"Please understand Gerard that slums such as Ebugal’s are places of great filth, and much of that is human."
It was morning. Lizard and ox-drawn carts were queued up on the dirt road, their drivers swatting away blood-sucking insects and drinking hot tea. Town guardsmen walked up and down the line of carts, stopping to interrogate drivers or climb up the backs of their carts to open crates and peer into barrels.
From time to time, every pair of eyes on the road went to the iron portcullis blocking the entrance through a tall, crumbling, wall. The wall ran in both directions for many blocks. Guards walked atop it wearing leather armor, helmets, and with shields and spears drawn. They look to each other and down over the wall.
"What are they checking for?" I asked Fogrim and Juskar.
"Weapons," said Juskar. "They are not permitted within the slum district."
I watched a disinterested guard pass us on the way to bother another carts driver.
"Then, how come no one has said anything about our weapons?"
"We may bear weapons for our own protection," said Fogrim. "But not to trade with the slum dwellers."
I carried my sword, Fogrim his spear, and Juskar had brought a club.
A group of 20 guards lead by a banner-bearer and a horseman, came tramping up the road. They moved with an urgency that seemed at odds with the Darfuri pace of life. In the front was the banner-bearer: he carried a tall, fluttering flag of red cloth with black and gold designs. Skulls hung from it on chains, clattering against each other. They had been drilled and fitted with black, feather, headdresses. The skulls were painted red, yellow, and black. Cart drivers and passers by stopped and bowed as the banner passed.
"What’s that?"
"The banner of Mammon, priest king of Darfur," said Fogrim. "Bow as it passes."
I bowed my head as the group went by. Two men stood out; one wore the robes of a city public servant. He carried under his arm, a large, leatherbound ledger. He was an older man but had the vigor of a retired veteran.
The second was the horseman. He wore armor of leather and banded iron, a cowhide leather shield over his back, and a short, wide-bladed stabbing spear like Fogrim’s. His linen tunic and pants were red and black. He wore a helmet of red wooden slats held in place by black iron bolts and braces. Its edges had been picked out in gold. The face inside was dark skinned with a large, black, beard.
"A legionary captain," said Juskar before I could ask. "They have come for conscripts."
"Who is Daurfur at war with?" I asked.
"No one," said Fogrim. "But soon, the Mazgar. Mammon is a new priest king, they are testing his strength. There will be no peace till he sails across the lake to burn their villages and return with their women in cages."
The column of soldiers marched right to the entrance. The old town official spoke with the guards there, who nodded and called through the portcullis.
"This is good," said Fogrim. "They will open the slum early."
Sure enough, a few moments later, a group of guards began working the chains of the portcullis, and it rose. The soldiers marched through and disappeared. I heard the sounds of men yelling and whips cracking.
"Are there slaves there?" I knew even as I asked that I was wrong: I heard no cries of women.
"No, said Juskar, "but there is always a crowd looking for work."
One by one, the carts passed through the gateway. Each cart driver dropped several silver coins into a wooden box before passing through.
"Three silver," said a guard when it was our turn. I gave him the coins and he gestured for us to pass.
"Another three when you return, Foreigner," he said.
"What happens if we don't have three silver?" I asked.
He raised an eyebrow and gave me a dirty look.
"You will not pass through these walls again until you do."
We stepped into the slum district.
***
It was like stepping into another world.
The first thing that hit was the smell: a heavy odor of uncollected garbage mixed with raw sewage. The buildings were unpainted and had crumbling mud walls. Some shared walls. Others were too poor for them; tent awnings and reed roofs held up with wooden poles. Trash was piled against abandoned huts that children and stray dogs played in. An old woman worked a fire she’d made right in the middle of the street; grilled rats were piled in a bowl beside her.
Standing in our way, packing the road, was a large group waiting for work. The eyed us like hungry children in an orphanage.
“Christ - these people – they can lift themselves out of this hell hole, right?"
Juskar shook his head.
"Only most rarely. These will make a few coppers for their work." He replied. "Barely enough to feed themselves and put a little aside. If anything happens to them, and it will, they go into debt. They will never get out of it."
"Why don't they just go on strike until they are paid better?"
"What does that mean," said Fogrim, "to go on strike?"
"They all refused to work until they get their way. It's how you handle situations like this."
The two men took a moment to stare at each other, as if fatigued at my presence.
"That is not their way," said Juskar. "If some refuse work, do you think the others will not take it?" He pointed to two men who had got into a fist fight, each claiming that he had been picked by a wagon driver. As they went down in the mud punching and kicking each other, the wagon driver called on another man who stepped over them.
"Also, the Satrap Kolus would not look well upon it," said Fogrim, stepping around a puddle of sewage. Just a few feet from it, a woman at a rickety cart was selling charms made from mud. "He would put the town's own slaves at the service of the merchants until the slum dwellers gave in, and returned to work. That, or he would invite a mine or plantation to bring their slaves to town to do the work."
"Kolus is a cruel man who plays no games,” said Juskar. “Those in the slums fear of him: if any caused trouble, he sends in the town guard to collect their debts owed to the tax collector."
By debts, I knew what he really meant.
We made our way away from the swarming slum wall entrance, through the narrow streets. A gang of street children crowded round us begging for coins – while the older ones tried to pick our pockets. Several young women offer themselves to us for a few coppers, standing in the doorway's of their huts. I looked past one into her home: a dark curtain separated her place of ‘work’ from a small room. Inside it, an infant playing with a piece of wood.
"Here," I gave the woman a gold coin.
"A gold coin!" Her eyes lit up. "For that, you can have me anyway you like until the next moon!"
"No," I closed her hand around the coin. "Keep it. Take care of your kid, Lady."
She stared for a moment, then her eyes lit up like fires and she flung the coin into the muddy street.
"You think I am a beggar?! You think we are all beggars here? Get out! Get out, you cur!"
I hurried off to Juskar and Fogrim.
"That serves you right," said Fogrim without looking. "That is a great weakness you have."
Juskar said nothing.
We stopped at a crossroad in the main thoroughfare of the area. At its center was a worn, stone pillar covered in carved runes and cuneiform markings. Mounted on top of it was a statue of a tentacled monstrosity with multiple mouths. Crows perched on the mouths - and shat on the ground. Sitting cross-legged around the pillar (and ignoring the gifts the crows gave them) were long-bearded, holy men. Their bodies were covered in ash and they wore nothing more than loincloths.
They chanted with their eyes closed: one had his eyes stitched shacked and the design of third one carved into his forehead. People bustled past them, going about their business.
I could not help but notice that I had not seen even a single slave: these people were too poor to own them. Living here as they did, conscription for war or colonization in a barren, God-blasted land, would have been a blessed relief.
"Excuse me," I said to an old man leading a goat on a rope, "do you know where we may find a man named Lukor?"
He looked up at me as if fangs and tentacles had unfolded from my mouth. He hurried off on his way.
Juskar and Fogrim laughed.
"What did I say?"
"Grandmother," Fogrim said to an old woman dragging what may have been all her belongings in the world in a small wooden cart behind her. "Where may we find a man named Lukor?"
"Lukor?" She peering at him and showing her missing teeth.
Fogrim nodded; the old lady gave him directions.
"That's exactly what I asked!"
"Your accent is unusual to them," said Fogrim. "It is unusual to us as well, but we have heard Low Common spoken in other ways. These people, have not. This is the only world they know."
We followed the directions given, and found ourselves deep inside the slum district, not entirely sure of how to find our way back. But sure enough, we found the place.
***
At the center of a cluster of single-story, mud buildings so close together that in places we could not pass them except in single file, was a three-story building of white stone. It was on par with the elaborate villa of a great trader or mine owner. Two, giant, armed guards stood outside its iron-barred door. They wore curved kopesh blades at their sides and in their belts were whips tipped with sharpened, iron barbs. They were protected by leather chest coverings and arm bracers. The guards seemed alert, they scanned the street, unsmiling.
"This is the place," said Fogrim. "It seems the home of a great merchant or a lesser noble."
"Did your slave not say that Lukor was but a well-off thief?" asked Juskar, stare-battling one of the guards.
"Well, I doubt that she is wrong about that." I said. Thief? No. Lukor was a crime boss.
And we needed to see him.
"So what's our plan?" I said.
"You overthink everything," said Fogrim, striding off towards the guards. "You there, is the surprisingly rich Lukor about?"
The two guards glared at him.
"If you do not speak, then open the door!" Fogrim was almost upon them.
"Shit," I grab Juskar's arm, "come on!"
We rushed after Fogrim.
Both guards moved their hands to their blades, and one stepped forward, holding out his hand.
"Whoever you are, you come without appointment or invitation!" He declared. "Be off with you or I shall-"
With speed unusual for a man so big, Fogrim stepped up to the guard and punched him under the chin, so hard the guard was lifted up into the air. The second guard drew his blade with a cry and rushed forward.
Fogrim stepped back as the man swung his blade just inches from his neck. Then, he stepped forward and grabbed the man's arm, twisting it back. The guard cried out and dropped the blade. Fogrim kneed him in the gut and the man doubled over. Then he kneed him in the face, breaking the man’s nose. He shoved the guard aside to collapse in a pile.
"Well?" He turned and looked back at us, testing his hands. "Don't just stand there, open the door."
I pushed the door; it opened. I could hear men shouting from inside and boots pounding downstairs. I drew my sword and stepped through.
We entered into a chamber that split off down several archways into corridors. At the end of the chamber was a spiral stairway going upwards. A man came rushing down one corridor door, holding a spear with both hands. He flung it at me and I dodged; the wind of the blade rushed past my face. Without slowing he drew a stone sword and charged.
Our blades met, sparks and chips of black stone erupted. He was fast: I could barely keep up with him, but even if the man was not, his weapon was inferior. My steel struck near the center of his weapon and the stone core shattered. He stared in surprise as I lunged and stabbed him through the belly.
Down another corridor, a topless slave girl in a linen loincloth put her hands to her mouth and started screaming. I turned and looked.
"Get down!" Juskar pushed me aside.
An arrow streaked past us and hit the slave girl in the shoulder, she spun away, blood spraying. Down the way the arrow had come, a Shemite archer reached into his quiver for another arrow.
"There is no cover!" Fogrim yelled behind me.
I grabbed the dying swordsman and yanked him to his feet, my arm around his neck while I pushed him forward as a human shield. The man bleated and slipped in his own blood. The archer lowered his bow, staring at me with a look of both horror and surprise.
It was all we needed. As I pushed the dying man forward, Fogrim, and Juskar ran out from behind me, and rushed the archer. The man dropped his bow and tried to draw a dagger from his belt, but Juskar was upon him with his club. He struck him across his face, there was the sickening sound of bone crushing and the man's cheek tore right off, teeth flying. The second blow went to his skull and he went down. The body spasmed as it died.
Bizarrely, it was the smell or roasting pork from a room beyond him, which anchored the memory.
Down the spiral stairway came four men in leather armor and iron helmets with tall shields and stabbing spears. They did not rush; they held their shields up and formed a shield wall at the bottom of the stairs. They took up most of the corridor; there was no getting around them. One of them barked an order and the four began moving in lockstep, spears held out.
"Outside, now!" Fogrim barked.
"No, I have an idea," I grabbed the dead archer’s bow and quiver. I ran down the corridor, following the smell of the roasting pork.
"Damnable fool!" Fogrim took his eyes off the advancing warriors to glance at me. "We cannot fight that!"
"Just go on outside already!" I yelled.
I stopped at an open doorway. Inside was a small kitchen. Countertops were covered in vegetables and raw meat. Clay pots were stacked beside a roaring fireplace fed with chopped wood. In the center of the room was a wooden table and two benches. Cowering under the table was a naked slave girl, chained to the table by an iron shackle at her ankle. Her brown eyes found mine and she closed hers tightly, head pressed to the floor.
On top of the table was a large, metal, serving tray with a pepper roasted piglet on it. It sat in a bed of cooked fruit, yams, and gleaming drippings.
I rushed to the table, dipped my arrowheads in the drippings, then set them alight in the cooking fire. The arrowheads burned angrily, following the dripping fat.
I peeked my head into the corridor.
The shield wall was just passing it, moving towards the exit. I could hear Juskar and Fogrim shouting back and forth at each other, beyond my line of sight. The advancing spearmen noticed me and stopped. They seemed uncertain whether to press forward, or to come after me.
The greater threat won: they pressed forward and I heard the sound of blades striking.
I stepped fully into the corridor, raised my bow, and fired a flaming arrow.
It struck a guard in his shoulder, digging into his leather armor and spraying burning oil. Some hit him in his face and he cried out, dropping his spear to claw at his eyes. I fired another that wedged itself in his back. It burned and dripped down the back of his leather armor and he spun around to hold his shield up against me. The man beside him began yelling, stopping as Fogrim spear punched through his throat.
The shield wall was broken; Juskar and Fogrim pushed into the gap. I fired another arrow: it hit the burning man in the face and he went down. I dropped the bow and rushed forward, drawing my sword. Juskar shoved a man against the wall and smashed him in the knee with his club. The man buckled and he hit him again and again in his iron helmet, till it crumpled.
The last man turned and ran. Fogrim held up his hand for me to stop, raised back his spear, and flung it.
The man went down, Fogrim spear, pinning him through the throat.
No other guards appeared.
"Why didn't you follow my command," said Fogrim, glaring as he went to recover his weapon.
"Roasted pork," I replied. "I haven't had any for millions of years, and I’m not going another step till I do."