The Gift of Shadows couldn't linger for long in Vethril's mind and limbs before it returned to its rightful mistress. Such a strange and unpleasant sensation, to have one's every sense taken away. He'd felt as if he was afloat almost, if it weren't for the consequences of losing his vitality, lying prone and helpless, he might've enjoyed the feeling of weightlessness. As it was, he felt nothing but pain as he came to, chained to the oars on that southern slave galley. The oar pummeled his stomach if he so much as failed to at least attempt to move in rhythm with it. The drums beat a rhtyhm for the rowing of oars in time with the Naer's urgency, to get to Sarraski before they were set upon by any Yari pirates, or worse, Ivorian patrols.
Vethril had never heard of Sarraski until he set foot on this boat, only heard of it through whispers of the other oarsmen, all of them appearing withered, frail. Withered by the deprivation of hope, the tyranny of dread. They made their motions by memory, the weaker ones manning the less vital oars, while fresh flesh such as Vethrils were set to the large oars, that were the size of tree trunks.
The galley they rode upon seemed to have several decks, each of them stacked one over the other, with armies of oarsmen pushing it forward against the wind, with the wind, whatever was required by the rhtyhm of those damned drums.
Trials later, they began slowing the pace. Vethril was given a respite, while the weakened slaves manned the light oars to slowly bring the vessel into harbor. They were whipped harshly by their mistresses, some of them Naer, others Biqaj or a variety of other races. All of them women, however, as the Naer did not accept men into their society, naturally. The withered ones were killed by the cruelty of those scourges and knotted cat tails. These were slid unceremoniously through the window frames. Others were brought under decks, perhaps to be turned into some slurry for the sharks. There were even rumors that the Naer were eating them one by one, feasting upon their flesh. The Naer, seeing a use in these dreadful rumors did nothing to dissuade the belief in or proliferation of them. Vethril was given cause to wonder what was worse, that the Naer might be cannibals, or that they didn't mind, even wished for their subjects to believe they were? Such shameless creatures. Powerful, dark, and strong. Vethril might've admired them in another time, another situation. But here, they were the monster keeping him in a cage until he was nice and fat, ready to harvest.
As they drifted into port, a loud voice in Grovokian sounded out. Then chatter proceeded in common. Vethril knew not a lick of common, and so had only to guess what they were saying. Perhaps his fate would be short and mercifully so, if he couldn't understand any of his mistress' commands.
He didn't imagine that he might've been chosen specifically for his race. Naer hated, even feared to keep Aukari slaves, so it was known. He'd soon learn that this was not a barrier to entry, for the particular mistress that claimed him.
As far as he could understand, many of the slaves taken off the galley when it made berth in Sarraski were hand-picked for a variety of traits. Many were spoken to with an upward inflection, suggesting a question. He surmised that their skills and aptitudes were being assessed. He felt more confident then that he'd be left to the galleys. A confidence that eroded immediately when he was taken off of his station, then led by the collar out onto the main deck of the ship, off the gang plank, and then chained with the rest of the hand-selected male chattel.
He avoided the gaze of the females, although they watched him carefully. Why had they chosen him of all the men down there? He'd shown them nothing, demonstrated nothing. He was ignorant of their language, they wouldn't be able to command him. Why...
Then he saw them bearing the treasures of plunder from his own ship. The Sharp Spear among the trophies collected, still slick with the dark ichor that was the Naer's lifesblood. They were choosing him for his combat prowess? His strength? He wanted to scoff at that. What use did they have? He wondered idly if the Naer made it a habit of choosing men for their combative abilities.
Not that Vethril was any great warrior. The useless naer that had charged him was a gnat, and badly judged the timing of his thrust before he ran her through. But, he supposed, if it got him off the galley, his fortunes might improve in their underground city. He didn't hold out hope, however.
They were led in a long procession through Sarraski, ogled and abused as they went by residents and tourists alike. Rotten vegetation was thrown at them, sand, sometimes a rock. The usual sport a decadent people made of their conquered foes. Cruelty fed the spirit of the Naer, or so it seemed, and those within their orbit succumbed to the darkness, as he saw biqaj engaging in the cruel acts as well.
Within the break, he was led through the stallagtites and stone passages, damp with tidal waters still, although they were low enough now. Soon enough, he found himself before the Beldistorio. The great mouth of Garaia itself, leading into the dark city of Augiery, so widely whispered by those guards who flanked the passages.
He was released from the gang he'd been chained to, and led off toward his own path, apart from the others. Perhaps they'd put him out of his misery now. But no, there was a walk to go before he found release from life. He soon enough found himself emerging into a wide open expanse, which was lit by a peculiar lighted pillar in the center of a carved city of stone. Windows and door frames were lit, remarkably, but the shadow women went about their business, some in their true forms, others in their iillusions that they so enjoyed.
What trickery? Didn't Naer succumb to the light? What manner of sorcery could it be, that allowed the light from that central pillar to spare them of its scathing rays?
However, he soon had more pressing concerns, as he was tossed before the looming figure of one of the Naer matrons. She barked some commands to the guards who'd brougth him, and they departed. Leaving just him, and a few other slaves that had been gathered in a line, kneeling before her.
For a moment, he almost didn't notice it. But then he saw, she had the Sharp Spear in her hands. And there was something else about her... He saw a swell in her belly. She was advanced in pregnancy. A parasitic worm of a naer growing inside of the monstrous creature. Vethril snarled in defiance at her, as she tried her speech with him.
When he didn't respond, she spoke again, in a different tongue. She repeated the process twice, before he heard one that he recognized, albeit only vaguely. It was Vauni, the language of his people. "You will for me." She said, unhelpfully. He looked up at her, recognition dawning in his eyes enough to light a pleased expression on her face.
"You will for me." She repeated, in broken Vauni, her accent thick and hard enough to distinguish. The lack of context and grammar made her statement useless however, without more clues.
Then she snapped her fingers, and two of the slaves at the end of the line stood up at attention. She inspected them for a moment, checking their eyes, teeth, skin and the texture of their hair. As one would inspect live stock.
She came to him, eventually, and lifted his chin with her clawed hand. She stared into his eyes, her own dark with undisguised, untrammeled malice and authority. Then she pointed with the Sharp Spear, toward the slaves that had stood up. She spoke again, in another language. The other slaves, looking at each other, gave each other strange looks, but seemed to comply, stepping back from the line.
She spoke then in Vauni, whispering to Vethril. "Aukari, mine." She murmured, "Kill them."
This said, she did the unthinkable. The pregnant matron gave him his Sharp Spear, holding it out to him. Was this a trick?
He stared for a moment, before her eyes lit up in anger, and she pressed it into his hands.
In the heat of the moment, he wanted to turn it on her, impale her and the parasitic blight growing in her belly both. However, something stayed his hand. Was it caution? Was it some form of control they compelled upon the slaves they'd captured, some kind of sorcery? Whatever it was, he came to the conclusion on his own that should he turn the weapon on her, he would soon find himself deprived of his own life. There would be no escape then, and no hope.
Thus, he approached the slaves at the end of the line.
"Show me." The matron said, "What do."
He looked to her ,and then nodded. He stabbed the first slave in the knee, slicing with the draw as he withdrew the spear, and severing the muscle there. He didn't waste time, but continued to move his way up the body, working his way through the solar plexus, showing her where he'd impaled the naer on that ship. In his mind's eye, he still saw the dark harlot's eyes go wide as he drove it through her, and savored that memory, imagining every thrust from then on would be dedicated to the memory of that proud kill. He withdrew the spear from the slave's abdomen, and with a swift turn, he slashed across his throat, letting his life's blood fall out onto the slick, onyx floor.
"Again." She said. He turned around, and his eyes glimmered with the familiar malice he bore toward the Naer, turning it on his fellow slave.
