Aran settled into life at Ben Johansen’s wood yard. Often in the quiet of evening stopping to ponder why he had been sold? Had Dahlia sought to spare him, or was the transaction purely coincidence? He liked to think that Dahlia’s anger was not infinite. He knew instinctively that if he had remained on the chain gang, he would have eventually perished no matter his great size, or the resolve to be free in his heart.

The big man was still very much a slave. However, life was better here. He ate well, and the work though constant was not too hard. Aran had much admiration for Ben Johansen, the way he worked right alongside Aran loading carts and cutting lumber. There was no division in the duties of a slave or owner here. Simply put, there were tasks to be done and whoever was available at that moment saw to them.

The weather that had ravaged the landscape slowly cleared. Giving way to warmer, sunnier days, gentle rains that promoted the new crops, and a sense that normalcy had at last returned to the land. The citizens of the Bridge seemed less panicked, and an easier way of life set in for those of the southeastern side of town.

Aran had been correct in judging he now lived amongst the poorer folk. A collection of displaced refugees who had years ago, and some even recently, sought new lives here. Some would leave the ghettos to rise above the grinding poverty of the southeastern district, men like his owner. Some would never escape the winding dirt alleyways that became a mire of mud and septic refuse in the rains, the gnaw of an empty belly, and the grinding crush of poverty.

In the woodyard, Aran watched the entire city pass by. For comfort was a great leveler, every citizen, needed wood for cooking fires and to heat, or lumber to build new structures. So the warrior who had become a slave, glimpsed both the wealthy and the poor, as they drove their carts to his doorstep.

Aran spent most of his days outside. Though he did get to dine with his owners in the early mornings and evenings, and the atmosphere was pleasant. At night he was housed in a secure concrete block building, which at one time had been a public convenience. The toilets and bathroom fittings had been long ago removed. His sleeping space occupied one half of this structure, a tool shed the other. He had for his comfort a simple straw pallet, along with a fur blanket, though the warrior considered this luxury after so long sleeping in the field.

The days he spent shackled to a thirty-pound iron ball, most men could not have bore such a constant weight, however, Aran was not like most men. This enabled the enslaved warrior to move about to perform tasks but seriously limited his escape options. Aran had originally decided he would kill Ben Johansen with this iron ball. A swift blow to the skull would easily end the man's life. However, as the days wore on Aran found he could not do so. He watched the man toil as hard as he did, and care for his comely daughter Imogen, and her five-year-old son Ewan. Aran had also witnessed Ben Johansen’s many acts of kindness. Ben coming from the shanty town felt a very obvious compassion for those around him, and for the less fortunate. Often adding twice the load to a struggling man's cart, and insisting he not pay, or do so when he could find his way into a better circumstance.

Aran being a wild man of the wastes, did have considerably fewer morals than many had. However he was not a mindless killer, and he instinctively understood that if he killed Ben Johansen it was very likely he would be torn to pieces by the local population. So Aran shelved that idea. Perhaps in time, he may negotiate for his freedom? Ben Johansen was after all a compassionate and reasonable man.

So as the afternoons lengthened into pleasantly warm ones, Aran began to learn that even among all this industriousness and good, there lurked bad undercurrents. As with all success came the parasites and sharks to feast upon the hard work of others. This came in the shape of a group of rough-cut men called The Banned Angels.

The day had been a very normal one. Just an endless stream of carts come to fetch firewood, interspersed with some lumber cutting. Both Aran and Ben had worked hard, and were taking a welcome drink from the terracotta cistern of water that collected the runoff from the roof of the house. A good freshwater well here was out of the question, as the groundwater was full of salinity and therefore undrinkable. So potable tanks were a must, though, with the long breaks in between sustaining rains, the river water was a lifeblood and was carried and carted in great quantities to the thirsty city. The sun had begun to feel warm in recent days. Hardly the blistering desert heat, but it seemed the fiery orb had returned, finally. Promising to be a force to reckon with in the coming months. The cool, clear, rainwater tasted good to Aran, and he drank it in greedy gulps, eyes closed, quite lost in the simple pleasure.

Aran had heard them first, they did not drive into the compound in a cart as all the others had, they had arrived on foot. A knot of men, ten or so. Bearded, long hair in ponytails, and braids, all black leather, fur, and metal. Bristling with weapons. They scuffed their steel-shod boots in the gray dust, making no effort to be subtle.

Aran turned, for a moment he thought of Dahlia, and well expected to see her silk-wrapped form emerge from among them. A flower amongst the rye. He heard Ben sigh, it was a truly troubled sound.

“You stay here.” His voice was toneless though Aran sensed fear. The warrior tensed his muscles and strained his ears, wishing he was not anchored to the thirty-pound ball and chain. If trouble started he would not be able to cross the gap swiftly.

One of the men stepped forward, he sported an immense gray beard shot with white. He had been smoking a hash joint, the only real tobacco to be had here. He crushed the remainder carelessly under his iron-shod sole. Ben though a big man looked apologetic, almost humble before him.

“I’m sorry...I could not get the money. I will... I promise... pay it very soon...”

Aran did not catch the entirety of the conversation. However, he had picked up enough of it to understand the general tangent of the exchange. His ears pricked as he heard the word Finks uttered by the impressively bearded individual, and it was spoken with a strong accent of distaste. He watched Ben’s shoulders slump forward to appear even more humble.

“I...I just buy my wood from them. It’s no more than that. A simple exchange. I have to get my stock from somewhere... and well they are the ones clearing.”

It bothered Aran to watch Ben backpedal and apologize to these rough-shod men.

Imogen ever the most thoughtful daughter had come out of the house to see if her hardworking father had wished for any refreshment. The visiting men’s eyes eagerly devoured her.

“Go inside.” Ben turned to warn her, he was clearly stuck in the middle of the terrible exchange. She turned and left immediately in a flurry of gathered skirts.

Aran was tense in a way he had not been for a very long time. He desired to take up the metal ball, and possibly advance to lend his collective threat to Ben’s cause, as he would have done in his own clan. However, the eyes of the men were on him and he didn't want to further aggravate the situation. So he stood like a mute pack animal in the background. This too bothered him in a way he could not rightly explain.

There was more talk. The man’s voice was so low Aran strained to hear. The few words he did catch were not insightful. There was some pushing and shoving, a show of needless dominance. Ben did not retaliate. Oddly no customers had arrived in the woodyard, perhaps they had seen the trouble and elected to load up another time? It was probably a wise move.

Ben finally turned from the men and went into the house, he was not there long. Aran knew the pack of leather-clad men were observing him closely, he did not know whether to feel pride or shame.

Ben Johansen returned shortly. He bore a leather purse containing all his valuables. He placed the wallet into the bearded man’s gloved hand. The man didn't open the bag, he simply bounced it up and down on his palm a couple of times testing its weight.

“I want the rest and soon, or we’ll take your daughter. You got seven days.”

Just as swiftly and silently as they had first arrived, the men were gone into the dusty street.

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*****

However, the ominous mood the men’s visit had generated did not depart so easily from the Johansen household. That evening dinner was unusually silent, at least at first. After little Ewan had been put to bed and the dinner dishes were being cleared away, it was Imogen who found her voice.

“Curse the Banned Angels.” She spat. It was the first time Aran had witnessed anything of Imogen but innocent sweetness.

“Quiet daughter.” Ben growled into his cup.

Aran had been allowed to sit by the fireside and listened with keen interest. He desired to know more about this threat.

“We can’t just let them intimidate us Father, we could go before the Commissioner…”

“Imogen!” Ben shouted. His daughter jumped at his unruly outburst, yet she continued boldly in the face of his wrath.

“He’s the law, he could do something, this is extortion, it’s not legal…”

“Stop!”

“Father...”

Ben rose, and for the first time, Aran felt anger emanating from the big man, who was usually so placid. He advanced on his daughter and grabbed her hard by both upper arms. Aran could see his grip was not gentle. However, to Aran's mind, women were men’s possessions, and it was a father’s right to correct his daughter in any way he saw fit.

Ben scowled down into his daughter’s bright face. “There’s a lot girl you don’t seem to understand. Law and order here is a farce, it’s a feudal state. We work and we live, but if they want our lifeblood they will take it. The Commissioner protects those of his own, not simple men like me. The Angels, well they are just doing his dirty work and filling his coffers.”

“But the Commissioner in essence can’t be bad, he was a policeman.”

“Any man can be bad Imogen. Let me deal with this, and I have heard enough.” Ben pulled his daughter into a loving embrace, and the palpable threat dissolved.

*****

Aran understood what he would have done, along with the other men of his clan. They would have stood and fought. There was no recourse to the law here, he understood that much. He lay that evening on his straw pallet and thought about Ben’s situation long into the night, he had decided to try and talk to him in the morning. Aran was well aware the two men had never really held a conversation. One could not count the few words exchanged when speaking of how to trim a log, or which pile of wood needed to be further split. He was unsure of how to proceed.

*****

Aran did not get the chance to speak with Ben, that he had sought. Ben was very occupied the next morning, perhaps he had left the wood yard to collect outstanding debts? Aran had been chained to a steel beam that dawn preceding his Master’s absence with instructions to commence splitting vast tonnage of wood. The pile was so large it would occupy him all day and then another. Being young, and very well-built, Aran was often given this task. The axe was heavy and sharp, and Aran hit the misshapen stumps with precision, breaking open their dull blackened exteriors to reveal the rich reds and ochres inside. He was already working up quite a sweat by the time Imogen presented herself to bring him breakfast.

With her father absent Imogen seemed different. More grown. She had been married and had a child after all Aran reasoned, as he admired her curves even beneath her full skirt. “You were brave last night,” he ventured. Testing the waters to see if the woman would indeed stay to talk.

“It had to be said.” Imogen’s voice bore the sunniest disposition. “I just want to help, as best I can.”

Aran nodded his shaggy head in agreeance. He swung the axe again in a great arc, and the fiddle-backed wood fell in two before him. He didn't need to look at Imogen to know she was admiring him physically. Aran began to wonder how much he could get into her favor?

“Men like those Banned Angels don’t respect anything but force.” Aran offered.

“That’s what scares me.” She said. ‘Because it’s just me and Dad, and I don’t think we can even raise all the money they have asked for.”

“I could help.”

“How?”

Aran paused and turned toward the girl, recalling Gareth's battle moves, he took the axe and swung it about as he may on the battlefield.

Imogen backed away gazing on in fear and awe. “Oh wow, you could have mown them all down and just with father's axe. I so wish you had.”

“Maybe.” Aran smiled a lopsided smile.

“You scare me.” Imogen had her hand poised at her throat. Aran could imagine her heart beating in her chest like a frail bird. The thought excited him. He desired her to come closer, so he set down the axe and knelt. He looked into her lively blue eyes, entreating with his own.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”She responded in a tremulous quaver.

“Why?”He all but whispered.

“I’m...I’m not sure.”

Her hand was on his shoulder beneath his golden mane. Soft fingers at the base of his bull neck. He dared not move, he wanted to be touched, he wanted so much more. She smelled of sweetness and femininity. Those same fingers caressed so lightly his jaw and then the side of his face. She stood before him golden and inviting, plump and ripe for the taking. Aran was dizzy with need. It had been so very long. His arms went about her waist, and he breathed her in.

Imogen’s resistance was unexpected, she pushed against him and gave a harried cry. Aran paused and Imogen deftly ducked under his grasp.

“Why oh why did you have to be a slave!” She turned from him and ran away.

*****

Aran harbored this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, though he kept assuring himself that Imogen had invited the events of the morning, and that she would remain silent. However, after a further hour of trying to lose himself in the wood splitting, Aran decided that perhaps he could not trust the girl. It was time to leave.

So he took up the length of chain that bound him to the post, lay it on the chopping block, and began to see if he could break the links. He was strong and very accurate, but the chain was of the high tensile kind. He dented the thick links, but it would take some time to part one. The imprisoning metal serpent slid off the chopping block with each strike and had to be re-positioned with care. Just one good hit would do it...

He was struck hard from behind with a stout length of wood. The blow sent Aran uncharacteristically floundering in the dirt winded, however it goaded his anger also. He twisted and attempted to rise axe in hand, battle-ready to sight the returned Ben Johansen. The man’s hand already gripping the chain attached to Aran’s ankle. Merciless, Ben wrenched it with all he had. Aran fell again this time onto his back, axe still gripped in both fists and laying in wait across his chest.

Imogen screamed shrilly. Sand in his eyes, he was not sure who threw it but he suspected the girl. A predictable dirty trick. Aran fought to see. He was trying to reason if he should surrender or fight. Surrender was easy, maybe he could explain? This was most unlike him. Where had this will to surrender come from? He pushed blindly on, he must leave today. A blinding pain to the side of his head, then darkness.

*****

Aran was not out long, he woke trussed hand and foot still lying where he had fallen, spitting sand.

“What happened Imogen?” Ben demanded.

Aran struggled to think, the blow had addled him.

“I’m so ashamed, Father.”

“Jesus! What? Tell me?”

“I brought him breakfast and he...he.”

“No!”

There was silence for a time. Aran lay back on the earth, the comely girl was framing him for rape. He closed his sore eyes and swallowed, this would not end well. He could try and explain, but he already knew his words would fall on deaf ears. A father would believe his daughter after all, not the words of a wild barbarian from the desert who was now a slave.

The warrior realized he had gone too far this morning with his exhibition of axe-manship, and had opened frightening possibilities in the young woman's mind, and she had in the way of some women's defenses countered with her own method to remove his threat. It did not matter if her accusations bore substance or not.

“Go inside Imogen, and stay there with Ewan, I will be along for dinner shortly.”

Aran listened to the woman's skirts drag in the sand as she retreated to the house. Ben didn't speak to him at all, and Aran lay in silence conserving his energy for whatever was to come. Slaves didn't get trials, freemen and women were always in the right, something Aran was beginning to learn.

Aran lay face down in the dirt and took the beating. He didn't have any other choice. Ben did not desist until he finally got sincere grunts of pain from his property. By that time the leather of his whip was soaked in Aran's blood, and dripping from his own hands as he drew the sinuous plaited leather through his fingers for the next strike. Ben Johansen was not a cruel man by nature, however anger and betrayal were very good motivators.

Aran lay quietly at the cessation of the flogging, stomach threatening to erupt from his throat and shaking in pure pain. He could hear the wood yard manager availing himself of the water in the horse trough, as he cleansed the blood from his hands to not alarm his family.

The beaten warrior longed for the cool water on his face, anything to pull him from his stupor. Through the haze of pain, he heard Ben finally speak to him.

“You mess up one more time and you will be right back where I got you in those fields, you hear?” The hard prod of a boot to his side. Aran flinched and grunted at the heavy reinforcement, he tried to nod. The last thing he wished was to be returned to that previous hell.

*****

Somehow Ben Johansen managed to raise the money. The threat of the banned Angels receded into the background, but things were not the same after the incident. Aran was no longer admitted to the house, nor allowed the comfort of the evening fire. Fortunately, the days were growing warm, and he only had the frosty nights to contend with, this didn't bother him so much. He had survived worse after all.

If Ben went out Aran was locked away in the cement block building until the man returned. Ben now rarely ever addressed him, only to snap some order as though he were a mere beast, or prod at him with a whip urging him to comply. Aran struggled beneath his heavy chains, since the beating he was manacled ankles and wrists, and was mostly relegated to loading and unloading carts. He would not be furnished with an axe again.

The wounds on his back and the backs of his arms healed, and in time he again became whole. The lust for escape burned, however, even that was beginning to die. Aran fought tooth and nail to hold onto his proud sanity, however as the weeks passed he could feel the descent into beast of burden animal status claim him.