In Troy's Company

Chapter 1Markus stumbled through the forest, his head splitting with agony and his heart with grief. A hard shove between his shoulder blades pushed him onward when he slowed to try to keep on his feet, and he almost tripped again. With his hands bound behind him he wouldn’t be able to catch himself if he fell, but staying upright was nearly impossible. I can’t take much more of this, he thought blearily. Oh gods, Silener…he’s dead. The ambush replayed in his head. He and Silener had done their best in the fight, but the odds had been bad, the two of them had had no chance against the group of four bandits that had suddenly appeared. He knew he’d got in a good thrust against one of the attackers, but the need to stay back-to-back with Silener meant that he couldn’t finish him off. He had heard a crack behind him and felt Silener fall against his back. His friend’s dead weight pushed him forward and when the cudgel hit his head, he was able to, just a little, ride the blow and fall forward, stunned. He couldn’t move, and although he groaned when he hit the ground, he was utterly unable to speak. Blood ran under his hair and down his neck. If one of them came to finish him there was nothing that he could do to save himself, but he heard the group’s leader talking to Kalmar. Kalmar, who’d just watched the ambush he’d arranged. That bastard, he’d always hated me. Only, if that had been literally true this wouldn’t have happened. “You fucker, you paid us for one man, easy meat for us. This was two and they made it hard, we’ve taken injuries. You owe double what we agreed on. Pay up or we’ll crush your head too.” That must be one of the bandits. “I don’t have that much money on me, Mintrel, and you know you have to get out of the country right away. I’ll give you all I’ve got, and I’ll give you this pin, and you can take anything off the bodies. That’ll have to be enough for you. I’m going back to let everyone know there was a tragic accident—make sure they can find the corpses.” That sounds just like Kalmar; he’s always been cheap; he likes money almost as much as he likes having power over people weaker than himself. He and Markus detested each other, but Markus hadn’t expected an assassination attempt like this. “If I had the time, I’d take more than that shiny stone off of you, you cheap arsehole,” the leader snarled, but it was clear that he didn’t have time to spare, and Kalmar left with no further discussion. “You going to settle for that, Mintrel?” asked one of the men pulling at Markus. “Hey, this one’s not dead—hand me my club and I’ll take care of it.” “Don’t like it, but I guess if this one’s alive we’ll take one small extra payout. Throw the corpse into the river, just above the sandbar; if the guard here’s still alive we’re taking him along and getting some coin for his lousy hide from the slaver.” Markus came back to the present with another jolt. He didn’t know how long he’d been pushed along and it didn’t really matter. He forced himself to look for an opportunity to escape, but between the head pain and the nausea, and worse, the blur in his vision, he had no chance. Eventually the leader of the group called a halt. “We’ll stop here tonight. Give him some water and enough food to keep him on his feet, but no more.” One of the men pulled his head forward and Markus felt rough hands in his hair and a pang of pain from the cut on his scalp, before the man changed the bonds on his wrists to move his arms in front of him. That took a lot of strain off his shoulders and allowed him to take what food and water he’d been given. Markus knew that he had to eat and drink, but it was hard to force anything down. He didn’t so much sleep as fall unconscious. The next morning, he was given more food, but his good hunting leathers were stripped from him, leaving him in just the under clothes he’d been wearing. “Hey,” he protested, as forcefully as he could manage, “you can’t take my clothes and leave me like this.” “Why not?” laughed Mintrel, casually punching him in the stomach before he walked away. “I’ve got your knife, and damn you for what you did with it, your clothes may as well do me some good too.” He turned to one of the men. “Toss him some rags though. I don’t want to look at his naked legs the whole way through this gods-be-damned forest.” They didn’t leave him his boots either, and the cheap sandals he was given broke apart almost immediately, so that his feet, hardened though they were, suffered on the bare ground. The next few days were an endless repeat; walk, eat when given something, sleep. The food was poor; stale bread and cheese and water, no meat. He tried protesting the poor quality but it only won him another thrashing. At least there was plenty of water in the forest and he was able to get rid of his blood loss thirst. His strength was still low, and the feeling of weakness and disorientation persisted; his vision often gave him double images when he tried to focus, and his thoughts were disconnected and uncontrolled. Many days blurred together on the journey, but he was aware enough to notice things changing when the bandits met up with the slaver they’d been talking about. He was standing beside a small group of miserable victims who had been dragged away from their homes, to be sold to whomever found forced labor useful—galleys needing oarsmen, mines needing workers, sometimes farms, but rarely anything survivable. Markus was chained alongside them, the ropes on his wrists replaced with slave cuffs. Poor bastards—all of us. It doesn’t matter who we were before, we’re all the same now. I’ve got to be able to get away somehow, but these men are too used to guarding slaves. “What the hell, Mintrel?” said the new man. “I weren’t expecting you to turn up with another bit o’ goods, but he looks like he’ll be worth the rations to take him along.” “Yeah, he’ll make up for us having to leave Clarionye in such a damned hurry. I want top coin for him, Santor, you bet.” They haggled over his price for a while. The slaver gave no hint as to what he expected to make from Markus’ sale but Mintrel seemed pleased with the amount he got to put against his debt to Santor. After nightfall Markus tried once to convince Santor that he’d be worth much more taken back to Clarionye, but when he started to suggest it, he got a backhand across the mouth. “Cut it out. You’re going nowhere but where I take you,” Santor growled. “Yeah, Santor, where are you taking us?” Mintrel’s second in command asked. “You really care?” said Santor. “It’s away from Clarionye, and Manuellye; that’s all that matters to you lot.” “No s**t,” said Mintrel. “I don’t care where we’re going as long as it’s away from here.” “Yeah, you made Clar too hot to hold you for sure, got a price on your heads just like you did in Manuell. Good thing you found me to take you away from all of this,” he sneered. “Hey, we got out.” “Out of the lock house all by yourselves? Jail and the death cell, was what I’d heard.” “Well, one of the higher ups got us out in return for our help with a small job.” “Yeah, just taking down the guy this one was guarding.” That was one of Mintrel’s men. “We was doing okay until they put a whole manhunt together. There weren’t a trip up or down our bit o’ road that we didn’t score big from,” Mintrel boasted. “We did too well, they got scared.” “Scared that you’d kill your mark, not just take their stuff. Look where that got you, on the run with me.” “You’re the best, Santor, everyone says so.” That was one of the others. “Huh, flattery,” he grunted, then was interrupted by a groan from the man Markus had wounded. Mintrel jumped to look at him and called for new bandages. Once he was done, he walked up to where Markus was sitting and kicked him viciously in the kidneys. Markus rolled over and bit back a scream. “You’ll get worse than that if he dies,” Mintrel snarled, then walked back to the wounded man. “That’s his brother, what you knifed in the gut,” said one of the others. “You better pray your goddess Cla-a heals him.” He spat on Markus’ face before turning back to Mintrel. Markus wasn’t going to beseech for a bandit, and he didn’t think the goddess, or the god Arion either, cared about him. A flicker of spirit made him glad that he’d managed to hurt at least one of the band, but it was hard not to feel helpless. His head was slowly clearing and he was watching for a chance to get away, any chance at all, no matter how slim, but the group was careful and experienced in handling slaves. Santor roused them all early the next morning, and was surprisingly coy about where he was planning to go. He kept to a route that was more east than south and seemed to enjoy teasing the brigands to ask and then refusing to answer. It didn’t matter to the slaves though. They got rough treatment and poor food, and none of the men spared the lash when they felt like using it. A week or so into the trip, Mintrel’s brother died, and Mintrel took his revenge with the whip. Markus was slammed up against a tree and Mintrel flogged him until he screamed. Blows formed welts which turned to cuts which bled freely down his back and legs. He sagged against the tree trunk in agony, hanging from the chains on his wrists. Mintrel raised the whip again, but was stopped by Santor’s hand grabbing his arm. “Enough, Mintrel,” said Santor. “He’s mine now, and I want him to sell on. Your brother will enjoy that just as much as flogging him to death here.” “He’s scum. He won’t last.” “Back off, I say.” Markus knew that only Santor’s intervention kept him alive, and that because the man wanted his price back. He was still able to walk, but barely, and the flogging made him ill once more. Although his head had slowly healed, he lost most of his strength again and was feverish for a long time. He could only just manage to stagger along with the other slaves, and if one of them hadn’t taken enough pity on him to get his food and water at the breaks, he might not have survived. Markus never learned his name. The flashbacks were worse again. Many times, Markus woke from a nightmare of the attack. Kalmar had lured Silener and him out into the forest; the man hadn’t been all that pleased to see Sil’, and had tried to discourage him from coming along, but they’d ignored his hints and all three of them headed out. The woods were extensive, and kept fairly wild; a tributary from the river went on through the city. They walked through the woods aiming downstream; Kalmar was never much good in the forest, especially not on foot, but he knew where they were going and led the small group there without much difficulty. He halted in a small clearing several feet above the river at that point. “Okay, Kalmar, where’s this fabulous white furred otter?” Markus had asked. The river wasn’t really suited to an otter’s den at this point, but he had still thought that this was simply a waste of time. Then there was sudden shouting and four men holding cudgels burst out of the undergrowth. “Look out!” he yelled. “Pull knives!” Silener and Markus pulled out their knives; his own was long and suited to the leathers he was wearing. Silener’s was more of a dress knife, but it was sharp and he knew how to use it. Markus yelled to Kalmar to stand with them, but his cousin backed away and just stood watching. At that point Markus knew that there was no point in saying anything. Kalmar had arranged an ambush, and if their heads were bashed in rather than having their throats cut it wouldn’t look like the assassination that it was. Markus cried out softly in his sleep, feeling sick that he’d dragged Silener to his death, but in his nightmare, they took a stance back-to-back and waited. The fight was short and brutal, but not as short as the assassins expected. “Hey, wake up you,” one of the remaining bandits kicked him. “We don’t want to hear you cry, you pathetic motherfucker.” Markus woke out of the vivid dream sweating, and tried to protect himself against the beating. He retched, then came to his feet as the slave chain was yanked hard. They kept walking. The route was wild, narrow tracks, cold days and colder nights. Markus again lost all track of time and place, barely able to keep up. “Keep walking, filth,” snarled Mintrel. “If you can’t walk, I’ll hamstring you and leave you by the wayside for the scavengers.” Despite everything, Markus didn’t want to die, so he stayed on his feet and staggered on. He was young and fit, and although he was given no medical attention whatsoever, he healed. By the time he could find strength to do anything more than stumble along, the road had eased somewhat. The slope was downward and less steep, and the warmer air eased the killing cold. Once they reached the flat ground walking became easier; there wasn’t much of a trail but the grass was low and dry. His mind was much clearer and he also felt stronger physically than he had since this trip through hell had started, but he still saw no chance to escape. Even if the guards’ attention had faltered, on this wide open plain he had no hope of finding cover. Still, he began to look around and examine his surroundings with much more attention. In the distance he could see scattered flocks of sheep, but not much else. There were rare streams with low shrubs growing along the banks. He made plans to head for water if the opportunity arose, but neither Mintrel nor Santor gave him even a poor opportunity to break away. Eventually he found himself in a small camp, with water nearby and a small fire built of dung. “Everyone stay here,” ordered Santor. “I’ll get the word out that we’ve merchandise. The buyers will have to come from the nearest town and that’s several days away, but the shepherds will pass the message.” * * * * Although severely frustrated by the lack of any chance of gaining his freedom, Markus was grateful for some time to rest. He and the other slaves weren’t trusted to do any of the camp work. Their chains were pinned to the ground and they were guarded constantly, but at least they were still. He continued to pay close attention to everything around him, and watched as a pair of shepherds stopped at the camp. Markus was astonished to find that he didn’t understand a word that they said. He knew several languages, some better than others, but this was new and even the sounds were different. The words were shorter, with a choppy rhythm, and much more guttural than his ear was used to. Santor seemed to be fluent in the strange language, and once the buyers turned up, he bargained hard, with much arm waving, and exclamations that could only be disgust at a poor offer. Markus couldn’t be sure, but he certainly got the impression that the price offered by the new men for him was not what Santor had expected. He guessed that Santor blamed the flogging, and Markus did his best to look weaker than he actually was. Santor’s group of five slaves were bought by three different merchants, Markus going as a single to one purchaser, the rest in pairs to other buyers. The last night in the camp, Santor shared a wineskin with Mintrel and his men, and they were still sleeping it off the next morning. Santor shrugged off his displeasure with the profit that he’d made and started to pack up his camp, before heading back the way he had come. Markus was chained again and went on with the new bunch, led by a man the Santor had addressed as Jarvis. He wasn’t as brutal as Mintrel, but he treated his slaves like cattle, and gave no opportunity for him to run. It didn’t take Markus long to pick up the words important to a slave, like No, and Whip, but he could tell that learning more than the basics would take time. Meanwhile, he was moved across the dry open land until the trail ended. The slaver took them around the perimeter of the town they had reached. Markus could see houses and gardens from the track they were on, but when they moved from the edge to go into the town proper, they seemed to be in an area for merchants. There were shops selling food, clothes, and household necessities, but his group was taken past some cattle sheds to what was all too obviously the slave market. He still understood less than one word in ten, but gathered that the merchant Jarvis was trying to sell him to, didn’t think that he was a good candidate, too big for the buyers in town. He heard Jarvis say the word Ridley. The merchant spat, but later a man who answered to that name came around and looked at him. The remains of the rags that he had come in had been stripped off and he was chained at the ankle to a secure point. His hands were free, but Markus didn’t need to be told not to hit a customer, not when he was shackled. Ridley came up to him and spoke, showing surprise that Markus didn’t understand him. He pulled a knife and ran it down Markus’ skin, staring into his eyes and breathing hard. The knife circled his n*****s, and ran down his belly to his crotch. Ridley didn’t quite draw blood but the knife tip broke the skin, leaving long scratches. He ran his tongue over his lips as he pressed the blade against Markus’ body. It was quite clear that once he owned Markus, he’d enjoy taking his time to cut him to pieces. God and Goddess, protect me from this; Markus had never been so afraid of anyone in his life. He did his best not to show the fear, but it was clear that Ridley saw it. The merchant called out something, probably a warning not to damage the merchandise, but Ridley just smiled. He put the knife away and ran a hand down from Markus’ shoulder, then rammed his thumb into one spot that sent agony blooming up and down the arm. Markus couldn’t hold back a gasp of pain, and Ridley laughed softly then walked away. The following day, the one before the auction was to be held, another man came and looked closely at him for a minute and talked to the stall owner. Unlike Ridley, he didn’t make any attempt to touch him, or make him afraid. Markus liked the look of the new man, who was tall and dressed like a fighter, and wondered if there was any hope that he might save him from Ridley. He looked like a man one could depend on. Then Markus saw something, a flash of appreciation in his eyes that made him think the man wasn’t just looking for a laborer, and he snarled to mask a sudden return of the fear.