The warmth of the dunes could still be felt through the soles of his boots as he ran by the light of the moon in the sky above him. The night air had a chill about it and the sweat that covered him caused him to be cold as the ever-present wind dried it. Looking behind him, he could just barely make out the campfires in the distance of the caravan as he topped the next dune.

Painin knew that he had to put as much distance between himself and the camp as possible before the sun began to rise and made travel by foot almost impossible. He pushed past the burning pain in his side and kept on running making his way down the backside of the large dune.

Care was needed as he didn’t want to repeat the nasty roll, he had taken down a smaller dune earlier when he had accidentally come upon a snake that had been buried in the sand and had tried to bite him when he stepped too close to it. In his attempt to avoid the snake, he had lost his balance and tumbled down the dune for quite a way before landing at the base in a heap.

Without warning the cold wind ceased and, in the lull before it began again, he could hear the unmistakable sounds of dogs barking in the distance. Fear filled him and he swore inwardly as he ran onward no longer worrying about snakes or anything else except those barking dogs and those that followed behind them. Trying to cover more ground he ran in the channel between the dunes when suddenly a depression opened under his feet before him and started to draw him in. The ground beneath him vibrated causing the sand to slide down and into the depression which exposed what looked like large teeth at the bottom.

Desperately he threw his body backward clawing at the sand as it began to flow like water into the depression taking him along with it. Every handful of sand simply parted under his hands until he was firmly stuck, and more sand seemed to pour in around him only making it worse. He continued to be dragged down into the depression moving ever closer to the large mouth. Resigning himself to his fate he relented and simply relaxed choosing to accept death and waiting for the sand to pull him in and under.

Pain flared in his arm as one of the Slave Masters' dogs bit down on his exposed arm and tried to drag him back up the slope. Looking back, he could see the dog’s legs slipping in the sand as it pulled and with his other arm, he grabbed a hold of the dog’s leather harness and pulled for all he was worth using the dog as an anchor. He could feel his feet and legs beginning to make some headway out of the sand. He continued his climb up the dog and finally got his feet free of the depression as the dog continued to growl and pull on its prize. Looking up the dune he could see the rest of the pack running down the slope howling as they did.

Painin grimaced in pain as his shackles bit deeply into his wrists causing a small river of blood to run down his hands and drip onto the scorching ground below him. The blood promptly disappeared leaving only some slightly reddish dirt to mark its passing. Moisture didn’t last long in the desert, not even blood. Onward he shuffled forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other.

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He heard the whip coil backward and then flick forward striking one of the other slaves. Even as the man cried out Painin gave silent thanks to whatever god was watching over him and asked for continued coverage that the whip wouldn’t hit him this day. The salt from his sweat stung the cuts on his exposed back from the beating of the previous night.

“What had I been thinking? Running away in the night only to be hunted down by the master’s dogs.” He chided himself for being so stupid, and the wounds he had suffered at the hands of the dogs and their keeper who had overseen his beating. That beating had seemed to go on forever until at last, he passed out from the pain.

They stopped to make camp for the night in a spot that looked exactly like the one they had stopped in the previous night. As usual, the slaves went about setting up the tents and went about their nightly chores like starting small fires using the dried and hardened poop of the draft animals. The task of cooking the food was handled by the camp cook and he oversaw all aspects of the food prep, the slaves would be allowed to clean off the remains of the plates once the choicer scraps were fed to the master’s hounds.

As Painin went about helping some of the other slaves set up a tent the hound master approached him his ever-present whip coiled in his hand. The man was covered in hair much like his prized hounds and seemed to growl at everything around him. He held a water skin still dripping from being filled from the water barrels on one of the wagons.

“Going to run tonight boy?” He asked squeezing the whip in his hand hard enough for the leather to creak.

“No sir.”

“Pity. Me dogs could use another run tonight, or maybe we just let you go, and the desert can have ya. Hard way to die that, the juices of your body are sucked out of ya by the sun. Or even better let you meet the Kra'gorn again I understand they don't like to let a meal get away.” He remarked laughing before walking away in search of someone else to harass. Oaken moved in the distance his stride short as he recovered from the beating that he had also incurred as a result of Painin running off. The master did not believe that he did not know what was going to happen. He felt bad about that as he had been nothing but nice to him and he hadn’t realized his choice might have ramifications for anyone else.

The days passed much as they had before with the group of slaves walking from dawn to dusk while the non-slaves rode in covered wagons or open carts depending upon their station. Each day seemed to blend into a pattern of breaking camp, walking all day, making camp, and sleeping. When they needed to refill their water they would travel to a nearby water source listed on a map that was held by the master. They would top off the barrels as needed and leave behind some sort of payment under a large tarp near the well for the Haddad. Painin’s cuts slowly healed and he found himself being touched by the whip less and less, if only because he tried to stay just ahead of the group pace. Oaken still kept his distance from him and he guessed that their short-lived friendship was at an end.

When the slave caravan finally reached the end of the desert and the distant peaks had become close enough to no longer look like distant hills a group of mounted soldiers met up with them from the nearby garrison. The dusty group of soldiers approached and eyed the group warily as one approached and spoke with the slave master informing him that they would have to be escorted to the garrison and their goods assessed for taxes and contraband. The slave master quietly appraised the situation and agreed to follow the guardsmen and motioned for his guards to stand down though you could see he wasn’t happy with the situation. He had been banking on avoiding the roaming guards and not having to pay taxes.