By mid-morning, we had returned to the slavers camp.
It was a huge area; 2 acres across. It had been built alongside the river where the water was shallower and calm. Moored outside it were several barges and riverboats, including the one I had arrived on. Standing out from them was a large, three-masted, sailing ship. It had been designed, I was told, for the open seas.
Defensive palisades made from sharpened stakes ringed the camp. Ditches had been cut in front of them and filled with caltrops. Overlooking the palisade defenses were, rickety, wooden watchtowers. The guards in them scanned the horizon, longbows at their sides.
Each of us had our slaves with us. Fogrim had a petite, Bharaji girl who rode in front of him on his horse. Her wrists were bound tightly in front of her, her mouth was gagged with a dirty rag. He had an arm around her belly, pressing her to his body. Ettun had his brunette tied over his saddle, as I had tied my own girl.
Duzil had a tall, slender, magnificent Anatolian girl with long hair and dark eyes. He did not secure her on his horse. Instead, he kept her on the same rope he had lassoed her with, now tied around her throat. She stumbled after his horse, her wrists bound tightly behind her back. Whenever we stopped, she tried to tug at her leash, even turning her head to bite the rope. Duzil paid her no heed; he had tied the rope to his saddle and did not give the matter a second thought. She was a stunning woman; I found myself staring at her often. She would look away when she noticed.
"It is good to be back!" Said Duzil. "I have had enough of these wildlands."
"We are still in the wildlands," said Ettun. "All that keeps us from its dangers are some sharpened stakes. I am always glad when we leave these places."
Other hunting claws were riding in from other directions. We past one: each of the four riders had two naked captives bound to their horses, one in front of the rider, and one behind. Their cart lizard walked between them, it's cages filled with females clutching at their bars. Most of the caged captives were Shang. Stumbling along after the cart lizard, were 20, naked, girls. Their wrists were bound to ropes that extended from the cart lizard's harness.
"What's this!" Yelled Duzil over to the leader of the other claw. He was a gray-haired man with a creased face. He smiled and nodded back.
"Our traps were too full," he answered. "Beasts lying atop beasts."
"How many is your total?"
"68."
It was an excellent score. We had brought in only 53, and that Duzil told me was a very respectable score.
The Hyperborean slavers were as diverse as their prey. Most Hyperborean's were mixed, especially those living closer to coastlines and major waterways. They mixed with each other, and of course their slaves.
However, there were also regions where racial differences persisted, especially as a function of old patterns of landing beast activity. Of the five main regions of Darfuri; Shem; Zidon; Armanea; and Hatadur, three were represented. The Darfuri had their origins in the tall, dark-skinned peoples of the Eastern Sahara. They were about a quarter of the slavers. Fogrim was a Darfuri. Another quarter was Shemite. Shem was dominated by Semitic-origin peoples. Ettun was a Shemite.
The last major group was the Armaneans. I could not figure out where on Earth they had come from, but they tended between bronze and pale skin, and dark to blonde hair.
All the other slavers in the camp were mixed.
We rode through the palisades and past the watchtowers, into the slavers' camp, proper.
The entire area had been cleared of trees, bushes, even smaller rocks. Crude crucifixes made from branches had been erected in rows, in an area the size of a tennis court. Black tents had been set up in rows beside the crucifix field.
Just as we were passing through the line of sharpened stakes, we saw a guard come riding up to us.
"Duzil!" he called out, "would that you stop and share a moment's words."
"Of course Treygor," Duzil raised his hand for us to stop. "What would you have us break was upon, Friend?"
"Did you by chance come on clawed marks upon the sand, or beast inclined to make such marks?" He held up his hand and made a claw-like shape, with four fingers.
"We did not. What prompts such clear question, and troubled brow?"
"I have seen marks around the camp," said the guard Treygor. "I know not what creature made them. I go now to follow them, and see if their source is but simple beast or something of darker nature."
"Is that safe?" I asked. "Doesn't seem like a great idea."
"It is daylight, and I have tracked creatures in these lands before," replied Treygor. "I will not put myself in the path of danger; should the gods look well upon me this day. My thanks for your time!"
And with that, he rode off past the wooden Palisades and towards the jungle.
"What make you of that?" Ettun asked Duzil.
"At this point, nothing. We have work to do. Let guards chase after claw marks. Let us deliver our catch to the pits."
Forming an inner ring inside the camp, were the slave pits.
These were wide excavations, 30 feet across and 12 deep. Their sides had been cut sheer, and sharpened stakes aimed downwards to deter climbers. A small guard's tent was placed at each; those inside would be watched night and day.
As we reached the pits, we heard yelling and screaming from them; mostly in languages I had never before (or would again). Our slave girls not ill with Transport Sickness, and exchanged glances. The blonde I had captured and had tied across my saddle raised her head up, eyes wide and mouth open in what seemed to me like horror.
"Don't worry," I patted her behind and spoke in Common. "It's not a pit that you will end up in tonight."
She stared at me, eyes anxious.
"You will learn this language soon enough."
We rode close to one of the pits. The girls inside stood in an angry pack, of mostly Anatolian's and Bharaji. They yelled and threw fistfuls of mud up whoever passed. Several slavers came running up to a pit, pulling out long training whips. They struck down at the girls who screamed as they were hit. At another pit, a wooden ramp was thrown down, and Siberians were driven down it. A petite blonde with pale skin stood defiant at the top of the ramp, refusing to be herded. One of the slavers stepped up, grabbed her by her hair, and shoved her tumbling down the ramp. She groaned in the mud at the bottom, and the ramp was pulled up.
All around us, almost a thousand, naked, angry women, were yelling.
"Are there too many?" I rode up and asked Duzil quietly. "There are barely less than a hundred of us."
"It will be fine," he replied. "The females the landing beasts bring, desire to submit to men who will keep them on their knees."
We both ducked as a cloud of mud-mixed with feces-sailed over our heads.
"Maybe you should tell them that!"
Some of our own captives began banging and kicking against their cages.
"Do not fret, Brother. They will learn their place, soon enough. They will learn it at our hands, and at the ends of our whips. We will show you how, and you too will then look upon scenes as these, and only hear the sound of bleating livestock."
I remained both skeptical and concerned.
We made our way to a flat, dry area where slave girls lay in rows on their bellies, their hands and feet bound. Slavers walked up and down the rows, striking out with their whips at any that tried to turn over or talk to another. Several men waved us over to the side and walked up to us. We dismounted as they began opening our cages and pulling out the girls. Those still disoriented or who did not resist, they lay down carefully in the dirt. Those that struggled and screamed, they tossed roughly to the ground. I watched as one such brunette groaned and curled up on the sand. She cried out, eyes wide, as a slaver grabbed her by her ankles and began dragging her on her back. One by one, the slaves were dragged into place, in the rows.
"Why are they being divided, by their race?" I asked. "Why does that matter?"
"In the pits, they must be mixed," said Duzil. "You do not want all of one type, or they will conspire and act together. Come." He got off his horse.
I followed him, and we began walking a row.
"See here," he stopped to nudge a tall, slender, Shang beauty with his foot. "The Shang hate the Bharaji. Mix them evenly in any pit, and they will find some way to poison common purpose, with ancient hatreds. That is why you always find them owned, together."
The Shang girl turned her head to the side and looked up at us. She had high cheekbones, and large, rich, brown eyes. She belonged on the cover of a magazine.
Or a master's feet.
"Whip this one," said Duzil. "She should not look up from the dirt. Whip her, and let her learn the discipline that the men of Hyperborea will keep her under."
Her eyes grew wide with alarm as I drew my whip.
I struck her across the thighs. She cried out, throwing her head back, her whole body jerking. She quickly looked back down at the dirt.
I noticed two men walking along the rows, stopping every so often at a slave. One of the men was older, with a large white beard and long hair. He wore a black robe that reminded me of a monk's cassock. At his rope belt was several pouches of dried herbs.
Walking along beside him was a giant of a man with arms like tree trunks. He wore a leather apron that was covered in blood. It dripped onto the dirt as he passed. He caught my eye and gave me a smile that seemed more appropriate on a wolf.
"Who are those two?" I asked Duzil. "Gandalf and the Undertaker?"
"I know not of those you speak. Those men are Claevor the Healer, and Gudea."
"And what does Gudea do?"
"He is a butcher."
The black-robed slaver raised his hand and got down on one knee beside a pale, blonde, Siberian. The girl was shivering; sweat pouring down her forehead and gleaming on her back. Claevor took her pulse and held his hand to her forehead. Then, he lifted up her arm and looked inside her armpits. He stood, and the two carried on.
"They are checking for Plague," said Duzil. "There is always one or two."
Groups of men began turning some slaves over onto their backs and dragging them away by their feet, towards the pits. Duzil was called away by a scribe to account for our hunting claw's work that day. I walked through the rows on my own, studying the females.
Most of them were blonde and brunette Siberians. The others were mostly Bharaji, Shang, Anatolian, and Neolithic Iberian Beakers. There was one row, though, that stood out. It was the smallest and was off to the side almost as an afterthought.
I went to it.
Lying in it were those females who did not fit into the main groups. These outliers were common: there were always a few the landing beasts picked from times outside of their usual hunting grounds. Several were tall, dark-skinned women with tattoos that showed they were from the medieval kingdom of Great Zimbabwe. Alongside them were some dark-haired Celts. Last of all, was a petite, brunette, girl.
"Help me!" She said in an American accent. "Oh my God, can anyone help me?"
She noticed me approaching and quickly became quiet. I stopped in front of her, tucked my whip back in my belt, and crouched down.
She looked back up at me. She had large, dark eyes. Her face was oval. Long, chestnut brown hair fell below her shoulders. Her body was unmarked, and her breasts were well-formed with light-brown nipples. I guess her age at perhaps 22 or 23.
I cupped her jaw in my hand and tilted her head up.
"Help me, please! My name is Amber, I'm from Germantown, Ohio! Can you understand me?"
I withdrew my hand and stood. I had encountered a 20th Century French girl in a tavern, not too long ago. I had tried to help her acclimatize, but it did no good. The sooner women taken from my own time learned to adapt and survive in Hyperborea, the better.
"Alright," I heard from behind me. "move these to the pits."
I turned and looked back. Standing in front of the laid-out slaves was Rindar, the old slaver who had hired me. He had ditched his traveling cloak and instead wore loose, cotton clothing to better deal with the heat. Cuffs hanging at his belt clinked. Tucked over his hip was a training whip. It ended in several flails, tied at the tip of each was a hard, leather knot.
Alongside him stood the black-robed healer Claevor, and the butcher in the bloody apron, Gudea. Duzil and one of the other claw leaders nodded to Rindar, and he nodded back. He caught my eye and smiled.
"Lend aid, brother," said a slaver as he grabbed one of the Great Zimbabwean girls, by her ankles. She struggled, groaning, and trying to pull her legs free. "These are going to the Blue Pit."
The "Blue Pit" was one that had been denoted by a small, fluttering, blue banner, tied to a spike.
I looked down at Amber of Germantown. She was still looking up at me, her large eyes pleading.
I bent down and took hold of her by her ankles. They were soft and cool, the skin smooth. The rope around them bit tightly into her flesh. I lifted her by feet and began dragging her away. She cried out a couple of times as I went over rocks, but was otherwise was quiet, except for some sniffing and tears. Around me, other men dragged females, some two at a time.
There was a sudden uproar: slave girls began jeering and waving their fists with new energy from the central pits. A chant broke out in a hard, rough, Siberian tongue. Other, non-Siberian slaves joined in. Some of the slavers stopped and stared in the direction of the commotion.
"That one has got a sword!" I heard a man say.
Standing outside the "Green Pit" was a tall, athletic, blonde, Siberian. There was still some rope tied around one of her ankles. In her hands, she held a two-handed sword.
"By the Gods, that's something I've never seen," said the man who was dragging the Great Zimbabwean. His captive twisted and stared at the spectacle, eyes wide.
"What fool lost his weapon?" Said another.
"Rindar will have his balls for this."
Five slavers had formed a circle around the Siberian. She swung the blade this way and that, eyeing them. The loudest chanting came from the Green Pit; the Siberians there seem to recognize her. The Shang had joined them, while the Bharaji stood quietly to the side, exchanging nervous glances.
"Is this going to be a problem?" I asked the slaver with the Great Zimbabwean.
"A problem you ask?" He folded his arms and shook his head. "This is no problem, Friend. This is a damned revolt!"
Slavers began lashing down into pits, again and again. Girls began trying to climb out; clambering on each other's shoulders, working in teams. The different races worked as one.
"Let me go!" Amber began kicking. "Let me go, you monster!"
Rindar stepped forward, striding towards the Green Pit. His face seemed cut from stone. His expression calm as a captain in a storm.
He plucked the spear from a gawking guard, braced himself, and flung it.
It struck the blonde in the gut. She dropped the sword and staggered back, staring down, surprised and clutching at the spear shaft.
From all the pits, the chanting stopped. All eyes, slave and slaver, were on the girl.
Rindar stepped up, took hold of the spear, and raised it up into the air. The Siberian cried out and thrashed her legs in the air. She stared, disbelieving, into Rindar's eyes.
He regarded her like a slab of meat.
He slammed the spear's butt against the ground, going down on one knee. The force shoved the slave down, gasping, and the spear-blade ripped up and through her back. The girls in the pits cried out, covering their mouths with their hands.
Rindar grabbed the dying girl by her hair and lifted her head up for the others in the Green Pit to see.
"Who sword is this?" He asked quietly.
A large man stepped forward, now, small as a mouse.
"Mine, Rindar."
"This will come out of your share. Also, you will forfeit your red cord slave."
"Yes, Rindar," Head down, he picked up his sword and stepped back.
"Gudea, when she dies," he let go of the girl's hair, "use all of the body except the head. Cut it off, and mount it right here, on a pike."
Gudea the Butcher grinned, showing missing teeth, and giggled.
"Yes, Rindar."
It is not every day that you encounter a genuine, bloodthirsty monster.
There was no more resistance from the pits.