The Nameless Slave

by Vitaly Zykov

He definitely remembered how after manipulation with the damned spell he fell fast asleep. Good gods! Here Yarik understood that he was looking in some unusual, wrong way. The height, the height was the matter! He used to look from his height of six feet and two inches, but now he was about five yards above the ground. And moreover, where are his arms, legs and other body parts? Maybe his mind had left the mortal body again, and seized by unknown winds was lifted up on this damn hill? But the last time the feeling of leaving the body had been quite different. Now it seemed to Yarik that he was looking in a mirror which showed him an image, turning it, adjusting to the wishes of the owner.

  – What a bullshit! – Yarik spat, or rather, tried to spit, but due to the absence of his body, he failed.

  He hung slightly away from the illfated site where the dragon had so persistently tried to sacrifice him to unknown forces. Everything there remained almost unchanged: all the same cracked black stone of the rock, gray dust around and the carcass of the dead dragon. But not exactly, the dragon had changed. Instead of the corpse there was only a dilapidated skeleton covered with skin broken in several places. It seemed that the dragon's skeleton had laid here for several centuries.

  «Well, the dead dragon, what's next?» – His inner voice interjected again.

  As if in response to this question, on the cracks of the rock where the ritual had been once performed, and where, as Yarik remembered, blood of the dragon had flowed, now emerged bluish lightnings, wriggling like snakes. Something wrong was happening, something very wrong. The number of the lightnings increased and increased. Now there was a whole crackling carpet covering the entire surface of the rock around the remains of Roshag. And when a certain limit was reached, energy balls began to grow from this carpet. It looked pretty nice. Here on crackling and swaying surface appeared a drop, here it grew a little, then it was gaining power and other drops appeared around. They also filled with power and like grains of iron dust attracting to a magnet, rushed towards the first major drop. A moment later, they merged into a single ball which had the size of a good nut. This process did not stop, and soon the ball had the size of a man's head. Whispering, bursting with evil power, it rushed toward the motionless bones. But on the strange carpet new balls were growing! A whole stream of such balls flew to the dragon's bones… and absorbed in this dead remains. Like a sponge absorbs water: the drops fell on the porous surface and sucked inside.

  A shiver ran over the skeleton. Yarik heard cracking of bones setting on their seats and rustling of the skin crumbling into the dust. A few seconds, and before his eyes appeared absolutely unhurt barebone of the dragon sparkling with dazzling whiteness. The balls ceased to fly, the carpet of lightnings was gone, but the movement continued. It seemed that the dragon bones were absorbing flesh of the rock. Where did the cracks and dust go? Gradually, the black stone turned into an even more black puddle of darkness, which sucked as if by a fire pump into the bones of what used to be a dragon before. Sparkling whiteness began to turn into some sort of vague, dirty-muddy gray. At the same time the bones themselves began to move more actively, they were as if flowing, there was a feeling that on the place where the dead dragon lay, now was a puddle of mud. This puddle swayed, crackled, ejected pseudopods, opened and immediately closed jaws. It was an eerie spectacle!

  But that did not last long either. At first, the black stone calmed down – a moment and the waving oily surface turned into cracked black stone again. The gray lump at the place of the dead body continued senseless swaying for a while, until something happened and the movement acquired a certain meaningful, hidden rhythm. Then a silhouette of a head appeared followed by the shoulders and finally the back, all tightened in film… and the movement stopped. Like a masterpiece of a madman sculptor stuck on the cliff top.

  Then came a long pause. Yarik already could not look without shudder at this figure which was causing inexplicable feeling of disgust. At this point, as if a veil was pulled off from the creature hiding under the gray film. The film had broken like an abscess, and displayed what was hidden under it. A frozen figure of unthinkable creature born from the dead skeleton stood before Yarik. Apparently, the remains of the outrageous dragon's bones had been reborn into THIS. A nightmarish spiked head with foot-long fangs protruding from its upper jaw, huge gaps of eye-sockets, short, but very dense body with four thick clawed paws, long bone tail with outgrowth in the form of a small head, and two bundles of small bones behind its shoulders.

  «Tut-tut», – said Yarik. Absolute implausibility of the events had affected his perception. Instead of fear he felt disgust towards to such a vile creature which abused concepts of beauty and grace by the only fact of its existence. Then something terrible happened. Life was breathed into this motionless statue, a creation of perverted, ill mind. The shoulders twitched, the tail moved, knuckles in «bags» behind the shoulders knocked, and the head began to turn. At this time, all Yarik's feelings were fixed on one place – the gaps of eye-sockets. There, in its dark depths, emerged life. Sparks of dark fire flared, turning into sloughs bubbling with darkness, ready to swallow a reckless soul in the very abyss. The motionless statue came to life.

  Yarik recoiled. The eyes of this unknown creature were looking directly at him. There came a hiss, the «bags» behind the shoulders turned into bundles of five-foot tentacles, with dark scimitars of claws on each. It could be compared with such a popular image among writers as a killing machine. But why a machine? Any machine, is a result of human genius, but any human creation even well-thought-out, always has some incompleteness, containing possibility for modifications and improvements. But here was a perfect being, a creature designed to kill. Not only designed, but existing for one thing – to sow death. The very primal Darkness gazed from behind the monster.

  The creature stood up right on its hind legs and gave a monstrous half-roar half-shriek, defying all living things. And in Yarik's mind appeared Roshag's familiar voice: «I'll find you, worm. I'll find you, and you'll curse that day. Wait for me, you dirt-born!».

  After these words the world before Yarik's eyes spun like a wild carousel, swapping sky and earth back and forth. Then a gray veil covered his consciousness.

  A beast opened its eyes: the world around was full of colors and unusual odors, rustling grass and branches. The beast wanted to hop and jump with delight and joy. The world was beautiful. It had prey with such warm, even hot blood, it had enemies to fight with. There was someone fluffy and warm with a wet nose, who smelled of milk and fresh meat and with whom it felt warm and good. But the beast had grown, and it was time to leave. It was sad…

  But there was a new world, and there was the beast. And the world was waiting for him. And there was The Big. He was somewhere far away. It was hard to feel him, but he was there. And it was just wonderful. It was a long run before the beast will find him, but he will, and then everything will be fine. It would be many enemies and many victories…

  A steel-gray body with short coat like a snake seeped through a narrow entrance from the hollow and like a mercury drop leaked on the ground. Occasionally lifting up its wedge-like head with beady eyes, as if tasting the air, the beast rushed to the east. Of course it did not know that that was east, but The Big was there, and that was enough.

  CHAPTER 20

  «It's time to get up! Slaves may not lie longer than their owners. I have to clean up the damned sixpaws, these bastards made a mess at night, for sure…» – the inner voice began to grumble as usual.

  Yarik opened his eyes and immediately closed them again, he was lying with his face toward the Border Mountains, and the sun was shining directly into his eyes through the wide cracks in the shield. Yarik jerked in displeasure, jumped forgetting where he was and his head strongly imprinted into the bottom of the wagon. There was a thud, and almost immediately curses and threats came from above. Dukan, who always loved to sleep, was lying just above Yarik, and the knock had broken his rosy dreams. Today Yarik had to be crafty if he did not want to get a little thr
eshing. The young slave untied knots and lifted the shield which hung between the wagon wheels. Slaves who slept under the wagons, were an additional protection: if some insidious enemies penetrated at night through these shields, they were guaranteed to stumble upon the sleeping men, so the slaves were something like an alarm. The longer Yarik lived among the savages the more he got amazed by their pragmatism.

  Getting out from under the wagon, he rushed to the box behind it and pulled out his tools: a shovel, a scraper and a tight bag. With the first two he had to collect all waste products of the master's sixpaw in the bag in the shortest time. During long stops they put the contents of these bags under pressure and dried it, turning this stuff into dry briquettes which burnt perfectly. And if you pour them from a special bottle, it even would not stink when burning! If Yarik remembered correctly, on Earth they called such briquettes kizyak.

  Yarik quickly filled the bag. He already had high proficiency in that. Though it was unpleasant, but if you do such work for months, you are able to achieve unprecedented professionalism.

  – Professional dung cleaner with a university education. Wow! – Still sleepy, Yarik was muttering curses under his breath.

  A moment later his sleepiness vanished: he remembered the last night and his nightmares. As for getting rid of the Dark collar, it was clear that would take many months. And considering the exhaustion… he had to find a way to improve his nutrition. Yarik listened to himself: he wanted to eat very, very much, but the rest did its job – his muscles were a little sore like after a heavy work.

  As for the nightmares, on the one hand, after such an exhausting fatigue he could dream even stranger things. On Earth, after emergency work over his diploma, he dreamed of such nonsense for a whole month! But on the other hand, before being kidnapped into this world, Yarik had nightmares too, and they also warned about the misfortunes ahead. But the last night's dream has gone far beyond those ones in its vividness and plausibility. It was very nasty and convincing.

  «I could expect something like that: if the fate is to beat you, it does it severely! Roshag is alive. Oh wow! However, this magic could bring any surprises. – Yarik froze on the spot near a sixpaw which was patiently waiting for cleaning. – And has a grudge against me, reptile! I'll find you – he had said to Yarik! Yes, it's just that you're going to have to look for me for a long time, not a month or two… By this time I need to break free and get away from here».

  By the very corner of his mind Yarik wondered his own tranquility. He had changed, became unlike what he used to be in his past life, he became excessively calm and self-possessed. In previous time, it had been different. And these changes could not be explained only by constantly overcoming obstacles and struggle for survival!

  Then he remembered the last dream, it was of a strange kind too. Against the backdrop of nightmare with reviving Roshag, this dream was unexpectedly pleasant. Kind and beautiful. As if Yarik settled into the body of a small but courageous animal, which had just left its hollow (or nest?) and departed in search for adventures and a mysterious The Big. Children have such dreams when they feel like characters of cartoons and wander with them in imaginary worlds. Yarik has long since been a child and the dream had no tinge of unreality… Even the smallest details were too clear, which give the dream a sense of reality and completeness. But what could he make out of that?..

  – You, slink of a roarer!!! – Yarik heard Darg's angry voice behind him and a violent pain twisted his body: his master had activated the collar. – Why isn't the sixpaw cleaned up yet and you're standing here and dreaming?! When we come to the other side of the mountains, you will be punished. – Master Darg said icily, turned and went to his tirr.

  Yarik swore under his breath: Darg did not waste words. And why was he standing with his mouth open, forgetting about work?! Needless to say, that the sixpaw was cleaned up within a few minutes. Never before had Yarik worked so fast.

  The whole camp began to move. People were in a hurry. Several riders on swift young tirrs headed towards the mountains: Darg had ordered to scout the road. People were hastily preparing wagons for further movement. They had to eat their breakfast on the move. Remembering his decision to eat better, Yarik hid his bread with a tiny piece of meat in the wagon. He remembered from a school course of whether anatomy or biology or even botany, where an old soviet teacher had told them, the young blockheads, about the highest level of digestion of thoroughly chewed food. Though that was a little thing, but he had to use all opportunities on the way to his freedom!

  Thus creating a nest egg for movement, Yarik rushed to help Dukan to harness the sixpaw. The cursed beast was stubborn again, shaking its shaggy head in protest and stamping its feet. If such thing stepped on you, it would make a serious injury!

  Finally, all preparations were completed and the wagons set off sticking to their pre-defined spots in the caravan. At this point, the scouts returned and rode up to the chief. Darg listened and waved his hand, allowing movement and sent his tirr forward by a light touch of laps.

  The wagons were moving for a few hours already. The Border Mountains filled almost the whole sky and that made Dukan unspeakably happy. From his few remarks Yarik realized that the tunnel was near.

  After a while their caravan changed the direction of motion. Now they were moving south along the foot of a rock rugged with crevices. Warriors were vigilantly looking for enemy and most of them expected an attack not from the sky but from the mountains. Yarik could hardly keep from asking how often the mythical masters had attacked passing caravans, but restrained himself. Such questions were not allowed for slaves!

  They had moved this way for a couple of hours, when Yarik got a strong feeling of alien watching. As if some needles were tingling in the back of his head, but he could not see anybody. And his sense of danger was silent. Apparently, the damn shaman had the same feeling too. He leaned out from the wagon and waved to a young warrior riding close to him. The warrior listened attentively to the old shaman and rushed somewhere to the end of the caravan. Soon he reappeared together with the chief. Darg talked with the shaman and nodded. During their conversation, both men now and then glanced at the mountains on the left. Now the other people noticed something too. Tense silence hung over the caravan. Wagons gathered up close to each other. They were like a flock of sheep huddling together at the appearance of a wolf. Something was wrong.

  At this moment Yarik's carriage drove into a mountain valley and an amazing sight opened before his eyes. The giant statues of creatures so familiar to him – a raptor-man and a raptor-centaur were standing along the sides of the valley. They were really huge: no less than fifty yards in height, as if each of them was carved from a whole rock. Almost untouched by time, they made a strong impression, literally suppressing one by the harsh greatness of well-crafted stone. The Earth Sphinx could not even closely compare to them!

  Unlike the sculpture composition which Yarik had met before, these creatures were not depicted as enemies here. Moreover, they clearly performed a cooperative work – guarded the entrance to the valley. Their majestic posture, piercing eyes, penetrating into your soul – all that was stunning, forcing to admire the unprecedented mastery of ancient stonecutters. It seemed that stone eyes asked sternly: «Do you have a permission to walk into this land? Or are you plotting some evil?!»

  Yarik shook his long matted hair, banishing the obsession. The local ancient sculptors had much more talent than a hundred of Earth Michelangelos!

  While Yarik with his mouth opened, admired the statues, the chief sent forward a small squad of warriors. The main caravan stood waiting. Darg remained at the head wagon, and now he was thoughtfully twitching a cord on the handle of his sword, staring in the direction of the departing squad. The remaining riders were searching surrounding rocks, holding their bows at ready. There was a tense silence. And the feeling of someone's gaze had not gone.

  Like all the others Yarik was attentively looking around: though he was only a slave, he wanted t
o live very, very much, and if tales of slaves said the truth that the death of the owner causes inevitable death of their kords with Dark collars… Yarik greatly valued master Darg's life at this moment.

  Then his eyes caught on the road. Yes, literally the road! The real, paved with stone slabs, road. The path winding through the valley between the stone guardians was kept in perfect condition. There was not a speck of dust, as if its unknown owners carefully swept it every day. Masters?! Whether their possession starts here?!

  Yarik peered more closely to the road: the plates were similar to those which he had dug out of dust before. But in general, this road differed from the one which led from the mountain where Yarik had appeared in this world. This one was more solemn, or something like that. As if its builders desired to reveal their power and authority to the whole world. And they succeeded in that. A true Tract of the Kings!

  His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet murmur which as a wave swept over the caravan. The scouts returned. Judging by their appearance, they brought good news. The head rider, who turned out to be Namir, Darg's assistant, shouted to the chief:

  – My lord! The Masters increased the fee for passage five-fold!

  At these words Darg's face acquired deathlike pallor. As Yarik already knew, this was a testimony of extreme rage.

  – And how did they explain that? – The cold in the voice of the young leader could freeze flames in a fire.

  Namir spasmodically swallowed, he was an experienced warrior, he had seen a lot in his life. And though he realized in his mind that the chief's fury was not directed against him personally, but he could not cope with fear. However, the fear was mixed with admiration – young Darg was a true son of great Sohog, his father. Equally indomitable, born to command – a true leader. Only he deserved to become the heir, instead of unworthy Teorn.

  – They say that Wings are prowling over the steppe…