Dayn armallah

3. Slave

The steady pace of the horse slowly swayed my weary body into a deep slumber. The humming inside my head grew louder. I was too tired, too bone-weary to see or hear or sense anything else. My eyes fell closed, my head nodded lower and lower until my cheek pressed against the fur-covered back of my master. His coarse sleeveless coat, made of some grizzled animal's skin that I did not recognize, smelled of smoke, grease, sweat, dirt, of all those things that had become so hatefully familiar to me over these past years. But I was too exhausted to feel anything, understanding only dimly the foul smell and closeness of the man I had grown to hate with all of my heart.

Still I had sense enough to shove my fingers into the fur of the coat and twist them into the thick mess. I didn't want to fall and catch his unfailingly painful attention again. I just needed to cling there behind him, behind the man from whom I couldn't run away. Maybe, with time, I would turn into a hump on his back. Even if I'd never be rid of him, at least our lives would be destroyed together.

For the thousandth time the scenes began to play yet again before my eyes, and I was too sleepy to fight back. Visions flew past, bombarding my mind with memories that I wanted and yet did not want to forget. I wanted to escape the remembered horrors. I wanted to escape the deafening sounds of a roaring fire, cracking beams as houses collapsed into fuming heaps that sputtered embers all around, thudding hooves, snorting horses, rough voices yelling to each other in a language I could not understand, the clatter of swords and knives, and the shrieks of people dying, people trying to run away from the all-engulfing blaze, people screaming for their loved ones in the chaos that was the end of the City. I wanted to escape the sight of mangled bodies, fire, huge dark plundering men, and blood, more blood, still more blood. I wanted to escape the smells of fear, smoke, burning wood, sweaty horses, dust and sand and blood, and the sickening reek of burning flesh. And yet those images were the last that I had of the City, my city, the shining marvel in the middle of gently sloping fields.

I swallowed the tears and forced myself to look further into the past, to days when everything was still well. I thought about my family, pictured each one of them in turn. I thought about my home, its sand-colored walls, the shelves where my mother used to arrange all those jars that held spices and dried fruit and tea. The wooden box that contained my little sister's greatest treasures: stones of different colors, all beautifully rounded by innumerable feet and hooves and paws pacing the streets. The little fragrant patch of kitchen garden on the back. The street in front of the house where I would play with my friends. I thought about the giddying morning when my father had brought me to the Temple and spoken to the Master Scribe about my becoming a scribe, too. I thought about the endless days spent in practice, learning the intricate patterns of writing. I could almost smell the sharp yet oddly sweet scent of ink, sun and dust, as well as the damp reek of cold in the night.

I remembered the numerous nights of suspense and gut-searing excitement that we, apprentices, should have spent quietly in our cells but instead used for prank after prank. Truly we were worse than a handful of fleas, the Master Scribe would say when he admonished us yet again; whose brilliant idea was it in the first place to put a number of adolescent boys in one place and expect them to actually behave themselves? I remembered the grins we exchanged behind his back, and nearly sobbed as the face of Blue Four flashed in front of me. My best friend ever, the boy whose broad mouth was always smiling, blue eyes glinting with mirth and mischief under that unruly mob of curly blond hair – and then that memory was overthrown by another. Blue Four, his mouth hanging open, eyes huge and glazed, freckled face stained with blood from the gaping gash across his chest as he lay on his back on the sandy courtyard, thin arms spread wide.

But at least Blue Four had died quickly. He had not been dragged screaming out of the smoking ruins by merciless hands, thrown across the back of a sinewy horse, and carried into a smelly, filthy camp to become a slave. He had been spared the drudgery and harsh treatment by people who expected one to immediately obey commands barked in a strange language that nobody made any effort to teach us. He had been spared the mind-crushing knowledge that this endless horror was all there was left, that there was nowhere to run. That the City was no more. The City that had already begun to feel like some sweet dream, something that now only existed in my mind. Sometimes I had the feeling that it was indeed just that, a dream and nothing more, and had to drag the memories back from the mists of my mind. Surely I couldn't have imagined something so wonderful, so beautiful, if all I had really known in my life had been the Foresters' camps?

No, it was not a dream. It had been real, I knew it, even though it was increasingly difficult to will those peaceful images back. I clung tighter to the furry vest of the big man riding in front of me and let myself sink deeper in reverie. Going back in time, way back, to the days when I still was a child, before I had heard even the first whispers hinting that something was not all right. The days when the sun still shone so warmly in the summer and winters were mild.

I could vaguely remember how astonished I had been on that first winter when the snow did not just come and go, melting into cold sleet puddles on the cobbled streets, but actually stayed for many days. But as I grew up, that became a regular feature. Snow, slippery ice-covered streets, the cold that seeped in no matter how much the house was heated. Huddling close to my brother at night for warmth, socks on my feet, my nose like a cold pebble in the morning. The smoke from all chimneys of the City collecting above the buildings, hanging low like a blanket on frosty mornings when the first rays of the rising sun revealed the millions of little icicles that sparkled like gems on the houses and stone walls. All that had happened so quickly, over perhaps a dozen years. Autumns that would come earlier, winters that would last longer, making the spring an even quicker and more frenzied thing than ever – so the older people had said, as I listened to their worried murmuring with alert ears.

And then the sightings and rumors of big dark men on horses, men who robbed the outlying villages and snatched transports. Together with the cold had come the Foresters, and fear. Everybody had been afraid, not exactly knowing of what, but afraid nevertheless. Yet nobody in their worst nightmares could hardly have foreseen what it would be that eventually befell us. The ultimate destruction.

I stifled a whimper and closed my eyes tighter. However hard I tried, the darkness would come creeping back.

The first thing to break my slumber was a quiet wet thud somewhere very close to my ear. The horse jerked its big head up with a puzzled snort, I clung tighter to the man's vest and lifted my head to listen. My master shuddered and gave a strange sound, a sigh perhaps, a moan, or a muffled curse, and then, curiously slowly, he began to slump to one side. I let go of him and he fell heavily on the ground. The horse took one step aside and then stood there stock still, just like he was trained to do; and what else could the beast have done when my master's large hulk was lying on one of the long reins.

Everything seemed to grind to a halt around me. I blinked, stared at the man through the filthy strands of hair hanging over my bloodshot eyes, unable to stir a finger, waiting for him to get up.

"Achora," I muttered, tried to get a proper grasp of the saddle and glided clumsily down from the high, sturdy stallion that was breathing loudly through flared nostrils. "Achora?"

I crouched, hesitated for a moment, then touched the man. No movement, no sound. Gathering all the miserable strength that was left in my body, I pushed him around until he rolled limply on his back. Uncomprehending, I stared at the broken shaft of slender wood that protruded from the middle of his wide breast. Then my eyes hit the other piece, carefully set with black feathers, still clinging to the fur coat, and I saw my numb fingers pick it up. After looking at it for a good while I turned my eyes again to the man lying there in front of me.

Where the thin slice of wood disappeared into his leather-covered chest a little blood was oozing out, already coagulating. Some drops of blood had risen on the thick lips, too, but no air passed between them to stir the stray hairs flown across the face.

He was dead.

My master was dead! Suddenly all the hope and joy and fear washed again over me and made my blood rush through my veins. He was dead – but how? Why? For this the villagers would kill me for sure, or perhaps the unknown killer would do it soon enough, but then again we were far away from the village and none of his people would be near. Maybe I could escape now, run, get away! Run where, that did not matter. Just run away!

Still clasping the broken piece of arrow I jumped up, ready to dart away, then bent down again and seized the big dagger fastened on the dead man's belt. I might have need of it. I tugged it hastily under the rope that tied my legging and started towards the bush, but after a few steps I stopped for a second time and turned hesitantly around. The horse still stood there, a prisoner of the dead weight of our master. He looked after me with rolling eyes and I walked back. After all, why would I leave him there, the horse that had been the only creature to show me any kindness over all the time in the camp? He, though a proud and fiery stallion, had always seemed to like me, never trying to kick me when I brushed him, never trying to crush my feet under his enormous hooves, sometimes nibbling grass from my hand, often uttering a quiet sound of welcome when he heard my approaching steps at dawn.

No, him I would not leave. I managed to tug the reins from the dead man's stiffening hand and was just about to try and climb to the saddle that loomed so hopelessly high above me when a voice froze me motionless.

"Stop."

My first reaction was deadly horror. My heart stopped and blood froze in my veins. Then, in a flash, I realized that the voice had spoken to me in a language I had not heard for years – the tongue of Dayn Armallah in all its past glory!

I turned around to face the man who emerged from the black shadow of the trees. His gait was soundless, under a wide wool cloak his dark leather clothes hugged his lean body closely, and he was heavily armed. In his hand was a longbow of some black wood, tight and ready to send iron-beaked birds of death through the green air at one touch of the singing string. Certain of my end I looked at his fair-bearded face surrounded by an ample halo of honey-brown hair, and a small whine escaped from my throat. His eyes met mine, their gaze pierced my brain. I felt a lightning strike right through me, all power drained out of my body, and I fainted and fell down on the moss at the feet of the bay stallion.

Very slowly I became sensible of drops of scented water on my lips. I licked the water, struggled to open my eyes, and finally succeeded. There wasn't much light left, but still I could see clearly enough the face above me and the dark eyes that looked into mine with worried anticipation. When I blinked my eyes to steady my gaze, a quick small smile of relief flickered on his lips.

"Don't try to get up," he said quietly. "Drink, slowly..."

It didn't really matter what he said. The wonderful flow of those words, of my own language, felt like a caress in my ears, and I choked on tears welling up inside me. He shook his head a little and put the bowl again to my dry lips. I greedily lapped the water he offered me, but he kept pulling the bowl away, letting me have only a small mouthful at a time. My head was still humming although every blink seemed to clear the clouds more, and after a while I tried to sit up. He supported me as I shook my head, and one long tress fell from his shoulder to touch my face. I trembled, and he looked at me with a frown.

"Do you feel all right?"

Involuntarily I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of that hair. It smelled of the forest, of smoke and – surely I was imagining? – of incense? I could not help smiling.

"Tarisha-maan, we must go," he said. "It's getting dark and this is not a place to be when the night falls. Come, get up. You must."

Tarisha-maan – Seven of Red. He called me Seven of Red. I looked at him in wonder, still unable to say anything, and he tilted his head questioningly.

"If you prefer another name to the one your tattoos tell me, you must say so," he said patiently. "But you can tell me on the way. I hope you are strong enough to walk."

"That's – fine," I managed to rasp. To think that I had to search for the words of my own language! "Seven of Red, I mean."

Again he smiled a little and then pulled me on my feet. I felt wobbly, but a few moments with his arm as my support assured me I could indeed follow him. His hair glowed in the darkness in front of me and I set out to walk after him.

How silently he moved, while all I could do was to try and not make altogether too much noise as I stumbled forward under the trees. This was all so unreal. The black lump somewhere behind me that was my dead master, the silent man walking ahead of me, the gentle sound of my own language that still kept ringing in my ears, the stallion that had run away – or had perhaps been shooed away by him – while I was unconscious... I felt like in a dream, as if the nightmare of the past few years had indeed been just a nightmare, or perhaps it was really true but I had somehow crossed an invisible line between reality and dream world. All my weary thoughts focused on the graceful sway of the pale brown hair in front of me, the only thing I could discern in the last, rapidly dwindling light of the day.