The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1) (5 page)

This should be a most
interesting lesson.
He had not even known the barbarians were at
war. It would be good to see how they judged their enemies, to see
if they had the stomach to do what was necessary. He looked about
for a gallows or a headsman, but none was in evidence. Perhaps they
had some taboo against public executions?

Long minutes passed as the
prisoners continued to file off the ship in chains. The crowd
continued to grow, and Ahmed’s discomfort grew along with it.
It was not rational, he knew, but to be surrounded by so many pale
barbarians troubled him. How could he tell if such men were friendly
or hostile? Perhaps a toothy grin meant intent to kill, among them.
He could barely tell one from another. They all looked alike, a sea
of similar, alien faces differing only in the bizarre variance in
hair color. How could a man have yellow or brown hair? It was
beastly, and having them near him made him feel unclean. He would
not say such a thing to Yazid when he told him of the lesson,
though. That would surely earn him a cuff to the head and a
pronouncement that men should be judged by their deeds. Still, he
could not help but think it.

His gut rumbled more warnings,
the sort a warrior learned to heed if he wanted to survive.
Something was not right, something other than the company of
barbarians. Ahmed went over things in his head, trying to isolate
the problem, as the man on the platform began to take prisoners from
the cage. One, a woman, wept pitifully, trying to cover her breasts
and crotch in shame, but the man would have none of it. He forced
her arms and legs apart and clamped the chains upon her to keep her
that way. A man chained beside her turned his head away and wept.

Why would an army surrender, if
it would not spare the women and children such treatment? It made no
sense. A man would fight to the death to stop such a thing. And what
sort of people would treat a conquered foe as such? The pale
barbarians were cruel, indeed. But perhaps the brown men were cruel,
too, and this was revenge? Ahmed had heard of barbarian tribes that
practiced cannibalism. Could that explain this?

His stomach twisted in knots as
he tried to fit the pieces together. He scanned the crowd again,
searching for something in their eyes, but it was of no use. It was
like trying to read the faces of dogs. The pale barbarians remained
inscrutable as they waited for the man on the platform, each wearing
the same ubiquitous, cryptic face.

No, Ahmed corrected himself.
There was one that did not confuse him, one near the back of the
crowd, hiding his eyes beneath a hood and his face beneath a mask of
brown hair, a large man, broad of shoulder and gut, though older,
perhaps forty or fifty. That one’s intentions were as clear as
any Xanthian’s might have been: he was here to do battle. His
eyes, a bizarre shade of green, blazed with purpose, and there was,
Ahmed could tell, a sword beneath his cloak.

Now that Ahmed had seen him, he
saw the other, too, a small, wiry barbarian with dirty yellow hair
standing beside the larger man. Like his companion, he was older,
but healthy enough. He, too, was here to do battle it seemed, though
perhaps of a different sort. His eyes spoke less of rage than of
pain and sorrow.

Ahmed nudged his horse forward,
moving toward them. The crowd parted before him, most barely
acknowledging his presence, though a few looked up at him with fear,
loathing, or perhaps both. It would be safer to stand at the
periphery if things turned violent, he thought. With any luck, he
could eavesdrop on the barbarians, and perhaps make sense of things.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”
the man on the podium cried. He indicated one of the chained
prisoners. “For our first sale today, I have a man of
approximately twenty years. He is healthy and strong. What am I
bid?”

The large barbarian shook his
head and spat on the ground. He glanced up at Ahmed as the horse
settled in behind them, but either didn’t realize or didn’t
care that Ahmed was listening. “That rat bastard. No mercy in
him. We should stick a sword in his gut and treat his people to the
same.”

The skinny barbarian shook his
head and sighed. “It wouldn’t make a difference, Marcus.
It’s so much bigger than the traders. It’s a political
problem. It will take a political solution.”

“Interdiction, that will
change things. Kill the traders. Hit the ships before they pull in.
They’ll blame pirates.”

“It’s not that
simple. It would take
years
of working with the powers that be.”

“My way would take
weeks.”

Ahmed could resist no longer.
He had to understand. “You,” he called to the yellow
haired barbarian. “I do not understand this. Tell me of the
war where you captured these brown men.”

The barbarian looked up at
Ahmed, shaking his head in amusement. “It is always war with
you Xanthians,” he chuckled. “And my name is Tyler. Not
‘you’.”

“Forgive me, I forget my
manners in my curiosity. I am Ahmed Justinius. I have come to Aviar
with my teacher to learn, but I am confused by much.”

“Xanthians would have
solved this slavery problem a lot sooner,” Marcus grumbled.
“And better.”

Ahmed’s eyebrow rose in
surprise. “You make slaves of your conquests, then? I am
surprised. I know little of barbarian ways. I thought it would be a
trial, until he began calling for bids.”

Marcus tried to stifle a laugh,
and mostly failed. Tyler, however, seemed to grow even sadder.
“There is no war.”

Ahmed’s stared at the
barbarians in confusion. “Then how are there prisoners?”

Marcus grew somber. “No
need for a war to take prisoners, boy. Not if you’re in the
business of trading slaves. You just need to find people who can’t
do anything about it.”

Ahmed answered with a grim nod,
understanding now. “How is it that this can even be done?”

Tyler pointed to the ship.
“They take them from Prima, or islands nearby. The slip up on
them in the night. Even if they didn’t, it’s steel
against stone and wood. It’s all too easy.”

Ahmed waved a hand in derision.
“I know well the arts of war, barbarian. I ask how this can be
done
to a man?”

“Aye. I cannot understand
such cruelty either.”

Ahmed rolled his eyes in
frustration. “Still, your uncivilized mind cannot grasp my
meaning.” He pointed at the brown man on the platform who was
even now the subject of much bidding. “What makes you certain
that he is a man, and not a beast to be subjugated as any other?”

Marcus continued laughing
silently as Tyler struggled for words. “Gods, Xanthian, are
you so arrogant that you cannot see they are men just like
yourself?”

Ahmed nodded and turned toward
the chained man, considering the point. “He looks like a man,
aye, but men are judged by their deeds, not their appearance.”
He turned back to Tyler. “A true man would die before allowing
himself to be a slave. These men live. I say they are not men at
all, but beasts.”

Tyler was growing angry now,
his eyes blazing. “A cruel and ignorant judgment made by a
cruel and ignorant young man!”

“Is it so?” Ahmed
gestured to Marcus. “Tell me, would you surrender to such men,
or fight to the death?”

Marcus grinned. “I would
fight. And I would die. But all men do.”

Ahmed turned back to Tyler,
beaming with triumph. “What say you now?”

Tyler glared up at Ahmed with
distaste. “I say that you have much gall to call
me
a barbarian.”

Ahmed waved Tyler’s
comment aside as if it were a gnat flying in his face. “I will
call you that again. Any man who will not fight and die if need be
for his freedom does not deserve it.”

“
All
men deserve freedom!”

“A lie! It is like saying
all men deserve food, even the ones who do no work. How will they
have it? If they will not take it for themselves, who will? If
someone else does, are they not still beholden to him? No man is
free unless he makes
himself
so!”

Marcus nodded in agreement as
Tyler glared back and forth at them. “It’s what I’ve
been telling you all along. It may need politicking
too
,
but politicking alone won’t do it. At some point, it comes to
steel. It always does with these sorts.” He cast a murderous
glare at the man on the platform. “They’ll spread that
woman in chains up there for the money, and not feel a thing while
she cries. You’d better believe they’ll stick a knife in
you if you get close to shutting them down. Trust me, there
will
be blood. It’s just a matter of whose it turns out to be.”

Tyler stared at the ground, his
shoulders sagging. “I swore I would never turn to violence
again after….”

The large barbarian put a hand
on the smaller man’s shoulder. “So did I. But we were
young. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years,
Tyler, it’s that there is time and place for everything. Men
like us, if we want to make a difference, we have to be prepared to
fight. And we’d better be prepared to work with some hard
men.”

Tyler nodded, clearly
miserable.

Ahmed scowled down at them. “I
think you are too soft-hearted. Why would you take up the cause for
men who will not fight for themselves?”

“Could be they didn’t
understand what would happen to them until it was too late,”
Marcus suggested. “Maybe if they had the chance to fight now,
they would.”

Ahmed raised an eyebrow,
considering. It was possible. “Give me your sword. We will see
who will fight.”

Marcus sighed and reached
beneath his cloak as Tyler turned a shocked stare toward him. “You
came armed? What the hell did you intend to do here?”

Marcus handed the blade to
Ahmed. “I don’t know. Something. I hadn’t got that
far yet. But I think he’ll do better at it than I would,
anyway.”

Ahmed nodded and gave his horse
a kick. The beast reared and gave a loud neigh, and Ahmed joined in
with his own battle cry. The barbarians immediately scattered,
screaming as he and his mount surged forward and leapt onto the
platform, barely missing the slaver.

Ahmed drew his own blade, and
tossed Marcus’s on the platform before the slaver. Below, the
crowd had stopped screaming and was watching in fascination.

“Pick it up, dog.”

The slaver looked back and
forth between the crowd and Ahmed, as if he expected salvation and
was frustrated that it was not forthcoming. “You get down from
here right now!” he cried as he backed away. “This is
against the law! I have rights!”

Ahmed dismounted, chuckling,
and kicked the blade toward the slaver. “I know
my
rights. I think you are very confused about yours.”

The slaver backed up again, and
stood at the edge of the platform. “This is
my
property! You’re trespassing. That’s against the law!”

Ahmed laughed out loud. “Ah,
I have heard of your law. I do not believe in your primitive
superstition. It has no power over me.”

Panicked, the slaver tried to
step back again, felt his foot contact nothing at all, and put it
back on the platform. “You’re crazy!”

“You’re the crazy
ones, barbarian.
Pick it
up
!”

“No!” The slaver
kicked the sword back toward Ahmed.

Ahmed glared at him for a
moment, then nodded. “Take off your clothes.”

“What--?”

Ahmed brought the tip of his
sword to the man’s throat. “Take off your clothes. All
of them. Don’t make me tell you again.”

The slaver stared at Ahmed in
shock for a moment longer, and then, in a sudden burst of energy,
began tearing off his clothes as if they were on fire. Some of the
crowd made catcalls. A bottle came sailing from the crowd, aimed
directly for Ahmed, but he ducked the missile.

“Will you take the
blade?” Ahmed called, pointing at the thrower. The man spun
and quickly vanished into the crowd without a word. “Coward!
Dog!” Ahmed cried after him, but his taunts were ignored. He
turned back to the slaver. “Against the bar.”

The slaver, now fully naked,
looked much like his slaves as he tried to cover himself. “Fine!
Just don’t kill me!” The slaver meekly shuffled to the
bar and made no move to resist as Ahmed shackled him, though his
eyes were full of fear and loathing.
You
should
fear me, barbarian dog. I am your better.

Ahmed turned back to the crowd
and raised his arms in a victory pose. “There is one man who
will not fight!” he shouted. “Two, if you count the
bottle thrower!” He grinned at the crowd. They seemed to be
enjoying the spectacle well enough. Perhaps barbarians were much
like civilized men after all, at least when they were amused. He
bowed with a flourish, then bent to rifle through the slaver's pile
of clothes. He stood again, held up a set of keys for the crowd to
see, then turned to the brown man chained to the bar. “Will
you pick up the sword?”

The slave looked at him,
confused, terrified. “And fight you?”

“Aye. To the death. Agree
and I will unchain you.”

“You’re crazy!”
the man hissed. “You will kill me!”

“Would you die a man or
live on as a slave? You might get lucky.”

“No!”

Ahmed stepped back, and cast a
glance toward Marcus, but the big barbarian would not meet his gaze.
The crowd booed. Ahmed turned next to the woman. “And you? Do
you cling to life above dignity, too? Or would you risk your life,
knowing that if nothing else, you would die free?”

The woman tried to speak, but
could only choke out a sob. She nodded and raised a hand.

Ahmed shuffled through the
various keys until he found the right one, and unlocked her legs and
one arm. She rushed forward, lunging for the sword, but it was just
out of her reach. Ahmed inserted the key into the final lock. The
woman glanced at Ahmed briefly, her gaze one of infinite distance, a
hundred yard stare, the contemplation of eternity and a single, slim
chance. She turned her attention back toward the weapon, straining
at her last bond, knowing that steel in her hand was the best she
could hope for. Ahmed nodded and turned the key.