The Nameless Slave

by Vitaly Zykov

  «Idiot!!! To get caught so stupidly! You saw people… Happy as a ram: you saw people and opened your mouth! Blockhead!!!» – The inner voice was very self-critical.

  Yaroslav quickly scanned the condition of his body. Thus, there were two bruises, his eyebrow was broken like an overripe melon (and its size matched!), and there was a huge goose-egg on his head. It looked like something had hit him into his head, but the eyebrow was smashed against the ground while falling. Yaroslav even vaguely remembered something like that. There was nothing critical, all that will recover itself, without magic, but the situation with his hands and feet was more interesting. Extremely strong ropes tightly tied his limbs. In fact, he was swaddled like a baby, only his head was free. Yaroslav tried to strain his stiff muscles, but eerie ringing in his head made him believe in futility of such attempts. At this point a sharp cry, addressed to him, revealed the cause of this strange ringing: somebody had hit Yaroslav into his ear.

  – Well, I'll show you, scum, how to beat prisoners, – drawled Yaroslav, slowly turning his head to his abuser, but froze on meeting his eyes.

  Before him stood a fair-skinned, arrogant man of human race, with a hairy shirtless torso. Small eyes of the executioner, his bushy eyebrows, wide nostrils like of a gorilla, his fleshy lips framing mouth with stinking breath – this incomplete list of face features (even not face but snout!) aroused antipathy in Yaroslav. However, the slap in the ear was the ultimate factor in his attitude towards this man; the slap which judging by his raised hand, was not the last!

  And Yaroslav afraid of pain. Not that he was suffering now, it was a trifle, but the pain that could follow the beating. The terrible tension previously sheltered with layers of his will, surfaced only at the first meeting with the human tribe, burst outward.

  He had endured much in this world. Waterfalls of pain spilled at him in all his reluctant wanderings, but he never felt the same. The feeling of emptiness. He had lost hope, had lived in the present day, with no past and no future, he was a man doomed to loneliness… Then this hopeless man, met people of his own kind, and… fate presented him a new surprise. These people, his hope and his salvation, took him prisoner. And Yaroslav dived into the depths of his «I», trying to merge with the beast mask, acquired in the creepy Forest wilds. The mask blocked him from horror of reality. A Beast stood before his jailers. Death itself was staring now from the eyes of the man, helpless before, at a fan of beating defenseless captives.

  For Yaroslav it was the highest peak of merge with the new face of his ego. A hoarse half-roar or half-cry, causing painful vibration in eardrums and he made a lightning-like strike with his head. His forehead rushed forward in one smooth fluid stroke, growing from conjoint movement of all the tied body, and met with the executioner's nose. A quiet crunch, and the thin nose bone, we can say, gently entered into the brain of the monster in human form. Dark dots of blood splashes decorated Yaroslav's cheeks. And at once agitated voices wailed around. It turned out that there were other people around, whom the prisoner had not seen before, at first because of a kind of stupor, and then because of rage.

  Hardly had the guard or jailer fallen on the floor, when Yaroslav turned towards the voices. His consciousness absently fixed the environment: cloth walls, skins on the floor, dim light from the fire in the center – Yaroslav was in some marquee. Besides him there were four people and one dead. Yaroslav killed one of the guards, but the other two remained on feet. And they all looked like brothers. Except the guards in the tent there were two other men, judging by their manners, accustomed to command. The first and the main was the man with the saber, who had tricked Yaroslav. He had imperious gestures, abusive smile and a pose of saber-toothed cat ready to attack. Beside him stood an old man. Wrinkled, very old human face, yellow parchment skin, lifeless dots of whitish eyes gleaming ugly in the dim light, and fierce, still young and emitting Force, aura of a fighter, accustomed to subdue and control magic. Urgs shamans looked like helpless snotters against this old man.

  Yaroslav saw all that in one second, but could not take any action. He was literally buried under the bodies of the two guards. While falling he considerably hit his head on the floor, which, judging by the sound, turned out to be wood covered with skins. The massive bodies of the men, accustomed to plentiful feed, nailed him to the floor stronger than chains. And right the next moment the man with the saber and the old one were near. Strong, incredibly tenacious fingers of the first man squeezed Yaroslav's head securing it in one position. The old man, muttering something under his breath, pulled a small vessel, uncorked it, and pinched Yaroslav's nose with his two fingers. The stunned prisoner, lost control, opened his mouth and got a huge dose of some poison from the vessel. Viscous liquid resembling mucus, with nasty taste slipped into his gullet. And as if a volcanic eruption began in his stomach. Severe, burning pain was spreading throughout his whole body. But Yaroslav resisted. He fell into Sat'tor and as usual attempted to clean his blood with streams of cleansing magic.

  The old man looking like a shaman, began to shout short phrases in guttural language so similar to the language that Yaroslav had heard from Tarks.

  – Ghordymlorr! Bardyg suom! – Screamed the old man, making passes with his hands.

  Professionalism and years of experience were felt in his confident movements. Only slightly confused, surprised look of the arrogant man who was holding the prisoner's head, was showing that there were some problems in the rite.

  An artful weavings of alien magic entangled Yaroslav's mind, restricting his freedom. But his mind was protected from such influence with his own spell cast in Urgs' steppe. This was the only thing which had saved him from total enslavement, but even so he failed to keep his mind completely clear. Alien Art beat the brute Force. The mysterious rite continued…

  – What an interesting young man! – Said the old shaman during a brief rest. – It's the first time I've met such kind of protection. He's unconscious, but his mind still unavailable!

  – Is he a magician?! – The man with imperious manners, son of the leader of twenty tribes, showed some concern. – Suppression may not work?

  The tired old man wiped his brow and sighed briefly:

  – He is neither a magician nor an intuitionist, as these highborn bastards in Nold say! It looks like he is just charmed. I do not feel Source in him. So it will work, I just can't make a puppet of him, esteemed master Darg. I'll put a collar of suppression on him, it will fence off his Source, if it's only hidden (though I don't know how it could be done!). We should not expect more. In an open duel of will against will, I could possibly do something… otherwise I can only to incinerate his mind…

  – Wait! What are you talking about, oldman?! We have shortage of slaves, and father has promised a hundred heads to Steward! Each prisoner is just as a gift of Jurga. And you're talking about a puppet! I don't need one. Don't bend my ear!

  The old shaman glanced furiously:

  – Master promised me one slave for experiments! This one is quite suitable!

  The man called Darg, twitch his mouth contemptuously:

  – You'll get one next time. A bondslave with a story is more valuable, then just a bondslave. And the story of this one is worthy even for Steward. Father may decide to present him as a special gift. Steward's collection of curiosities will get a new gem!

  – Well, can I ask to perform, at least, some experiments? – There was not a drop of piety in the old man's cold tone.

  – You can, – graciously nodded Darg, who hardly coped with desire to put his hand on the hilt of his saber. – Of course, you can! It's necessary to teach him language, anyway! Have you heard him shouting in goblins language?

  – Surely their fosterling!

  – Has it ever happened before? – Curiosity in Darg's voice was genuine.

  – About a hundred years ago. The same kid got out from Trolls and came to us. My teacher told me that it was interesting to work with him. – The shaman snuffled sullenly, then continued, – bu
t he never told me about such defense.

  – How did he get there? – Darg continued questioning, ignoring the broad hints.

  – Well, from the cursed waters of the Dark Ocean. The True mages often send expeditions there… Irritate gods and spirits, constantly looking for something, while ships keep sinking. Once, almost the whole crew of one ship survived. Then they were passing through the Forest. Only the captain's son of twelve years old survived, he was picked up by goblins. In those days they still organized forays into the Forest, looking for their Ryrga… So our man came from there too.

  – But his defense, where did he get it?!

  – There are a lot of things in the Forest. An in Zaarr'h'dorr even more. – At the last words shaman did a gesture averting evil spirits.

  Arrogant Darg, paled a little, and repeated the same gesture.

  – Has he passed through the land of dead spirits?! – Fear and curiosity broke through the mask of aloofness on Darg's face. – Steward will surely be interested in this. A real luck!

  – Well, I think so. He is not of our blood. But I can't get into his memory – it's closed.

  – How?!

  – I already said: he has an interesting defense. His mind is kinked, as if the Force has turned inside out and overwound all the streams of vitality. Jurga himself could learn nothing from him!

  – Well, but I think, Steward will be interested in that, in any case! – Previous cold arrogance returned to Darg. – Continue the rite. – Darg stood up and nodded to the guards. – Remove this loser!

  They bowed humbly, lifted the corpse and loudly stomping came out after master Darg. The old shaman remained with the prisoner alone. And no one could hear his mumbling any more.

  – Greenhorn… You forget that you're the fifth son of your father, not the first. And great Sohog only needs one heir. – The old man turned back to the paralyzed, motionless prisoner. – You possess so many secrets, that I want to tear from you with your flesh! – A predatory grin bloomed on the shaman's face like a deadly flower. – And I'll put a chain on you lest you thrash about, when you wake up!

  The last words were accompanied by an unpleasant chuckle. Having laughed, the angry oldman took a brush from a pouch on his belt, moistened it in a jar with red liquid, and began to draw strange signs on the prisoner's neck. The wriggling of these lines could mesmerize any outside observer, but the old shaman was not an outside observer. He had the right not only to possess these signs, but to apply them. And that was allowed to very few men!

  Finally, he sighed with satisfaction and put the brush aside. Red signs formed a drawing collar around the neck. The shaman sat on his heels, and rhythmically swaying, began to sing the spell in a dead language. The signs, flickering with hungry gleam, began to penetrate into the skin, like burrowing mites. It lasted for long, long time. Near the end of the spell the old man's voice began to tremble, almost broke, but the shaman coped. Finishing and clearing his throat, he took an old, even ancient bone knife and began to make straight cuts on the neck exactly repeating the signs.

  Some time later this work was completed too. There was already a small pool of blood under the lying prisoner. The shaman was pleased, that he had remembered to pull out skins from under the prisoner.

  – Perfect. Just perfect! – Said the old man, and carefully pulled out an iridescent thin chain of fine work from the bag, from which he had previously pulled the brush. – Your time has come, my precious! You will be very suitable for this frisky pal! – The old man's lips parted in a malicious smile, baring his yellow teeth. – Let our precious lie in the blood!

  His skilled hands neatly laid the chain in the puddle of blood. There was a sucking sound, and the puddle size began to wane sharply.

  – My clever precious! Excellent work! – Shaman's look reminded a look of a grandfather, gazing at an enthusiastically working grandson.

  The chain changed its color. It was as if the red color of rainbow had grown and consumed all the others. That's exactly what happened with the chain. Then, having acquired saturated bloody color and shine, the chain lying motionless, softly clinked. The old man gently lifted it from the floor and put it on his palm. The ends of this spooky decoration hung lifelessly from edges of the dry senile palm. The old man stretched his hand over the prisoner and sang a new spell. The sounds of the spell were clicking and unpleasant. Continuing his song, the shaman began to wrap the prisoner's neck with this terrible decoration. Its length was just enough for two turns. The spell finished. Muttering something under his breath with satisfaction, the shaman clicked the latch. And at the same time a sharp cramp twisted the previously immovable body.

  – Phew, I did it! – The old man's trembling showed that it was not so easy. – Only one simple thing left.

  The chain like a predatory snake continued to twist around Yaroslav's neck. The old shaman took a piece of hard leather from the pouch on his belt, wrapped it over the chain. The ends of the leather strip converged just below the chin of the lying man, and it had no fasteners. The old man took off a bone figure on an old greasy rope from his own neck and began to swing it over the neck of the prisoner, whispering something under his breath. Jagged ends of the collar flinched and twitched towards each other. They moved and trembled and a rough seam began to form at the place of their junction right in front his eyes. Done! A solid leather collar sat firmly on the neck now. But the old man moved his lips with displeasure and shouted something imperative. The bone figure warmed noticeably in his hand and the rough seam melted and floated. Now it was impossible to find the place of joint.

  The shaman sighed with satisfaction and took out another bottle from the folds of his clothing. He pulled out the deep seating cork with a knife and dripped four times on the collar. And waves of metamorphoses ran through the tough skin of the collar. The hidden chain began to stir, trying to escape. It failed, but wisps of reddish smoke rose from under the collar, covering the prisoner's neck with smoke ring. The shaman proudly gasped and clapped his hands imperiously. And immediately the ring flashed with flare and sound of ripping canvas.

  Once the shaman returned ability to see normally, he saw a beautiful collar made of red leather on the captive's neck. Its edges were trimmed with maroon thin chains. The rite was successfully completed. A slave collar firmly encircled the prisoner's neck.

  – My best work! – The shaman gently fingered the collar ring. The next sentence was turned to Yaroslav, who still had not come around: – Wear it in good health.

  He scrambled to his feet, straightened his crooked back, and came out of the tent.

  Yarik came to his senses, but not very soon. He felt as if he was drowning in a muddy slough all along, as if he was straining ever nerve, tearing his sinews in terrible tension, but still drowning in dark water. A nightmare! And in that moment, when the water was to penetrate into his lungs, he woke up, opened eyes and looked at the cloth ceiling with strange shadows from the half-open door playing on it. Yarik promptly jumped and saw that he was free. It was strange, considering the events preceding his compelled sleep. Some worry like a thorn sat somewhere in the depths of his soul, but he had not taken this into account – there were more important problems. Yaroslav found a new «decoration» on his neck.

  – I did not order this! – said Yarik groping the collar in search of fasteners. – How did they put it on me?!

  But there was no fastener. His hands felt only soft skin and thin metal chains on the edges of this unexpected decoration. Yarik lost patience and tried to rip off this hated leather band, but nothing happened. He swore in Urgs language, stepped towards the door and yelled from sudden pain which pierced every cell of his body. He stumbled and fell on the skins.

  – I see you're already awake! – The creaking voice of the old man came from above. He was speaking in Urg.

  – Where am I?! Who are you and what do you want?! – The pain subsided with every word.

  – Oh, oh. We do not understand the situation. – Blatant mockery scratc
hed the man's ears. – We even dare to ask something!.. Stand up, kord[29]!

  The voice lashed like a whip. Yarik did not know what the word «kord» meant, but he felt that it was an insult. Leaping to his feet, he looked at the man, who turned out to be the already familiar shaman, and growled:

  – Calm down, old man! Or I'll kill you! – His own recent defeat was already forgotten.

  – Uh, you need to learn again and again… – The old man was visibly pleased. Saying this phrase, he shook his finger, and stood still expectantly.

  And Yarik forgot the old man: the pain fell upon him with renewed vigor. Yarik clenched his teeth, and with great difficulty holding on his feet, fought, refusing to give up.

  – A unique case. It's amazing, – the old shaman continued reasoning like a proficient experimenter. – Few people are able to resist against a kord's collar, but against a Dark collar tied with blood… You are a strong man, very strong.

  At this point Yarik still broke down and fell. His mind tried in vain to break the shackles of pain. His consciousness lunged to the hidden Source, but met a wall, an alien wall in his own mind. That was the thing bothering him before. He became a prisoner of invading alien magic. Now he had no chance to fight, and pain did not subside, threatening to smother the fire of life in his body. Meanwhile, the shaman continued: