Emily's Saga

by Travis Bughi

  “Get up,” Jabbar commanded, “and be silent or I’ll cut your tongue out.”

  Jabbar’s voice sounded like it came from his stomach, almost as if he spoke with his hunger. The purring had stopped, and the look in Jabbar’s eyes probably helped Proctus stifle his tears and pull himself up.

  “Good,” Jabbar grinned, or snarled—Emily couldn’t quite tell. “You speak only when spoken to. Now, let’s keep moving.”

  He turned around, and Emily saw that the rakshasa had also grown a tail. It was as long as his legs, yet thin, despite being covered in yellow fur with black strips like the rest of his body. It swayed back and forth as if it had a mind of its own, the end flicking acutely as he walked.

  What is this thing? Emily thought. She looked at Takeo, hoping to get something out of him, but still he would not look at her. He was ignoring the entire scene, staring off into the nothingness of the desert and apparently looking in the direction they would travel, because that was the direction Jabbar started walking.

  The others followed and pulled on the chain securing the slaves, compelling Emily to move once more across Savara’s hot sands. They marched onwards into the desert, heading on a path directly east. Their only companion was the sun, which followed them faithfully, pouring down its rays and scorching everything it touched. Emily’s lips were dry and cracked by now, and had she any moisture left in her mouth, she would have licked them.

  As it stood, though, she kept her mouth shut tight. The wind was quickly proving to be even more relentless during the day, pushing and pulling, whipping and biting, and throwing spirals of sand into the air at every turn. It got into everything: her toes, her vest, her hair, even her ears. Jabbar and the slavers appeared used to this treatment, and they covered their mouths with portions of their loose clothes. Takeo had no such head covering, though, and suffered equally along with the slaves.

  She fought hard to hold down her despairing thoughts. In this moment, she could not recall having been in a situation so wretchedly forlorn. Even when she’d been in the Forest of Angor—surrounded by werewolves, hunted by centaurs—she had not felt the overwhelming need to resign that weighed her down now. At least in those situations, she’d been able to fight back with her bow.

  My bow, her mind whimpered. A small tear formed in her eye, but the wind swept it up long before it could drop. Emily swallowed and tried to push the sadness down.

  Just before midday, when the sun was at its highest point and Emily thought she couldn’t take another step, the slavers stopped.

  “Sit,” Jabbar commanded.

  Emily collapsed to the ground. Proctus fell as well, and Koll gave the slightest hesitation before taking a knee. Jabbar nodded his head toward one of the others, and that man stepped forward. He pulled out a leather pouch that sloshed as he moved it and held it out to Emily.

  “Drink,” he said.

  Emily grabbed the water skin, tore open the top and gulped down the lifesaving fluid. She drank and drank until the slaver wrenched it out of her hands.

  “Enough!” he commanded. “Now, you.”

  He held the water out to Koll, and the viking grabbed it in both hands. He lifted it towards his lips, stopped, and then hurled the water skin at the slaver. It bounced off the slaver’s clothes, showering him in a trail of water before spilling onto the sands. The dry ground soaked up the water instantly as it poured out.

  “I’d sooner drink goblin piss,” Koll said.

  The slaver quickly picked up the water skin to save what he could of the precious liquid. His face was aghast when he looked at Koll. Then he curled his lip and raised his hand in the air.

  “You insolent, slave!” the man roared.

  He swung for Koll’s head, and Koll made no attempts to block or dodge it. The fist connected, and Koll’s head snapped to the side. Otherwise, Koll’s body did not move.

  “And you hit like a wee child,” Koll muttered.

  The slaver scowled in anger, but he did not move to strike Koll again. He looked to Jabbar first, who was looking into the distance along with Takeo. Jabbar tilted his head to the side and gave a short nod. The slaver then turned back to Koll.

  “I’ll teach you to insult a Kshatriya,” he said.

  He kicked Koll in the chest, hard, knocking the viking to the ground, and then leapt on top of him. The slaver pulled out a small metal object and slipped his fingers into four holes, leaving a metal bar exposed.

  “Iron knuckles on a bound prisoner?” Koll chuckled. “You’re no Kshatriya. I’ve seen more honor from a pirate.”

  The slaver would hear no more and began laying into Koll with a barrage of punches. Emily looked away, but she heard each strike, a combination of blunted flesh and ringing metal. The sounds made her cringe, and she felt her heart sink just a little deeper. She looked at Takeo once more, but still the samurai seemed completely detached.

  “You’d better be right about the girl,” Jabbar said to Takeo. “I could have just bought the viking and been done with it.”

  “You needed two, lord,” Takeo replied. “And trust me, she’s worth it. I’ve fought against her before.”

  Jabbar breathed deeply and then let out a long breath, barely audible over the wind and Koll’s grunts.

  “Me, a shogun,” the rakshasa smiled, “I can hardly wait.”

  Takeo remained silent.

  Another vicious jab to Koll’s stomach brought a coughing, sputtering noise to the air. Emily didn’t know how much more the viking could take. He’d already been beaten ragged back in the town, yet still he was able to stay shockingly quiet. Koll kept his teeth clenched tightly, denying the slaver his screams of agony.

  Suddenly, Jabbar’s tail swished and flicked, and the slaver administering the beating stopped. He looked at Jabbar, then let go of Koll, letting the viking collapse peaceably to the ground while he stood up. Emily looked over at Koll and winced at the sight of him. The viking was bruised all over and bleeding from his nose, one eye, and both ears. However, remarkably enough, the wounds didn’t look more than skin deep. Not a single bone appeared to be broken.

  “Come on,” Koll gasped, his voice choking. “Is that all you got?”

  Koll spit a trail of blood on the sand and lay still. The slaver clenched his iron knuckles but didn’t otherwise respond. The rakshasa finally turned towards them and then walked over to the viking. With one paw, he grabbed Koll’s shoulder and hauled the massive viking to a seated position, pressing his claws into the human’s skin until fresh blood flowed. Koll grunted heavily this time and met the yellowed eyes of the rakshasa.

  “You will drink,” Jabbar commanded. “You will eat. You will walk. You will fight to survive. Understood? If you do not, I will have no choice but to consume your body, because that is all you will be worth to me. I’ll start slowly, cutting off your ears, nose, eyelids, tongue, fingers, toes, and eat them all right in front of you. My men here will stand by with a fire-heated sword to cauterize the wounds so you won’t bleed out. It will be a long, long process, and I’ll enjoy every moment of it. Man flesh is quite tasty, and there is enough of you to last me for quite some time. I promise that you’ll never reach Valhalla, but by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging to reach hell.”

  Koll took a few deep breaths and held Jabbar’s gaze with his one good eye. The viking seemed to be fighting some inner struggle, but it was over soon enough. Jabbar’s words had even chilled Emily’s bones to the core.

  “One day, fur ball,” Koll said, “I won’t be chained up. Then you and I will have a go.”

  Jabbar smiled, showing his massive canines.

  “That’s the spirit,” he said.

  He let Koll go, dropping the big man to the ground, and turned back toward their intended path. A heavy silence followed as Jabbar returned to his place at the front of the group and as Koll stared at Jabbar’s back. Emily looked to Takeo again and saw that he was finally taking an interest in what was happening. His head was turned, lending an ear to wh
at was being said. A lock of hair had come loose from his queue and waved in the wind, and Emily noticed that the samurai had hair longer than hers. She wondered at that, but more importantly, she wondered why the samurai seemed to be faintly smiling now.

  “Uh, erm-herm,” Proctus spoke up. “Can I, uh, have some of that water . . . please?”

  Chapter 17

  When they made camp for the night, Emily actually felt better than she had previously. Despite the sinister heat and iron chains, the water she’d been given had breathed new life into her. Her despair became easier to manage, and she set about trying to think of a way to escape.

  It was the only thing she could think of, actually. Nothing else in the world seemed more important in this moment, and she was given little to distract her from that. The slavers walked in silence, conversation being discouraged by the wind, and Emily had enough sense to know that she wouldn’t be allowed to speak freely. That left only thinking and watching, and she took part in both as she was forced to sit while the slavers set up for the night.

  They unrolled blankets and set them up in a haphazard circle around the slaves. No fire was made or even attempted, and the slavers ate strips of dried meat only. They shared some with Emily and the others, and Koll didn’t refuse this time around. Water was dispersed again, and the watch was set. Emily had hoped for some meaningful conversations to begin, but the slavers were remarkably silent. They rolled up into their blankets, closed their eyes, and nodded off, leaving only the watchman awake.

  Emily noted how the watchman was looking at them rather than out into the night. He kept a steady eye, too, and one hand casually draped over his sword.

  Emily didn’t think she’d fall asleep soon. She didn’t want to at first, thinking that perhaps she’d have better luck trying to escape the first night while she was still close to a town. If they travelled further, she could lose all sense of where she was, and escape would become just as deadly as staying enslaved.

  She thought to try and outlast the first watch. The wind was on her side for once, running a chill across her reddened skin that made her shudder. She backed up against Koll and Proctus in an attempt to stay warm. It was barely enough, but it was all the warmth she would receive that night. Then, in that moment, exhaustion racked her body and she fought her eyelids for only seconds before they closed.

  Just a little nap, she told herself.

  And consciousness was gone.

  When Emily awoke, it was to a light tap on the side of her neck. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked straight into the face of Takeo Okamoto.

  She nearly jumped, but he pulled away his hand and placed a single, vertical finger to his lips.

  She froze. Her heart was racing, but she had stopped moving.

  Should I scream?

  Takeo held her gaze for a moment, looking both calm and collected as always. He looked down and then up, then down and then up.

  Emily followed his eyes and looked down. From beneath her vest, she saw the letters had slipped out while she was sleeping. They were exposed, hanging out over her skirt, with just a tip still hanging at the bottom of her vest. With haste, she grabbed them with her shackled hands and shoved them up underneath her clothing again. She looked back at Takeo, eyes wide.

  He put a finger to his lips again, then stood up and walked back over to his blanket. He sat on it, cross-legged, back erect, and hands resting on his knees. He then looked east.

  “Takeo,” Emily whispered.

  Takeo snapped his head towards her and put a finger to his lips again. He then pointed the finger at Jabbar, cuddled on a blanket just a pace away, and tapped a finger to his ear. Emily reluctantly closed her mouth. Takeo slowly nodded in approval and then looked away, to the east again.

  Emily looked to the east. Faintly, on the horizon, she saw thin trails of light grazing some clouds that had formed overnight. It seemed Takeo had been given last watch, and his shift had just begun. Escape would not be possible this night, she realized. She wouldn’t be able to get far enough away before the others awoke and tracked her down. She’d have to try again another time.

  But for now, she could really use some more sleep. With the letters secured, she closed her eyes and let the lingering exhaustion work its magic.

  * * *

  Takeo’s actions were well remembered the next morning. Emily waited, fearing that Takeo might say something about the letters to Jabbar, but he did not. He stayed quiet, and Emily felt a small bit of comfort in that. She dared to think that Takeo was not actually in league with these slavers, that maybe he was a prisoner like her.

  Then she saw his sword and knew that her hopes were in vain. Prisoners were not given weapons. Prisoners were not allowed to take watch. Prisoners were not trusted to assist in the purchase of slaves. Despite his assistance, that did not immediately mean he was on her side. Perhaps he was just being kind. Perhaps he felt sorry for her. Perhaps he planned to use the information to blackmail her. She could not give her trust over so quickly. She would stay quiet and watchful. The fact that Takeo had almost killed her the last time they’d met had not slipped from her mind so easily.

  They traveled for a few more days, always due east. Emily contemplated escape constantly, but the opportunity never arose. At the end of each day, exhaustion overtook her senses as she attempted to outlast the first watch or find a lapse in his steady guard. Unlike her, the slavers had adequate skin cover, enough water and food, and no iron shackles tearing at their limbs. If they were doing this to intentionally weaken and tire her, then they were clever indeed, but Emily was compelled to believe that it was a simple lack of empathy.

  Over time and through idle conversation, Emily learned the names of her captors. Besides Jabbar and Takeo, there were four of them. Two of them were brothers named Lufti and Bari Dagher. Lufti was the younger one, being roughly the same age as Emily and Takeo, and had a crooked nose and shifty eyes. He was given second watch every night without fail. He smelled, too, worse than a pirate after a year at sea, and Emily loathed to be downwind of him.

  Lufti’s older brother, Bari, was much different. He was maybe five years or so older than Lufti and was rather handsome. He took good care of his beard, so much so that the others called him a dwarf despite the fact that he was the tallest of them, not including Jabbar of course. Emily had only heard of dwarves in stories, being short humanoids who mined in tunnels, and had no idea how meticulous they were about their beards. Judging by how Bari combed his every morning, though, she had a feeling it was legendary. He kept his comb in its own special leather pouch that he tucked into his clothes rather than into his backpack. Emily couldn’t help but look at the comb longingly. Her own hair was a mess of sweat and dirt, not to mention getting far too long for her tastes.

  The next name Emily learned was of the slaver who always took first watch. His name was Eisa Haik, and he was maybe a little less than ten years older than Bari. Eisa was a pretty talkative guy and liked to talk to Jabbar the most. This was surprising because Jabbar rarely spoke back other than to cut Eisa off with a glare before the man blurted out something in front of the slaves. It happened so often that Emily became surprised by Jabbar’s tolerance of it all, but then again, judging by the subtle jokes, Eisa was an exceptional swordfighter. She had no idea if he was as good as Takeo, though. No one had yet bothered to make a comparison.

  The last one was named Ossim Sarkkis, and he was at the end of his prime. He wasn’t old like Lonzo had been—his beard still had a tinge of brown—but he was old enough to be venerable. He didn’t speak much, either, even less than Jabbar but more than Takeo. He never smiled. The most he did was scowl at whatever jokes were flung in the idle banter that provided the only source of entertainment on their long journey.

  Emily also learned a few other things that puzzled her, such as the name of the unique sword they carried: a scimitar. Emily got to see the scimitar in use, too, when the Dagher brothers decided to spar against each other one night. Assuming the bro
thers used it properly, its design held no secrets. It was a slashing weapon made to hack apart a foe with powerful blows. With only one sharpened side, it was always swung the same way, and the thickened end added extra weight that pushed aside parries. Its use certainly benefited from skilled hands, as with any weapon ever made, but Emily quickly noted that such a tool would not be unfriendly towards a beginner either.

  It seemed Savara was a comfortable place for mercenaries in more ways than one.

  More to Emily’s attention, though, she noted that each slaver also carried a dagger with them, which they called a pesh-kabz. It was another unique weapon, different in many ways from the amazon hunting knife Emily had trained and fought with.

  While the amazon hunting knife was like a miniature longsword, the pesh-kabz was like a straightened, miniature version of the scimitar. Sharpened on one edge only, it was considerably thick on the blade’s dull edge, which added extra weight to any strike. It was tapered to a point, allowing for thrusting as well as slashing attacks, and the handle had a hook at the bottom. Emily couldn’t quite figure out what the hook was for, being that it was too dull to be used as a weapon and too short to be used to hang the dagger, but she wasn’t concerned about it. Mostly, she just wanted one for herself.

  Shockingly enough, on the fourth day of travel, they gave her one.

  It was at the end of the day when they finally settled down again for camp. Emily, Koll, and Proctus collapsed to a seated position on the ground, as always, while the slavers rolled out their bedrolls. Food and water were dispersed, and the sun began to set on the horizon. All seemed normal until Jabbar and the others approached the bound trio deliberately.

  “It’s time,” Jabbar said.

  “Time for what?” Proctus asked, his voice shaking.

  Jabbar lashed out with his foot and kicked Proctus to the ground.

  “You only speak when spoken to,” he growled. “If I want your opinion, satyr, I’ll beat it out of you.”