Dark Recruit

Some writefaggotry. The story is told in first person (mostly) and details the recruitment of a feral world barbarian into the ranks of a Chaos Space Marine warband.

Part 1: Raid Awry

I wake with a start from a light blow to my ribs. Though startled, I make no noise. Not tonight. Somewhere to my left another warrior, Braga, I think, is less careful. I hear a sharp crack off in that direction, good, someone shut him up.

The night is cold; I draw my leather coat closer to my chest as I try to separate my clansmen from the gloom; no fire is lit this night. Most of my kin has already awakened; soon it will be time to move. To my right sits Dag, wrapped in a warm cloak and picking up his spear. I repay him for striking my ribs with a punch to his arm. He is close enough that I can see him smile. I can make out few other details, but I know them well enough from memory.

Dag is clothed and armed like all of our kind; thick britches of fur cover his, our, legs, heavy coats of darkened leather hang from our shoulders, fine moccasins of elk-flesh keep our feat fleet and silent. We carry stone tipped spears or javelins of hardy, dark wood. Most of us sport long daggers of foreign bronze on our belts. Nearly all of us have brought hatchets of sharpened flint. We are armed to the teeth and have the advantages of speed and surprise; we make a fearsome lot.

I look eastward, towards the horizon, from whence we came; sunrise is still a ways off yet. I give little thought to the march. Five days we have traveled west, stopping only to fill our waterskins and to sleep through the hottest parts of the day. That is how it has always been; to march under the cover of night and to sleep through the treacherous day. Tonight, though, the Clanlord had us make camp just as the sun dove behind the western mountains; he wants us rested and ready for the raid.

From somewhere up ahead I hear an owl-call; the Clanlord orders us to move. I quickly grasp my spear, a weapon I crafted myself to be longer than I am tall, and take my place in line. I am placed near the front, with the rest of the younger raiders, where we can earn experience and scars like our elder kin. I have been in few battles before today, and never with such a large host. The mere size of our army was enough to excite me on the day we left; the Clanlord has gathered over three score warriors from the four villages for this raid; the largest force in living memory. Only a host of this size has any hope of taking the Trade Settlement; with their caravan’s returned, they will have many well armed warriors to defend it.

But the Clanlord is confident and that makes me confident. With this many warriors at his command, how could he possibly fail? Our people live off the land, hunting and farming and fighting. The Trade clans are soft and weak; they grow fat and rich off of our hard work and sweat. We are strong, we will win.

My thoughts give way as we start moving. The Clanlord’s pace is steady and quick; we eat up the final leagues of our journey in no time at all. I give silent thanks to the gods for giving him the wisdom to have us rest before the final leg; even by the time I see the silhouette of the Trader’s village my breath is still calm and even.

We slow our pace and spread out as we reach our destination. Never have I seen such buildings; they are built of wood and are twice as tall as anything I have seen before. Also, they are square. Why someone waste their time with four-walled structures when a simple circle works so well? Their wooden walls I understand; these buildings are permanent. Unlike our own yurts and tents that are designed to be quickly taken down and raised once more if we move or they get damaged, the Trader’s village is built to stay where they are built. This also means that every one of their buildings is essentially a small fortress. Am I starting to get nervous?

They built their homes in a fine place. A swift stream separates it from us, and a copse of trees rests on the far side. The land is cultivated and the settlement is surrounded by sea of grain; I suppose the Traders do work after all. I am glad, the tall crops provide us ample cover and hint at food stores; food stores that will be ours very soon. The younger raiders, myself included, ran out of food two days ago; our inexperience in rationing led to hungry days of marching. Lesson learned. We did manage to fell a pair of elk before making camp earlier this night, and the mouthful of raw meat that was given as my share meant that my stomach wouldn’t be completely empty for the coming battle; and the warm blood helped to keep me warm throughout the night.

If any of us were still groggy after our early morning run, we weren’t after we hit the water. Cold as ice and burning like fire it cut into us up to our knees. Our need for stealth prolonged our agony, moving fast through water is loud, but sharpened our focus. We were ready as we would ever be.

We reached the wall to find a wooden palisade blocking our way into the village. No matter. Those to get there fist cupped their hands and took a knee; I was one of the first to be propelled over the wall. As I reach the top I quickly scan the area and decide to launch myself onto the roof of the nearest building, there was nothing else of interest to either side. I land lighter than I expected, the Traders seem to cover their roofs with straw of some sort. Moving as silently as I can I dart forward and vault onto the next roof; the Traders were fools to build their homes so close together. After crossing over a few more rooftops and making my way to the far side of the village, Dag and I landed on a building larger than most of the others, we left the other buildings along the way to the raider behind us. Two more raiders join us, both fresh like Dag and me.

We wait for a moment until we hear the hooted command of the Clanlord, then begin hacking at the straw roof with nervous fervor. Within moments we forge a pair of holes and steel our nerves for what lies ahead.

With a quick nod to Dag and the others, I gently place my spear next to the hole and lower myself into the darkness below. I land with nary sound and freeze. Every joint and nerve in my body is taut like a drawn bowstring. I hear no sound, and quietly draw my bronze dagger; I curse my stupidity under my breath for not having done so before landing. I would have met with a quick and messy death had I landed amongst an armed and wakeful foe.

My eyes, already well adjusted to the gloom, discern the shape of the building interior. It is a long hall with a wooden portal at both ends. In the center of the room rests a fire pit of dying embers; identical ones are positioned on either side at even intervals in between the first and the doors. As I make out the shapes of another raider land below the other hole nearer the other side of the hall, I make a silent prayer of thanks that no one landed in the coals; things would have gotten loud and messy in a hurry. I move to the side as Dag lands beside me. I study the longer walls more closely and discover that they are made of some sort of fabric. Either side of hall is divided into five smaller sections of hanging cloth. I motion to Dag to move to one end of the hall, the other two raiders do the same on the other side.

We nod to each other and move into a room on either side of the hall, one for each of us. Hardly breathing, I tiptoe into my chosen room. It is dark, very dark, but I manage to make out the room’s contents; just some bushels of grain and hanging meat. I make quick pass around the room to make sure I didn’t miss any sleeping people; then make my way to the room’s second close wall. It dawns on me that the Traders designed this building as a single large room, probably to house an extended family. When it comes time to sleep, they hang large pieces of cloth from prepositioned hooks dangling from ropes set into support beams that make up the building’s slightly sloped ceiling. Rather sensible, when you think about it, I muse.

In the center of the second room lay a trio of fur wrapped bundles huddled together. I move closer and realize that they contain sleeping Traders. With an evil grin I crouch beside my first victim and see that it is a large, bald man with a thick beard. Next to him lies a much smaller figure, a child by the look of it. The third and final form belongs to a graying woman. A family, it appears; with both parents keeping their child safe and warm.

Well, not quite safe enough. After sparing only a second to reposition myself, I quickly cup my hand over the man’s mouth with my left hand and plunge my dagger through his chest. There is a wet spurt of warm blood and his eyes open in shock. Though already dead, his spasms wake the sleeping child at his side. With almost frantic haste rip my dagger free and slam its pommel onto the top its head. The awkward action causes me to stumble and I sprawl into the child’s unconscious lap; I catch myself, but only by groping the mother’s side.

She awakens groggily with a mumbled question on her lips. With little grace, I pull myself on top of her. Just as she opens her mouth to scream I jab my dagger into her throat. She dies messily, gurgling as her blood bubbles around my blade and clawing at my chest futilely. A long moment passes and she finally slumps into her furs, dead.

I slowly raise myself into a crouching position. While struggling to control my heavy breathing, I strain my ears for sounds of alarm; nothing from inside the hall or out. I breathe a sigh of relief and make my way into the next room.

I can’t decide if I should curse my luck or praise my fortune; the third room is occupied over half a dozen bodies. Fortunately, these are spread out more than those of the previous room. Quickly moving, almost hopping, from one sleeping figure to the next I make my rounds. Well practiced now, I dispatch an old man and woman, as well as a boy just older than I am that appeared to be a warrior. A swift crack from my pommel incapacitates another three, two young girls and a boy too young to hold a blade; but not to young to work. With two figures left I freeze as the curtain-wall moves aside and a figure passes through.

I prepare to lunge at it blade first, but stop as I recognize the familiar face of another raider. After a brisk nod of understanding, we each move towards to closest sleeping figure. We barely make it a step before a shrill voice screams in terror amongst the rooms on the other side of the building. The figure before me sits up with a start and begins to pat around his bedding for a weapon. I join the screams and challenges that now pierce the night with a bloody cry of my own and rush him.

I plant my foot on the flat of his blade just as his hand reaches it. He stares up at me for a moment before I start hacking downwards at his face. Three chops later and his cries of pain give way to whimpering as he gropes the ragged tears on his face and throat.

A cry of pain from the other rooms quickly draws my attention. Stopping only to gather up my victim’s sword I dash towards to sound of combat. I brush past the first curtain, leap over the dying fire pit, and rush into the room across the hall. My eyes scan the scene at once; many bodies litter the floor, Dag’s limp form included. The final raider, bleeding profusely from a score of wounds, has his back to the wooden wall and is flailing wildly at the three armed assailants that surround him. Without stopping I leap forward and jab my blade into the nearest Trader’s back. I notice only absently that the raider behind me had followed my charge and had engaged another man.

My victim barks a shout of anger and pain as he turns quickly but clumsily around at me. This catches me off guard and I pay for it when his sword cuts into my right arm; he falls dead with a smile on his face. Sparing not a moment I lunge at the final Trader. He turns to accept my attack but is stabbed in the back by the wounded raider; only a fool turns their back on an enemy, wounded or not.

A gargled cough of blood draws my attention to the battle between the final raider and Trader. My kinsman grips his foes shoulder with the thumb and two remaining fingers of his left hand. It would almost appear as if they were embracing were it not for the steam of blood pouring from the Trader’s mouth and the dip of a bronze blade protruding from his back. The raider lets his foe fall to the floor.

We stare at each other for half a moment; until our reverie is broken by the continued sound of conflict outside. Without a word we tighten our grips on our weapons and rush out to join the fray.

I stand in a field of flattened grain; at my feet, huddled together in fear, are some three score sobbing wretches. Tears stream down the faces of shaking women and children as they stare downwards and weep for their losses; homes, kin, freedom. Scattered amongst their number are the few men we managed to take alive; to their credit, most opted to die rather than suffer the shame of capture. They comfort the womenfolk, their weary arms over haggard shoulders, and glare up at us when they think we aren’t looking.

As I stand here, leaning on the haft of my spear, I stare back at the shambles of burning wood and flesh that was once a thriving village. I drown myself in the scenery, one day I shall relish the memories made last night. The palisade is colored red from blood dripping from corpses pinned to its side; the final fate of those that resisted. Black smoke is belching into the sky from the wrecked shells of the Trader’s homes. Even now, after most of my kin and I have sated our hunger and lust on the villages stores and women, a few screams still cut into my ears followed by the rumbling laughter of my raider comrades. Over by the gate a long line of prisoners pass food and valuables, hand over hand, onto wagons they once owned themselves; their new masters prodding them with spear and blade to move faster.

We are fortunate that the newly enslaved Traders are too engrossed in their own misery to notice how weary we, their captors, actually are. Memories of the killing and looting of the previous night are still fresh on my mind; by all rights many of us should be sleeping off alcohol headaches sore limbs. Altogether, they still outnumber us two to one; things could get awfully messy if they decide to try something.

The Clanlord doesn’t plan on letting that happen. As soon as the supplies are packed we are going to start heading back home, hard and fast. But even with the liberal application of spear points and whips we plan to use, the going will be much slower than the coming with so many prisoners. It took us five days and nights of forced marching to get here, it may take as many as twelve to get back. With this in mind, the Clanlord ordered some of our men to round up enough rope to tie our chattel together; until then we have to keep them working or under heavy guard.

Minutes turn into hours as I realize how tired I truly am. My feet are as sore as they have ever been and my eyelids feel like lead weights. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from yawning. If it wasn’t for that accursed buzzing in my ear, I probably would have fallen asleep already…

Buzzing?

What buzzing?

When did that start?

I lift my weary head and look around. None of my fellows seem to notice, or are too damned tired to care. The victims at our feet, though, they hear it. Just as I notice it they begin to shake even harder than before. One girl quite close to me seems close to hysterics.

It is a disconcerting sound, though; like countless angry insects winging in every direction with all haste. And it’s getting louder.

Even the weariest of my kin are starting to hear it; they pop their heads up as if waking with a start and look around with confused looks hanging from their faces.

“Keep them quite,” I order them, pointing to the nearly frantic prisoners at our feet. “I’ll find the Clanlord,” I am fortunate that they are too tired to notice that the person giving them orders is many years their junior.

I jog towards the village as I hear a new sound join with the first; a high pitched wail that sounds like some sort of shrieking flute. It’s actually painful to hear; I drop my spear and clap my hands to my ears involuntarily. Am I crying out? I can’t tell.

Fighting against the agony in my head I try to look around. I am far from being the only person affected; everywhere I see slaver and slave alike clutching their ears, many have tears streaming from their eyes. A man to my left tries to shove leaves and grass into his ears.

A shadow passes over me with mind-numbing speed. I look upwards to find a sky filled with black and red shapes weaving in and out amongst themselves. Jagged shapes and sharp edges are all I can make out; they move faster than arrows in flight. Fighting an almost overwhelming urge to curl up on the ground and wish it all away I manage to get to my feet and begin stumbling towards the village.

What is Hell’s name is going on?

Where did these things come from?

Why, oh gods why won’t the shrieking stop?!

I pick up speed then stubble to the ground, clutching my leg. A blade of fire pierces my right calf. Burning… pain… agony… w-what is this? My gods … it hurts! My gods it hurts!

My hand flails wildly around the origin of my torture. Fingers. My fingers are bitten… bitten by something. I-I can’t think. I grab at… I grab at the thing biting me. It’s not biting me… A stick. My hand clenches around a stick. It’s in my leg. Everything is wet with warmth. Blood. My blood!

The stick. The stick is like- like a little arrow. An arrow- an arrow in me. The stick is hurting me!

I pull. I pull at it. I-I have to get it out of me! Oh gods it hurts!

H- have to get it… get it out.

Pull! Tug! Tear! Rip!

It’s out! Praise be to the gods it’s out!

I lay back, eyes closed, panting. The burning is gone! I could almost weep for the relief! The wound, it still hurts. Hurts like a normal wound, though. I can deal with that.

I open my eyes and sit up. The stick is where I dropped it, at my side. I reach to pick it up… Damnation! I snap my hand away from it; it burns at the touch.

I lean forward and examine it with my eyes alone. It’s the length of my hand, wrist to finger tip. I’m sure it’s sharp, but the tip is still covered in a small piece of meat. My meat; my flesh and skin. The thought snaps me into action. I lift my leg and examine the gapping hole in my calf. There will be a good scar there, one day.

I use my spear tip to cut a piece of leather off of my jacket, then grit my teeth as I shove it into the hole. I cut another piece, this one long and thin, which I use to tie the first one in place.

Good, that will last until I can treat it properly. I turn my attention back to my surroundings; my blood runs cold when I look up.

The black and red forms from earlier, as well as the shrieking sound that heralded their arrival some part of my mind realizes, have stopped. Now I can see them clearly; long, sharp, boat shaped things bedecked in blades and nets. How is it that they can… float a spear’s length above the ground like that? There is a lump in my throat that I cannot seem to swallow; it is as if my mind has broken.

Only things like birds can stay in the air like that! These horrors before me are abominations against nature.

I try to get to my feet, only to fall to the ground once more when I see a group of black-clad figures moving towards me.

They are tall, as tall as any man I have ever seen. They have bodies as black as night, and are naked; though metallic wires, blades, and hooks hang from them, giving them a sinister profile. Their muscles and curves are strangely exaggerated; like painted depictions of monsters rather than monsters in the flesh. Pointed heads bedecked with horn and blades rest atop their slender necks; but their faces are nearly nonexistent. Like blank masks they stare ever forward with eyes that burn like red fire. I can see neither noses nor mouths, but their revulsion I feel from seeing, or not seeing, their lack of facial features is by far outweighed by the way they move.

Lithe and graceful as hunting cats ready to pounce they glide forward effortlessly. Their movements are too smooth and unnatural and fast to be human; rather, they appear to me perverted, monstrous parodies of a man’s nightmares given form.

One of them glances in my direction and raises a many-bladed spear at me. But it doesn’t look like it is readying to throw it, it merely raises it to chest height gently; a challenge then. I will not be mocked for cowardice in this life or the next! I bite my tongue against the pain, draw my spear to my side, and pull myself to my feet. With a cry of war much weaker than I would have liked on my lips I charge forward, slowly, with the tip of my spear pointed directly at the monster’s chest. It makes no reaction.

Without warning the whole of my chest erupts in the fiery agony that had tortured my calf earlier. I scream in pain as I trip and land heavily on my right shoulder, reopening the wound given to me last night. Almost unable to breath I look down at my burning chest; half a dozen of the biting fire-sticks are protruding from the front of my jacket.

The p-pain is far worse than before! Panic wells in my throat, I cannot breathe. I-I have to g-get th-them out of m-me!

Gods it burns!

My g-gods how it b-burns!

OH GODS IT BUR…

Part 2: Slave

Burning.

My body, on fire, everywhere.

Gods it hurts.

Can’t see. Eyes are closed.

Sounds. Screams and laughter. So many screams, my own amongst them.

Can’t move. Breathing is… hard.

GAH!

What the hells was that?

Shards of ice digging into my chest.

Hot.

Cold. Hell. I’m dead and this is hell.

Daemons all around me, laughing. They’re cutting me, cutting into me, cutting me to pieces.

If I open my eyes, I’ll see fire and monsters.

Monsters.

Those black monsters killed me; pierced me with their agony-sticks. Overwhelmed by pain I died.

And they dragged me to hell.

I’m going to open my eyes. I have too, but they feel like lead.

Open.

Open.

Gods curse you, OPEN!

Light. Praise be to the gods I can see light!

Not very bright, though. My eyes open completely. Everything is a blur.

I’m… I’m in a room. There’s no fire. A-am I alive?

If this isn’t hell, where am I?

A blur moves towards me; I can’t get out of its way. It’s above me. Gods, why can’t I focus?

It’s there, standing above me.

It’s standing above me. I’m on a bed. It’s standing over my bed. But the bed is cold. Why would a bed be cold?

Table.

It’s not a bed at all, it’s a table. I can’t move.

They’ve tied me to a table.

Bastards.

Part of the blur moves towards me. It’s going towards my chest; I can’t see it anymore.

Ice water.

It’s pouring ice water into me. It’s pouring ice water into my wounds. The burning stops as the water fills me up.

It’s… almost nice. The burning stopped. The cutting stopped.

Everything is fine now. They tied me to a table, but they don’t want to hurt me. They’re making me feel so… so good. I could almost laugh.

I close my eyes again. This feeling is nice. I could just… drift... off… to… sleep… Thank them.

I have to thank them for making me feel good.

I open my eyes. Everything is in focus. I’m in a dimly lit room of black and silver metals. Everything is sharp looking, blade like.

I turn towards the blur, but it isn’t a blur anymore.

It’s a…

God’s what the hell that is?! A horrible monster of flayed flesh and dripping blood! Scars riddle its long, angular face; like a labyrinth of parted flesh. To gapping holes for a nose. God that mouth! Purple lips with black veins; yellow teeth, chipped and sharpened. Fangs. But those eyes. Black. Completely black. Oval saucers as dark as night, no light gleams there.

It… it looks down at me.

It laughs.

Panic. I mustn’t panic.

Oh gods, it has some sort of… blade in its claw. That’s not a hand, that’s a claw, dammit!

What is it doing?! It’s bringing the blade to my neck. It’s going to cut my throat!

No!

I won’t allow this!

Struggle! Move! Bite! Kick! Curse! Spite!

Stupid body, why won’t you MOVE?!

It’s at my neck; I can’t move! I close my eyes. This is the end…

It… it doesn’t hurt. I can feel it part my flesh and dig its way into my neck, but it doesn’t hurt. Warmth. It’s putting warm into me, displacing the cold water.

What’s going on? Why is everything getting dim again? What’s going on? Wha… what’s g-going o-

GAH!

A sharp pain in my foot jerks me into wakefulness and I curl up reflexively, moaning at the pain in my foot and aching joints. I push myself into a sitting position and pull my towards me as I examine the sole; it’s hard to see it in the dim lighting, but there’s a shallow, horizontal cut halfway from the heel to the toes. That wouldn’t be a problem in itself, but now my head is swimming like the day after a drinking binge and every part of my body aches more than I would have thought possible.

I put my had to my chest to see if there are any loose pieces of leather I can use to wrap my new injury-

Why the hells am I naked?

No britches, no jacket, no moccasins. No weapons. I am completely naked and defenseless. All I find is a metal collar around my neck and an identical, albeit smaller, bracelet on each wrist and ankle.

I pat my head and find it bare of hair; likewise my groin, pits, and the rest of my body. I here a snort and some movement behind me and twist sharply to face the danger, only to start seeing stars as the poundings in my throbbing head reach new levels of intensity. As I grip my head in both hands and try to resist the urge to strike it repeatedly against the cold floor with utmost vigor, I realize that I am still alive and that whatever is out there hasn’t attacked me yet. At his revelation I slowly raise my screaming cranium and take in what scenery there is to be had.

The first thing I notice is the smell; the pungent aroma of human waste mixed with sweet and dried blood fills my nose and almost causes me to wretch. But doing that would just make it all smell that much worse.

In the gloom I can just make out the back wall of the room I find myself in, some three or four spear lengths away. In between it and me are a motley collection of human bodies, all naked and bald just as I am. At a glance they appear identical in every way save their size; some are as large or larger than myself, while others are much smaller. Once I get a closer look I see that there are people of all walks of life, adults and children of both sexes sprawled out on the floor sleeping or crying as they will; a few grunts of pain and pleasure by the back wall hint at fornication of some sort or another.

Something, though, seems strange. Here before me is a young girl gripping her mother’s arm like a limpet. There by the fat, pasty man a woman cradles the head of her lover in her arms, weeping silently to herself. Further still sit a group of young boys, huddled together for warmth while a sickly, gaunt fellow hugs his legs and rocks back and forth not an arms length away. Ah, I see.

There’s no old people, and there’s no babes. I see boys and girls that could not have seen more than five summers and scarred men that may have seen as many as thirty or forty, but no one older or younger.

Well, what else should to see in a slave pen?

Slave pen.

Slaves.

These are slaves; I am a slave.

I am a slave!? Damnation. I’m a prisoner now, am I? No! I’m a warrior! How dare someone take me prisoner, take me for a slave! I’ll rip them to pieces, I’ll cut them to bits, I’ll crack their skulls and damn am I hungry.

Hell, I’m really damn hungry. Maybe someone here has some food.

I stand only to find my limbs weak and my head still roaring with vigor. After a second of wobbling I begin to fall backwards, away from the wall, and raise my arm to steady myself. Just then a claw like hand whips out and pulls me back in the other direction; the unexpected assault leads me to fall atop my attacker punching and biting. I’ll not go down without a fight! Strong hands grasp my wrists and I only just manage to stop myself from kicking out as I hear a gruff voice calling out, “Easy brother, easy! I’m a friend!”

I cease my counterattack and stare at the man I find myself entwined with. In the dark, with the customary long hair and short beard of my people absent, it’s hard to be sure; but that strong jaw and dark, hawk like eyes are unmistakable. Although I know him not, this man is my kin, a fellow hunter and raider… I think.

“What kind of friend,” I ask with a voice far too hoarse a gruff to be mine, “drags jerks his kin to the ground as a form of greeting?”

Now sitting and nursing a bruised jaw, he points behind me, “Take a look at yonder wall and answer that yourself.”

I turn my head warily behind me, in the direction my feet were pointed as I slept, and find that I am not in a room at all. Somehow, in my pain, weariness, and disorientation, I failed to notice to line of vertical blades that encage me in this long cell. It sits in a little alcove in the wall of a long, metallic, poorly lit hallway about an arms length above the ground. Hundreds of thin blades reach from the ceiling to our floor are locked into place and point inwards, each one less than two finger widths apart.

Had this man not pulled me back and forced me to fall in the other direction, I would have been cut to pieces when I hit the bars.

I sit back and land on my ass with a thump; my eyes wide with shock and my hands shaking. “O-oh… my thanks, friend.”

“Mention it not,” he replies with a shrug. I’d of told you earlier but you awoke while I slept. Seems we’ve just got poor timing, don’t we?” I give him a smile to match his own at that.

Grateful for the chance to talk with someone, I continue the conversation, “How long have I been in dreamland?”

“Hmm? Oh, let’s see,” he scratches his chin as he thinks, “the Beasts,” his face darkens at the word, “dragged you in about three feedings ago; and since I think the next feeding will come any time now, I’d guess you’ve been out for about two days.”

Feeding. That got me hungry again, “They feed us, do they?”

“Oh, aye. They feed us alright,” he scowls, “But you’d have to be near starving, like they keep us, to want to eat the shit.”

“That bad?” I ask, somewhat disheartened.

“Well,” he begins with an uncomfortable repositioning of his body, “It’s not so much the taste. In fact, it hardly smells or tastes like anything.”

“Then what’s the problem?” my questioning voice is getting impatient.

“Weeeeeell…” he draws out the word as he stares blankly at the ceiling to avoid my eyes.

“Well?” I ask, starting to get angry.

“I’m almost sure I saw a finger in it the first time.”

That stops me cold. “A-a finger?” I ask tentatively.

“Yeah; and the third time, I KNOW I saw a finger. Chewy bastard, that,” he starts picking his teeth.

I just stare at him, mouth open wide. They feed us people?! By the gods, that’s one of the worse sins a man can commit in his lifetime. Back home, a cannibal is skinned alive, dumped in salt, then burned at the stake!

Noticing my look, “Oh, come now. You’ll be eating it soon if you don’t the first time,” he says darkly. “You’ll want to be keeping your strength up for other things…”

What things? I try to ask but am cut off by the sound of metal scraping on metal.

“Stand up, now!” he urges me with an intensity that causes me to do so without thinking.

The lighting in the room gets much brighter, forcing me to squint.

“What’s going-”I whisper before he cuts me off.

“Shh!” he orders, “Inspection!”

I’m about to open my mouth when a section of the wall outside of our cell lifts up and disappears into the ceiling with a jaw clenching scrape. With nary a word a dozen of the black skinned monsters march in, a pair much more finely decorated than the rest sauntering forward at their head.

Their faces are different than the others; they lack the pointed black, nearly featureless heads sported by their fellows. Instead they have pale, humanlike skulls and features; albeit far more delicate and angular and long. Elaborately arranged hair of jet black grace the tops of one of their heads, while the other is bald save a flowing ponytail sprouting from the very zenith of its cranium. The first has skin entirely unlike any I have seen before; so pale I can almost see purple veins pumping blood, supple breasts rest behind a thin veil of clear, white fabric, red, piercing eyes stare forward into the slave pen with a predatory hunger while fine, delicate hands place a clear chalice to voluptuous lips painted a dark purple. Thin, serrated blades rest casually slipped through the thin belt of fabric around its curved hips, touching its bare skin.

I am surprised to see such a humanlike beauty amongst such monstrous Beasts. I am even more surprised to see that it is a woman! And a near naked one at that; why, if a girl or woman walked around like that back at the village she would be stoned to death as a whore and a witch!

My heart beating heavily in my chest I almost fail to regard the other one until it begins to talk. He, at least I think it’s a he based on the small goatee sprouting from its angular chin, has a bird like face; triangular and dominated by a predatory feeling that makes my spine tingle in fear when he looks my way. His eyes are wells of black, soulless and empty, just like the monster from my nightmare. Apart from its face, which is pale and at least appears to be flesh, the rest of its body is akin to its fellows, black and oddly ‘made-looking.’

A thought occurs to me, what if the blackness is some sort of formfitting clothing? And what if what I first mistook for heads are actually some sort of mask that covers the entire skull? What kind of magic would it take to make something like that?

Before I can think any further the male gestures with its hand and my arms shoot straight up towards the ceiling! Try to pull them down but find that they can only move side to side. Worse still, my feet seem to be bound to the floor in a similar manner; I cannot move them at all. A stolen glance to each side tells me that all of the prisoners are similarly affected.

The two unique ones converse in their own tongue. The sound of the words, of their voices, is like nothing I have ever heard before; it feels and sounds like running water with shards of ice flowing along with it as it pours over you. I suppress a shudder.

They speak and point to slaves and laugh and speak some more as they walk up and down the length of the hallway. Suddenly I spasm and give out a shout as a jolt runs down my arms from the brackets on my wrists down to the ones on my ankles. I shake involuntarily and dimly register that the other hanging slaves do the same, but not all of them.

The male raises a short baton and points out each one that failed to move or make a noise; they fall to the ground in heaps and rest there, silent. Dead.

The masked ones, a dozen strong, march down the isle and take up positions at equal intervals along its length. They stand there and raise those strange, blade-bedecked spears and point them towards the slaves. I hear whimpering behind me.

The two talking ones continue their conversation, oblivious to the current happenings, as the bars in front of the waiting guards slide noiselessly into the ceiling. At the edge of our shelf where the blades once stood the metal noisily slides down until it is just a hand’s length higher than the floor. Directly behind them, the new edge of our floor descends until it is a hand’s length above the first; and so on and so on until a small, steep stairway is formed.

One of the stairways is just to my right, and the guard stationed outside points his weapon directly at me. Whatever magical force held me upwards disappears and I drop to the ground ungracefully. The guard just stares at me and I notice that my new friend and kinsman has been releases as well.

He looks behind us and nudges my shoulder, “Come, we have to collect the bodies.” I follow his gaze and see a pair of bodies behind us.

Together we walk towards the first one, a young man that seems vaguely familiar. I hear sobbing next to the corpse and see the woman I saw before, the one cradling her lover’s head. Apparently he didn’t make it. I just shrug and grab his feet as my friend does the same with his shoulders. Then we slowly march him back to the front of the cage and down the stairs, taking much care in avoiding the remaining blades.

I reach the bottom first, only just managing to avoid tripping, and try to figure out where we place the stiff. My friend gives me a nod to his left and I notice a black metal slab resting on the ground.

Strange, I know it wasn’t there a moment ago. I shrug again and we drop the corpse onto its waiting bed; we then repeat the process with the other body assigned to us, this one a boy a head shorter than me.

Our task completed, I turn back to go up the stairs once more, toying with the idea of attacking our guard and stealing his weapon, only to be jolted by the bracelets and collar once more. I fall to the ground, choking, and tilt my head towards my friend questioningly.

He stands there at attention, but I catch his eye and notice that he gestures for me to stand next to him. I stand meekly, rubbing my now sore neck, and take my place. As soon as I do our hands are pulled towards the ceiling again, locking me us in place.

We don’t wait long before the talking pair saunter over to us and start giving us a close look. The male turns towards his companion and raises an eyebrow. At a word from the female he starts poking and prodding me. Here and there he feels up my muscles and joints, all the while cheerily talking away like a Trader at market, selling his wares. By the time he opens my mouth and sticks his finger inside I realize that he is doing exactly that; he’s inspecting my like a cheap grox!

Without thinking I bite down in my anger. Quick as lightning he rips his digit out of my jaws and whips around with a backhand blow to my face; followed shortly by a long jolt from the bracelets and collar. I am dimly thankful for my body being devoid of food as I feel it attempt to void my empty bowels. As it is, piss for a second before drying up.

Strange are the mercies of the gods.

I hang there, no longer able to stand, as he mumbles an apology to the female; who in turn is laughing with cruel mirth at his expense. He gives my friend a quick inspection gives me another jolt as he turns to leave; but the female stops him with a word.

He says something quickly and motions to the guard, whom quickly salutes with a raised weapon and marches into the pen.

A moment later he returns, dragging the sobbing girl from earlier behind him. He pushes her next to me and she quickly straitens as her bracelets raise her arms into the air.

Another word from the female and the salesman gives her a once-over as well; the poor bitch weeping all the while. Apparently satisfied, the female says something else, he nods, and the two glide over to the next pair of corps-haulers.

The girl and I, in turn, are prodded back into the cell by the guard after he releases us from the magic holding us upwards. I notice my friend is does not follow and begin to protest, only to be jabbed in the stomach and shocked once more.

Back in the cell, the girl and I quickly find our hands returned to the sky as we await the Beasts’ departure. It takes them awhile to finish the inspection; and although I cannot see them from my position, I hear half a dozen more prisoners being dragged out of the cell over the next few moments.

Without looking back, the talking pair, salesman and customer, walk out of the room. Trailing behind them, followed closely by prodding guards, go the chosen slaves, my friend amongst them. To my surprise, the metal slabs raise themselves off the ground and silently follow the procession out as well, the doors closing behind them.

With the slavers gone, the slaves are released, many of them falling to the ground. The girl beside me lays on the ground and weeps as I massage my aching joints.

As I rub the weariness out of my arms I pat my chest.

My chest!

By the gods, how could I have forgotten?

I look down and stare blankly at the newly formed scar tissue growing out of my front side. There’s nothing but a bunch of scars. It’s all healed? But I was punctured by, I take a moment to count the new scars, seven. Seven of those agony sticks cut into my flesh. How in the name of the gods could I heal so quickly? I’ve only been here two days, right?

Between the sticks of pain, the pulling bracelets, the flying machines, the slabs that float on air, and this whole accursed cell made entirely out of metal, I find the implications of these Beasts’ magic staggering. Will I even be able to fight them, when the time comes? Gods I’m hungry.

Dimly I notice that my headache is nearly gone as I hear a loud ‘clank’ behind me. I quickly turn and crouch at this new development, seeking to challenge whatever is coming next. The other slaves, however, start crawling and waddling over to the back wall.

Curious, I follow them. Once I come within a spear’s length of the wall, I notice that a small shelf-thing has folded out of it across its length.

Little holes appear at regular intervals and it swiftly begins to fill with a thick, white, junky fluid that the others all begin to greedily dip their hands into and pour into their mouths. Realizing that this is the food my friend mentioned earlier I kick a few of the others out of the way and eat my fill.

I remember my friend’s words; I will need my strength for what lies ahead.

That, and I was getting damned hungry, I think as I start gnawing on a fat toe.

The lights dimmed again when the feeding was done. I was worried about my new friend, worried that I’d lost the only person I could talk to in this accursed cage.

I needn’t have, though. I soon found half a dozen of my kin after a quick trip down each side of the cage and back. All I had to do was call out in my own tongue; no one but my kin could speak it, so only they answered me.

We formed a small circle near the middle of the pen, about where I had awoken earlier. There I learned some more facts about our current situation.

First, the Clanlord was dead. As soon as the Beasts, as we have come to call our captors, had realized he was our leader, they flayed him alive in front of his men. My companions told me of a horrible, hunched creature with jet black eyes, sharp teeth, more wrinkles and scars than an entire village, and a laugh that pierced the soul like a dagger to the heart that conducted the execution; I am all but sure that it was this monster they described that I awoke to on the table whilst I was injured.

But, whereas it healed my, I think, it took our chief apart slowly and methodically. They say he screamed for a day and a half before the monsters let him die.

I then learned that we had been captured five and a half days ago. Only one of the raiders present had been taken whilst conscious, while trying to fight off the Beasts they trapped him in a net that cut into him as he tried to move; he pointed out many thousands of tiny cuts and scabs and forming scars across his body as proof. He says they dragged us all onto their flying boats and flew us far away, across rivers and forests and lakes and mountains to a massive red and black building hidden in a valley of mists. They took us into this building, which looked like a huge fish covered in scales of swords and blades longer than our village according to our witness, and stripped us of our weapons and clothes. Then they separated us, the dying and the healthy, and shaved off every hair on our bodies. Having taken all of our dignity, they took him and the few healthy others to this cell.

After the third feeding they started to bring the others, those that were at deaths door during the sorting, back to the cell as well; unconscious, but with their wounds mysteriously healed or healing.

The scarred witness says he is the last of the healthy ones left, in this cage, at least; he says that there are many, many others that he glimpsed before they shoved him into this one. Hs says that it was then, just after they had dragged away the Clanlords mangled corpse, that they started to do the inspections; taking away this one or that one, without any explanation. All of the others, he says, have been taken already, and that he fears he is next.

“Be that as it may, what happens to those that are taken?” I ask delicately.

The raider in question merely hugs his scarred legs, shaking his head, “I know not, but sometimes I hear their screams…” Then he just looks forward, “They never come back, never.” Then nothing, silence.

Hopeless.

Before I can continue my line of questioning, we hear the scrape of the door and all rise as the lights brighten once more. This time, however, I make sure to stand further in the back, to avoid notice.

The Beasts return, but without the unmasked male or female from before; no buyers, I guess. Are hands are once again raised by the invisible magics of the Beasts and again the dead drop to the floor. The corpse removal goes more quickly this time as the guards forgo the examination.

Instead, another pair enters, bearing a stumbling human figure between them. Without a word they pass him to a pair of corpse-movers and head back out the door. They, in turn, help the figure up the stairway and into the cell, where he collapses.

Curiosity overcomes my growling stomach and I make my way towards the unmoving figure as soon as our hands are freed. As I come near, I see that it is a man. He is about my height and is bald like all the rest. His thin frame sports several fresh, pink scars.

“Well, what do we have here?” I ask mostly to myself mockingly.

“Aw, shaddup you ass,” I stop dead at the sound of his voice. He turns his head towards me ever so slightly, just enough for me to see his face, “Just help me up, will ya?” asks my friend and kinsman.

I stand there; staring blankly for a moment, then rush to his side.

“By the gods!” I exclaim, “W-what happened?!”

I carefully pull him to his feet and throw his arm over my shoulder, then, grabbing his left arm with mine, get a tight grip on his chest with my right arm and slowly walk him back to the circle of our kinsmen. He says nothing but pants the whole way back.

By the time we reach the circle, the feeding is done; and I didn’t get any. My stomach is rumbling already.

I place him on the ground gently and take a seat at his side as our fellow raiders, now slaves, fill in the circle.

“Who’s that,” one of them asks, pointing.

“One of us, the one I met when I woke up.”

Silence. They all stare at me, then him, then me again.

“What?” I ask nervously. The tension in the air is rising to almost palpable levels. One of them looks to the others, then back at me.

“I thought,” he starts slowly; “you said they took him before the last feeding.”

“They did, now they’ve brought him back. I don’t see what the probl-“

“The problem,” he replies, louder this time, “Is just that.”

“W-“

“No one. No one, comes back.” His eyes, all of their eyes, are cold as stone.

I sit there, silent, for a moment. I look down at the man; I don’t even know his name.

“Okay, but he did,” my words come slow and deliberate, “And he’s kin. We should wait until he wakes up, then we should ask him what happened.”

“Fine.”

And that is what we did.

We waited.

We were fed.

We waited.

Two of were taken away, we were fed.

We waited some more.

We were fed again.

Then, then he woke up. After a day and a half, he finally woke up.

I walk back to the circle wiping my mouth of the human-paste, its other members in tow, when we see I see him there, sitting up and nursing his arm.

The raiders around me tensed and slowed, then picked up their pace.

“Gods I could use a bite,” he says with mock cheerfulness.

One of the others knocks him over.

“What the hells?” he protests weakly.

“Yes, ‘what the hells?’” one of the others parrots.

I push them away from him, roaring, “Leave him alone! Just let him talk!”

Yet another one of them knees me in the kidney, and another wraps his arm around my neck, “You shut it, little bastard,” he whispers in my ear.

“Now,” one of them, the largest, begins, “It’s time to ‘talk.’”

He walks over to the coughing, now kneeling man and kicks him in the ribs. By now, all of the nearby slaves have begun to pull away from the violence.

The large one kneels down next to the reeling man, “So tell me, kinsman, why did the Beasts let you, out of all those taken, live? Can you tell me that? Can you tell me what’s so special about you?” He backhands him in the face, then grabs him by the throat. “Make a deal with them, huh?! You go free, come back here alive, and what did you give them?! What in the hells did you give them you goddamned bastard?!” he roars.

“Ah-ah-“ the poor bastard chokes out.

“I can’t hear you!” he loosens his grip slightly.

“Arena,” he says, “Arena.”

He drops him on the ground and stands up, a question on his lips, “What the hells is that supposed to mean?”

The now-slave lays there for a moment, coughing and grasping at his throat. After a moment, he pulls himself up into a sitting position.

“T-they took us to room, a dark room,” he begins. “We were there for awhile, just sitting, wondering what was going to happen.

Then the door opened and they shuffled us out into a circular room, with a ceiling as clear as air. T-they gave us weapons, and a slave translated for them. They told us, told us to fight. They said the winners would go back to the cell, wouldn’t die.

Then a bunch of those Beasts filled into the room above us, and started staring down.

W-we fought. We started into each other and didn’t stop until- until only three of us were left. Then they stopped us, told us to stop.

A-at the end, m-my hand…” he held up his left arm for us all to see.

“I-it got cut off,” we could plainly see the deep scars circling his arm just above the elbow. “Then they took me to the healer, and they fixed it; they put it back on.” He flexed his fingers then pulled his arm in to his chest.

We all stood there for awhile, unmoving. The slaves around us were still nervous. No one seems to know what to say, what to do. We just stand here, watching him as he fingers the scar on his arm, a few tears streaming down his face.

Then the door screeches again, and the lights brighten once more. Now we’re nervous. It hasn’t been long enough; they shouldn’t be back for another half a day!

What’s happening?

Our hands jump to the ceiling unbidden.

As the door opens the hallway and the cell fill with laughter, one person’s laughter, echoing off the metal surfaces and resounding through each of our souls.

The unmasked male Beast saunters into the room, half a dozen of his cronies and a petite human slave, a young girl, clothed only in a thin white sheet in tow.

He passes right over to us and stares into the cell with a manic gleam in his eye. With a slight wave of his hand he summons the girl to his side. I see that her eyes are gone, and wonder to myself how she new he had called.

“Interesting,” he begins through her, “We’re all quite feisty in here today, aren’t we?” That smile he gives us makes me want to claw out his eyes. “Well if you wanted to play, all you had to do was ask…”

I close my eyes as his humorless laughter rolls over us again.

Here we sit in the pitch-dark room we were told about, sitting, sweating, and listening to each other breath. Our hands locked together at the bracelets a mere second after we were released from our standing position.

There’re five of us here, all told; myself, and the four other surviving raiders I had found in the cell. My fifth kinsman, the one who saved my ass when I woke up in that cell for the first time, was left behind. When I asked the Beast why, he responded through his slave that the man was too weak to be of any use. He told me that, and then shocked me with his magics. Our feet locked together once the door into this room was shut behind us.

I quickly shield my eyes as a shaft of light streaks through the now opening door. Without a sound the bench beneath me is withdrawn into the wall, I barely catch myself before I fall to the ground. A mumbled curse from one of my fellows tells me he was not so swift.

We reach our feet for but a moment before the back wall of the room begins to push forward with an audible ‘click’ towards us, just as the magics holding our feet together were extinguished. The moving wall quickly dislodged us from its dark bosom and forcing us into a world of bright lights and loud shouting.

We were roughly jostled forward by unseen figures. After a moment or two our eyes adjust to the light, the cheering dies down, and I take in my surroundings.

I suspect we are in the circular room my kinsman warned us about. We stand in its center, a good ten spear lengths away from any point on the wall. He failed to mention a few particulars, however; the shagged wall-spikes being chief amongst them.

Above our heads, just as he said, stand a group of well dressed Beasts seemingly standing on air. They look down upon us like predatory birds with empty stomachs. They drank deeply clear cups of a fine, dark liquid; naked human slaves weaved in an out of the opulent lot refilling glasses and waving fans for their masters.

Somehow I am unsurprised to see the male Beast from the cell and the she-witch lounging amongst their number. His demeanor is cheery as he socializes with his evil ilk.

Behind us stand a pair of scantily clad Beasts armed with trident and net. They back away warily from us into the room we just exited; its wall now receding before them.

I stand here, cautious, ready for anything. I hope.

After a few tense moments, Slaver, the man-Beast from the cell, begins speaking to his peers. He bows a few times and flourishes his hands with a twirl. They clap delicately. He gestures downwards, towards us, and they clap louder. He nods politely to the Witch, the she-Beast from the cell, who gives a delicate bow in return; they clap louder still.

Slaver claps his hands and at once a pair of guards march into the center of the room, just above our heads. Each carries a trio of serrated blades in his arms, at least I think they’re males, it’s hard to tell when they’re clothed. With a word from their master they begin to casually drop the swords to the ground; blade first.

They pass through whatever invisible surface the Beasts stand upon and dig their way into the ground at our own feet with a slight spark. At a cry of pain behind me I turn to find one of my kinsmen taking a knee and nursing his foot; a foot now short three toes. Above us the Beasts all laugh with their cruel, sharp voices.

Slaver shouts another few sentences and the small crowd around him bursts into the most vigorous applaud yet. Seconds later, a hidden door before me opens and steps forth a… By the gods!

Now THAT is truly a monster! It perches on all fours like a hound; its huge fangs dripping thick saliva as its massive head moves side to side. I think it’s trying to pick up a sent. Two massive, yellow eyes dart here and there independently as it claws at the metal floor beneath its gargantuan paws. Most sickeningly of all, it has no skin! Pulsating veins and muscles ripple as it tugs at the spiked collar around its thick neck.

As it stalks towards us I catch a glimpse of its handler; a lithe, graceful figure with pale skin, tender curves, and long, flowing hair. She is clad in armor that covers far too little of her muscular body to provide and real protection, but what clothing is visible is colored brass and red.

She holds aloft a trident in salute of the Beasts above, then crouches into a fighting stance as she inches closer too us.

Faced with this monstrous duo, I reach towards the sword nearest to me. I breathe a quick sigh of relief as the bracelets on my hands part once I near the blade.

With a jerk of my hand the blade is freed, just in time for me to jump sideways as the demonic quadruped is released by its mistress and lunges forward. Its claws miss my by a hair’s breathe it pounces on the raider behind me.

His shriek is cut short as the monster’s jaws close upon its head with a sickening crunch. Without thinking, I lash out at its midsection with my blade; flesh and bones part, but my cry of victory is cut short by its roar of pain and anger.

I hack at its head as it brings it to bare, trying to keep it at bay. A quick glance behind it shows me its mistress impaling my seven-toed comrade as she leaps over his bewildered head. The (true) beast snaps me back to attention with a clawed swipe to my left thigh; five furrows are dug deep into my flesh and I cry out in pain. I fall back and roll, just moments before it almost lands on top of me. I slash awkwardly at its h ead in desperation and am rewarded with a blow to its eye. With a howl of rage it leaps clear and starts shaking its head vigorously while clawing at its face.

Seizing my change, I quickly pull myself to my feat, point my blade at its midsection, and charge forward after it. I twist my sword at the last second so its twin blades are pointing towards the floor and invisible ceiling respectively; just seconds before my blade impacts its side. The point passes easily through its flesh and between its ribs, straight into its heart. It howls a final time, now with a torrent of gore streaming from its mouth.

I collect my sword from its side with another sharp tug and marvel at its beautiful craftsmanship as I catch my breath. Its silver-steel blade is finer than any I have ever seen; it puts the bronze blades of my people to shame. I am sure it could shear a hair down its length.

Laughter on the other side of the arena draws me out of my reverie, and my head jolts towards its origin.

The final raider-slave is cornered between the blades walls and the three points of the she-Beast’s trident. He bleeds from a score of minor injuries as he flails wildly in front of him. A similar scene flashes through my mind and I smile wickedly as I jump into action.

Sparing only a moment to collect a fallen raider’s sword, I rush to my kinsman’s aide. The bitch raises her trident, I fear for a final blow, and stares down her injured quarry.

I challenge her with a furious roar and she half turns her head towards me. Without thinking I fling my blade overhand at her face; but she quickly spins and knocks it out of the air with a swirl or her staff-weapon. Right into my trap.

The raider to her rear leaps forward without a word jabs his blade down the back of her neck into her chest. Her mouth opens in shock, her eyes roll back in their sockets, and my second blade takes off her head with a sideways slash.

It tumbles to the ground with an audible smack and rolls off towards the wall. She learned the hard way not turn her back on an enemy, wounded or not. Especially not a raider from my clan.

The crowd above goes silent.

Slaver stares down at me, mouth and eyes open wide. He snarls in anger and points in my direction with a shout. Hidden doors open all across the arena walls and dozens of black clad guards stream in. All carry wicked swords or spears. All points them at my surviving kinsman and me.

Slaver raises his hand to give the kill-order…

“That won’t be necessary, Ra’Zul,” chimes a faint voice in my own language, not a hint of accent detectable. “If memory serves,” says the voice as I try to locate its source, “Our Mon-Keigh friends requested ‘tougher meat’ with the next batch. I think these will do quite nicely, don’t you?”

Slaver sweeps his hand to his side and bows deeply to the Witch. She ignores him and stares down directly into my eyes and smiles.

Her white, fang-like teeth are clearly visible between her black lips.