“You’re far from the first flesh-mongers to make their way through here,” the old man said to the three cloaked figures looming over him on the threshold of the common house. “A crossroads house like this sees all kinds.”
“What makes you think we are slavers?” asked the shortest of the figures.
“Your horses are weighed down with too much rope, but you’re too strong to be ropemakers. Your saddlebags smell of the leaves used to dim the senses and bank the fires of resistance in captives,” the old man said as stable boys unloaded the horses. “As I said, you’re far from the first, but be grateful you’re not the last lot to come through.”
“Why?” asked the short slaver. “What became of them?”
“They’re napping,” replied the old man with a wry chuckle. “Nearly a dozen of them—napping beneath the dirt behind the stable.”
The two shorter figures immediately produced weighted clubs from beneath their cloaks and stood on their guard. “You are unwise to threaten us, old man,” said the shortest.
“I do not threaten you,” the old man said, showing his palms to the cloaked figures. “I merely buried them. It was their own quarry that killed them. A small group of tough-looking travelers. Two women—one tall like a tree, one quick like a fox—and two men—one of noble bearing, the other like a mountain on legs—and a boy-child. The big one had a tattoo of Verq, lady of justice, along his right arm.”
The tallest of the figures pulled back his hood to reveal a clean-shaven head, keen eyes, and long, trailing mustaches. “Was one of them called ‘Sabit’?”
—–
Wayfarings of Sabit: Pursuit is copyright (c) 2017 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/