Arthur came to himself and the world was moving around him.
It took him a moment to realise that was because he was sitting in the back of a cart, not because his head was spinning. Which it was, and hurting, too. He groaned and shifted. His hands and feet caught on something. He blinked, looked down at himself and realised his arms were tied up with rope, his feet shackled.
He groaned again, then turned his head. Leon's worried face swam into view. He was in the same predicament as Arthur, tied up and cowering next to him in the cart. The dried blood sticking to his temple told Arthur that he had been recently knocked over the head. It wasn't far-fetched to assume Arthur had suffered the same fate, given his throbbing skull.
"Sire," Leon murmured, leaning towards him. "Are you well?"
Arthur nodded, though his tongue felt too leaden in his mouth to speak. He tilted his head questioningly and Leon easily got his meaning.
"Slavers," he informed him. "We got ambushed."
"Be quiet back there!" a rough voice called out.
Arthur looked past Leon's shoulder. The cart was pulled by two strong horses. A man in a studded leather jacket was sitting at the front, holding on to the reins. His head had swivelled back and he was glaring at them. He looked grim, dirty and dangerous. Provoking anybody before fully assessing their current situation was foolish. Arthur pressed his lips into a firm line and nodded once to indicate they had understood, and the man turned around again.
Arthur briefly glanced back at Leon, then towards the other two men in the cart. He recognised neither face. From the state of their clothes, they appeared to be peasants, maybe twenty summers or so old. They were staring at their knees, their shoulders slumped in defeat.
There had been five people in their hunting party, but only Leon and Arthur were here now. Sir Kay, Sir Lionel and the beater were missing. Arthur vaguely remembered fighting bandits of some kind. Had the others died or simply been left behind?
Arthur swivelled his head, counting the rugged men riding or walking alongside the cart and coming up with ten. They were definitely more than outnumbered.
Slavers, Leon had said. Arthur suppressed a third groan. This wasn't good. A couple of times in his life, daring outlaws had tried to capture Arthur to be ransomed, though he had always managed to fight himself out of those situations, much to his father's satisfaction. Getting caught by slavers was a first.
Slavers weren't likely to ransom Arthur, even if they happened to know about his identity. Such a scheme came with a lot of risks. Why bother if they could simply sell him off in some slave market like any other unlucky sod? Really, Arthur would prefer they didn't know. He could only imagine what kind of twisted individuals would like to get their hands on an enslaved prince.
Arthur looked around again, assessing. Both Leon and he were wearing light clothes, no armour. Arthur preferred simple hunting garments. Nothing about his breeches, shirt or vest would mark him as royalty, though the quality might betray his wealth. Leon, too, wasn't wearing anything fancy. No sight of their weapons, of course, though they had both carried a crossbow, a spear and a hunting knife. Well, with their feet shackled and hands tied, fighting wasn't an option anyway, weapons or no.
Arthur's grim thoughts must have been showing on his face. Leon grimaced and averted his eyes. He didn't seem to be any more optimistic about their situation than Arthur.
Arthur turned his head to look at the landscape passing by. If they were still in Camelot, there weren't any immediately recognisable landmarks here to prove it. The ground around them was rocky and mostly barren, interspersed with the occasional bush or tree.
They had been hunting in the East, on the estate belonging to Sir Kay's father. Arthur had received an invitation to the wedding of Kay's sister. His visit was an honour he had readily bestowed on the happy couple. Attending country weddings was one of the decidedly less annoying duties that came with being Crown Prince of Camelot.
If these slavers were smart, they would have pushed quickly to the border, either towards Bayard's or Cenred's lands, both only a couple of hours away from the forest they had been hunting in. Arthur knew the two kings tended to turn a blind eye to slaver activity, a constant point of contention in negotiations with both Mercia and Essetir.
Arthur took in the state of the road they were travelling on. It was narrow and winded, not one of the main trade routes. Of course, slavers would avoid those as to not run into a patrol of knights and risk losing their merchandise.
Arthur squinted as he let his eyes focus on the horizon. Mountains, he thought. He drew up a mental map, trying to gauge how much time might have passed since their capture. They had set out to hunt at dawn and been ambushed before noon. He wasn't feeling too thirsty or hungry and the sun wasn't close to setting yet, which meant they could have only been on the road five or six hours at most, likely less. Two options, then: The Ridge of Ascetir in Essetir, or the Mountains of Andor in Mercia.
Before long, they were getting closer and Arthur believed he recognised the shape of some of the higher peaks. Mercia then, he thought.
They stopped at nightfall, the mountains now looming close. They were let out of the cart to relieve themselves, the no-talking rule still in effect. They got some water, though no food, then were pushed back onto the wagon where they spent an uncomfortable night. There had been no opportunity to make even an attempt at escaping, though Arthur managed to exchange a few whispers with Leon, ascertaining that the knight was all right, too. They agreed that they should not reveal their identity.
The next morning, they were on the move again, now on steep and rocky roads, soon reaching the edge of the mountains. They were closing in on a tall, well-constructed palisade. Arthur exchanged another look with Leon, who frowned. It was a strange place for a slave market, secluded as the spot was. When they rolled past the palisade, a sort of settlement came into view. Crude wooden shacks, a couple of stone huts and at the far end, a tunnel leading into the mountains. Arthur could just make out a cart filled with shimmering rock next to the entrance. He swallowed as the realisation dawned on him: It was a mining camp.
For the first time, the ever-present apprehension Arthur had been feeling since waking up on that cart turned into something very much akin to dread. Becoming a slave was bad enough. Becoming a slave working the mines of Andor was a fate he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. Mining was gruelling, back-breaking work. The harsh conditions alone could kill a man in the matter of a few years, and that was without the very real danger of being buried in a rock slide or dying from some poisonous gas released. Arthur's father had sent a couple of criminals into Camelot's mines during his reign and it was considered one of the most feared punishments. Many thought death was preferable.
The cart came to a halt in what looked like the centre of the camp, a large patch of dirt with a well in the middle.
"Halig!"
Arthur craned his neck to see who the enthusiastic voice belonged to.
A man in a black fur jacket was walking towards them, arms stretched wide as if he was welcoming a long-lost brother. He had long, dark hair streaked with grey and an oddly charismatic face, given the fact he was most definitely a slave owner.
"Ragnor!" It was the stocky man in the studded leather jacket, whom Arthur had already made out to be the head of their slaver troop, who answered. Halig shook hands with Ragnor like they were old friends, both chuckling as they enquired about each other's health.
"What do you have for me?" asked Ragnor with a grin, showing off a neat line of teeth. Clearly, the man made enough money with his mining operation to take care of himself.
"New stock, fresh from Camelot," Halig replied. He was making no secret about poaching freemen, then.
Ragnor rubbed his hands together, then stepped up to the cart. His grey eyes were quick and assessing, narrowing slightly as he first took in the two strangers, then Leon and Arthur. His eyes seemed to linger on Arthur the longest, who had carefully smoothed his expression. Ragnor frowned before turning away and Arthur belatedly thought that perhaps he should have followed the peasants' lead and lowered his gaze. Submission wasn't in his nature, however.
"All healthy?" asked Ragnor.
"Of course," replied Halig, almost sounding affronted. "You know I only offer you the best of the stock. They can work."
"The blond and the curly one, I'm interested in," said Ragnor, pointing at Arthur and Leon respectively. "The ginger, too, perhaps, for the right price. You can keep that skinny fellow with the pockmarks, though. He wouldn't last a week in the mines."
They started haggling and Arthur soon found out what he was worth – fifty pieces of gold. Halig easily could have made ten times that ransoming him back to Uther. Still, Arthur thought with a grim sense of humour, ten coins more than Leon. His knight had been sold for forty, the third man for twenty-two.
The deal was sealed with another handshake. Not a moment later, the three of them were pulled from the cart by two men with swords fastened to their belts. They had to be Ragnor's men, as Arthur didn't recognise their faces from the night before.
One of them was bald, the other only just starting to lose hair at his temples, but both wore the same nasty twist about the mouth that told Arthur here were two men who enjoyed lording their power over others. Arthur had assessed enough hopefuls aiming for a knighthood to be able to judge a man's character and smell a sadist from a while away.
He suppressed a shudder at the thought of what men like these were capable of. He would not be cowed. He would not be broken. He was a prince!
Arthur stumbled forward awkwardly, hands still bound and feet shackled. They weren't led far, though, only a couple of paces away from the wagon.
Halig tossed their two handlers a key before walking off with Ragnor. Arthur and the others were quickly unshackled, then untied, though only after a growled warning not to try anything foolish, underlined with now unsheathed swords.
"Strip," said the bald one.
Arthur stilled. Had he heard that right?
"Don't make me tell you again," the man said after a long moment and bared his yellowed teeth.
Their red-haired companion obeyed first and started to tuck at his shirt. Leon and Arthur exchanged a look, then Leon followed their new comrade's example and started taking off his tunic. Undressing out here was humiliating, yet complying was the smart thing to do under the circumstances, Arthur knew that. They were hungry, tired and unarmed. Some situations were such that even a prince should find it in him to submit.
Still, Arthur hesitated. After nearly a day of keeping his mouth shut and doing as he was told, he had about reached his limit. He was itching for a fight.
By then, the bald handler had noticed Arthur wasn't following his command and promptly glared at him. He raised his sword and Arthur tensed on the spot. Without further warning, the man grabbed Arthur's vest and tunic and started smoothly cutting through the fabric. That blade had been recently sharpened. The tip of the sword scratched dangerously over Arthur's chest, drawing a few drops of blood. The clothes fell off, exposing the bare skin underneath to the cold temperatures of the mountains.
"Want me to help you with the breeches, too?" the handler asked, placing the tip of the sword against Arthur's fly in a rather crude warning. Arthur wasn't stupid enough to risk that, so he swallowed his pride and shook his head. Baldie grinned and stepped back, watching Arthur starting to undo the laces.
"What's this?"
Out of the corner of his eyes, Arthur saw the other handler place his sword right between their fellow captive's collarbones. The man had removed his shirt and revealed a chain underneath, a necklace with a small, glittering pendant. A trinket hardly worth anything, in Arthur's opinion, but clearly the handler was interested.
Their comrade relinquished the jewellery without having been told to, albeit with a pained expression. It must have been dear to him.
Arthur glanced down at his right hand, where his mother's ring was wrapped around his finger. He thought quickly. When he bent down to remove his breeches, he slipped the ring off and pushed it, for the lack of better options, into his mouth. He could only hope they wouldn't want to inspect his teeth like Arthur would do when assessing a horse.
Soon, they all stood out in the open, nude as the day they were born. Their handlers made a point of inspecting them, their eyes roaming gleefully as they made humiliating comments that Arthur would never dare to repeat anywhere near a lady of the court.
In spite of himself, he found that his cheeks were flushing in shame and indignation, which their handlers found quite amusing.
"Look at this one blushing, Nollar," said baldie with another disgusting, yellow-toothed grin. "Pretty boy, isn't he?"
"Not for much longer," replied the other – Nollar, apparently. He turned his head, then exclaimed, "Merlin! Come on!"
Arthur looked past Nollar's shoulder to see who he had called for. Merlin turned out to be a slave, made obvious by the metal collar wrapped around his throat. His clothes were threadbare, a pair of faded linen breeches and a thin tunic that might once upon a time have been red. It was much too cold up here in the mountains for those rags, but then Merlin was still better off than Arthur, who had already started trembling in the merciless winds. Merlin's face, Arthur couldn't see – the slave was keeping his head bowed, showing off nothing more than a head of short black hair.
Merlin was carrying two large buckets of water that looked much too heavy for the slave's skinny wrists. "Coming, Master Nollar," he said.
Arthur had never heard anybody speak in that tone – utterly and completely submissive. There was hardly any inflection in Merlin's words and his voice was not much more than a murmur. Not even the shiest of the staff at Camelot had ever sounded this cowed.
"Get them clean," ordered baldie.
"Yes, Master Tindar," replied Merlin, thus identifying their second handler. Merlin carefully set down one of the buckets. Then, without further ado, he took the other and unceremoniously sloshed the water all over Arthur's exposed body.
The icy water hit him like a brick wall. Arthur gasped and instinctively curled in on himself. Instantly, the winds were biting harshly at his skin and Arthur went from a faint tremble to a full-body shiver. Only the fact that he had his teeth pressed tightly against his mother's ring kept them from chattering.
Merlin did the same to Leon, who let out a shocked gasp, then hurried to pick up another bucket waiting at the well nearby to treat their comrade to the same excuse of a bath.
"Hair," Nollar said, snapping his fingers at Merlin.
"Yes, Master," Merlin replied meekly and retrieved a pair of rusty shears from his trouser pocket.
"Kneel, slaves!"
Again, their fellow captive obeyed first, his knees hitting the floor before the order had been fully spoken. Leon went down next, smoothly and with all the dignity he could muster in the sorry state he was in. Again, compliance was the logical choice, given the circumstances.
But Arthur couldn't. A prince did not kneel to the likes of these men. He simply would not submit like this, no matter that he was naked, wet, and slowly but surely freezing to death. He was the Crown Prince of Camelot, and he had had enough! He would not go down without a fight.
Defiantly, he raised his chin and looked Nollar straight in the eye. "No."
Next to Nollar, Merlin went completely and utterly still.
"Aha! We got ourselves a stupid one," said Nollar, almost gleefully, as if he had only been waiting for Arthur to disobey again. Then he narrowed his eyes dangerously. He stepped all the way up into Arthur's personal space, close enough for Arthur to get a whiff of his bad breath, and ordered, "Kneel, scum!"
Arthur knew he should do it. There was no shame in succumbing in the face of impossible odds. Leon had done it, too, and Arthur did not think any less of him.
But instead, Arthur smirked, and only the ring jammed between his left molars kept him from telling Nollar just what he thought of his orders. Surprisingly, Nollar made a show of sheathing his sword. Then, without warning, he threw a fist at Arthur, which Arthur managed to block with his arm. Too easy – it turned out it had been Nollar's weak arm, and a ruse. Had he been well-rested, Arthur wouldn't have fallen for it, but he was naked and wet, hungry and cold.
In the next moment, Arthur's head was ringing from a punch that had most definitely not been pulled. The impact easily brought Arthur to his knees and it was only pure luck that prevented him from choking on his mother's ring. His head was reeling, his fingers curling into the dirt below.
It hadn't been a fight as much as Arthur playing punching bag. Still, he felt a strange sort of pride that he had not gone down willingly. He had not submitted.
"Start with him, Merlin," Tindar spat. "Nice and short."
"Yes, Master Tindar."
Through blurry eyes, Arthur watched Merlin's ragged boots shuffle closer. Then the slave ran his fingers through Arthur's hair in a sick resemblance of a loving caress and started cutting it. Arthur listened to the squeaks of the rusty blades, watched his blond locks flutter towards the floor. They quickly got carried away with the wind. Merlin was gentle about it, but that didn't make the process any less humiliating. When the slave finally stepped back, Arthur couldn't resist running a hand over his scalp. Merlin had cropped it quite closely. Arthur had never worn his hair this short.
Merlin moved on to Leon next and Arthur took the opportunity to gingerly prod at his still throbbing jaw. Nothing seemed to be broken, but he already knew his left cheek would be sporting a phenomenal bruise come tomorrow. He glared up at Nollar's smug face and wondered if it really had been worth it. He hadn't even gotten in a punch of his own.
When Merlin had finished with the last of them and stepped back, they were all shivering pitifully as they waited silently for what was to come.
"Welcome," said Tindar with a cruel smile, "to Hell!"
Nollar laughed.
