​6 Only the Tharoni

HUNDREDS OF THARONI slavers marched through the streets of Ancyra. They brandished whips, spears, and copper-plated shields. Others, with leather bracers on their arms, held single-arched bows, and wore quivers filled with reed arrows at the waist. Most wore linen armour with leather greaves over tunics. Wither suspected many had hidden among the refugees, waiting, the rest entering after the garrison was subdued. In the heat of the day, the city’s soldiers had been torpid, easily overwhelmed.

He had hidden with several locals within a network of alleys as they attempted to find a route out of the city. Several times the slavers had discovered them. Those who escaped had done so at the cost of others. As for Slither, he’d wished his friend well, before watching him vanish into the panicked throng.

‘Slavery is outlawed in the imperium,’ said a grey-haired codger as he hugged a wall. Terror and outrage warred in his face. ‘They cannot do this, can they?’

‘Who’s going to stop them,’ asked another, ‘you?’

‘There is no imperium,’ agreed Wither. The slavers had closed off all exits. Besides, it was daylight. Finding a way out would mean an arrow in the back or a bashed skull. ‘Rebellion will come. The days of the imperium are over. Everyone must look to themselves.’

‘What of the Todralan girl?’ asked an old woman from the back. ‘Won’t she stop this? Such a beautiful young lady. Like her mother she is.’

‘You mean the undead witch?’ snorted a young man. ‘Better off with the slavers than with the likes of her. Heard she eats those who displease her.’

‘Rubbish,’ the old woman snorted.

‘Heard it from my cousin, and he was in the legions.’

‘And he’d know, how? Did he see her cut someone up and eat them? He was there was he, stood by her dinner table?’

‘Yeah,’ said someone else, ‘I bet this one’s in league with ’em. How’s he know so much about virals?’

‘I hear she steals power from their blood,’ said another. ‘Blood’s got power, don’t it?’

‘Eats their hearts while they’re still beating, yeah.’

‘Nah, it’s the liver what’s got the magic in it.’

‘Fools, the lot of you,’ said the old woman. ‘Whatever she is, she’s a Todralan, which means something to some folk.’

Sitting on the ground, back against the wall, Wither flipped a flat white stone between his fingers. He ignored the argument. They were trying to distract themselves from the terror around them. Besides, he preferred not to touch the subject. He hadn’t made up his mind about that family, especially Threadfin.

‘What will they do with us?’ wailed a young woman. ‘There must be a way to escape.’

‘They won’t kill us,’ said Wither, trying to sound comforting. His voice was too rough, thoughts of virals irritating him. ‘They will take us to Tharonis or Midware. Those they wish to keep. The rest will end up in Twinport bound for Pethram, and the southern kingdoms, where slavery is a way of life.’

The sounds of screams and harsh voices echoed through the streets beyond the low buildings. It was a matter of time. No point running. He wondered why he bothered to hide. Their little group had numbered fifty to begin with. Ten remained.

‘How do you know what they’ll do?’ asked the young man, who was still smarting from being associated with virals. He was a hulking lad, a blacksmith’s apprentice. Sure, he’d put up a fight, but it would see him beaten. The slavers wouldn’t kill him, not with a build like his. There were diamond mines in the Chain Mountains northwest of Midware, or they might force him in to a fight pit. Tharoni liked their sport. Another outlawed practice. If he was lucky, he might become a slaver’s bodyguard, given time.

‘I am Tharoni,’ admitted Wither, ‘or born one at least.’ The others backed away from him, all but the old woman. He felt sadness at their reaction, but it was as expected. ‘I am not with them, else why would I be hiding here with you?’

‘You could save us,’ said the elderly man who’d first spoken. ‘Speak to them. They are your people. You could get them to let us go. Tell them we are your closest companions, your friends.’

‘Please,’ begged a woman, ‘save us.’

‘Won’t you help us?’ asked another in a choking voice.

Wither barked a humourless laugh. ‘Not how it works. The Tharoni haven’t engaged in slavery so openly since the imperium conquered them, so most slaves have been Tharoni. I am of no use to you. We must prepare to greet our new masters.’

He got to his feet, readying himself. He had no idea where Davard Tystrus had vanished to. Something told him the fat man would never see the hold of a slave ship.

A terrified murmur rushed through his companions. ‘We can’t fight them,’ said one. ‘We have no weapons. None of us would know how if we did.’ Despite his words, several of them eyed the blacksmith’s apprentice, who wilted beneath the attention. Oh well, Wither thought, bravery wouldn’t have done him much good.

‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘We must give ourselves up. Running will mean pain once they catch us, perhaps death. Do not look them in the eyes. Obey whatever commands you’re given. Be as meek as you can be. Fall over yourselves to please, and avoid notice where you can. Do this and you will live.’ Some of you, for a time at least.

‘As slaves?’ asked the elderly man.

‘Yes,’ said Wither, ‘but you will be alive. The alternative is a slow death, from constant beatings and malnutrition. They punish severely any who keep resisting. Oh, they expect some fight at the start. Shows you have spirit and ups their price, but keep it up and you will learn. The lucky die outright. Do as I say.’ His heart quailed at the idea of what would happen to the elderly. They would not last, even if they did exactly what he’d told them. Better if they died quick. Had he a knife to hand he would’ve offered this mercy.

‘And what of you?’ asked the old woman, a knowing in her gaze, an accepting of her fate. It surprised and humbled him. ‘Will you do the same? Will you be meek and obey, avoid notice?’

Wither grimaced. ‘Popper Nox,’ he said, silently wishing the old merchant a quick mercy. She had been good to him. ‘You are forgetting. I am Tharoni.’ He looked towards the network of alleys, and the sound of boots. Cries as the slavers encountered holdouts. ‘I will resist most of all.’

‡

THE TREK SOUTH THROUGH the dry lands of northern Valtar proved torturous. Rust coloured mountains rose in a jagged line several leagues away. Crossing those was possible, but most of the slaves would perish. A loss of earnings. Some would die anyhow, the trek to Twinport over two months. Instead, the slavers veered them south to skirt the mountains’ southern tip.

The Tharoni were not shy with the whip either. Many a slave felt their sting as they struggled to keep moving. One foot in the front of the next, plodding onward. In the past few weeks, the last of the elderly had fallen. Wither was thankful he hadn’t seen Popper Nox die. The slavers seemed in a hurry, eyeing the mountains as if calculating the cost. This above all made him wonder. Pushing the slaves hard would result in deaths. Something had the slavers rattled, and Wither guessed it was the zorasts.

The earth beneath their feet was a patchwork of cracked clay, hard-baked under the sun. It would worsen further south, although the slavers halted and erected open tents during the worst of the heat. They watered their captives well. They needed live slaves after all, or why bother?

Wither hoped they took him to Tharonis, but he wasn’t too optimistic. At least there, the breeze from the Toldron Sea offered relief. There were trees, small rivers, and fountains. Figs, dates, olives, and many other delicacies. Not that any slaves got those. Still, a clever slave, a Tharoni slave who knew his people and his land, could steal. Survival was the goal. Survive long enough to escape.

Wither hadn’t lied when he’d said he would resist. He’d already shown them his strength as they’d laid hands upon him, clamping him in iron. One had a broken jaw, while another limped. Of course, Wither’s head also throbbed, dried blood crusting on his face. They repaid him daily.

Once the slavers learned he was of their blood, they would treat him worse. They expected Tharoni slaves to be harder, meaner and of superior stock. A matter of some twisted pride. However, resistance could become stupidity. If he constantly fought, they would kill him.

Wither glanced behind him along the line. One slaver spotted him. A kick into the lower back sent him to his knees. Instead of a whip, a fist connected with the injured side of his head. Wither’s skull exploded with pain, his eyes seeing spots. Thick hands pulled him upright, shoved him onward. Yes, they obviously knew who he was, and each time they hurt him, he met their eyes.

Resistance was about biding one’s time, keeping to hope, and never accepting one’s fate. Oh, he’d become the bidding slave, ready to accept the lash and the fist as his reward, standing tall afterwards. Inwardly, this Tharoni noble would bide his time. He remembered every blow, and the face of every man who delivered it.

With nothing to do but stagger along, Wither let his mind wander. They had shackled his wrists in black chains, linked with a dozen others. Under the hot sun, the irons felt unbearable, the metal burning bloodied grooves into his flesh. The chain ends connected to a wide sturdy wagon filled with loot. A pair of fat grolg hauled it. Each evening, those beasts received water and fodder before the slaves. Some Tharoni even spoke to them with kind words. If Wither hadn’t seen a slaver plant a kiss on the nose of one beast, he wouldn’t have believed it.

He thought about what Davard had told him, of the cult and their plot to cleanse the world. He wondered idly if it was not perhaps necessary. The world was a terrible place. Ironic, that Tystrus had sought to save the city’s people only to see them enslaved. Perhaps some had escaped but how many?

The zorasts would have to buy back these people, and Tharoni drove hard bargains. Although, if what Davard had said was true, the cult would find another city to attack. Unless of course, Tharonis was that city. He could hope. It was the most likely means for his escape. Then what? Join them? Fool them long enough to get north. I should never have come south, he decided. I should have seen it through when I’d had the chance. Now look at me.

Once, his loyalty had been to the Aidari, who had followed the viral mage at Scatter’s urging. He had never cared about the imperium. He’d lied when he’d said it was dead. It wasn’t. It lived in the hearts and minds of every Icarthian who believed in it, but Wither wasn’t one of them.

A twisted sense of pride grew in his heart. The imperium had enslaved the Tharoni for too long. Once again, Tharonis was becoming a power. Of course, he would prefer to be holding the lash, but he would rectify it given time.

The longer he mulled it over, the more certain he became. He couldn’t wait for the possibility of an intervention. It would prove difficult. His magic was weak. When the perfect moment came, he would kill whichever of his kinsmen got in his way and escape. He held no qualms about such action.

He would go to Shamar, find the cult. They sounded powerful, and perhaps they could help him regain his magic. Afterwards, he would kill them all. Not because he cared about their plotting, or because of the fat man’s request. He would slay them because he was a Tharoni of noble blood. Only Tharoni had the right to enslave and kill, and the world needed reminding.

Only the Tharoni had the right.