They grabbed him by his ankles and his bonds and hauled him into a room beneath the house, a large cellar, of a sort. It was dim enough that his head was no longer in pain. He was set in front of three men, one of them the owner of the house.

  “Master, we have a youth. For a better price than a man would pay at the market.” Demos stood there, all his dignity gone. The leader of the tribesmen that captured him, the master of the house, his servant and two other men were there studying him as if he were a hindquarter at the market. Two of them leered, the others appraised him with cold eyes.

  “Hmm. How old is he?” Asked the owner.

  “How old are you, boy?” Asked the tribesman.

  “Sixteen years.” Demos said timidly. The brothel owner, heavily made up with kohl around his eyes, wearing bright green fancy silks and peacock feathers in his hair and a gold sash and many rings on his fingers made a disappointed sound.

  “A little older than I am seeking. May I inspect him?” The owner nodded. Demos became frightened. Too frightened to move.

  “Stand up, boy.” He stood and the man began running his hands over him. When he was done there was no place he had not probed. He had been raped only without the man's own member. The man looked satisfied, then waved his hand dismissively.

  “Too old.” Demos did not know whether to be relieved or frightened. How would he be humiliated next?

  “I will take him. After your inspection I can see he is healthy enough for what I need him for.” Said the other man. He turned to Demos and looked him straight in the eye.

  “Can you read and write, boy?” Demos nodded briskly.

  “How many languages?”

  “Alhar, Egian and Shirpul.”

  “Excellent. I will pay for this one.” He said. This man wore plain, black robes. He was stooped with wispy hair that barely covered his scalp and with no adornment but one piece of simple jewelry – a symbol in silver hanging from a silver chain. It was the symbol of two half moons on either side of a golden sun. He was an alchemist. Demos had only heard things about them and none of them good. Their guilds and the very practice of alchemy was outlawed in Jhis. He did not know if he should weep or laugh. Was this really a better choice?

  “I ask one hundred-fifty silver pieces for him.”

  “One hundred-fifty?” The man in black asked, incredulous. “How about a sack of scented pearl rice? It is the finest. . .”

  “Keep your rice! I came for money.”

  “But it is the finest, most delicately perfumed white rice in all of Egi!” Said the alchemist. The others in the room chuckled.

  “Come, sir! What do you say?”

  “We do not eat rice.”

  “You cannot afford rice, you mean.” He sneered.

  “I meant what I said.” The tribesman was becoming impatient.

  “But one hundred-fifty pieces of silver?” Complained the alchemist.

  “What do you expect to trade for such an educated slave? A bowl of rocks? Olive pits? Come now! You insult me!”

  “Fifty silver pieces then.”

  “One hundred-fifty.” They went on this way for some time until it was agreed that he was worth one hundred silver pieces. An obscenely low price for someone of his education.

  “Not cheap, but I will buy. One hundred pieces of silver.” The alchemist said and took out a bag of silver coins and counted the pieces and gave them to the owner. The owner than shared half of these with the leader of the tribe. Then he turned to the other men gathered there.

  “I have other traders coming here soon with slaves for you to take a look at. I will operate here in my house so long as the Trader's Guild does not catch wind of it.” He turned to the tribe leader. “Find more from Jhis. Good, healthy ones with good breeding if you can manage it. This was a good find!” The alchemist gave Demos a plain black tunic and a plain black robe to put on. Then he led him outside to his horse. The horse was an old gelding, nearly as stooped and gray as the alchemist. The man scrambled up upon his horse and holding on to Demos's ropes they left the property. The alchemist gave him a calculating look.

  “It looks like they broke you in well enough. It is good that fop from the brothel did not want you. He'd put you to work immediately. When we get home I'll get you something to eat and you can take your ease for the rest of the day but there is work to be done tomorrow. Lots of work. And in case you get a notion of running away,” he brought out a scourging whip from beneath his robes and cracked it on Demos's back. The bones and metal balls at the end cracked over his skin and drew blood. Demos winced and whimpered, “do not even think to try anything foolish and do not let my feeble looks fool you. I am very good with a whip and with knives and I paid my price for you.” Demos, beaten and sullen, looked around him. Yilphaeus was a ramshackle place, disorganized and dirty, even filthier than Jhis. There were no monuments or palaces as far as he could see. Nothing of the beauty of Egium or the grandness of Jhis. It was just a city with lots of buildings and houses. A big, dirty, ugly city full of loud, shouting people, bawling, squalling animals and filth. Filth of human and animal waste in the streets, filth from the slaughtering tents. People yelling and selling wares, and people and animals being sold. He never imagined from the high, hallowed halls of the Golden Temple and his endless tasks of dull but important recopying of holy texts and writing letters and
being among his own people that he would have fallen so low. He felt the weight of crushing grief and desperation dragging him down into darkness. He was lost, to his family, to the world, to God who had turned His back upon him. He'd lost his freedom, he'd lost his honor. As a slave he would never be allowed to grow a beard, to truly become a man. He trudged carefully behind his new master's horse as they made their way through the jungle of flies, mosquitoes, rats, people and caravans. This was his new life.

  Ilim finally made it back within the protective arms of the Raea tribe. It was Nasim and several of his brothers who saw him and took him with them. Smuggled out of the city, he would have to find a way to get to the king's son or find someone who could. How he would accomplish this he did not know. Airend-Ur often put his servants in positions that seemed impossible and this looked like one more impossible trial. It was a rainy, stormy night but the tent, the poles and the stakes held fast. They were camping only two days away from the city of Rhe, reclining in the tent of Nasim who was newly betrothed, and sharing a pot of tea among them and a dish of Pufok, ground raw mutton with raw eggs and peppers to strengthen them for the journey ahead when the mysterious desert holy man appeared. His robes were aglow, white as lightening and flashing like new crystal as he appeared before them. He called out to Ilim.

  “Ilim, my brother! Come out!” Ilim pulled back the entrance flap and saw him standing there. He was now used to mysterious sights but he marveled at the man in white all the same.

  “It is I, Saujiah, the one who has come to raise up the desert prophets in His name. You have seen me in your dreams Ilim.” Ilim came on out and when he saw him he fell down upon his face.

  “Do not do that. I am only a messenger, come to strengthen you for the days ahead. The dark days are coming in Jhis and all the land and you will be one that will show the way of the light into the world and you will prepare the way for the Red King. The child is safe. Do not worry for him now. You will know where he is when the time is right. But you must know now that the king is dead. His attack on the citadel failed. Dark days will become darker before the light of the king comes. I give you this message from Airend-Ur Himself.” The other men exclaimed in joy and fear at seeing him and bowed down.

  “I shall now reside in the north on the Plain of the White Bones but only those who are holy and true of heart shall approach me. I shall be there when the greatest need arises and my role shall change from messenger to guardian, for you and others must eventually takeover from me, Ilim.”

  “Surely we have seen it now. God moves upon the ground of the world in this day.” Said one of the men. At that, the messenger disappeared.

  “It is now like in the days of Nagilla the Great One of God. He has now raised up Saujiah, a holy one.” said Ilim.

  “Ellah Kaifah.” They murmured.

  “I hope I can live up to this commission.” Said Ilim worriedly.

  “Do not fear, father. You will do all that you must and you will triumph. When God's arm is with you, you cannot fail. Not even in death.” Said Nasim. For the rest of that night the men recited passages from the holy book to strengthen themselves until they all thought that they could not have more joy in their hearts; then they recited the legends, songs and poems of kings, chroniclers and the warriors of old. Though Ilim did not usually care for these legends and epics, as they were often overly fanciful and often had little to do with the Holy Aishanna, this night he was full of happiness and he had to admit that there was a grain of truth in some legends. He listened as they recited one of the legends of the ancient holy warrior Ishuye who looked upon the Llordis Sea, the only warrior from the holy book to ever travel that far, to battle with the dragon Abgaron and take back a holy scroll the dragon had stolen from a cave:

  Standing upon the shore of the deep dark sea

  I journeyed, through seas of sand in the south.

  Specter of death moves beneath the north waters

  mighty Abgaron in his watery lair knew not of me.

  His father it was who showed him the first scrolls

  wishing to obscure the knowledge of Airend-Ur,

  to slander the First Pillar who made all there is.

  To burn it, he cast them upon his dark fired-coals.

  Seeing that they would not burn, being of Light

  He cast them in the Llordis, cold and dark

  and commanded Abgaron to swallow them,

  Great and Mighty Abgaron, black as Night.

  He came up and took the Holy Writings down,

  into his lair, where no man goeth, save by death

  but I, with the arm of God, I dove in the dark sea

  to its very heart, not for glory, not for renown.

  Not for gold or silver, electrum or pearl

  did I do this thing but for the greatest thing -

  the Writings of Life, did I do it, with a sword

  of star-fire I sought him and with it I did hurl

  right into it's mouth I threw it and followed down

  into the maw of darkness I sank and sank,

  but look! A light in the black, the scrolls,

  there! I carved the beast when the scrolls I found,

  He roared in rage and anguish but could not stand

  against the might of the sword of the First Pillar

  and so I took the scrolls and gave them to the Tribes

  and thereafter the Word of God went forth and filled the land.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The town gate, nearly broken down, was still barricaded shut against all outsiders, though the armies had left. A few scions had died, hit by arrows but there was victory for the citadel once again. Yet the mournful wails for the dead ones continued, a dirge that many of the scions and the people kept up all the night and into the morning. Anet no longer had any tears left to cry for the fallen. Like Lita.

  Anet, Kaisha, Irtal and the other young ones lay huddled in their room. It was still overwhelming for them, even now that the battle was over and they were safe. Anet did not know how she would have fared if she had not prayed every hour of the day and night and through all her tears. Footsteps pattered down the hall outside their bedroom door. She had a burning desire in her, she needed to know something. Slowly she got up to leave the room.

  “Where are you going?” Asked Kaisha.

  “To see Mother Berenice. I have to ask her something important.” She said. Kaisha just nodded.

  “Stay with them, Kaisha.” She left the room and climbed the stairs to Mother Berenice's study. The falling footsteps belonged to Mother Berenice.

  “Mother! Mother!” Anet called. Mother Berenice stopped and turned around. Her face was drawn and colorless yet she looked serene.

  “Yes, Anet?”

  “Mother Berenice, my dreams. I want to know what they mean. I need to know.” Mother Berenice smiled.

  “I wondered when you'd ask. Come child, tell me your dreams in full and we will pray on the matter and He will give us an answer as He has given us the victory.”

  “Find him! This pestilent man! Oh! I am in a mood tonight!” She raged. “This false prophet who has been preaching against the city and raining down curses upon the land and the king! It is now a fact from the king's own lips, anyone harboring this man is no friend to the crown and is indeed a traitor! Why is it that he is cursing the peoples of Hybron? Is it that he desires the death of the peoples and of the king? He is a wicked man and anyone helping him must be put to death!” Cried the queen to Bakku. This was the first time in years that he had truly felt apprehensive about his plans and schemes. A twinge of fear rose in him when he looked at the queen. Her eyes blazed bright with a weird fire. He sat with all of the letters of the king before him, new edicts to hunt for traitors, all those that it was noted who left the city around the time of the Festival of Firsts. He had the very will in his hand for the regency if the king died, which no one believed could happen. Many of the traitors had not returned but some had. There was a record made by the King's Guard
at the East and West Gates. There were also the edicts for new stelae, one of his triumph, new buildings and a new, even more grand temple to Hec. The queen had gathered all of her men who came with her and her father out of Egi and in fact as of now, there were now more of them than there were of Hybronian warriors in the city. Some of the priests had complained of seeing so many foreign warriors patrolling the city to Bakku. They did not like it and secretly strove to recruit more men to their unofficial militia. The deeds they had seized from some of the low peoples, deeds to homes and businesses were now used as generous bribes for those interested in joining the Hatchet Men. Bakku told his brethren that they would soon jointly run the kingdom with the queen and this made them suspicious and now he had to contend with the more contentious ones on the priestly council, like Zarhaz.

  Until the day came. The very day the queen was railing against Ilim. Everyone thought it good to follow her demands to have him executed and anyone who helped him. Yet, the armies had come back from the battle in Gamina with the news. It was Zarammelech and Aquillam and the king's closest attendants that brought back the news to the palace, to the queen and her ladies and assembled councilors, to their surprise. Among them was Bakku with the edicts and the will hidden in a bound, skin folder.

  The king's men found her in the banquet hall of the King's House with her ladies and councilors, sitting by a fire in the brazier. They bowed slightly before her.

  “My lords. Why do you look so distressed?”

  “We came as soon as we could. The raiders in Beth-Ayin we killed, all of them and took their boats and the women they took and we brought them back, yet at Gamina, the king was killed.” Dead silence.