by Vitaly Zykov
– Remember, kord. You're nobody, you're an empty place. You have no name, only a nickname. Like an animal. Yours from now on is Savage. And you will respond to it. There is a Dark collar on your neck, it prohibits you to use magic, and it will teach you obedience. Since now you cannot disobey an order. Any slightest disobedience will be punished with pain. What you're feeling now is only a small fraction of what is possible. So, be aware of it.
At this point the old shaman paused and made an imperious gesture. The pain began to subside, and Yarik breathed deeply, trying to calm his heartbeat. The shaman continued:
– Do not hope to get rid of it one day, Dark collar cannot be removed. Do you understand?
In response to these words Yarik threw his body forward, trying to grab the old man's throat, but failed. He had not even rose from the floor, when absolutely exorbitant pain chained his limbs. It was supposed to have a pain shock, but it did not happen. His mind was clear, giving every opportunity to enjoy the whole range of feelings.
– I'm glad you did not understand it all at once. This pain is very useful for you, it demonstrates the possibilities of your new decoration just wonderfully. Get used to it! – Then, having said that, the old man came out of the tent, leaving the writhing slave, who was even unable to scream.
CHAPTER 18
A new phase began in Yarik's life. So long anticipated a meeting with representatives of his own race had happened. But now he keenly wanted to get rid of these relatives on the evolutionary tree.
Yarik lived, or rather dragged out a miserable existence in a clan camp of nomadic Arkhs. It was a powerful, constantly belligerent tribe. Its leader, the first after god, was Sohog. A lucky warlord, prudent merchant and prolific father, he had the goal to unite all the Plaguelands[30] under his command, as they called the land where Yarik was now.
The warrior who had captured Yarik was Darg, Sohog's fifth son. A good soldier and respected leader, he was extremely oppressed by his position of non-heir, and sought for ways to win his father's favor. That's why Darg had set his camp near the border with the lands of Tarks, hoping to catch fish in turbid water of interracial conflict, as Yarik thought for himself. On the day when he came to these people, most of soldiers had gone into a raid against another human camp, which did not belong to Arkhs.
His advisor (or most likely, supervisor) was an old shaman, whose name was Bosk. Cruel and powerful. Sohog trusted him and Bosk did not forget to remind Darg of that.
Old Sohog ordered Darg to collect slaves for trade with people living behind the mountains. So Darg was forced to go all out. Slaves were strategic merchandise here. They were sold and the money was spent to buy weapons and some other goods, thereby strengthening the Arkhs power.
All that Yarik learnt from other slaves only a month after his capture: during the first month he had no free minute at all. He was being taught. What? A lot. How to greet free people, how to bow, where to look, what posture to take: he learnt many things. And the most important was the language. In the entire camp only the shaman knew Urgs language, and he ordered to teach the new slave Gralg[31] the language of all normal people. He said exactly so: «all normal people», and spat towards the West. Spat with anger! Then he called some dirty-faced boy about thirteen and entered with him into the tent, Yarik remained kneeling at the entrance. However, it did not last long. The boy soon came out, his face was shining with joy. He swept past Yarik, but almost immediately ran back, accompanied by two burly men. Judging by their collars they were slaves too. And the study began.
These guys dragged Yarik around the entire encampment, showed one or another particular object, the boy named it and demanded Yarik to repeat. Any slightest error was recorded with a notch on a stick. One notch meant one blow of lash over the student's back. When the number of notches reached ten, the guys lashed Yarik with great pleasure. They had no sense of class solidarity at all. During the first day Yarik's back was lavishly ornamented with ragged strips. He was mistaken not too often. His memory was absolute now, not like it used to be before, but the boy enjoyed torturing another human being. It brought diversity to his gray life and helped to get rid of teenage complexes of a weak man. However, all that did not alleviate Yarik's suffering! He certainly knew how to endure pain. He kept ability to wrap his mind in cocoon of emptiness, leaving all emotions and feelings outside, but magical cure was unavailable now. It was bad, since he did not want to waste life force to accelerate healing. Only his amazing tissue regeneration rescued him. The ragged scars turned into thin threads just in a week, despite poor sanitation, malnutrition and heat.
After the first day of learning he was inspected by the shaman. He asked a simple question in Gralg. Yarik whispered something with his chapped lips (no food had passed his lips since morning), trying to hang on the slaves holding him. Intuition told him that now it would be proper to highlight his deplorable state. And it worked. The shaman came into a monstrous rage. He realized that learning was going good, but the prisoner's appearance disappointed him. Clutching the kid in magic vice, he began to strike invisible blows. The head of the unlucky boy (though he deserved that!) was rolling from side to side. Finally the old man thought that it would be enough, and released the boy. The latter fell into dust, wiping tears and blood over his face and whining something pleading. Old Bosk answered in a gruff voice. Yarik could already understand the general sense. The idea was that in such a state the shaman could perform no experiments over Yarik, because after the experiments «this stinking kord (a gesture toward Yarik) will meet with Jurga, which should not be good neither for Bosk himself nor for Darg (spitting on the ground)».
This day nobody performed experiments on Yarik. They even fed him, gave a piece of cloth to wrap around his hips and smeared his back with some ointment. Yarik with other slaves (who were surprisingly plenty) slept in a smelly barracoon with no roof. They all wore neckstraps of suppression, but none had the same as Yarik had. As it turned out later, in this place they did not like those who stand out, even in such a reluctant way. But on the first night, nothing happened. He slept quietly, ignoring the pain in the wounds and the horror of his situation. He just lay down and fell asleep.
The following days were full of learning. In two weeks he perfectly mastered the language. There was not even a slightest accent. Old Bosk was satisfied and started to work with him seriously. Now Yarik lived in the shaman's tent. His responsibilities included provision of water and internal cleaning. But his food the old man prepared himself, trusting such a responsible task to no one. These duties were not too burdensome for seasoned Yarik, only the fact that he became a thing, someone's chattel, was terribly tormenting. Every night before bedtime Yarik again and again tried to break through the barrier enclosing his Source, but all in vain. The magic of old Bosk worked perfectly.
However, except simple household duties, lying on Yarik, there were others much more serious. One of them was to tell stories about Urgs life. About their way of life, their magic and other things asked by the meticulous shaman. It looked like this: sitting somewhere in a corner, he beckoned Yarik, sat him on a special mat with visible magic aura, and asked questions. Such interrogations lasted for several hours, until the old man got weary. The questions were often repeated. As Yarik understood, Bosk tried to catch the slave no lie, he would cling at any slightest discrepancy like a mite. But Yarik held on. Yarik followed the well-known principle: more truth for more credible lie. And he told almost everything except his origin and magic abilities. He said that he didn't remember his childhood. That his earliest memory was when he first saw a goblin (as Urgs were called here), which shook his shoulder trying to wake him up. He could not remember anything earlier. Then followed a story about goblins plight fate, and limitless power of their shamans, about nightmarish Spawns, and Yarik's life in the inhuman tribe. He spared no words, any theater would have given him the most demanding roles without hesitation. His acting was just gorgeous. He never experienced such an inspiration in his whole life.
And the shaman believed.
The most dangerous moment was about the reason why Yarik had left the tribe which had sheltered him, but with an unassuming look he issued a version about his thirst for adventures. However, trying to hide his eyes and evade direct answers. Like a diplomat answering a journalist's question: wordy, in great details, saying only the truth, but not even closely answering the very question. Bosk tensed and began to elicit all details, but Yarik continued to wriggle. The shaman said with pleasure that that was «brazenly shit». Yarik objected and earned a strong discharge of pain. This spurred him to talk about feud with the tribe shaman, who killed the goblin sheltered and nursed Yarik, for the good of the goblin's small savings.
It worked. The shaman only wondered why the kord tried to hide the truth. And Yarik with trembling voice announced of his fear before the shaman, who may not like that his slave had once conflicted with his brother in craft. This small insignificant detail convinced the shaman of the truth of the whole story. Furthermore, Yarik mentioned the fight near the ford, in case if his owners already knew something from Tarks or Trolls. But in his story the terrible demon was defeated with a tiny artifact inherited from the goblin, not Yarik's own magic. Defeated and crumbled into fine dust. The shaman nodded with an important look, as if already aware of it. There was a battle at the ford. A strong water spirit was defeated with goblin's artifact. And everything repeated again.
Finally, these conversations ceased, Yarik gained strength, his wounds were healed, and the most unpleasant thing began: the promised magical experiments. At first glance it did not look too scary: to sit in the center of a strange scheme drawn on the ground, to chew some leaf or root, to listen to the shaman's howling, and all the show is over. But there was one point. The old man knew his job. During all these rites Yarik's entire body felt as if pricked with invisible needles, or as if knives were cutting his defenseless flesh. The pain was infernal, and his activated collar brought its contribution too! And against this background, the alien sticky tentacles were rummaging in his brain.
But even so, the accidentally created defensive spell withstood. Several times Yarik was literally turned inside out, he lost consciousness and bled, but the enemy could not penetrate into his mind. A few weeks later the old man gave up, that was marked by monstrous pain, given to Yarik through the collar. The malicious shaman was not inclined to forgive his failures!
Yarik memorized that evening and night for all his life. He was lying motionless and silent on the floor, bound with the eerie power of his neck decoration, but deep inside, he yelled, howled, screamed, trying to decrease the incredible pain. Afterwards, he could not understand why the veil of madness had passed near his mind, but did not touch it, even slightly.
The next morning, when the shaman came in, his astonishment knew no bounds:
– Wow, you are still alive?! Abyss, you are a hardy creature, kord! It'll be useful for you in your life! – His words were accompanied by a quavering joyful laughter.
He was still laughing when the already familiar hefty slaves appeared from behind his back and dragged Yarik out. They drenched him with several buckets of water, thus lifting his vitality. Then they gave him a piece of stale bread and a wooden cup of water.
«Here's your breakfast with lunch! – Thought Yarik swallowing food. – If they don't kill you, you can die of starvation. Freaks!»
It was hard to chew. The severe weakness and muscle tremor turned this simple procedure into a new torture. But Yarik forced himself to chew. Lust for life, instilled in him back in the Forest, forced him to fight, even without hope for success… Even though he wanted to empty his stomach because of these leftovers.
Yarik was settled in a common barracoon with other slaves, where he had spent the night before the experiments of the old shaman. This time situation had changed. That night, fearing wrath of the shaman, other slaves even did not come up to him, but this time situation was different. Like before, Yarik went to his corner and fell on a bed of rotten straw. Hopelessness overwhelmed him. He, who had considered himself a great fighter, now became a slave. An eternal slave of some freaks! Yarik wanted to howl and dig the ground in rage and fury, but he held on.
Semi-darkness reigned in the barracoon. In general, the barracoon was a structure made of branches of thorny bushes, which were ubiquitous here: the walls with holes, ceiling of dirty canvas and trodden earth floor, covered with rotten straw mats. And almost no light. And if we take into account, that in the barracoon were sitting thirty men, it becomes clear, what stuffiness and stench of unwashed bodies reigned there. The only source of light was a hole in dense canopy, which curtained the entrance. And at one moment, a shadow obscured this feeble light. Yarik looked up. A hefty half-naked man with relief muscles and a nasty grin was standing above him, his thumbs were tucked into his loincloth, and he was staring at Yarik.
– Hey, Savage! I'm talking t' you. Or you're a prince and don't care about other people? What a cute, reddish collar's on you. Maybe you're a girl? Why are you silent? – And he kicked Yarik with his dirty foot.
Yarik was waiting silently. What could he say? The freaks are freaks everywhere, whatever he says, will act in their favor. This conversation is necessary for the big man as an incentive, in order to mock over the anemic prisoner and show his smartness. Such humans (or rather non-humans) love theatricality. In their words, they demonstrate fake generosity: as if saying I meant good for him, but he in return… And then, with sense of accomplishment, they will implement their plans over a victim. Yarik with his scarred skin looked as a dry and wiry kid, but he did not look dangerous. And what danger could it be at all, when behind the thug's back were standing his two accomplices? At this point, one of them opened his mouth:
– I say, you, Turlon, he's wench! You see the way he's looking, like a marriageable girl.
– Never mind, we'll introduce her with real men now! Right, guys? – Said Turlon mockingly.
«That's to be expected! A slaving barracoon or a prison – all the same. Those who are stronger, are trying to assert their animal superiority. Like male apes! – The thoughts flowed smoothly, without excitement and bustle. – I have no magic, but I am not that spineless Earthman anymore!»
At this time the «guys», laughing in anticipation of amusement, began to crowd together. But then something that nobody expected happened! The young slave hitherto sitting motionless and as in stupor, jumped as if bounced by a spring. His movements acquired grace of a ravenous beast, his quickly tossed hand deftly clutched Turlon's subject of man's pride. And squeezed it for a moment. The result could be judged by the animal roar of the crazed thug! From the monstrous pain the ringleader of these jackals in human form, began to wave his paws stupidly, trying to catch the offender. His henchmen which darted to aid him strongly interfered with each other. Yarik, meanwhile, was rushing from side to side, striking with his fingers crooked like roarer's[32] claws, trying to grab something and jerk. In about ten seconds the bandits were covered with blood from head to toe. They had no serious injuries (perhaps, besides the leader!), but blood was beating out from small and extremely painful wounds in springy trickles, demoralizing the thugs. The bandits accustomed to shed somebody else's blood, were overly concerned by their own. One of them got a wound in his eyebrow, and now all his face and eyes were covered with blood. The second one had a torn lip and a broken nose. The ringleader received another blow at his groin and fell to the ground. He retired from the fight, all his thoughts were now only about how to relieve the pain.
The fighting started with lightning speed, froze for a moment. The bandits rolled back, smearing the blood. Their leader was moaning hollowly on the floor, and the young slave named Savage stood on bent legs, menacingly holding his bloody hands in front of him. Of course, the fight was not over. The burly men, who used to be in command here, could not afford to shatter theirs authority. They needed mere seconds to reflect upon the situation and rush into decisive attack. But Savage did not give them these seco
nds. Attack is the best defense! This principle had been ingrained firmly in his blood in the Forest. However, flight is even better than fight, but if it is impossible, you must be the first to strike. So he went on at once. A sudden jump from the ground to the height of a man. Because of the low ceiling, his head almost broke the canvas canopy, but the goal was reached: Savage could attack from an unexpected angle. He literally fell on the heads of his opponents. His knees fell on shoulders of the slave with a broken brow. A turn with whole the body, and only its bullish strength saved the neck from fracture.
For the second bandit it happened unexpectedly quickly, a moment ago this mad man was standing in front of them, then a blurred motion, and his friend was already on the ground. But he used to be a warrior and a good one, before he was captured and enslaved. A strong, rapid bend forward and his powerful fist imprinted into the face of this so agile slave. It was his best, the ring blow. But this guy was able to react! He swayed aside, so the strike that had to smash him, just stunned him and pushed to the wall.
– Take that! – The big guy striving to revenge for seconds of fear, lunged with anger towards Yarik lying like an immovable pile, willing to trample him underfoot, to beat him to death.
But his spurt did not reach the goal. Terrible pain twisted all his limbs, forcing him to curl up on the floor in the manner of his leader, who had not come to himself yet.
He was not the only one who was twisting on the floor. All the slaves, frozen along the walls during the fight slipped down to the ground with wild moans and tears. Pain, pain and more pain reigned in the barracoon. Even unconscious Yarik came to himself. The third force in the face of guards interfered into the battle. A man came inside and said a couple of orders to the collars. Pain was the best peacemaker. Stepping softly, this man came close to Yarik:
