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Chapter 1 |
It was the third day before Sandren's despair and fear gave way to anger at his cowardly body and enforced bondage. His anger gave him strength and his formidable mind began plotting. Soon, there was not a captive in the group who had not had his meal grabbed by Sandren or been pushed aside for a better sleeping spot or felt the sharp lash of his tongue. Sandren felt not at all badly, for Sakhari scholars deserved the best; they were the chosen, after all. It was late afternoon before the slavers finally called a halt, having reached what appeared to be a small outpost with a slave pen and hut near a river. Weakened by the long trek and harsh treatment, their captives entered the pens meekly and dropped where they stood. Three slavers watched the slaves, idly flicking their whips. The other two approached the hut and called out. Four men emerged, holding tankards and swaying. The slavers pointed at the slave pens, but the leader of the four men waved them off. Sandren strained to hear. "Strong workers" and "good breeders" were repeated but the buyers turned back to the hut. Sandren did not expect these desert scavengers to know he was Sakhari, yet he resented being grouped with the half-witted captives. Perhaps the buyers were more knowledgeable, recognize him and set him free at once. "Rich young merchant" caught the attention of the buyers and Sandren saw them emerge from the hut once again. More conversation, more angry gestures, but an agreement was reached and there was laughter and slaps on the back. The two slavers entered the hut with the four men. Those four were of the Macouni tribe, if Sandren remembered his lesson books correctly. Jackals of the desert, trafficking in slaves and stolen goods from waylaid caravans. Sly, crafty and scheming, but perhaps smarter than the slavers. They would see he was Sakhari and, not wanting to risk the wrath of the emir, take him back where he belonged. For the first time, Sandren's anger subsided. He arose from the dusty ground. "Do not bring down trouble upon the rest of us," an old man whispered. "You are a slave now, a slave." The boy shook himself free. The old man's crabbed hand scrabbled at the boy's linen-covered arm in the crude sign language used between slaves and by their slave masters. Depending on the pressure and location, the same sign could mean, "sleep here" or "lie down and spread your legs." You do not know this tribe nor their masters, he signed. The boy's skin shivered at the touch, as does a horse twitch to dislodge a fly. He loathed being touched. Accept your fate as a slave. "I am Sakhari, the emir's chosen. I serve him alone; not these desert dogs, so save your mewling warnings, slave. Accept your own fate," Sandren snarled. "Sakhari," the old man gasped. "Sakhari!" Like a sirocco, word spread. "Sakhari." "Hold! You!" Sandren boldly pushed through the pathetic group of captives. He had hoped to find someone not so closely related to a camel who could set to right this travesty, but these three would have to do. "Stop!" The guards stared, disbelief drawn across their dull, flat faces. One drew a short lash from his belt, whilst the other uncoiled ropes and began forming a noose, though they did not approach. The boy stood his ground, his burnoose fluttering in the gentle breeze, only his imperious eyes showing. He knew the moment they realized he was no ordinary captive. Accustomed to half-naked, cowering captives, they made imprecations against evil spirits at the sight of him, and refused to meet his cold eyes. "Set me free at once," Sandren commanded in a strong voice. "Remove these shackles. I wish to speak with the Macouni." As he had hoped, the guards were little more than slaves themselves and responded automatically to orders. The dullest of them stepped forward, a little uncertain but compelled to obey. Sandren closed his eyes in victory, imagining all of Dharzin rejoicing at his return. He was as good as home. The chains hobbling the boy's feet dropped onto the sand and murmurs of disbelief arose from the pens. He maliciously hoped the old man had a clear view of his impending freedom. A shout from the hut. The Macouni, trailed by the two jabbering slavers, strode angrily toward the pens.
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