"What exactly happened here?"
We were less than half a mile away from our camp. Cycad trees and giant horsetail ferns had slowed us down, but the trail of flattened ferns and blood drops left a clear path. We were 30 strong; a hastily gathered band of spearmen from across the camp's ranks.
We stood around a pit almost 6 feet deep. Excavated earth was cast about around it. It seemed the work of animals rather than beings with intelligence. In some, we could make out the panicked footprints of bare, human, feet.
Inside the pit were the remains of four of the missing slave girls. They had been arranged in a circle, each tied to a crude, wooden cross shaped like an "X." Their heads hung low; their eyes ripped out. The incisions in their bellies were in a "+" shape. The skin flaps had been peeled back and pinned with sharpened wooden twigs. Some had guts still hanging out from their partial evisceration. Their thighs were bloody, and blood had trickled down to form puddles at their feet.
"They did not finish this time!" said Gudea, poking his finger inside one of the gut incisions bending down to peer inside. "Their feeding was disturbed. They cannot be far!"
Claevor the Healer inserted a silvery metal rod between one of the victim's thighs, pulled it out, and studied it in the light.
"They were not used," he said. "Perhaps that would have come after the feeding, or, given that there are six slaves still missing, the attackers may have acted differently this time."
Kazan, the black-mask carrying leader of the Yoggites, cleared his throat.
"Is it not obvious what took place here?" He held out his arms to take in the scene. "The tent the slaves were taken from were guarded by Yoggite men, my men."
The Yoggites in the group assented loudly: I was surprised at how many there were
"Their throats were slit with the secret blade work of cowards and thieves. The women were taken, and not one scream was heard. This was not the work of men, but of snakes!"
The Yoggites cheered, and some raised their spears in the air.
The Settites, who turned out to be about equal in number, were not pleased. They roared back angrily, brandishing their own weapons. I saw two men start shoving each other. Their friends rushed forward to assist, as others pushed him between to keep them separate. Brogo, the Settite leader, turned red, yelling insults and threats at Kazan. Kazan reacted in kind, across the pit. They drew their swords.
"Enough of this nonsense!"
Rindar grabbed Kazan by his head, forced it down, and brought his knee up into the man's face. There was a loud crack as Kazan's nose broke. He whimpered and fell back, clutching his face, red dripping through his fingers.
The men settled down.
"It would benefit everyone here to remember that this is my camp, and you are under my discipline. Fall upon each other, or give words that lead to same effect, and find your skulls broken and heads hung throughout the camp as a lesson to others. Do you dogs understand?"
The dogs said nothing.
"Is there anything else, Claevor?" Asked Rindar.
"Markings in the mud," the old man crouched down and pointed with the stick. "Still fresh. None intact but there is a chance that they were made by beasts, rather than men. There are claw marks," he indicated them. "Though I cannot be sure."
"What are your orders?" Asked Gudea.
All heads turned to Rindar.
"The camp is under threat by an enemy that strikes at will and may return, in number. We are near the lands of the Gods – what else could kill and steal unnoticed, but their servants? We will follow the trails of blood, footprints, and markings, and see where they lead. Those who will search will be in danger, but we must know what we face." He turned and looked to Gudea and the hunting claw leaders who were present. "But we must decamp before nightfall."
There were some murmurings from the crowd.
"Decamp?" ask one claw leader. "In but one day?"
"Set the slaves to making rafts. All of them."
"Even with a close to a thousand females set to task, it is more than a day's work," said Gudea raising his eyebrows. "Whips and kicks will only do so much."
"Then sever tongues and break necks. I will have my rafts tonight."
The men looked at each other, their expressions uneasy.
"Do not worry," said Rindar, "they are ready enough for market. But if we do not leave at once, we may lose even more, than rushed passage will cost us. Now set hands and minds to purpose!"
***
And so, the rest of our days here in the wilds were set in stone. About half the posse stayed to try and find traces of the attackers. Unfortunately, this did nothing to help matters; we had arrived as an angry war band, and stomping around the ritual pit did nothing to preserve the evidence. There were a couple of false leads, but overall, no one could find evidence leading away from the sacrifices.
I found one of the clawed prints beside a damaged fern. I crouched down to study it: it was a four-toed mark; three at the front, one in the back. It was a large print; one that could have been left by a man. Except, of course, I did not think it was a man's footprint at all.
Further along, I found another.
And then another.
"I think I found the trail," I called out.
Some of the men looked up and walked over to me. One of them was Duzil.
"No," he shook his head, his shoulders sagging. "These marks head back to the camp. They cannot lead to where they went next."
The men turned around and went back to looking
What if the attackers had indeed gone back to camp?
I followed the trail, leaving the main group.
Sure enough, I found another footstep, this one more deeply pressed into the dirt. Was I reading them right, though? I was looking at a kind of footprint that I had never seen before. For all I knew, I was looking at them backwards.
I was about to give up and return to the pit when I found the human prints.
There were several, all moving back towards the camp. Some had been made by small feet; consistent with that of a petite girl. I followed them, making my way through the thick ferns.
The clues took me away from the path our posse had taken. It was slow going pushing past the giant ferns and tree trunks. At a certain point, I thought I was being stalked by something; but it turned out to be a giant millipede looking for dead leaves. It was late morning by the time I emerged from the jungle and saw the clearing outside our camp.
The attackers had definitely come back, and they had at least one slave girl with them. However, I did not think they were cultists. I had seen too many of the strange prints, and they were too far apart for the gait of humans. Whatever they were, at least one of them was big.
The camp was oddly empty; all the slaves, even the red cord girls, were out by the river. From where I stood, I could see them moving like a giant swarm of ants. The sharp crack of whips came from over the water.
I entered the camp and saw at once that my task had become hopeless. There were footprints everywhere; human, animal, even cart tracks. The everyday paths had been worn smooth or baked hard under the sun and traffic. What chance did I have?
It was then that I realized that the footprints I'd followed, pointed directly to the ancient well.
I went to the well.
Two naked slave girls stood in front of it, their ankles chained to stakes rammed into the ground. They pulled on long ropes and raised up buckets, pouring the water into a wooden trough. As they saw me, they quickly got down on their knees, heads down, wrists crossed over their laps. I ignored them.
I walked around the well, again and again, trying to find a sign. I found one at last; obscured by a bucket. The bucket had destroyed most of the print, but I had seen enough of these by now; it was the four-toed mark.
I looked down into the well.
Its sides were made of cold, weather-worn stone. Thick ferns grew between them, and clambering plants covered the stones like a mat. Far below, I could see the reflection of light on black water.
"You," I said to one of the slaves. She was a tall, athletic Bharaji with her hair done up in a ponytail. "What time did you go on shift?"
"At dawn, Master," said the nude, head facing the ground.
"Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Did you see anything strange here?"
"Yes, Master," she replied. "The buckets had been lowered into the water. That is not allowed; they are to be raised back up and kept on the side."
"Did you notice anything else, Slave?"
"There were marks on the ground, Master. I have not seen the like before."
"What did they look like?"
She pointed to the print I had uncovered under the bucket.
A guard nearby had been watching me. Our eyes met.
"The slaves know," I said to him.
"What do they know?"
"That something came here and went down the well. If we interrogate the slaves, we will learn more."
The guard started laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"You would take," he shook his head, "you would take the word of slaves?"
"Why the hell not? They are the targets, they must've seen who has been doing this."
"Only a weakling or a fool seeks the opinion of a slave girl."
"Yeah? Well, what choice do we have, if you guards can't seem to catch monsters escaping with 10 of our girls? Maybe we should get the slaves to be guards; at least we know the slaves work hard."
He glared at me, his hand clenching around his spear.
"Go on," I turned to face him. "Make my day, you sack of shit."
The guard swore under his breath and stomped off.
***
I left to find any slave girls who had been slept near the tent that had been attacked. This was easier said than done, though however. All were down at the river, building the rafts that would carry them, and us, away from Red River and back to civilization. I went down to the river to see if I could find one; several of the girls I could recognize if I saw them again.
***
"Faster, you sluts!"
Close to a thousand, naked, slave girls, toiled under the sun. The air was filled with the nonstop cracking of whips-and screams; it was distressing even given what I had become used to in the camp. Men yelled at each other, I saw two start a shoving match before those around them pulled them apart. There was a cracking sound from across the bank; ten men looked towards it weapons brandished.
Beyond the shore, six teams of slave girls, each 50 strong, were hauling logs to the river. The slaves grunted as they leaned into their work, pulling ropes over their shoulders, their feet slipping in the red mud. I watched an overseer walking along one of the teams, swearing at them and striking with his whip as hard as he could; damagingly hard. A dark-haired Beaker girl slipped and fell in the mud. The overseer turned red with rage and began whipping her, again and again. She lay on the ground, screaming.
Along the shore, slaves knelt around tree trunks, hacking away branches with small hand axes, and peeling off bark.
"Faster, you worthless cunts!" Yelled a bald man wearing the apron of one of Gudea butchers. "Or do I need to teach more of you what happens if you fall behind?"
Behind him was a bloodied, wooden stake about 8 feet high. Impaled on it was a brunette. The pike had entered between her buttocks and emerged out the side of her neck, her head lolling to the side. I noticed a red cord had been tied around her wrist. She had been mistaken to think that it would protect her.
In the water, wading all the way up to chest height, were several hundred slave girls. They pulled floating tree trunks together and lashed them together with chains. Guards stood in lines on either side of the working females, facing out across the river. They looked down into to the water, spears held ready to stab down. Already hauled out along the shore were several, dolphin-sized carcasses of armored fish, their bodies still bleeding from multiple wounds. Alongside them, several dead slave girls, thrown one atop the other. Legs had been bitten off, and deep bites ripped out of their torsos. Three guards also lay dead beside them. Their death wounds were similar.
I wondered how many more would be lost to this panicked departure.
These were not the best circumstances to be trying to identify three or four slave girls from out of almost a thousand. As I was about to give up in despair, I recognized Amber, hard at work on her knees, peeling the bark off a tree trunk.
"Slave!" I yelled, rushing over to her.
She dropped the bark, startled, looking up and quickly put her hand to her chest. She calmed (somewhat) when she saw that it was me.
"Faster!" Yelled the bald butcher, slashing his whip across the back of a bronze-skinned Anatolian. "Faster, or it's the stake for you!"
"Master, have you come to drive us with your whip?" Asked Amber, sitting up on her knees.
"When I used you in the training tent, you mentioned that you heard something moving around outside," I said.
Working the same log with her were seven other girls, all crouching on their knees and bent over, stripping away bark with rough-cut rocks. One girl cried out in pain as the butcher struck her with his whip-in her face. She fell to the ground, clutching her mouth.
"No talking, you cunts!" Yelled the butcher. He had a cruel smile, the side of his lips curling in scorn. He seemed to be enjoying all this. I turned and gave him a hard look, but he did not notice me.
I looked about: even the other guards seemed afraid of him.
Yes, Master," said Amber. "But-how did you know that?" She cocked her head to the side like a puzzled dog. "I did not know enough Common, and then, I spoke in my own language."
"I know," I said in English. "Do you have anything else to add to what you said then?"
Her eyes became so large I thought they would pop out of her skull, and she covered her mouth in surprise.
"You speak English? Are you-are you an American?"
"Boulder, Colorado. Now answer, Slave."
"I haven't seen the monster, that's what we think it is," she replied, staring as if just realizing she had had no idea who I was. "I have heard rumors from the other girls; some say it is like a tall man, but high as a cart lizard at the shoulder, and black as night. One girl said that he carried a net, with girls lying drugged inside it. A Siberian told me that it was a giant shark, with a head made from stone."
One of the girls working the log, a dark-haired Anatolian, began coughing, putting one hand to her throat. The sadistic butcher turned and glared at her.
"Do they know where it went?" I asked.
"They say that it comes from the well." She eyed the butcher, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret.
"And none of you said anything?"
"We are not allowed to speak, Master. When it comes, the girls start screaming. But, no one cares when slave girls scream."
The Anatolian began choking and dropped her chisel. A Shang next to her put her arm around her shoulders and tried to help her. The other girls stopped working and looked up.
"More for the stake!" The butcher snarled and drew his whip back, rushing up to strike them. "Get them!" he yelled to some nearby men, "We'll impale them both!"
I turned around and caught his whip as it cut through the air.
He stared at me, stunned, the whip was taut, still held in my hand. He tried to yank it back, but I did not let go.
"Stay out of this, Hunter!"
The other men, mostly butchers, came running towards us. Their expressions were grim. Beyond, other men, guards, hunters, and more butchers, stopped and stared.
I yanked the whip out of the man's hands and threw it down on the sand.
"You're not touching them," I stepped over the log, and between him and the two girls. The Anatolian was recovering, both girls held each other and stared up at me.
The bald butcher drew a serrated dagger from his belt, snarled, and charged.
I sidestepped as he swung, the blade passing just inches from my gut. I jumped back as he swung again. The men coming to his aid stood in a circle around us, staring and unsure of what to do.
I caught his arm as he struck the third time, stripped the knife from his grip, and shoved it under his chin up, into his brain.
He looked up at me, blood spilling from his lips as he gurgled. I dropped him in the sand to die.
The circle of butchers roared and drew their daggers and meat cleavers.
I drew my sword.
"Do you want to do this? Because I'll kill every one of you."
One of the men, a large, burly brute with scars across his chest, stepped forward, swinging a knife.
I darted to him, swung with the most advanced metal blade on the planet, and cut his handoff. He fell to his knees, screaming and clutching his stump, blood spurting onto the sand.
I kicked him in the chin. He was thrown back, groaning. Some of the others rushed to help him.
"Anyone else?"
I got nothing but silent glares.
"Get back to work. No one kills any more slaves. If you do, I'll stick you on a pike! Understand, scumbags?"
The butchers departed, carrying their men.
I looked about; no butchers would meet my eyes, but the guards and slavers nodded, a couple raising their hands in salute.
"Are you all right, Slave?" I asked the Anatolian.
"Yes, Master," she nodded. She looked at me as if I was the Archangel Gabriel. The others did, as well. "Thank you, Master!"
I turned to Amber.
"Don't get killed, Slave," I said to her, in Low Common.
"I won't, Master," she replied in kind. She beamed at me like the sun.
I left the shore and went back to camp.
***
"What idiocy is this? That is the sign with you, you always surprise me with the stupid things you say and do."
Outside my tent I had laid out what I thought I'd need; a torch, a fire starting kit, some rope-still tied in a lasso, from the earlier hunts. On my person was my sword.
"Thank you for that vote of confidence," I said to Fogrim, as I pulled on a leather breastplate.
The man, his arms folded, shook his head, and looked disgusted. "A lasso? What are you hoping to do, catch the stolen slaves like they're runaways? Put aside this nonsense; you should be helping down at the river."
"I was just there." I shoved my supplies into a cloth bag and threw it over my shoulder. "I made and lost a new friend."
"I heard what you did."
"Don't fall over yourself thanking me, or anything."
"You have gone against Rindar's orders. The butchers do only what they are told. Who are you to decide what needs to be done?"
"Well, this has been a great conversation," I turned to leave. "Just so you know, I'm glad I pissed off your God, saving Haley from the river. Have a great day!"
***
I knew Fogrim was Yoggite, not Dagonite, but I was happy to add to the insult. Fogrim had reacted to information from the slaves, worse than the guard at the well had, earlier. Hyperborean cultures had no taboos about slavery, cannibalism, or human sacrifice: but yet they could not take the report of a slave girl, seriously.
To hell with them.
I reached the well shortly; this time, both the guard and the two slaves who had been there, were gone. The ancient stone carvings seemed to taunt me. There was something here we did not understand, and, hasty departure or not, I did not think it was done with us.
I looked down over the edge of the well. Scrambling tree branches and thick ferns knotted like a murderer's fingers. Far below, the black water was like a monster's eye.
I picked up a bucket and threw it over. The pulley squeaked and rattled as the bucket raced, rope blurring after it. I heard the splash. I secured tied the end of the rope, put on a pair of rough gloves, and tugged on the rope. It seemed able to take my weight.
It had certainly better.
I climbed over the edge of the well and started to fast-rope my way down.