On the road.

The attempt had been noble. A few people had even been rescued, but the rest of them were on our way to lives of bondage. Some would become concubines, others would be servants, and a few would be sacrificed to the arenas. None of them would see freedom again. There were rumors of freed slaves from Rota Suka. Those who had been given, purchased, or otherwise earned their freedom, but they were just tales. Stories that made people feel better. Give hope when it was lost.

The Rota Sukans loved their arenas. They were the source of the majority of their entertainment, and their barbarity. That was their reputation everywhere else that wasn’t Rota Suka. The arenas were the source of their plays, their public speaking, and of course, their fights. The structures served many purposes. They were the cultural centers of Rota Sukan cities unlike civilized places like Hemnor. They were said to be elaborate affairs that could be changed to fit whatever need. The could hold vicious monsters, vicious men, and vicious words,

Peter wondered where he would fall. A servant was acceptable. Not that he had a choice, but it was at least survivable. He was used to long hours of toil, and he always obeyed his father, that was, until he became a guard for Shalemourne. That had been his gamble. His ticket away from a life of farming. A chance to make something of himself and maybe see the world. He could have escorted caravans or guarded Shalemourne on important diplomatic missions. Instead, he was in a prison wagon headed for a life of servitude. A farmer could have kept his head down, been smaller, but his aspirations of relevance put a target on his back.

The wagon was much roomier now that half its occupants had escaped. He was happy for them. Genuinely happy. They were neighbors and friends. They would be free to go back to their old lives and live peacefully and happily. He felt no bitterness. His father would worry about him. He might even see it as a kind of justice, but he’d never say it, and he would feel guilty about finding a smidgen of pride in seen his only son captured. A chance to say “I told you so.”

It was not out of maliciousness. His father loved him. Held on a little too tight even. It would be more about his own ego. His own love of farming and his pride in a strong farm that ran well and had provided for the family for generations. This would be torture for him. He would feel guilty for feeling a little bit of indignation, but more worry about his eldest son’s well being. He had probably hoped again when he had heard there would be a rescue attempt. When he didn’t return with the escapees his father would have to start grieving all over again.

Still, Peter hoped he would focus on this siblings. They needed him now. They should consider him dead. He was as good as gone. There was no hope of rescue. No chance of turning back time and telling his father that he was probably right. That becoming a guard and trying to escape the farm was aiming too high. He would be reclining after a hard day of farm work right now. His siblings around him. His sister doing chores their mother had tended to. The young twins chasing each other around the porch.

The wagon jostled over some bumps. They were probably rocks, or uneven gullies cut by flows of water. The village wild man had said that’s how lakes and rivers were formed, but everyone knew they were cut by a great war with dragons and giants. Still, he liked to listen to the wild man. He was filled with stories, wisdom, and knowledge. And he had a large cat that he called Naheera. She could speak, but Peter kept his distance. She was huge, and he had encountered wild cats before. This once could have taken him down in one swipe even if it seemed docile and uninterested. It would have like balked at being caged.

For a cage, it was nice. It had been well constructed much to his chagrin. There was no flaw to exploit. No loose bar. They were thick, iron, and fastened in place by massive metal nails. No uneven floorboard. The wood was something he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t oak or pine. It was reddish in color, and the boards were fit together snugly making a fancy, impenetrable jail. It seemed too extravagant for just a prison cart, and certainly not for a bunch of savages.

The Rota Sukans were large, hulking, people. At least these were. His captors were the first Rota Sukan he had ever seen. He had heard stories. Brutish savages that looked comically stupid and brandish wicked implements in the images he had seen.But these were nothing like that. Sure, they had taken him as a prisoner, and slavery of any sort was vile, but they hadn’t acted like vile brutes otherwise.

The were tall, broad, and wore elaborate clothes that were expertly woven. Peter had dismissed them as savages and their clothing was probably woven by foreign servants they had taken. Everything he had heard about the Rota Sukans had been disparaging. They were brutal, stupid, and they ate people. They hadn’t eaten anyone in the cage, but Peter figured they were cargo destined for someone else to eat. Some Rota Sukan noble probably paid a pretty penny to gobble down authentic Ambracharan peasantry.

Still, they sang songs while they traveled. Played games, laughed, talked amongst themselves. There were none of the expected brutish mannerisms. When their leader addressed them he did so with poise. Peter couldn’t understand him, but he expected more spit. More violence. More animalistic tendencies. But, they were just people. Sure, they were soldiers who had captured him and his fellows, but that was hardly rare.

“So, you want some?” Old man Ramon asked as he nearly shoved the bowl in Peter’s face. He was the only elderly prisoner. The Iron Wolves had collected people they thought were a threat. Well, they had taken anyone rounded up by the Iron Wolves, and it was the Iron Wolves that targeted anyone trained, even a little, with weapons, and mouthy dissidents. Ramon was the smartest man in town and he absolutely fell into the mouth dissident category. He was a recluse, but he was always kind to the kids and he was friends with the priest that lived at the shrine. The two of them would spend late nights listening to the shaman’s exploits. Ramon attempting to relive his youth, Peter dreaming of an exciting future.

When the Iron Wolves came he was the first to speak out, and that made him their first target.

“I’m good thanks.” He didn’t feel like eating. He felt angry, sad, self-pitying, scared, anything but hungry.

The gruel wasn’t appetizing anyway. It wasn’t just mashed grain. It was a slurry that could have been a stew if there had been more care. There were chunks of meat, spices. It was savory and flavorful and not terrible, not that he would ever admit it.

“Peter, you have to keep up your strength.” Ramon forced the bowl toward him. He had a worried expression on his face, but he seemed otherwise undeterred.

“For what? They’re not going to try a rescue again.” There was more bitterness than he really meant. The attempt was dangerous, and noble, and he was happy for anyone who had escaped this fate. There was an element of defeatism though. A sullen ache that encouraged him to just give up and accept fate for what it was. Youth was louder, and he imagined escaping, or better yet, freeing everyone from their captors and returning home a lauded hero.

“No, that’s true.” Ramon backed off. Was he showing defeat? Was his age catching up to him. Most elderly in the village were mellow. They enjoyed there golden years in serenity and peace, but Ramon and a few others never seemed to get the missive that they had aged. They acted like they were still young, still spry, still capable of causing trouble. Why his cohorts weren’t here was a mystery, but it was only Ramon amongst a slew of people a third his age.

The old man rebounded from his fugue quickly. “You have to keep your strength for what’s ahead. Who knows what you will have to endure.”

“Hopefully not the life of some Rota Sukan noble’s concubine. I’d rather be eaten.” Peter didn’t like that he was pouting, but the idea of becoming some noble’s toy sent chills down his spine. He was fine fighting dangerous animals, or wicked men, but being the plaything of some noble seemed like a much worse fate.

“That’s horribly short sighted. Even a concubine can create opportunity. A dead man creates nothing, well, nothing but fertilizer.” Ramon smiled at his own cleverness. He was never cowed into submission. He saw an opportunity in every hardship. There was a part of Peter than envied him, but a bigger part thought he was being foolish. He was right about concubines, but being a Rota Sukan sex slave didn’t sound appealing at all, and if he did overcome his master he would end up dead anyway.

“Eat.” The old man insisted. He shoved the bowl into Peter’s hands and then skulked off.

Ramon could have escaped, but he insisted on being last out of the cart. Of course, the attempt was cut short and the rescuers fled before they could all be free. Peter watched them go. Ramon could be sitting in a rocking chair complaining from the safety of Eldorn right now had he not been so noble, but here he was. He had seen sixty winters. He had seen droughts, feuds, disease, there was little the old man hadn’t experienced. He had even left Hemnor for a stint with the royal army and had seen conflict. He would regale the children with tales until their parents whisked them away for bed. He was the source of every fiction and fantasy that Peter had ever dreamed.

Peter grabbed the wooden spoon and shoveled a bite of the gruel into his mouth.