There were others truly in his demographic, all under a certain age, of an average health. They formed a massive chain, feeding into the longest building on the slave compound. Hour passed hour as they stood, legs numbing, watching one person disappear into the small black doorway, then another. Mozenrath's mind, reeling from shock and wild questions without answers, wandered. What of the others who went the other way? What of him? She had promised he wouldn't die, not this way. But could he be sure?

For the billionth time since the sorting, he played with the notion of running. But there were guards, armed men on each flank of the curling line. He'd be run down easily. The closer he got, the better his view of the opposite end of the compound became, as the building was at an angle on the sand dune it perched on. His fear lessened when he saw people walking down the opposite slope, which led to a dune valley full of little, ramshackle houses. But still, there were a lot more people going than leaving.

"In" The right man flanking the door grunted, avoiding eye contact. Mozenrath faltered, realizing he had come upon his turn without realizing it. The door was like a gaping black maw in front of him. His legs shook, and he licked his dry lips. Thankfully, his indecision was resolved for him, when the irate guard shoved him in.

His footsteps were awkwardly loud in the silence of the short, thin hallway. He swallowed the lump in his throat, hands flexing reflexively. There was nowhere to go but forward, and he could see a dimly lit room at the end, though from his position, he could only see the end of a gray steel table and a chair oat its end. He made his way forward slowly, eyes straining in the dark. All of a sudden, he felt the hand he kept on the wall to guide him brushed steel. It was another door, knob-less, and partly hidden.

He clapped a hand over his nose and mouth when he was fully impacted by the heavy, thick smell radiating from the door. His eyes widened and backed up to the wall.

Blood! Overpowering, it filled his mouth and nose, his efforts too late. He gagged and his eyes watered. He stared at the door in horror. It smelt like a slaughterhouse. He felt his stomach heave mightily.

He hadn't seen any cattle come in here...

"Well, come on in." Her voice called out irately. It was obvious she was impatient. Hurriedly, Mozenrath scrambled into the room away from the vile door.

Eyes, immediately, he saw the red-haired woman's, and the three guards he saw first accompanying her, of various menace and size. Eyes, on him, judging, scrutinizing. She sat across, on the opposite side, hands clasped neatly on the cool metal surface. Her eyes were especially poignant, cool, calm, taking in every aspect of who Mozenrath ever was and ever would be.

"Don't just stand there, bow to your new mistress." She said, reprimanding pointedly.

All lessons of manners, protocol and courtesy fled Mozenrath, and he could only manage a very clumsy looking bow. His face still staring at the floor, his mind fumbled. He should say something. They had to see him fit to live! He had to do...something.

"I...I don't know your name." he said quietly, not daring to look up. He heard, with throat constricting alarm, the hard, quick footsteps that could only belong to one of the guards. He had done something wrong! Then it stopped. She spoke.

"You are to call me Mam, nothing more, nothing less. Is that clear?"

"Yes Mam." Mozenrath said obediently, straightening cautiously. Now he could see there were mirrors facing him, comprising the differing wall. She stood, pushing her chair out on her own, and coming to stand in front of him. Mozenrath opted for the safe choice of not meeting her eyes, looking down. She bore down on him with more power than any man he had ever met. She eyed him, taking in his torn and dirty state. He was small, too, for his age. It wasn't a good sign.

"Remove your shirt."

He looked up in surprise. She seemed to see his hesitation as unreasonable.

"Well, come on. Let's see if you are worth keeping around. You can grow, but if you're hopeless or crippled..."

Nodding, Mozenrath bent his head and un-tucked his shirt from his pants. It was cold, and he was self-conscious, so the last thing he wanted to do was uncover any part of himself. His teeth chattered behind his tightly sealed lips. What if she saw something wrong? Without much trouble, he eased his red and brown stained blue shirt over his head and laid it aside gentle. His too long curls tickled his shoulders, and he hugged himself, cold.

She surveyed him yet again, speaking not for Mozenrath's benefit, but the guards.

"Small, no muscle mass what so ever. How old are you boy?" She asked sharply.

"Nine." he chattered through shaking teeth.

"Under developed. Soft skinned." She sighed. "Do you have any special skills, any trade you might have learned?"

Mozenrath looked at her blankly. His mind was whirring frantically. Would it be worth lying to her? More importantly, would it be safe?

"If I may, Mam," one of her guards spoke up. He was a short, stocky man, of indeterminable age, though it was well beyond Mozenrath's. He had short, cropped, blonde hair, dusted with gray. His eyes were angry, small, se deep in his scarred face. As he bowed, Mozenrath could see the scars were worst on his impossibly large hands, calloused from a life using a sword. "We have plenty more slaves to go through. I personally don't think he's worth keeping around."

Mozenrath stared at him in shock, searching his face. Could he really say that so offhandedly? He saw no pity there, and if he trusted his own standings at that point, he could have sworn he saw the man's mouth tilt in a smirk for Mozenrath.

Mam turned brisk again. She turned her back on Mozenrath.

"Fine, Brutus," she said in a clipped tone, "Take him back down the hall and send the next one in. We have a long day ahead of us."

Mozenrath's heart seized up, and he watched in horror as Brutus strode towards him purposefully. They were going to take him to that room, the blood room. He was to be killed! He didn't want to die! He scrabbled backwards, back hitting the wall, every nerve in his body telling him to run, it was now or never. He looked to the door behind Mam; it had to lead out! He hesitated too long, and Brutus's large hand wrapped around his wrist, immediately starting to drag him back out the door he first came in. He fought, twisting desperately.

"No! Please! I can work, I can! Please Mam!" he called out, seeing his only salvation in her. She didn't even so much as look up, kneeling over a piece of paper with another of her guards.

Brutus's growl reverberated down his arm and into his body as he was jerked violently towards the threshold.

"Come on kid. She doesn't have time for you."

Panic, despair, and the awful truth that he was going to die hit Mozenrath like a sand storm. His feet scraped the floor as he was dragged past the doorway. Brutus was fumbling with the door; hand tight on Mozenrath's wrist. Unknowingly, he reached into the wells of his knowledge, reverting back to his mother's language.

" Нет! Пожалуйста! Я не могу умереть! Я не хочу умереть! " He called out, words thick with the tongue long lost in his memory. No! Please! I can't die! I don't want to die! He cried out again, kicking, planting his feet as Brutus attempted to toss him into the black square of darkness. Mozenrath heard the click of steel, blades. The smell of blood was amplified ten fold, and Mozenrath's eyes grew wide. For one heart stopping moment, he was inside, and Brutus had the door shut behind him. He beat on the door, behind him hearing sounds of death, wails, screams.

Then he was out in a burst of sudden light, jerked back through. He couldn't keep up with it, and for a minute, stood blinking confusedly in front of Mam, wondering why he was in the hallway, looking at him in fascinated curiosity.

"What was that you spoke?" she demanded. The guards were there too, looking displeased and suspicious. Mozenrath could see curious future slaves and guards outside looking in.

A spear butt came crashing down inches from him, an angry thump that startled Mozenrath.

"Answer the lady!" Brutus ordered.

Mozenrath's sweat was cold on his brow, and he stammered like an endless brook of information.

" It's the language of my mother's ancestors, I don't know its name. They were from the farthest East, where the waters are covered in floating sheets of ice and the ground is gray. "

Mam turned to the guard on her right. He was a thin, severe man, long limbs like carnivorous insect, with large eyes that swiveled agitatedly from one face to another. His fingers constantly thumbed the blade at his belt.

"Akron, I've heard the refugees from the other side of the border speak this boy's language."

"And yet they don't speak Arabic like we do. We cannot communicate with them. They are stupid, like lost cattle, and they are causing problems left and right." his voice was like wind across impacted sand, and Mozenrath shivered. While Brutus had earned Mozenrath's resenting caution for trying to kill him, this Akron made him afraid, and fascinated. How many men had this particular flunky killed?

"Why can't they speak both their insipid language and speak with us as you do as well?" Mam accosted.

" They are from the other side, Mam, like you said. There is noting but my mother's people there, moved inland and grouped so they can do all their business inside their community. I was taught their language by my mother, but many others during my schooling when I was smaller by our tutor. I choose to speak Arabic most of the time. They never had care to learn it." Mozenrath answered dutifully. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe he could make them see he had a purpose.

"What other languages do you know? Just how much were you taught?" Brutus said jeeringly. The third guard laughed, as if agreeing with him, though he was busy with trying to beat back the curious onlookers at the entrance.

" I can speak Arabic, Gaelic, Egyptian, Greek, Roman," Mozenrath rattled off, feeling optimism and self pride well in his chest. Perhaps there was a point to all that ceaseless stuffy hours in a room with an ancient old teacher.

Mam stopped him. "Enough!" she said sharply. She looked down at Mozenrath, as if seeing him for the first time.

"You display intelligence the other slaves do not have. The education you were privilege to may just be of use around her, especially in communicating with the other slaves. Is the gift of tongues the only talent you have?"

" Mam, anything you need done, I can do it. Just give me a chance, please," he whispered, determined to make her believe in him. On afterthought, he bowed, hoping it didn't look awkward.

If it was to be believed, she actually smiled at him.

"Fine, you'll have your chance." She turned away, striding back down the hall. "Set him to work in the fields. He'll need to be more than intelligence to get sold on my compound."