Kemet of Tyr X
“Wake up Tyrian!” whispered someone to his ear while shaking his sweaty shoulder. The youth blinked his eyes, “I... I'm up...” he yawned, his gaze focused on the lanky female half-elf before him, drops of sweat rolled through her chest towards her stomach. “Fyala... you are bleeding,” stammered Kemet forcing his eyes open, his blue orbs watched her flat belly in the faint light coming down the barred pit opening. A few of the stab wounds had thin rivers of dried blood that reached the woman's stained breechcloth.
Fyala looked at her body and then to the Tyrian's blue eyes, “it must have happened when I slept, but they are not bleeding anymore,” she whispered as her fingers carefully ran through the seemingly closed the wounds. Kemet rose and quickly undid the dirty bandage on his bitten leg, the half-elf's brow frowned, “What are you doing?” The youth ignored her and put his arms around her waist, the thief was about to protest until she saw Kemet bandaging her torso. “That should help until your wounds heal,” he added after tying the stained rag. When Fyala was about to reply they heard someone approaching.
“Aww look at the young lover,” mustered Barla with disgust as she stepped close to them. The Tyrian turned to meet the broad woman with a cocky smile, “Don't be jealous Barla, it’s not my fault that nobody wanted to clean your ugly bleeding nose when the mindbender almost fried your head,” spat Kemet with contempt. The woman's wide nostrils opened and closed as she breathed angrily), “That does it snake-boy,” but before Barla could fully raise her calloused knuckles, the barred door of the pit opened. In came the blinding light of the morning sun; most slaves narrowed their eyes and covered their visage with their dirty hands.
“You are lucky,” whispered Fyala behind the young man. Kemet sneered lightly.
“Out!” came the scream from a brawny human with a spiked skullcap, “Now!” Fyala's legs trembled after hearing Malander's booming orders. Two thick ropes of giant hair were tossed and the slaves used them to climb out of the stinking gutter.
Hot burning sand blistered their hands, knees and feet as they pulled themselves to the top, the score of slaves was received by a row of guards aiming crossbows with obsidian tipped bolts and bone polearms. Only the captain of the guards stood gazing at them through the slits of his fang-spiked skullcap. Fyala rested in the back, she could feel her tormentors' gaze studying her.
Three armed guards approached the slaves and tossed several leather manacles, the men had studded leather vests and bone shortswords in their scabbards. “Put the manacles in pairs, and don't try anything,” ordered the grim captain as the prisoners began to grab the bounding devices. Kemet lifted one slowly and started to bind Fyala's slender wrists, his eyes darted around the camp looking for Staros, there was no sign of the Balican fighter, but the reinforced walls with thick bone ribs told him that they were still inside Farrek's Arena.
“We should make a run for it... how is your leg?” whispered the half-elf as she set the thick leather armbands in one the Tyrian's wrists. “We...,” replied Kemet with an intrigued expression, but before he could say anything else a whip cracked the Tyrian's back, followed by his painful scream.
“Stop talking!” screamed the overseer. Kemet turned defiantly to face the man, he had wanted to see him since the first time he whipped his back. A second and third lash struck him in his bitten leg. The whip left two red lines near where the jozhal had bit him. “You want some more slave!” slurred the voice of a man hidden behind a heavy hemp cowl, a tiara of fangs was stitched around his forehead supporting a leather mask. The mask itself had three holes, two for his red-injected-eyes and one for his crooked mouth. The overseer's broad-round frame was protected by a leather harness embedded with jagged bone studs. Thick worker gloves guarded his hands and forearms and a long sand-colored skirt covered his legs.
The overseer raised his whip one more time, but Malander stopped him after placing a hand on his shoulder. “I'll handle this,” added the grim captain as he walked towards the young Tyrian. Kemet did not move and met the brawny man. “Another defiant one,” mustered Malander while drawing an iron shortsword. The youth watched in awe the gleaming weapon, it was the first time he had seen a metal blade so close to him. “This will serve as an example for those fools that think that they can cause me and my men any trouble,” finished the captain as he opened Kemet's bite wound with a quick slash, the young man screamed and fell to the scorching sand while grabbing his leg. Fyala did not move, she could see Malander's jealous stare fixed on her. A searing pain spread through the cut as his blood poured faster than ever, the Tyrian's hands desperately tried to stop the crimson flow with some pressure. The captain raised Kemet's chin with the tip of his blade. “Now you die Tyrian,” added the brawny man as he prepared to plunge his sword into the youth's throat. Kemet met his stare with a mix of fear and arrogance.
A searing wind blowed the sand around Kemet and the captain of the guards, the youth's hands let go of the deep cut on his leg. Blood ran freely towards the burning sand, the Tyrian's eyes were fixed on the captain's face, who now had a faint smirk.
“Stop it Malander!” screamed Grelen as he approached the bloody mess his captain had created. “Are you mad, you know what that gangling youth is for!” he said while poking his sausage-like finger at the captain's chest. A bored expression appeared on Malander's face as he began to retreat, “take the boy to the healer,” he ordered to his guards. Suddenly his gaze fell on Barla, his sword hand aimed at the woman, “You! The broad wench, you carry him while my guards watch over you.” The bulky slave spit her rage to the sand and moved to grab Kemet. The youth's eyes were red with fury, pain and contained tears, “move it Tyrian or you want to be carried like a baby, I'm no wet-nurse,” chortled Barla with contempt.
Kemet grunted but managed to get up while eyeing the captain's metal blade dripping with his blood.
Barla hoisted the young Tyrian easily, carrying some of his weight while putting his arm over her neck. “I hate this,” muttered the broad woman under her stinky breath. The odd couple walked ahead of two guards, one carried a bone shortsword in its hand and the other, a sinister woman with a helmet, made with the head of a thri-kreen, walked a few steps behind them with a crossbow ready.
“Hold it!” commanded the dry voice of the sinister woman as the slaves approached the gigantic caravan wagon. Kemet's rage filled eyes fell to the transport's enclosed walls made with oiled leather. A fading symbol of a chained circle was painted in the vehicles facade. The Tyrian studied the thick giant hair that tensed the sturdy walls embedded with large rib-like bones.
“Dothar!” screamed the guard woman from beneath her sun-burnt thri-kreen helmet, which only revealed her meaty lips and angular chin. Soon a small head peered from a window in the upper floor of the caravan. “Grelen wants you to patch up this boy!” cried the female guard. The Tyrian saw the small head nod and the sinister woman left towards the rear of the wagon. “Watch them,” she ordered to the other guard and disappeared around a corner of the argosy.
Kemet eyed the distracted guard with the bone shortsword in his gloved hand, the youth followed the guard’s sight and saw a voluptuous woman in a transparent silver gown, her arm was locked with the chubby caravan master. Quickly he turned to Barla, if he wanted to escape he needed someone strong and the broad woman had bulky shoulders and stone like legs, there was a necklace of old tattoos around her collarbone that depicted several symbols, some were already fading. Kemet did not know what the marks meant, all he could tell about it is that Barla has been a slave for a long time.
“Do you really want to spend the rest of your days working from one master to another while hoping to escape some day?” whispered Kemet near the broad woman's ear as she supported his weight. Barla looked at him but remained quiet, for she too wanted freedom, yet she did not know what to do with it or how to get it. The Tyrian saw a puzzled expression appear on Barla's face, suddenly the pain in his leg increased and he began to pass out.
***
The wood creaked under Kemet's curated hide boots as he climbed the wooden stairs to his room. “Stupid man,” muttered the wizard under his breath, knowing in his mind that Urvas must die before he does. His steps felt heavier, the course of action that he had to take was a complicated one since Urvas had the support of some legionnaires. Killing him will surely divide the legionnaires, Kemet thought as he walked through the two partially abandoned rooms of the second floor. The weight of the decision did not come lightly for him, he had only executed two men in the five years of Chatka's existence.
He wondered what do the other legionnaires thought about their situation as his strip covered hand reached the door handle. Kemet paused for a moment. What would Eyla say about killing Urvas?, he left the thought hanging under the door's wooden frame. The half-naked legionnaire shifted in the bed as he walked towards it, Kemet noticed that she was still asleep. Quietly the bearded wizard set the erdlu’s candle next to the bed and grabbed a book without looking at the title, he needed a quick plan for Urvas was already carrying out his.
The Giant Siege of Balic, read the spellcaster's tired blue eyes, the text remembered him of his former master, Zomithias of Alorius, and soon he began reading the book.
“Ah Kemet you have arrived in good time,” replied the patrician with a crude common tongue. The lightly tanned nobleman had short dark-grey hair and lined aristocratic features, his chin was covered by a well braided beard. The medium height Balican was sitting next to a small lacquered wooden table with a broad book in his hands. The well-polished desk had the symbol of his noble family carved delicately in the center. The Tyrian slave could sniff the faint scent of old parchments and dust that persisted in the entire library, yet Kemet had grown fond of the smell of books. The old coot that trained him in the art called it, “the scent of wisdom.”
The middle-age patrician had a bone colored toga and the golden ring of his family rested proudly in his middle finger, his wrists were protected by wide crimson armlets proper of his station as head of the noble house. The brown-ash haired youth felt the weight of the wide leather collar around his neck that branded him as slave, a plain short sleeveless robe dressed his body and worn carru leather sandals covered his feet. “You called... master,” said Kemet still not used to referring to another man as master. “Yes, I have a need of your knowledge,” paused the patrician as he stood, “you know I bought you because you can read and write,” the last he said with surprise, “not many slaves alive can do both, but you Kemet, you can read and write and you are a smart Tyrian, I can see that, it's in your eyes,” finished the patrician while offering a heavy book to the young slave. “I just acquired this piece of history, our history,” said Zomithias arrogantly. “The Giant Siege of Balic, I have not read this tale since I was but a boy, sadly this one was written by a Tyrian, and since you are familiar with our language and the common tongue. You are the one to translate it for me.”
Slowly Kemet took the book, it had a thick leather frame neatly filled with pages of yellow parchments, “I shall do this for you master,” he finished while gazing around the library for a place to sit in one of the many desks of polished wood. “Yes, of course you can use the library to work on your task, there is royal kank blood ink and some agafari quills I think, as well as more than enough blank parchments, you know my family produces them for King Andropinis,” finished the noble petulantly as he pat the Tyrian in (on) the shoulder.
Little did Zomithias know that I would find hidden spells in his library, Kemet smiled under his grizzle beard for that was how he reclaimed his freedom a few years ago.
Once again the wizard read the tale of Barosus the savior of Balic, and how he defeated a score of giants that threatened the great city near the Sea of Silt. Kemet was immersed in the book for Barosus's victory over the beast-headed giants was not won with the strength of his arm. As the story progressed, the bearded Tyrian found the knowledge he needed to defeat Urvas in his own game, and rid Chatka of his evil presence once and for all.
Suddenly a soft hand caressed his thigh, Kemet smiled and set the book aside. Eyla was staring at him with loving eyes. “You can read Balican too?” asked the legionnaire getting closer to him. “I know some words,” replied Kemet briefly, he could feel the warm of her body. The strong woman got on top of him, “I see that the ointment worked just fine for you,” added the wizard with a roguish smile. “I bet you know the right words to get what you want...” finished the legionnaire while blowing off the candle.







