Chapter 3: 3

He spoke to no-one, not even the woman as she showed unwanted concern for his injuries. He cared nothing for these people or their fates. He cared nothing for the fate his captors intended for him. Within his mind, only one thing mattered and that, at this moment, was not even finding Kahri. As he sat against the wall of the carriage, the pain brought by the beating pushed aside, his only thoughts fell upon escape. Only once he had secured his freedom could he move on to his next task.

One thing at a time. One task. He had no reason to complicate matters. No reason to cloud his mind with useless thoughts of Kahri. He could not help his lover at this point. Assuming Kahri yet lived. Even considering that, the twist in his gut at the thought of Kahri lying dead, he allowed himself no thoughts of vengeance. Not yet. That would come later.

Days passed within the wagon, with occasional stops for watering of the prisoners. Not much. Enough to stave off the deprivations that the lack of water could bring. Barrin noted that, as he noted everything. A glimpse of the outside every time the door at the rear of the carriage opened. Slight signs of passing landmarks through the ill-fitting slats of the wall. The changing sounds of the desert outside.

Barrin had made a crude map within his mind, a technique taught to him by his father, and he followed their progress, closing his eyes in the dark to see the entirety of Khaddush and their place in it. While he had slumbered, the carriage had brought them far to the South, off the normal trails, tracks and sand-blasted roads that appeared and disappeared according to the whims of the Sun-parched wastes.

He knew Khaddush as well as any part of the world he had travelled. He had fought here. Watched allies and enemies die here. Further to the South sat the large, border town of Khakhut, the last bastion of Khaddush life before the world grew colder and even more dangerous. To the East, far, far to the East, the bustling city of Kudush sat straddling the banks of the languid river that shared its name. An inland port that transported goods southward to lands that had rarely seen such treasures.

And here, upon the plains of Zhahat, there lay nothing for hundreds of miles in any direction. Nothing but bleached bones, carrion birds and jackals. Or so many thought. Barrin knew better. Caught here in the midst of a sand storm, over a year before, he and few others found sanctuary in the remains of a city lost to the ever-moving spread of the pitiless sands. A city that had far more to reveal than he found at that time.

The others had died. He had survived by pure coincidence, finding a spring of water as, in his delirium, he had attempted to crawl back to the world. At the time, he had no interest in exploring the city swallowed by the sands, but he had noted it. He forgot nothing. Everything could find a use under the right circumstances and he had use for that city.

“How go your injuries?” The woman showed compassion, a trait Barrin had never seen use for up to now. Her hand reached out to touch the welt on his arm. “Chosen. Were you one of these retches, you would have died through that beating. But you? They have great things in mind for you.”

“You know what the branding means?” Why she had left it for days to say, Barrin didn’t know. People had their ways and reasons. He rarely pursued answers for them. “Speak!”

“Not if you don’t show some respect!” The woman moved away, returning to her cross-legged seat. “You do not even know who I am, what I am, yet you speak to me as though I were little more than a pet to chastise and beat. Tt!”

She closed her eyes, the kohl that surrounded them had become trails, like black tears, through the outpouring of sweat over the days of their imprisonment. Even under these circumstances, she held herself with a quiet dignity that Barrin had seen upon few people. Priests, mostly. Whether priests of the Northern faith of the Divine One, or of the smaller, more ascetic faith from the West, where the followers of Ma-ush-naa led sparse, brutal lives. Or even of the little known faith that proliferated in scarce enclaves throughout Khaddush, the followers of Aa. Priests appeared to have a way about them. A certainty, despite the fact that, though some had sworn their god, or gods, had spoken to them, the gods remained aloof and silent.

Barrin preferred to follow Shtuur. Shtuur cared nothing for worship, or for those that degraded themselves by praying to him. He refused to answer. Refused to prove himself and gave no promise of a life never-ending after death. Shtuur offered nothing. No paradise. No glory. No love. And the god expected nothing in return. Shtuur cared not whether you lived or died, but found pleasure in that death should you fall in battle. Barrin liked that. He didn’t care either.

“Very well. Please, what do you know of the brand?” In truth, it didn’t matter what the brand signified, but no-one ever truly knew when knowledge could prove useful, and Barrin had a thirst for knowledge, as Father had taught. “I apologise.”

“Everyone here is set for the fighting pits of Daigarath, to the South. Fodder for wolves and tigers and bears, but you? You have been chosen to fight in the arena.” She nodded toward his arm, eyes still closed. “Muscles like those will bring much gold to the pit masters. I, too, am chosen. For different reasons.”

She moved, turning to show her other arm and lifted the tattered remnants of her thin, silk sleeve. There, though Barrin could not see well in the dark, sat a brand at the tip of her shoulder. Smaller, less detailed. It showed a triangular shape, a circle in the centre and a stick of some kind penetrating both from beneath. Barrin had never seen its like, but, from the symbol, he had a good idea what it represented. He looked her up and down. He supposed she was attractive, or could return to attractiveness with a hearty meal or three and a good clean. Right now, she looked as ragged as the once-expensive clothing that fell from her now-bony body.

“You will be a concubine? Or forced into prostitution?” To him, neither was a preferable option unless chosen, but he supposed concubine would offer less variety of foul men to defile her. “Somehow, I feel that will not long be your occupation.”

He had learned, long ago, to intuit the personalities of those around him. This woman did not seem the type to become a meek, compliant toy for fat men overburdened with stupidity. Even though she sat, most often, in contemplative silence, she held herself with a pride, a dignity and, perhaps, a sliver of danger about her. Were she a man, he could find interest in her, but she was not and he already had a lover.

The carriage lurched to the side as the cumbersome wheels struck something and Barrin pulled himself away from the eyes of the woman that remained locked upon him. He had anticipated this and though he had misread the distances involved, expecting to arrive at this point two days hence, he already had his plan at the ready. Through the thin holes in the wall, he caught sight of what he had hoped, no, knew, they would reach.

To the eyes of others, the structures that stretched upward from the sands looked nothing more than weathered stone stacks that had yet to become scoured to dust and sand by unforgiving winds, but Barrin had learned better on his last foray this far South. The stones upon the ground were not the product of the natural movements of the desert, but were, instead, the remnants of a civilisation lost so long ago that not even rumours of their existence persisted.

The city. Not fingers of rock and stone, but the remains of statues that once proclaimed the majesty of this place and its people, eroded into little more than ugly, misshapen masses. The tips of buildings peeked out from the dunes, doorways and windows unrecognisable to a passing eye. It stretched on for a good mile in either direction. Barrin had spent little time measuring it as he had headed back to the lines of the opposing armies. He gathered up the chains upon his manacles.

“What are you doing, White-Hair? Trying to get yourself killed again?” She paused, her kohl-smeared eyes narrowing. “No. No, you do not wish death. Not for yourself. You ...”

“You motherless dogs! You pizzle munching scum!” The manacles battered against the wall and, outside, he heard grumbles and curses. “We need more water in here! More water!”

He moved, then, the others shuffling away, as much as they could in the confines of the sweltering wagon. They knew what would come now, but so did Barrin. The carriage once again came to a stop due to his protests. He expected the guards now thought they could suffer a little berating for killing him. They could afford to lose a little of their pay. And they could at least have the pleasure of beating him to death. An outcome he did not intend to come to pass.

The door began to open, but not near fast enough for Barrin, powerful legs kicked out at the door, sending it crashing into the guard on the other side and Barrin rolled out into the blinding light of the unforgiving Sun. Though it did not blind him.

With his eyes closed, Barrin landed upon his feet in a crouch, head tilted as he listened to everything about him. First he moved to the sound of groans beside him and fell upon the guard that had opened the door. The manacles smashed into the man’s face, caving in the bones with one strike. Barrin felt his blood spurt across his chest as raised the manacles again, bringing them down in a final, crushing blow.

His hands moved to the man’s waist, where he found the sheath of a long, curved dagger. With his eyes opening, bit-by-bit, slow and steady, he began to see movement around him. Another guard appeared, but Barrin had already started to remove the dagger from the sheath. In the same sweep, he tore the blade against the stomach of the guard, pressing deep into the flabby flesh, tearing a long, ragged gash in his gut, where his innards began to pour from.

Two more guards had arrived and Barrin despatched them with as much ease. The throat of one gushed blood in an arc that brought the air itself to a black-red haze, showering the sand at the guard’s feet. The chest of the other guard swallowed the blade of the dagger to the hilt and, as the corpulent man began to crumple to the ground, he dragged the hilt from Barrin’s hands, encumbered by the manacles still attached at the wrists.

He had expected more guards, but it appeared they had no understanding of the numbers required for such a task. Only one guard remained and Barrin knew him well. The tall one. The big one. The one that had beaten Barrin before and Barrin had embarrassed in front of the men that now lay dead at his feet. This one had managed to find a sword and held it with quiet, practiced confidence.

This one had known war. Some time, many years ago. He had fought in battles, had used that sword in anger, had killed with it. He knew his capabilities, hampered by the demands of his clients, but Barrin had put paid to that. The man could justify his actions now. He could kill Barrin safe in the knowledge that no-one would deny him the righteous vengeance for the deaths of his colleagues at the hands of Barrin. His fingers flexed upon the grip of that sword before launching an attack that few could survive.

Barrin was one of the few. He stepped to the side, hammered the manacles into the man’s thigh, sending him crashing to one knee before Barrin slipped behind him, hooking the chains upon those manacles over the man’s head and pulled tight against his throat. The man could struggle, he could thrash, he could attempt to strike with the sword behind him, at an odd angle, but it would avail him naught. Not against Barrin’s strength.

As the man began to lose consciousness, sword falling from his hand, fingers scratching and flailing at the chains, Barrin saw the others within the wagon begin to clamber and stumble from within, eyes blinking at the light, or surveying the bodies and the blood on the ground. All but the woman.

She lowered herself, with more dignity than anyone could expect of her, and she looked only at Barrin. Even as he released the man, pushing him face down away from him, the woman only stared. Not in horror, or surprise, but in curiosity. He turned away, seeking to take the lives of the wagon drivers, but his fellow captives had already begun that slaughter.

Now he could turn his mind to the next task.