[Flashback] Slaver Boy

by **Ulric** on May 3rd, 2011, 2:24 pm

13th of Fall, 499 AV

The captives sprawled against the silvered birches, shivering as the rainwater trickled around their vacant eyes, mingling with the tears that already soaked their filthy rags. Their captors didn’t fare much better. The patched canvas awning provided scant protection from the storm. Ulric was eager to get back on their way, the Pig didn’t want to risk any of the horses sliding in the muck and breaking a leg. There wasn’t anything to do but wait. He gave Kell a nudge, disturbing the mercenary’s slumber. “How long before we head back to Ravok?”

“How the petch should I know?” Kell closed his eyes again, leaning back against the downed tree. Ulric scowled, casting a glance at the slaves.

“I was just wondering.”

“Not enjoying yourself?” Aleta, the slaver seated on Ulric’s other side, gave him a faint smirk. “You could always give the Pig a piece of your mind. Let him know it’s time to leave.”

“I’m young, not stupid.”

“If that was true, you’d keep your trap shut.”

“He just wants you to spread your thighs for him,” Kell sneered, causing Ulric’s ears to turn a vivid shade of crimson. Fortunately, the gloom cloaked his shame. Aleta was a striking woman, his elder by no more than a decade, but she also scared him. Like the others of the party, she didn’t seem to have any remorse. Not when she was bringing a rider down with one of her javelins, not when beating one of the slaves for trying to escape, not even when one of them was too sick to keep walking. Ulric wasn’t callous enough for this sort of work. He could barely look any of the slaves in the eye. He only beat them when it was expected, aware that he was only here because Kell had vouched for him with the Pig.

“So you fancy a tumble, do you?” Aleta raised an eyebrow. “You couldn’t handle me.”

“That’s why you think,” Ulric retorted. Aleta gave a dubious snort, leaving him to curse his clumsy bantering. He kept his mouth shut after that, passing the time by sneaking glances at the other slavers. Jord, the Pig, was a squat, corpulent man with beady eyes, clad in an old, faded crimson tunic that had contributed to his dubious moniker. He wore a pair of knives on his belt, his double-headed axe stashed beneath folds of greased canvas to protect it from the weather. While not much to stare at, the Pig was cunning, deceptively strong. He was flanked by Cobb, the Spider. His enforcer. Cobb was a spindly man, his face angular and seamed with scars, but he wielded his curved swords with a ferocity that seemed to defy his stature. Pig had also hired Aleta, a pale eyed, flaxen haired mercenary from Zeltiva, and Ibros, the Mute. He was a spare, dusky-skinned tracker whose talent with a recurved bow far exceeded that with his clumsy falchion, clad in buckskins and scraps of red cloth.

He was also staring back.

Ulric tore his eyes away, making a hasty count of the captives. Seven, eight, nine. They were all there. No crying, no whispering… just misery.

Kell and Aleta weren’t happy, either. There wasn’t enough dry wood for a fire, and rations, cut once already, were being swiftly depleted. Many of the provisions the Pig arranged for in Ravok had gone bad shortly after the change of season. There were also too many mouths to feed. The prisoners, already deprived of half their meager ration, were starving. Ibros hadn’t brought back any game for days. Aleta complained that he was holding out on them, but the Pig, who had worked with Ibros before, told her to get petched.

The gloom deepened, yet the storm continued to rage. The trees swayed violently, leaves thrashing, branches cracking. Ulric’s boots sank deeper and deeper into the muck. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering, but there wasn’t anything he could do to about his shivering. Just picture a roaring fire. He closed his eyes but his efforts were in vain. His fingers and toes were already numb, sodden trousers clinging unpleasantly to his thighs. Aleta was also shivering, her shoulders shaking where they pressed against his, strands of hair plastered to her face.

“You know, we could always huddle together for warmth.” He smiled thinly. Aleta stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged.

“Don’t get amorous on me,” she said, leaning onto his chest. Ulric slid an arm around her back, resting his cheek on the top her head.

“I won’t stab you if you promise not to stab me.”

“Enough of your euphemisms, whelp.” Ulric rankled at the epithet, but he tried to shrug it away. Working with the Pig meant he had to put up with that sort of thing. Whelp, Legs, Ugly, and Mute, all answering to the Pig and the Spider.

“Fair enough.” He leaned back, looking skyward. Kell was already snoring away beside him. Ulric didn’t want to give Kell the satisfaction of hearing him say so, but he was completely awed by the man. How many men could sleep through a storm, yet wake at the sound of a distant footstep? There was something surreal about him.

Ulric remained sitting for a long time, his muscles shrieking out as they stiffened and finally grew numb. He could have walked around, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. The world was reduced to cold, rain, muck, and the hollow eyes of the slaves. He kept dozing, catching a few moments of sleep before a particularly fat drop of rain landed on his face, waking him from fitful slumber. Always, he woke with a dry mouth. No matter how long he kept his mouth parted, sucking the moisture from his lips, the feeling never went away. He felt vaguely sick. After a while, Aleta’s weight began to crush his ribs, and though he wanted to shove her away, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He kept willing her to move, his resentment growing with every passing moment, but she didn’t wake. Not even when he exhaled rapidly. There was something comforting about being close to a woman that wasn’t, well, a dockside whore.

Eventually, the rain subsided to mist. Ulric scarcely noticed it because of the shroud of darkness, not the mention the dulling of his senses. It was only later, when the sky faded from black to gray, that the Pig’s beady eyes opened. He clambered unsteadily to his feet, letting the Spider, who’d he’d been sleeping back to back with, slide into the muck. “Rise and shine, Whelp.” He winked, drawing his cock out for a piss.

“Mornin’, Pig.”

“Mornin’, Whelp.”

“Mornin’, Spider.”

“Where the petch is the Mute?” With a cackle, he directed his pale stream toward Spider, forcing the man to scrabble away. Aleta, roused by the ruckus, also rose to her feet, followed by Ulric. Kell kept sleeping, even after the Spider kicked at his boots.

“Hunting,” the Spider chuckled. “He told me last night.”

“That’s only the fifth time you’ve tried that jest,” Aleta said, her legs wobbly as she moved to tend to the horses. “Think you’ve got another one in you?” Cackling again, the Pig gestured at Ulric.

“Whelp, see how the slaves are doing.”

Ulric stamped his boots on the ground, also chafing his hands as he tried to restore circulation to his limbs, then went reluctantly about his task. Four, fiv- His eyes widened. “Pig, one of them’s dead.”

“What d’you mean he’s dead?” Pig moved astonishingly fast for a man of his bulk, shouldering Ulric aside. He crouched in the muck, seizing the slave’s hair and hauling his pallid face from the puddle. The others stared on like automatons, not showing the slightest trace of emotion. Finally, Pig released the head, running pudgy fingers through his thinning auburn hair. “Never would’ve thought the bastard would drown himself,” he murmured.

by **Ulric** on May 10th, 2011, 12:42 am

They left the dead slave for the crows, continuing through the forest. Pig didn’t seem concerned about the Mute’s prolonged absence. Ulric could only wonder what the tracker was up to. His joints screamed in agony every time they ascended a ridge, but he kept prodding the slaves with the handle of his axe, trying to focus on herding them forward. After a while, the stiffness began to ease. The slaves shuffled along beside him, a long line of bent, dirty men and woman, bound together by clanking chains. He alternated between watching the slaves and searching the dense foliage for signs of wildlife. His boots left deep prints in the carpet of rotting leaves spread over moist earth, mingling with the scratches of animals.

We’d better dine on venison tonight, he frowned, wondering what the Mute was doing. Kell was fairly subdued, not bothering to respond to the Spider’s chatter with his usual gibes. Ulric noticed that when one of the slaves stumbled and fell, the mercenary simply hauled the woman to her feet, not bothering to answer her with a stinging cuff or a string of curses. For a man given to intense moods, this wasn’t out of the usual.

Eventually, they emerged upon a swath of moorland. Ulric swept his dark eyes over the rolling terrain, which was covered with bracken and coarse grasses that swayed in the heady wind. Every now and again, splotches of heather daubed the landscape. From experience, he knew that moors were deceiving. They were often riddled with bogs and infested by wolves, though he doubted the beasts would dare harass a large party of humans. And then, of course, there were the other unsavory surprises.

“Water,” rasped one of the slaves, tugging miserably at his elbow. Ulric glanced from the man’s dead eyes to Pig, checking to see that the slaver wasn’t looking before he gave the slave a drink from his skin.

“Don’t make this a habit,” he murmured, placing the cork back into his skin. Behind him, he heard Aleta snort. She didn’t seem to care whether he was easy with the slaves, or beat them savagely. Ulric knew she wouldn’t say anything to Pig, but all the same, he didn’t feel comfortable doing this sneaking. His distaste for slaving was palpable. Every time he let a slave drink before Pig gave the word, the man’s suspicions grew. Ulric feared that Pig might leave him behind, or worse, if he was suspected of trying to help the slaves escape their bonds. That was why he watched them so closely.

“Go on, then,” he growled, roughly pushing the slave forward. He though he saw a flicker of recognition in those eyes, but he could have been wrong. Never before had he seen men and women so badly broken.

Eventually, the clouds parted. Ulric felt the warmth of Syna on his face, driving away the shivers that had remained with him since the night. Pig seemed to go out of his way to lead them where the terrain was the highest, though Ulric noticed that he allowed more rests than usual. He suspected the slaver was concerned about the effect of the cold night and meager rations upon his stock, especially when the order came to set up camp before dusk. Ulric went to gather brush for the fire, returning with a heap of damp grasses that Aleta somehow coaxed into igniting. He went around with a skin of water, and then, his duties done, went to watch the sunset from a slab of lichen-covered granite. However, even then he couldn’t get any peace.

“Pretty sight, isn’t it?” Spider crept up on him, announcing his presence a friendly clap upon the shoulder.

“If you say so.”

“Never liked trees, myself.” The slaver whistled between his teeth. “There’s nothing as poetic as empty plain.” Ulric scowled.

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Spider puffed out his narrow chest, and began to recite in a deep, sonorous voice: “Dark-heaving, wild, and wide – a floweret of the moorland hill – peeped out unto the sky.” Ulric raised an eyebrow, hardly believing what he had just heard.

“Where’s that from?”

“Ah, what a poor, ignorant whelp you are. It’s not from anywhere. I just made it up.”

“You just made it up,” Ulric repeated, not rising to the bait. He was too astonished to take offense. “Are you petching with me?” Spider gave him a long look.

“Nothing is ever as it seems,” he shrugged, then walked back to the fire. Ulric considered his words for a moment. He would have to be more careful in the future. He couldn’t afford to give away his thoughts so easily, or every tinker in the ship would be pulling the wool over his eyes. Thanks, Spider.

Returning his gaze to the sunset, he enjoyed a few moments of peace before the watery so was ready. He gulped down his portion, wiping the dipper with a crust of bread, and went to feed the slaves their portion. He hated this more than the beatings, for then the dead eyes burned with a ravenous hunger. The slaves were like feral beasts, clawing the scraps from his hands and fighting amongst themselves for the best bits. Pig laughed through this part, offering Spider a wager that the other man declined. Ulric returned to the fire, his nerves shaken, only for Kell to seize his wrist as he was about to sit down.

“Get your things.”

“What’s this?” Pig cackled. “Do you mean we’re going to be treated to another spectacle?” Kell gave him a contemptuous stare.

“Don’t spurt in your trousers.” He regarded the boy again. “What the petch are you waiting for?”

Ulric groaned inwardly, knowing that he was about to have the shyke beaten out of him. That was Kell’s notion of training. Pig and the others found it amusing, but the ordeal left him sore for days. He never managed to land a blow. Kell wasn’t much stronger or faster than him, but the mercenary was cunning, seeming to predict his every move before he so much as moved a muscle.

Moving to his pack, Ulric took up his bearded axe. He thrust his left arm through the loops of his round shield, then squared off with Kell, who’d sprung for a sword instead of his usual axe, and a similar shield. It was growing darker now, the life of the fire reflected in the metal of their weapons. “Come on, show me what you’ve got,” Kell sneered. Ulric bit his lip. Is it just me, or does he look more sadistic than usual?

“Let’s see how you handle this, old man.” He forced himself to smile, his brazen words hanging false upon the chilly air. Showing fear or doubt would only make the beating worse. No, it was best this way.

Circling, he kept low to offer a smaller target, studying his opponent over the rim of his shield. Kell wasn’t moving, his sword and shield lowered as if he were resting. Ulric lunged forward, his axe flicking out in a poke. Kell batted it aside easily, not bothering to raise his sword as Ulric moved out of reach. “What are you, a merchant’s prized butt-boy? Try to hit me,” the mercenary taunted. Ulric knew better than to get angry, but he couldn’t keep postponing the inevitable. He lunged again, moving laterally as he hacked with the axe. Kell caught it on his shield, his sword flicking at Ulric’s knees, but only to be similarly turned aside. Ulric kept moving, using his momentum to retreat from a shield swipe, and lined up a backhand hack. His own shield swept forward, meant to block or bash depending on how the mercenary reacted. Kell was five steps ahead of him. Ulric’s axe clove through empty air, leaving his left side exposed. He desperately tried to pivot, but Kell had already seized the advantage, moving to his own right and landing a stinging blow to the boy’s ribs with the flat of his sword. Ulric grimaced, trying to bring his axe around again to make some room, but Kell was controlling the distance now. The mercenary stepped in close, letting the shaft strike an ineffectual blow on his side as he drove the pommel of his sword around the raised shield, landing a perfect liver shot. Ulric felt his knees buckle, and he crumpled to the ground, writhing in agony. He gasped for air, closing his eyes as a searing nausea twisted his guts, and tried to envision a life free of beatings.

“Stay on the outside,” Kell sneered. “Haven’t you learned anything?” He scratched at his bearded chin, then spat to the side. Ulric tried to stand, but fell to his knees again. Kell added a few kicks as a motivator, and presently they were squaring off again. Ulric sought to land another combination, a feint, swipe, and hack at the legs, but Kell once again turned his blows and targeted his unprotected side. Ulric retreated, his heart pounding wildly as he narrowly avoided taking another punishing shot. Then the shield crashed into his face, knocking him down again. His ears burned with shame at the chuckles that emanated from around the fire. For once, he wanted Spider of Pig to try their luck against Kell. He rose unsteadily, spitting blood from a split lip. His cheek was already swelling.

“Not bad… for a sodomite,” he snarled, drawing a few laughs of his own. Kell wasn’t perturbed.

“Having fun yet?”

“Not really.” Ulric dropped low, raising his shield as the sword swept toward his face. He absorbed the blow, even managing to deflect part of the shield bash that drove him back a step. He hooked at his teacher’s ankles in a last, desperate attempt to yank the man off balance. No chance. Kell moved to the side and drove a heavy boot into his shoulder. Ulric sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath as the sword’s point tickled his neck.

“That was shyke.” Kell spat a plug of phlegm on the ground, barely missing Ulric’s cheek. “Don’t you ever learn?” Despite his best efforts to remain calm, Ulric swiftly lost his temper.

“The only thing I learn is that you’re better than me.”

“Then why don’t you run away?”

“Because you’re supposed to be training me,” Ulric retorted. He pushed himself to his feet and punched angrily at the air. “I get the message, you want me to figure out how to beat you – but how the petch can I do that?” Kell thought for a moment.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“Not that badly.”

“Well, that means you aren’t learning enough.” Ulric gathered up his shield. He leapt forward, feinting an overhand hack as the sword crashed against his shield, then tried to land a poke. No luck. Beating a hasty retreat, he circled to the right, swiping with both axe and shield in the hope that the former might penetrate beneath the mercenary's guard. Again, the shield interposed itself, and the boot descended on the back of his calf, causing him to fall face first on the ground.

“Pathetic,” Kell chuckled, “You’re as…” His voice trailed off as the cadence of hoof beats sounded on the turf. Ulric clambered to his knees, his anger draining away as he saw Pig and Spider with their weapons drawn, Aleta sliding a javelin from her bundle.

The Mute had returned.

His dusky skin blending with the night, the tracker reined in a half-dozen paces from the fire, pushing a sack from across his saddle. It wasn’t a sack, though. “What’s this?” Pig chuckled. He stooped to remove the hood from the man’s head, revealing a young face and a head of long, curly red hair, arms lashed behind his back. The face was streaked with dirt and dried blood, but the pale eyes were defiant. Oh, not this again, Ulric clenched his teeth, knowing what was going to be asked of him.

“Whelp, this one is yours.” Pig’s beady eyes glinted as his lips curled into a grin. “Spider, hold him.” Ulric hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he strode purposefully across the camp, dropping his weapons as he passed the huddled slaves, and drove his knee into the new merchandise. Ulric struck the boy again, even as he sagged to his knees. Spider watched intently as he kept the boy from falling onto his face, grabbing a handful of hair and twisting the head back.

Ulric’s clenched fist descended again, snapping the head to one side. “Guurgh,” the boy moaned through his gag, but there was no stopping now. More blows rained down. Please, don’t make me do this any longer/ His hands were sticky with blood, but he kept going. He couldn’t stop until Pig gave him the word. He brought his knee up again, acutely conscious of the eyes that bored accusingly into his own, and suddenly he felt a surge of rage. Can’t you see this isn’t my fault? He drove his elbow into the boy’s cranium, much more savagely than he’d intended, rendering him as limp as a rag doll.

“Enough,” Pig said finally. “That’s enough for tonight.”

Ulric stood back, cradling his right hand as he sobbed softly with relief. He was breathing heavily. Forgive me, he thought as Spider released his grip, reaching for a set of manacles as the boy sprawled upon the ground. He was suddenly taken by a revulsion for what he’d done, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. This was wrong. The longer he did this, the guiltier he felt. He was no better than Pig. He was a slaver.

Credit :

by **Ulric** on May 10th, 2011, 5:26 pm

Night yielded to morning, but the guilt remained. Ulric went to gather more brush, adding the damp twigs to the embers until he managed to revived the fire. He put the kettle over its furtive tongues of flame, adding water from one of the skins. “What do we have left?” he cleared his throat, casting a lingering glance at fitfully slumbering slaves. Aleta blew her nose, wiping the snot onto the dewy grass.

“Slop.”

“Sounds delightful,” Ulric winced, trying to make light of their predicament. Pig and the others were gone, seeking more captives. He suspected that Aleta was upset about being ordered to mind the slaves with him, but he couldn’t be certain. The slavers had taken the horses with them, leaving a heap of gear lying around. They wouldn’t be moving until the next morning. That meant there was plenty of time to rest and tend to any nagging injuries the slaves might have. Pig was harsh with his merchandise, but knew to ease up before they got too weak to travel.

While the water rose to a boil, Ulric went to inspect the slaves. He checked them for scrapes and abrasions, especially around the rough edges of their manacles, smelling for any scent of decay. They seemed to be doing reasonably well, apart from the debilitating effects of hunger and fatigue. He wanted to search for food, but he wasn't permitted to stray from camp. Pig had been adamant about that. His stomach had been growling for days, so he hated to think of the pangs the slaves must be suffering. Fortunately, most were too weary to awake when the light hit their faces, sparing him the sight of their dead eyes.

Ulric came to the end of the line, rubbing the grit from his eyes. He sighed, then regarded the final captive, the boy from last night. This wasn’t something he’d been looking forward to. Surely enough, the boy was staring right back at him. “Don’t speak. Don’t make eye contact,” he murmured. “Try to keep your head down and perhaps you make it out of this in one piece.”

“Go petch yourself,” snarled the boy. “I’m going to strangle you and your friends with these chains.” He shook his arms violently, rousing the slave to his right. The woman glanced up and hastily closed her eyes again. Ulric shook his head, making sure that Aleta wasn’t watching. The boy was about his own age, though it was hard to discern anything through the mottled bruises.

“They’re not my friends.” He frowned, envisioning his fists descending again, raising new welts. The memory sickened him, but at the same time he felt a surge of power. The boy’s life was in his hands. He could do whatever he wanted without fear of reprisal, though this sudden delight only made him sicker.

“So you’re in it for the money, then.” Ulric clenched his teeth. He hadn’t wanted to embark upon this sort of work, but he couldn’t argue with the statement.

“What’s your name?” He crouched down, smacking the hands away from his neck. The boy was defiant.

“What’s it to you?”

“Keep your voice down,” Ulric snarled. He was sticking his neck out for this boy, and he expected some respect. “Do you know what happens to guys like you?” He paused, continuing when the boy didn’t respond. “Pig makes us slit the throats of potential ringleaders. They’re not worth anything on the market, expect perhaps as fodder for the pits. Do you want to die?”

“I’d rather die than live in chains,” the boy said, his swollen eyes betraying only a glimmer of fear.

“Then escape,” Ulric murmured. He turned to leave, but a word from the boy stopped him in his tracks. “What?

“My name is Elon.”

“Ulric,” he whispered back, then kicked at Elon’s legs. “We do what we must to survive.”

Returning to Aleta, he grinned when he saw that she was napping. Or at least pretending to nap. He didn’t care to find out, so he busied himself with a whetstone, renewing the edge on his axe. The rest of the day was uneventful. He fed and watered the slaves, as he would a beast of burden, and sat around watching the clouds. Dark-heaving, wild, and wide, he thought as he regarded the wind-swept moors, recalling his brief talk with Spider. No man was ever what he seemed. He was pretending to be a slaver, and the boy was probably pretending to be brave. Everybody had their secrets.

Pig returned before evening, empty-handed and in a foul mood. Kell, on the other hand, was downright cheerful as he dismounted. “Had to kill the bastards,” he grinned. “They didn’t give us a choice.” Ulric cast a quick glance at Elon, wondering how he would react to the news, but the boy was inscrutable. His eyes were still burning, though. That was a bad sign.

“Petching morons,” Pig raged. He stalked across the moor, laying waste to clumps of furze with the heel of his boots. Spider didn’t seem too perturbed.

“You win some and you lose some,” he shrugged. “At least we got some gold out of the mess. And those.” He gestured at a pair of saddlebags thrown over his own mount, and the bulging sack the Mute had thrown over shoulder. Ulric’s eyes widened.

“Is that food?”

“Nothing other,” Spider cackled. “We only have to ask, and Rhysol provides.” Aleta didn’t find the remark very amusing. Being from Zeltiva, she didn’t share the same beliefs as the Ravokians.

“About a week late, and with such paucity that we’ll be back to half rations in a matter of days.” Spider licked his lips.

“Did something crawl up your arse, darlin’? Or…” he cast a quick, mischievous glance at Ulric. “Did you finally pop the whelp’s cherry?”

“For your information,” Ulric began, but he stopped short, not wanting to rise to the bait. Instead, he settled back on a boulder, glancing first at Pig, and then Elon. He was later called upon to give the boy another beating.

by **Ulric** on May 10th, 2011, 10:54 pm

They spent another day trudging over the bleak expanse of moorland before reaching the next of their obstacles, a thick, swampy forest. That was where they paused for the night. “We’re not going through there in the dark,” Pig spoke with another cackle, motioning for the others to set up the awnings in the shelter of a copse of trees. Ulric could understand why. He peered through the murky ranks of trees, observing how the dense foliage blocked out even the scantest shafts of sunlight to transform the swamp into a perpetual night. There must be all sorts of creatures lurking in there, he thought, a bit frightened by the prospect of being turned into some beast’s dinner. He just hoped there weren’t any snakes.

Casting a brief glance at Elon, he moved to help Spider unburden one of the packhorses and set up the awnings. Together, they made short work of the task. Spider drove the forked poles into the spongy earth, leaving Ulric to spread the patched canvas and weight down the sides with chunks of rock. “Why aren’t we going around the swamp?” He looked up he put on the finishing touches.

“Companies of knights sometimes range around here,” Spider replied, stretching his lean, almost cadaverous body. “Which is why the pickings are so good. People believe they’re safe, see.”

“So we’re trying to stay undetected.” Ulric rubbed his patchy growth of beard, not caring to hear the finer points of slaving.

“No, we’re just going for the view,” Spider said mockingly. Ulric just snorted, rising to gather some wood. He didn’t have far to go, and soon he’d made a cache that would probably last for the rest of the night. Having finished and dug the fire pit, he stretched out next to Kell, watching the Mute tend to the horses.

“Where are we headed now?” He gave the mercenary a sideways look, slipping the knife out of his sheath so he whittle at a stick.

“Back to Ravok.”

“What?” Ulric sat bolt upright. He’d thought they were traveling west. “Since when?”

“Since a few days ago, you twit.” Kell smirked, enjoying yet another excuse to treat Ulric like an idiot. “Figures you’d petch that up. Might as well put you in chains for all the good you’ve done.”

“We’re supposed to be protecting people, not slaving,” Ulric retorted. “We may not make lots of money with caravans, but at least it’s honest work.” Kell merely snorted, shaking his head contemptuously.

“That’s what you don’t understand, boy. Nobody gives a shyke about your morality, except for them that’s going to die like lambs to a slaughter when they fight an enemy with no scruples. Haven’t you learned anything? There’s a time to be dependable, and a time to stab some shyke in the back before he does that same to you. That’s what you need to realize. Nobody is worthy of your trust, or even the revolting sympathy that clouds your big, stupid head. You’re supposed to be a mercenary, for Rhysol’s sake. Not a mincing butt-boy.”

“Well, petch the world, then.” Ulric frowned, knowing better than to argue. He knew this was a cold, ruthless world. He was reminded of that every day, and if he had to choose a side, he’d rather be the one holding the keys. We slave because we can, he reflected with a shrug. When you strip away the emotions, there’s naught but men and women trying to survive. There’s no good. There’s no evil. There’s only surviving and dying.

Spider beat Elon that night, trying to quench the defiance that smoldered in his pale eyes. “You could learn something from this,” Pig remarked. He threw a pudgy arm over Ulric’s shoulder, showing how Spider used quick, precise punches to maximize the pain and duration of the beating, while minimizing the damage caused. “Next time you do this, don’t break their faces.”

“Don’t break their faces,” Ulric repeated, cringing slightly as Elon’s gaze lingered upon him. “Let’s see how that works out.”

The next day, they headed into the depths of the swamp. Pig insisted he could cross it in a single day, but Spider argued for finding a patch of solid ground and making camp. Even the Mute had an opinion, but they ignored him. This bickering went on through much of the day. Ulric spent most of the time trudging through the stagnant, fetid waters. They were frigid as well, numbing his entire lower body, and thick with decaying matter. His heavy boots kept slipping in the muck, his legs tiring from constantly being sucked into the sludgy depths. Eventually, he removed his boots and tied them around his neck. Even so, it was tough going. He was breathing heavily, his clothes soaked with sweat despite the cold air. Trunks rose from the water, some rubbery, others swarmed by creepers that lashed at his face, reducing his field of vision. He didn’t recognize half of them, but the cloying stench of cherries clung heavily to the torpid air, rising above the reek of muck.

Ulric had no way of discerning how deep the water was beneath his feet. At times it was no deeper than calf height, others rising higher than his waist. Leaves and tiny buds floated amidst a film of algae, concealed many dark, treacherous holes that almost claimed a pair of slaves. Aleta managed to drag them back to their feet, cursing. Ibros was busy with the horses, which were perhaps even unhappier to be in the swamp than they were. Ulric kept a close eye on the slaves, making sure they weren’t tangled up in the trees, or sucked into the depths of the muck. His ears were assailed by the eerie chattering of insects, which filled him with a deeper sense of unease. He was glad when they could hop over hummocks of land, which made the going easier. But that didn’t happen often. He shuddered as he felt soft, clammy things drag against his legs.

“We better get paid extra for this,” Aleta grumbled, swatting at the mosquitoes clustered on her neck.

“You got that right,” Ulric replied.

by **Ulric** on May 11th, 2011, 2:52 pm

Abruptly, a cry pierced the viscous air, erupting from lungs that were unmistakably human. Ulric reached for his axe, muscles tensing as a sudden terror coursed through his veins. The cry was repeated thrice more, growing fainter as the source seemed to fade through the trees. He glanced at the others, his eyes widened, and for the first time he saw a cloud of doubt descend over Pig’s chubby features. Spider pushed past Aleta, who already had a javelin to hand, and conferred with Pig in hushed voices. Ulric peered at the slaves again, seeing their eyes light up again as they cast furtive looks around the dense, shadowy ranks of trees. They’re more afraid of what’s out there than they are of us, he realized, his hands beginning to tremble. He cursed under his breath, clenching his fingers around the haft of his axe. If anybody was going to turn craven right now, it wasn’t going to be him. At last, the Pig climbed onto a downed, termite-infested trunk, regarding his flock through narrowed, beady eyes.

“Listen up, boys and girls,” he snarled, discarding his usual humor. “We’re going to stop here for a while. Ugly, Mute, go see what’s up ahead. Aleta, you take Whelp and see if we’re being followed.” Kell snorted.

“And what about you?”

“I’ll be waiting here with a finger up my arse,” Pig replied acidly, his tone brooking no objections. Kell merely shrugged. Spider seemed as if he wanted to say something, but held his tongue.

“What a stupid plan,” Aleta said later, when she and Ulric had opened up enough distance from the other slavers. “Go out and get picked off one by one? Not my petching idea of safe.” Ulric furrowed his brow, his eyes searching through the dark trunks laden with shelf fungus.

“How do you know those noises weren’t made by a beast?”

“Never heard sounds like that in my life.” Aleta used her javelin to push aside a web of sticky creepers. “Well, petch, I’m not saying they weren’t made by a beast. I’m just saying there’s safety in numbers.” Ulric swiped at a mosquito, thinking of what Spider told him on the moors.

“You don’t think he’s trying to double-cross us, do you?” Ulric looked up from hacking a notch from one of the trees, trying to ensure that they wouldn’t lose their bearings in the murky swamp.

“Out here, in the middle of a petching swamp, hundreds of miles from Ravok?” Aleta shook her head. “That’s doesn’t ma-” She stiffened as the cry rang out again, from their left this time, and then in the distance to their rear.

“Could it be some kind of bird?”

“Will you keep quiet?” Aleta’s lips drew back in a snarl, but her eyes showed a fear that Ulric had never seen before. “Whelp, it’s never just a bird,” she hissed. Never a bird. Now that’s just delightful, Ulric scowled as he followed Aleta to a patch of relatively solid ground. He suddenly needed to take a piss. His nerves were screaming out from the pressure that kept building in his temples, the ubiquitous dread that an unseen predator was lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce on him at any moment. Hairs were raised on his neck, goose prickles on his clammy arms.

Suddenly, he realized that even the insects had stopped chattering. The swamp was completely silent.This is madness, he thought as he swept splayed fingers through his limp hair, smearing his face with the reeking muck. But he didn’t care. “We need to go back,” he whispered. “Something isn’t right.”

“You’re telling me,” Aleta replied, reaching for another javelin. Ulric heard a twig snap. He glanced around wildly, the breath catching in his throat, but he couldn’t see a thing. A bullfrog chirped ominously. He peered up through the dense canopy of leaves, wishing that a shaft of light would pierce the murk. The morning had been cloudy, with a few drops of rain. The murk was oppressive. The great, gnarled limbs creaked overhead, even though there wasn’t any wind. Ulric watched a leaf float to the ground. He bent down to pick it up, his eyes widening as he saw the trunks reflected in a dark, bud-strewn buddle. A creeper snapped.

Suddenly, a shadow descended upon him, knocking him roughly to the ground. Ulric’s face pressed into the muck, his legs thrashing wildly. He heard a great impact next to his head, and suddenly a sucking noise. Hot urine coursed down his leg as he twisted his head, clawing the muck from his eyes. Where is Aleta? Her frenzied screams echoed through the trees, then ended abruptly. Again silence reigned over the swamp.

Ulric began to run, his chest pounding fit to burst, his breath coming in short, panicked sobs. He didn’t care where he was going. He just wanted to get away. They got Aleta. There was no going back now. He fought his way through the sticky muck, losing his balance, crawling, seizing handfuls of creepers to yank himself back to his feet, then trying to run once more. He might have been heading in a circle for all he knew. Eventually, he slowed as fatigue crept into his bones once again, leaning against a mossy trunk from support. They got Aleta.

Now he was completely alone.

by **Ulric** on May 11th, 2011, 5:53 pm

Ulric knew the end was near. He tried to retrace his steps, but his efforts were for naught. He was going to perish in this menacing swamp, whether at the jaws of some terrible creature or by natural causes. His shivers had already returned. His gut ached with hunger, and his lips were parched and cracking. He wasn’t desperate enough to drink the fetid water, though. That would probably kill him faster.

Instead, he just slogged through the muck, dreading when the shroud of night would descend upon the swamp. He cradled his axe, dark eyes scanning not only the trunks that erupted from the water, but the branches above him. The monstrous shadow had leapt on him from above, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. No, his newest mistake was walking into its lair. He saw the leg first, half-gnawed and bobbing silently among the choking algae. Then he became aware of the rest of her mangled carcass. It was a mess, the thick, bluish ropes of her guts strewn around, gore leaking from her crushed cranium, a spread of ribs glistening through sticky, gnawed flesh. Her once-pale hair was filthy and matted. The scent of fresh blood was heavy upon the air.

Slowly, he glanced to the right, seeing the massive forest cat perched upon a branch, its hindquarters bunching as it prepared to tear him apart. “Oh, no you don’t,” he scowled. As the cat pounced with a snarl, he threw himself aside, swiping ineffectually with his axe. His pulse was racing again, yet his thought were endowed a strange clarity. He swept the axe in a wide arc, keeping the cat at bay as he retreated to the safety of a trunk. Not that it mattered. Instead of going around the trunk, the cat simply leapt onto a higher branch and plunged down upon him.

“Petching cats,” Ulric growled as he took a step back, gripping the axe with both hands, and swung it with all his might. The cat twisted to avoid the swing, but he managed to land a heavy blow on its side. He barely managing to hold onto the axe as the cat circled away, yowling with pain. Now the tables were turning. He exhaled loudly, knowing that he had to time his next swing perfectly. If the cat got inside his guard, he’d end up being torn to pieces.

Of course, from there it turned into a game. Ulric kept circling with the cat, which seemed reluctant to leap in again unless it had a good opening. He knew better than to expose his back to its snapping teeth and long, razor-sharp claws, but at the same time he was beginning to fear that it was merely waiting for a mate to return so they could bring him down together. Backing away, he tried to see if there were any javelins beneath the carnage. Seeing that he was distracted, the cat lunged again. He thrust desperately with his axe, giving it a stinging smack on the face, the wickedly curved edge dragging at its flat nose and eyes. Now the cat was hurting. Ulric watched as it vanished into the swamp, spitting and yowling as blood streamed from the deep gashed. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then he bent down suddenly, retching. This was probably the closest he’d ever been to dying. After a while, he managed to stagger to his feet. “So long, Aleta,” he said, too hollow to feel any grief.

Ulric wandered through the swamp for a time, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. He was only hoping to find the other side, but by chance he encountered one of the notches he’d made earlier. From there he was able to get his bearings, urging his leaden legs to move faster as he followed the concealed path. He feared the others would have left him behind, but he wasn’t expecting to have the creepers part before him, revealing a scene of even worse carnage. Holy shyke, he grimaced, observing the tangle of clawed, bloody corpses. Many had clearly been fed upon while the others looked on in horror. He observed one man writhing in agony, choking on his own blood, and a set of forearms trapped in a set of manacles, the rest of the body carried away. But there were survivors. A few slaves stirred at his approach, and a hand groped for his ankle. He stepped back, regarding the filthy, wild-eyed face that stared up at him.

“Let us go,” Elon rasped. “Please, your boss is dead.” Ulric’s jaw dropped. He searched around, finding confirmation in the form of a gaping torso with one leg attached. Spider was missing. Far off, he heard another series of cries. For all he knew, everybody else was dead. He scratched at the caked mud on his cheek, wondering how he should react as he surveyed the faces of the living. There were no more than three, counting the boy. The man wouldn’t survive much longer, what with the froth of blood forming upon his lips, his clawed chest heaving as he labored to draw breath. No, there was no point in keeping up with this charade. Ulric bent and yanked the cord from around Pig’s neck, tossing the tangle of keys to Elon.

“You’re on your own,” he said, turning away. The slaves would only slow him down. At least they would die free of their chains.

He didn’t have far to trudge through the muck before the Mute reared through the press of trees. The man was clearly worse for the wear, his face scratched, a welt forming below his left eye. He was missing his bow, and the sheath at his side was empty. He clutched a familiar sword. Spider. Ulric’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing is ever as it seems,” he repeated with a faint smile, starting to close the distance between them. He was badly confused by the whole ordeal, but one fact remained – he couldn’t trust this man any longer.

Reaching for his shield, he brought his axe around. The Mute’s eyes widened in surprise, but he managed to duck as the weapon whistled over his head, quickly thrusting with the sword. How clumsy, Ulric thought as the point scraped against his shield. He went low with his backswing, using this attack to distract his opponent. He followed up with a shield bash. Instead of reeling back, the Mute just held on with both hands. Ulric clenched his teeth as he felt himself dragged down, hacking his axe at the back of the man’s legs. He didn’t do much damage. Hissing with pain, the Mute ripped the shield away and drove a fist into his face. Ulric tried and failed to land a knee, releasing his axe when the Mute struck him again. He grabbed the man behind the neck, pushing the head down and landing a thundering uppercut. You’re supposed to control the distance, he thought absently as a knife punched through his armor and caught on his ribs, sending a white-hot pain blossoming through his entire body. He gave the Mute a shove, gritting his teeth as he stumbled back. Hot blood trickled down his side.

So far, this day was chock full of mistakes.

Ulric kicked out as the Mute rushed at him, trying to finish the job. His bare foot stopped the man in his tracks, but the knife flashed out again, narrowly missing his leg. Blindly, Ulric caught hold of his discarded shield and swung it with all his might, the metal rim catching the Mute on the side of the head. He swung it again, missing badly, and dropped into a crouch, waiting for the man to come at him again.

However, that was just when an axe whirled out from nowhere, planting itself in the side of the Mute’s head. Ulric gaped as his adversary toppled into the muck and lay there, unmoving.

“What was that all about?” Kell pushed through the creepers, scowling. “That shyke ran off on me,” he added.

“Nothing,” Ulric spoke with a sigh. “Everybody is dead. He just attacked for no reason.”

“Well, isn’t that just great,” Kell grunted as he jerked his axe free. “Let’s get the petch out of here before those cats get hungry again.”

by **Archon** on May 15th, 2011, 5:38 am

Illumination of Development

Ulric

+5 Bearded Axe
+5 Shield
+3 Rhetoric
+3 Wilderness Survival
+2 Unarmed Combat
+1 Philosophy

Lores: The morality of slavery, Breaking slaves in, The proper way to deliver a beating, Death: Up close and personal, Large swamp felines (Basic)

Care to see more? :

Notes:Quite the good thread, you gave it a very dark atmosphere and finished with some excellent desperation on Ulric's part. It was a very riveting read.