Hunter: Warrior of Doridia (The Saga of Jon Hunter Book 1)

by Ronald Watkins

  My escort bowed deferentially before the man who I correctly assumed to be my owner. I was then left alone with him. He was of advanced years with a weathered face that suggested he’d spent much time out of doors. His eyes were pale, his eyebrows gray and bushy. His hair was thinning though it still covered his head and he wore it in a style reminiscent of the Romans.

  I took advantage of his preoccupation with the parchments on his desk by examining my surroundings. The courtyard was tastefully decorated with flowers and lush vegetation. A pond about the gurgling fountain containing colorful fish dominated the center and spaced about the edge of the open space were a handful of statues, crafted in a curious, though not displeasing, style. They were a mix of ancient Greek and Babylonian in style with slightly exaggerated eyes.

  My master wore, curiously, a perfectly normal appearing pair of metal rimmed glasses which he removed as he looked up to me, holding my eyes to his a moment. All of my life I have been taught respect for those senior to myself and the military had only served to reinforce this habit. Without thinking I assumed the position of attention and determined to be as respectful as the language barrier and circumstances permitted. Had I known better I would have knelt in the position of a slave, but at the time I did not know what position a slave assumes before his master. And so I stood in the universal military position of attention. Had I taken the posture of a slave subsequent events might have been different.

  My master wore a milk colored tunic not unlike my own in style but of much finer material and with distinctive golden decorative flourishes. A lush yellow robe lay draped over what passed for a chair near him. About his slender neck hung a heavy golden necklace with pendant.

  He continued staring at me for a time and when he spoke it was in a clear, slow voice. I had good reason to notice the tone of his voice as I understood not a word he said. I answered as I had the others before, fearing he would dismiss me at once and assume me to be an idiot as most had. Instead, he nodded, then pushed a fresh sheet of parchment along with a quill across the polished desk top gesturing for me to write. I dipped the quill rather clumsily into a porcelain ink well and wrote, “My name is Jon Hunter.”

  His face reflected wonderment at my words, though not surprise, and after a thoughtful moment he left his desk to enter a study, returning shortly with a scroll. As he spread it across the desk I could see written, in two rows what appeared to be an alphabet, alien, peculiar in form, but an alphabet nevertheless. Again my master gestured to the parchment before me. I did not know what he intended but as quickly as I could with the feather quill, I wrote the English alphabet. My owner appeared satisfied by my efforts and taking the pen back he studied the letters carefully before gesturing for me to speak.

  “I don’t know what you want of me, sir, but any assistance you can render will be greatly appreciated.”

  My master then pointed to the sentence I had written earlier on the parchment and gestured to my mouth with a beckoning smile. I read, “My name is Jon Hunter,” placing my finger under each word as I spoke.

  My master said, pointing to his chest, “Urak Rahdon.”

  Following suit I did the same. “Jon Hunter,” I replied, a vision of an old Tarzan

  movie flashing before me. I did not smile.

  My master eyed me evenly for an unsettling moment then summoned the overseer. He gave instructions after which I was taken to a small rear room of the villa where children of various ages were taking lessons from a teacher. The overseer delivered orders concerning me. When he left the teacher rather arrogantly bid me sit with the children, much to their amusement.

  The days of school were followed with intensive, one- on- one instruction each night. The instructor had apparently been told to teach me quickly, and this he did.

  The language was not particularly difficult. It was logical and easy to pronounce. I have always felt it placed too much emphasis on verbs and on the use of tense, but if one stays with the present and maintains simplicity, the rudiments can be learned with relative ease. My instructor found teaching an adult a new and unpleasant experience, but he worked as hard as his student, and within ten days I could speak as well as a bright five year old. I advanced quickly from there.

  When my instructor determined I was sufficiently proficient, I was taken again to see Urak Rahdon. Rahdon, I had learned, was his name, specifically the name of his illustrious family. Urak was a title of honor much like referring to one as the Right Honorable and was only used when referring to the head of a distinguished and wealthy household.

  Urak Rahdon greeted me graciously as I was brought into his study. The weather had turned for the worse since we’d last met, the days becoming increasingly windy and cold. A charcoal fire burned in a brazier near his feet and he was wrapped in a chocolate colored cloak. The fields had not yet been harvested, so I thought this only a passing front and not winter’s onslaught.

  “Greetings, Urak Rahdon,” I replied, bowing deferentially. My master sat before me while I remained standing. Although I had been instructed in the attitude of the slave before his owner, I elected to act as I had before.

  “Ah, I see you are indeed able to speak. Well, at last, we can communicate. I became most curious concerning you when the overseer first informed me of your inability to speak our language. I fear you have been wronged but first tell me how you came to be here and of your life before. There is still time to set matters right if possible.”

  Few of my questions had been answered until then by my instructor, and no one had inquired about me or my story. I was relieved to tell it at last. When I finished he paused a moment before speaking.

  “I had suspected yours would be a fantastic story but I had no idea just how fantastic it would be; so strange as to be unbelievable. But what other explanation can there be? Of course, I had no way of knowing you were not of Doridia but then I knew when you did not speak the language and yet were literate in another, yours would be a most interesting tale.” He paused to sip from a gold goblet.

  “But surely, Urak, visitors from foreign lands are literate and speak other languages?”

  “No, Jon Hunter. You have much to learn. Ours is the only language known to man and Doridia the only land that exists. You are the only man I have ever heard of who spoke another language. It marked you, to say the least, as unusual. However, speculation as to your arrival and where you come from must be put aside until such time as we have more facts – if such a time ever comes. For now, you must deal with living here and as I feared, you have been wronged.”

  “In what way, Urak?”

  “You were made a slave. It is taught that each in life arrives at his rightful place, be that High Caste or Low, free or slave. Occasionally, a free man is born into the body of one who is or becomes a slave. When that occurs, it is taught, the good master must allow the free man to be released. Sometimes a slave is born as a free man. In time slavery will become his lot in life since slavery is the condition of life for which he was intended.

  “It is the same with one’s Caste. One truly of the Low Caste may be born into the High Caste. One knows it by his actions. If he behaves as one from the Low Caste than it becomes his station in life. Circumstances and men conspire to arrange it.

  “High Caste men can be born into the Low Caste just as well. The man’s actions, though, will speak of his higher nature and the accident of birth will correct itself. A man may then rise or fall to his true caste. I have known men who lived years in the wrong station of life but as our teachings tell us, each ultimately arrived at his true position.”

  The Urak stretched slightly. He lifted a carved bronze cup and sipped wine. “You are educated and it is quite obvious to me you are not a slave but are free. You behave as a free man and should not be a slave. That was a mistake. As the good master, I must correct this error.”

  “You mean you will free me?” I blurted, hardly able to believe my good fortune – if such it truly was.

  “Well, yes and no
. My overseer paid five silver coins for you. Business is, of course, business. Is it not so in your land?”

  “Well, I suppose for many, yes.”

  “But,” the old gentleman continued, “business need not be deaf to justice. Allow me then to propose a solution to your, or rather to our, problem. You are slave and should not be. I own you and should not. It is permissible for me to remain within the meaning of our teachings by simply selling you to another. Your new master might not recognize the free man within you, so he would not be in violation of the teachings by keeping you in slavery. These matters are, after all, of conscience. And in time, as you are intended to be free, you would find a means of attaining it.”

  A tight fist closed about my heart.

  “However,” he resumed, smiling benignly, “I know you to be a man meant to be free, trapped in the condition of slavery so I must right the situation since it is within my power to do so. I propose to free you at once. You must, of course, repay me my five silver coins plus the cost of maintaining you since my overseer purchased you. To ensure repayment you will sign a contract indenturing yourself to me for a period of three years. I will pay you the prevailing rate based upon the services you perform for me. At the end of the three years, your debt is paid and the contract fulfilled. Should you acquire the five silver coins, plus, say an additional three for your keep and tutoring to date, you may, for that amount and a reasonable interest rate, purchase your contract. I think this is fair. What think you?”

  I had listened intently to all he had said. Actually, considering that the man could keep me in slavery for the rest of my life, he was being generous. How fortunate for me that I had been sold to a follower of their teachings.

  “Your proposal, Urak, is generous and I gladly accept your terms.”

  “Fine, fine, then you are now free. The smith will remove your collar and we’ll tend to the ceremonial crushing of it beneath my heel and to the signing of contracts later. Now, as to work. I must place you in the proper Guild and Caste; we can’t have you running around not belonging to one. That wouldn’t do at all. Let’s see now, what was it you said you did before coming here, a soldier was it?”

  “Yes, Urak. I was the lowest form of officer in a military organization that sailed the ocean.”

  “Well, we don’t have anything like that here, and it would hardly do to make you an officer. But if that’s what you are, than you will find a means of achieving it.” He smiled assuredly. “Most difficult, you not having any letter of recommendation but then considering circumstances that would be asking too much.” He cleared his throat and took another sip of wine. “I think for now, we will train you to be a man- at- arms or rather, Seker, as they prefer to be called these days. I have few enough of them as it is. And you have the advantage of prior experience. You have the size for it and soldiering is, after all, soldiering, even allowing for slight differences in weapons.”

  I did not share his conviction but held my silence.

  “Yes, that will do nicely, I think,” he continued. “Given a certain proficiency and

  dedication you will create the opportunity through which you may rise to your intended station. Well, we must speak again. For now, the overseer will tend to the details. We will speak again.”

  With that I was dismissed and led from my former master’s study to the smith, who removed my metal collar. This was later crushed as tradition dictated and my contract of service signed, after which my training as a Seker began.

  I was to learn in the next few days that Urak Rahdon had been generous with me. Few men of wealth honored their conscience as he, if indeed they had one at all. I came to hope that in his service, I might find the opportunity to return the generosity.

  I was quartered that night alone, apart from the slaves and free men. With the dawn, I was to leave for the walled city of Taslea.

  3. JOURNEY TO TASLEA

  I watched the brilliant sun rise above the low, forest covered hills bordering the eastern edge of the valley, the shadows appearing abruptly, stretched across the land. The cultivated land was streaked by the flaming blaze of dawn in a colorful panoramic scene. It was, I thought, the loveliest dawn of my life.

  Through the valley haze I could see a river flowing slowly in the distance, the land sloping gently down towards it. This region of the river’s basin was a pleasant pastoral scene, washed in the previous days by the recurring showers of the front which had lingered, damp and misty before passing on the previous night, the final day of my slavery.

  Ahead, dominating the valley, stood the walled city of Taslea. An aqueduct ran to it from the mountains, held aloft by enormous round arches set in tiers. The highway which led me there was meticulously constructed of massive stone slabs and ran in a straight line, impervious to the natural lay of the land just as the roads of ancient Rome had. But once again I was reminded that this was not Rome nor any part of the Earth I knew or had ever studied. This was Doridia and this dawn I marched by order of the Urak Rahdon with two Sekers from the villa to the city before me.

  Stout oxen pulled brilliantly colored carts and husky farmers carried loads upon their shoulders crowding the roadway even at this early hour. Those traveling from Taslea passed to my right, the traffic almost obsessively orderly and polite. We three were given a wide respectful berth. Armed men of any era are not to cross lightly.

  Strangers did not address one another, and this along with other behavior I had observed at the villa served to reinforce the impression I had previously formed that Doridians tended to respect one’s privacy. This characteristic suited me perfectly, considering my present circumstances.

  The night before, laying alone as I had, I was able to reflect at last on my present circumstances. From all appearances, I was still on Earth. People looked and behaved in familiar ways. The sun and moon rose and set as before. Most of the livestock I had seen was closely related to those with which I was accustomed. The domesticated crops, largely grain bearing, were unfamiliar but resembled wheat, rye and barley.

  One evening when I had been with the caravan, I had searched the heavens in vain, hoping for some clue to my predicament. I saw few familiar constellations but was able to establish that I was in the southern hemisphere.

  The only conclusion I could reach about my fate was that I had been thrown into a parallel world or possible into the distant past of my own Earth, to a culture and people long lost. I had no means apparent to me of knowing which. In either event, it made no difference. Whatever unlikely circumstances had conspired to hurtle me to this strange land it was improbable they would ever meet again to return me. This new world or time, whichever it may be, was now mine and it was up to me alone to make the best of it.

  My companions had introduced themselves as Ctesias and Koptos. They were amiable enough fellows in their early twenties and had been in the Urak Rahdon’s service several years. They had been assigned to the villa for the previous month and now returned to the Urak’s primary residence within the walled city.

  Ctesias was a short, swarthy man with an outgoing disposition and a generally light hearted approach to life. His friend, Koptos, was taller, though not as tall as I, a bit lean and of a more reserved nature. From all appearances, they were hearty friends.

  They had come for me that morning and we had departed following a plain breakfast of gruel, a small loaf of coarse bread, onions and watered wine. The meal was far better fare than I’d had as a slave.

  The two men chatted constantly. A pleasantly built farm lass coming from the city covered her mouth and giggled as she eyed Ctesias, the Seker smiling broadly and made a well-received, mildly obscene joke. In good spirits he turned to me and said, “Of what city are you, stranger?”

  I stammered for a moment, uncertain of what to say. The Urak Rahdon had given me no instructions and so I was left to my own uncertain devices. “From no city really,” I replied, hesitantly. “I come from a land across the ocean.” This, I thought, would be a safe enough explana
tion.

  “What do you take us for?” Ctesias exclaimed. “Fools? There is nothing beyond the sea. The world beyond Doridia is a flat, watery waste. Sail too far and you fall off the edge of the world.”

  Actually the state of scientific knowledge in Doridia was considerably more advanced than Ctesias’s statements led me to believe, but he was, after all, a poorly educated, if quite efficient Seker and his thinking reflected the common beliefs of many.

  I decided that I had a great deal to learn before I started conversing freely. I mumbled a reply and determined to keep my mouth shut as much as possible in the future.

  Ctesias said something to Koptos about strangely accented newcomers from distant cities who did not have a lick of common sense and thought everyone else were fools. Koptos nodded his head in agreement.

  I turned my attention to the metropolis before us – for such it appeared from my perspective. Actually, I learned later its population was only about one hundred thousand with a surrounding farmer population of perhaps another hundred thousand, but it was nevertheless quite impressive with its massive fifty foot stone walls, spires jutting even higher into the blue sky capped with pennants snapping in the cool, morning breeze. I was reminded of the walls of Troy, though these were coral in color. The entire city was constructed of various shades of the stone and on a later afternoon with a clear sky the sun set the city ablaze.

  Taslea was only one of many such city- states, though arguably the loveliest. For the most part, it was self- sufficient but there were items that had to be imported, and given human nature, there were always objects desired which could not be produced locally. For this reason caravans journeyed forth each spring from the cities and plied their trade, city to city, purchasing in one that which could be sold at a profit in another. The caravan season lasted until the winter snows and it had been on just such a caravan that I had been brought to Urak Rahdon’s villa for sale.