《Hell's Caravan》


 Prologue | A Spark

    In a land beyond that of mortal comprehension, this story begins...


    Beneath a scorching sun marched a convoy of tens of thousands of men, women, and children, trudging to the tune of cracking whips,as they pass through a sweltering desert. They were locked in shackles and trapped in chains, they were all broken in some way, whether it be the mightiest of warriors or the meekest of babes, they all possessed the same looks in their eyes.Despair.Fear.As they dragged their feet through the fiery red sand that blankets the landscape, they were akin to broken dolls, worn out by years of neglect and misuse. Thousands upon thousands of broken dolls¡­ perhaps they were once happy, perhaps they used to laugh and cry. Now, however, within their hearts existed only despair and fear.


    Indeed, they did not even appear to possess hate for the very creatures who had broken them into this pitiful state. These are the beasts who ripped them from their homes and placed them in a state of eternal servitude. Yet, not even the cracking of their leather whips upon their already beaten backs is sufficient to produce hate. Truly, they felt nothing. These broken beings had become so accustomed to their fate that even the smallest girl doesn¡¯t let out a yelp when she is met by the lashes of her slave master.


    For all, this was the only life they could remember. Perhaps they had one beforehand, but it was lost to the sand that now underscored their journey. Knowing no life other than this, entertaining the thought of escape was an impossibility. Moreover, they had all experienced first-hand the cruelty of their captors.


    A scene from a few days prior was still fresh in their minds, where a young boy tripped and fell in front of one of the slave masters and one of his many concubines. The slave master claimed that the boy was disrespecting him and that the only penalty for such disrespect was torture. To him, and his fellow slave masters, the life of a single slave was worth almost nothing¡­ maybe a few copper coins at best.


    Thus, he went up to the young boy and thrust his sword into his chest by the backbone and severed all the boy¡¯s ribs down to his loins. Then he pulled the boy¡¯s lungs through the bloody hole he had made with his blade, creating what he affectionately called a ¡®blood eagle¡¯. The boy¡¯s bloody and curdled screams coupled with the scene of his mangled body and the maniacal laughing face of the master seemed to give the captives a fleeting reminder of an important emotion, fear. This fear bound them, restricted them, more so than any physical chains ever could.


    Within this captive group of manifested misery walked a girl, she could be no older than 16 and appeared neither unique nor impressive, simply another Brethonic slave, with her short blonde hair dirtied by the crimson sands. Indeed, she was an ordinary slave. Servitude was all she knew, and she was for all intents and purposes, an ideal slave. Polite, careful, and most importantly, utterly subservient.


    However, hidden deep within her eyes, beneath the despair and fear, there was an undetectable spark of hope. Its concealment has resulted in it being unknown to even herself, which was perhaps for the best, as a hopeful slave in this caravan was not long for this world. Usually, within the first few months of captivity and ¡®re-education¡¯, the idea of hope was beaten and broken away, leaving behind an empty shell of a person.


    The girl walked through the desert, the soles of her bare feet blistering and peeling against the hot sand, in the same way as her fellow captives. Yet, suddenly, the crack of a slave master¡¯s whip came down onto her back like a sabre, but she did not scream nor yelp. She knew she couldn''t afford to. The whip came down again... and again¡­ and again, soon her back had received thirty lashes. Despite the pain, the girl mustered the strength to wonder why she was receiving so many lashes, usually, it is only one or two before the slave master moves on to the next unfortunate victim; but, she doesn¡¯t dare let that thought crawl onto her face. She would never know, yet the most likely answer is that theslave masterfelt like it.It is now that she started to discover herself, discovers that previously hidden spark of hope; the hope of rebellion, of freedom. Yet, she didn''t let any emotions betray her expressionless fa?ade. She knew that any hint of emotion would result in her receiving the same punishment as the unfortunate boy.


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    Thirty-one¡­ thirty-two¡­ thirty-three¡­ by the seventieth lash, the girl stopped counting. Her mind wouldn''t let her concentrate on anything else but enduring the pain. If her mind wasn¡¯t dedicated solely to withstanding the brutal onslaught of leather on skin, she would have noticed that she had become the centre of attention for the surrounding slaves and masters. In fact, some masters had even temporarily halted their march so as to stay, watch and enjoy the spectacle.


    Soon, the girl could handle no more as she dropped to her knees and grabbed the torn and mangled skin and bone that had once composed her back. Her blood covered her hands and stained the rags that had been her clothes for as long as she could remember. Her surroundings had been transformed into a splattering of red blood and sand. Her face had grown pale. It was clear that she was only an inch away from death, with her very existence quivering before the gates of Hell.


    As the girl tried with all her dwindling strength to not close her eyes for what would likely be the final time, she heard a vicious laugh followed by a dreaded voiced¡¯, ¡°HAHAHA. Well done, most of you Brethonii can¡¯t even handle fifty lashes of my whip, let alone ninety-seven! Well done, well done! Now, girl, I¡¯ve been watching you for a while now¡­ and you seem to be very¡­ obedient.¡± The daunting slave master stepped her body, the clattering his ostentatious weaponry ringing in her blood-filled ears. He pressed his fingers down into her disfigured back, ¡°Very good! You¡¯re not dead yet, excellent.¡± With a sinister grin he callled out to nobody in particular, ¡°Somebody fix up this little Brethonicwhore. I¡¯ve decided to make her my personal ¡®aide¡¯, so make sure she lives... or else."


    Following this, he bent down to her further, placing his face mere centimetres from her own, and whispered something inaudible to those spectating. To this, the girl, weak and close to death, extended her arm towards the body of the slave master; the slave master did not react, perhaps this was what his whisper demanded. Then, in a flash, the girl adjusted the trajectory of her hand, angling up and grabbing a dagger from his belt. Instantly, the girl buried the dagger deep within the slave master''s neck. She drew it out, then back in; this time, a few centrimetres to the right. Within mere seconds, she had inflicted a dozen deep wounds on the master''s neck and face. Whatever despair and fear that used to exist within the girl had been sidelined. In their place, she now carried a multitude of emotions. Rage. Anger. Hope.As for the slave master, his face had been crafted by the girl''s blade into a mangled mess, oozing with blood. His screams brought those spectating to attention, but it was too late for him. His face had been thoroughly mutilated and his death delivered.


    For the girl, there was no happy ending. After the act, she lunged at the other masters; alas, she was too weak, and she no longer possessed the element of surprise. She was quickly beaten unconscious. As punishment, she was flayed alive before a crowd of slaves and slave masters. However, this death was merely temporal. Her actions - her defiance of the existing order - made her immortal to those who succeeded her; that is, to those who carried that same spark. Indeed, to those of the caravan, she had inspired that hope through her defiance of despair and fear. Moreover, she had demonstrated mortality and fragility. Her actions sparked something; now, a rebellion was brewing, and a new age beckoned.

 Chapter 1 | Silhouttes

    Two years have passed since her death. I''ll never forget the day I merely stood by and watched as they decoupled her skin from her muscle. I''ll never forget it for one simple reason: she was the most important thing I had in this world, and it took her death for me to recognise that fact. In a world where friendships are a rarity and family is unheard of, she had occupied my heart. For endless miles, we had walked next to each other as the caravan pushed further towards its destination. Sometimes, it felt like it was just her, me, and the vast expanse of the world. No slavers and slaves, no iron cages nor shackles.


    We had seldom spoken, yet to me, our silence was enough. I''d catch glimpses of her eyes - they were deep blue - under her messy, blonde hair. In those moments, I felt, well, I''m not quite sure how I''d describe it. Put simply, it was indescribable. It produced in me a feeling that was different, different from anything my ordinary self could comprehend. But now, I''m beginning to understand what it meant. I am beginning to think there''s more to this life than what I had initially thought, thanks to her. That''s why, two years on, I loathe myself; I hate that I did nothing as they did that to her.


    I suspect I am not alone in these thoughts. I''ve noticed that others in the convoy have recently been behaving... differently, perhaps even secretively. I''m not sure what they''re up to and I intend to find out, sooner rather than later. In order to do so, I''ve identified one figure in particular - an Akros-Rahyan slave, likely no older than thirty - who appears to be key to it all.


    Tonight, I''m going to talk to him and see what he''s been up to.


    ---


    At night, in a certain location.


    Within the slave quarters existed thousands of small makeshift tents, and in one such inconspicuous tent, there sat eight individuals. If it wasn''t clear from their malnutrition, then only one look need be made at their shackles to show that these were slaves. One of them, a middle-aged woman with a shaved head, spoke in a hushed voice, "Where is One? He knows the importance of tonight, right?"This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    An elderly man with white hair, his wrinkles straining with every word, responded, "Six, don''t say foolish things. One understands the importance of this night more than anyone."


    The middle-aged woman known as Six nodded in tacit agreement, though the frustration evident on her face failed to subside.


    Tension and apprehension were present in the tent, and a silence followed.


    Not more than a minute passed when the flap of the lambskin tent opened, breaking the silence. As the flap opened, a swarthy man, neither young nor old, was revealed. He entered the tent and immediately sat down with the other eight.


    The entrant said with a smile, "Sorry I''m late, everyone. To make it up to you, I have brought good news." He paused, before continuing. "I know where to find the key. As you know, today I shadowed the slave masters, and as luck would have it, I saw where the slave masters put it. With this, we''re one step closer to breaking these shackles."


    Next to speak was a young woman, "Good job One. To think we''ve come this far in only two years. You know, I never thought we''d actually do it."


    "Two, with hope, anything is possible." One said. "But this is just the beginning of our journey, the real work is yet to begin. But remember, no matter how much progress we make, we can''t reveal ourselves. We must continue to the act of servitude until we''re sufficiently prepared."


    Another young woman, this one with long, black hair, nodded. "Indeed, our secrecy is both our biggest strength and our biggest weakness. So long as we endure a bit longer, we will be free. The only alternative is death."


    "As always, before we continue", One said, "We must give thanks to our savior, She, who broke us from this tranc-- wait!" One suddenly motioned for the others to be quiet. They all froze in place. Next, in lieu of talking, he mouthed, "I t-h-i-n-k s-o-m-e-o-n-e i-s o-u-t-s-i-d-e, t-h-e-y-r-e l-i-s-t-e-n-i-n-g."


    The largest of the nine, a burly man, took the initiative and moved towards the front of the tent. But he did not reach the front. Rather, the front was peeled back from the outside. A silhouette of a man was revealed, illuminated by a backdrop of torches. His facial features were not immediately recognisable to the nine, but they need not be. The clothing he wore was more than enough to identify him. He was a slave master.


    Before any of the nine could muster a word, the slave master spoke, "Worry not, I am not here to harm. On the contrary, I want in."