The March

“You should leave him.”

It was the young man ahead of Peter. He was a little older, a little taller, with black hair, a thick brow, and a mean expression. He had been a bully in Eldorn. He was used to getting his way. He had a small gang of friends who supported him, but none of them were around any longer. They abandoned him when the Iron Wolves were rounding up captives. He had mouthed off to the wrong Iron Wolf and ended up a prisoner. A commodity to be sold. Peter wanted to see it as a kind of justice, but nobody deserved what they were enduring.

He had tried rallying the wagon, but the guards beat him. When the rescue happened he had tried to push his way to the front to escape, but the woman Brota had tripped him and sent him to the floor. Peter thought it funny, poetic even, at the time. But that was when they all thought the nightmare was over. That rescue had come. It had, but the Rota Sukans recovered, cut the rescue short, and continued on their way. Their relief was short lived and now no more than a dream.

His name was Turian. He had an impossibly low, gravelly voice. His quick, acerbic wit ran circles around most people in Eldorn. His father was a herder that often traveled to Hemnor to sell his wares. It had been a point of contention that he always brought Turian books to read, even as he grew into a man. Someone had dared to remark upon it and Turian exploded. It was never mentioned, even in jest, again. Peter wondered what the big deal was. He was not book read himself, but he always admired Turian’s quick wit. However, Turian was defensive and embarrassed by it, and preferred to display his rugged attributes to impress the ladies and his friends alike.

“Maybe that’s what you would do Turian, but no.” Peter carried Ramon now.

Ramon had doubled over on the second day of the journey. They were feeding them heartily now, but Ramon could barely keep food down. He needed time to recover. He barely weighed anything. He felt lighter than a sack of grain or bale of hay and Peter had hauled plenty of those. Ramon himself had commented that Peter should forget him, but Peter ignored him. He shushed him, and then hefted him onto his back. He wasn’t going to leave anyone if he could help it.

The Rota Sukans that passed seemed critical, but after some conversation that Peter could see, but not hear, they did not interfere. Others had fallen already. They had been removed, run through, and discarded like garbage. More death. It would probably be nothing compared to his future, but it seemed so wasteful. The long caravan of people slowly dwindled because of hardship and neglect. The Rota Sukans laughed and made comments in their own tongue. Peter had started to determine a few words. Crasak was the word for prisoner. They used it a lot. He needed to learn their language.

The landscape of Jallaspar was rocky, rolling hills with few forests. The temperature was warm, wet, but ultimately pleasant. There were towns, but they were more like ramshackle collections of dwellings with vacant, dull children and narrow eyed, suspicious adults. There were animals, but most of them were domesticated. Herds of cattle or sheep swarmed the hills. There were probably more herd animals than people and they were probably smarter too.

None of them challenged the march. Peter didn’t blame them. The Rota Sukans were giant and well armed. They had firearms as well as swords and they could use both with wicked efficiency. Peter assumed a local lord had been paid off when a contingent of horsemen watched them from a hill. They didn’t approach, but they followed the rest of the way out of Jallaspar. They were silhouettes on the fading horizon as the day turned into night. Sometime tomorrow they would reach the border of Rota Suka.

Peter’s muscles burned. The march had been swift and non-stop. Ramon had proved light at first, but now he felt like a ton of bricks. Peter set him down carefully. Ramon’s breathing was shallow and crackled with phlegm, but there had been mild improvements. His skin was less grey, and he was keeping little bit of food down. He would awaken for short spurts, but mostly slept. He was still too weak to walk much, but when he awoke he would playfully chide Peter for his efforts and demand to walk as far as he could, which wasn’t far at all, but it was becoming longer and longer.

“A little longer. You just need to hold on a little longer.” Peter whispered while he trudged ahead. Ramon was unconscious. Dead weight over his shoulders. Peter wondered to himself whether he was speaking to Ramon or himself.

“Or, you can leave him here.” Turian suggested again.

“We’ve already had this discussion.” Peter gave Turian an annoyed look when they settled down for the night. Why was he choosing this fire? There were others. Even others with people he knew. Peter had picked the furthest fire, away from everyone else, for a reason. He wanted to be alone. It wasn’t actual freedom, but this was his last night outside of Rota Suka. The last night hoping for a miracle that wouldn’t come. The rescue had only partially work. The people of Worm just observed, the people of Jallaspar could do nothing. As for whoever that was on the hill. The Rota Sukans had likely offered some concession for unchallenged passage.

“What Rota Sukan will buy him?” Turian seemed to be approaching everything realistically. Perhaps he had already resigned himself to his new existence. “He’s a liability. Better to keep yourself strong. You’ll make a fine laborer, or maybe be in one of there arenas. The old man is just a waste.”

Peter sighed and closed his eyes. “First, that “old man” was an elder in Eldorn. He has seen more than you, I, and all your friends combined. You know his name, and I’m not giving up on him.” Peter set his jaw and spoke with conviction enough to silence Turian. He jerk his head when another voice startled him.

“Commendable.” The voice came from behind him. It was deep, booming, and heavily accented.