Enslaved Chapter One Scene Six

The Slaver’s Market was a wide, dingy square dominated by a large palisade and several smaller pens. It was late in the day as the chain-lines were shepherded into the central enclosure and Arvad watched the slavers split into three groups. The first included The Stout One, and others Arvad presumed to be lower in rank due to their treatment by and deferral to the other slaver. They accompanied the slaves into the large enclosure, keeping their lines well-ordered as the other two groups went about their business. The second group stayed with the wagons as they were driven into one of the smaller warehouses that lined the market, ensuring their goods were stored and tended to appropriately by the wide-eyed porters and stable-hands that had emerged in response to the arrival of the caravan.

Although the sun hung low on the horizon, Arvad noted that trade must still be at its peak. Through the loosely tied logs of the palisade, he watched Millekko and the third, smallest, group of slavers approach a long table manned by northerners in crimson robes. A huge ebon-skinned trader whose hair was kept aloft by dozens of bright beads raised his voice in complaint as Millekko and the others swept by his place in line, but the Ulusami paid him no mind. The closest of the three functionaries waved him through. The Ulusami were expected.

Elsewhere in the square, traders moved between wooden enclosures, evaluating the merchandise on display. They reminded Arvad of the many-coloured flocks of songbirds that passed through the water-springs in early summer, returning from their nesting grounds in the marshes north of the Shavar River. Like the birds, these merchants clearly outshone the drab assortment of slaves that Dyre had to offer. Traders wore the styles of lands near and far, the glass half-masks of Marcillia, the pale make-up and obsidian jewellery of the northern Duchy of Lemuire, the sweeping silks of Sharlced; all were represented and the assembly easily surpassed even the gaudy costumes in which the Ulusami had clothed their stock. Arvad noted that some were less ostentatious; traders and guildsmen looking for cheap labour or a quick fix to a skills-shortage wasted none of their resources on such fripperies.

Nevertheless, the Ulusami quickly came to dominate activity within the market, and at Millekko’s command, several of the smaller enclosures were cleared of their less profitable cargo. These sorry souls had the pale skin of the other northerners, but Arvad saw that their clothes were of a rough-cut hide and their bare arms were coloured with patterns of faded inks, unlike the few townspeople the caravan had passed on their short journey through Dyre. It was almost humorous to watch Millekko play the puppet master, making an order and waiting for a functionary to relay it to the porters, who would only then act upon it. Though the Ulusami were ostensibly foreigners engaged in a despised trade, their stock doubled the pool of merchandise currently on offer, and demanded a certain deference.

As the first chain-line, comprised mostly of Shavar girls, was led from the palisade to one of these smaller enclosures, Arvad found his gaze drawn through the open gate to a figure leaning against the storehouse wall that the table of functionaries was backed up against. He wore a tabard matching the colours of the functionaries over a hauberk of steel, marking him as an officer of the archducal bursar. The hilt of a sword could be seen over his right hip, the side farthest from Arvad, and the boy was sure its blade would look equally formidable. His helm was nothing like the leather skull-caps of the Davani warriors; it was both ornate and functional, and its visor opened from the right like a tiny door. It was too far for Arvad to make out much of the man’s face other than that he was clean-shaven. The knight looked pensive.

Arvad spent nearly a full minute glancing from face to face before he realised that Sarah was no longer within the palisade. He turned to Danil to ask if he could see her, but before he could utter the words, The Stout One yanked on the end of their chain, pulling the line into motion .

“You been good slaves, I won’t lie. Almost done,” he nodded congenially as he congratulated them.

He saw her as their chain line made its way to the wooden cell closest to the functionaries’ table. A trio of men in green smocks were leering through the bars of the wooden cell she shared with a half dozen girls her age. As Arvad’s line passed he saw that the traders were muttering amongst themselves and questioning one of the Ulusami, who waxed lyrical about the standards of the merchandise. Arvad recognised the thin sycophant who had failed to teach them their place.

Danil noticed his friend’s concern and gave him a pained look. “Sempunja brothel-owners,” he grimaced before turning to his front. The Stout One stood at the entrance to the enclosure, letting the slaves disentangle themselves from the long looping chain as they passed, though they retained the manacles even in their new berth.

“What about that one?” A voice asked as The Stout One struggled with Danil’s chains for a moment. “She has that look about her…how you say? Fierce. Like jungle cat.”

“Oh she is of a fierce people, the Davani hill-clan,” another droned obsequiously, to Arvad’s recognition. “They were the last of the southern barbarians subdued by my people.”

Danil’s manacles came free of the chain, and he turned back to Arvad the moment he was inside the enclosure, “You’ve got that look,” he said, though Arvad could barely hear him amidst the roaring sound in his own ears.

He glanced down at his hands, firmly clenched and manacled. The Stout One pulled the chain through the thin metal loop between Arvad’s wrists and suddenly, he was free. Enslaved, manacled, two thousand miles from home and caught between a slaver and a cage, but also free. His hands unclenched.

“We’ll take her,” came the reply, in a think Sempunja accent.

“No!” Arvad shouted, shocked at the strength of his own voice, a voice that had been reduced to a whisper for weeks. He turned and barely ducked the sweeping arm of The Stout One, though the latter had had but a moment to guess at his rebellion.

One of the Sempunjans had heard his cry and turned, but his face looked more amused than alarmed. Arvad sprinted across the thirty feet separating the enclosures before a more general alarm could be raised. The thin Ulusami slaver had his back to Arvad and was busy opening the door of the cage to extract Sarah when Arvad leapt. The Ulusami trader had no chance to react before the Davani slave landed on his back and pulled his chains tight against the slaver’s throat.

The Ulusami roared. Not the roar of an angered man, or even an agonised one. Not the roar of a man at all, but a guttural shriek that caused the brothel owners to shrink from him in shock, even as others rushed to see what the commotion was about. The Ulusami swatted at Arvad but couldn’t reach the boy who clung firmly to his back. The flowing robes of the plainsman proved an encumbrance as he spun one way and then another, so frenzied in his efforts to dislodge Arvad that he kept potential help at bay. Arvad saw that other slavers were encircling the struggling southerners and guards were jostling to move closer. He saw the knight detach himself from the wall and begin to amble in their general direction, unhurried.

“Enough,” shrieked the Ulusami, in a voice pitched so high that horses in the nearby warehouses began to kick and whinny in their stalls. His fingers finally found purchase, not on Arvad’s clothes, but on the manacles clutched around the slaver’s throat. In a single movement the Ulusami ripped the chains from his throat, pulling Arvad over his shoulders, through the air, and down to the ground with bone-breaking force.

Traders began muttering among themselves as Arvad tried to rise and failed. Seemingly infuriated by his temerity, the Ulusami kicked him forcefully in the face, splitting his lip and rolling him onto his back.

“How dare you,” he roared, though his voice had returned to a human register. “You filthy slave, how dare you!”

Arvad’s head was swimming, but he could still make out the slaver’s face, “I am not…” he managed, before the slaver cut him off.

“You are nothing,” spat the Ulusami, raising his right foot for another blow, “You are dead.”