Gizzal vomited as the camel dipped for perhaps the thirtieth time over yet another sand dune. The camel groaned as it realized what became entangled in its fur. The smell hit Gizzal immediately, almost making him retch again. He thought he resisted the temptation, but realized he simply had nothing left to give. Gizzal let out a putrid whine as a nearby raider laughed at his plight.
The group had traveled for several hours now. Gizzal shared his camel with the healer, who lay limp between the humps in front of him. Isbibarra was not so lucky, as none of the raiders - all of whom had their own camels - provided him space to share. He had shuffled along for leagues at this point. His pace was more spry than Gizzal had expected, but far too slow for the raiders' liking. They eventually relented and gave him his cane, though that helped only a little. The old man was exhausted now, after having to traverse so many peaks and valleys.
Despite being covered in his own vomit and tied to the back of a camel, Gizzal couldn’t help but feel somewhat satisfied at the suffering of the old man. He could watch it for an eternity after everything the blind man put him through.
Gizzal was still in denial. A moon prior, the eve of the holiday was upon Ash. There were feasts to prepare and traders to court. He had been so anxious about the curse that it wasn’t until the witch's exile that he allowed himself to let his guard down. But that was before Isbibarra cornered him outside of the plaza. As to what happened after, he didn’t remember much. When he awoke, he was bound and gagged behind the back of a camel in the middle of the desert.
It didn’t need to be said, but Gizzal was regretting ever hiring the one-eyed Merck and his sellsword companion.
Gizzal’s blindfold had fallen to his nose, so he was at least semi-aware of his surroundings. He had heard stories of Rust Waves west of Ash, but he had never imagined how tall they were, and from only a moon’s ride away! Some were over two hundred meters. He preferred the tall ones because the shorter ones meant he had less time to adjust before the shifting angle made him nauseous again.
Three raiders guided the group. One of them, the leader, was a bearded man with long flowing black hair. He was covered in rhomboid tattoos. The other two, an older woman and a young girl, likewise bore tattoos of various shapes of stars, triangles, and jagged edges. Aside from the markings, they looked no different than typical Steppefolk, with gaunt angular features and wrinkled faces weathered by years under the sun. They adorned milkwhite hooded robes that blended well with the desert. Each carried Jyväskian spears, worn, rusted, and likely stolen from a lost patrol garrison.
Gizzal had heard stories of Raiders. Some traders claimed they stood over seven feet tall and had multiple arms. Others swore they were ape-men who attacked on sight and would eat whoever they found. These people were far from the frightening descriptions. Gizzard found them quiet and much shorter than expected. He thought that they could even be open to reason.
Occasionally the raiders halted their party and Gizzal would see the blind man. Isbibarra kept pace with the elephant, likely to stay in what little shade she provided. If he slowed too much, the young raider girl would swipe her scimitar near his legs. It had been effective so far, but Gizzal wondered how long the old man would keep up. Would the raiders leave him to die if he fell? Surely they would have killed them both by now if they wanted to.
“Aslavgagt,” they called him. The act of slavery disgusted Gizzal. Human beings had to be fed, cared for, and stimulated. They shit and pissed all over themselves. He never thought they were worth the trouble.
As the group dipped into yet another valley, Gizzal spotted a massive dune towering almost a hundred meters above the rest. Gizzal could barely make out two more cream-colored robes near the top. They picked up speed as they scaled the steep ridge, Gizzal becoming more and more nauseous as they did so.
The peak of the dune was long and dug out. At the entrance, the ridge flattened into a small plateau. Upon reaching this, Gizzal was surprised to see a zoo. There were five yak and two camels, all of whom groaned at the sight of the party. The plateau sunk a meter into the ridge itself, forming a natural pen. Gizzal saw barrels of water, cooked yak jerky, an assortment of herbs and greenery that lined the walls, and piles of what could best be described as junk. It was a cramped space, but it appeared the raiders had a multitude of supplies.
Two more raiders exchanged greetings with the others, placing their palms against each other and tapping their foreheads. They smiled and laughed as they led the beasts to their new pens. They were gentle and careful with the elephant, petting it behind the ear and leading it to a part of the plateau separate from the herd of yak. They were less kind to their prisoners: one raider, an older man of about sixty, grabbed Gizzal and threw him off the camel. Gizzal yipped as he landed on his back.
“Agh! You could’ve given me a warning!” Gizzal grumbled. The old raider grinned, flashing two teeth in his crooked smile. The other raider nearby, a boy no older than eighteen, chuckled at the sight.
Behind them, the bearded raider climbed over the ridge, holding Isbibarra by the edge of his tunic. The blind man looked ragged. His eyepatch had fallen down his neck, showing his left eye to be nothing more than a gaping hole. His scarf had fallen off as well, revealing chalk-colored curly hair. He attempted to balance himself with his cane, tapping the ground twice before falling over. The bearded raider gave a hearty laugh.
“Aslavgagt pouto!” the bearded raider shouted. “Volskhaava!” Isbibarra didn’t respond, instead reaching for his cane as he lay on the ground. The bearded raider kicked the old man, causing him to curl in a fetal position. He shouted again, “Volskhaava!”
Isbibarra coughed. “Apologies…” With effort, Isbibarra stabilized himself with his cane and rose to his feet. He tapped the ground three times before moving onward. The ridge had been coated with clay, forming a solid ground that rose up to the walls.
The bearded raider shoved Isbibarra. “Volskhaava!” he shouted again. As Isbibarra moved, the older raider elbowed Gizzal, pushing him in the same direction.
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“‘Folkshava folkshava’, I got it, asshole.” Gizzal followed Isbibarra.
The party made their way across the plateau, passing a hollowed-out fire pit. The ridge narrowed, forming a crevasse that tightened for the next twenty meters. At the end of the ridge was a tent: a cream-colored tarp that sloped along the edges of the dune, itself blending seamlessly into the sand. It looked to be about five meters wide and twenty meters long. The bearded raider and the older raider led their prisoners through the tent as the other three turned to take care of their newly acquired beasts.
As he entered the tent, Gizzal was shocked by a sensation he had only felt a handful of times in his life. For once, he wasn’t oppressed by the weight of humidity. The air felt moist and tepid. He looked around and saw why: a singular row of figweed plants, each about half a meter high, lined the inside of the tent. Like most desertfolk, Gizzal normally carried a handful of its dried root, but he had rarely seen a full-grown plant. Dew formed at the ends of the plants’ thick ferns, each emanating a slight breeze of air. Gizzal had never felt more comfortable in his life.
An ornate indigo rug covered the floor of the tent, though it was too wide and the ends of it rolled up against the tent edges. Crimson tapestries hung awkwardly from the top, each covered in the scratched etches of Steppe language. One tapestry appeared to be a map, showing various routes around dunes nearby.
At the other end of the tent sat a young boy no older than fourteen. He had two rows of triangles running down his cheekbones under his eyes. His head was shaved, and his eyes stern. He wore baggy drawstring pants and no shirt, showcasing his toned yet lean frame. In his right hand, he gripped a bronze shield far too large for his size. His other hand held a repeating crossbow; an unshapely box containing several bolts released by the trigger. It was an unwieldy but deadly weapon in close proximity. The boy sat on an elaborate saddle that once rode atop a war elephant. Behind him, tusks and bones lined the walls of the tent, arranged in a haphazard manner. It was a throne room, made from the scraps of traveling merchants.
The young raider frowned as he looked over Gizzal. He turned to the older raider. “Presha, toos volgagt tveskla?”
The older raider laughed. “Aslavgagt oo elpvagan. Zavosk mestvget.”
The younger raider pointed at Gizzal, laughing. “Aslavgagt noon pravoskfla. Praanvost elpvagan!”
On the other side of the tent, the bearded raider scowled. He approached the young boy with a bag, emptying two dozen large gemstone rings. The young boy gasped, nearly dropping his shield as he picked up the stones off the floor. He placed them on his fingers, treating them with the delicacy of toys. As the young boy played with the jewels, the bearded raider crossed the room back to the prisoners. The bearded raider flicked a golden gemstone at Isbibarra, it bouncing off his chest.
“Much stone,” the bearded raider sputtered at Isbibarra. His accent was thick and broken. “Find?”
“You speak to the wrong fool,” Gizzal said. “Those belong to me.” Gizzal was desperate to make a move. He thought that if at least one of the raiders knew Jyväskian, he had a chance of escaping. Many times before he had tricked People of the Steppe into parting with their most valuable possessions for little in return. He could certainly do the same with this vandal.
The bearded raider looked intrigued. He picked up the golden gemstone, a favorite of Gizzal’s, and held it in front of his face. “Gold?” The raider’s eyes were transfixed on the massive stone.
“You recognize quality, friend,” replied Gizzal, assuming the role of the sycophantic salesman. “I come from a line of jewelers and treasurers. I am one of the Nine Heads of Ash, you may have heard of us. This is but a sample. If only you allow me to return to Ash, I would return with more to bargain. I can buy back this Merck fool and the elephant you acquired for a fair price if you could provide the service.”
Of course, Gizzal had no plans to buy back anything from the raiders. The moment he passed the city walls the guards would recognize him immediately, and rescue him if need be. He'd be the laughingstock of the others, but then again he already was.
The bearded raider chuckled, caressing the gemstone as he pondered Gizzal’s words. After a moment of thought, he slapped Gizzal’s cheek. Gizzal shrieked at the slight. The other two raiders laughed uproariously.
Gizzal held his bruised cheek. “Dirt scum! All of you!”
“I wish I had your nerve,” Isbibarra murmured, leaning on his wooden cane. “To promise raiders gemstones you do not have. Good thing that he only understood two words.”
As Gizzal steadied his balance, the bearded raider and the old raider grabbed his arms and held them behind his back. The two ripped off his tunic and undergarments, pushing Gizzal as he struggled feebly.
“I was out of line, men. Please hear me out! I can do many things when connected with the right people. If only you can listen to reason!”
As the raiders removed Gizzal’s clothing, he began to shiver. The coolness of the tent turned cold, and he held his arms together over his chest. His protests did little to stop his disrobing. Gizzal was terrified. He knew little of raider custom and what their plan was for him. He had never felt so vulnerable in his life. Suddenly he was standing completely naked, his pouchy gut doing little to hide his shriveled cock from plain view. He was rarely without his robes in the day, so his pale and puffy body stood out from his tanned hands and feet. He had been this naked in brothels before, but never had he felt as cold as he did at this moment.
The young raider boy rose from his chair, dragging his heavy bronze shield across the rug. He raised his other hand holding the repeating bow and placed it on Gizzal’s left thigh. “Aslavgagt?” The young boy turned to the other two raiders. “Noon, portta. Uvgost elpvagan!” He thrust his head back in laughter as he lowered his repeating bow.
Gizzal understood little, though it seemed as if the raiders were mocking his weight. If he was too fat to be a slave, he wasn’t going to complain. He dared not think about what that meant for him otherwise.
The young raider then turned his attention to Isbibarra. The blind man had been silent for most of the encounter, now having regained his breath. Like Gizzal, Isbibarra now stood without a tunic, but it had clung to his belt and fell between his legs. Compared to the Head, he could not have looked more different. He was short and hunched but exceptionally muscular, with his uniformly gray skin adhering tightly to his bulk. His body looked several decades younger than his etched face made him seem. He lightly tapped his cane again as the young raider examined him with his repeating bow.
“Aslavgagt?” The boy paused. “Mmm, das.”
“Strong,” The bearded raider agreed. He smiled, showing at least three more teeth than what the older raider outside possessed.
“Do not fear, Gizzal,” Isbibarra whispered. “No raider is interested in ‘alslavgagt’ with as small a cock as yours.”
Gizzal was overcome with rage. “FUCK YOU MERCK BASTARD!” His outburst was unexpected. All of the raiders turned their heads back to the fat man, ready to beat him back into his place.
They would not have a chance.