Original Submissions by Djarjak of type 'Stories'
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Slavers (pt. 1)
Added on Sep 7, 2006A Northerner relegated to a Borsail slave camp learns where a slave stands and decides subtlety is a better escape than force.
The persistent tugging on his wrists draws Niorejin into consciousness. His mouth feels cottony and a bitter taste prevails. Opening his eyes yields a sharp, head-splitting pain in spite of the relatively dim light in the room. He groans, trying to turn, and he finds himself shackled to a wall. Instinctively, he pulls against them, but they do not yield, and he only succeeds in making the pin-pricks and tingles of his bluing fingertips worse.
“No use in tha’,” a tired-sounding voice to his left says. “Slava’ shackles be da’ bes’ in Zalanthas. Make no mistake, son; you here fer da long ride.”
Turning, Niorejin looks into the bloodshot violet eyes of a grey skinned female mul. Her hairless pate shines with sweat in the light, and he can smell spice on her lips. “Feck,” he says. “Feck!”
Looking around the room reveals two other captives, swaying with the wagon’s motion. His gaze first finds an attractive woman with matted blond hair whose scandalously short garments disallow her from concealing the shame of her state. Niorejin notices a spot on her right inner thigh where the pink flesh is shiny and puckered in the shape of two Wyverns in the midst of a compromising act.
“Yeh. He’s gonna be out fer a while,” the mul says. “Ya got no help here, Tuluki.”
That’s fine, he thinks. I know where I do have friends. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply and tries to achieve the quasi-meditative state required to use The Way. Juiya. Juiya. Where are you, Juiya? Each time, he gets close, but he feels her mind slip away from him. “Krath-damn it!” In his frustration, he cuts his wrist on the bone shackles and some blood runs down his arm.
Footsteps echo outside the door and a figure wearing a hood and a veil branded with the silhouette of a yellow inix opens the door. “Quiet in here, eh? Or we’ll withhold yer water. Hard death dyin’ o water-want, I hear.” The figure drags a bucket from just out of sight and it sloshes, steaming from the floor-boards and evaporating in the heat. The smell of water provokes a visceral response in Niorejin, and he moans in spite of himself. “Good slave. Now be quiet ‘til we get ta camp.”
The light from the windows high above the shackled slaves begins to darken, and the wagon finally stops moving. The near hypnotic rocking has lulled most of the captives into a restless slumber. But, when it stops, the sound of many booted feet jars most of them awake, the well-muscled young man excepted.
The door opens, and six figures dressed in the same, drab hood and veil combinations enter. Each is branded with a different color and a different animal. Niorejin identifies a red kank, a black wyvern, a green erdlu, and a white greth before Red Kank approaches him with a ladle to offer him water. Greedily, he drinks the water, but the taste is bitter and sharp. Poisoned, he thinks, and loses consciousness.
* * *
When he awakes, he and the other slaves lay on rough woven-fiber mats on the floor of a large sandcloth tent. Outside, he hears the voices of many people shouting back and forth, coordinating the movement of slaves.
“… runnah. Make sure he doesna see da sands t’day, eh?”
“Hai-Yet!”
“… worth something if he thinks he has a way with the ladies, put him in with the courtesans.”
“Think we got a fighter? Put him in wi’ da gladiators an….”
“Ni-Yet!”
“Hey, Green Inix, good to see yeh back in da ranks. Lord Borsail chew yeh a new one…”
“…new slaves, an’ bring me dat whore. I want ta try dat one out afore we put her back on da block”
“Hai-Yet!”
The tent flap opens and two figures in veils and hoods duck through, each of them wearing manacles on their belts. One of them is the green inix. The other is a brown kank. Brown Kank’s head swivels around the room, taking in the still-unconscious forms of the mul, the brawny lad, and two newcomers that Niorejin has not yet had time to assess. Pointing, Brown Kank walks to the slave-branded girl; he and Green Inix lift her by both arms, and she hangs limply between them as they exit. Someone on the other side ties the tent flap tightly back in place.
I wonder what they plan to do with me, Niorejin thinks, and he tries the Way once more without results. His head is foggy, maybe a residual effect of the drugs. He sighs and rubs his wrists. A bandage has been wrapped around one of them, dried blood crusted in the interstices. One of the newcomers stirs, groaning and pushing himself onto his elbows. A days old beard grows from his face, scraggly, and he stinks of herbs. A shining pink brand of a wyvern covers one cheek.
As Niorejin watches, the old man stumbles to his feet and starts checking the other unconscious slaves’ clothing and hair. The level of the search strikes him as incredibly personal, but as he watches, he notices the old man stash away a pair of lockpicks, a sandcloth bandage, two leather thongs, an inix-tooth, and three ‘sid. Resourceful. I should have thought of that.
The old man approaches him and Niorejin glares. As though thinking better of it, the old man sits nearby. “I’m Dakk,” the old man says.
Niorejin ignores him and examines the edges of the tent, looking for a loose seam or a way underneath the wall. “Dese tents is mighty tight, I seen. I should know. Been in ‘em enough.” He looks back at the old man who shrugs. “Eh. Do whatever yeh want. But if yeh want escape, yeh’ll hafta talk with Gorm. An dat means yeh have to cooperate wi’ dem an’ be classified first.”
“Who’s Gorm,” Niorejin asks?
“Ah! A Tuluki!” the old man grins, his teeth rotten but not yet missing. “He’s one a de’ water-bearers dat goes between da tents. But he dinna come here. Dey dinna gi’ watah ta here. Dey starve yeh out, see. Figger a man’s more willin’ ta cooperate if’n he’s thirsty, righ’?”
The mul stirs and wakes next, rolling over and sitting up in a quick, smooth motion that belies her combat training. Shortly after, the other stranger wakes. Then the brawny young man groans, clutching his head.
“And how is it you know all this?”
“Eh. I been here. Keep escapin’. Almost got free. Got all’n da way t’oasis. Dem kank-herders turned me in, though. Figgered ‘twas better’n havin’ slavers pissed at em I reckon. Pah. Dey threatened ta hobble me if I run again. Four times now, an’ dey got me every time.”
The other newcomer crawls over to the brawny young man and tears some strips off his tunic. “Cover yer head. Yer water-wantin’,” Drakk tells the brawny one as the newcomer offers him the strips of cloth.
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Niorejin tells them with a smirk. “I figured Southern Barbarians would kill each other as soon as help them.”
The newcomer looks at Niorejin and makes a rude gesture. “He’s mute,” Drakk says. “Rumor has it he’s one o’ da best bards in all da South. Name’s Halmoc. Templar cut his tongue out when he wrote a song he din’t like too much. Guess he’s still pretty good wi’ his instrument’s. Lark, an’ it wo a great song, too. ‘An’ he always answered yes… An they put him with a escru… An’ he always answered yes!’” With a cackle, the old man slaps his knee, but the expression on mute Halmoc’s face is pure rage and frustration.
They’re southern barbarians, alright. But they probably hate the south as much as I do, Niorejin realizes. He shakes his head, and the brawny young man speaks, “Sorry. I tried ta help you all. I saw dey had slaves in da wagon, I tried ta break you out, but dere were too many of ‘em.”
“Break us out,” the mul asks? “What for? What’n da seven sands’re we s’posed ta do in da middle o’ da feckin’ desert if’n ya’d breaked us out?”
“I dunno,” the young man stammers. “I just thought…”
“Neh. Ya dinna. If ya’d thought, yeh wouldna been here,” the mul says. “If’n yeh know what’s best fer all o’ us, ye’ll cooperate until they sort us an’ put us where we wanna go. Don’ be causin’ trouble.” Smacking her fist into her open palm for emphasis, the mul pins him with a stern glare.
No friends there, Niorejin thinks. “Eh. Well, I for one thank you for trying. How did you come to travel with these barbarians, anyway? Your accent doesn’t sound like the city.”
“Oh no, I’m from da village, Yaroch. Dere was gladiator try-outs. I’m da best fighter in da village. Tried out ta see if I could earn da sid an’ fame ta help my sister an’ my pa. Dere gladiator fair kicked my arse, but dey said I was da best one dey’d seen in a tenday, so dey brought me on ta travel to da city.”
The mul snorts. “Dere ain’t free gladiators, boy. All gladiators be slaves. Yeh was rooked.”
Indignantly, the young man says, “Neh I wasna! I seen a templar hisself gi’ a metal sword ta famed human gladiator Jumberlorvor. Twas da festival o’ blood an’ roses what did. An’ he went free. Was walkin’ da streets not two hours after da matches.”
“Wass yer name, boy?” The mul asks.
“Malloch. Malloch Vriendath.”
“Listen up, Mal. Yeh listen good. Dere’s a lotta kind a slaves. Yeh hear? Dere’s slaves dat get stuck in a pen. Dere’s slaves dat ends up in a tent like dis one. Dere’s slaves dat sleep on silken mats an’ wear a collar around dere necks all da same. Dere’s even slaves dat walk da streets wi’out a leash. At da end o’ day, though, dey all is back in a cage. Even if it’s got silk sheets an’ a pretty lass in it, it’s still a cage cause dey’re watchin’. Yeh hear me?.”
The furvor of the mul’s speech triggers the boy’s good grace to blush. “Man… I don’t wanna be a slave….”
Drakk shakes his head in amusement. “Yeh. Well, have fun runnin’. Yer welcome ta try runnin’ wi’ me next I go. But if’n dere serious ‘bout hobblin’ me…” He looks pensive for a moment before continuing. “Yeh ever seen someone hobbled? Dey hold yeh down, an tie yer feet to stakes… den dey saw off yer feet jus’ above t’ankle.” The old man saws his finger over his ankle for emphasis. “I seen seasoned warriors wi’ brutal scars all over ‘em pass out from t’pain.” He shakes his head. “I might stay. I mean, some of ‘em ain’t got life so bad. Silk pillows an’ a pretty wench? Sounds mighty fine ta me. I dinna. I tried runnin’ four times now. Only a matter o’ time afore dey get serious about it an’ put me somewhere unpleasant.”
“The lows.”
“What?” Niorejin turns to the mul.
“The lows. It’s da place in da arena pits where dey put da gladiators an slaves who won’ cooperate. No food. No water. Gotta fight for it. An’ it’s where dey keep da beasts, too. Sometimes da gaj gets out…. “ the mul shudders and a startled silence spreads around the tent.
The tent flap opens, and the pleasure slave is pushed through the flap. As she stumbles, she shrieks back at her captors, “I will show you!” Tears run down her face and the clipped tones of her voice shrill a parody of nobility. As the men tie the flap fast, she walks to a far corner and sits, her knees clutched to her chest.
“Dey hurt you?” The anger in the mul’s voice is clear.
“No more so than any master.” She shakes her head. “They know how not to ruin expensive goods.”
“If’n yer so expensive, den what’re you doin here,” Dakk asks?
She looks at Dakk, her expression all hauteur. “It’s not any of your business. And nevermind. I’ll be back where I belong soon enough.”
“No, really. Tell us,” Niorejin says. The old man may be an ally. The mute, and the boy surely. Not the mul. What about her?
She sighs and stares up at the ceiling. “Some idiot slave boy convinced me to run away with him.” She looks back to Niorejin and continues, “He thought life in the desert as a free person would be better or something. Convinced me that he knew a man who knew a man and we would be free. Two weeks wandering in the desert, and I nearly died of thirst. The slavers rescued me.”
“Rescued yeh? Dere slavers!” Malloch’s disbelief works its way through his posture and he nearly rises to his feet.
“Yes. They rescued me.” Her eyes focus on Malloch, giving her words emphasis. “As a slave, I had three even meals per day. No, more than even. They were gourmet meals compared to the swill we were living on during our flight. And really, my master was a fool. Easy to appease in exchange for the comfort.” At Malloch’s look of disbelief, she wipes the tears from her face and barks,”What, you think your living, struggling and toiling in the dirt and sand is better? For what?”
No allies there, Niorejin thinks.
The tent flap opens again, and a masked figure bearing the mark of a brown erdlu points to the mul. “Qu’or. You’re summoned.”
The mul climbs to her feet and walks towards the entrance. Four men stand just outside, clubs drawn. “Hold out your hands, Brown Erdlu says.” His voice is young. When the mul complies, someone produces a thong of thick, wet leather and ties it around her wrists.
Once the mul has been led out, Brown Erdlu points to Malloch. “Now you.” Once his fists are lashed and he is led off, Brown Erdlu points to Niorejin. “And you.”
Briefly, Niorejin debates cuffing Brown Erdlu. There are only two men left at the tent now. He sizes them up, thinking, if Brown Erdlu is young, he may be able to take both. But, looking around, he sees more slavers and remembers what Drakk has said. “If yeh want escape, yeh hafta talk ta Goram…” So, he allows his hands to be bound, and he is led to a corral where two other slaves stand. He recognizes one as Malloch.
A slaver designated as Yellow Scrab addresses the slaves. “Muls go to da arena. Da rest of yeh may serve a higher purpose. Do either of yeh have any special talents?”
“Feck you, slaver.” Malloch spits on the ground.
“Waste yer water on me, then, slave. The desert’ll deal with yeh soon enough. But if’n yeh expect ta get soma dat water back, ye’ll cooperate wi us.”
Niorejin can see some of Malloch’s color drain from his face. “Neh,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse and resigned. “I got no talents other’n fightin’. Jess’ farmin’.”
Yellow Scrab nods to Brown Erdlu, and Brown Erdlu cuts Malloch’s bonds. Yellow Scrab looks over at the other two slaves and gestures to the woman, who walks to the middle of the corral and takes two wooden clubs from the rack. Niorejin notices a bandage on her left shoulder. “Take your weapons. Let’s see what you can do.”
Malloch looks at the woman. Her figure, slight from water-wanton, shows little musculature or presence. Malloch snorts and stomps over to the rack with aplomb, taking a bone sparring sword and a hide-reinforced chitin shield. For a moment, Malloch circles the woman, and she stands still, her eyes on him until he walks behind her. Then he lunges.
Almost faster than Niorejin can see, she lunges to the side, leaving her left leg planted, and sweeping her left club through the sand and up, behind her. The sand flies in Malloch’s eyes, and he trips over her leg, sprawling gut-first onto her second club which she has held behind her and used like a spear. “Again,” Yellow Scrab says.
This time, Malloch approaches with more caution, stepping forward with his shield, swinging his sword with his arm fully extended. She snaps one club quickly at his left knee, and the other at his right wrist. He crumples and drops his sword. “Very good, Minha. You may take water.”
The woman nods and walks to a cistern by the gate post, taking a long drink from a ladle. “Now you,” Yellow Scrab says, turning to Niorejin.
He walks forward and looks in the rack. There are clubs, like the woman has used, a spear, a primitive looking wooden axe, a wooden dagger and sword, and a shield. Niorejin tests the weight of the spear and puts it back in the rack, turning to face the slaver instead.
“No weapons?” Surprise sounds clearly in Yellow Scrab’s baritone. “Very well. Thannor.”
The second slave walks forward, a ropy man with skin the color of obsidian. He takes an axe and a dagger from the rack. When he turns, Niorejin has already grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the dagger and pinned it behind Thannor, the point in his back. With his other, he lands a solid chop to the side of the slave’s head. The slave groans and collapses, unconscious on the sand.
“Very nice. Should yeh cooperate, yeh may e’en make a ‘lete guard. Tell me. Have yeh any other talents?”
“I have a very good memory.”
“An’ how good a memory is dat?”
Niorejin shrugs. “Try me.”
Yellow Scrab nods, and after a moment, says, “Terrible sunback an’ itch ‘tween kumiss. Twelve aprons askither an’ darken bloodsand. Ghastly verdant an’ morass thither. Kank storm dinna six men hate.”
Before Niorejin can speak, Yellow Scrab holds his hand up, flashing two fingers, then a thumb, then four fingers, then two. The woman slave he has forgotten about attacks him from behind.
Her first blow catches him unaware, sending a spike of pain through his side as she strikes above his kidney with the flat of her club. The second swipe he dodges, pinning her arm across her body with his chest. He uses his right foot to pivot, knocking them both off balance, and lands solidly on top of her, his legs locked over hers, and his free hand on her free wrist.
“Terrible sunback and itch between kumiss. Twelve aprons askither and darkened bloodsand. Ghastly verdant and morass thither. Kank storm did not six men hate. Two. One. Four. Two.” Niorejin rolls off of his opponent and stands, dusting himself off.
Yelow Scrab looks to Brown Erdlu and says, “Amber tent. Box six.” The woman gasps and protests, “But!”
“You have not been addressed, slave.” Yellow Scrab turns to her, and her face flushes. “When you are as good as he is, you can join him in Amber tent.” Then he turns to Malloch. “You will be designated Blue tent. Both of you will receive water and training there.”
The
persistent tugging on his wrists draws Niorejin into consciousness. His mouth
feels cottony and a bitter taste prevails. Opening his eyes yields a sharp,
head-splitting pain in spite of the relatively dim light in the room. He
groans, trying to turn, and he finds himself...
Continue Reading...The Gladiator - Chapter 1
Added on Jun 7, 2006Djarjak, mul gladiator slave is introduced
The rumbling noise of a thousand people is only a distant murmur here. Clay and stone surrounds Djarjak, the dried grasses strewn here and there are a privilege he has only recently been given. Yet, he is far from the breeding pens and the work stalls where he began. Now he has a room. His Room. Ownership: not something often given to the owned. And, above, the crowds shout his name.
Taking the set of flimsy sticks he has been allowed to practice with in his hands, he begins to dance. Slowly at first, the muscles on his back begin to limber with the activity. Flexibility as important as strength, clarity of mind even moreso, he lets his thoughts drift and loosen with his limbs.
A soft knock comes at the door. Djarjak does not know how long it has been since he began the dancing. Sweat drips slowly from his hairless brow, the torchlight trailing down from the bone-meshed bars above. He looks to the door and lowers his weapons from a posture of practice into that of defense. "Who goes?"
"It's me, Hest" squeaks a voice from the other side of the stone and wood slab. "We need help."
Djarjak grimaces, his face darkened by the artificial twilight."Who is it?"
"Tjan."
"Tjan? Tjan is dead." Small fingers peek around the edge of the door, and the mousy thief's face peers in from the gloom.
The thief shakes his head, "No. Escaped. They caught him. He's hurt pretty badly. Vark needs your help with him."
"Where?"
"The lows. Dunbrek's."
Djarjak nods his head, slinging the sticks over his shoulders in the criss-cross leather sling, and walks into the corridor.
Hest shambles along in front of Djarjak, the thief's leg permanently lamed by a fight with a dujat. Now he hides in the corners of the pits to avoid being thrown into the arena again. Cowardly. But he hides well. It draws an odd sort of respect from the other criminals and the slaves. Even the gladiators have a grudging appreciation of it, but it is not a point of respect. It is they who must risk their hides in the arena instead.
As they walk, the ceiling slopes downward. Shouts from eager gamblers and bloodthirsty laborers wax and wane in a lusty crescendo growing ever more distant beneath the increasing layers of stone. The torchlight flickers blandly off the roughly hewn sandstone and grows dimmer as the air grows warmer and becomes stifling with moisture.
The lows are where the animals are kept. The smell of gortok and gwoshi and blood mingles with dung and sweat. Grunting and hissing noises here and there reveal sign of some darker denizens.
The unruly gladiators are kept here.
Djarjak shudders in spite of himself. 'He who does not obey is deprived the glory of the Highlord.'
There are always rumors.
The overseers seldom watch the lows. Food and water is not provided here. Those who wish to survive must travel for it, or bargain. It is the arena within the arena, where a man will barter his soul to a devil only to have it eaten for his trouble.
It is the only place for slaves to go to avoid the attention of the servants to the King.
A dark shadow passes overhead. Hest and the mul gladiator press themselves hurriedly against the wall as the footsteps rattle on the bone grid ceiling. The silhouette of a human slaver in a sandcloth aba walks stiffly between the hidden slaves and the torches. Djarjak doesn't dare a breath. Quickly, the man passes, yet it is only after a slow count of thirty that the two allow themselves to move from below.
As they peel themselves away from the wall, a voice sounds nearby. "Harrumm. Slack, there, then, letting the spear-chuckers see you."
Djarjak unsheathes the sticks quickly and without thinking, a low growl coming from his throat. Hest lets out a yelp of surprise and leaps behind Djarjak's bulk.
With a grating chuckle, a tall and spidery figure strolls out of the darkness ahead. "Wary, little mul..." smiling,the figure's angular head then swivels on spindly-thin shoulders tos tare at the little thief with almost insectoid intensity, "and...Hest."
"Blast it all, Dunbrek!" Djarjak slaps his sticks against the stone with a dull thwack. "How do you do that?"
"Do what, little mul? Perhaps your eyes only go dim with age, humm?" The wide-set silvery green eyes blink in a picture of innocence from the hatchet-face.
Djarjak growls again, muttering, "Dirty breed."
"Yes, little mul," he nods, "But only half of me. Half of me is half of you. All of us pointy-ears. Pointy-ears, pointy-ears, pointy-ears, harrumm... But you are late. Come."
Setting off in long strides, the almost seven foot tall half-elf assassin strides further into the heat and dark as Djarjak and Hest grudgingly follow.
Dunbrek's cell is a large one, spread with woven mats that few doubt are stolen. Lanterns light the place, and a small chest sits in one corner. Bargains with demons have kept the place intact, and few would risk what awaits them to contest it.
A short, human woman with ratty-blonde hair wearing the torn robes of an ex-pleasure slave bends over a figure lying on the floor. As they enter, she looks up to them, her face grimed and solemnly set.
Hest smiles to her and stammers a bit. "H-hello, Vark. I b-brought him, like you asked."
Her face lightens slightly and her lips curl as she nods. "Thank you. But there is little time. I will need your aid, Djarjak, if you will give it."
Djarjak, his skin dark brown in the torchlight, makes his way to the cot where a mangled figure lies twisted into an impossible shape. The woman turns to look at the figure as she says, "His bones will need to be re-set before I can deal with the rest of his wounds. I need you to help me set them. I'll show you how."
The mul nods, his expression becoming bland as his eyes glaze, and reaches out to grab a leg.
Later, as they walk, Hest says, "they say he made it to the desert, Djarjak." The thief looks up at him and wrings his hands. "Say there's others out there."
Djarjak continues to walk, not looking at the pale little man walking beside him.
"They say Tektolnes can't reach some places, that he..."
"Hisssh!" He turns on Hest with a feral look in his eye. "Don't say such things. You know that they know. They always know!" The mul looks around quickly and walks with a renewed pace.
The thief looks around himself with widened eyes and then stares at the floor with a frown. "What if they're right,Djar?"
Djarjak shrugs his huge shoulders. "Then may we all live to find that place."
Overhead, they do not hear footsteps, and Overseer Teoman Borsail of the jade cross grins in the shadows between torches.
...
Leaping from the depths of sleep and grabbing at his side, Djarjak wakes again from the dream of the bahamet to the sound of raucous laughter from above.
"Time to fight, Djarjak. Wake up!" A soldier with the clawed wooden rod standard to all slave handlers grins at him between the bone mesh. "Today you fight the dune demon. Look, they even brought sand in for you..." a grainy handful of sand filters down into his eyes and mouth, making him sputter.
"Bastards," he croaks, and leaps towards the bars above, gripping them and shaking them violently.
Above, the soldier makes a tsking noise and steps on the mul's fingers, the bone spikes in his boots making Djarjak grimace in pain. "None of that, mul. We will have you moved to the lows and out of your comfortable little home, eh? Now, get up. It is time to fight."
Falling to the floor, Djarjak clutches his bleeding and shredded fingers to his chest and presses out of the door.
A clattering behind him signifies that the claw is retracting, and soon, the footsteps overhead begin following him to the gate.
The great doors of iron-banded hardwood which compose gladiators gate swing open, leaving him to squint in the brilliantly bright light. The claw comes down thrusting him forward, and he falls to his hands and knees outside the gate.
"Behold citizens of Allanak! Blood for Tektolnes!" The crowd's cheers rise to a bloodthirsty height of madness as the overseer shouts an introduction to the fight. "Djarjak, prized fighter of Borsail will take on the feared mass of three anakore!"
Three? Three! Djarjak frowns, beginning to feel genuine fear as he checks the weapon rack: a stone dagger and a primitive obsidian spear. He briefly laments not having his fighting sticks and turns, but the doors are closed behind him.
"Let the fights begin!"
Underneath him, the sand trembles as the beast-gate opens its maw. He sees nothing emerge and contemplates a lunge for the open door, when it begins to close. Quickly, he leaps to the weapon rack and retrieves the tools he has been allowed for the fight.
The spear is thin obsidian, too light to be much good. The dagger is flaky at best. Sharpened too many times by a chipper, it was once perhaps a short-sword judging by the hilt. Grim odds, someone must be punishing him.
Without giving Djarjak further time to contemplate, twin arms with claws almost doubling their length launch out of the ground on either side of him. Sand sprays in all directions, and some of it gets in his eyes. Blinking furiously, he grabs the weapon rack and pulls hard, vaulting himself over the top and out of the way of the demon.
"Bakh!" the spear has fallen and rests just behind the domed head peeking with beady-eyes from beneath the sand. This is not going to go well.
The rumbling noise of a thousand people is only a distant murmur here. Clay and stone surrounds Djarjak, the dried grasses strewn here and there are a privilege he has only recently been given. Yet, he is far from the breeding pens and the work stalls where he began. Now he has a room. His...
Continue Reading...
