Chapter 3
The march was unlike anything Bártak had ever experienced in his life. It would take three long days to reach the gates of the great city of Dragonhead, and the Minos where marched non-stop from sunrise to sunset. By the second day, Bártak had lost all sense of hope, all belief that maybe, just maybe, they could find an escape.
But then hard reality hit him. The Tokrakc was dead; there were only eight of them left. For all he knew, they were the last surviving remnants of his race. Despair hit him on the second day, grinding away at him until he suddenly and violently reacted.
It came in the afternoon. They were marching through a densely packed woodland, single file, the Minos chained together by their necks. Feeling the anger building up inside him, Bártak let out a terrible raw, dragging himself towards the edge of the inviting woodlands. He felt the resistance from the other Minos, their weight pulling him backwards, yet he pushed on, trying to reach the edge of the trees.
‘Stop that! NOW!’ Bellowed the soldier nearest to him, raising the leather whip that he had been carrying, drapped across his shoulder. ‘NOW!’
But Bártak refused the despair and the anger blinding him from all sense. He was brought down to earth by the crack of the whip, which bit into him like a million little fire ants. He howled in pain, drawing himself around to face the soldier, the hatred for him unleashed as he launched himself at the soldiers face, slashing out with his fingers, trying to prise away the flesh.
The soldier let out a shout as Bártak nearly reached him, but was pulled back by a tug on the rope.
‘Bártak! Stop it now!’ shouted Tolko, his eyes wide with fear for his friend.
Bártak saw the fear and anger in Tolko’s eyes, but his own despair still pulsed threw him like a current, beating away inside him. He breathed in deeply, the air sucking up his nostrils, clearing his mind slightly as he tried to control his thoughts.
But it was over too quickly. He was bundled to the floor by three guards, their swords drawn and only inches from his neck. Yet Bártak didn’t resist, he knew now that any more anger wouldn’t do him any better, and it would probably make his suffering at the hands of his captor’s worse still.
‘Pathetic scumbag!’ shrieked Lutatus as he rode up from the front of the precession. ‘I should kill you where you stand, pathetic filt!’
Getting of his horse, the pompous young captain approached Bártak’s downturned face, his own twisted in a sneer of contempt. Reaching forwards, he took hold of the thin straggle of black hair on his prisoners head, pulling it tightly as he watched Bártak cringe in agony. Kneeling down to become level with his target, he spat into Bártak’s face.
‘I despise your scummy kind with more hatred than you can imagine.’ He snarled, tightening his grip on Bártak’s hair. ‘If I was king, I’d kill every last one of your kind, and all the other despicable half human races that inhabit this earth.’
He paused for a moment, thinking back over what he had just said, with what Bártak perceived as a slight grin on his face.
If I was king.
The way he had said it made Bártak shiver inside, a cold recognition crackled inside him. He had thought it strange that the commander had suddenly had a change of heart back on the track, and this latest development seemed to confirm what Bártak had been suspecting. Lutatus wasn’t just the ordinary, if a little pompous captain he made out to be. He was something more, something more dangerous. But he dismissed it from his mind, it was probably nothing more than his hatred for the man, manifesting itself in his mind it ridiculous ideas.
‘Get up scumbag, I’m going to make a lesson out of you!’ shouted Lutatus, his eyes widening to an unimaginable size, as froth spat out from his thin mouth.
Bártak got to his feet, bracing himself for what was to come. He knew he would face incredible pain, yet something inside him told him he would survive it. He risked a glance at Tolko, who was being stewarded back into line by one of the guards, his face downcast. His eyes flickered up to meet Bártak’s for a moment, and in that second, Bártak understood why Tolko had been so quite, so unlike his usual lively self. The Tokrakc – his father was dead. He was in a state of desolate shock, and only Bártak’s predicament had seemed to draw him out of it, at least for a few moments.
The whip hit his back like a furnace, the fiery spurts cascading down his back in a torrent of unbearable pain. Bártak howled out, every nerve rippling along his spine. And Lutatus was laughing, his cruel laugh echoing, continuous and evil. Bártak gripped himself, trying to keep the overwhelming sense of unconsciousness pricking at the corners of his eyes. Thwack! Thwack! And again ten more times, until Lutatus stopped, his eyes turning to burn into Bártak’s weary pupils.
‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ The captain said, turning the whip over in his hands. ‘Now get yourself back in line.’
The next few days would be agony for Bártak. Every step he took sent bolts of pain up his back. They spent that night camped by a stream, where the soldiers caught fished and leered at the prisoners, waving them around their heads, inches out of reach. Bártak’s nerves where severing, his mind crumbling, yet he still fought on. He knew that he had to stay strong, had to keep going, if not for himself, than for his friend Tolko.
There were eight of them wrapped around the campfire, the last of their dying race. Bártak only knew Tolko, as they had come from far and wide at the promise of escaping the persecution that would greet them all over the human kingdoms. There were three other males, all of them young and well built, although most were a few years older that both Bártak and Tolko. They hadn’t said much on the journey, only a few whispers here and there. They seemed flattered, the life drained out of them, their spirits lost. The three females where all quite a bit older, in their middle years as the Minos called it. They too had spent much of the journey silent, although at night, Bártak often heard whimpers and tears.
The following day, they made quick progress along the riverbank, coming to a stone bridge at just past midday. A road ran across it, twelve feet across, so wide enough for a cart to travel both ways along it. It was, like the rest of the vast network of roads that spanned the human kingdoms, a great achievement. A great mathematician had once calculated that there was over 1,000 miles of road in just the kingdom of Mithlon, the outer suburbs of the human capital Dragonhead, the greatest city in the known world.
They crossed the bridge, entering the outer areas of the city Dragonhead. Most of the land was farmland, great acres set aside to grow all the food and produce the city demanded. Great orchards of apples and pears, stood alongside fields of wheat, or barley, and corn. Each farm was a certain size, 20 by 20 acres, with a cluster of farm building in one corner. At first glance, it would appear that there were humans working in the fields, for there were people dotted as far as the eye could see. In actual fact, the farms relied on slave labour. The Ram people of the far north, who had once been a proud civilization, their great cities by far the most beautiful in the world. Their delicate horns removed to sell as jewellery and to be fashioned into expensive objects for the rich. The centaurs, half man-half horse, once a pound nation living on the plains to the east. Now suffering the indignity of being ridden by human masters, ploughing the fields. Also there were the great lion people of the southern deserts, beautiful and proud, they had been forced into slavery.
As Bártak watched on as he marched, he realised that he was part of it all. He was a slave, caught up in the great wheel of destruction Human kind had brought upon the worlds peoples. A great big churning machine, eating away and growing fatter.
The followed the road up to the city gates. They were built out of grey stone and stood over fifty feet tall, the great watchtowers on either side able to see for miles over the surrounding land. Bártak looked on in awe and disgust, his eyes struggling to take in the power and wealth of the human capital. He knew know, that he faced a power so great it could didn’t defeat its opponents, it swallowed them whole.
The Minos were stopped about ten feet from the great wooden gates, which stood shut ominously. The commander and his captains made their way to the front of the procession, their eyes focused entirely on the doors. Bártak glanced around, the shackles digging into his neck. There were people, only a few at first, by in only a few minutes hundreds of them, lining the street up to the gates, and more seemed to pour from every direction, until it seemed that there were thousands of civilians gathered to watch, their faces turned up in horrible distaste at the captured Minos.
A trumpet rang out, silencing the hubbub of noise radiating from the crowd. It was the sound of the king’s announcement. King Tyros had come to see his new entertainers...
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