The King's Reckoning
IC time is: evening
IC date is: early April
IC year is: 3188 S.A.
Location: Nurn Commons
The start of April now, and still the rains had not come. The field-overseers were getting nervous, predicting poor crops and anger from the Lord of Gifts - each fearing that he would be the one to bear the Lord's own wrath and wondering how he could keep his head. Within the town, life went on as usual, though food was becoming scarcer and prices higher. Kavan the tanner would be buying no new slaves this spring, for the raised quotas last summer had hit him hard. Some said he had only kept his job and his status as freeman by turning informer to the Inquisition, pointing to the recent seizures of several of the shopkeepers and workshop foremen in the area around the Commons. And the word was that Irlana the temple servant had just given birth to a child - no prizes for guessing who the father was, for Gerthan the tannery worker had been hanging round the woman for months, like a dog after a bone. Would the babe be sacrificed to the Giver of Freedom to ensure a good harvest? The ways of the Temple are strange - who could say.
For the tannery slave Barzag, these past few months had been a time of waiting, a time of preparation. A year of slavery had done little to break his body, already strong from years of labour - the only marks that Nurn had left on him a few faded whip-scars and a crooked nose. But as for the mind - that was a different matter. Here, within sight of the Mountain of Fire and the dark pinnacle that was the abode of the Lord of Gifts, he had learned to be devious, learned to hate - and had learned mistrust of the entire human race. One thought burned behind those bitter eyes, one thing kept him going - he would seize freedom, or die in the attempt. Freedom or death - sometimes there seemed little difference. And when one evening as he paused in his labour he saw a dark smudge of cloud far away in the west, muffling the Ephel Duath, he knew it was time to act.
The tannery yard was quiet in the evenings, the beaming room locked and the vats untended. And fortune favoured Barzag, for Gerthan was the one tasked with shutting up the slaves tonight. The tannery worker simply stood, staring dully at his charges - a man who may be facing the death of his firstborn is unlikely to be attentive. When Barzag slipped away from the rest, heading towards the bark shed, Gerthan did rouse himself enough to shout out a "Hoi! What do you think you're up to?", however.
Barzag's response, in the accented pidgin Easterling that was all he had bothered to learn of this people's language, was a curt, "I take piss. You want I go somewhere else - here maybe?" as he gestured towards a pile of fresh pelts not yet processed, and which should not have been lying outside in the first place.
Gerthan scowled, but turned away with a shake of the head to grab the nearest two slaves and order them to lift the pelts for storage. And when Barzag returned to join the others a few minutes later, he thought nothing more of it.
It was later that night - much later, it seemed to Barzag - that the cry of "Fire!" was raised. The pile of smouldering embers left in the bark shed had wakened to leaping flame, spreading quickly through the dry curled bark. A pause, the sound of running feet, the clamour of voices and then at long last the sound Barzag had been hoping for, that of bolts being drawn back - they were opening the door to the slave-barn.
"Out!" one of the overseers (not Gerthan, much to Barzag's relief) ordered. "You can help douse the fire. You four - take buckets, fetch water from the well. I'll be coming with you, so don't even think about trying to run." He fingered the whip hanging from his belt. The rest of you - make a start, use the liquid from the tanning vats."
The air was thick with smoke by the time Barzag, not one of the lucky four sent for water, emerged into the courtyard. Someone grabbed his arm, thrust a bucket into his hands, half-hurled him in the direction of one of the vats. Through the choking clouds he could see the broad figure of Kavan and hear his screamed obscenities as he exhorted the slaves to work faster, desperate to save his livelihood. And at the gates were guards, cudgels at the ready in their hands. Kavan, knowing that by morning the slaves might be the only property he had left, was not about to let any escape. Not that way, then - so what? Where?
Depositing the bucket of evil-smelling liquid on the flames, which were even now licking at the wood of another storage shed, fanned by a rising westerly wind, Barzag glanced around desperately for any source of distraction, noting the high walls, behind them the thatched roof of the stables - that was it! If the fire were to spread, in the resulting chaos he might at least have a slim chance of leaving undetected. Stepping as close to the flames as he dared, he grabbed a half-consumed piece of wood, hurled it upward and forward with all his might, hoping beyond hope that he had not been seen. Keep the head down - back to the tanning vat to draw another bucket ...
It was enough. By the time he returned with his third bucket, he could hear the neighing of panicked animals, see bright pinpoints of light through the smoke ahead - the flames must have caught. Time to go, then. He stepped into the whirlng smoke, intending to go round the bark shed, to the place where the wall was roughest. Yet he had underestimated the power of the fire. The flames seemed to form a solid wall of heat, ever-shifting, all-devouring ... He looked back, saw man-like forms moving against the backdrop of roiling black cloud, moving closer - it was now or never. Taking a deep breath and with an arm up to protect his face, he plunged into the heat, running for the gap between two buildings. He was almost through when the wind shifted, and a greedy tongue of fire reached towards him, lapping at his left side; only his crooked arm protected his face from damage. Pain lanced through him, but he continued at a stumbling run, emerging moments later into cooler air, dropping seared arm away from his face to beat at his clothing, forcing smoky air into heaving lungs. Then followed a desperate scramble over the high wall, to fall dazed into the narrow alleyway between tannery and stables.
Long moments passed before Barzag collected his wits enough to drag himself to his feet, stumble slowly towards the mouth of the alley. The stable door was open, and men had begun to lead the livestock out - snatching one last breath of clean air, Barzag plunged in to the burning building. Looking round, he feared for a moment that he had done his work too well. Swathes of burning thatch had fallen to the ground and ignited the hay, and amidst the flames the horses were snorting and whinnying, many hurling themselves against the doors of their stalls in an effort to break free. At the far end of the stables, an ox was bellowing in pain. He was lucky, however - the flames had not yet reached this end.
It was hard to breathe amidst the choking haze of smoke, harder still to think. "Third stall ... on the left," Barzag mumbled to himself, using hand rather than eye to count the partitions. This one ...
"Hey you! Get away from there - slave!"
The shout came from behind him, and acting on instinct Barzag turned, striking out with his good arm. His fist, aimed at face height, found bone with an audible crack and the man dropped, stunned, nose likely broken as Barzag's own had been many months ago in this place. Had there been time to think, perhaps some vestige of human kindness might have woken in the fleeing slave, some compassion for his fellow man prompted him to at least drag the fellow to the entrance. As it was, Barzag paused only long enough to notice that this stall was still occupied before vaulting over the wooden door. And then he was dodging stamping hooves to pull at the loose panel, reveal the items he had so carefully hidden away - waterskins, one of them full, some dry flatbread, a frayed piece of rope, a broken knife, an old blanket. Bundling all in the blanket, he rolled it up and managed to knot it enough to sling it over his good shoulder.
Chest heaving, eyes stinging, he straightened to look into the rolling eyes of the grey horse. He knew the beast, of course, had fed it the occasional wizened apple or vegetable, done his best to convince the animal he was a friend ever since he had chosen the stall as a hiding place. Would it bear him now? He laid a hand on its back, tried to lift himself up as he had seen the woman Xahna do - and failed. The grey horse snorted and stamped. Gritting his teeth, Barzag tried again, ignoring the pain in left arm and side, managed to get his leg over the horse's back and pull himself up. Now for the stall door - twining his good hand in the tangled grey mane, he forced burned arm to reach down, clenched fist to open ... The horse reared with a trumpeting neigh, unsettled by the motion, and Barzag was barely able to cling on. But the movement had brought him closer to the door ... there. The door swung open, and without hesitation the horse burst through, speeding for the door, intent on putting as much distance between itself and the burning stable as possible. There was a shout - a shape rose up before them, hand outstretched to halt the runaway - one of those flying hooves kicked out and it fell away ... And they were out, past Nurn commons and away, in a mad flight of which Barzag afterwards could remember little save vague impressions: the gritty, ashy wind, the jerking, rolling motion and the constant fight to keep his grip, all blurred behind a curtain of burning pain.
He roused to the sensation of falling, a sudden impact that drove the breath from his lungs and seemed to jar every bone in his body. For long moments Barzag simply lay there, too dazed to think, but then slowly, painfully he managed to push himself up on his good elbow and look about. It was a moonless night, though stars twinkled here and there through tattered rents in a thin veil of cloud, their shapes obscured by a darker mass, the spiny brush into which he had fallen. The horse must have thrown him. He lay back with a groan, waiting for the dizziness to subside - just a few moments ... Something soft and wet touched his face, and he jerked away in a blind panic, before he heard the sound of soft whickering. He levered himself up to a sitting position - amazingly, nothing seemed to be broken - and reached out a shaking hand to touch the long face and questing nose of the grey horse.
"Not deserted me after all?" he said in his own tongue, laughing scornfully at himself for talking to a mere beast. But the stolid presence was oddly comforting. "Well then, time to go on."
The horse stood patiently as Barzag staggered to his feet and tried to regain his seat, succeeding only at the third attempt. No wild beast this - it was used to a human master, and while the Hillman's tentative approach was a source of unease to it, being left alone, directionless and easy prey for any hunting beast, would have been far worse.
Barzag's thoughts turned back to Nurn. Would Ureziran realize he was missing? Undoubtedly. Would they come after him? Probably - after all, he had stolen another man's property now. Would the rains come and cover his tracks, hindering pursuit and making the desert briefly passable? If not, he might as well be dead.
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