Chapter 2: 2

Barrin awoke to stench and darkness and a lazy, swaying movement. Not the awakening from sleep, burred of vision and clouded of mind, but an instant awakening accompanied by a painful throb in his head. He lifted his hands and felt a weight upon his wrists. Iron manacles. Strong. Well made. Still, he raised both hands together, touching his head, but found no injury. He had fallen to sorcery and, though he, as with almost everyone else in the world, had encountered sorcery on only the most rare occasions, he could sense its insidious, malefic touch.

Bare fragments of light peeked through ill-fitting slats and, with that mere scrap of illumination, he could see he did not occupy this space alone. He counted a dozen people, squeezed into the tight confines of the carriage. And it was a carriage. He could hear the sound of the iron-shod wheels crunching upon the ground outside. The feint sound of reins tickling the animal that bore the carriage forward. An ox, if he heard the aggrieved snort from the beast as he thought.

He heard other things, too. The low moans of several of those imprisoned with him. A fit of coughing from behind him. And, to one side, the low whispers of a chant in a language he could not place. They did not crowd him. Instead, he found he had space to move, as though they gave him as wide a berth as they could muster in this crowded space.

The manacles made dull rattles as he shifted his weight. He had no need for comfort, but he did need to see where they were. Placing his eye against one of the thin gaps in the carriage wall, he peered outside, not waiting for his vision to adjust. Sand. Great dunes of sand that stretched out for miles in all the directions he could see with his limited view. Not what he had expected at all.

He and Kahri had settled in a village far to the north, where rivers crawled inevitably to the sea. Where, though not quite lush and verdant, the land held life. Olive groves and peach orchards. Grasslands and fields of hardy grains. And the ground had a harder, yet nutrient rich texture. Here, he could see little signs of life. Not unless he counted the camel riders that hove into view as the carriage made its lazy way forward. Two on this side. He assumed two more to the other and likely similar numbers, or more, to the front and the rear. A caravan.

“Kahri?” He doubted his love would answer, but he called out anyway.

“Hush, now, mighty one. If they hear, they will not only punish you.” That voice. He had heard it chant, but now it whispered in Tashpi, the language of Northern Khaddush. A woman’s voice. “When one violates the silence, all must suffer.”

Barrin considered that as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness once again. Only now did he register a pain upon his arm. A clanking of the manacles and he raised his hand once again, touching where the arm pained him, only to find a raised welt upon his thick bicep. Branded, like cattle. His fingers traced the shape, but he did not recognise the symbol. Something curled, with a part rising above the rest. A serpent, perhaps. He set that pain aside, adding it to the throb in the head that he already ignored.

Pain, his father had taught him, only informed, it had no use other than that. Once acknowledged, the pain had no other purpose and meant nothing. Ignore it. Carry on. Life is pain. A little more made no difference. Instead, he studied the other captives, taking close examinations through the flickering light through the gaps. Mostly men, big men, though Barrin knew he could kill them all with ease. Some women, also big. Warriors to a one, except, perhaps, the Pakhatti man in the corner. A smith if Barrin had ever seen one. They built muscles different from those of warriors.

And the woman that had whispered her warning. Slight, perhaps even malnourished, she pressed herself against the wall of carriage, legs crossed, hands resting by the wrists upon her knees. He doubted she had ever touched a sword, let alone participated in war. Large eyes, made all the more expressive by the thick slivers of kohl that surrounded them, and the short, black hair that framed her face. She was an anomaly. He could understand the others, they were of a kind, but not her and he felt an immediate distrust toward her.

To the back of the carriage, the one that had coughed so violently now began to retch and hawk. All those near him began to shift away, as much as they could in the confines, yet still no-one tried to invade the space around Barrin. Instead, they shifted closer together, giving the coughing man as wide a berth as they gave Barrin. Even through the tight throng, with the poor light, Barrin could tell the man had a fever. All those here knew the dangers of remaining so close to someone fevered so. All but the woman, who did not move or appear to care about the disease that could soon run rampant through the carriage.

The stink of vomit now filled the air, mixing with the plethora of body odours, the stench of urine and faeces that permeated each intake of breath and now others began to retch. Not because they had caught the disease so fast, but in sympathetic, weak-bellied heaves. If something was not done soon, the floor of the carriage would become awash with ever more filth. If for no other reason than he did not want the stink upon himself, Barrin had to do something.

“Hey! Hey! You! Pizzle nose!” Barrin hammered at the side of the carriage, not only seeking attention, but also to test the strength of the wood and the manacles. “You cannot sell diseased slaves! Remove this filth or you will lose more than one of us!”

“You will come to regret that, White-Hair.” The woman did not say it with concern, or with confidence, but as a matter of fact. A passing interest. “You should pray to your god for mercy. Perhaps they will leave you your eyes.”

“My god has no mercy.” He locked his eyes with hers as the carriage came to a shuddering halt. “And neither do I.”

The guards knew exactly who had spoken out of turn, all those quivering eyes and weak-willed stares from the others fell upon him as soon as light flooded the wagon. The diseased wretch fell out of the door, kicked aside by the boots of guards that pinned their scarfs across their faces. Usually worn to stave off the worst of sandstorms, the scarfs worked as well to muffle the stink of the carriage. The others within shuffled to the side, bowing their heads and Barrin had never felt so disgusted with people.

He had assumed wrong, about them all. Not a one of them had the spirit of a warrior. They cowered and hooded their eyes through fear of retribution. Were they his comrades on the field of battle, he would kill them himself and save the enemy the satisfaction of taking their heads. He glared at them all even as he felt the chains attached to the manacles draw taut and his captors dragged him from within. He couldn’t pity them, he had no concept of it, but he could hate them. Hate he understood all too well.

The scorched sands bit into the fresh welt upon his arm and the stinging sensation became added to the list of pains that held nothing over him. High above, the Sun beat down scolding heat upon them all, and it had not yet reached its zenith. Barrin took the opportunity to take in their surroundings even as the guards used the chains to lift him to his feet. They had left him only a strip of cloth to cover his nethers, but he felt no embarrassment in that. In front of these thugs, he would show no feelings at all.

“No-one. Says. A word. No-one!” The biggest guard, perhaps a head taller than Barrin, though not near as broad of shoulder, prodded Barrin in the chest with a stout, black stick, a good two fingers wide, scratched and notched from use. “They say we can’t kill any of you. Doesn’t mean we can’t punish you.”

The guard had a thick accent to his Tashpi words. Perhaps from Mah-Hahkt, or Dehsshess. His skin, darkened by the Sun, looked weathered, as though he did not hail from Khaddush. Sharp, pointed tattoos upon his wrist spoke of more Northern realms, but the clothing came from desert folks. Not uniforms, only clothing. They were not soldiers, nor were they part of a reputable caravan company.

As the guard had spoken, Barrin had turned his eyes across everything. The dunes, the placement of the Sun, the carriage, the driver and the oxen, but especially the guards. Another carriage sat behind the one they had dragged Barrin from and he wondered whether that one held Kahri. Regardless, he would learn soon enough. He had more to learn here and now, though. And it would not comfort Kahri to see if he did occupy the other wagon.

The stick struck Barrin as expected, across the un-healed welt of the branding. A fool’s attempt at doling out pain. Were Barrin any other man, that strike would have felled them in an instant. It would give the guards the immediate thrill they craved, but would leave nothing more they could do. Start with the greatest pain and everything else lacks meaning. Even so, Barrin did not flinch. Not a shiver. Instead, he continued to let his eyes wander, taking in everything and storing it away for later.

Another strike, this time against his leg and Barrin’s wandering eyes returned to the guard. He held that man’s eyes and he knew what the man saw within Barrin’s. Barrin had seen that same look in the eyes of his father so many times. The guard saw death. The guard saw pain. His own pain. His own death. Not now, perhaps not soon, but one day. He saw the deliverer of that pain and death before him and his hand hesitated even as he drew it back for another strike.

The guard licked his lips, eyes twitching to the other guards around him. Barrin’s defiance had shown him weak in front of the others and his only recourse lay in giving a far more severe beating. He had to. The other strikes had the intent of discipline and had failed. Now the guard had to emphasise who remained in charge here.

The stick struck Barrin at the temple, sending sparks and baubles of light dancing before his eyes. Still he would not fall, would not flinch. If they killed him, they killed him, such was life, but he would not give them the satisfaction of an easy beating. Call it pride, or ego, or hubris, but even with Kahri’s life in the balance, if these men wanted to see him pained, they would need to work for it. As the other guards joined in with the beating, the words of his father echoed through his mind. Do not bend. Do not yield. A warrior gives nothing to the enemy. If they want it, they must take it, and pay for every inch of ground you lose.

They did not kill him, though he had forced them to come close. The filth ridden floor of the carriage greeted him as the guards tossed him inside and Barrin began the process of acknowledging the pains inflicted upon him and locking them away. The diseased man did not return to the carriage, however. Though he had performed his act for his own benefit, it had saved the others from suffering the diseased man’s fate, at least.

“I have seen your kind before. You think nothing of aggravating others, drawing out their ire and caring nothing for those that may suffer in your stead.” The woman shook her head, aggrieved at what he had done. “And what did you gain from such foolishness? A momentary respite from the disease that has no doubt already caught hold in others? I hope you learned your lesson, White-Hair. I hope putting all of us in danger was worth it.”

“You assume I care a jot about others. I do not.” He shifted, lifting himself up and falling with his bruised back against the carriage wall. “And I learned much. Enough to know that the next time I force them to stop, I will kill every last one of them.”

She tutted. This tiny feather of a woman found him arrogant and foolish, but she did not know him. She could scoff as much as pleased her, but Barrin did nothing without reason or purpose. He had learned all he needed in those brief moments.

Now he need only wait for the right moment.