Sunset of Lantonne (6 page)

Uneducated humans were the most plentiful in the slave camp, representing the Turessians who had been unable to prove themselves worthy of the honor markings that were branded into the flesh of the educated. These were the people that Therec felt the most affinity for, as his own parents were once among them. His aptitude for learning the lessons taught by the elders of the clan had ensured that he rose above that life and made him the equal of any other educated member of the clan. These people were slow-witted or lacked any gift for magic, ensuring their placement in the slave caste.

Less numerous, but still common enough that they did not catch the eye as unusual, were the foreign humans, who were still not acclimated to the Turessian weather, and several dwarves and halflings, who had all been taken during a battle months earlier against invaders from the east. These were people that Therec felt little sympathy for, given their initial intentions. Within a generation or two, the humans might have an opportunity to become members of the clan. The others…they should have known better than to invade Turessi.

Then there were those that were considered beneath the clan and would never be treated as anything but slaves. They were the misfits, the monstrous, those who Turess himself would never have accepted as anything but slaves. These people were better than animals, but not by much. Wildlings, orcs, and most ogres fell into this category, their twisted appearance branding them forever as beneath the clan’s attention. Wisely, these outcasts remained behind their fellows, keeping a respectable distance from any marked member of the clan. Therec had never even seen the faces of some of these people, as they had kept their heads down every time he had encountered them.

All of the slaves, whether they were ignorant or born to be outcasts of society, bore a set of burned-on scars on their arm. The sigils were crude, but they marked the person as the property of a specific Turessian clan for life. If another clan acquired them, a new set of brandings would be added, allowing clansmen to trace the origin of any slave through sales and defeat of clans. Runaways found outside the range of the clan that owned them were executed without question by whatever Turessian found them, creating an understanding between owner and slave that minimized the need to watch one’s slaves. Between rules such as that and the deadly climate, Therec could not remember a slave running away in years.

“How many are still below?” he asked the assembled slaves.

“Fifty, maybe a few more,” called out one woman quickly, with several others confirming her number. “We can fetch them if you like, Preserver Therec.”

“No, you will relate my message to them,” Therec told the group. “Tell them that if you are all loyal in my absence, I swear to approach the clan to give every potential citizen another chance to prove they can be educated. If a single slave causes trouble for Salda or any other preserver in the clan, I will not only forego my offer, but will request that the Preservers treat all of you in the manner of other clans.”

A look of relief and thanks passed over all of the humans and even many of the elves, halflings, and dwarves. They seemed to recognize that the offer applied most directly to them. Then those looks grew uneasy and quickly turned to the wildlings and orcs among them, who appeared on the verge of attacking Therec on the spot. Every slave knew that no amount of service would give those people a chance at citizenship and it was, therefore, them that would be most likely to ruin the chances of the others.

Therec let his attention drift over the slaves, finding that one particular wildling—a middle-aged white-furred man with the muddled features of some kind of cat breed that had mixed with some other sort of wildling—was the focus of every human’s attention. The wildling never looked up at Therec, but his hands were clenched angrily. This was a prideful man who thought that somehow he was mistreated. There was always one among those whose ancestry made them ineligible for citizenship, and Therec could always find them.

“You,” he said, pointing at the wildling. “How long have you been a slave?”

The wildling raised his eyes slowly, baring his animalistic fangs angrily before answering, “Five years.”

“Long enough to remember freedom, but short enough that you believe you should get more out of life. Five years is a long time to your kind, is it not?”

“Twenty years or more to a human.” The wildling practically spat the last word, clenching his hands again. “A good part of a lifetime.”

Therec drew the sword at his hip that the clan’s warriors had insisted he carry when approaching the slaves. He had always considered the weapon more of a decoration than a tool, given the training he and other Preservers received. For once, he had found a use for it.

Turning the weapon around to offer the hilt, Therec gave the weapon a light toss. The sword hit the snow hard enough to sink slightly, easily within reach of the wildling.

“Strike me down and it will be nearly an hour before anyone searches for me,” said Therec, folding his hands together behind his back, presenting himself as an easy target. “More than enough time for you to run. I doubt any of the other Preservers would even consider making such an offer. This will be the only chance you are given to kill one of our people. Prove yourself, even if it costs your fellow slaves their chance at redeeming themselves.”

The wildling snarled at an inner debate and snatched up the weapon. He stood slowly, clearly expecting Therec to attack him, but Therec remained as still as he could. The two men stared at one another, gauging one another’s resolve. Therec already knew what the wildling would do, it was only a matter of waiting for him to reason his way through it.

With a growl that the winds swallowed, the wildling man rushed at Therec, raising the sword. He made it no more than three steps before the nearest human and elven slaves leapt to their feet and tackled him, dragging him down.

The wildling swung frantically at the others, trying to free himself to get closer to Therec. The other slaves overpowered him, a woman and two men grabbing for the sword. Within seconds, they had him face down in the snow, six slaves pinning him while another yanked the sword from his grip. Turning, the woman that held the sword offered it back to Therec.

“The seven of you will be given a chance to prove your wisdom and possibly join the clan, taking the same status as our children. Even if you fail, your families will be cared for,” Therec told the slaves that had hurried to his aid. “Thank you. You may deal with him as you see fit, given that if he had struck me down, the clan would have killed every one of you to be sure that the murderer was found.”

Therec left the slaves quickly, not really wanting to be witness to what they did to the wildling. Such a simple test of loyalty and yet he knew it had bought the dedication of many of the slaves who had been present, even if they never had a chance of joining the clan. Hope had a way of fostering a kinship between slave and clan that a whip never could.

Like any Turessian, Therec felt a distant sense of sorrow for those who could not elevate themselves past that rank in the clan. Among them were always people that he knew, who he had grown up with, but who could not meet the stringent requirements of the clan and so had nowhere else to go but the slave camp. As an only child, he was luckier than many of the Preservers, not having to face his own kin among the slaves, though like any parent, he always feared that his own child might end up there someday.

Heading back toward the clan’s houses, Therec hoped to spend some time with his wife and son before he had to leave Turessi. If he could not be with them through his son’s trials to join the clan, the least he could do was spend much of his remaining time with them.

The journey would be long and pit him against the barbarians that filled other lands. He needed to cherish what time he had left, so as to remember it for however long it took him to come home. There was nothing more important than family; anything else that mattered to the clan lay behind him and the slaves could deal with their own.

The wagon bounced hard again, jarring Ilarra awake and tossing her long brown hair in her face, confusing her as she woke. Her stomach churned in time with the rocking of the hated caravan vehicles, though she knew that she was long past throwing up any more. Instead, a general pall of disorientation and nausea clung to her so long as she sat or lay in the wagon. All she had managed to do for the last day was find a corner to curl up in and try to sleep away the hours, to the apparent disgust of the other four passengers.

For nearly a week, they had lumbered from the far northeastern parts of the region, the line of five gypsy wagons stopping only to once a day to rest and water the animals that pulled them ever southward. Those stops had been glorious for Ilarra, giving her the brief chance to stretch her legs and feel more like herself. Unfortunately, as soon as she would begin to feel more at ease, it would be time to leave and the illness would resume immediately.

Had she the strength to do so, Ilarra would have greatly preferred walking—and had for parts of the journey to soothe her stomach—but given the distance they were traveling, she would have soon fallen behind the caravan. Even on good terrain, she could not keep up for very long before Raeln would hustle her back onto the wagon, his cool blue eyes always watching for her to stumble. Ilarra was still convinced her father had ordered him to treat her like a baby on the journey—not that she minded having Raeln watch out for her, but it made her feel like a child at times to have him watching at all times. He had even taken to intimidating any of the male gypsies when they tried to check on her, as though he considered every one of the brightly-dressed merchant folks to be a threat.

Dragging herself into a sitting position, Ilarra stared off into the distance ahead of them, hoping desperately to catch sight of anything more than trees and scrub bushes. To her dismay, the horizon was still barren of anything that resembled civilization, with only the four other wagons leading the way. As an afterthought, she leaned farther out the side of the wagon and looked back the way they had come, wondering if the last village they had stopped at would still be visible. Behind them, the plains stretched out just as far as they did ahead, giving her no hope for anything to break the visual monotony.

With a sigh, Ilarra leaned back against the wall of the wagon’s cooler interior, clenching her jaw to suppress the urge to throw up yet again. She never could have imagined she was so susceptible to the rocking of the wagon when the journey started. It made her feel weak and useless, something she had hoped to move beyond when she had left her home.

“Long journey?” asked one of the others in the wagon, leaning forward in his seat. The thin man was draped from crown to heel in dark robes, black gloves, and high boots that would have smothered Ilarra in the summer’s heat. When she looked his way, he bowed his head politely in a manner that spoke of ritual habit. She had seen him quietly watching all the other travelers, saying little more than the occasional “thank you” to the gypsies when they served meals. “I think you may be the only one still getting used to the ride.”

Ilarra glowered and ignored him, opening a sheaf of parchment pages that she had been writing on throughout the trip. Her original thought had been to fully document the region’s interesting areas for when she returned home, but she found herself staring at such gems as, “These uncivil brutes seem unable to make any food that is not bread, water, or gruel.” A lack of anything inspiring had resulted in a great number of useless scribbles that she had continued just to keep her mind off of the journey. On one sheet, she even found a doodle of Raeln standing on top of a defeated dragon…though she could not even remember when she had made that awful drawing.

“Most of these people are heading this way for work near the larger villages or Lantonne itself,” the man continued, as if unconcerned whether anyone was listening to him. The sharp staccato to his words made Ilarra wonder where he hailed from. It vaguely reminded her of the gypsy accent, but it was more precise in its pattern. “You are the only one—aside from myself, of course—not looking for a new profession or home.”

Glaring over her notebook, Ilarra answered coolly, “I am looking for work. You don’t know me, sir. Please talk to someone else.”

The robed man laughed and leaned back against the side of the wagon, pulling back his hood to reveal that he was a middle-aged human with a completely shaved head and black tattoos near his eyes, running down into his cheeks. The style was unlike any Ilarra had seen before and set her on-edge, despite his welcoming smile. The tribal people that occasionally raided her home also had a fondness for tattoos, though she could see that these were very different and this man seemed hardly the sort to wear animal hides.