The Nameless Slave

by Vitaly Zykov

  But he had no time to wonder at these discoveries: the marvelous savages were inexorably approaching, and their intentions were obviously not peaceful, this was not only evident from the recently shot stones. Three of the Tarks held the knotty cudgels, polished from frequent use, in their paws (Yaroslav could not call them hands!). The size of these primitive weapon was corresponding the Tarks' height. One Tark was rotating over his head something suspiciously similar to a sling. His eyes were tenaciously searching over the top of the hill, looking for a slightest movement. Fortunately, Yaroslav was now looking through the thick grass weaving, which hid him from the enemies. The fifth Tark, who was walking a step ahead of his comrades, was the tallest, almost a head taller than the others. And this big guy, excitedly sniffing, was stomping up, holding at ready a giant hammer, which was clearly not a savage production. It was made of a dark, almost black, metal, with a red wooden handle. The skillful carving covering this primitive weapon of murder, could be put it in the category of work of art.

  «It's time to flee! – Thoughts swirled in a usual pre-combat dance. – Since, you guys are too strong. I'm very unlikely to cope with you. Although I can try…»

  His fingers formed a ladle, an impulse of magic, and a few inches over his palm appeared a sparkling tiny green ball. Yaroslav intuitively rolled right and a new stone tore the ground in vain.

  «Shit! You, bastards, can feel magic?! – Rage scratched his soul. – You could kill me…»

  Yaroslav threw the handmade magical lightning into the nearest enemy. Then, risking his life, he spread the grass, to see the moment of his triumph. And a wild laughter roared through the surroundings. The victim of his magical strike, which was supposed to be dead (or, at least, screaming from pain in seared wounds) and to roll downhill, was in fact laughing at the top of his lungs. Growling, choking from unearthly delight his laughter echoed in the ears. The comrades of the jolly big guy followed him. And there was a reason to laugh, Yaroslav's magic was simply powerless. The magical shot injured nothing, absolutely nothing, even the Tark's skin was not scorched. As if water drops rolled off from oiled skin leaving no trace. The same thing happened with his small, but still deadly magical ball. A rapid flight, hitting into the thick skin and the green splashes scattered down the rough skin, melting right before his eyes. Yaroslav was sweating. Fear of enemy, had happened to destroy whole armies, so his cold sweat and waves of despair were forgivable.

  «And now it's time to skedaddle!! – A thought flashed absently in his head. – But the slinger will shoot me, like a bird in the air!»

  These two thoughts fought in his head, replacing one another, while Yaroslav at the maximum speed slid to the opposite side of the hill. The last spurt and Yaroslav flew headlong down the slope… And something noticed from the corner of his eye, made him clutch the ground and the grass breaking his nails. Below, three Tarks were standing with happy grins. The predatory joy of life was shining in their little eyes. One of them moved a cudgel to his left paw, even not a cudgel, but a trunk of some tree, and made an inviting gesture. As if saying, come here! It is beautiful here, birds are singing, the guys are merry, and if you come to us it would be even more fun!

  – Go to hell!! – Yaroslav yelled. – When pigs fly, bastards!

  Rage spurred his body shrunk in fear and the surrounding world blurred in already familiar manner. Tark's movements became viscously slow. Yaroslav violently pushed from the ground and like a hare darted down. Anger filled the monsters' eyes when they saw that the victim was not going to give up. Their clubs in the same viscously manner were lifting for a blow and their legs were carrying them to the point where they should meet the man. But Yaroslav moved faster, much faster. With a sharp exhale he landed at the foot of the hill harrowing the ground with his heels, but losing balance rolled head over heels, mercilessly tearing his already severed skin. Tarks were already near and the blow seemed inevitable, but Yaroslav miraculously managed to slow down and got on his feet. Another spurt and a club swept over his head, touching only his right shoulder leaving a scratch. If it had hit more accurately, the shoulder would become a hodgepodge of meat and bones. Blood splattered, but Yaroslav already gathered speed, leaving the Tarks behind.

  His legs were softly carrying his body over the springy grass, his breathing was steady, all the senses were scanning the surroundings. The hill with the strange mirror had been left behind long ago, but the pursuers did not give up. The Tarks, covering steppe with a wide semicircle, had been chasing Yaroslav for several days already. The chase or even hounding, continued day and night, without stopping for sleep or dinner. Several dozen of Tarks with some large fanged animals, strongly resembling Earth cheetahs, joined the first group from the hill. Like on Earth, these animals were used here as hounds. On the first day of the chase Tarks almost caught Yaroslav, unleashing the animals against him. The beasts speed was just amazing: in only a few seconds they managed to overtake him and were spinning around in a deadly carousel. He only got rescued due to two things: the first was that the animals were vulnerable for magic, and the second that there were only three of them.

  Striking right and left, Yaroslav still could not avoid injuries. He killed one and lightly wounded two other devilishly fast beasts, but received a laceration of his left hand and a great decoration on his face: four lanes from a glancing blow of a paw now stretched from his nose to the cheekbone to the neck. The fact that his eye and his neck artery were not damaged was pure luck. Yaroslav stopped bleeding with an effort of will and ran on.

  The Tarks were just dumbfounded then. They were not inclined to quietness, but having seen what had happened, the Tarks were stunned, looking at their whining wounded pets. And Yaroslav fled, trying to gain distance, that would let heal his wounds.

  After three miles of run he fell into the grass and howled in pain. It seemed as if demons had dwelt in the wounds, and now they were tormenting the man's flesh. The first glance at the wound on his hand with his Inner vision startled him. As if a spooky spider had woven its black net in blood-red flesh of the wound. The comparison with demons was true, threads of some black magic glittered in the wounds. Yaroslav had only one opportunity to remove this abomination from the wounds: to burn it completely.

  – Bastards!!! – The roar broke out through his spasmodically constricted throat. – You are all bastards! I hate you!!!

  Emerald light gushed into the wound on his arm, burning the foreign blackness. The pain was terrible before, but now it became a nightmare. It lasted for a long time, indefinitely long, for a few tens of seconds, but Yaroslav endured. The wound had been cleaned, not single drop of infection left there. The enveloping effect of his magic soothed the pain. Now he had to pull the edges of the wound together and soon not even a scar will remain there. It was time to treat his face, but the Tarks did not let him do that. The Tarks resumed the chase, and their energetic cries were already heard near. Yaroslav had to flee, to escape with all his might. The proximity of the pursuers and the growing pain in the wound on his face spurred him.

  This time it was more difficult to break away. The hunters were not far behind straining their lungs and muscles as desperately as Yaroslav did. But he overtook them, albeit not for long, but broke away from the chase. Seeing almost nothing because of the pain in his left eye, with aching head, constantly wiping oozing pus from the wound on his face… As soon as the noise of chase faded away, almost fainting from the pain, Yaroslav began to zigzag. Like a wounded animal, he scoured through the steppe, until he collapsed to the ground, exhausted physically and mentally. But it did not give him relaxation. The pain was growing and he began treatment.

  The injury was much worse here. Whether more time had passed or for different reason, but the black tangle of unknown magic was much more powerful. Concentrating with much effort, Yaroslav sent a healing stream of green fire into the wound… and almost lost control over his own magic. The pain exceeded all conceivable limits, he had not feel like that even during his training wit
h Hisser. Exhausting, boundless, it strove to wash his consciousness into the greedy depth of ever hungry Nothing. But Yaroslav withstood. Sprawled on the ground, dripping with cold sweat, naked and miserable, he fought for his life. Scalpel of his adamant will burned out the filth from his body.

  Finally, this wound was clean too, only his disturbed flesh was aching dully, but it was possible to endure. Then was the well-known healing procedure to close the wound and Yaroslav fell into a saving oblivion.

  He woke up within an hour, cautiously jumped to his feet, probing the neighborhood with horror: was he besieged?! But he did not feel immediate danger. Yaroslav touched the wound on his face: it was ok, although relatively ok. Apparently, he was doomed to wear facial decoration in the form of four scars. Although, perhaps, he could make these scars less noticeable. A minute of concentrations and a gentle wave of healing magic passes through the wounds. However, whom is he going to show his clean face now?

  Then Yaroslav remembered about his hand, but everything there was just fine. It will heal itself after a few days.

  – I wonder what crap was on the claws of these cute little animals? Such wounds are usually healed even without magic, but this time I almost died?!

  Not waiting for response from the usually silent sky, Yaroslav moved jogging forward recuperating forces from the generous world on his way.

  His run continued: Force rhythmically splashed inside, nourishing his tired body, he did not feel any pursuit around. But Yaroslav remained vigilant, mindful how insensibly those Tarks got to the hill. And this vigilance allowed him to detect the first signs of life ahead. His senses cried about some living beings and Yaroslav fell like a stone into the grass.

  «I did not feel the Tarks. Urgs felt differently, so it's someone else», – the man's thoughts flowed in this manner.

  Carefully twisting in the grass, protecting his face and his left hand, Yaroslav continued movement. The new beings should be explored first. Maybe they are Gwonks, mentioned by Ghol.

  Some people think that there is nothing better than to crawl through the grass on a lovely sunny day… Those who think so, have never crawled in this very grass. First of all, it was not just grass, but real Grass; you could even say GRASS, which he had to gently push by his hands, for reason of conspiracy and screw his body into the resulting gap. As for the sun and fine day, that was blatant lie too. The bright sun mercilessly roasting his back caused a feeling very far from admiration. When you walk or run it is much easier: whether because of blood circulation, or wind blowing, or maybe heat distributing more equable, but the fact was that in the bent position the back was heated much stronger. And, of course, the speed of movement on one's belly was incomparably lower than the speed of a runner. In such position it was extremely difficult to remain in the state of distant aloofness, required for invisibility in magical observation.

  Cursing everything and everyone deep inside his soul, Yaroslav stubbornly crept on. There was a chance to learn something new, or maybe to find new allies who can help him to replenish energy and rest, and he could not miss this chance. And like a turtle, Yaroslav crept forward.

  The living creatures gradually approached. His nose caught the smell of smoke, his ears heard peaceful cries of an unknown language. A woman was scolding her husband and he lazily snarled, the woman's shrill voice was calling children who answered with laughter and short exclamations, so familiar to Yaroslav from his own childhood. So, in general, basing only the on sounds, his imagination was creating a peaceful picture of human settlement… Human?! This thought like a lightning pierced him from head to toes. Human?! Really? His tongue licked his lips which instantly became dry and large drops of ice sweat flowed down from his forehead. Were they really people?! No, it cannot be, it's some tribe with voices like humans'. Of course, it cannot be, but he must check. And Yaroslav crawled on.

  Finally, he was about a hundred yards from the nearest living creature. Carefully looking, Yaroslav began to study him. Clearly, that was a watchman, standing under a grass canopy and carefully studying approaches to this small village. Yaroslav felt that this post was not single, there were at least four such posts around the village (or a camp). He could not see weapon, but obviously it had to be around. The watchman's head and face were wrapped in greenish cloth, only his wary eyes were glistening in the gap between the folds. His body was covered with something resembling a robe, but Yaroslav had never been an expert in clothing. The word «burnouse» arose in his memory. So, maybe it was a «burnouse». On watchman's hands there were fabric gloves.

  «The figure looks like a human, but who knows, – thought Yaroslav restraining his excitement with difficulty. – I'll have to get closer».

  Yaroslav closed his eyes and paused for a moment, calming himself down. Then, he continued movement. Now he had to move at the speed not of a turtle, but of an amoebas. With no jerks, absolutely no haste, just smooth, clearly calculated movements. So, pausing after each inch of the path, he moved forward. Fatigue and heat were forgotten, the main thing were the goal and the means to achieve it.

  It was getting dark. Yaroslav already passed the first watchman and was close to the cluster of tents, which were actually a settlement. The local beings wrapped in cloth from head to toe were scurrying around. Yaroslav heard unfamiliar speech. Once he was nearly found. One obviously female person, with a small bundle of food in her hands, marched towards the watchman, and as if on purpose she did it only a yard away from Yaroslav, who remembered all familiar swearwords at this moment, weaving a bizarre net of curses from them. But she passed by! Then half an hour later she went back, this time far enough from Yaroslav.

  One time the watchman was changed, but Yaroslav did not see an open face again. He could only clench his teeth in fury. Suddenly, from the central, the most impressive-looking tent came out a stately person dressed in more beautiful clothes with weapon on his hip very similar to a saber. It was not an ordinary member of the local community, with imperious manners, hard look, decorations on his chest and his hands tightened into the slim leather gloves. And boy, did the rest begin to fuss around! Probably, he was a chief? But why is he looking around the neighborhood so cautiously? Does he feel something?! It was not too good for Yaroslav. Then someone dressed in a shabby burnouse took out of the tent some structure which, after some manipulation, became a folding chair. The leader sat on it. Immediately some metal jug with long tubes was taken out of the tent and placed near the chair, and more poorly dressed villagers began to bustle around. Yaroslav smelled smoke and the person sitting on the chair picked up a tube extending from the jug.

  «Why, but this is a hookah! – surprised Yaroslav. – They would be Bedouins' counterpart?»

  But in the next second all his thoughts were literally swept out of his head – the man opened his face, now it was obviously a man. His face had quite human features, and the gloves being taken off exposed completely human hands. His thin imperious lips wrapped around the hookah mouthpiece, a short breath, and a ring of smoke floated into the sky. But Yaroslav had already not seen that.

  «Humans! They are humans! That cannot be, but all the same, they are humans!» – This thought made him forget everything and Yaroslav succumbed to his soul. In one smooth fluid motion, he jumped to his feet.

  What a roar there was! Screams, cheers, saber-rattling. From behind the large tent flew three bare-chested muscular men, armed with curved swords. They quickly surrounded the seating person in a protective ring. In this turmoil Yaroslav did not see that when he rose, a snake-ish smile touched the thin lips of the local leader. Then, he stood up, and suppressing all noise, said something in a commanding voice backing it with an energetic gesture. And silence fell over the tent camp.

  Such obedience surprised Yaroslav, but that was not important for him now. Holding his unarmed hands in front of him, he went ahead. The leader of these people briefly grinned and stepped toward Yaroslav, saying something in a polite, even gentle voice. Yaroslav's heart was pounding loudly in
his chest. Awareness of nakedness of his sunburnt body came to him and he felt ashamed. Blood rushed to his face. Fool, you're naked! How could you forget?! But it was too late and Yaroslav made the last step towards this friendly person. The latter laughed good-naturedly and grabbed Yaroslav's shoulders, saying some comforting words. Yaroslav nodded politely. At this point, the man pushed him to his tent and Yaroslav bravely stepped there. The people serving this good-natured man, parted with low bows. Yaroslav absolutely calmed down. And then as if a bomb exploded in his nape. Thousand needles of pain stuck into his brain. So a reliable and familiar land jumped up and with all strength hit Yaroslav into his forehead. Sparks leapt from his eyes, going to burn the grass underfoot. Gray haze flooded his consciousness…

  CHAPTER 17

  There was violent jerking pain in his nape and forehead. Something warm and unbearably viscous was flowing over his cheek and into his mouth. Salty and so familiar a taste… Blood! From where?.. His right eye was plastered with some filth, strong crust held his eyelids together. His left eye did not want to open. And there was intense buzzing in his ears. Sand or his own tooth enamel creaked on his teeth. It was disgusting. Then, sharply, as if on a command, returned the feeling of the rest of his body. Oddly enough he discovered that he could not move his arms and legs, though they were in their places. Could he had died? It did not seem so… But what happened then? At first run, then run again… and then… Voices! Strange voices! Then Yaroslav soared up. Someone's hands lifted him into the air and carried… He should find out where exactly they were carrying him! He hardly unstuck his eyes. The monstrously swollen eyebrow hindered his right eye vision, but it was no time for narcissism, all the same. So, Yaroslav concentrated, focused, and his memory obligingly opened its pages. And he groaned again, this time because of the shame.