I made my way to the tavern.
It was a wide, two-story building back towards the town gates. Behind it was a small stable from which came the sounds of large but calm animals. The front of the tavern was hung with bright red and yellow streamers. From inside I could hear a slow beat on a skin drum. A reedy flute joined it and a light, chiming of metal. Over the doorway was a bronze cobra with a flared hood; the snake god, Set. Dura was not religiously intolerant: no trading town was. Its fisherfolk worshiped Dagon but downriver were Settite settlements.
Inside, the tavern was a large, open space, well lit and airy. Men sat cross-legged around low tables, on furs and reed mats. The tables were arranged in a half-circle around the bar, which adjoined a backroom and kitchen. By low tables, I mean that: they were less than half as tall as my shin. You couldn't put your legs under them. They were for standing on.
On every table was a dancing slave girl. They were naked; tavern dancers are never clothed. They moved slowly to the music, copper anklets chiming with each step.
An oiled blonde and brunette danced back to back on an over-sized table. They had purple flowers tucked over their ears. On their thighs were the red, wriggling, snake-tattoos of their Settite faith (slaves were always converted to their owner’s beliefs). Jugs of wine and plates of fruit, meat, and bread were arrayed around their feet. If either girl knocked over anything, both would be whipped.
Seated at that table were five men. They wore coarse, heavy cloaks better suited for traveling the wilds. Their weapons they kept by their sides; cudgels and swords. Four of the five cheered the dancers and raised their drinking horns. Two serving slaves in fur loincloths and chest wraps knelt beside them, chained at the throat to the table. One slave poured wine into the men's drinking horns. The other's head was bobbing over a man's lap, her lips closed around his penis.
The fifth man just sipped from his horn and refused refills. He had a long, thick beard of salt and pepper. He watched me with calculating eyes and smoked from a long pipe.
I went to an empty table by the far wall, with a view of the entrance. A blonde serving slave came up to me and knelt, head down, thighs clasped together. She put down a horn and filled it with red wine, unasked.
“Greetings Master,” she said softly.
I took hold of her by her jaw and made her look at me. Her eyes were green, she seemed in her mid-twenties. The skin on her thigh tattoo was still peeling.
“I do not recognize you.”
“I am new, Master,” her accent was ancient North Eurasian. She spoke Low Common haltingly.
“Is Zana dancing today?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Have her sent here,” I released her jaw. “She will attend to me, as well.”
She bowed and quickly disappeared.
Shortly after, a petite, slender, East Asian girl came towards my table.
“Greetings, Master!” her large, brown eyes sparkled. She had long, black, shining hair that fell straight to the small of her back. Other men turned and stared, murmuring jealously to each other.
“It lifts the heart,” her eyes sparkled, “to dance again for you!”
The East Asian stepped on to the table; I admired her shapely ankles. Her pussy was as smooth and hairless as the rest of her body. She wore the same, copper, chiming anklets as the other girls. Hanging off her hips was a belt made from bronze coins. On her arms were copper bracers and around her throat a necklace of crocodilian teeth. Brown nipples were pierced and hung with red, teardrop stones. They swung as she moved, drawing the eye.
“Shall I dance for you on my feet, Master,” she rose on her tip toes and stretched, “or would you prefer me on my knees?”
“Surprise me.”
Zana was a ‘Shang’; a generic term for those of ‘Chinese’ descent stolen from the 70th Century AD. That was 5000 years into the ‘Great Retreat’: when climate change had turned the equator and tropics into scorching dustpans. The nations there went underground-or went extinct. They released semi-sentient boring machines to dig down and find subterranean water. There they seeded oxygen slimes and rock-eating worms - for food. Creating habitats for human survival, not comfort, had been their mission.
Zana had come from one of these habitats. The Shang lived in tribes about a thousand strong on average. They often raided each other; Zana had been the spoils of such a raid when she was an infant. Her whole life, she had only known slavery. To her, any other condition was unthinkable.
That suited me fine.
She got down and sat up on her knees and clasped her hands behind her head. She began to gyrate her hips to the beat, letting her large, well-developed breasts jerk forward.
"So,” I began, “how was your day, Dear?"
"It was as every other," she shook her hair out of her face. "I danced in the morning. The men were pleased, but none paid the fee to have me serve on my back. One’s hands did find vigorous purpose upon my legs, though."
"Did he pay for that?" I took a sip of wine.
"He did not see fit to, no. Nura, the Bharaji girl, knocked over a cup," she said with a cruel smile.
I wondered how much of her rivalry was ancient, folkloric memory. In the 23rd century, Great Bharaji was an AI-run Giga city under the entire, climate-ravaged, Subcontinent. 10 billion lived in its underslums. Great Bharaji would go on to rival Zana’s ancestors, clashing back and forth under the mineral wealth of the Himalayas. It was the longest running war in human history, reduced to racial memory the same way humans hate roaches.
"Our master did lead her outside by her hair, and in great fury. He retaught her the taste of the whip upon her back, then hung her from a tree," she nodded towards the window.
Through it, I could see an old, dead tree with outstretched branches. A very tall, chocolate-skinned, Indian girl hung suspended by chained cuffs around her wrists. Nura’s head hung down over her chest.
"That is a good punishment," I said. "A slave should not be so careless."
Her eyes bulged at that.
"If I were to fail you thus, would Master Uru learn of my shame, from your lips?" She got down on her knees and elbows, her breasts swaying from side to side.
"Oh, I would pay him money," I stroked her hair, "to discipline you myself."
Zana looked down. I enjoyed flirting with the lovely Shang, but it was good to remind her how little it meant. There is a saying in this period reserved for slave girls: ‘not less than cattle, not more than cattle.’
"I also heard news. The cities of Zindar and Kurol move towards war over the matter of tax on the river trade. Deep Ones have been seen swimming in waters far beyond the Mist Wall, and boats have gone missing. And I heard rumors of what happened at Dubroca."
"What?" I was distracted by the haunch of roasted meat, so large four slaves carried it from the kitchen on a wooden cross. "Dubroca? That's off all the way in the Borderlands, right?"
"Here in Dura, we are also is near the Mist Wall," she sat back on her heels and ran her hands up from her thighs to cup her breasts.
As if to punctuate her words, there was a sound not unlike thunder in the distance towards the west. Other patrons looked up, then to each other. The sound did not repeat, and they went back to their business.
The slave dancers, to their credit, had not been disturbed.
"True,” I replied. “but we are further from it. What did you hear about Dubroca?”
"That the Gods destroyed it," she waved her arms like a Balinese dancer. "A traveler seated at this very table, but three hours ago shared what words he exchanged with another. All who lived in Dubroca are dead."
"All?"
"So it was said. Every man, woman, child, and slave. The ground was rent with large burrows that descended into darkness. It is the work of the God Yith Izda!"
There are no gods, I used to tell people. Just cosmic beings that came to Earth to war behind the Mist Wall. Not surprisingly, this did nothing to shake belief in their divinity. If anything much the opposite. So now, I hold my tongue.
It was the ‘gods’ who transplanted humans here. They are still bringing them too; on clear nights, you can see it happening. Slow shooting stars streaming points of fire behind them. These are ‘Landing Beasts’; cosmic vehicles re-entering into our universe from wherever they had been hunting. I arrived on one such creature-craft, snatched from the 21st century, Boulder Colorado.
“Yith Izda?” I asked. “Sounds like the Yith. I have not heard of that one.”
“Not the Great Race," she replied, settling into a pose I had not seen before. "A worm god. He dwells in the deep places of the world and spawns his wriggling children. They hunt those that walk the surface world, striking from burrows or fed sacrifices by worshipers."
“Sounds like a real charmer. You tell good stories.”
"I speak truth!" Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped.
“Sure you do.”
I grabbed hold of her waist and pulled her off the table. She cried out loud as she landed in my lap. I pulled her to me, my penis hard and pressed against her pelvis. She giggled and wrapped her legs around my back.
"I wonder who is better," I kneaded her buttocks with my fingers. "You, or Nura."
"Master lies," she looked up at me, chin pressed against my chest. "Let Nura lick your feet. I will suck your cock."
She began licking my chest and neck and rubbed her tits against me.
“You!” I heard from the entrance.
We both looked.
Standing there was a short, fat, man. His bald head showed ritual scars cut into his scalp. Around his neck was a wooden necklace hung with fragments of human bone. He wore a pair of linen pants and a tunic. By his side was an iron scimitar. Standing by him were two, bare-chested men in heavy, reinforced leather, leggings. They stood with scimitars in their hands.
All three were looking at me.
"You!" the short, fat, man pointed. "You have cheated me!"
The bar became silent; even the music and the dancing slaves stopped. The four drinking travelers at the larger table stopped and stared. The fifth traveler seemed interested in something, at last.
"Garaman, you lout!" a half-drunk man from another table stood, drinking horn in hand. "How dare you come here and-"
A guard punched him in the face, throwing him back to fall on the table. Patrons cried out in surprise, and the dancing slaves ran and hid behind the bar counter.
I pushed the Shang female off my lap and stood. She started to crawl away on her hands and knees. I caught her by her ankle, she yelped as I dragged her back.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I said, As the three men approached, I pulled out a rope and tied her wrists behind her back.
"Stay," I commanded Zana.
She sat back on her heels and knelt, looking down.
"You soiled my virgin," said Garaman, his eyes popping from their orbits with anger. "Do you hail from a time of simpletons, or did you deliberately seek to press insult against respected worshiper of the great god Yog?"
"What can I say, Garaman?" I shrugged. "This is what happens when you don't go through a lawyer. I'd recommend one to you, but he won't be born for three hundred million years. Fair is fair. If you have a problem with that, take it up with a bounty house. But then, you've already tried that, haven't you?"
I regarded the two guards. They had positioned themselves to flank me at a moments notice.
"You have no use for her?” I continued, “Fine. I'll help you out. She is easily worth 10 gold, I'll give you that for her. Call it outstanding customer service on my part."
"Do not seek to press instruction upon your betters!" Snapped one of the guards.
I regarded him.
"Hey shirtless, why don't you shut the fuck up?"
The word was lost on him, but he got the gist. He snarled and raised his sword to strike-
I threw my wine in his face and punched the other right in the chin. He staggered back, stunned. I drew my sword and slashed it across his belly. The crowd gasped as the man stumbled back, screaming, his intestines spilling out of him.
There was a roar behind me, and I whirled just in time to catch the other guard’s sword against mine.
"You unbeliever scum!" The guard spat. "I will sacrifice you and eat your flesh tonight!"
I punched him in the balls. The crowd gasped again; a low move in any time period. The guard stumbled back as he doubled over. He brought his sword up against mine, but he had been distracted.
The first steel sword in creation (made up the street) cut right through his hand.
The guard screamed and clutched at his wrist, blood spurting. He turned and ran out, patrons complaining as he sprayed them.
I regarded the stunned Garamond. "10 gold."
"Off-of course!" His voice shook, "The girl is yours for 10!"
"No. That offer is rescinded. 10 gold is what you will pay to Uru the barkeep for bringing this shit into his business, and to buy everyone a round. Capice?"
He stopped and stared. Someone at the next table cocked their head to the side like a confused dog.
"Look, just leave the money and get out."
Garaman threw the coins down and ran out as fast as his short legs could take him.
I picked up the gold.
"Drinks for everyone!"
There were a few nervous cheers.
"I said,” brandishing my sword, “drinks for everyone!"
There were many more this time.
I went over to the counter where a dark-haired man with his beard and hair tied in knots gave me a look that seemed to have mixed expressions behind it
"Do not misunderstand friend Gerard, but you should not have picked a quarrel with a man of such pride and wealth, but so little stature."
"Stature?" I put the gold down on the counter. "Are you sure about that?"
Serving slaves rushed out carrying fresh jugs of wine. People slowly returned to their conversations.
"Mine are the best slaves in Dura. I know as much about the stature of every cock that passes through that entrance, then the most shameless slave and faithful whore. Thank you for the gold." He passed one coin back to me.
"What's this for? My charm?"
"Sadly, there isn't coin in all this town for what do you think that that is worth. No, that's for the body," he gestured to the dying guard. He moaned as four serving slaves picked him up by his arms and legs and carried him to the kitchen.
I gave Uru a hard look.
"That is not to the Settite way!" He raised his hands. "But the flesh, dried and ground, will be good to mix into the slave meal.”
Except for treats and scraps given as rewards, slave girls were mostly fed ‘slave meal.' This was a paste of raw yams mixed with ground up insects or worms. If they are lucky, a bit of fish fat is added as well.
Except among the Yoggite cultists, human flesh was something most free people in this world would not eat.
I looked across the room. Zana still knelt at my table, head down.
I pushed the coin back to Uru.
"I will have her."
"She is worth far less for a night, but if you pressure gold upon me, I shall not insult your generosity," he took the coin.
My gold pouch felt heavy at my side.
"I'll give you 15 gold if you sell her to me."
"We are spoken on this before," he shook his head.
"And we will again. 15 gold for the Shang woman."
"I will not sell."
"You can't blame me for trying."
I walked back to my table.