The Desert - II
The city was like a crystal on the horizon.
Her eyes kept returning to it, a bright, shining island across an endless ocean of sand. She licked her lips. She did not look forward to the crush of the noonday market or the filthy streets, but it would be a welcomed relief to the harsh sun, which even now forced her to bow her head. She wrapped her hood closer around her and stumbled slightly, sand slipping between the bandages that covered her feet. Distance in the Zarren desert could be misleading; mirages were common, and often what appeared to be close was really hundreds of miles away. However, she knew the city was near because she could already hear the distant sounds of the market; a low thunder that carried across the dry heat. It was unmistakable against the silent dunes, and tied a knot of worry in her stomach.
The chain around her neck was given a sudden yank, and she stumbled forward, gasping for breath. A slave further up the line staggered to one side, collapsing slowly to the ground, carrying the rest of the chain with him. His chain-mates tried to drag him up by the arms, but it was useless; he had passed out, turned to dead weight. Lyra coughed and choked, her hands flying to her neck, trying to loosen the steel collar so she could breathe. She got a good look at the boy from her knees, and winced in pity. He was a sickly one, hardly in his teens, skinny as a rail. His cheeks were sunken and hollow, and his lips were cracked and bleeding.
The chain came to a slow halt, and the rest of the caravan began to pass around them, wagons upon wagons of different merchants, all traveling together for safety. She stayed low to the ground, shoulders tense, expecting the sudden snap of a whip to fall over them.
Crack! C-crack! It came a minute later than she thought. Everyone flinched, the slaves huddling away from their fallen chain-mate, and Lyra pulled her legs close to her chest. She knew what to expect; she had seen it happen to others.
A man walked along the length of the chain. His face was covered by black cloth and a dark hood, though she could still see his cold, malicious eyes, and rough gray stubble. He was old, his face covered in cruel lines. The man walked past her without a word, barely sparing any of the slaves a glance, until he reached the helpless boy. The whip fell--crack! And again--crack--in short succession. The boy gasped, cried out, but there was no helping him. The desert was a harsh, unforgiving place, especially for those already considered dead.
They listened to the screams and the falling whip until there was silence. Lyra didn't watch, but hid her face against her legs, praying under her breath. Please Munhaara, she whispered. Spare me from this fate, please....
The chains clanked as they unlocked the boy from his shackles and tossed him down the side of the dune. Sand stuck to his blood-soaked body, and she tried not to look at the limp form, the loose arms and dangling head. Perhaps he was dead, if he was lucky.
The cloaked man blew on a small pipe around his neck, a low, hollow note pervading the air. Lyra wondered if the sick feeling of dread would ever leave her. The chain of slaves stood up slowly, crookedly, bending against the harsh sun. They continued forward, now at the end of the caravan, dragging themselves next to a large wagon full of barrels and wheat. Lyra heard the girl behind her crying softly, but she could summon no words of comfort. Each of them could easily suffer the same fate, and they well knew it.
They continued toward the distant city of Ohn-Har, where the real trial awaited.
Her eyes kept returning to it, a bright, shining island across an endless ocean of sand. She licked her lips. She did not look forward to the crush of the noonday market or the filthy streets, but it would be a welcomed relief to the harsh sun, which even now forced her to bow her head. She wrapped her hood closer around her and stumbled slightly, sand slipping between the bandages that covered her feet. Distance in the Zarren desert could be misleading; mirages were common, and often what appeared to be close was really hundreds of miles away. However, she knew the city was near because she could already hear the distant sounds of the market; a low thunder that carried across the dry heat. It was unmistakable against the silent dunes, and tied a knot of worry in her stomach.
The chain around her neck was given a sudden yank, and she stumbled forward, gasping for breath. A slave further up the line staggered to one side, collapsing slowly to the ground, carrying the rest of the chain with him. His chain-mates tried to drag him up by the arms, but it was useless; he had passed out, turned to dead weight. Lyra coughed and choked, her hands flying to her neck, trying to loosen the steel collar so she could breathe. She got a good look at the boy from her knees, and winced in pity. He was a sickly one, hardly in his teens, skinny as a rail. His cheeks were sunken and hollow, and his lips were cracked and bleeding.
The chain came to a slow halt, and the rest of the caravan began to pass around them, wagons upon wagons of different merchants, all traveling together for safety. She stayed low to the ground, shoulders tense, expecting the sudden snap of a whip to fall over them.
Crack! C-crack! It came a minute later than she thought. Everyone flinched, the slaves huddling away from their fallen chain-mate, and Lyra pulled her legs close to her chest. She knew what to expect; she had seen it happen to others.
A man walked along the length of the chain. His face was covered by black cloth and a dark hood, though she could still see his cold, malicious eyes, and rough gray stubble. He was old, his face covered in cruel lines. The man walked past her without a word, barely sparing any of the slaves a glance, until he reached the helpless boy. The whip fell--crack! And again--crack--in short succession. The boy gasped, cried out, but there was no helping him. The desert was a harsh, unforgiving place, especially for those already considered dead.
They listened to the screams and the falling whip until there was silence. Lyra didn't watch, but hid her face against her legs, praying under her breath. Please Munhaara, she whispered. Spare me from this fate, please....
The chains clanked as they unlocked the boy from his shackles and tossed him down the side of the dune. Sand stuck to his blood-soaked body, and she tried not to look at the limp form, the loose arms and dangling head. Perhaps he was dead, if he was lucky.
The cloaked man blew on a small pipe around his neck, a low, hollow note pervading the air. Lyra wondered if the sick feeling of dread would ever leave her. The chain of slaves stood up slowly, crookedly, bending against the harsh sun. They continued forward, now at the end of the caravan, dragging themselves next to a large wagon full of barrels and wheat. Lyra heard the girl behind her crying softly, but she could summon no words of comfort. Each of them could easily suffer the same fate, and they well knew it.
They continued toward the distant city of Ohn-Har, where the real trial awaited.