by Travis Bughi
The announcer walked up and began patting the slaves in various places, slapping their thighs, grabbing and holding up their arms, even pulling open their jaws to show their teeth.
“Typical farmhands,” the announcer called out. “Born to it and don’t cause much trouble. Owner says he’s only selling them ‘cause. . .”
The announcer looked at the man with the club.
“They knocked up one of his slave girls,” the man answered. “Says he can afford to lose them and doesn’t want the brothers doing something foolish like trying to run away with the child.”
One of the slaves started breathing harder, and Emily could have sworn she saw a tear drop. The other one gave him a tiny nudge with his elbow.
“Well there you have it folks,” the announcer continued. “Anyone want to come take a look at them before we start the bidding? Anyone? Now’s the chance. No? Alright then, let’s get to it. Before we start, does anyone want to buy them together? We’ll do that offer first.”
A few voices started calling out, and Emily couldn’t help but feel a large pit of fear forming in her stomach.
This was almost worse than dying of thirst. She’d known she was in trouble the moment the slavers caught her, but not until this moment did the full, surreal feeling of helplessness wash over her. She had not the slightest clue where in Savara she was and not the slightest clue of how she was going to get away. The chains on those slaves looked like they stayed on there often, and she didn’t think she’d be able to get away if those were put on her.
What am I going to do!? Her mind blared. Alarmingly, her heart began to race, and she felt her legs weaken and tense at the same time. I’ve got to run!
She could slip out of the ropes she was in now, but what good would that do her? She’d still be stuck in this cage, and it didn’t look like anyone would be sympathetic to her cause. She was still thirsty and hungry, too—so terribly hungry now—and she knew she wouldn’t make it far before being captured again. That was assuming she could dodge the bolas that woman, Farah, used.
“200 pieces! SOLD!” the announcer shouted. “You just earned yourself two farmhands, sir! Wise choice!”
The slaves were led off the stage and another row was led up shortly after. The announcer began to explain on behalf of the owner, but Emily was distracted when her own slavers spoke up.
“We’re not here to buy,” the woman scowled at the man. “We’re here to sell. Get us over to that line! I want to be headed home as soon as possible.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the man muttered and then whipped his beast.
The scaly creature started moving again and slowly trailed around the crowd toward the back of the stage. The other cart stayed behind, the one with Farah on it, and Emily immediately began to wiggle free from her ropes. She kept her eyes on the couple, making sure their attention was focused elsewhere.
“Stop,” Koll whispered and pushed a foot against her leg.
Emily stopped and glared at the viking.
“You won’t get anywhere,” he continued to whisper. “This whole place makes a tax off slave trading. It’s a cheaper tax than the towns controlled by a warlord, but the townsfolk here still won’t let you escape. They’ll beat you almost to death just for trying as an example to the others.”
Emily continued to glare at Koll, fighting her will to go on. His eyes told her he was telling the truth, and after a bitter sigh, she leaned back calmly.
“Not much different than slave trading anywhere else then, eh?” Proctus frowned.
“Not a chance,” Koll shook his head. “It’s the same back home.”
The cart was dragged around to the back where more than a few wicked looking men were standing watch. They had swords at their sides and heavy butcher’s blades and clubs in their hands. They glared at each group of slaves and patted their clubs in their palms.
“Well,” the woman driver continued to pester her man, “go on then. I haven’t got all day!”
The man sighed and leapt off the cart. He went toward one of the guards and started speaking with him. The conversation seemed professional enough at first, but then things got heated for a moment, though neither one raised their voice. A moment’s silence followed a sudden end to their discussion, and then the man came back to the cart.
“What’d he say?” the woman asked.
“He won’t let us jump ahead,” the man sighed. “We’ll have to wait for about an hour.”
“An hour?!” the woman shrieked into the man’s ear. “You couldn’t have tried a little harder? Look at that viking! That’s some real muscle there! This isn’t some big city place, dear. There’s probably only one buyer out there willing to take him, and if we don’t get up there soon, we’ll miss our chance! And I am not bringing any of them back!”
The man’s eyes fluttered shut, and Emily had a feeling his ears had followed suit. When he replied, his voice seemed strained.
“If you think you can convince him better than me, then be my guest.”
The woman huffed and puffed but only slammed back in her seat to pout. The man looked like he was within an inch of bursting into a rage.
Meanwhile, Emily tried to shelter her skin from the sun. She wanted to ask for more water, but the anger drifting between the two slavers told her that request would yield nothing. Hunger struck her in the side, and she shifted her clothing. The letters were still under her vest, normally secured by the tight fit, but her growling stomach was making them feel a bit loose. She hoped they wouldn’t fall out when she stood up.
Not that the letters’ safety was a high priority at this point.
They waited their turn, and Emily listened to the disheartening auctioning off of pour souls to wretched fates. Emily continued to try plotting some way to escape or at least to control where she ended up, but her options looked thin. She had no choice but to wait and see. In the end, the only option she could come up with was to try and appear fragile and weak. With any luck, she’d be underestimated and would be able to escape whoever paid for her. It was a terribly pitiful plan, but in the long hour, it was the only one she could come up with.
And if her buyers dared to lay a hand on her, she’d kill them for it.
Time passed, and finally their turn was up. Their cage was opened, and they were filed out in a line. Emily took deep breaths to make sure the letters stayed secure, and shook her head to dishevel her hair. Proctus was looking more distraught by the second, and the satyr gazed at the ground with glossy eyes. The guards looked warily at Koll, and Koll soaked up their fear with a smirk. When they twisted their clubs in their hands, though, Koll dropped his grin and hunched forward. And up the stairs they went.
Emily kept her head low and her shoulders slouched. It didn’t take much to let the hopelessness inside her show, but it was a little difficult to hide the warrior’s confidence and the defiance burning within her heart. She tried to remember how Heliena had always appeared so weak and frail. Emily hated to imitate her arch nemesis, but desperate times were upon her. Traditional morality had no place in slavery, at least not the morality she’d learned from the angels’ legacy.
Emily was last up on the stage. She, Koll, and Proctus were lined up before the crowd, and the announcer spoke in whispers to the man who’d captured them. After that, the announcer stepped forward and addressed the crowd.
“We have an odd mix this time, folks,” he called out and walked to Proctus. “We have a satyr for one, famed for their storytelling and lively tunes. I’m sure there’s a few of you out there who’d appreciate some entertainment. If not, I’m sure it wouldn’t take much to get a bit of labor out of this one. He’s plump, too, so perhaps a possible chef for some of you more affluent? Eh? Keep an open mind!”
The announcer stepped up to Koll next. For as tall as the announcer was, Koll was still about a hand’s width taller.
“Next up, we have a rare treat: a viking! He claims to be well known—”
“My name is Koll the Sturdy,” K
oll yelled out, “and the legends are true! If you buy me, I will kill you.”
Koll raised his head up and looked down on the crowd, seemingly disgusted at their very existence. The crowd, meanwhile, looked completely unimpressed.
“Urm,” the announcer smirked. “I have to say that I haven’t heard any legends.”
He glanced back at the crowd and was rewarded with a light chorus of chuckles.
“In fact,” the announcer leaned in towards the viking, “I’ve never heard of you at all.”
“Well then,” Koll narrowed his eyes, “don’t you look foolish.”
Suddenly, Koll rammed his head down and forward, slamming his forehead into the announcer’s face. The announcer screamed and crashed to the ground, blood spewing from his nose like a fountain. The crowd gasped and took a reactionary step back. On the ground, the announcer continued to cry in pain and roll on his back. Koll grinned, forehead stained with the announcer’s blood, and snarled at the crowd. His roar made them take another step back.
He smiled all the way up until the men with clubs rushed up on stage and began whaling into him. They struck him to the ground and began beating him furiously. Koll yelped but didn’t bother fighting back. He was still in chains and any such attempts would just give the club-men more encouragement. He curled into a ball, trying to shield his body as best he could from the fury of clubs raining down upon him. Beside the scene, the slaver who’d captured them covered his face in agony and horror.
Emily tried to remain calm and look away. She wished there was something she could do, but she felt as helpless as Koll looked at this moment. She scanned the crowd, trying to discern if anyone was regarding Koll with interest, but all she saw were mixed expressions of appall and disgusted contempt. Almost the entire crowd had moved back from the stage, except for a group in the far back.
Emily regarded them now. There were five of them—no, six. She had missed one who was almost hidden from view by the others. The five in front appeared stoic and hard, but also merciless and dangerous. They wore the same loose garb as everyone else and had swords at their waists, but the way they stood spoke of a confidence not exuded by the others. The fact that they had not cringed when the announcer was struck showed that violence was something they expected.
In fact, the one in the very front was smiling cruelly at the scene. He seemed to be enjoying it.
Emily looked past them at the only one who was sheltered from sight. He was human and had his head turned away and tilted down. His head wasn’t covered like the others, and Emily could see that his hair was pitch black, long, but pulled back and tied into some sort of condensed bundle. She also realized he wasn’t wearing the same loose garb as the others, instead, having a sort of white gown or dress.
Wait! She knew that look. That man was a samurai!
As this thought struck her, the man lifted his head and looked straight at Emily.
The moment their eyes connected, Emily gasped as she recognized the recently tanned, bruised, and battered face of Takeo Okamoto, the samurai prodigy of Ichiro Katsu, who had almost killed her back in Lucifan.
He stared back at her with those nearly black eyes for a brief moment before bowing his head again.
The cruelly smiling man lifted his hand up and shouted over the crowd’s silence and Koll’s yelps of pain.
“I’ll take them all,” he said.
Chapter 16
Emily’s captors were relieved to sell all three of their slaves at once, especially after Koll’s debacle. They even offered the cruel man a discount, which he gladly took before leading his new, shackled captives out of town. Proctus seemed to be fighting back tears, and Koll appeared angered that his ploy had not worked to keep him from being sold.
Emily hardly heard or saw anything. She barely felt the chains being shackled to her feet, the rough push to get her moving, or the blistering thirst that still plagued her. Almost all of her attention was focused on Takeo.
The last time she’d seen Takeo, he’d looked at her with nothing but contempt and hatred. His eyes had burned with a deep fury every time he’d looked at her, because he’d wrongly thought that she had killed his older brother, a lie he’d been told by Heliena, and he’d tried to kill Emily for it. He’d almost been successful, too, dodging an arrow she’d shot at him and quickly backing her into a wall. He was a ferocious swordsman, and Emily had been outmatched before the battle had even begun. He could have killed her, but instead he’d put his sword to her throat and stopped there. Emily never had a chance to ask him why he spared her. It was something she thought about more often than not.
She knew it wasn’t because he lacked the courage to take a life, that much was certain. Before that fateful moment, Emily had watched Takeo kill a minotaur singlehandedly, stand up to a vampire, and disarm her gunslinger brother. Not all at once, of course, but these tasks were the stuff of legends. He was a purist with his blade, totally calm and confident, and as far as she could tell, utterly fearless. It was no wonder Ichiro had had him personally guard Heliena in Lucifan.
Yet now, here he was, in Savara, with none of his former allies at his side. To boot, he no longer looked at her with anger, and this confused Emily to no end. Had he been abandoned? Had he turned traitor? Had Ichiro’s ship met some horrid end that left Takeo as the only survivor? Worse yet, and this fringe thought scared her, had Takeo been sent to Savara to slay her? Heliena knew Emily was still alive. Perhaps Takeo had been scouting for her! She dashed that thought quickly, though. It was too farfetched. No one knew where she was, not even her. She wanted to ask Takeo how he got here, but the people surrounding them made her keep her silence.
The men Takeo was with now were neither samurai nor servants. They were clearly Savara natives, so what connection they had with Ichiro or Heliena was beyond Emily’s knowledge. Takeo was still armed, though no longer with his slender, curved samurai sword. He wore a different sword now, a similar one to what all the other armed people in Savara carried.
It was similar in size to a knight’s longsword, in that it could be wielded either by one or two hands, but was curved like a pirate’s cutlass, only to a greater degree. It was bigger and thicker than either of those weapons and was only sharpened on one side. Another unique feature was that the blade thickened notably at the upper third section before tapering to a point, which was something Emily had never seen before. Unlike the cutlass, which was designed to be used in tight, ship’s quarters with one hand, this strange sword looked like an elegant meat cleaver, which could be brutally swung in wide arcs among Savara’s open dunes. Why Takeo would carry one was bewildering.
Emily’s eyes burned into the back of Takeo’s head as they walked out of town, but he did not turn around to make eye contact with her again. As the other men spoke, Takeo would turn to them and nod but otherwise keep his thoughts to himself. The way they spoke to him implied that he was working with them, but his face said otherwise.
Takeo had swelling along his neck and right eye, which was nearly shut, and he seemed to be favoring his left side. His sandals were so worn down they seemed barely worth wearing at all, which was surprising since the other men were wearing much more adequate footwear. His ankles had the gnawed look having worn iron chains. His body bore the signs of severe punishment, but more interesting than that was that none of his wounds were fresh. By Emily’s guess, every mark on Takeo was at least a few days old. She contemplated what this could mean—Takeo being once a prisoner and now free—but it gave her little direction. Thirst and hunger stabbed into her mind frequently as the town continued to recede into the distance, and the iron shackles tore at her ankles—all of which distracted her thoroughly.
“We’re clear, Jabbar,” said one of the men.
The cruel man smiled again, and Emily looked at him. She would never remember what he had looked like in the town, though, because in that moment his appearance changed.
The man named Jabbar turned out to be something else entirely. He stood still
, as if concentrating, and then began to literally grow in height, adding four hand’s width to make him a hair taller than Koll. His eyes turned a feral yellow, and his mouth and nose elongated and widened to a short, animal-like snout. His entire body sprouted a thick coat of fur—yellow and white with black strips. His hands and feet turned into human-like paws, and his nails pointed into vicious claws. Whiskers sprouted from his cheeks, and his ears burst into triangle-shaped flaps. His lips pulled back into a snarl as the transformation dragged onwards until he thrust out his arms as if bursting free. He let loose an inhuman roar with a voice so terrifyingly deep that Emily felt it in her heart. With his mouth open, Emily saw even his teeth had shifted, becoming large and sharp. Four canines had sprouted: two on the top jaw, two on the bottom jaw. His tongue lolled out, pink and long, before slipping back into his cavernous mouth.
Emily gasped and clutched her cuffed hands together. She stared, unabashed, knees shaking, and in total shock at the change that no one had told her was coming. Next to her, Proctus’ already depressed face receded into total fear and despair. The little satyr fell to his knees and let loose the tears that he had been holding back all this time. Koll’s mouth fell open, and he, too, looked as if all hope was lost.
“No!” Proctus whimpered, losing control, “Not a rakshasa! Oh no, why! Why! Why me!? We’re all doomed!”
“Shut up!” one of the other men screamed and bashed Proctus over the head.
Proctus cried out and fell to the ground.
“No, no, no!” he wailed. “No, please! I don’t want to be eaten! Oh no, please, no! Don’t eat me, please!”
“Shut up!” the man screamed again and began to kick Proctus viciously.
Proctus cried out with each strike, and the man continued to kick him with no signs of stopping. As Jabbar finished his transformation, he turned around and watched the scene. He waited a few moments, smiling at the cruelty of it. From his throat, Emily heard a strange noise, like a very low hum. Jabbar then made a jerking motion with his head, and the man stopped kicking Proctus.
