Heguir’s slave camp rose up out of the plains three parasangs to the south of the crossroads where he had insulted Verdandi’s wine. Near enough to the crossroads that he could buy and sell unfortunate souls from the aloof towers of Lytrops to the Broken Coast and beyond. Far enough from the watchful eyes of the tax collectors of the king of Bahteel that a few well-placed bribes served to shield his operation from the full weight of the tribute it owed to the king.
Heguir had poured his wealth into his estate. The wall of cut timber that encircled the compound was tall and well-maintained. Every fifth fallen tree trunk bore the visage of some god of wealth or other—every grinning tooth or rotund belly or coin-filled hand perfectly carved so that all the people chained within might see a deity of their own people prospering from the suffering of their backs.
The main house fronted the road, its two story facade of white stone and red tile overlooking the gatehouse of mudbrick. The archway of the gate spanned the road wide enough that six men abreast might have passed through—or six chains of slaves marched to the markets or the mines in a single column of misery.
The road Sabit and Heguir walked was dirt, packed hard by the numberless feet that had been whip-driven along it. As they approached the gate, the gatehouse’s brickwork spanned the road itself, so that one’s first steps within the compound would not be on dirt packed by human feet, but on dried brick shaped by human hands.
As they drew close to the gatehouse, Sabit stepped closer to Heguir and hissed in his ear, “We shall stop at the threshold. You will tell your men to bring out my friend. If you shout for help, you’ll be dead before the words leave your throat. I know how much you value your blood.”
Heguir nodded and took several mincing steps forward until his feet were on the edge of the brickwork. Each of the bricks had symbols pressed into them, in twisting, curving shapes of madness and suffering.
The slave merchant cleared his throat and stretched his head higher on his flabby neck. “Bring forth the—” His voice dissolved into a fit of coughing.
”Master! Are you unwell?” said the guardsman, leaving his post to approach Heguir.
The flesh-peddler shot him a look that froze the man in his tracks. Heguir took a few more tiny steps forward, Sabit close on his heels. His sandals rested fully on the mud-baked bricks, toes pointing north and west.
“Bring forth the—” More coughing. Two more steps, carefully placed.
Sabit’s hand tightened on the haft of her spear.
“Bring forth … the nightmare!” Heguir bellowed and dove for the floor. Curls of purple-gray mist billowed from the carvings in the bricks where he had stood, enveloping Sabit in their dark, greasy embrace.
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Photo by Luděk Maděryč from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/metal-chain-in-grayscale-and-closeup-photo-86733/
Wayfarings of Sabit: Chains is copyright (c) 2018 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every Thursday (and the occasional Monday). You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller Find more sword and sorcery fiction at http://ipressgames.com/fiction/.