Gorgoroth

by Michael Karr

  The princess thought she detected a hunger in Kratin’s eyes. How it must test his self-restraint...to be so close to the object of his desire with so little to stand in his way, and not reach out and grab it. Kratin would be a fool to attempt any treachery with Razain Du Kava near. The man was a full detachment of warriors, all rolled into one. The empress herself, no less of a mighty warrior. No, Kratin would have to use cunning if he wished to betray the empress.

  “You inquire after my plans,” said the empress. “They go according to my design. Our soldiers are assembling and preparing to deploy, production in on schedule, and our little gift for Ahlderon should arrive shortly.”

  “Do you not think it unwise to put such trust in that traitor? Is it not he who betrayed our people and denied us Ahlderon before?”

  “I do not trust him. The sniveling lowlife poses no threat to me. He deceived us before, but never again. He has no power now. Ahlderon wants him dead. We want him dead. He has no safe harbor. I shall use him, just as he used us. And once he has served my purposes, I shall dispose of him.”

  “Verily well, Your Highness,” replied Kratin, apparently unconvinced.

  “Furthermore, I have intelligence that the prince brat has gone to hunt for his sister, with nothing more than a few pathetic bodyguards.”

  At this, Kratin’s stone-carved face cracked into a half smile. Then an unwholesome laugh burst from his lips. That same laugh was rejoined by his son. The empress merely smiled darkly.

  Eighteen

  Skylar woke with a start. The sound of gruff voices and squealing metal assaulted his ears. Had he actually been asleep?

  The tortuous confines of his cell had rendered him virtually incapable of falling asleep. The whole night he had drowsed, unable to lie down, to sit, to crouch. All he could do in that vertical coffin was stand.

  With bleary eyes, he tried to crane his neck and peer out through the grating above his head. He couldn’t see anything.

  “Time for the preparations already?” said Skylar’s neighbor, who Skylar had learned was named Witum.

  “Preparations?” responded Skylar in a half-daze.

  “You’ll see.”

  Soon, Skylar made sense of the ruckus. The slave wardens were pulling people from their cells. A realization which brought both relief and distress. Mostly relief. He didn’t think he could bear another minute in his cell. When the guards arrived to yank him out, he welcomed it. As soon as his legs touched the grated floor, he collapsed to his knees.

  “Oh, no ya don’t” growled one of the wardens.

  Skylar felt the thin lip of a flask forced between his teeth, and a warm liquid filled his mouth. Too exhausted to resist, Skylar swallowed the foreign substance. The warmth quickly spread through his body, all the way to the ends of his toes. The wardens lifted him back onto his feet, and he found that the strength to stand had returned to his legs.

  The wardens hauled him over to a queue of other slaves. He heard the clanking of metal behind him and sensed someone’s presence.

  “Is that you, Witum?” he whispered, with his head slightly turned to one side.

  “I wish it were someone else, but yes it is I.”

  Skylar tried to look ahead of him for any sign of Endrik, Grüny, or Kendyl. He saw none of them. They must be somewhere nearby, he reasoned. He took some comfort, though, in being near his new friend—however odd a character he was. Witum broke all of Skylar’s opinions about the Tors and their slave traders. The man was neither coarse nor cruel. From what Witum had told Skylar the night before, the man never enjoyed slave trading. He wasn’t good at it either. Which he attributed to his current unfortunate situation. Witum’s career choices had been limited. Warrior or slave trader. He chose the one he disliked the least. Too much fighting and killing here, Witum had said, it sickens me.

  It sickened Skylar too. But he felt glad to find at least one native of Gorgoroth who found fault with the ways of his people.

  There was a shout that Skylar did not understand, which echoed through that chamber of slave holdings. The tone was one of command. In response, the line started moving forward, prodded along by the metal-pronged staffs of the slave wardens.

  “Thus begin the preparations,” said Witum.

  Skylar didn’t have to wait long to understand the meaning of that statement. Just like the day before, when they were bathed and tagged in preparation for being auctioned off, now came even more preparations. In a large chamber, populated only with male slaves, the humiliation began. First, dark makeup was applied around their eyes and onto their lips. Then their hair was shorn down to nearly just the skin of their heads. Their coarse robes were exchanged for loose-fitting short trousers, which Skylar found utterly ridiculous. No clothes were given them to cover their upper torso. Likewise, their feet were left unshod.

  After the makeup application, Skylar ceased looking around for Endrick and Grüny. He neither wished to be seen by his companions nor wished to see them in such a degrading state. Witum, who turned out to be a tall bony fellow with curly black hair, looked so repulsive that Skylar felt certain that the former slave trader would end up in the worst possible situation.

  Finally, they were forced to perform muscle strengthening exercises. This, Witum told Skylar, was to temporarily increase the appearance of their muscle tone. A simple trick to make the slaves look healthy and strong. If the slave traders wished their slaves to look healthy, Skylar thought, why didn’t they feed them, or give them a decent place to sleep? Hunger and fatigue made the physical exertion painfully difficult.

  The only difference Skylar noted in his lanky friend was that his olive-colored skin now glistened from perspiration.

  Having signaled the completion of the muscle toning, the slave wardens herded the whole lot of slaves into an enclosed yard. Skylar immediately recognized the ruddy dirt floor and stone walls. This was where Tanks had sold them to Rajar Koon. The yard teemed with even more life than before. A different sort of life, though. Instead of slave traders, eager to rid themselves of their goods and turn a nice profit, slave masters, hungry to buy fresh stock.

  The wardens lined Skylar and the other slaves in a row, facing out toward the mass of buyers. To their right, a short platform stood. With heavy chains and manacles, the guards fastened each slave to a small loop anchored in the ground. The manacles clung to their wrists and ankles like iron snakes. Skylar felt as though he would collapse under the weight of them.

  Just as the day before, an assortment of carts and wagons lay scattered about the yard. The cargo areas of many of these were covered with metal cages, like jails cells on wheels. The sight of them made Skylar squirm. He’d grown tired of being locked up, behind bars. A realization struck him that he’d never truly valued his freedom before Tanks and his men captured them. The ache he felt to be rid of fetters and guards was palpable. More than his own freedom, though, he wished for his companions’ freedom. How could he help them? Soon they would all likely be separated. Even now he didn’t know where these fiends held Kendyl.

  “Now comes the inspections,” whispered Witum from the corner of his mouth.

  Skylar had no time to respond before he found himself confronted by a burly man with sour face and rough hands. Without a word of warning, the man administered yet another physical examination. After this man finished, another replaced him and repeated the inspection—only after his own fashion. This went on and on, until Skylar felt bruised all over the constant prodding and poking

  At last, the inspections ended. Skylar had no idea how he had fared. Nor did he care.

  The crowd of buyers began congregating in front of the platform. Rajar Koon appeared from the far side of it. With arms held out wide and a broad smile, he addressed the crowd.

  “Welcome, friends,” he said, his voice booming across the courtyard.

  A sub-enthusiastic murmur hummed through the crowd.

  “As always, I’m proud to offer you the finest selectio
n of slaves in all of Gorgoroth. Today, however, I believe you’ll find the auctions particularly appealing. I have a special treat for you…all the way from Ahlderon.”

  To this, the crowd immediately responded with hoots and hollers of approval. Rajar Koon waved his hands in mock disapproval.

  “Not yet,” he said, with obvious satisfaction. “Muscle before beauty. So, as to not make you wait any longer than necessary, let the auctioning begin.”

  Rajar Koon’s talk seemed to have its desired effect. The mood of the crowd of buyers had transformed, from cool and calculating, to delighted and eager—perfect conditions to boost their bids.

  Skylar knew all too well who Rajar Koon referred to when he spoke of the special treat. All the way from Ahlderon. It could be no one else but Kendyl. He felt himself pulling at the chains holding his wrists, felt his teeth grinding together. The only consolation this news brought him was that Kendyl must still be nearby. He might see her once more. Though, what good it would do her, he didn’t know.

  There was some movement on the platform. Skylar looked up to see one of the male slaves, escorted by two wardens, walking toward the center of the platform. Almost immediately, the bidding commenced in a chaotic exchange between a rapid-talking auctioneer and the shouting crowd.

  “You see that fellow over there,” said Witum, from Skylar’s side, “the one with the mop of a beard and the metal bands on his forearms?”

  Skylar scanned the crowd until he found a man who matched the description.

  “He’s the chief huntsman for an eccentric teryleum baron. The Baron likes to hunt slaves for sport.”

  Skylar involuntarily grimaced.

  “And that man over there,” went on Witum. “The one with the long neck and white coat. He’s the head eunuch for the haram of the Marquis du Rainarke. We obviously don’t need to worry about him. He’s only after…ah, yes…perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned the Marquis.”

  It was too late. Skylar knew this man would be after someone like Kendyl. He stared at the man with loathing.

  “There could be others,” Witum hastily added, “who could be interested in her. That mellow character with the golden-fringed hat…he buys slave girls to wait on his mistress—some countess, whose name escapes me. And that one next to him, he buys workers—both male and female—for various factory labor. You could end up together!”

  Despite Witum’s attempt to light a spark of hope inside Skylar failed. Skylar felt only ominous.

  Witum continued to chatter on about the various other buyers. From the way he talked, he knew most of them. There were buyers who wanted slaves for mining, for quarrying, for harvesting, for fighting, and a myriad of other purposes. Skylar only half heard what Witum was saying, though. His eyes kept flitting back to the eunuch in the white jacket.

  Cheers and applause suddenly erupted from the crowd. The man on the platform had been sold. Skylar recognized the buyer as one Witum spoke of, but failed to remember what sort of master or operation he represented. Something uninteresting. His concern over this man and his fate quickly dispersed from him as he saw the next auction item striding across the platform. Endrick.

  After making a few brisk comments about Endrick—namely that he was Ahlderion, the auctioneer commenced the bidding.

  Skylar watched the whole affair without breathing. Endrick sparked a fair amount of enthusiasm from the crowd. The bidding reflected this enthusiasm, with as many as a dozen bidders all vying for him. Slowly, the number of bidders tapered off, until only two remained. One Skylar remembered as the chief huntsman, whose master hunted slaves, and the other as the slave master for a man who owned several mines. Skylar prayed that the chief huntsman would not win. Yet something in the chief huntsman’s bearing told Skylar he would have Endrick, whatever the price.

  The bidding grew higher. Skylar did not know how high. The currency of this planet was as foreign to him as the people’s acceptance of human slavery. Both bidders bid with determination and confidence. In the end, however, the chief huntsman won. Skylar’s heart fell.

  Sold as a slave to be hunted.

  Skylar couldn’t read Endrick’s face. His expression was inscrutable. To Skylar, he looked almost indifferent. Perhaps it was Endrick’s pride he saw—something the First Knight kept well hidden. He wished to warn Endrick, to let him know the danger he soon would face. It was useless, though. What could Endrick do if he knew? Knowing would not change his fate. Still, he longed to speak with Endrick, if only for a moment.

  Two wardens hauled Endrick off the stage, and another slave replaced him. Skylar did not know this slave either. The bidding commenced and ended without Skylar registering any of what happened. His thoughts still clung to Endrick.

  Shall I lose everyone I care about?

  The slaves on the platform came and went in a blur. Before he knew what was happening, Skylar found himself being unchained and dragged toward the platform. Whether he walked to the center of the platform, or the wardens placed him there, he couldn’t be sure. He stood, looking down at the crowd of slave buyers, people herders. He saw their faces, some with smirks of derision; others with cold indifference. He stared out at them, knowing he ought to fear, but unable to feel it. Instead, he felt numb, unable to process his plight.

  The bidding began and ended in a blink. Or so it felt to Skylar. Again he felt the rough hands of the wardens moving him, prodding him off the platform, into the charge of his new master. Shaking off the cloud over this mind just long enough to get a look at his buyer, he realized it was not one of the men Witum had told him about. Or if Witum had told him, Skylar didn’t remember. All the better, he thought. If Endrick didn’t know his fate, Skylar didn’t deserve to know his either.

  The slave master placed a massive hand around Skylar’s neck and forced him into the back of one of the caged carts. As Skylar tumbled onto the floor of the cart, he heard the iron bars slam shut behind him, followed by the reluctant click of a rusty lock.

  Skylar watched with growing despondency the remainder of the auction. Witum was sold to the huntsman, the same who purchased Endrick. Four other slaves eventually joined him in the cart. Winnings of the same master who purchased Skylar. Then came Grüny’s turn to stand on the auction block. His appearance brought instant laughter from the crowd. Not friendly laughter. Not menacing laughter. The laughter of those who all know what’s coming. There was some unspoken agreement in the crowd’s response. Skylar gripped the iron bars, remembering Tanks’ warning.

  Grüny let out a few curses at the crowd. This only spurred their mirth.

  Before the auctioneer even raised his voice to commence the bidding, a shout rang out from the crowd.

  “I’ll give you two thousand for that hunk of meat.”

  Meat.

  Skylar’s blood ran cold at this reference.

  He readily recognized the man who made the bid. The head chef of General Karíknof. According to Witum, the man didn’t buy slaves to help in the kitchen. He remembered what Witum told him the night before about overweight slaves. He shivered.

  The auctioneer asked for other bids. Skylar prayed again that there would be someone. But the crowd was already laughing. Soon, the auctioneer gave up.

  Sold to the head chef.

  Sold for meat.

  Skylar sank back onto the floor of the cart. All was lost. His friends were as good as dead, and he possessed no power to save them—no power to even save himself.

  The remainder of the male slaves sold, and Rajar Koon returned to the platform to announce the transition from male to female slaves. News which elicited applause from the crowd of buyers. Despite Skylar’s dejection, he sat up again, and attentively watched all the proceedings. Not for the interest of the poor creatures, but because of Kendyl. His one last chance to see her. His last hope that she might be spared an ignominious fate.

  The crowd’s energy amplified by an order of magnitude as the bidding commenced. To them it was a show, ente
rtainment—not merely business. Many of the girls were dressed to give them a show, to excite the men’s carnality. Often the girls would dance or sing to show they possessed talents, qualities beyond mere beauty alone. The exploitation, the skimpy outfits meant to enhance their female figure—they all made Skylar want to look away in shame.

  Some of the girls were too old, too young, or too homely for such exposure. These wore more modest attire and attracted the attention of buyers needing field or factory works, or serving wenches.

  Rajar Koon returned to the platform. Skylar looked around in bewilderment. Had he missed her? Where was she? Surely, Rajar Koon’s appearance signaled the end of the auction, the final slave sold.

  “My friends,” said Rajar Koon, with greater joviality than before. The auctions must have yielded high profits. He looked drunk, inebriated with his own lucre.

  “My friends,” he repeated, “I’ve enjoyed watching your enthusiasm today. We’ve had much merriment. And many of you will leave here better equipped than when you came.”

  A chuckle of ascent spread through the crowd.

  “But,” he went on, “I promised you a special treat. So, I hope there are a few pieces of gold left in your purses.”

  With that, Rajar Koon departed the platform, and Kendyl stepped up, escorted by a single warden.

  At first, Skylar did not recognize her. None other, though, had such hair that blazed like fire when struck by the sunlight. It flowed freely about her bare shoulders, in brilliant contrast to her soft pale skin, and the shimmering silver gown draped over her body. The dress, though less revealing that the scanty get-ups worn by some of the others, was by no means modest. The material of the dress was difficult to make out. It reflected the light like a million specks of plated silver. It was obvious she did not feel comfortable wearing it.

  Skylar grieved to see her so exposed, so flaunted.

  The crowd delighted in her visage. They called and hollered and whistled and cheered. They bid her dance or sing. Kendyl only stood there, cowering like a frightened child, her face red and her eyes glistening with bated tears.