The Mistress

I lived for a time in horrid dreams. I believe this was the wake of Zaqhat the Enchanter's foul spell, for magic has an inertia of its own. Once reality is reshaped, it will conform to its new contours and those caught within it are swept along its empyrean rivers. I was aware that I faced illusion, but that did not mean I could escape its hold. I was left to wander with no way out. I recall an endless subterranean labyrinth of stone and fungus, a land filled with ghouls and rotkin. Symbols, the ones I now recognize as the marks of the Rising Shadow, adorned the wall sketched in blood and filth. I knew now the enemy existed, and even its name, but I did not know how to strike.

I awoke slumped against bars, my body jostling back and forth. Other men in varying states of nudity, filthy and exhausted, sat around me. We were in a caged wagon, rattling over the Red Wastes. The heat was oppressive, my lips were cracked and dried, my head pounding.

I noted that I still wore my boots and loincloth. Diotenah's ring still clung to my finger. I assumed the dryad's seed and the sweetwater goblet was still hidden in the folds of my garment, but I didn't want to check. I longed for water, but there was none to be had, none for the magic cup to purify. I would learn that the slavers never bothered with our meager possessions. So long as we carried no weapons, they had little concern. I was not the only one with a piece of jewelry either, though such baubles caught the attention of other prisoners.

That was when I noted that Ur-Anu was missing. Raw panic hit me. I sat up straight and instantly regretted it, a blade of agony between my eyes. I cast about, hunting for the spear, but saw nothing. The only spears were the ones tipped in bone carried by the caravan's guards. Perhaps it was back at Zaqhat's castle. I had the vague notion that the structure had crumbled around us, but it could have been part of my dreams. I could only hope my weapon was safe.

For those who are familiar with the traditional histories of my life, this event occurred some five years earlier. When I was washing up on the shores of Storm's Rest, they believe I was captured on the waves by Kharsoomian corsairs and taken to Deszu to be sold in the great market. They do not know of the misery of that overland trek across the wastes, north and east from Udath Swamp. Months of travel in the slavers' caravan, subsisting on scraps of bread and drops of water, the misery of my injuries grinding my will. I do not like thinking of his time very much.

The caravan was a series of caged wagons, pulled by uroks. These brutes were Kharsoomian beasts of burden, and occasional meals. They were six legged reptiles, beasts infamous for their oafish natures. They could pull a wagon, go without food for a year, and were reasonably edible, and so they would always have a place in the Red Wastes. It was not until the Red Wastes were no more that the last urok died.

"You are from Chassudor," said a man across from me. He spoke in passable Eomet, a language I had not used in some time. His once pale skin was baked to leather by the punishing sun. His blond hair was wispy, and scars covered his body. He wore little more than sandals and a loincloth.

"I am."

He broke into a gaptoothed grin. "I am Esmian."

"Rhandonian."

He got up, moving over to my side. The other men gave him space, not caring to protest. "What is a Rhandonian doing this far from home?"

"Getting captured by slavers."

He chuckled. "I suppose that is true. I am a freeblade. Or I was a freeblade. My company was serving on the Edda. We were captured."

"I was...a boldisar?"

"Oh, well then. Should fetch a fine price at the market." He stuck his hand out. "Nordegar."

I took it. "Ashuz."

"Strange name for a Rhandonian," he reflected.

"I am a strange Rhandonian."

He laughed and I suppose after that we were friends.

Nordegar was good enough company. I suspect he looked at me as a familiar face. Though the guards kept we prisoners from preying too much on one another, they seemed to tacitly support a pecking order among us. The largest faction were the Kharsoomians, and they were certain to take their turns at the cistern first, the take largest shares of food, and so on.

Recovery from the battle at Zaqhat's took time, as I was not getting any kind of care. Though the slavers wanted us in saleable shape, they were not overly concerned with our comfort. As such, it was the duty of we slaves to stave off predation. We split into groups based on our lands of origin, and I would soon learn that those from Chassudor were rare.

Nordegar had not entirely been alone until my arrival. He had become somewhat friendly with the group from Aucor. Two of them were Heacharids, though thankfully from conquered populations. That fact alone saved them from my wrath. Still, I could not even pretend to friendship with them, speaking only to Nordegar.

I spent the days searching the sky, waiting to glimpse Quiyahui. I knew she would find me. She had done it before, and something linked us. Even then, there was some ineffable link. I believe Ocoxochi had forged it. The will of a demigod is a powerful thing, and even a passing whim can be more solid than steel.

We were attacked only twice, the first by a party of Kharsoomians and the second by a pack of xerxyss. The guards drove both raids off. The xerxyss took their toll, dragging several slavers off into the wastes. The creatures were beautiful in their way, but moved in an uncanny fashion that made them hard to predict and even harder to battle.

"Are they slavers?" I asked Nordegar.

"The bugs? Everyone's a slaver out here. Offends me sensibilities as a freeman of Esmia, but we're far from a godly place, aren't we? Anyrate, the bugs will take whatever they can, same as everyone out here. Work us to death then eat our bones, if the rumors are to be believed."

I looked at the corpse of one of the iridescent purple beings. I felt no loathing for the creature. I could feel only a sense of tragedy and loss for such an unearthly beautiful thing laid low. Watching the slavers then crack the thing apart and throw it into the cooking pot didn't help the situation either. I would like to say that I stood on principle and refused to eat, I could not.

Deszu sat on the biggest bay of Kharsoom's west coast, at the point where every great road converges.. As with most Kharsoomian cities, it was built around a castle that had been constructed before the cataclysm that had transformed this land of abundance into the Red Wastes. Concentric walls in varying states of decay surrounded every stage of settlement. Dezsu was bigger than most Kharsoomian settlements, as it was a center of Kharsoom's only truly thriving industry: slavery.

The great market was not far from the wharf where slave ships from a hundred different lands made port. A collection of slave pens, pits, and jails took up one side of the plaza, while the other was comprised of auction blocks and houses. Cages hung at every avenue into the market, where defiant slaves were starved to death as warnings to others. It was always bustling with people, the smell of sweat and human waste overpowering any stink from the port. For me, having spent so much time in relative solitude, it was overwhelming.

It is here that I believe I should explain the Kharsoomian people. As an ethnic group, they are mostly extinct, with perhaps only a handful still extant. Perhaps the most Kharsoomian blood still upon Thür are the many descendants from my union with the Princess Tanyth. The culture, the people, so distinct and wondrous and horrible, has vanished.

Kharsoomians were a strain of human, and many believe that they were the first of us. These scholars say that all other tribes came from Kharsoomians migrating from this ancestral homeland and spreading over the world. Perhaps this is true. I can only say with some authority that I believe they rose at the end of the 4th Stata, settling the area that would become the Red Wastes.

Their most famous trait was their red skin. Ranging from burgundy to scarlet, they were hues not found in any other human group. Their hair was commonly black, thick and glossy, often tending to the greasy, and generally worn long. Their bodies were entirely hairless below the neck. Some men could grow mustaches and sometimes even small beards, but these were exceptions rather than the rule.

They went about nude, wearing simple sandals on their feet, and leather harnesses about their chests, waists, and backs to carry weapons and equipment. Jewelry was common as well, but this was confined to the aristocracy. Collars were a common adornment as well, for the bulk of the population was held in some form of bondage. They often wore heavy washes of perfume, fighting the punishing climate of their homes.

They were a beautiful people, generally considered to be the loveliest of us all. Their features were noble, their eyes mysterious and sporting hues not seen anywhere else. My bride Tanyth is certainly a legendary beauty and judging by the number of songs devoted to her, this is not merely the opinion of an infatuated bridegroom.

I had encountered Kharsoomians from time to time in my travels. They tended to be rare outside the Red Wastes, for to a Kharsoomian, the world outside their home is a place of unimaginable barbarity. For one such as me, used to the quiet lawless order of Rhandonia, such an opinion seems like madness. Kharsoom is a violent land, but they had convinced themselves that the rest of the world was even worse to justify their insularity.

I would learn these things over the next year of my life, during my time as slave to Clan Sesamhat. For the moment, I could only stare in breathless wonder at the crush of people. The slavers unloaded us to vendors, and the last I saw of Nordegar he was being ushered to an auction block. I, along with the biggest and strongest who had been captured, was taken to one of the shops, where a paunchy Kharsoomian man purchased us in a lot. He was covered in gold and jewels, and his body spoke of a life of indolence. In the Red Wastes, if one could afford to be indolent, they were truly dangerous.

"You scum understand Kharish?" he demanded.

We nodded, knowing that speaking was discouraged. He spoke simply enough that my meager lessons could keep up.

"Good. Line up here. Stand quiet, do not speak. Several aristocrats have appointments today and they love new stock. Keep your mouths shut and you'll all get cushy jobs as house guards."

The first of the aristocrats came in, a lean woman with a predatory gaze. The slave seller manhandled us, as he sang our praises as guards.

"And here we have a barbarian from far Chassudor," he said as he fondled my muscles. "Strong and savage people. He'll fight like a loyal jagkru."

The woman pointed to the big, eye-shaped scar on the right side of my abdomen, just above the loincloth. "What is that?"

"Got it in battle he did. Survived, shows he's tough."

"We don't want damaged merchandise."

The scar chased off the next buyer, and the one after that. The others from the caravan were bought in short order. It was late in the day when I first set eyes on Jezreal of Clan Sesamhat. She came in with a trio of guards, a massive half-orc I would come to know was named Grud, and a Kharsoomian called Kuri. The third was a Kharsoomian woman named Sahdina, who served in a position called warmaid, something I would come to understand in greater detail when I met Tanyth's own Shaluvia. That was years off.

Jezreal was middle-aged, but still beautiful. Her skin was closer to scarlet than crimson, her body soft and curved. Her breasts were heavy, the nipples pierced with gold and joined by a thin chain. Her hips and thighs were fat, her buttocks round and shapely. Her hair, touched with only the lightest frost of gray, was braided and set with golden rings. A silk half skirt flared from her waist, concealing not a bit of her nudity.

"Princess! You are water on a parched throat."

"You are a charmer, Utuaa."

"You are looking for a new guard, are you not?"

Jezreal's eyes went to me. "What of that one? The barbarian." She approached, her perfume filling my nose. I was happy that I still wore my loincloth, for my manhood had begun to stir.

"You have an excellent eye," said Utuaa, no doubt pleased that he would move the one piece of stock that had stubbornly remained behind. "From the savage land of Chassudor, a fierce warrior only freshly arrived from the caravans today."

She ran her finger about the hem of my loincloth. "I love the way the barbarians wear these. So much mystery."

"He is intact, I assure you."

She lifted up the loincloth and beheld me. "I love their hair, don't you?"

"It's quite alluring, yes. We have other barbarians available. If you would like to sample different colors. It ranges from black to copper to a sensual blond."

Ignoring the offer, she put the cloth back into place, then inspected the scar. "And this?"

"An old wound, long healed. It troubles him not."

"I see. A hundred caira."

"A hundred fifty. He is young and blooded. Has manners too. For a barbarian."

"A hundred twenty five," Jezreal said.

"Done." And that was how I knew exactly how much my life was worth.

At Princess Jezreal's command, the vendor fitted me with a collar gilded with Clan Sesamhat's heraldry. It was a relatively simple collar, and I loathed it. It would remain there for some time, until my friend Kushan-Hegal finally removed it. That is a tale that will come later.

Jezreal's retinue escorted me from the market and put me in the princess's caravan. A series of connected wagons pulled by a team of uroks, it was not dissimilar from the caravan that brought me. It was in far better shape, and Jezreal's wagon boasted windows draped in silk. I was chained to the supply wagon and made to walk, never far from the watchful eyes of the guards. Far more than the three that accompanied her, Jezreal traveled with a full complement of warriors. She was a minor princess of Kharsoom, but still a princess.

I was one of three new slaves. Along with me was a shapely young Kharsoomian woman I assumed would be a bedslave and an older woman with Lixhan tattoos on her chin who I imagined would join the house staff. The first night, as we huddled in our furs far from the fire, the old woman whispered to me. "You are a warrior?"

"I have been to war."

She looked about. "We need to get out of these chains."

"And go where?" I asked. "Back to the city? We are not Kharsoomian. We will be recognized as outsiders."

"She is Kharsoomian."

"We are all wearing slave collars."

"We can find a way to get them off."

The young woman shook her head. "I will not run. They have not done anything to us."

"They will!" The old woman turned to me. "The whore is a coward. You're a warrior, you're brave."

"You never answered me. Where would we go?"

"To the Edda. We can make our way across."

"Do you know how far it is to the Edda from here?"

She looked east and shook her head. "No."

"Neither do I, and you're looking in the wrong direction. They will notice our absence swiftly and they know this land better than we."

"You can fight them."

"Unarmed? They will make quick work of me. No, I plan to keep my head down and see where this goes. I am not against the idea of escape, but not without a plan, not without supplies."

I did not tell her that I was waiting for two things. While escape now was foolish, Quiyahui and Ur-Anu would change that calculus. I would not tell her or anyone else about the spear or the serpent. I would watch the sky and wait for my coatl to find me. When that happened, I had little doubt I could carve my way through these slavers.

The journey was several weeks inland. For all of its faults, Kharsoom had excellent roads, remnants of the days when the land was truly an empire. That was the most common misconception, incidentally, that Kharsoom was unified. It had an emperor, of course, and he had some authority, but the lands were a mass of feuding clans, all fighting to put the next emperor on that vestigial throne. I had been impressed with Jezreal's title of princess, but the truth was, Kharsoom had more princesses than a pine tree had needles.

Clan Sesamhat's estate was on a mesa outside of the city of Felokolyun. A long pathway led up the steep slope, making their ancestral castle nearly impossible to assault. Guards in the castle itself were largely ceremonial, and oftentimes we reinforced city guards when such force was needed.

We crested the mesa and made our way inside the wall that encircled the settlement. The main courtyard welcomed us, with the castle's tower at the back, surrounded by a connected series of ziggurats that formed the bulk of the castle. A barracks and stable stood at the east end of the compound, while other outbuildings and servants' quarters took up the east. Shaded breezeways connected everything, a necessity to shield pedestrians in the harsh heat of the Kharsoomian day. Pennons, decorated with a stylized urok, flapped sluggishly in the sporadic wind.

We came to a stop in the courtyard. Jezreal stepped form the wagon into one of these breezeways. "Grud, fetch Happanu. Have him tend to the new slaves."

The half-orc jogged into the central ziggurat. He returned not long after with a fat Kharsoomian man, his nipples and staff pierced and connected with thin chains. He wore a small crown and a silken half-skirt. His slave collar looked to be pure gold. He approached lightly, then bowed, and in a high-pitched voice said, "Welcome home, Your Highness. What can your most humble servant offer you?"

"Three new slaves," she said. "They will need quarters. I want them fed and rested, and on the morrow, begin their training."

Happanu looked us over. "A guard, I imagine," he said of me. "Not much other use for a barbarian."

"Yes. Double ration of meat until he's recovered. I want him strong."

Happanu nodded, turning his attention to the young woman. "A bedslave, I should guess. The Prince will love her."

"Yes, she is exactly his taste, isn't she? I want her bathed and perfumed and ready for his use tonight."

"And the elder?"

"I trust you to find her talents."

"Whether it be cooking, cleaning, or something more esoteric. I will find it."

"And if she's not good for anything, I did not pay very much for her."

Happanu smiled. "I will ensure your investment is wise."

Jezreal made her way to into the castle, flanked by her guards. The others saw to the dissolution of the caravan. Happanu unlocked us from the wagon, and without thinking, held our chains in hand, gently leading us into the castle. The heat pounded me and I wanted only water.

"You, big one. Do you speak Kharish?"

"Some."

"You will need to learn more. What is your name?"

"Ashuz."

"You Chassudorians and your names. Very well, Ashuz. You are property of Prince Zahudmammu and Princess Jezreal of Clan Sesamhat. Your life belongs to them."

"You are a slave too."

"Indeed I am and happy for it. You can be happy too if you obey." I could see him using simple words for my benefit. He took me across the courtyard to a barracks. "This will be your home, Ashuz."

He led me inside, and I saw a collection of other men like me, muscled and scarred, we were all warriors. Around half were Kharsoomian, the other half a range of other kinds of human, with a single dwarf and a half-elf amongst them. Kharsoomian beds, mere daises with a single fur each, were spaced about the room. Two other rooms opened here, one a simple bath stocked with cheap oils and rough strigili, and the other filled with racks of spears and scraps of armor.

A scarred Kharsoomian man approached, his hair showing copious gray. His slave collar was a bit more ornate than mine. "What do we have here?"