CHAPTER V: An Intrigue Unveiled
I do not know how long I laid there, chased by shadows in dark dreams to the discordant rhythm of hammers slamming against anvils, but little by little, I became dimly aware of my surroundings. I was in one of the mercenary's tents, and by the light streaming in from the tent-flap and by the stifling heat, I could tell it was late afternoon. As I struggled to full wakefulness, the direness of my situation became more apparent: I was cruelly bound both hands and feet, and gagged as well. For several more hours I lay, alone and betrayed, as darkness gathered inside and outside the tent.
That I was not killed outright offered little consolation, for certainly further torment awaited me; still, I pondered this cruel twist of fate while my forehead pounded. It was obvious now that Mifhortun Dur had been in league with Marfach-Suil all along, and I cursed myself for being a witless fool; but I still could not fathom the depths of their odd alliance. What purpose was served for Mifhortun Dur plotting to have his own caravan hijacked? As I tried to make sense of it all in my muddled head, the tent flap stirred and in stepped Mifhortun Dur, humming jovially and sweating profusely like a great robed pig. Lighting a lantern and hanging it on the ridgepole of the tent, the plump merchant noticed that I was conscious and ceased his merry little tune.
"Ah, so our stubborn scribe has returned to the land of the living!" Mifhortun said with a broad smile. "And lucky you are to be alive, my young friend! Marfach-Suil -- whom I am sure you will agree is a most unpleasant sort -- wished to kill you last night. Fortunate it was for you I convinced the caravan-master that it would be a waste of money to leave your carcass as a feast for the carrion crows. Your true value lies in the slave markets of the Far East, where a learned scribe and interpreter of your talents will bring a tidy sum in Bajazet or on the Gold Coast!"
Mifhortun Dur plopped himself down with great difficulty on a pillow, all the while watching for my reaction. Obviously pleased by my puzzled and angry expression, he continued, "Oh-ho! So you do not yet fully grasp the little game I play, eh? Well, let us just say that I stand to make a far greater profit by using Marfach-Suil and his men to rid me of my business partners than keeping to my original agreements. These desert tribesmen will require far less in compensation than my fellow merchants, who would rightly demand a far more equitable share in the proceeds, seeing as they are the ones who put up the immense sums of gold necessary to fund this caravan. With them out of the way, I shall sell the horses and slaves, such as yourself, in the Far East, there to live out a splendidly wealthy life in a sunny, seaside villa; while back home in Marannan-astair folks shall mourn the heart-rending loss of Mifhortun Dur and his caravan, beset by murderous horse-thieves or evil slavers on the high-plains, and -- ever so tragically -- never to return!"
Mifhortun Dur's sordid soliloquy was interrupted by a great tumult outside the tent: angry shouts of guards, the clash of weapons, men crying out in surprise and pain, and horses whinnying fearfully. "Ah, so it has begun!" Mifhortun grunted triumphantly as he managed to lug his immense weight off the ground. Peeling back the tent-flap to watch the melee from a safe distance, he turned back to me for a moment and winked. "Some say this is a cut-throat business we are in, Greagoir," he chuckled with glee, "I merely take them at their word!"
In a manner of minutes, it was over. The dead calm that descended outside the tent was interspersed occasionally with the sound of the lash and the anguished sobs of the newly enslaved as they were herded off into the distance. Mifhortun Dur stepped back from the doorway of the tent, and in strode Marfach-Suil, grimly clutching a bloody sword.
"It is done," the caravan-master growled with finality in his gruff accent. "All merchants are dead, the others we keep for slaves."
"Excellent, excellent!" Mifhortun Dur replied, patting the murderer on the back. "With only a few more days' preparation here, we shall be ready to head east as planned. But we must be careful and skirt below the oases along the Eastern Trade Route; we want none of the other traders asking uncomfortable questions. Even so, with luck we can reach Bajazet in less than a month!"
Marfach-Suil looked down at me and scowled. "We have change of plans," Marfach grumbled with his back turned to Mifhortun. "We go to desert first. My tribe has no horses. They need horses."
"Nonsense! Mifhortun replied in irritation. "You may have some horses as part of your share, if you wish, but we shall go to Bajazet to sell the herd as agreed. Take it or leave it!"
Still glaring at me, Marfach smiled cruelly. "I think I take it!" he growled, and turned suddenly on Mifhortun Dur, jabbing his sword deep into the merchant's distended belly.
Mifhortun sputtered in shock and fell to his knees. Marfach-Suil sneered, put his boot to Mifhortun's chest, and forcefully removed his blade, sending the merchant sprawling.
"You think you smart man, eh, Mifhortun Dur?" the caravan-master hissed angrily as he spat upon the wounded man. "You have Marfach-Suil and his men do your dirty work, then you take all the gold and leave us scraps like we are dogs, eh? No, fat man, I think we need new deal!"
Mifhortun Dur began to plead desperately for his life, under the mistaken notion that offering Marfach-Suil ever-larger shares of the profits would somehow change the sad outcome of these negotiations. But Marfach-Suil bent down and savagely slit Mifhortun Dur's throat.
"This is final offer!" Marfach laughed over Mifhortun as he gurgled his last breath "Now you take it or leave it!"
The caravan-master casually wiped the blood off his blade on the dead man's robes, then, as if suddenly remembering me, he stood and walked menacingly towards where I lay, helplessly bound as I was at the back of the tent.
After thinking for a moment with his sword hovering dangerously close to my face, Marfach-Suil finally said, "I think we let you live for now, even if you are spy. The fat one said you would fetch good price in slave-bazaar."
The treacherous caravan-master turned to leave but stopped short in the doorway of the tent. "You just better pray the fat one was right, or you join him!" he growled, then left me there with the body of his former co-conspirator, Mifhortun Dur.
Usually, one doesn't draw a great sense of relief from being condemned to a life of slavery, unless, of course, one is first threatened with an imminent and utterly nasty death. This was just such an instance, however, and I felt some comfort in the fact that I was allowed to live yet another day. Some time before midnight, a few of Marfach's mercenary guards came and dragged me out of the tent. They removed my gag and forced some water down my parched throat, then threw me, still bound, into one of the corrals originally meant for the horses, but which now served as a temporary holding pen for myself and the other enslaved survivors of the ill-fated caravan of Mifhortun Dur.
As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could see that Marfach-Suil had chosen his prisoners purposefully, for only the men who worked directly with the horses, or those tradesmen in the caravan with other specific skills (and therefore more valuable in the slave-trade), were allowed to live. Obviously, Marfach was not a man of patience, and did not care to wait and attempt to ransom off any of the wealthier merchants, for none of those were left among we slaves. It is with grim satisfaction I also note that the cooks had met an untimely end as well, most likely suffocated in their own pots of gruel by the vengeful guards.
And so I passed the first day of captivity with my fellow slaves, bound cruelly in a makeshift corral under the blistering summer sun on the high-plains of Hildorien. If the caravan ride up the Northern Trade Route had been tedious, this was far worse. There is a continuous state of anxiety one falls prey to while being held captive, an extended feeling of unease and restlessness that eats away at your hopes, leaving the numb realization that you might never return home again. To further heighten this emptiness, the guards, would not let us talk to one another for fear of our attempted escape, and this they emphasized heavily with the whip. The forced silence was crueler to me than the lash itself, for it was a constant reminder of my plight. The oppressive hours dragged from bleak morning, to the hazy doldrums of afternoon, to wretched evening without solace or shelter from the sweltering sun.
The night finally brought some blessed relief from the scorching heat, and a cool breeze drifted down from the mountains, but it did not bring rest. Even in my younger days, I could not sleep for any great length of time; but enslaved as I was, with both hands and feet tied, I was unable to channel my nervous energy. Lying motionless and unspeaking, I was certain to go mad long before we ever reached the slave-markets. In an attempt to quiet my fears, I began to pay closer attention to the night noises, the susurration of the wind and the far-off scurrying of plains animals.
Suddenly, I became aware of a peculiar nightbird's call echoing softly in the distance. Perhaps it was because I had never noticed this particular sound on previous nights, as I was usually awake at this late hour, yet I think it was more the steady pattern of the whistling cry that drew my interest. As I listened intently I found the call repeated around the perimeter of the camp, first north, then south, then east and west, and so on, at such regular intervals that it seemed as if it were some kind of signal or code. Intrigued with the thought, I drew myself up and crawled as quietly as I could towards the corral fence, hoping to get a better vantage point in the darkness.