Exiled

by Blake Arthur Peel

  Our caravan heads directly to the center of the encampment, pausing only to deposit the wagon near a massive pile of stones on the outside edge of the tents. Set up around the stones are what appear to be workstations, carrying a wide variety of hammers and other tools. Even in the darkness of night, several huddled figures crack open the rocks, chiseling them and sorting them into piles.

  Strange, I think to myself as we pass by. I wonder what they are searching for in those rocks?

  Almost everyone stops and stares at us as we make our way through the camp, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright horror. Some women even usher away their children, as if our mere presence is a profound danger to them.

  Keeping my head held high, I allow the youth to continue pulling me forward, following the group we had come with toward the middle of the tent city.

  “There’s got to be hundreds of them,” Owyn mutters behind me, sounding awed and a little concerned. “Maybe even thousands. Could there be more of these tribes on this side of the Arc?”

  The question, of course, raises other questions inside my head.

  Our group stops before a large, open tent ringed by six large fires, its flaps opened wide and revealing a cluster of people sitting on the ground within. Those surrounding us bow their heads reverently as we approach, then stop just before the entrance of the tent. The youth lets go of my hand, and someone behind us pushes Owyn and I forward, giving us a closer view of the people inside.

  Each of the six individuals is elderly, with leathery, sun-darkened skin and stark white hair. They wear the same humble clothing as everyone else in the slave camp, but carry themselves with distinction, the weight of responsibility apparent in their gazes.

  These must be some sort of tribal elders, I realize, grabbing Owyn by the arm and indicating that we should kneel before them. He does so grudgingly, though he still clutches his makeshift dagger protectively.

  One of the elders, an old woman wearing a plain dress, stands up and shuffles forward, looking us over with dark, glittering eyes.

  “Bu musofirlarni kim olib keldi?” She utters, her voice sounding raspy like the crumbling of dried leaves.

  The man who had argued with the young boy in the hills steps forward, his head bowed low in deference. Judging by his resemblance to the long-haired youth, I assume that he is the boy’s father. “Meni kechir, oqil onam,” he says softly. “Bu mening o'g'lim edi.”

  Looking defiant, the boy steps forward to stand beside his father.

  The old woman looks at him and asks, “Nima qilding, bola?”

  The boy meets her eyes and replies, “Bu odamlarga yordam kerak edi, oqil onam. Bizsiz ular o'lishlari kerak edi.”

  Owyn and I eye each other as the three go back and forth in their strange language, a few of the other elders chiming in here and there. They appear to be arguing about something, the tense exchange growing more heated by the second. Perhaps Owyn was right, I think, nervously glancing at the hostile looks of some of the slaves gathered around us. Maybe it was a mistake for us to come here...

  Finally, they seem to come to some sort of resolution, the boy and his father taking a step back to stand behind us. The old woman, looking none too pleased, raises a withered hand into the air, indicating that everyone gathered around should be silent. “Bu begona odamlar biz bilan qolishlari mumkin,” she declares in a loud voice. “Agar ular o'zlarini tutishmasa, ular tashlanib ketadilar.”

  This seems to have an adverse reaction among the general populace, many of them turning away from the elders and grumbling under their breath. The young boy, however, smiles broadly, rushing up to me and taking hold of my hand once more.

  “Ular sizni qoldirishga rozi bo'ldi!” He says excitedly. “Sizni himoya qilamiz.”

  He pulls me to my feet and begins leading me away, the untrusting eyes of the old woman following me as I turn away from the open tent.

  “I guess we are going this way now,” I say to Owyn, who falls into step behind me. “I think this is a good sign, don’t you?”

  He grunts but does not reply, moving like a predator through the camp.

  The boy leads us away from the elders with a group of others, guiding us through the camp to one of the bonfires near the edge of the plains. The whole way I can feel the eyes of everyone on us, staring with wide eyes as if we are an entirely different species.

  When we reach the fire, the youth motions for us to sit down on a woven mat on the ground, smiling amiably and plopping down beside us.

  Then, the crowd which had been following us around disperses, leaving us alone before the crackling flames of the fire. Oddly enough, those who remain seem to be the youngest of the encampment – children and teenagers who regard us with looks of astonishment and even a little excitement. Those that are older, the parents and adults of the slave population, seem to be warier of us, their attitudes cold and unfriendly.

  A girl, probably no more than ten years old, sidles up to me, her young face smeared with dirt and her brown eyes wide with amazement. She reaches forward tentatively and touches my mage robes, feeling the blue fabric between her fingers the way a child might feel the downy fur of a kitten for the first time.

  When I look over at Owyn, I see that he is receiving similar treatment. A small crowd of boys, ranging from ages eight to fifteen gather around him, examining his leather armor and cloak and whispering to each other quietly. One of them puts forth their fingers and pokes the demon quill he is holding, then yelps and pulls back, illiciting giggles from the others around him.

  The long-haired youth, the one who had seemingly plead our case before the elders, shoos the others away and calls out to someone on the other side of the fire. Within a few moments, steaming bowls of food are brought over to us and placed by our feet on the ground.

  The boy gestures to bowls and smiles, bringing his hand up to his mouth and miming the act of chewing.

  Owyn eyes the bowls uncertainly, but I reach forward and pick one of them up, not wanting to offend them. It smells like boiled barley, with a hint of something pungent that I cannot quite identify.

  Not having any utensils to use, I use my index finger and thumb to pick up a bit of the food and bring it up to my lips. Owyn, following my lead, picks up his bowl as well. I place the brownish mash into my mouth and begin to chew, forcing myself not to gag at the strange, bitter taste. After swallowing, I look at the boy and smile. "It's very good. Thank you."

  His grin grows even wider.

  Owyn sniffs the food and grimaces, lacking the proper diplomacy my years at the Academy have taught me, but starts eating the food without complaint.

  I only manage to eat half of the stuff.

  The youths around us never take their eyes off of us, whispering to each other in their alien language and some even laughing. They don't seem hostile, merely curious, as if they have never encountered strangers before. In truth, Owyn and I look much different than these people – our clothing, though dirty, is made from quality material, and our skin is extremely fair. Generations of living in this harsh environment have made them darker, and their culture seems much more primitive than that of Tarsynium, as if their entire society has digressed due to their subjugation.

  "At least they're friendly," I offer, glancing over at Owyn. He still seems uneasy at having come to this place.

  "They were in those hills gathering those rocks for a reason," he says in a low voice. "And did you see their skin? Many of them bear the scars of whip lashes. If these people are slaves, then who are their masters?"

  Sure enough, many of the children surrounding us have pale scars marring their bodies. Seeing them makes my heart ache.

  Suddenly, several of the youths stand up, turning their attention to the vast plains beyond the encampment. Then, they run into the city of tents, shouting in alarm.

  Confused, Owyn and I stand up and look beyond the fire, trying to see what had caused them to be so alarmed. At first, I don't see anything, just miles of desert field
s stretching on for as the eye can see, but after a moment I see what caught their attention.

  Green lights, glowing like infernal flames.

  "The R'Laar," I say, turning to look at Owyn. "It's the R'Laar. They're coming!"

  Chapter Twelve

  Owyn

  The glowing green lights grow brighter as the demons approach, causing the encampment to go into an uproar. Children weep and mothers console them as people rush about, gathering on the edge of the tents as if to await the demons to fall upon them.

  My ranger instincts immediately kick in, and I fall into a stance protectively beside Zara, brandishing my quill dagger.

  "Put that thing away," Zara hisses, pulling away from me as I try to grab her arm. "You're going to cause problems!"

  "Problems?" I ask, incredulous. "In case you haven't noticed, an army of demons is bearing down on us as we speak!"

  She heaves a sigh and points. "Try to look beyond your own nose for one second. These people are not preparing to fight – they're preparing offerings to give their masters!"

  I blink, looking in the direction she is pointing. Sure enough, wicker baskets are being brought forward and laid out on the edge of camp. These baskets are filled with a wide variety of different things, including coarse woven fabrics, odd-looking vegetables, and heaps of grain. Curiously, there seems to be one offering that is much more prevalent than the others: metal. Baskets upon baskets of iron ore and glittering minerals are placed out in front of the crowd, the sheer weight of them forcing as many as three or four slaves to help carry a single basket.

  That must be why they were gathering rocks in the hills, I realize, putting away my weapon. They're trying to find metal to give to the demons as a gift.

  The shaggy-haired youth and his father return to our side, looking suddenly very worried.

  "Yashirish kerak!" The older man says, his voice sounding gruff and not the least bit friendly.

  "Ularni oling!" The youth cries, handing the two of us a pair of thick, brown blankets. "Sizni aralashtirishingiz kerak yoki ular sizni o'ldiradi!"

  We accept the blankets, and I glance over at Zara, giving her a confused look.

  "I think they want us to conceal ourselves with these blankets," she suggests, unfolding one and pulling it over her head like a shawl. "Neither of us exactly blend with the way we're dressed."

  Grunting, I do the same, wrapping the itchy fabric around my shoulders in an attempt to cover my rangers cloak and leathers.

  Once we are disguised, the youth gives us an encouraging nod. His father, on the other hand, mutters something under his breath and stomps off, going to join the rest of the people gathered on the plains.

  Following the boy's lead, we make our way to the back of the crowd, shuffling into the mass of bodies and attempting to appear inconspicuous. Many around us give us strange looks, but the situation is so tense that nobody objects to our presence.

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity of waiting, the R'Laar come into view.

  They march in a long column, flanked by snarling darkhounds and other creatures that I have not seen before. They are tall and lanky, with pale white skin stretched over sinewy limbs. Their faces are almost entirely featureless except for their glowing red eyes, and instead of fingers on the ends of their hands, they have long, curving hooks that resemble pruning shears.

  The bulk of the force seems to be made up of gorgons, many of which are holding flickering balls of green demon fire in their hands, almost the way men would carry torches. In total, there seems to be about fifty demons in the group.

  As soon as the procession draws near, everyone in the crowd of slaves drops to their knees, bowing down their heads in reverence. Zara and I quickly follow suit, trying hard to blend in with everyone else. Something tells me that if the demons discover we are from within the Arc, they will either capture us or kill us.

  Maybe both.

  They come to a halt just before the wicker baskets, not a one on either side uttering so much as a single word. Stealing a glance up, I can see a figure making its way to the front, a gorgon in black and red armor.

  Must be some sort of a captain, I determine, dropping my head back down.

  "Biz o'zimizning narsalarni olish uchun qaytib keldik," the demon proclaims, its gravelly voice carrying over the large crowd of humans.

  Many of the creatures surrounding it snicker and whisper to one another in their odd, guttural tongue.

  "Har doimgidek, bir taklif," the gorgon captain continues, striding up to the basket and peering inside. "Keling, bugun biz uchun tayyorlaganingizni ko'rib chiqaylik."

  Several of the other gorgons stride forward, letting their fires evaporate as they examine the baskets. They jostle each other and laugh as if all of this is some grand joke. The one in the lead picks up a fistful of grain and sniffs it, then snorts and drops it to the dirt.

  No one in the crowd moves or speaks. The terror in the air is almost palpable.

  Eventually, the captain motions for the baskets to be taken, many more of the gorgons stepping forward and picking them up. They seem to take special care with the offerings of ore, and do not seem in the least bit encumbered by the weight.

  Once all the baskets have been picked up and the demons have fallen back in line, the captain walks up to the edge of the crowd and begins examining the faces of the people with smoldering eyes.

  I tense, and I can sense that Zara is nervous as well. If they discover us, what are we going to do? What can we do? My hand strays to my belt, where the quill dagger is hidden, even though to fight would likely be a futile effort.

  The captain begins making its way through the crowd, many of the people cringing as it walks close to them. It seems to be searching for something, a wicked sneer adorning its grotesque, mottled face.

  It stops not ten paces away from the two of us, resting a hand on the hilt of the curved sword on its belt. Then, it raises a black-nailed finger, pointing to someone kneeling before it.

  "Biz ham buni qabul qilamiz!" The gorgon bellows, causing someone to cry out in alarm.

  Daringly, I crane my neck to see a pretty young girl looking up at the demon in horror. She looks to be only a few years younger than Zara, and I can see in her eyes the fear accompanying someone who knows they are about to die.

  A man beside her jumps to his feet, throwing his arms around her protectively. "Iltimos, bu mening yagona qizim," he cries in a pleading way, voice full of emotion. "Uni mendan olmang!"

  In a flash the gorgon draws its sword, then reaches a hand forward to grasp the man around his neck. It lifts the man into the air, causing him to flail wildly in a vain attempt to escape, then rams its sword through his stomach, twisting cruelly and spilling his blood into the dirt.

  The girl screams and says the words, "Babi, babi," over and over as the demon drops the man's limp form to the ground. Then, the demon sheaths its sword, grabbing the young girl by the arm and hauling her to her feet.

  I clench my fist in anger, watching as the girl is led away, sobbing uncontrollably. Why is no one resisting? I think furiously. These people outnumber these demons five to one!

  Nobody moves or speaks as the gorgon returns to the column of demons, the only sound being the crying girl as she led away with them. As quickly as they arrived, the demons begin marching away, their green flames lighting the darkness as they leave with their spoils. The girl's sobs grow fainter and fainter as the demons get further away, until they are nothing but a distant light on the horizon.

  Still, nobody dares to move.

  Once they are fully gone from sight, the crowd begins to shuffle to its feet, whispering is weary voices as they begin making their way back to their tents. A few people, presumably family and friends, weep softly and see to the body of the fallen man, closing his eyes and mournfully carrying him away.

  "What," I ask at length, looking to Zara, "in the Eleven Hells was that all about?"

  "I'm not sure," she says softly, taking my hand and sta
nding up. Her face is as pale as milk in the starlight. "But I think I'm beginning to understand why these people are the way that they are."

  "They're cowards," I respond, still feeling enraged that no one stood up to that demon.

  "No," she replies, pulling her blanket more tightly around her shoulders. "No, I do not think that they are cowards. They have been slaves for more than a thousand years. They've probably been beaten down so many times by the R'Laar that no one dares to fight back. This sort of thing is all they know."

  "Still," I say stubbornly after a moment, "they could have done something to save that girl."

  The shaggy-haired youth leads us silently back to the camp, weaving through the tents without saying a word. He, more than anyone else, looks angry at what has transpired, his discontent showing plainly by the grimace on his tanned face.

  He leads us to an empty tent, gesturing for us to go inside. "Bu siz uxlayotgan joi," he says, forcing a small smile through his anger. "Agar biror narsa kerak bo'lsa, keling va meni toping."

  We tentatively head inside, Zara thanking him before closing the flap shut behind us.

  Then, we are finally alone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Zara

  A girl screaming... a father being run through by a gleaming sword... hundreds of red eyes leering at me from the darkness.

  Shaking my head, I try to banish the thoughts, not wanting to dwell on the horrific event that had just taken place.

  Now that we have a moment to ourselves, it is a time to plan and think.

  I sigh and pull the blanket from around my shoulders, laying it out on the dirt floor and then sinking down to a sitting position. Owyn follows suit. Both of us, it seems, suddenly feel very tired after such a long and arduous day.

  After a few minutes of contemplative silence, I clear my throat. “What strange paths we walk, Owyn.”

  He looks up and bobs his head somberly. “Yeah,” he replies.