The morning chill shrouded him as Matauk moved about camp in stealth cured from years of warfare and training. His day was to be a simple one with only a trip into Turia for supplies and perhaps a stop at his favorite tavern. Smiling, he remembered the sweet azera and her talented hands while thinking, yes, a stop there was called for.
At his wagon, he lowered and peered under to the girl snuggled beneath a single worn swatch of fur. She had displeased him. The warrior sighed deeply as he stood, black leathers silent from wear, surveying his camp once before mounting waiting kaiila, the animal snorting with eager anticipation, spurred on a quick pace to leave camp behind.
This story could be filled with much that happened during that day, about the Warrior that enters Turia to haggle with merchants and peruse the Street of Brands just to see what was available, not that he had the money to buy, mind you.
Perhaps maybe about a girl that woke up to find herself still chained but alone. Every noise becoming some beast that had caught the scent of her fear. Her thoughts on the Master she had angered and his assured return to camp.
Instead, let me introduce the young Altom, a warrior in one of the neighboring camps and brother to Matauk . On sturdy kaiila, he entered the quiet camp to check on his brother's property, using her well before releasing her to accomplish the day's chores. It is pivotal that you know about him now.
The girl finished her chores: the verr fed, the bosk tended to, eggs cradled in a short bucket being brought to store in the cold cache at the river's edge for tomorrow's breakfast, she had cleared the sheltering copse of trees, returning to camp. His call to halt made even her stop and look up. There, in the distance at her Master's fire, stood Altom with five mounted men approaching from opposite direction. An alarm froze in her throat as she recognized the parties colors.
Too late she screamed, feet bursting in a sprint forward only to stop as her hand ascends to cover the sound. She saw one rider approach the young Warrior, a lance held poised for flight. Relief overtook her to see it skid off the dirt a few paces behind the braced champion.
Her scream was enough though .. six heads turning towards her direction. With an unheard command, his hand sweeping towards Altom , the largest mounted warrior kicked his steed away from the fray -followed by one of his men- to gallop towards her, dirt and grass flying behind them.
Gaze frozen on Altom , she knew time had passed for him. The combatants paid dearly for their cowardice, one falling from his mount to lay on the grass, a quiva jutting hideously from one eye, the other two charging at the same time with spears poised at his chest.
Altom fell, dead before he hit the ground but still inflicted damage as a second combatant screamed in pain .. a quiva stuck between his ribs. The man slumped in his saddle but managed to keep pace with the other to catch up to his leader on the chase for the girl.
She had run into the small clump of trees, hoping the kaiila could not follow. Crying to hear their snorts almost right behind her, her steps away to veer off, out onto the plains. Something in her saying it was futile anyway.
A buzz passed by her, pain flaring in one leg as the weight of ill-aimed bola skimmed her knee. Darting in ever changing patterns, she could hear them laughing ... hear the whirl of a second bola spinning faster and faster in its owner's hand.
Luck ran out though, the bola catching her, weights mercifully ended in the grass instead of swinging around to crush her ankles. She rolled to her back, lifting .. fingers tore at the leather straps until a shadow crept across her and she knew she was caught.
Perhaps this is where the story does begin, but without the knowledge of what happened prior, it may be just one more story out there. Instead, it is the tale of one's life. The honor of one's codes and the purpose of one's role. You see, it was only a half a day later that Matauk came home.
Within a pasang, he could tell something was wrong. The smell of charring hung in the crisp night air and the kaiila seemed in a hurry as well. Soon enough, he could see the smoke .. soon enough, his mount frothing at the harried run, brought him in the midst of his camp. What was left of it.
Leaping from the saddle, feet running before they ever touch the grass, he moves to Altom .. checking for a pulse, whispering, "Come on, my brother .. live, have breath in you." He finds none. No pulse, no breath, no words to tell him what has happened in the ahns he was away.
Eyes to the grass, he counts .. 1 .. 2,3 .. 4 ... 5, grimacing while he dances over the footsteps in the dirt around the firepit, long cold by now. Re-enacting the fight, he catches sight of the set of tracks leading away .. towards the river. Curious, he follows.
A sparkle of metal draws his eye just past the line of trees, the kaiila seeming to have gone in that direction as well, he approaches. Finding a string of bells, the ones he had placed about her ankle some nights before. Growling, Matauk releases a war cry to the skies.
He burned his brother's body that night, saying the words that had been said for generations before him. The Cities of Dust welcoming another among the ranks of fallen loved ones, friends and foe. While the pyre crackles and expands with heat, the warrior collects what he can from his camp.
His kaiila eating up pasang after pasang, Matauk tracks the mounted raiders -noting that, despite having one light mount, a small set of footprints can be found here and there. It was shortly before the sun loomed full on the horizon that he came upon a body, scavengers already feasting.
In a vest pocket, Matauk finds his brother's quiva while spying the long gash along ribs that no longer move with breath. He wonders at what type of people do not give funerals to their own. A quick search of the body tells him nothing has been left behind, the tracks leading away now a set of three heavy, two light, and one girl, stumbling along.
She had fallen once or twice, raked along the dirt and grass until managing to get feet beneath her again. Letting the kaiila pull her up, she saves energy where she can. Twice the leader had barked at his men, their open ogling and stares effecting even him, the brisk pace putting them all on edge.
It was starting to get dark when the raiders finally stopped to set up a small camp. The leader, one she had heard called Mascar, came back to untie her from the long leash used to keep her behind them. Without thought, she knelt before the large man.
"Food" was all he said, the girl peering up to see him pointing off towards the small fire already built by efficient hunters. Hurrying up to the clearing, she begins boiling water and rummaging through the food pack left nearby. Soon enough meat is added to the boiling stew and the smell of a meal drifts out over the plains.
Kneeling at the edge of the clearing, she stares off into the blackness behind her, not even sure which direction they had come from in her weariness. Hands slip up and over her head, the koora once tied around her forehead slipping free to land in the dirt. Quickly, she looks around then brushes the koora a bit further into a clump of grass.
Without warning, both raiders stand before the leader with harsh tones and gestures. Trained to not react, not listen even, she lowers eyes and body shifts to curl inward in slow motion, drawing no attention to herself. It didn't matter.
"She is not for you." With that said, Mascar drew his blade and met his men, each blanching at the sight of the mighty warrior braced for a fight. Neither wanted to test their blades against his as both -albeit grumbling- sat to finish eating before bedding down.
If this story needs a some excitement, how about i tell you now that Matauk had already crept up behind the girl and taken the koora from the grass. It hung from his belt as he moved about in the blackness surrounding the camp. The raider's kaiila were being fed, the raiders themselves uncautious ..... this was almost too easy.
From the protection of darkness, he watches ... watches the men bicker over his girl, the leader licking his lips every time he sees the naked morsel. Sure enough with a barked command, he strides to her kneeling form and pushes her towards the erected tent. The girl's response not quick enough, he kicks her head over heels into the shelter.
Now some may tell you that Goreans were not malicious or deviant men, which is not to say that some did not have a taste for causing pain. That some did not delight in making a hesitant woman, free or slave, cry out for mercy from one they might even despise.
The whimpers and cries from the tent didn't raise the interest of any at the camp, least of all Matauk . His attention was on the two oafs that stood at guard, one propped against a large log, his chin on his chest to lift and fall with each snored breath ... the other, distracted by a bird calling out, steps into the darkness to investigate.
Without movement, the prey is stalked. The bird call a masterful trick learned long ago, Matauk sends it out over the plains until the guard is almost upon him. With a flash of liquid silver, the guard falls ... his last gurgled breath stifled by a large hand held over the dying man's mouth.
Moving around camp, a sudden, ear-splitting scream coming from the tent, Matauk loses his edge with the snoring fellow. Waking up with a start, the man bellows out a fierce cry just as he charges, Matauk side-stepping his sword by a hair's length.
Turning to spin left as the man passes him on the right, Matauk sails one quiva to his back, a second lodging behind the man's left knee while a third strikes him in the shoulder to drive him off balance, sprawling in the grass just as the tent flap flies open.
With a bellow, the large raider surveys his camp quickly before settling eyes to Matauk . "Warrior, what business have you here?" He asks calmly, his hand sweeping in the direction of the two men on the ground.
I believe you have my property, Mascar. Do you fight to keep it or hand her over?" Matauk stood just as calmly, waiting on the answer while ignoring the little face that peeks out to him from the opened tent flap.
"Your property," Mascar stammers, "surely there has been a mistake. You've come to the wrong camp, Brother. We ha... I have only one girl here bought from a young warrior yesterday, fair and square. She is quite the morsel, too."
It may be interesting to note that Mascar hated surprises and that the one coming would upset his world greatly.
"My brother's blood at my camp seems a stiff price for one willing to sell property, Mascar. For that alone, you will die. How you die depends on whether you hand her over now."
The words hit home, Mascar gulping nervously. He was a big man that had lived a long time, and not from being careless, but this was different. This man seemed only to be waiting for the inevitable. It was unsettling.
The fight was indeed a long one, Matauk managing to slice the larger man multiple times while ever-dodging a swinging blade. Inside the tent, the flaps gripped in her hands to hold before small face, the girl watches .. her heart cheering silently for her owner's blade to find its target.
Almost toying with the large man, Matauk dances around him .. pursuing and herding for the best position before .. with a movement too quick to see, he moves behind Mascar to swipe the edge of bloodied quiva along his neck .. Matauk letting the body slump to the ground, the war cry erupting once more from his throat.
With a short squeal, the girl shoots from the tent ... her body a canvas of welts and already purpled bruises, her face marred with streaks of wetness, lips swollen ... she lands at his feet, kissing each as her Master stands triumphant above.
Packing the animals, taking all he can, Matauk heads back home, the bodies laid out in warning to all raiders. Halfway home, he peers back .. the girl barely awake atop one kaiila, wrists tied before her to the saddle. With a twitch of his feet, his mount slows .. drawing up beside her.
Settling her atop his lap, facing him with legs straddled to either side, he lingers over her flesh .. his hand sliding along thighs before caressing down to her feet .. returning to check her back .. she squirms..
"This girl is not hurt, Master."
"Silence."
He used her well on the way home, tying her to a tree before he sets up camp. The tent of the raiders large enough to shelter them until he can purchase a wagon. Before nightfall, he returns to the tree where she half stands, half hangs in wait ....
"There is still the issue of you being displeasing, girl."
-- The End