Still half a mile or so from the entrance, a pair of travelers—a human man and a woman—intercept the group.
“You there, you’d better stop right now!” the woman points at Rakatha and speaks with an accusatory tone.
As often is the case, Rakatha is not paying attention and doesn’t heed the woman. As is often the case, Vong is only too desperate to socialize and stops.
“Hi there, who are you?” he asks, smiling.
I slow my pace but don’t stop. The rest of the party slows as well, whether they notice or not.
“That there is my property!” she says, spitting.
Vong’s whole body reacts to the surprise accusation, “Whoa, really?”
The fact that he’s willing to believe that a complete stranger owns a slave in Elysium, and it’s someone he knows, is baffling to me. Shouldn’t he be incredulous about the existence of slaves in a country where it is outlawed and strictly punished, or does he just not think about things like that?
“Hey Rak, do you know her?” Vong gets Rakatha’s attention this time and he stops.
Rakatha’s attempts to recognize the two travelers is punctuated by a furrowed brow, raised eyebrow, and pursing lips that he twists side-to-side.
Before he can answer, the woman stomps over to him and gets right in his face, “You killed my brother-in-law. Your master. You had no right! You have no right to be walking around like a free man with such a grave burden on you!”
This gets the rest of the party to stop, including myself.
“I don’t know this woman,” Rakatha says to Vong. He then looks at the woman, irritation plain to see on his face, “What do you want?” Or is his expression one of fear?
“You belong to me now,” she says, smirking. “Be good and come along quietly.” Her posture changes. She folds her arms and stands up more haughtily, while at the same time subtly bringing her association with the man with her into more prominence.
I take in the pair carefully. They are both deeply tanned with dark hair. Next to Rakatha’s equally tanned skin, this does come across as a possible regional similarity, giving credence that they come from the same place. The accent seems similar too.
The woman wears a sueded leather vest over a loose-sleeved blouse, and a paneled skirt that hits at mid-shin, in a style not of this region. The man has on thick, linen trousers tucked into boots laced up to the knee. His shirt and vest are entirely unassuming and give no indication about where he hails from. He wears a thick bastard sword at his waist, upon which rests a hand protected by thick, leather gloves that reach nearly to his elbows. On his head rests a fitted cap of thick, polished leather. The most telling thing about him, however, are his eyes. Beady and intense, they reveal that he is barely contained and is keenly in tune with the woman’s movements. He looks as though he is ready to spring forward and kill on command, like a dog.
“You must have the wrong guy,” explains Vong. “He’s part of my squad.”
Without looking away from Rakatha she counters, “Is his name Rakatha?”
Vong smiles for some reason, “Yeah!”
“Then he’s the one who killed my brother-in-law. I’ve come to collect what is mine.”
“Wouldn’t he belong to your sister then, or?” Vong asks confusedly, somehow following her allegations but maintaining a solid core ignorance for both the laws of his homeland and neighboring lands.
The woman looks at Vong and narrows her eyes, “Her husband has died so she’s been buried with him.”
Vong rubs his head in what is either embarrassment or still some confusion, “Oh, sorry.”
I can see Rakatha’s jaw clenching, even as his mood visibly darkens. I glance around at the traffic coming in and out of Nodkis, and at the gate guards. If a fight breaks out, the Watch wouldn’t arrive in time to do anything other than to deal with a body or two on the western trade road. The farmer’s carts and merchant travelers don’t have any mercenary guards that could step in—at least in the general vicinity.
The party would probably be inclined to support Rakatha in a fight and likely haven’t processed that he’s being accused of being a murderer on the lam. From the look of the muscle she brought, the party might win but probably fare quite poorly. He holds himself as one familiar with single combat but, unlike Rakatha, much more brutal. One or two of us would be severely wounded, by my approximation. Maybe even a death.
Perhaps I can direct things to a decidedly less lethal, and supremely less troublesome, conclusion, “Slavery is not permitted in Elysium. By law, you cannot lay claim to him.”
As expected, she shoots daggers at me with her eyes and scoffs, “I don’t care for the laws of your land! My people have their own laws, and I own this man until he can pay for his freedom.” She looks back at Rakatha and sneers, “Something you don’t deserve, butcher. I’ll not forgive you, on my sister’s honor.”
Vong’s apparent sense of righteousness is activated by my mention of Elysian law because he seems to wake from his confused state and says to the woman, “He’s got papers and everything. He’s free here, by law!”
“Then he has to pay for it,” she growls back. She points a finger right at Rakatha and says, “Pay for your freedom, right now, or I will see to it your are dragged back into the pits and chained. Don’t think your friends can protect you.”
The man behind her twitches slightly in response, squeezing the hilt of his sword to punctuate her threat.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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