The Reluctant Fugitive

by Charliemonster

His name was Rezzak and he was a slave.  As a statement of fact, had he thought about it, which he had not, he would have regarded it as redundant.  He was human and all humans were slaves, it was the way of things.  He was owned by the wife of the town magistrate, a lady of great importance who valued him, which in his mind, made him important.  He was cognisant of the fact that to the Valmani he was still a mere human, but that was as it should be and no cause for concern.

He stands nervously in the gloom of Mikras-An's shop fervently wishing he was elsewhere.  The room was filled with a faint, sickly-sweet miasma and the very air had a dank oppressive feel.  It is lined with shelves and cabinets; cluttered with old books, potted plants and jars of strange and exotic ingredients.  The room is dominated by a heavy oak table scattered across which are a jumble of bottles, vials and apparatus.  The bewildering paraphernalia of the Alchemist's trade.

Mikras-An is filling a stone pestle with various dried leaves and seeds, he looks up with irritation at the sound of Rezzak shifting nervously.  The Valmani's golden eyes narrow, “You nervous about something, little creature?”

Rezzak swallows but knows better than to respond.  The alchemist shakes his head in disgust, “No, just impatient I shouldn't wonder.  You funny little creatures with your absurdly brief lives are obsessed with time aren't you?  The Ancestors alone  know why.  You exist only to serve us.  What possible reason could you have to value time? Or mourn it's passing, hmm?  Hmm?”  The tall Valmani moves to a small iron bound chest and carefully selects a crystal vial from which he carefully pours three drops into the mortar.

Rezzak shifts his attention to the other occupant of the room, a human woman perched on a stool  in the corner, her eyes gazing at the floor, hollow and empty.  She is dressed in a simple linen dress, liberally decorated with stains from her master's concoctions.  Such of her skin that is visible is similarly stained and bears many scars and burns.  She jumps off the stool as the alchemist snaps his fingers and scurries over to take the mortar from him.  Snatching a pestle from the bench she begins to grind the mixture into a fine paste.

Mikras-An stroked turns his attention back Rezzak, absent-mindedly straightening his braided beard.  Like most of his race his hair is a deep ebon hue in contrast with his pale golden skin.  He wears it in down his back in a single braid.  “You have the payment, boy?” he asks.

“Y-yes” the young man stammered, before remembering himself.  His Mistress is a noblewoman, what is he thinking, cowering from this common tradesman.  “Her Grace, Furanal-Mira has instructed me to disburse six crowns for the philtre.” he continues pompously.

The alchemist chuckles nastily, “Found some backbone eh, boy?  Excellent.  Remember who you belong to and show some pride, some gratitude,” at this he casts a contemptuous glance at his own chattel.  Snatching the mortar from her, he empties the contents into an heat-blackened alembic.  Taking a taper he lights a crucible of naptha beneath it and sets a flask under the condensing tube to collect the liquor.

Rezzak had always been grateful to his Mistress.  He might accept his status as a slave without question but he was no fool.  He realises that many of his kind endure cruelty and neglect at the hands of vicious or indifferent masters.  Sometimes it troubles him, but there is nothing he can do about it.  His mistress looks after her charges.  Not, as she often says, out of any undue affection or generosity, but out of enlightened self-interest.  Slaves who were better cared for generally behave better and are more productive.  As her butler, Rezzak has his own room and when not engaged in his duties he is allowed access to her library.  She also set a part of her garden aside for her servants' use.  Truth be told, there were poor Valmani who had harder lives than Rezzak.  

The alchemist breaks his reverie snarling, “Stop daydreaming you wretch and get this back to your Mistress.”

He thrusts a vial wrapped in waxed paper into the slaves hands and holds his own out for payment.  Rezzak pays the looming alchemist and hurries out into the street.  He barely has a chance to step outside the shop before a he is knocked flying by somebody barrelling out of a nearby alleyway.

* * * * *

Marek is running faster than he has ever run before, his long legs pumping like pistons as he thunders across the market square.  He vaults over a row of barrels and skids on the slick cobbles before regaining his balance.  He turns and plunges headlong into an alleyway.  His tortured lungs scream for air and his vision is blurred with sweat and exertion.  He can hear the shouts and pounding boots of the Blood-Bonded behind him.  Faltering from the exertion he leans against the grey stone wall and steals a look over his shoulder.  His pursuers are half-way across the crowded square wading through the chaos he has left in his wake.

The Blood-Bonded were slave warriors.   They were trained, almost from birth, to police the other slaves and fight along side the Citizen Militia in time of war.  Their training was brutal and dehumanising, producing an army of vicious, ruthless warriors.  Fearsome in their bronze and leather armour with their faces hidden behind bronze masks sculpted into fierce, grimacing faces.  Each of them carries a wooden cudgel studded with bronze and wicked barbed whip.

Despite his fatigue he grins as an irate Valmani merchant accosts the lead guard.  He could imagine the murderous rage in the warrior's eyes, but he must know that it was death for a human to lay hands on a master.  He would never understand men who would brutalise their own kind in the service of the Valmani.  He spits in disgust and takes to his heels again as the hunt is resumed.  

In a few heartbeats he reaches the end of the alley which led to the Street of Artifice, casting a look over his shoulder.  If he hadn't done so he might have noticed the portly figure emerging from a shadowy doorway before he slammed into him like a charging bull.  The two of men hit the ground in a tangle of limbs.  

Picking himself up he takes stock of the figure gasping for breath on the ground beside him.  While unmistakably human he was a good deal better dressed than most and certainly better fed.  The pampered house-slave of some noble family no doubt.  The sounds of pursuit are closer now and Marek pulls the poor fellow to his feet.  He looks him in the face and decides that, pampered or not, he is still clay-born.  Grabbing the man's arm he urges him to run and off they go.

Rezzak finds himself being hauled to his feet by his assailant, a lanky, ill-dressed youth with an unkempt mop of mousey hair and a haunted expression.  There are the sound of shouts and pounding feet approaching.  One of the inevitable consequences of servitude is an tendency towards obedience, so when the newcomer shouts at him to run he obeys without question.  He would live to regret that instinctive reaction.

As the two men flee their pursuers, Marek's mind is already working, he realises his companion can't keep this pace up for long.  Outrunning pursuit was no longer an option.  To be fair it had been an uncertain enterprise from the start.  They needed a plan.  He realised they had now reached the Knight's Bridge.  Between laboured breaths he gasps at the other fugitive, “can you swim?”

Rezzak's conscious mind was taking over and he staggers to a halt, “Why am I even running, I haven't done anything?  Who the hell are you?”

Marek, shrugs apologetically, “I don't think they'll make the distinction now you've started, Sunshine.  Sorry about that.”

“Sorry?  Sorry?” the portly man splutters

“Look this ain't the time or place.  Can you swim or not?”

“Yes, but...”

“Good,” Marek replied and grabbing his new companion dives over the low parapet and into the murky canal below.

Seconds later the blood-bonds reach the bridge and realise their quarry is nowhere to be seen.

* * * * *

The fugitives sit in silence listening in the shadow of the bridge, scarcely daring to breath.  The dank mossy stone of the bridge is cold against their backs.  They can hear the angry exchanges above them.  Clearly frustrated, the Blood-Bonded leader berates his men for their failure.  This despite the fact he clearly has no better idea of what had happened than they.  Eventually they give up there bickering and decide to retrace their steps in case their quarry had backtracked.

Marek views his new companion with a crooked grin, “Look, err, sorry for getting you into this mess.” he says, “Marek.”

The older man's irritation was clear. “Rezzak.  What the hell am I supposed to do now?  The Blood-Bonded think I'm a runaway.”

“You're not a runaway, Mate, you're free!”

“Free?  Free to hang maybe,” Rezzak runs his fingers through his thinning hair and sighs.  He looks the other man in the eyes, “the only freedom for the likes of us is death,” he says firmly.

Marek shrugs, “Mebbe, but it sure beats bein' in chains,” he says fiercely.

Rezzak shakes his head and stares at his reflection in the black water, “I've never been in chains,”

“I guess it's easy for you as a pampered house pet with plenty to eat.  Then again, not all chains are made of bronze you know.”

Rezzak looks up guiltily and takes a long look at the man squatting in the gloom opposite.  Lean and wiry he looked tough but underfed.  His skin is dirty and heavily scarred for one so young.  His hands are calloused and caked with rock dust.  “What about you, why did you run?” he asks.

“I done a lot of work in my time.  Hard work and mostly not nice.  I grew up on a farm near Ar-Kenela. Wasn't so bad, pickin' fruit, plantin' crops and the like,” he smiles briefly at the memory, but it quickly turns to a frown, “But I was property wasn't I? They sold me on to a road-gang.  Diggin' ditches and luggin' rocks ain't so easy let me tell you.  Especially on the meagre crap they fed us.  Just lately I been breakin' rocks in the temple quarter.” he shrugs and tosses a pebble idly into the canal, “I guess I'd had enough some time ago, but today they caught me lifting some bread from the kitchens.  Had a mind to flog me.”

Uncertain, how to react, Rezzak bit nervously chews his lip, and lays a hand on the younger man's shoulder, “I'm sorry, what happened?”

The now familiar crooked grin appears on Marek's face but there is a fierce light in his eyes. “The bastard with a whip came towards me an' I hit 'im with a skillet,” he taps Rezzak's forehead with his palm, “right in the nut. Killed 'im stone dead,” he sniffs and shrugs again, “Got no choice now, have I?  Run or die,”

The other man shudders and exhales deep and long.  He looks up at Marek and smiles despite himself, “Time to go, eh?”

Marek nods and they cautiously make there way along the canal pavement.  They have been walking for about half and hour or so, and the sun begins to sink below the city walls.  They are close to the wall now and Marek points out a gated culvert which takes the canal out beyond the city walls.  Lingering by some barrels they take stock of their predicament.  There is about two hundred yards between them and the guards.  Two slaves passing through the gates at this time of night would attract unwanted attention and there appears to be no river traffic.  

Marek looks at the city walls.  If they could find a space away from the watch towers he was pretty sure he could make it over them.  But he very much doubts Rezzak would be up to it.  He looks at his companion who is squatting at the waters edge.  He frowns as the older man pulls a small clump of weeds from the pavement and drops it into the water.  The leaves drift slowly towards the gate and he smiles up at Marek in triumph.

“We'll never make it,” Marek hisses, “they close the gates before dark.”

The other man smile grows broader, “We needn't wait for dark, the water is deep enough to swim past them if we stay under.  We just need to follow the current.”

“You're mental!  How we going to hold our breath for that long?”

“Magic,” Rezzak winks, “Well, I say magic, I mean alchemy.  My Mistress has a fascination with the sea.  Well she regularly sends me to buy a philtre from Mikras-An.  It allows her to breathe water for a time.  Guess whose shop I was coming out of when some skinny lout decided to flatten me?”  He pulls a small package wrapped in wax paper from his tunic.

Marek grins back at him, “I'm impressed, Tubby,”

“I'm not fat.” he protests in mock outrage, then he smiles and adds, “just built for comfort. Come on, let's go,”  He unwraps the package and uncorks the vial.

* * * * *

Every day, around dusk, Samwell followed the ancient track-way along the canal, herding his master's swine back to their pens in the shadow of the city wall.  It was peaceful and he enjoyed being away from the busy butcher's shop his father ran for their ageing owner.  He was deep in thought when the pigs started squealing in alarm and scattering hither and thither.  

To his utter astonishment a pair of dishevelled figures, dripping wet and festooned with duckweed haul themselves out of the canal.  One of them flashes him a cheery grin and salutes before they both turn heel and lope toward the distant trees.  Later on he realises he probably should have raised the alarm but he was far to busy trying to round up his panicked charges.

* * * * *

The two fugitives spent an uncomfortable night amidst the roots of an ancient horse chestnut tree.  They took it in turns to watch whilst the other slept fitfully on the hard earth.  Without a doubt Rezzak had the worst of it and sorely missed his comfortable bed, not to mention his supper.  While Marek was accustomed to hardship, fear of detection kept him on the edge of waking.   They rose early and breakfasted on a few early blackberries and brackish water from a nearby stream.

Taking stock of their situation they were alone in the woods with no food or weapons.  Rezzak had a little money but they were hardly in a position to buy anything.  They are runaway slaves and more importantly, after their recent dip in the canal they looked like runaways.  They would have to stay off the road for the time being.  Hopefully they could find a farm or small village where they could obtain food and clothing.  Fashioning a couple of crude staves, they set out on a course parallel to the road.  It was an acceptable short-term plan but Rezzak found himself wondering where, if anywhere, they would be safe.

Marek was already considering their options, “There are says to be bands of runaways living in the Forest down near the Carisbrooke.  They hunt local game and raid the caravans out of Ar-Benath and Caer Mahal.” he says as they walk, “that's one option.  I've also heard tales of the tribes still living in the homelands out beyond the Black River,”

“Fairy tales if you ask me,” scoffs the older man, “I any case I've read about how the ancestral tribes lived.  A hand to mouth existence roaming the tundra with stone weapons and vicious blood rituals?  Not really how I see my future,”  Rezzak frowns as a long forgotten memory begins to stir, “Have you heard of Kel-Athma?”

“No, where's that then?”

“It's a city state, not in the Empire but a client state,” Marek looks puzzled “a sort of ally, they are under the Empire's protection and pay a tribute, but they govern themselves.  Well they are Valmani, but they've outlawed slavery.  Master Varek-Li was talking about them at a Symposium my Mistress held a few years ago.”

“Sounds like a plan.  Do you know where it is?”

Rezzak lets out a thoughtful sigh, “Not precisely.  I mean I know it's north of Ar-Kenela, but beyond that...”

“We can start there, I grew up around there, my sister, works on the Kenathi estate near their, maybe she knows something.  Y'know it's odd, I was a slave, they owned me, hell they sold me.  But, I miss the place.  Is that, wrong?”
 
“I don't know, it is what it is.  I suppose, growing up there with your sister, well it's the only home you've ever had.  If it's any consolation, right now I miss my Mistress' house and I definitely miss her kitchen.”

The young man grins.  Suddenly he starts, “Hey, you hear that?”

Rezzak pauses mid-stride.  Yes, he could hear movement from the direction of the road.  It sounded like a lot of people moving at a slow but steady pace in the same direction as them.  There were voices as well.   Strangely guttural sibilant overtones.  Rezzak certainly couldn't catch any words he might understand.

They quietly creep closer to the road, careful to stay in the cover of the undergrowth.  Neither had seen anything quite like the spectacle before them.  A procession of huge wagons, covered with gaily coloured awnings and banners.  Each is drawn by a pair of huge scaly creatures, whose  beaked heads have huge swept back bony frills and three enormous horns.  One horn shorter than the others atop the beak, the other two, easily as long as a man is tall, protrude forward from the frill, just above the creature's eyes.  

Running back and forth alongside the wagons on two viciously clawed legs, are smaller reptiles, their tales and long necks held parallel to the ground.  Their short forearms and heads are adorned with black and red feathers and they move in a curiously birdlike fashion.  

On each of the raptors and driving the wagons are smaller reptiles.  Equally alien in appearance, yet more humanoid in form.  Their heads are angular and fringed with short horns, sporting a feathered crest over the crown.  The riders are dressed in cured leather armour studded with black iron and they carry long spears, tipped with obsidian.  They also have short curved swords strapped to their sides.  Those on the wagons by contrast are dressed in loose fitting robes of brightly coloured silk.  None of the creatures are shod and their feet end in talons.

“Vrie,” Marek hisses excitedly. “It's a Vrie caravan!”

“We should follow them,” whispers Rezzak, “With any luck we can grab some food when they set up camp.”

“They might have some clothes as well.  You know that lot, they sell everything.”

“Maybe,” Rezzak chews his lip thoughtfully, “Maybe we should just buy from them, I mean, I've got some money.”

The younger man rolls his eyes, “Oh, come on!  What's to stop them handing us over to the nearest Magistrate?  We'll be swinging on a gibbet quick as anything.”

“Yes, you're probably right,” the other man concedes, “I'm sorry, I guess I'm used to following the rules.”

Marek pats his companion on the shoulder “Buck up, we'll soon have a belly full of grub and some clean, warm clothes.  Nice an' easy, you'll see”

* * * * *

At dusk the caravan made camp in a sheltered clearing at the edge of a large pond.  Camp-fires were lit and watches set.  The triceratops were unhitched and ushered into a make-shift corral at the edge of the pond and the raptors hitched to a picket line well away from them.  The two humans waited until the camp had settled down and supper being consumed.  At last their hunger will brook no further delay and they steal through the trees, taking care to stay downwind of the livestock.

Picking their way between the huge wagons, they select one at the very edge of the camp.  The sides of the wagons are a good couple of yards high.  The Vrie mounted them by the means of small ladders fastened to the sides, but the risk of being seen using them was too great.  Rezzak manages to boost his companion enough to reach over and pull himself into the hull of the wagon.

The first thing that strikes him is a warm cloying scent.  Some sort of incense fills the darkened interior.  As Marek creeps forward he realised with alarm that wagon is suffused with a faint roseate light.  As his eyes adjust he realises that in front of him sits a motionless Vrie, it's legs crossed beneath it and a softly glowing red crystal cradled in it's lap.  Before he can react, the reptiles eyes snap open.  It is staring straight at him.  Cursing he falls over onto his backside.  Pedalling furiously he propells himself backwards in terror.  The reptile opens it's beak and let out a deafening hiss.  

Outside the wagon, Rezzak hears the commotion but is quickly surrounded by armed Vrie warriors.  One of them, whose breastplate was dyed black and studded with silver, springs effortlessly up and into the wagon.

Oblivious to the new arrival, Marek backs into the warrior before feeling its clawed hands grasp his shoulders firmly.  A strangely guttural voice says, “Shh, be still.”

“W-w-what?” the word is as a strangled whisper.

“Be. Still.” the reptile holds him firm, “Do you want to scare her?”

Marek is confused and shaken, “Me? Scare her?” he splutters

“She's always a bit nervy when she comes out of a trance suddenly.  She'll be okay in a minute,”

“Oh, er okay well that's good then?”

“Yes, because then you can explain what in Shi'Och's name you are doing in my Mother's Wain, Clay-Born!”

“Ah.”

* * * * *

The two men are say in front of a camp-fire, flanked by their captors.  The two from the wagon sit regarding them with, Rezzak was starting to suspect, some amusement.  Despite their predicament, neither man took take their eyes of the plate of grilled meat the two reptiles were  sharing.  Neither had eaten since that morning and their breakfast had been far from adequate.  The female nudges her son and gestured in the captives direction, “I think our guests are hungry, Sadok.  Get them some food before they devour us all.”

Rezzak decides bold action is called for, “I, erm, I am sorry for the nature of our intrusion.  We, that is...” he could find no words to explain, let alone justify their actions.  He was acutely aware they were at the mercy of these strange creatures.

Sadok returns with a platter of grilled meat and baked roots which he passes to the men.  “Let me guess,” he says, “a pair runaway slaves, hiding out in the woods trying to make up their minds whether to be caught and hanged or to starve to death?”

“Hush, Sadok.  It is not kind to mock these wretched creatures.  We who are born free cannot hope to understand their plight.”

“You are right of course, mother.  But what do we do with them?”

Rezzak speaks again, “I have a little money, if we could buy some food and perhaps some clothing we can be on our way.”

Sadok's mother smiles and looks at him, “And then what?”

“Whadaya mean, then what?” this from Marek.

She chuckles and shakes her head, “And then what will you do?  How long before they catch you and what will happen to you then?”

“They will hang them in the nearest town as an example, I shouldn't wonder,” says Sadok grimly.

“And what purpose does that serve, what meaning will their death have?  We cannot permit life to be wasted if we have the power to intercede.”

“Excuse me,” Rezzak was nonplussed, “what are you talking about?”

“Forgive me...?”

“Rezzak, I am Rezzak and this is Marek,”

“Well, Rezzak, I am Zakar, Matron of the Zakarin, my...” she pauses searching for the right word, “My family.  In Vrie culture there is no greater sin than to waste life.  Life has value and must not be squandered.”

“But you eat meat. Your people are armed, I don't understand...”

“Clearly,” laughs Sadok, “Do not misunderstand us, we are not opposed to death, per se.  Or killing for that matter, when it has purpose or meaning.”

His mother continues their instruction, “When we say life has value, we mean that quite literally.  We eat meat and wear leather and that is the value of the creatures we kill for that purpose.  Equally with your deaths, the Valmani would kill you to punish you.  And they would do so in the hope that it would discourage others from absconding.  It is of course extremely unlikely that it would be effective in that regard.  In light of this we are charged by our religion to do what we can to avoid such a meaningless waste of life.  It would perhaps be better that you travel with us for a while, at least until you are away from immediate danger,”

Marek regards Zakar cautiously, “I'm assuming that the value you set on our lives is somewhat less than your own?”

“Regrettably so,”

“Well, at least we all know where we stand,” he grins, “In that case, we most gratefully accept your generous 'ospitality” he says in a rough imitation of his portly companion.

Rezzak regards the other man sourly, before smiling gratefully at the Matron, “Thank you, My Lady”

* * * * *

Over the next few days the two men travelled with the caravan through the rich fertile lands of the Rhudgar valley.  They rode on a wagon belonging to Kalyxa, a short, powerfully built Vrie woman who served as the family smith.  As they travelled she entertained them with tales of her travels through the Sea of Sand, a vast desert on the western edge of the empire, and to the icebound northern coasts.  

The smith's wagon, unlike the others had broad iron-shod wheels and the rear half of the wagon was sheathed in metal.  At rest the rear sections of the hull of the wagon would be removed to reveal a small portable forge, anvil and work bench.  If the caravan halted early Kalyxa would open up the forge and spend a few hours making stock or carrying out repairs for other members of the clan.  Marek was fascinated and began to pick up some basic skills by helping the garrulous reptile.

Both men were amazed at the amount of iron the Vrie smith had.  Between them they had seen no more than a dozen or so iron weapons or brooches.  The Vrie it seemed used iron with the same frequency others used copper and bronze.  Kalyxa told them it was mined in the Black Mountains, once a year the clan would travel north and trade salt and spices for the precious ore.

Their plan had been to stay with the caravan as far as Ar-Kenela, but they began to consider asking to stay with the caravan as it travelled on.  Rezzak had asked Zakar if the Vrie ever visited Kel-Athma.  She went pale and just says, “We will not go near that place, and nor should you.”  He realised that there was something in the way she responded that meant it would be fruitless to pursue the matter further.

* * * * *

On the fourth day they encounter a squadron of imperial cavalry.  They are dressed in boiled leather patrol armour rather than the usual bronze battledress.   Initially they ignore the caravan and ride on up the length of it, presumably to pass on up the road.  The leader, a striking Valmani with silver-white hair and the pink eyes of an albino sees the humans and signalls a halt.  He gestures to his prefect, who wheels his horse and galloped back up the line to Zakar's wagon.

Marek scrutinises the officer nervously.  His braided beard hung below his waist-length a sure sign of high birth, this was also reflected in the arrogance of his posture.  His black leather armour was trimmed with silver and his cloak and crest were silver-white like his hair.  The caravan comes to a halt and the men can see Zakar and her son on raptors riding back behind the Valmani prefect.

“Is their a problem, Emir?” asks Zakar, eyeing the officer like a huckster eyeing a mark.  The two men are puzzled at the change in the reptile's character.

“You have clay-born among you, surely they are not part of your clan?” the arrogance of his tone matches his bearing perfectly.

“Oh no, Emir!” Zakar protests, as if offended by the very idea, “Ah, but the Emir is having fun with me, ah?” she chuckles throatily, “No these are properties, part of my inventory.  Is the Emir in the Markets for such fine specimens?”

The officers irritation is evident, “Certainly not!  And if I was it would not be from the likes of you,” he draws himself up in his saddle, “I hope you have a permit to trade in such...   ...livestock?”

“Oh but of course, Emir,” Zakar purrs obsequiously, “Here I have letters of authority from his honour, the Magistrate of Ar-Kenela.” She rummages in her saddle and produces a sheaf of papers bearing impressive looking seals.

The prefect takes them diffidently and inspects them with deep suspicion before announcing them in order.

“Very well, Vrie.  You may continue on your way but watch your step, the Emperor has eyes everywhere.”

“Oh, most absolutely, Emir, I shall say a thousand prayers for his very prosperous life so I shall” she bows ostentatiously in her saddle.  At a signal from the Albino, the cavalry spur their horses and are off.  When the last of them has cleared the caravan she lets out a relieved sigh, “Well that was close,” looking at the men she clicks her beak in disgust, “What an odious little fart, You two all right?”  

The two men exchange glances and nod.

“Well,” she continues, “You'd best stay out of sight for the time being,” and with that she turns back towards the head of the column and gives the signal to continue.

* * * * *

The interior of Kalyxa's wagon was cluttered with boxes of tools, ingots of iron, copper and tin, leather hides and assorted wooden hafts and handles.  Towards the rear of the huge wagon, beyond a curtain of canvas drapes was the smith's sleeping area.  Rezzak perched on a box of charcoal, while Marek lounged on one of the make-shift pallets the Vrie had made for them.  Both men were troubled by the encounter and more so by the revelation that Zakar held a slaver's licence.

“I don't get it,” whispers Marek, “They've been so friendly, we'd be right up the swanney if they hadn't helped us,”

“I know, but why would they do that? I tell you, Marek it worries me.  Do you believe what she says?  You know about life being precious to them?”

“Not precious, she says all life has value there's a difference.”

“Yes, you're right,” realisation dawns on the older man, “Even a slave has value. In fact a slave has a very specific value. In gold.”

“So that's it?  You reckon they only helped us so they could sell us?  I'm not so sure, I mean they ain't exactly keeping us locked up, are they?”

“No but they're keeping us fed.  You grew up on a farm, ever see an animal run away from food?”

“What do we do?”

“Wait 'til dark and we'll slip away,” Rezzak scratches his chin thoughtfully, “We must be pretty close to Ar-Kenela by now.  We can sneak in and try and find your sister.”

* * * * *

When the caravan stops for the evening the two men set to work.  Rezzak wanders around the cooking fires, pretending to be running errands for the family cooks.  He manages to fill a small burlap satchel with smoke-dried meat, black bread and a few apples.  Meanwhile Marek, who was a little more used to going about unnoticed, gathers together some warm clothes and a couple of long-bladed daggers from store-wagon.  Once the Vrie begin to bed down for the night, they slip out of the camp and meet in the shadow of a ancient tree, beyond the picket line.

Just for a moment as he looks at the dying camp-fires and gaily coloured wagons through the trees Rezzak feels a pang of guilt and wondered if they were doing the right thing.  He dismisses the worry as useless.  They simply couldn't gamble on the benevolence of others.  It was only a matter of time before the reptiles sold them or worse yet turned them in as runaways.

The fugitives set off into the dense forest carefully following the line of a small stream through the woods.  They were certain it would drain into the Red River.  From there they should be able to join the road sufficiently far ahead of the caravan.  They could then reach Kenathi and hopefully be gone long before they were caught.  They spend the entire night picking their way through the tangle of ferns and brambles, constantly glancing over their shoulders expecting to see reptilian figures looming at them out of the darkness.

As the sun begina to cast a faint radiance through the forest there is no sign of pursuit.  Finding a small knoll at the edge of the woods at the river's edge they halt and survey verdant valley.  Across the river they can just make out the Ar-Kenela road.  Wrapping themselves in their cloaks they eat a frugal breakfast before settling down to snatch a few hours sleep.

* * * * *

Kanda-Ha, rides in the prow of the boat in a foul mood.  He ca still taste sour wine in his mouth from the previous night and he is nursing a throbbing hangover.  Glancing over his shoulder, he draws satisfaction from the fact that most of the other sell-swords seemed be in a similar state of discomfort.  

Except the boy of course, he thinks bitterly.  Kahal-Li was the youngest of the band, blessed with an insufferably sunny nature and an apparent immunity to the after effects of a night's heavy drinking.  He stood in the gunwale cheerfully mocking his bilious comrades as they fight to control their rebellious stomachs.  Kanda-Ha might well have dismissed the boy long ago if not for his keen senses and unerring aim with that longbow of his.

He realised the boy had fallen quiet and was gesturing at the tree-line.  The old mercenary follows the archer's gaze.  Huddled against the trunk of a large beech tree is a figure wrapped in a red-brown cloak.  Gods, a human! “Runaway,” he hisses.  He signals the coxswain to steer the boat towards the shore.

The other Valmani picks up his bow and selects a long arrow with a vicious broad-head from his quiver.  He raises an eyebrow in a silent question.  Kanda-Ha nods.  The archer draws back his shaft, aims and looses in a single fluid motion.  The shaft flies unerringly to it's target piercing the figure and burying it's head in the trunk behind.
* * * * *

Rezzak is woken by a cry.  Through the haze of sleep he sees Rezzak clutching his shoulder, his face a mask of pain.  Drowsiness falls away as his heart starts pumping adrenaline through his system.  A boat is heading toward the shore with half a dozen heavily armed Valmani aboard.  One of them nocks a second arrow to his bow.  Keeping behind the beech, Rezzak dashes to the other man's side.

“Get. Out. Of. Here,” Marek snarls through gritted teeth.

“Oh no, you're coming with me, I wouldn't last five minutes with out you,” the older man struggles to keep his tone light.  The arrow has passed through Marek's shoulder and is pinning him to the tree. “I need to cut the head off, this is probably going to hurt,” he warns.

“You think?” the other man snaps, “Get on with it then,” he screwed his eyes shut and wills himself not to scream.  Their is an intense wave of pain as the shaft resists Rezzak's blade and then it eases.  Marek could feel a trickle of blood from the enlarged wound.  With a super-human effort of will he drags himself to his feet.

It is too late.  One of the Valmani leaps from the boat.  A heavy thick-set warrior in a cuirass of  tarnished copper scales, with a heavily scarred face and a close-cropped beard.  He draws a wicked bronze sabre from his belt and lunges at the men.  Marek shoves his friend out of  harms way and hurls himself at the oncoming warrior.  A single vicious slash of the sabre cuts deep into Marek's neck slicing through the artery and almost severing his head.  The unfortunate man falls dead to the ground in a spray of blood.

Kahal-Li watches his captain spring from the boat as it approaches the shore.  Another, somewhat portly figure emerges from the wood.  Seeing the older Valmani attacking the first figure he aims for the other man.  As he looses the shaft the target stumbles and the shaft passes harmlessly over his head.  Cursing the man's luck he draws another shaft, aims and looses once more.

In attacking Marek, the scarred Valmani has exposed his flank to the older man.  Marek notices the man's mail is only a tabard and offers no protection below the warrior's arms.  In desperation he lunges forward, plunging his dagger into the exposed area.  It is a lucky stroke.  The blade bites home, piercing flesh and puncturing the warriors lung.  The Valmani lashes out at his assailant, knocking him to the ground.  He raises his sabre to strike the helpless man.  And steps into the path of Kahal-Li's arrow.

Rezzak flinches as the man looms over him waiting for a blow that never comes.  Instead a pained and almost puzzled expression crosses his attacker's face.  Then he staggers and falls to his knees.  Rezzak does not see the swordsman slowly topple forward onto his face.  He has already leapt to his feet and is fleeing pell-mell through the forest.

* * * * *

Andra stands behind the bar, polishing earthenware mugs and keeping a close eye on the taproom of the Grey Mare.  It is early and none of her regulars have arrived yet.  A couple of herders from Ar-Kenathi, who are staying overnight, occupy a table by the fire.  A lone traveller sits at the table in the corner.  It is not unheard of for a human to travel alone and he is clearly well spoken.  Andra would have taken him for a courier, or perhaps an order-taker for some merchant house, if she hadn't known better.  There is a weary haunted look in his eyes, the eyes of a fugitive.  Still, she thinks, I'm just here to serve drinks and the house in order.  So long as he behaves himself he can stay.

Just then their is a crash as the door flies open.  A group of Valmani stagger in, sell-swords by the look of them, the barmaid thinks.  They have already started their carousing by the look of them.  One of them, a young Valmani with amber eyes, strides up to the bar and slams a bag of coin on the scarred surface.  “A flagon for me an' my friends,” he declares, “We are mourning our brave Captain, cruelly slain in battle.  A victim to fickle fortune.”

As she hurries to fill their orders she noticed the solitary stranger watching the newcomers intently a grim expression on his face.

“It's not just about mourning poor old Kanda-Ha, no!” one of the other mercenaries announces with mock solemnity, “It is also to celebrate the valiant warrior who slew our great Captain!  Here's to Hawk-Eye himself, Kahal-Li!”

The young archer shoots him a withering look.  They all raise their cups in mock salutes.  “Never liked the miserable bastard anyway.” one of the others chuckles and the Valmani all roar with laughter, including Kahal-Li.

Hurriedly serving another round of drinks, Andra moves quickly to the stranger's table.  “I'm sorry, but I think it's best you leave.  At least until they've gone.  It's probably going to get a bit rough in here.”  She notices the herders had already beat a hasty retreat through the back door.

The man looks up at her and she can see pain in his eyes, “I don't doubt it.” he says coldly, “I was looking for them, you see.  We have a score to settle.”  His hand strays to the hilt of a long knife under his cloak.

Andra grabbs his arm, “You listen to me, I don't know what they've done, but I know their type.  You look to settle a score with them and they'll bury you.  Even if they don't you'll still hang.”

Their are tears in the man's eyes, “They killed my friend,” he hisses, “They killed Marek.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, “but if you go on a tear in here, you'll just get yourself killed.  Not to mention me.” she adds ruefully, “Is that what Marek would want?”

He looks at her intently and a bitter smile crosses his lips, “What he would want?  Do you know he would really want?”  

Chewing her lip she shakes her head.

“What he would really want is to still be alive!” and for some reason Rezzak finds himself laughing.

Puzzled the barmaid sits down and put a hand on his shoulder, “We all die, my friend.  It's the one constant.  Even they die,” she says nodding at the drunken warriors, “The difference for us, is that when we die, we are finally free.”

“You know I once says something like that to him.  I don't know it seems so unfair!  He just wanted to be free.  No not just that, he wanted me to be free.  All of us really.”

“He sounds like a great man,”

The man laughs, “He was an ass.  He wasn't a dreamer or a visionary.  He was just a man who decided one day, he'd had enough.”

“I work in a bar,” she responds, “Somebody who knows when they've had enough?  They're a visionary.” she smiles, “Look,” she continues ”All great aspirations come from the simplest ideas.  Freedom.  Love.  Even Hunger.  What would you rather do, throw away your life in a futile gesture or honour his memory in thought and deed?”

The man smiles gratefully, “How did you get so wise tending bar?”

She smiled back and made a grand sweeping gesture, “All life comes through those doors, my friend.  What better place to seek wisdom.”

“Thank you,” he rises and turns to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I have work to do.” he replies and walks out into the chill evening air.

“Yes,” she says quietly, “You do.”  

She looks deep into the fire, “I was beginning to think he'd never show up,” she mutters to herself.