The Descent to Madness (30 page)

             
Smiling, Stone then bade Fire to gently, gently plant a hunger in the mind of the beast, a hunger focused in his direction.

             
It worked.

             
The rabbit came up to him, a strange and unbidden craving, a vague yet certain knowledge of tasty food hereabouts drawing it irresistibly to Stone’s waiting hands.

             
A gathering of wood and a brief offering of his essence to the element saw him a steadily burning campfire, his expertly skinned and skewered rabbit roasting nicely in the flame, the savoury, gamey smell spreading far into the night. The Plains-Dogs circled at a distance, tempted, but wary of the power and rage their animal senses could feel radiating from this human in waves.

             
In silence, Stone ate, eyes staring into the flames of the fire as his body absorbed the nutrients more quickly, more completely, using them more efficiently than his body had originally been designed to.

             
What would he do once he reached the Barbarian City? He needed to plan ahead if he were to stand a chance of saving Lanah and whoever else he could find from the village.

             
Storm the front gates? No. While he fancied his chances against any warrior he might come across, he was reasonably sure that sheer weight of numbers would defeat him. He had images of the fickle spirits of air abandoning him just as a hail of arrows darkened the sky above him.

             
He would have to come up with some other means of getting into the City, undetected.

             
How he’d get his people out from the citadel after he’d found them… well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

             
With a stretch, he yawned, throwing the last remnants of the rabbit out into the darkness where the wild dogs snarled and fought amongst themselves for the pickings.

             
He lay down, fell asleep, his dreams haunted with the faces of friends he’d never see again, his slumbering heart burning with unfulfilled vengeance.

***

Akash slapped the monkey and not for the first time that day. Normally he could put up with the pests that swung from awning to awning along the stalls of the Bazaar that lay sprawled outside the front
gates of the Barbarian City, but the heat today was infernal, even beside the Yow, and he was having a hard enough time putting on his faux smile for the customers as it was, without a grebby, mangy little ape trying to flee with his merchandise at every opportunity.

             
“Anand! I thought I told you to keep these vermin away! I’ve lost gloves, hats and cloaks to these creatures already this week!”

             
A small boy, all huge brown eyes and cheeky, dirt-covered face, emerged from his hiding place beneath the stall where he could run and play, unnoticed, along the line of vendors.

             
“Sorry uncle!”

             
“The next merchandise that disappears in their paws comes out of your coin, whelp!”

             
“But you don’t pay me anything, uncle…”

             
The trader paused, flummoxed, then spied the monkey with its head inside a boot, pawing about, curious.

             
“Get! Begone, beast, djinns curse you!” he cried, flailing at the grey furred little creature that bared its teeth at him and clambered up onto the roof of his stall, safely out of reach, snarling and spitting.

             
“Fine, I’ll come back later!”

             
He grinned beneath his straggly brown beard, recognising at once the deep, familiar voice, turning with arms wide open in welcome.

             
“Basha! How the devil are you, my friend?”

             
The portly cook swaggered over to Akash’ stall, the buttons of his embroidered  silk waistcoat straining beneath the weight of his ample girth, dabbing a kerchief across his sweating brow.

             
“Would be better if not for this accursed weather, my friend!”

             
The merchant nodded in understanding; it was warm enough out here in the open, he couldn’t even imagine what it would be like working in the sweltering barracks kitchens in the city. Still, working for the Clan Warriors was an honour few held, with good pay and the opportunity to own slaves, so a little heat was worth bearing.

             
“What brings you outside the walls this fine day?”

             
“Slave Market this afternoon, my friend!”

             
“Ah! Looking for some new help about the home, eh?”

             
“Indeed! And I have it on good authority that a fresh shipment of Plains folk have been brought into the city; the stick-shakers might be wild, but so are their females…” He virtually salivated at the thought.

             
The trader shuddered, despite the pleasant smile plastered across his swarthy features, for he knew the cook’s reputation for unsavoury pleasures. He pitied whatever woman ended up in his greasy, sausage-like fingers. He changed the subject, his smooth selling pitch coming to the fore.

             
“You’ll be needing new garments for the occasion, I take it then?”

             
“But of course!”

             
“I have just the thing…”

             
Akash turned to the pile of chests behind him, opening the lid of one and selecting a garment with care, a long, light, silk robe, cream and airy, before matching it with a head-dress to protect the back of the neck from the sun. He admired the workmanship of the clothing, nodding appreciatively; yes, this’d do. The weekly Slave Market was an event in its own right, where those privileged would go to peacock and mingle, showing off their wealth. Yes, this number would do indeed. He double-checked the size, making sure that it would fit Basha’s ample frame before turning and laying it out on the stall for the cook’s inspection.

             
“Yes, yes, very nice! Do you have sandals to go with it?”

             
The merchant nodded, shekels steadily trickling into the purse in his mind’s eye, before turning once more to the chests.

             
“Ah, these’ll do!”

             
His eyes remained on the sandals as he turned to face his customer, a stiff gust of wind rippling his robes.

             
“Ah! Breeze at last, might make this heat bearable, eh?”

             
He went to place the footwear down on the stall, stopped, frowning in confusion.

             
“Where’s the suit?”

             
He looked up, accusingly, at the cook, who stared back, wide eyed, mouth opening and shutting in stunned silence.

             
“It… it was there, I promise you! Then I blinked and it was gone! “

             
The trader cast the shoes to one side, forgotten, his face turning purple in rage as he pointed a finger in accusation.

             
“Do you take me for some kind of fool, Basha? How many years have I traded with you? Breaking my back to give you the best deals, eh?”

             
The rotund chef spat his indignation in reply.

             
“You think I
stole
it? How dare you insult my honour!”

             
“Your honour? What honour knows a thief?”

             
A crowd had started to gather and Anand watched the developing argument for a few moments before growing tired of the babbling. Grown-ups were such bores. He crouched down, shuffled his form between a pair of chests and entered his tunnel, making his way to slink along the length of the stalls to the kindly lady at the end who always gave him fruits on hot days such as this.

             
He stopped, stunned, for he was not alone in his hiding place; ahead of him, a man, young but big and strong with long hair, was busy pulling on the last of the expensive cream garments.

             
He saw Anand, tensing as though to attack, as though he were used to being hunted down, before noting that he was but a child, his eyes softening.

             
“Who are you?” Anand whispered, keen to keep this discovery to himself. “How did you steal those clothes? I was watching the whole time!”

             
The stranger smiled, placed his fingers on his lips, then, just as before, vanished in a gust of wind.

             
Anand remained crouched in the dim tunnel, mouth hanging open in amazement, while the argument raged on overhead.

***

Through careful avoidance of the many guards – all burly, moustachioed clansmen, such as he’d encountered before – and by asking random strangers he’d met en route, Stone managed to navigate his way through the twisting, bustling labyrinth of the City, finally arriving at the Slave Market.

             
The Market was nothing like the smelly, cluttered sprawl that lay outside the front gates, instead being more akin to a gladiatorial arena, with huge sloping steps hewn from the solid sandstone where the masses could watch the sales, with smaller, more elite boxes towards the front for the wealthier clientele who were here to purchase, then finally a raised stage in the centre where an auctioneer, flanked by hulking bodyguards,  proudly displayed the shackled soon-to-be-slaves. Many races were represented amongst the captives, from the pale northern Hill-People, through to swarthy Steppes-Folk that had simply fallen on hard times, even people with coal-black skin and short-cropped hair, that Stone had never laid eyes on before.

             
Stone slipped through the crowd, un-noticed in his stolen finery, keen eyes scanning the centre stage for any trace of his fellow villagers. He could see neither hide nor hair of them.

             
At the front of the stands a pair of barbarian warriors stood, topknots sticking out high above the assembled masses, barring his way to the elite boxes.

             
“Here to buy?” they enquired as he stopped before them, their eyes taking in his pale skin but their suspicions allayed somewhat as he responded in perfect Steppes-Tongue.

             
“Perhaps. I hear there are Plains-folk to be sold this afternoon.”

             
One of the guards grunted.

             
“News travels fast.”

             
“Where are they now?”

             
The warrior eyed him, frowning.

             
“You must be new here. The slaves are held in the prison blocks beneath the Market prior to being sold. Each Marzban has his own cells; Marzban Raga’s are in the east-wing. But what is it to you? You cannot buy without a permit.”

             
A handful of excited peasants bustled by, obscuring the guards’ view for but a second, and when the crowd had passed they found they were addressing empty air.

***

The entrance to the underground was guarded by Clansmen, but to him they were statues as he passed by as swift and invisible as the wind.

The tunnel was dim, lit by oil lamps set in indentations at regular intervals along its length, the shadowed walls rough-hewn out of the same yellow-grey sandstone from which the rest of the city so far had been built. The air smelt dry, dusty, and his ears picked up the low sounds of moaning from sobbing prisoners shackled in their cells somewhere down in this bleak and dreary place.

The entire effect combined to remind him of the grim, dark subterranean lair of the Knocker.

             
With that in mind, he came to a crossroads, peeking carefully around the corners lest he stumble into a trap, eyes peeled for patrolling guards, but none were apparent. He headed east, the way he’d been told and presently he found himself in a prison block, the chamber expanding to encompass a great deal of iron-wrought cages suspended from the ceiling, filled with slaves from the barbarian raiding party’s exploits, all morose and bereft of hope.

             
Those nearest looked to him as he entered the chamber, frail hands grasping the bars, faces lighting momentarily as they saw he wasn’t a guard, the joy short-lived, however, fleeing from their eyes as they took in his fine clothes; just another wealthy prospective buyer come to inspect the goods before sale.

             
He patrolled the edge of the room, searching frantically for his friends as he dashed from swinging cage to swinging cage, till at last a voice called out, tentatively.