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Chapter 3 |
Sandren quickly faced his tormentors, ready to defend himself, but instead, he looked down upon their bowed heads. Each was on his knees, head down, arms crossed. If the sky had burst into flames, Sandren could not have been more surprised. For a moment, his brain did not work, then survival instincts kicked in and he rose up to scramble off the table and out the door. But if he was afraid before, it paled in comparison to the dread he felt now. His limbs refused to move, he forgot how to breathe and could only stare in horror. A Khannem. A fearsome barbarian tribe from the North, the Khannem were a big, heavy race bred to fight from horseback and withstand the howling snowstorms. Greatly feared in all the civilized world, Khannem were the stuff of legend, credited with prodigious feats of magic and sorcery. It was said they could kill an emir's army with their bare hands in the space of the breath, then, laughing in their wild way, leap upon their huge war horses and vanish into mountain caves. Sandren had never seen one; for him, they were just demons, and, as with so much of the outside world, safely confined to scrolls in the academy study until this moment. The warrior was dressed in traditional heavy trousers tucked into deerskin boots, and a fur vest -- clothes for the mountains, not this flat grassland. His long black hair -- entwined with fetish beads and feathers -- brushed the belt at his waist that held both a scimitar and a leather pouch where his evil magic was stored. Sandren stared in fright, praying now in earnest to die. "Get out," the Khannem commanded. The Macouni were gone before he took his next breath, as jackals flee from feeding when a lion arrives. The Khannem's eyes raked the boy's pale nakedness. He spoke in a low rumble, almost to himself, "Ah, a Sakhari here, so far from home. How unusual. They did not know the value of what they possessed." That broke Sandren's paralysis. His pride and sense of superiority, battered but unbroken, was back. He had no intention of submitting to more humiliation at the hands of another barbarian, especially this Khannem. Death was preferable. He slid back on the table, feeling the edge with his fingers. Taking a quick glance, Sandren calculated the distance to the door. Fear lent speed to his feet. Naked, cold, without any knowledge of the land, Sandren knew escape was not likely. As he ran, he recited prayers for a good death, expecting at any moment to feel a vicious Khannem knife in his back or despicable Macouni hands upon him. He hid in the tall grass at river's edge and tried to calm his pounding heart. ~*~ Sandren survived that night on burning anger, shame and humiliation that those mindless animals had touched a Sakhari. That and fear at the sounds, the scents, the secret movements of night creatures barely seen out of the corner of his eye. How safe his academy back at the oasis was, how protected he was there, as he deserved to be, not hiding in the grass like some desert deer afraid of predators. "I'm not that," Sandren whispered to himself like a prayer, "I'm not afraid." But he was. Frozen not only in fear but by the harsh night, Sandren waited for a sign from his gods. The tall grass prickled his skin, insects crawled over his feet and shivering limbs. He dared not move in case he called attention to his hiding place. Surely the Macouni would hunt him down. But when the sun was barely up over the horizon, the slavers began rousing their captives to move. Soon they were just a cloud of dust in the distance, leaving without him. Still the boy waited, not believing his good fortune. It was puzzling, but right. He was not meant to be a slave; they must have realized that and moved on with those better suited to the life. He was Sakhari, after all, and his shaky pride began to reassert itself. In the heat of midday, he stirred from the long grass to find a niche near the riverbank, to drink of the cool water and then he fell into an exhausted, but fitful sleep. When sleep deserted him again, he began to think about what to do next. He hated, hated, being naked, so he first needed his burnoose back. Then perhaps he could follow the path back the way the slave caravan had come, back home. Home but disgraced flickered through his mind. He dismissed that notion with all the confidence of a best beloved student. He was still pure, still untouched; no one would know what the Macouni did to him. Even now it was a horror too great to even think about. Sandren was very adept at ignoring his body; it was what made him the chosen one. All day Sandren kept watch on the small wooden house near the slave pens. Birds perched on its roof. Once, a brown hare leaped through the yard. Otherwise, all was silent. Still he waited, locked in paralysis by apathy, fear, uncertainty, all so unworthy of a scholar. He berated himself for his weakness but could not force his worthless legs to move. As night approached, Sandren could wait no longer. His limbs were stiff and he wasn't sure he could survive another cold night. Furtively, he crept toward the building, pausing every few steps to listen. Only soft wind through tall grass. Only a hawk's cry. Only the river flowing. Trembling, he grasped the edge of the archway and peered inside. Almost too dark to see, but he knew where his burnoose lay last. Although he feared walking past the table, the site of such humiliation, he reminded himself he was a courageous Sakhari, not a sniveling low-born sand eater. Yet, once inside, his bravado deserted him and his breathing constricted. Twenty more steps. Ten. Five. He stretched out a shaky arm, patted the ground, then, thank the gods, felt the familiar linen, wet and crumpled. Triumphant at last! "I am Sandren, favored son of the desert gods, the emir's chosen one," he shouted, both in relief and as a way to bolster his courage. Grabbing his burnoose, he turned back to the open archway, ready to start his journey home. The Khannem stood blocking the door.
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