Enslaved Chapter One Scene Seven (Finale)

“No,” shouted a voice from the crowd, a voice Arvad did not recognise. He half expected the knight, but it was another, an older trader in a simple red shirt and leather coat and neatly trimmed dark hair flecked with grey. The trader came to the fore of the crowd and looked not to the thin Ulusami, but to Millekko, who had moved to a position a few yards behind him and was flanked by The Stout One.

“I will buy this one,” the trader spoke in a rush, gesturing to Arvad. “He is damaged, but I will pay full fee for a boy of his size and weight.

Millekko wouldn’t accept it, Arvad was sure; by tonight he would be swinging beneath the limbs of one of these northern trees, a not-so-silent warning to the other children. Whatever you fear in Dyre they whispered to him from a waking dream that danced at the edges of his near-unconsciousness. He took a shuddering breath and accepted it along with a thin balm. I am not Him.

The leader of the Ulusami paused on the edge of his instinctive response and Arvad saw him take a moment to gauge the scene around him; the gathered traders, the terrified Sempunjans, and the unsettled functionaries.

“Twelve silver marks,” he offered, his voice crisp.

“Done,” replied the trader, “but the bursar will lend me two porters to get the lad home,” he looked to one of the functionaries, who nodded uncertainly. The two men left the circle to fetch labour and papers of sale.

Some of the other traders had moved to disperse, but many still looked on from the safe distance to see the situation resolve itself.

The thin Ulusami shrieked in denial, stamping his foot mere inches from Arvad’s aching skull. The slaver tore at the air in front of him, his fingers outstretched like claws. He glared at Millekko and demanded, his teeth biting the end of each word sharply, “The boy and the girl.”

Millekko arched an eyebrow, at his subordinate, “Calm yourself brother, you nearly lost your composure, what are you talking about?”

“The boy Tribute and the girl from his village, I claim them. Right of caste,” his bridled rage stood out in every syllable, barely cooled, simmering. The Ulusami waved his hands at the cage they stood beside and the enclosure in which Arvad had nearly been reimprisoned.

Arvad could barely register the words, and struggled to understand them through his aching head. He was alive, he realised, and sold by the sound of it, but what was this?

Millekko seemed taken aback by the demand, but quickly found his way back to familiar ground, “they will cost you half your share.”

The thin Ulusami nodded a silent response.

“This girl is ours,” objected one of the Sempunjans, but quieted when he met the glower of the thin Ulusami.

Millekko was more tactful, “friends, I apologise, but my kin have a prerogative right, which has just been exercised,” he shrugged helplessly and gestured down at Arvad, “I am bound by tradition to surrender this slave’s compatriots to the none-too-tender mercies of my subordinate.”

The thin Ulusami grinned wolfishly.

“You are bound,” a new voice uttered in the clear tones of one who expects obedience, “by the law.”

The crowd of merchants parted but Arvad found he ached too painfully to crane his neck and see this newest interloper; he focussed his scattered thoughts on reading  Millekko’s reaction.

The Ulusami leader paused for a long moment, irritation and concern warring across his face in minute detail. “Sir, I am bound by both, but my subordinate’s claim is not unlawful.”

The faceless speaker continued as if he had paused for affect, rather than to allow Millekko’s response, “this market is not an abattoir, and your subordinate’s claim is not within the bloodless scope given to this market to operate within. Indentured labourers are surrendered to the market for sale of their title. Or do you name the Archduke a slaver?” The voice was young, but Arvad had never heard words spoken to the Ulusami with so little fear. Even the other traders had let it inflect their words as they bartered, but this voice was clear and commanding. Regal.

Millekko’s scowl came and went in an instant, and in that instant Arvad knew the Ulusami had lost. “All men know Guilliame is no slaver,” he nodded respectfully to his challenger. “The Ulusami honour the Archduke and his laws. My subordinate retracts his claim.”

“No,” shrieked the thin Ulusami, rounding on Millekko. “You dishonour me!” The plainsman’s jaw distended with the anger in his voice and those few traders that had not yet made themselves scarce did so in response to that inhuman feat.

“You fool!” hissed the leader of the Ulusami, his own voice low and threatening, but decidedly human. “We are bound by covenant. Control yourself!”

“No, I will not be mocked,” shouted the thin slaver, “You are the fool!” The he moved to strike the gold-haired leader of the Ulusami, his battle-cry the full-blown roar of a jungle cat.

Though the blow came with inhuman quickness, it never reached its target. The thin slaver gasped in shock as The Stout One interposed himself between the two Ulusami and caught the blow on his right palm, forcing it low and to his left with a speed that belied his heavy appearance. The Stout One moved methodically, as fast as the eye could follow, striking his erstwhile companion in the stomach with his left fist, and kneeing him in the face as he doubled over. As the thin slaver reeled at the blows, The Stout One pulled his truncheon from his belt and began a steady pattern of bone shattering strikes. When he was finished, the thin slaver lay on the ground a few feet from Arvad, mewling piteously.

The Stout One sniffed derisively at the upstart that had saddled him with their shared responsibilities for the long weeks of the march. He glanced over at the regal speaker, who had moved close enough for Arvad to recognise as the disinterested knight, and nodded, as if to settle matters. The knight returned his nod, clearly bemused, but not alarmed. The Stout One turned to Millekko, who frowned, before nodding slowly toward the prone slaver.

The Stout One took two long strides before standing alongside his fellow slaver. He stamped on his throat, ending the mewling cries, before returning to Millekko’s side.

“I apologise most profusely,” Millekko apologised to the knight, “I would gladly surrender the two labourers in question to the Bursar’s household, for no charge.”

The knight, who Arvad realised was quite young, no more than nineteen or twenty years of age, nodded. “The Bursar could always do with more kitchen staff,” he replied, a small grin lighting his face. He glanced toward Danil, who had left his cage and stood protectively between the Ulusami and Sarah’s cage. “Collect the girl and follow the Bursar's wagon up to the keep, no need for two of you to be heroes today.”

Danil nodded and followed the trail blazed by the knight through the crowd, leading Sarah along behind him. He looked down to Arvad and smiled sadly, “could have been worse, I'll watch out for the girl,” and then he was gone.

The functionary, trader, and porters returned shortly thereafter from the warehouse where papers of sale had been signed and a stretcher procured. The old trader looked shocked at the violence, but the porters did not, hefting Arvad onto the stretcher once they had ascertained the extent of his injuries.

The trader clicked his tongue, “Two broken ribs and a concussion, I’d wager, if such a thing were in my nature. You may call me Master Erunian, and it is fitting that I am your first master, for this is my first visit to these markets, and you are my first slave.” The porters lifted the stretcher and the four of them set off down the winding streets of Dyre.

Sir Illuvan leant lazily against the wall of the storehouse, pulling an apple from his belt pouch and watching the Ulusami order some of their child-slaves to remove the corpse of the thin slaver. Savages, he realised. They should never have been allowed into the city, regardless of the levy the Bursar imposed on their passage. Other traders had the tact to maintain the illusion of indentured labour, and salve the Archduke’s concerns for his reputation, but the Ulusami lacked the sense and skill to do so.

As he took his first bite from the apple, he relished its fresh taste, so unlike this damp and muddy market in which he found himself representing the Archducal Bursar. It would not do to let such things fall to low-born bureaucrats. Some of them were barely literate, and many were corrupt. He savoured the sweet juice as it ran over his tongue. Guilliame and Sharlced were both cut off from the world in the palace, they missed things, Illuvan thought to himself. Like the master scribe who risked confrontation and paid double the market price for a badly injured, rebellious and illiterate slave. It made one wonder at his motives.

Illuvan took another bite from his apple, watching the Ulusami go about their business and mulling over the day’s events.