by Travis Bughi
Jabbar’s tail flicked.
“Ah, the town, yes!” Eisa chuckled nervously. “Typical place, decent population. As you can see, it even has some low, brick walls and an outlook, though no gate. It used to reside on the border between two warlords until one decapitated the other. Trading is standard, but there’s a mix of ex-soldiers left by the recent struggle, who are either abandoned cripples or shady deserters. Lots of begging on the streets and mugging in the alleys. There is a small force left behind to collect taxes and maintain sovereignty. They are not friendly toward rakshasas.”
“Heh,” Jabbar smiled, “these border towns rarely are. Too unstable to risk our presence. What’s this warlord’s take on Kshatriyas with slaves? Will we be disturbed?”
“Don’t know and doesn’t matter. The warlord and his band aren’t there anymore, just the people. Like all towns, the Kshatriya title should still carry weight, even if we have slaves. Some might find it off, but I doubt anyone will question my lineage for the short time we’ll be there. However, just to be safe, you should go as my brother.”
“Older brother,” Jabbar corrected.
And then Jabbar began to change. His teeth flattened and shrunk, his striped fur sunk into his skin, and his tail slipped away. In reverse of what Emily had seen, the rakshasa became a man again, only this time appearing completely different than he’d been at the old slave market. Jabbar now looked like an older, altered version of Eisa.
“This will work,” Jabbar nodded, speaking in a human pitched voice.
“Pseudonym?” Bari asked.
“No, not this time,” the rakshasa said, closing and opening his hand. “Jabbar will do fine. Listen up, Bari. You and your brother own the slaves, and they’re criminals, got it? I doubt there are other Kshatriyas inside, but just in case there’s some intransigent old fool around, I’d like to discourage them from upholding their pathetic code. If I have to change back to deal with them, then the guards might call for help. So, keep your eyes to yourself. I want to get rich and control an army, not fight a pointless battle in some town barely bigger than a roc dropping. Now, let’s get this over with. Oh, and Eisa?”
“Yes, lord?”
“Keep your tongue short.”
Eisa swallowed and nodded, and then they set out toward the town that he had called ‘typical.’ They entered it casually yet confidently, and Emily noticed there was a large, freestanding structure erected outside the entrance. The structure was just a single elevated platform, no longer on any side than a few paces, with a roof and no walls. On the platform sat an armed man who didn’t bother to acknowledge them as they passed inside. His head was resting in his hands, and his eyes gazed out onto the horizon.
Inside the town, the sandy soil had been slowly ground into a fine, dusty powder from the years of traffic. The roads were narrow lanes between houses made of mud bricks or rickety wood. No building was taller than two stories, and outside many homes, the villagers had erected canvas coverings to provide shade and a place to set up shops. There was a bustle of activity as people shuffled from one house-shop to the next, buying or trading for the multitude of items available for purchase: food, water, clothing, tools, weapons, twine, rope, shoes, candles, toys, and more. It was like a miniature Lucifan, only every item had been locally made.
The people were a mixture of young and old, dirty and clean, but none could be called rich. Most carried their goods in large backpacks or buckets. A few had tiny handcarts that they pulled themselves, and more often than not the wheels dragged through the loose soil rather than rolled. One couple seemed fortunate enough to have a cart pulled by a single karkadann, and those nearby gave them a wide berth.
The main street they walked through was also sprinkled with the destitute Eisa spoke of—leaning against buildings, hobbling in the streets, or sneering from the darkened shadows of the many alleyways. Some of these rather tattered looking souls wore clothes barely discernible from rags, most wore no shoes, and all were covered from head to toe in the black grime of forgotten hygiene. Worse yet, many were missing limbs—a left arm there, one or both legs there—some had only a foot missing and walked on crutches, while others had but tiny stubs protruding from their lower halves. One man had no ears, another was missing fingers, and one was completely blind—the proof of this provided by the fact that his eyes were nothing but gouged sockets.
What was rarer still than all of this was the occasional, distinguishable look of a soldier on duty. They traveled in pairs on foot or alone mounted on a karkadann. Either way, they moved confidently or stood casually erect along the streets. They carried their weapons in plain view, wore padded armor as if prepared for battle, and scanned the crowds with a look of bored peacekeepers.
When Emily and the others entered this scene, there was a slight but measurable change in the way others acted. Some shopkeepers shouted louder, such as those selling weapons, food and water; some went quiet, such as those selling toys and other vanity goods. The people didn’t rush in front of them as they did to so many others. At the sight of Eisa and Jabbar, the beggars and forgotten victims of war held out hands and appeared to struggle more. The soldiers followed them with only their eyes and stopped whatever conversations they had been murmuring.
Jabbar smirked slightly at it all, and Eisa held his head aloft. Bari, Takeo, Lufti, and Ossim flanked Emily and Koll and kept their eyes forward. Emily noted how many people were looking at them, particularly at Koll. The viking still bore many of the bruises Eisa had given him, and the iron shackles continued to gnaw at their limbs. Some of the people looked down on them with unabashed scorn, but most had a much more quizzical look as if Emily and Koll’s presence was a true mystery.
They stopped along the street before a water and food merchant who had set up his tables in front of his home. Jabbar and Eisa stepped forward to greet the short, portly shopkeeper whose long beard had streaks of dark grey running through it.
“Good day, gentlemen, sirs,” the shopkeeper smiled and rubbed his hands together. “How goes your travels?”
“Please, dispense with the pleasantries,” Eisa sighed. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”
The shopkeeper blinked rapidly but frowned in acknowledgment.
“Okay, very well then. How may I help you?”
“We need food, water, and a map if you have one,” Eisa replied, tone flat as pond water.
“I am sorry, good sir, but I have no map,” the man sighed and looked down, shaking his head slowly. “Food and water, though, I do have, plenty of it, too. I have my own well, fresh as they come. It’s even used by many local folks, and all my karkadann meat is salted and dried, so it will last. I have bread, as well, freshly baked by my wife and daughter every morning. If the wind would just change direction, you could actually smell it! Oh, and did I mention? I even have some rare, dried fruit if you’re interested. Shipped from one of the ports. Hard to find out here in Savara’s heart. A real treat, trust me.”
Eisa glanced at Jabbar, who narrowed one eye.
“Just meat,” Eisa nodded. “And water.”
“Meat only?” the man frowned. “Surely you don’t want at least some bread? I understand passing on the fruit. It’s only to be expected of gentlemen such as yourselves, and I don’t mean to be rude, but um, shouldn’t you like to vary your diet a bit? The bread is quite good. Like I said, fresh, no mold. I don’t mean to brag but uh—”
The shopkeeper looked from Eisa to Jabbar. As his eyes fell on Jabbar’s face, his body and mouth froze. A sudden look of realization dawned on his face, and he went to take a step back.
“Don’t,” Eisa whispered.
The shopkeeper looked terrified.
“Keep calm. Pull yourself together,” Eisa glared as he whispered, “or we’ll be visiting your wife and daughter soon.”
The shopkeeper took his eyes off Jabbar to look at Eisa. He blinked once, twice, then finally snapped out of his trance. He relaxed, barely, and his chest was rising and falling rapi
dly. The shopkeeper quickly clapped his hands together and forced a smile.
“Right! Meat! Got it!” he laughed nervously. “It will last the longest, of course! Long journey, ha! I should have known. I’ll get some of my finest cuts out if you sirs will just wait right here. Oh! And I almost forgot. Will you be needing food for all, or just for your men?”
“What do you mean?” Eisa asked.
“Well, the, eh, do you need, well, any for the, uh . . . slaves?”
Bari stomped forward and slammed a fist on the shopkeeper’s table. The shopkeeper gave a cry, and every eye in the street that hadn’t been focused on them turned toward the noise. A brief moment of silence fell over the market. Bari just smiled at the shopkeeper and flicked a thumb at Koll.
“Does that look like a slave to you, huh?” Bari shouted, inexplicably loud. “These two are criminals! The samurai here helped us track them down, and they almost got away. We’re taking them back for bounty.”
Bari looked around, as if daring anyone to challenge him. None did, and in fact, most seemed completely disinterested in the scene after he spoke.
“Oh,” the shopkeeper said softly. “I’m sorry, sir. I meant no offense.”
“None taken,” Eisa nodded. “But yes, we’ll need food for them, too. Only half as much, though.”
The shopkeeper waited a moment, looking from Bari to Jabbar to Eisa, as if expecting to hear something else. He opened his mouth to say something but then reconsidered and ducked inside his home. Not too long afterwards, the man returned with the promised goods. Eisa haggled with him, though he hardly haggled back, and they came to a properly agreed upon amount rather quickly.
Meanwhile, the day continued to drag on, and the townspeople continued to go about their day. After a few minutes, the initial buzz of their presence died down. The soldiers weren’t looking at them so sternly, the poor weren’t begging so loudly, and things settled to a reasonable degree. Jabbar and Eisa bought their meat and their water. It was mostly meat, actually, and Emily quickly estimated its sum to be enough for several weeks of travel. They found a map at another shop down the way and passed through the town rather swiftly. After their last purchase was made, they took a direct right turn that led them off the main path and toward the nearest exit.
Defeat filled Emily’s heart. She had hoped that with a busy town would come a chance to escape, but no such opportunity had risen. The slavers were too watchful, and she stuck out like a sore thumb among the people in this land. The world was a harsh place, and her options were less than limited. The shackles cut into her skin again, causing them to bleed, and fresh tears came to her eyes.
So much for my desire to explore, she wept.
On the way out of town, in the quiet and deserted side streets, a nearby cry of pain awoke Emily from her nightmare. Several thuds followed it, the distinct sound of punching, and then voices.
“Shut up and give us all your coin!” came a heavy voice.
“Now!” came another, slightly lighter one.
“Please, don’t!” came yet a third.
Another thud followed. Emily and Koll both perked and tilted their heads towards the noise. The slavers, though, continued to walk as if they had heard nothing at all.
Presently, they walked by the alley where the voices came from, and Emily saw what her ears had already told her: one man was backed up against the wall of an alley. Before him, two other men had a hold of him and were taking turns kicking, punching, and searching the man over.
“Please!” the victim cried. “It’s all I have!”
“Give it up!” one shouted.
Suddenly, the victim noticed the group. His eyes fell on Jabbar and Eisa, and a look of hope shone in his eyes.
“Kshatriya!” he cried out. “Help me! Please!”
The two robbers paused and whirled around, eyes wide with fear. However, when Jabbar, Eisa, and the others kept walking, not even turning their heads to look, the two men turned on their victim with vicious grins. The light of hope in the man’s eyes began to fade.
“No!” he begged. “Please! Don’t go!”
One of the robbers gave the man a punch to his gut, and he hunched over. Jabbar and his crew continued to walk, and the robbers started to laugh.
“They ain’t gonna help you,” one said. “Now pay up.”
The alley was almost gone from view now, and the victim gave one last cry and wave.
“I’ll give you a reward!” he cried out.
And at that last word, Jabbar froze.
“Eisa,” he commanded.
Eisa sprung like a manticore. He dashed from the empty street and into the alley with enviable agility. In the same movement, he drew his scimitar and held it in both hands. The two robbers only had time to turn and look before that wicked blade slammed into them, cutting the first one down with a powerful overhead strike and slicing open the second one with an upward one.
The two robbers cried out and crashed to the ground, the impact just as damaging as the sharpened edge. Huge, gaping gashes had been cut into each of them. The first one was dead instantly, his face split open and his jaw shattered by the scimitar, spraying a wave of blood against the nearest building. The second one cried out again, holding his stomach where a canyon-like wound had formed. His screams went silent, though, when Eisa brought his scimitar down like a viking wielding an axe, splitting the robber’s head clean open to spill grey matter like a smashed fruit.
Blood flowed over the sand, quenching its thirst for moisture and blighting the yellow sanctity with dark red sacrilege. The man, the victim, stuttered and gasped at the sight.
“Oh my, oh my,” he covered his mouth with a quivering hand. “You . . . you killed them? They were unarmed. I thought you were a Kshatriya.”
Eisa said nothing. He knelt down to one of the dead men and carefully wiped his blade on the small patch of clothing that wasn’t soaked in blood. Meanwhile, Jabbar entered the alley, and the look on his face terrified the man who was still a victim.
“I thought you were a Kshatriya,” he repeated.
Jabbar grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him against the wall.
“The reward,” he demanded, “now.”
The man shook, and his eyes bulged, but he heard just fine. He took his quivering hand away from his mouth and reached into his pocket, digging for a moment, and then pulling out a small pouch. Jabbar snatched it from his hand the moment it was visible. He took his hand off the man’s throat and opened the pouch, counting quietly.
“I should have let them rob me,” the man muttered.
“Yes, you should,” Jabbar scoffed. “What a pitiful amount of money to guard.”
Jabbar closed the pouch and tucked it away. He and Eisa returned to the group, leaving the stunned man with the corpses.
Then the walking continued. As they left town, Emily looked upon Jabbar and felt a cold shiver run up her spine. She needed to find a way to escape very soon.
Chapter 19
Over and over Emily replayed the violence she’d witnessed back in that nameless town. She saw Eisa move, draw, and cut down his opponents effortlessly and flawlessly. Like Takeo, he’d been calm, collected, and confident. His sword strikes were fluid and swift. She did not know if she could best him, but in her heart, she knew she never wanted to try.
Not that she would have a choice.
The first part of escape, she figured, would be to understand her enemy as best she could. She could safely assume that Bari, Lufti, and Ossim were not as good with the sword as Eisa, judging by how they spoke of Eisa’s skill with awe, but that didn’t offer her much comfort. There was still Jabbar to consider, and that was a terrifying prospect. It did not bode well with her that a single twitch from the rakshasa’s tail made Eisa go silent.
And then, of course, there was Takeo. Despite the threat from Jabbar and Eisa, it was actually his mysterious presence that preoccupied her thoughts the most.
She still, for the life of her, could not
figure out his role in all of this. His wounds were all healed by now, revealing to Emily that she had been right to assume they had been recent when she first saw them. Perhaps he had been a slave once, too, considering how similar his wounds were to Koll’s. But if he had been a slave, then why was he free now? And armed? Judging by the casual disregard the other slavers showed Takeo, Emily could only assume that they had not seen the samurai fight. Surely they would fear him if they had.
And what did Takeo think of her? He did not look at her like he used to, with hate and malice. Did he still wish to kill her, though? Did he still think her responsible for his brother’s death? If not, then could she trust him? If he saw her run, would he stop her? He had been sympathetic to Proctus, trying to end the satyr’s life before the torture came, but that did not immediately mean that Takeo was on her side. For all she knew, he resented her for sparing Proctus. Perhaps he had wanted her to die in the satyr’s place. She had no answers to any of this. Part of her wanted to believe that if he saw her running, he wouldn’t do anything about it, but she could not be certain. Sure, he had let her keep her letters, but that didn’t mean he’d let her escape. In her current state, she didn’t think she’d be able to survive the punishment of being wrong.
And what of Koll? Surely the viking was planning his own break from this nightmare. Could she escape with him? Would he allow it? Given the chance, if he tried to escape, would she or could she use that as a distraction to make her own getaway? She hated the thought of using the viking to make her own escape, but if he tried to leave without her, she’d have no choice but to try and do the same. There would be no honor in any of this. She was fighting for her life here. There were so many questions, so many options, so many unknowns, and far too much time to worry about them.
