"Lad, an'one comes, ye killen. Dead, ye he'r! If ye can't, ye run. Take Mira with ye. They be slavers," the captain ordered Renier to go to the center of the camp by a wagon, where the few women and children that traveled with the caravan had gathered. The tension was palpable. Each had a knife or some type of weapon. Mira was out front. A look of determination mixed with worry on her face. She nodded at him.
Spear in hand, anxious guards covered the gaps between the circled wagons. Behind them were the merchants with whatever weapons they could find. In the center, Captain Tomas and the two scouts, Jovan and Ilija ready to help in case of a breach. Extra torches had been lit around the campsite, making eery shadows that danced with the light breeze. The atmosphere was fraught with silent tension, the calm before the storm. The guards’ eyes darted, every shadow a potential enemy, every noise a harbinger of the forthcoming chaos. Their grips tightened around the shafts of their spears, muscles coiled, ready to spring into action at the first sign of the enemy.
Tense minutes passed, and then, as if a dam had broken, the silence was shattered by the sudden cacophony of war cries, a symphony of discordant tones, as slavers surged forth from the shadows like a tide of malevolence. The darkness came alive with flashes of steel and the flickering of torches, revealing the rugged, hungry faces of the attackers, eyes aflame with greed and savagery.
A tumultuous dance of flashing steel, primal roars, and the cries of the fallen ensued. The air was saturated with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smoke of burning torches. Each warrior, a singular entity of determination and skill, was a cog in the harmonious machine of defense, struggling to protect the gaps they guarded and lives within the circle of wagons.
However, the numerical superiority of the bandits was a relentless tide, slowly but inexorably eroding the resilience of the defenders. With every ounce of their being dedicated to the fight, the guards and merchants gradually succumbed to fatigue and the ceaseless assault of their foes. And then suddenly, there was a breach. Ilija ran to suppress the hole created by the fallen guards, facing two attackers with his sword.
Each slaver was a mirror image of sinewy muscles and cruel intentions; their blades, although crude, were honed with vicious anticipation. Ilija wielded his sword with the grace of a seasoned warrior, his movements a symphony of lethal precision. The men attacked in harmonious cruelty, their blades seeking Ilija's demise.
His senses heightened, Ilija moved with the elegance of a predatory cat, his blade a silver extension of his resolve, parrying, deflecting, striking. Each movement was calculated, his body and blade intertwined in a survival dance. However, the relentless assault of two foes was a consuming fire, slowly scorching his endurance.
A momentary lapse, a fleeting second of distraction, allowed one of the slavers to land a blow, slashing an arm. Then the other slaver thrust, and Ilija went down, the blade piercing his sternum. Blood spurted out as his heart gave its last beat.
Three bandits breached on the other side of the camp, and Captain Tomas went to confront them. The seasoned warrior gripped his sword, his soul a blaze of unyielding valor. The trio's blades whispered promises of pain and despair. The initial clash was a dance of resonating steel and echoing grunts. Captain Tomas moved with the grace of a feline, his blade a silver wraith dancing in the torchlight. His attackers hacked in harmonious savagery, their blades seeking to overwhelm their prey.
Each strike from the brigands was a thunderous entity of annihilation. The captain parried and deflected, his body and blade intertwined in a fluid dance of survival. However, the relentless assault of the three highwaymen was a consuming inferno, slowly scalding the captain’s resilience and strength. The dance was a whirlwind of flashing steel and primal roars, the ground shaking with their clash. But, eventually, the overwhelming odds took their toll.
Slowly, the captain's fatigue marked an inexorable doom, eroding his defenses, a blade finding its mark, painting his armor with crimson whispers. Pain was a constant companion, fueling his resolve, his spirit unbroken. His body, a canvas of wounds and exhaustion, moved with the last vestiges of strength, his sword a waning light in the engulfing darkness.
In the final act of the deadly dance of clashing steel, Captain Tomas, overwhelmed, dropped on the blood-stained grass, his lifeless body riddled with cuts; his blade, dripping with the lifeblood of foes, fell silently beside him.
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Ten men ran from opposite sides towards Renier's group. He thought of escaping, but all avenues were blocked. Surrounded, falchion in hand, Renier steeled his nerves and engaged his attackers. The practiced moves ingrained by his training flowed in the moonlight. However, the men merely deflected his thrust and slashes, not wanting to damage their merchandise. Then, distracted by Mira's scream, the butt of a blade hit the side of his head, and he fell. A stomp on his hand made him drop his sword as rough hands turned him on his stomach, shackling his ankles with practiced efficiency. He kicked and struggled against his bindings, but a sharp blade to his neck compelled him to stop.
As he looked around him, Renier saw that anyone left alive received similar treatment. The whole ordeal took less than 10 minutes from beginning to end. But the night was not over. As he lay there, he saw that the women were taken. The playthings of the victorious brutes. Their screams and cries haunted Renier's raging heart. Tears fell down his cheeks, overwhelmed by his helplessness as he again struggled against his restraints to no avail.
Five guards, three merchants, eight women, four young girls, and three boys sat shackled to each other in a clearing by a narrow forest trail, each eating a piece of hardtack bread and taking one swallow of watered wine from an almost depleted wineskin—their daily sustenance during the trek. "… and they be paying a gold for each kid," Renier overheard one guard tell another. "Easy coin we've made'," another one answered.
"Up, ye wretches," the slaver shouted as he cracked his whip in warning. Fear winning over exhaustion, the group started to move down the trail. For five days, they had made steady, if slow, progress through the forest toward the coast. Renier was the last of the shackled group, two slavers bringing up the rear. He walked dazed, putting one foot in front of the other, lost in grief and failure. The Captain, Jovan, Ilija, and Mira had not made it; Mira fighting ferociously rather than being taken. In his memory, he seared the faces of each one of his captors. His only thought as he walked was, 'revenge.' Finally, after many hours of walking, they exited the forest and reached a beach where galleys were waiting.
The smell of feces and urine roused Renier from his daze as he climbed the narrow stair into the almost pitch-black hold. Around fifty slaves - all boys Renier's age or younger - were seated on the floor. One ankle shackled to a long chain shared by all. As he moved to an empty spot and the overseer secured him to the chain, he could hear faint whimpers coming from the back.
The days that followed were a blur. He tried to sleep just to stop remembering Mira lunging with her knife toward her would-be captor, being stabbed in the stomach, her intestines falling out as she screamed in pain. But even in his dreams, the image remained. Ayg did not appear during this time - perhaps his state of mind made it impossible. A cup filled with some runny liquid that had beans and perhaps more was served in the morning and evenings, and Renier made himself eat it no matter the taste.
'I must survive,' Renier thought as he lay on the filthy hold of the galley. With every stroke of the oars against the churning ocean below, Renier made a silent vow. "I will avenge Captain Tomas, Jovan, Ilija, and Mira." The sound of someone removing his shackles woke Renier from his reverie. "Up, up, all of ye," the overseer shouted as he cracked his whip.
Squinting, Renier followed a kid of about ten down the gangplank to the dock; a man with flowing golden robes and a turban waited. As each child stepped off the galley, he would point and say one word. He looked at Renier's blonde hair thoughtfully and said, unsure, "Ye…" Then he remembered himself and, with firmness, "Yeniceri." Renier was moved to stand with a group of waiting boys a couple of years younger than him. Moments later, the group was loaded into several wagons.
The wagons stopped in front of a large building, and the boys were ushered in. They were made to strip all of their clothing, provided soap, and taken to a large pool. "Wash yourselves well," said the person who received them in Turkish. Renier understood the meaning if not the words. All the children, except Renier, ran and jumped into the water. About a half hour later, they were all dry, naked in a single file, waiting to exit one at a time through a door.
Renier stepped through the door, and it closed behind him. Two men, one on each side, grabbed his shoulders and arms and pushed him in front of a third kneeling man with a curved knife in his hand. Before Renier could react, the man took Renier's penis in his left hand and, with his right, cut off his foreskin. Renier screamed as they took care of the wound. He was taken to a separate room where clean clothes were waiting. After he dressed, he was moved to a courtyard where tables with food awaited. Renier served himself a plate full of food, sat beside his equally in pain companions, and silently ate.
"Acemi," the man in golden robes who had received them shouted to get their attention. "You will be taken to your new families to learn Turkish and our customs for one year. Afterward, your training will begin. Now we will give you your Yeniceri name and begin your journey," he finished as burly men entered and started to usher the children onto waiting wagons. As Renier stepped out of the building to climb into his wagon, the golden-robed man said, "Your name will be Orhan."
Each wagon carried two overseers and eight children. Strict discipline had to be followed, or punishment was swift; however, they were not shackled or mistreated, and the food was actually good. Renier put on a mask of compliance, alert for a way to escape. He tried to gather as much information as possible, knowing that brute force would not break the metaphorical chains that bound him; his only weapons were knowledge and stealth. However, the language barrier kept him from getting anything useful from the guards, and he settled on memorizing their routines.
As they traveled, they followed the same routine. They would be woken up before dawn and led on a prayer. Afterward, they would do thirty minutes of exercise. Then, eat breakfast. They would travel for four hours, and the overseers would teach the children Turkish words. Stop and do a midday prayer and a thirty-minute lunch. Then, another three hours of travel and stop for the night. They would do an afternoon prayer and then help set up the camp, gather firewood, dig a latrine, help cook, and clean. Then, at sunset, pray and eat afterward. Following, two hours of personal time - which Renier spent on his combat training; revenge on his mind. Then, a final prayer and sleep. Staying awake was not allowed, and getting up was severely punished. After the second day, Renier started to wake before everyone to meditate as Ayg had taught him.