Over a year later, Qeb found a wounded man, laying by a creek, drinking water and trying to heal. He dismounted, letting his string of horses drink before crouching along the creek bank, his eyes darting around as he cupped water in his palm and drank.

The man studied him before saying, “You’re the Jackal aren’t you?”

“The Jackal?” Qeb asked, his eyes continuing to roam.

The man nodded as he held a bloodied bandage to his stomach. “The people say you are Chigaru hunting us…the Jackal; always hungry, always hunting.”

Qeb stood, satisfied the man was alone. “I’m no god, nor am I a guardian of death. I only deliver Chigaru’s subjects.” He sniffed the air briefly. “Your wound smells rank. You’ll probably die, so you mean nothing to me.”

He started to walk away when the man shouted. “Have you no mercy?”

“My family screamed for mercy.”

The desperate man screamed. “The tribes have headed west! They fear you and head west! Does that mean nothing to you?”

This time Qeb stopped and looked back. “It means I have avenged my father, my mother and my sister.” He walked away, ignoring any further protests. He had an answer to seek.

 #

A few days later, Qeb reached his former village’s location. The trees remained with a few piles of stone. It took him awhile to trace from the thicket of brush to the village, until he thought he stood over where his house had been. Then he started digging. The entire afternoon burned away as his horses grazed around the encampment. While he sweated and dug, and sweated some more, trying different holes and wondering if he dug in the right area.

The sun hung on the horizon, with Qeb nearly ready to stop for the day and start tomorrow when his shovel clunked on wood. He cleared the area and found a trunk. Prying the box out of the hole, he opened it, his heart beating wildly. Inside was what he expected, two finely made scimitars. His father had oiled and wrapped them in oiled cloth before stowing them away. Not a speck of rust dotted the blades. He checked them with his thumb. They were still razor sharp.

Qeb sat back, cradling the blades. It was all he had of his family. After years of slavery and now vengeance, it still felt empty. But the world was fresh and Qeb was a man now.

He remembered what his father had said, “Truth, justice, honour, and loyalty, those are virtues of an Assaya.” Now he knew his father had once been an Assaya when the true Pharaoh had ruled, and had changed his life after the rebellion. Suddenly it became clear to Qeb.

 The nomads called him the Jackal, but it was Chigaru, the jackal-headed god that hid Meir as he grew until he could revenge Gituck. He was the Jackal and he would find the true Pharaoh and help him reclaim his throne from the impostor. Qeb understood his destiny. It was time the Jackal returned to Judai.

After killing Jyls, Qeb considered returning to kill Yull, but Jyls blood on his hands reminded him that neither Yull’s nor Jyls’s people had killed his family. Using both horses, he travelled south, back to his first enslavement.

Qeb smiled when he saw that Hoelun was still alive. Even though she did not have much longer to live, he was glad for the chance to send her to Gituck himself.

Feet in the water, he crouched along the creek bank. Most of the men hunted, yet four of them remained in the village. Three of them slept in their huts, while a fourth lounged outside. Qeb would take him first.

            Hiding behind the brush growing along the creek’s bank, he stuck several arrows in the ground and nocked one. Steadying his breathing, he stood, drew to his ear, and released. It snapped true, and before the man could lunge from his resting place, the arrow pinned him to the hut wall. Qeb nocked another arrow as the women and children started to scream. The few men erupted from their huts and he fired, taking another down.

            The four warriors were dead before they could orient themselves. Several old men stumbled for weapons but he shot them down. Then he picked out Hoelun, waddling away as women grabbed their children and ran. He sighted carefully and let fly. The arrow slammed into her lower back, driving her to her knees. Then a woman picked up one of the dead warrior’s bows. Qeb shot her too.

            Soon the village was empty as the women ran into the desert. He walked to where Hoelun writhed on the ground, moaning in pain. He kicked her over. “Remember me, Hoelun?” She stared blankly at him until he said, “I was your slave boy, Qeb.”

            She hissed and tried to spit but he moved on. He found a piece of dried wood and lit it from a smouldering fire. Soon fires burnt, the smoke writhing into the air as he threw everything of value onto the burning huts. When he walked back to the creek, ash smeared his face, but his gaze was distant. It had taken a long time, yet every nomad would pay with their blood. There would be nothing left of the Gurk.

            He took a drink of water then waded across before running for his horses. He knew the warriors would track him, but he counted on it. He rode for a thicket patch similar to the one where he had shot the bull buffalo.

#

            The warriors fanned out, hunting him. Qeb had scouted the thorns thoroughly and knew the buffalo trails through them as he waited, listening to the men split as they entered the thorns. He waited along a trail he knew they would take with a dagger in each hand. The warriors rode past, their horses lathered from the hard ride as their dark eyes searched for him. As the last one passed, Qeb broke cover. The man spun as he knifed him in the lower back, running right past the horse and lunging back into the thorns.

            A horn blew as the nomads leapt from their mounts and charged into the thorns after him. Hunched over, Qeb used a buffalo trail to circle back. He came from behind, and grabbed a man with his garrot, the rawhide cutting off any sound as he sawed it back and forth. When that man lay unmoving, he continued through the thicket.

            The next man went without a sound, but the fourth spun and screamed, attacking. Qeb ducked several swings, before ducking under a thorn bush and letting the man tangle his blade as he lunged from the other side, his dagger leading. The man staggered and collapsed, blood bubbling from his mouth.

            The thicket seemed to erupt with men crashing through it. Qeb crouched, and as a man crashed past, he whipped his dagger across the nomad’s throat. The brush seemed alive as the former slave ducked and dodged the men rushing him. He cut one man down, before scrambling through a patch of thorns, reaching a trail and running down it. All around, men pursued him. He ducked down another trail and began to circle, then stopped.

            They all knew that buffalo bulls circled their prey. They would expect it after the first attack. So he ran back the way he had come, straight into a man with his sword drawn. The blade swished overhead as Qeb ducked and rolled, slamming his dagger into the man’s guts. He moved past, drawing his sword. He parried another man, keeping his moves efficient until the man tangled his sword in the thorns.

Breathing heavy, Qeb rotated in a half crouch as a nomad’s leg twitched below him. He backed up, his eyes searching as branches snapped around him yet no nomads appeared when it occurred to Qeb they were fleeing. He straightened when pounding hooves could be heard.

Except for occasional moan of a wounded nomad, it was silent as Qeb left the thicket and the wounded men to die. They never had mercy for him, so he would have none for them.

Qeb stood knee deep in the creek, bending to scrub the dried blood from his arms. It seemed he always washed blood from his hands, but this time it was different, it was human blood. The raid had come as surprise, and now considered a man, Qeb had fought alongside Jyls. The water washed the blood away and he wondered if he would always wash blood from his hands. A promise tickled the back of his mind.

He frowned at his reflection in the water. Hair sprouted on his chin and upper lip. Already his shoulders thickened from years of using the bow. He was no longer a boy fetching buckets of water. He shook his head before wading from the creek. As he reached the bank and started to tie his boots on, Haylan, who was fast becoming a striking young woman, walked down with a basket of bloody linen to wash.

            Her dark eyes studied him. “You fought well today.”

            He didn’t meet her gaze. Her father had already warned Jyls that if he caught Qeb looking at his daughter again he would castrate the slave. Qeb shrugged while lacing up his other boot. “Many of us did.”

The girl shook her head. “You will be a great warrior. Was your father a great warrior?”

“My father?”

“I thought maybe that was why Jyls had taken you as his slave. He knew you would be a warrior. We all know he didn’t father a boy as handsome as you.”

            Qeb scratched his head. He had not thought of his parents for such a long time. A vision of washing blood from his hands flashed and he understood. As long as he left his parent’s death un-avenged, the blood was on his hands. When he looked back at Haylan, she was another ugly nomad. His gaze hardened. “He was a fisherman, murdered by the Gurk, and Jyls is my owner, that is all.”

            He walked away, feeling her stare on his back. As he neared the village, Yull, now a grown man sneered at him and shouted. “What’ye doing down at the creek with Haylan?”

            His group of friends snickered as an old woman sitting by her hut glanced at Qeb. Every other time, Qeb walked past, returning to the sanctuary of Jyls’s hut, but not this time as he stopped and considered the bully. “Those few moments may be long enough for you, Yull, but it’s hardly enough time for me.”

            The bully’s leer dropped to a scowl and the old lady smirked. Qeb continued, feeling Yull’s baleful stare and not caring. He was just a stinking nomad, hardly worth fearing.

#

Later that night as he lay staring at the stars overhead, he remembered his past…and cursed his weakness. He had become so caught up in learning to hunt and be a warrior he had forgotten. From killing the bull buffalo, learning to shoot a bow and fight with a sword, to riding and hunting, then the skills of tracking and living in the wild, but Qeb contented himself that at least he had become a warrior. The nomads had taught him everything they knew…and now it was time to remember his family. Remember who he had been.

It was time for revenge.

#

            The next day with the sun blazing overhead, turning the grass along the creek brown, Jyls and Qeb wove through a narrow ravine, following a stag’s trail. Qeb stared at his owner’s back as Jyls hunched over, reading the trail.

The nomad had taken Qeb as a son, no longer treating him as a slave. But Qeb remembered the days he ran behind the horses and worked his fingers to the bone. The nomads had a saying, surviving is strength. It hadn’t killed him and now he was stronger because of it. He supposed he could thank Jyls for that.

If he could, he would let Jyls live. But he would not be dissuaded from his path. It had been long enough. Giving the nomad fair warning was enough of a repayment. Qeb halted his horse. “Jyls!”

            The hunter spun, scowling at the noise.

            “I’m giving you a warning.” The aging man frowned as Qeb continued, “I cannot live with my family’s blood on my hands. Their deaths must be avenged. I’m giving you this warning. My path will be bloody and your people will enact vengeance when they cannot catch me. Leave them, leave this place.”

            Jyls hard flint eyes stared at Qeb, but the young man refused to wilt under that piercing gaze. Suddenly the nomad shouted his war-cry and spurred his horse forward while drawing his curving sword. Qeb ripped his blade free and with a sharp right heel, urged his horse to leap left, forcing Jyls to reverse his stroke. The nomad’s sword extended across his body, flashing as he swung. Their blades rang sharply before they turned their horses around.

            Jyls gave another war-cry with his sword leading. Qeb leaned forward, urging his horse into to a lope. Their blades rang as their horses collided. Horseflesh thudded with horseflesh, toppling both mounts. Qeb jumped clear as his horse slammed to the ground. He raced back to Jyls, who had jumped, stumbled, and rolled clear. As his mentor turned, Qeb attacked, driving Jyls backwards. A slash appeared on Jyls shoulder, followed by a second on his waist. Qeb caught Jyls’s blade, rotated the sword past him, stepped in and whipped his blade up to stab through Jyls’s chest. He left it stick a moment before twisting and ripping it out.

            The old warrior toppled from the force of the blade coming loose. Blood ran across the dry dirt, quickly soaking away as Jyls struggled for his dying breath.

Qeb knelt. He looked into the fast glazing eyes. “I made my choice and you made yours, Jyls. I will remember your loyalty to your people. It is honourable, but these are not my people. Know that. As you are true to yourself, so must I be.” He stood and wiped his blade clean before walking away. He took Jyls’s horse and his own. It was not until he cleared the ravine that he wiped the tears from his eye.

Every day after that, Qeb ran with the boys, joining in the hunts, then one morning Jyls threw him a sheathed knife along with a spear. “Take them. They are yours to hunt with. Every night you give them back to me.”

            Qeb nodded and with great effort, said, “Thank you,” while wondering why he should be thankful for anything. Jyls only grunted before mounting his horse.

            As they ran that day, the young slave kept pace behind the boys, considering his owner. Jyls was unmarried, and seemed content with no sons. Yet he seemed to show special interest in him. Only Qeb could not find any sympathy for the man. He was still part of the nomads who had killed his family. He had to remember that. His father, mother, and sister were dead because of men like Jyls.

            Ahead, the riders crested a ridge and stopped. The boys caught them in time to hear the end of the discussion.

“Other than deer and marmots, we’ve not found any buffalo since the last kill.”

“I agree,” voiced another rider, “It’ll be difficult, but if we can take a couple buffalo it’ll be worth it.”

Below, a wide plateau filled with thorn thicket and brush stretched to the next bluff of hills, so thick with brush that the riders would not be able to see much beyond their horses if they entered it. On the far side, a few cows grazed on the fringe of the thorns.

The lead hunter added, “Move slow. They’ll push into the thorns immediately so we’ll split to either side, and try to pin them between us. Or push them out, but work together on a single animal.” He looked at Yull. “Move through the thicket, your noise should help flush them.”

After Yull nodded, the hunters swung their horses around and started down to the plateau.

The riders used the thicket to conceal their presence as they divided and moved down the sides while Qeb followed the boys into the brush. Thorns gouged and scratched his bare arms and chest as he wove through it, until he noticed a dry creek bed, void of thorns. He crawled to it before straightening and trotting down it.

A cow bellowed ahead, followed by crashing through the thorns.

Qeb sprinted, hoping to intercept it, when branches snapped behind him. He spun as the largest bull he’d ever seen, emerged from the thicket. The bull’s horns far outstretched his arm’s reach to either side and its black eyes stared at him from under the curly hair covering its forehead while a thick mane of hair bristled on its neck.

            Qeb froze.

The bull snorted, his bottomless gaze unwavering as its chest heaved and nostrils flared.

A cold sweat broke across Qeb’s skin and his heart hammered blood through his ears. His mind blank, he stared at the bull.

The bull tipped its head, its front hooves digging into the ground.

Qeb rotated, snapping the spear into place as the bull crashed into him.

            The spear drove deep into bull’s chest as the animal smashed Qeb aside. He tumbled across the ground, rose to his feet and watched the bull crash into the thorns then stagger back out to face him. Blood leaked down its nose and red bubbles formed as it blew and puffed. It dropped to a knee, attempted to lunge and then toppled over, its hooves thrashing as it died.

Qeb dropped his knife as he began to shake. He felt sick from the rush of adrenaline. What had he been thinking, running to kill a cow buffalo? This one had nearly killed him?

Once the bull had stopped thrashing and twitching in its death throes, he collected himself and started gutting the huge animal. While working, he heard Jyls yell, “Boy!”
            “Here!” Qeb shouted, stepping back to study the bull’s glazed eyes.

Jyls pushed through the thicket, stopped, and stood staring at the bull. “You did this?”

Qeb nodded.

His master shook his head in disbelief as Yull and the others materialized from the thicket to stare in shock at him and the dead bull. After a moment the old hunter’s eyes hardened. “It’s only right, the horns and hide are yours.”

            Yull scowled while the other boys looked in disbelief at Jyls.

Qeb stared at the dead bull, his elation replaced with a deadening thought. How could he truly own anything as long as Jyls owned him?

#

            That night, after getting the animals back to camp, Jyls gave Qeb his hide and horns. “Drill a hole in the end of one of those and you will have a good hunting horn. The other you can use as a drinking horn and the hide will make a good blanket once it’s cured.”

            Qeb nodded then used one of Jyls’ frames to stretch the hide. He poked holes around the edges, running lace through it and tying it firmly to the frame.

As he scraped the hide, Jyls sat next to the fire and spoke. “Most buffalo run in large herds, but in the summer they split into smaller herds, usually with one or two bulls as they forage for food. It is their time of weakness because predators get hungry and brave. The young bulls will herd together, until one of them gets strong enough to beat up an old bull. The bachelor groups are best to hunt as they do not affect the population like killing a cow. But the most dangerous are the lone bulls like the one you killed. Come late spring they will breed the cows then go off alone to live. They are the toughest of buffalo. Be careful of causing an open stampede. Once they get running, you can fill a buffalo with arrows and it won’t stop. Their hearts are too huge. Yet once mortally wounded, if you shoot deep into their neck it will foul their shoulders and they’ll fall.” Jyls continued speaking, explaining tactics to kill buffalo until late into the night. Then, “I’ll get you a children’s bow. It’s time you learned to shoot.”

The next day as the men readied to hunt, Jyls signalled to Qeb. “You run with boys while we ride. Grab a small bladder for water.”

            A shiver ran through the youth as he gazed at the group of boys, which included Yull and his friends, all carrying short spears, skinning knives, and small bladders filled with water slung across their chests. Being in the village was dangerous enough, but once alone they would take revenge.

Jyls rode close and leaned down. If you refuse to act as a slave, I have no choice.”

            His owner’s dark eyes bored into him until he looked at Yull who scowled at him. He gulped before looking back at Jyls.

            “Well?”

            “I’m dead once we’re alone,” croaked Qeb.

            “Only slaves fear death, else they would not be slaves.”

            Qeb scrunched up his features. He couldn’t make sense of Jyls words, but it seemed an insult so he stared hard at his master, who after a moment nodded to himself and rode to Yull and the others.

            “My slave is travelling with you. If,” Jyls rode so close to the boys they had to jump back, “If anything happens to him, you are all responsible. I expect him there to help dress the animals.”

            None of them spoke as they gazed sullenly at Qeb.

After a moment Jyls added, “Yull, since you are eldest, you are charged with making sure my slave is alive and able to work.”

Yull scowled at Jyls, but after a moment dipped his eyes and Jyls rode away, joining the other riders who had watched the exchange with cold eyes while herding boys chased goats out of the way with calls of, “Hyah! Hyah!”

As the hunting party left the village behind, travelling quickly into the desolate land, the boys broke into a jog following the riders. Qeb fell into pursuit, running lightly and leaving a few lengths between him and the others, knowing if he was to survive he needed to conserve his strength.

#

            The men rode into the hills, looking for the wild cattle, their staple meat. The horses travelled easily across the dry landscape while the boys slowly fell behind, and by noon, Qeb thought he would die before they found any animals to hunt. His dry throat rasped with each breath and his eyes blurred. His legs had gone numb long before, causing him to stumble whenever his concentration wavered. Yet he dared not pause to take a drink lest he fall behind.

            The other boys seemed un-bothered to be trotting across the bleak land, but they did it often. Suddenly Yull spoke from the front. “Is the dog keeping up?”

            One of the boys glanced back. “Not far behind.”

            “The hunting party just split, they must have found something. We have to pick up the pace.”

            Qeb didn’t have any more speed in his legs, and step by step he fell behind as the group of boys disappeared from sight. He gasped, breaking into a staggering sprint, until stumbling to a stop at the edge of a ravine. Below, the boys picked their way through a thicket of thorns in pursuit of the riders who had disappeared into the brush of the gorge. After a gulp of air, he started into the ravine where a spring bubbled from the rocks, creating a small pool and a little creek that ran to the low land. He knelt and drank, then followed as best he could through the thorn thickets and brush that lined creek, trailing the horses and boys as they wove south. It was late afternoon when he heard horns sounding.

            He took off running down the ravine, until he spotted hoof marks up the side. He ran to the top in time to see the riders shooting arrows at running buffalo. The black cattle had curving horns with slick coats and a bristling mane of hair across their necks. He stared in amazement as the men whooped and shouted, yet most of the beasts quickly outdistanced the riders in a wild stampede, carving away into the hills. As the dust cleared, fourteen dead lay on the ground.

            Qeb started towards them.

            Jyls spotted him and rode over. He lobbed a knife to him. “Start gutting.”

            Qeb could skin a rabbit or a marmot with his eyes closed, and his hands remembered how to gut a fish, but the huge animal overwhelmed him as he looked from the knife to Jyls.

            Yull was nearest and sniggered as he expertly pulled the guts from the dead animal.

Seeing his confusion, Jyls shook his head in disgust before dismounting then proceeding to show the boy how to gut the cattle. It wasn’t long before the old hunter had a pile of innards lying on the ground. He handed the knife back to Qeb, gesturing at another buffalo.

            It took Qeb much longer, and by the time he was done, he was soaked in blood. By then, men and women from the camp arrived with carts as they skinned and quartered the cattle.

            When every animal had been butchered and most of the wagons were already gone, Jyls mounted and glanced over his shoulder. “Follow the carts, and keep up this time.”

            During the butchering, Yull and the others had returned with the first wagons, leaving Qeb to walk alone behind the carts. His feet, legs, and body ached from the exhausting day. Near dark, he hit a rock, tripped and fell. No one stopped as he looked up, but he knew the women guiding the rear wagon were aware of his fall. Gritting his teeth, he rose, limping for a time while wondering if he should walk away in the dark.

            Looking out at the black night, unable to even see the horizon, he shivered. He had no supplies and no abilities to survive out there. He would die, or else Jyls would track him and he would return to a flogging. He shook his head and continued to follow.

It was dark by the time they reached camp. Qeb plodded in after the wagons. Already buffalo carcasses roasted over huge spits while Jyls stood to the side, drinking from a horn. As he neared, Jyls looked over. “Get water.”

            With a sigh, the boy picked up his buckets and staggered down to the creek while other slaves worked at smoking the meat to cure it.

When they arrived at the new village, Jyls tossed several marmot hides to Qeb and pointed at the racks leaning against his hut. “Stretch and scrape those.”

The young slave pried the sticky, slightly dry hide apart before gouging holes around the edge and tying them to the racks. While working, Jyls’s shadow loomed over him and he ducked sideways, shielding his head from the incoming blow.

Nothing struck him as his new owner snapped, “Take the scraper, boy!”

He looked up to see Jyls’s arm outstretched with a flat steel tool. Gingerly taking it, he went to work, scraping fat from the hide so it would cure with no weak spots.

After he finished, he was rubbing the knots out of his forearm when Jyls pointed at a small shoulder yoke lying by the hut. “Use that to fetch water from the stream.”

Used to carrying the pails, the young slave smiled despite himself while pulling the shoulder yoke onto his shoulders before hooking the pails on each side. He started towards the stream when Jyls snapped, “Run and don’t spill!”

He looked back at his master, but was met with a dark stare, so he took off, filling them and returning at a trot with the water sloshing. Kneeling and letting the pails rest on the ground, he untangled himself from the yoke when Jyls loomed over the pails.

“They’re half-empty.” He cuffed the young slave. “Do it again, but don’t spill.”

            With each trip, Qeb continued to slosh water out of the pails and silently cursed Jyls for an impossible task until his master drew out a strap. “You learn slowly. Learn faster or I begin strapping.”

The young slave balled his fists, but held his tongue. The threat of being strapped forced him to adjust his running by kicking his feet out and smoothing his gait. He never spilt after that.

That night, Jyls handed Qeb a bowl. “Eat while it’s warm,” he grunted before ducking into his hut to eat his meal alone. The boy looked around, before scooping his bowl into the pot of gruel hanging over the fire. It had been years since he had been able to eat his fill and he took full advantage of it, eating until his shrunk stomach groaned from the gluttony and barely enough gruel remained for Jyls’s hound to clean up.

#

A few weeks later, Qeb rounded a hut, a wet hide in his arms ready for stretching, when an older boy walked into him. Recognizing the bully, he staggered and righted himself, determined to continue on his way.

Yull was nearly ready to become a man and already had thick curly hair on his forearms as he pushed the slave again, knocking the hide out of his hands.

“What you doing with that hide, Dog?” he sneered.

Qeb bent to pick it up and another boy pushed him into Yull’s path, who stepped aside and tripped him. He tried to stand when Yull’s foot crunched into his ribs and the slave rolled while gasping as he tried to get away, but the boys circled him, kicking and laughing.

No one noticed them behind the huts as Qeb curled into a ball, hoping the blows would stop as fighting had only ever made the previous beating worse. A blow crunched into his nose and blood spurted while another solidly struck his ribs, making him gasp for breath. He started to panic. They might not stop and he would die behind the huts. The thought awoke a long ignored instinct of survival.

Before the other boy’s could react, he was on his feet and tackling Yull. They toppled to the ground, with Qeb digging his fingers into the older boy’s throat. Yull tried to dislodge him, but from hours of scraping hides and grinding grain, the slave’s fingers were like rocks. He straddled the bully, choking him when he was clouted on the head. He rolled and scrambled to his feet as the other two boys tackled him to the ground. Behind them, Yull coughed for breath.

While Qeb wrestled with the two boys, kicking, biting and clawing; another boy circled, laughing and hooting. Then Qeb jammed his palm into a boy’s nose and felt it crunch. The boy toppled off and he scrambled on top of the other, while the fourth boy jumped him from behind.

The young slave, who was still the son of a warrior and had that fight inside him, pounded on the boy below as the other held tight to his neck, choking his wind off, but it didn’t matter to him. He would hurt the boy before he died. His vision blurred and started to darken, then suddenly there was a shout and he was yanked backwards. He scrambled to his feet and a hand knocked him down.

Jyls sent the other boys scrambling away before grabbing him. “So you think you are tough. We’ll see how strong you are.”

Qeb was so mad he swung at Jyls, who clouted him on the head, dazing him. Then Jyls threw him at the hide forgotten in the dust. “Finish your task,” he snapped before leaving.

Blood trickled down the boy’s eye and his ribs hurt awful, but he gathered up the hide and continued to the rack, where he would stretch and scrape it. Rounding a hut, Qeb jumped out of the way of a young girl, who frowned at him, but continued past as he lowered his eyes in respect.

“Dog!” a man barked and Qeb flinched, turning to see the girl’s father scowling at him. “You gawk at her again and I’ll beat you worse than Yull ever could. Understand?”

Qeb nodded, his legs quivering.

“Get out of here,” the man barked, turning away and Qeb raced past, only glancing back once he was well out of sight.

He wiped the blood from his upper lip, suddenly morose because not a trace of concern had crossed anyone’s features. He felt very alone as he wondered why no one cared. Jyls only cared that he remained healthy enough to work, and the rest would beat him worse than their mangy dogs if he gave them a chance to.

Several weeks later came a day that Qeb would remember forever. He worked in front of the hut, cross-legged with a wide smooth bowl on his lap filled with kernels of grain and a round rock, grinding the grain into flour, when a warrior shouted, “Riders approach!”

Qeb kept grinding while glancing up.

Leading pack-laden horses, the riders sent the village into a flurry of activity as women hauled goods wrapped in hides to the open area outside the village. There they unrolled the bundles on the ground, arranging their goods while the men approached the traders, offering customary greetings and swapping news.

While Hoelun got busy displaying the pots she’d made, Qeb used the diversion to slide closer to the hut and rest in the shade. It astounded him that traders from another tribe could come and trade like old friends when only a season earlier those same traders had been raiding the village. His eyes narrowed in hatred, it could have been those very men that had killed his family and taken him away.

Suddenly, Hoelun’s swarthy husband threw his arms in the air and strode away from the traders back into camp. Spotting Qeb, he beckoned him over, before taking a hold of the boy’s arm and dragging him towards the group of traders. A man, his skin darkened and creased from the elements, scrutinized the slave as Hoelun’s husband said, “I will trade this one for it. He is skinny, but a good worker. Doesn’t cry much either.”

            Qeb stared at the weathered man, defiant.

After a moment, the trader nodded. “Very well, here’s your sword.” He handed a curved scimitar to Hoelun’s husband who pushed the boy forward. “Wait behind me,” the trader ordered, shoving the boy to the side. “Say nothing. Do nothing. Understand?”

            Qeb nodded then stood still, studying his new master and the other traders. They dressed much like the Gurk, but carried iron swords and wore hardened leather armour. He tried to remember faces from that night long ago, but all that remained were memories of his mother toppling as his baby sister went flying, his father falling as arrows struck his flesh, and fire lighting the night.

#

            It was late afternoon when the men called an end to their bargaining. Qeb’s owner tied a thong around the boy’s wrists before mounting. The riders trotted away and his owner yanked the rope, leaving no choice for Qeb but to follow at a run.

It was not long before his legs and chest burnt, but the rope kept pulling him along while the riders alternated between a walk and a trot, giving Qeb time to catch his breath while his legs warmed to the jogging. Yet it remained a struggle to keep his feet beneath him and several times his new owner had to slow, allowing the boy to regain his footing.

            After sunset, the men stopped. While they tethered and groomed their horses, Qeb lay gasping on the ground, his legs and chest burning as scrapes on his shins and knees wept blood.

Much later, the men had a fire going with several marmots roasting over it as Qeb crawled into a sitting position and watched, ravenous as his owner threw him a piece a jerky.

            From across the fire, a man spoke to his owner. “Jyls, if you wanted a dog I would have traded you one.”

            Jyls looked up. “He doesn’t cry much, the owner said. Ever meet a child that doesn’t cry much?” The man shook his head and Jyls nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

            No one spoke for awhile until another man said, “You better give him more to eat if he is run behind us all the way.”

            With eyes perpetually narrowed from years in the sand and sun, Jyls’s expression hardened into frown before he handed a thick slice of meat over.

The child’s eyes widened before he devoured the food.

            “You bought a starved slave, Jyls,” stated another before he took a swig from his camel skin.

            Jyls ignored them, handing a skin to the slave boy, who promptly squirted some of the tangy goat milk into his mouth.

Handing the skin back, Qeb dipped his head in thanks as Jyls tucked it away before lying down to sleep. After glancing around for directions and receiving none, the boy followed suit, wriggling closer to the fire for warmth.

It seemed only moments and he woke to shouts as the men stood with their bows and swords drawn. Beyond the firelight hooves pounded on the hard desert while Qeb stayed flat, glancing around.

Then a sentry said, “Probably kids from the Gurk trying to steal our horses.”

            Nothing else was said and after a time the men laid back down.

It wasn’t long and Qeb found sleep again. He was too tired not to.

Qeb hustled back to the nomad village whose huts nestled against a creek coming from the Hebasti Mountains, struggling not to spill the sloshing water from the hide bucket. He entered the village at a trot and hurried around a building, skidding to a halt in front of a warrior. A quick backhand by the warrior sent him sprawling and his water splashing across the dry ground. He watched it soak into the earth and stifled the urge to cry as he clambered back to his feet.

            Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the bucket and ran back to the creek. Now Hoelun would call him lazy because he took so long, and every time he was called lazy meant a strap across the back. He reached the creek and knelt, but as he refilled the bucket, tears burst from his eyes, dripping into the creek to be swept away.

            Years had passed; enough that Qeb struggled to remember his family. He knew he had lived along the ocean and his father had always taken him fishing on their small boat and his mother had given him warm goat milk in the evenings. But their faces blurred. Only one thing remained prominent in his mind; the stories of the Pharaoh’s Assaya.

            But that was before the nomads took him—back when Qeb only knew them as Nomads. Now he knew their name, the Gurk. When he grew up, he would kill the Gurk. The thoughts allowed him to dry his eyes as he tottered back up the slope to the encampment. This time he was more careful, lest it get spilt again.

#

            Hoelun sat beside her hut, scraping a hide tied to a frame. “You take that long ever again to get a bucket of water and no food for a week. You hear me,” she spat, “No food for a week, and don’t think I won’t.”

            Qeb set down the bucket, his eyes lowered. He never doubted her promises, not any more.

            “Now come here and scrape this,” she ordered, handing the knife to him. As he took it, he thought about stabbing her, but she clouted him on the head and said, “Get to work.”

            He knelt and started scraping. Even after years of work, his thin sinewy arms still burnt with exhaustion from the demanding task. Hoelun only ventured by occasionally, otherwise she left him to it, and it was dark by the time he finished. Utterly exhausted, he staggered upright and Hoelun examined his work before handing him a bowl of watery soup. Qeb downed it then found a sheltered spot behind the hut to sleep, where he collapsed, tears spurting from his eyes. It wasn’t fair. He wanted his mom and dad. He shivered against the cold while imagining his mother’s arms wrapped around him and her voice whispering in his ear. Nothing will hurt you Qeb. The thought warmed him and his tears dried as he fell asleep.

It was nearly dark when the skiff slid onto the gravely shore. His father pulled the cart near and they loaded the fish onto it, before setting off for home. As they walked down the trail to the village, his father said, “Remember Qeb, these stories are our secret, tell no one.”

            They topped the ridge facing the ocean shore and his father halted, his gaze darkening.
            “What is it, father?” Qeb asked, wondering what the strange glow on the horizon was.

            His father dropped the cart handles. The fish spilt across the ground as he grabbed Qeb’s hand and took off in the darkness.

            “What?” Qeb started to demand.

            “Stay quiet Qeb, we’re in danger,” his father snapped. Read the rest of this entry

            Styr cursed as he dragged his crippled legs across the damp stones, scraping his elbows with each shove. The buckets are full, he silently complained, and no one is around. And why is the damn privy so far away? He grunted in exhaustion. Where is someone? Styr continued to drag himself down the hallway.

            “I could help you,” offered a voice behind him.

            Styr jerked. How did I not hear him approach? His temper foul, he said, “No, I’m making out quite fine.”

            “Don’t be a fool,” replied the voice before Styr felt a hand bunch his tunic and hoist him up. “I imagine you’d be going to the privy.”

            “No, I figured I’d just go for a walk,” answered Styr as the man threw him over his shoulder. He just caught a glimpse of a beard before he hung down the man’s back. He swung his head and gaped. The man’s opposite shoulder ended without an arm. He had just thrown me over his shoulder with one arm, Styr realized in amazement. Read the rest of this entry