They left the broken corpses of my family for the birds to peck at.Ī bell rang, slicing through my memories and bringing a whole host of others to the fore. One held me by my hair and forced me to watch as they abused her until her terrified heart gave out. They’d taken my younger sister and hadn’t bothered waiting in turn, too greedy for their pound of female flesh. They’d killed my father, my mother, my elder brothers. All we knew was they were strangers, strangers in bright armour that shone and winked in the light of our two suns. They were moving west to join the lawless warriors of the barbarian Thirsk, Overlord of all the lands which lay beyond. The soldiers were rebel forces, I later learned, traitors to the King of Granthia to the east. We knew nothing of the wars that raged around us, the political intrigues and power struggles of the nations which bordered our uncharted home. We were nomads, a small tribe that claimed allegiance to no flag but roamed the wastes of the Samatari desert. Twelve summers had passed since my mother brought me forth, birthed me on the dirt floor of our simple tent. On the other side of those walls, the lots were undergoing their final preparations, primped and primed for sale.įifteen years earlier, I had been one of them, still a boy, little more than a child. My palms were slick, and I swiped a bead of moisture from my upper lip with my tongue. Everything had a mirage-like quality, or perhaps that was my own discomfort clouding my memories. An undercurrent of anticipation hummed in the air, making it shimmer. The cloying sweet scent of smoke wafted over me from the bubbling pipe that a small group shared, reclined on sumptuous fabrics, swaddled in mute light. My collar marked me clearly for what I was. The men talking in low voices forgot I was there once their initially curious assessment of me was over. It was a default gesture, ingrained through years of habit, and punishment if I failed to comply immediately to my master’s wishes. I stood silently in the farthest corner of the dark room when I was finally admitted, head bowed, hands clamped tightly behind my back, left wrist clasped in a death grip by my right fist, shoulders straight, stomach flat, unconsciously presenting.

The Slave by Kate Aaron