The people locked in the cage, observed in horror the grizzly scene created by these strange foreigners. True they had been captured as slaves and most of the men had been slain, but that was how things went. Such was life in Scoria – hard and unforgiving. It might not be today, or tomorrow, or this year, but sooner or later the men in silks came for every one of the nomadic tribes.

However, these strangers did not care for slaves. They had killed everyone without so much as offering them the option to surrender. They ignored the rules of the land like the heathens they were. A new fear spread among the captives of the Nahar tribe. The fear of a true death. For as long as the shamans could recall, they had endured, but there was always someone left to carry on their name and rebuild the tribe. But if there was none of them left, who would make the offerings to the Hollow Gods? Who would attest that the Nahar had ever existed?

By instinct, the older women and the two men who still remained, encircled the younger ones. They understood very well there was nothing they could do to protect them, but at least they could attempt to shield them from this horror.

A trio of the foreigners remained near the cage. Two of them pale, their skin marked by the strong sun. One with dark hair, the other with the strangest hair the colour of beach sand. The third man was hunched and scarred. His head covered by a leathery mask. All of the strangers wore cumbersome leather armour and metal wrapped around their forearms and shins. It was a curious thing to see in Scoria, where everyone preferred and favoured cloth and silk. It was, after all, the best protection from the sand and sun. The one to strike the most fear in the villagers was the one who wielded the burning blade. He must either be a godchild or a powerful shaman.

After a while, the largest man they had ever seen joined them. The foreigners exchanged words in a strange language and the large man stepped menacingly in front of the one with the leather mask. There were some words exchanged and one didn’t need to know the language to understand they were not kind words.

Stirred by the noise one of the children began to cry softly. This caused the foreigners to snap their heads around and look at the villagers. Out of fear that they were all going to follow the fate of the slavers, Cylin dropped to her knees and pressed the small boy to herself.

“Shhhh… Be strong. You are a son of Nahar… Please, be strong and stop crying…” Her own voice was quivering and tears smeared her eyes.

The boy, sensing Cylin’s fear, began to wail. Two of the older women dropped down next to him in an attempt to calm him down. All the hustle accomplished was to attract even more of the foreigners’ attention. A woman approached the large cage.

Like the men, she was a brutish thing. As savage-looking as any of them. Her semi-long black hair was clinging to her head and neck from the sweat. Her one blue eye stared at the crying boy with clear frustration. The other one was a ruined mess of scars and dead flesh. The marks of some great beast ravaged the right side of her face and no one from the Nahar dared look at her for more than a second.

Truly these people were savage brutes. A woman’s place was not fighting along with the men. By the grace of the Hollow Gods, women were blessed with the gift to bear children. They were the ones who secured a tribe’s future. Even the slavers knew that and did not harm them. Enslave them, use them to satisfy their urges for sure, but never kill them. To allow a woman to be scared in such a manner would be a stain on any tribe. A mark of weakness that showed that the men of the tribe were not strong enough to protect those who gave life.

A few steps away, the foreign woman unfastened the triangular wooden shield strapped to her back and picked it in both of her hands. The large man stepped in front of her, hiding her from sight. He barked something, which was followed by a soft reply. The exchange went on for a minute when it suddenly was interrupted by a loud cracking sound. The man fell down in the sand, blood covering his head and the woman stepped over him as if nothing had happened. She dropped the broken shield and reached for her blade.

To the horror of the villagers, the other foreigners simply laughed and tossed coins at each other. All but the man with the long black hair. He barked a single word and forced the woman to look at him. The two of them stared at each other for a moment before the woman backed down. As she turned to leave, the slaves could hear her utter a single word. At that, the dark-haired man turned her around with his left arm and buried his right fist in her face. She fell next to the large man and spat blood and what could only have been a fragment of a broken tooth.

More of the foreigners rushed to them now. Some pulled the woman away, while others dragged the large man to the wagons coming down from the dunes to the west. And there were two who pushed the dark-haired man away.

“They are as savage as the orcs,” Gasara the Old whispered under his breath.

The elder had been a tracker in his youth and had plenty of experience dealing with monsters. He always had sage advice for the young men before a hunt All of his fellow tribesmen turned to him, hoping he would provide some insight. Anything at all, which would give them hope that they would not be left as food for the carrion eaters.

“At least the orcs and slavers know they should not hurt the servants of the Hollow Gods… But these savages… I fear they will not spare poor Hartha.” The elder man looked with saddened eyes at the woman sobbing quietly in the corner of their cage.

“Slaves can earn their freedom in the cursed cities to the west,” Cylin spoke drained of all emotion. “Corpses cannot.”

“Can’t you use the gifts bestowed to you to free us?” One of the elderly women asked.

“No mother Etha.” The girl shook her head. “Chatala taught me only the basics since I had just started my training as a shaman… And I can feel there are two powerful shamans among these foreigners.”

“I beg of you girl; you must do all you can to save Hartha. Use our lives if that is what it is going to take!” Etha lifted the girl and shook her shoulders.

“I’m sorry mother…” Cylin wanted to make an excuse, but there was a lump inside her throat. “I’m not strong enough…”

As the one chosen to be the next village shaman, she should have been able to help them. But how could she, when Chattala had failed to stop the slavers. And these savages had proven they were stronger than the slavers. To make matters worse, Cylin didn’t properly understand how to use her gifts. It would have been at least three full moons before she could be considered a true shaman’s apprentice.

“Be quiet, you, old crone,” Gasara hissed. “One of them is coming here.”

The man who approached them was tall and lean and yet muscular. Like the others, he had fair skin and black hair. But unlike them, his beard covered only the front part of his face and was short and trimmed. He had removed his armour and had only his breaches on, revealing a tattoo of a curled lizard above his heart.

The man smiled at them and spoke in a soft voice, but his words were lost to the villagers. After a few heartbeats, he stopped talking and flashed a new charming smile. Then he turned to the side and shouted something to the other foreigners. It must have been some sort of command as two brutes covered in blood and tattoos came to his side. One of them had a head cleanly shaved and a face twisted in a snarl, while the other had silvery long hair and a large unkempt beard. Their chests and strong arms were covered in scars, old and new, and held axes with serrated blades.

A moment later, a woman with hair the colour of blood and a face as emotionless as that of a corpse came to them. Behind her, she dragged a frail-looking man with a chain around his neck. The man was clearly a son of Scoria-Tria. His black skin and short white hair set him as apart from the foreigners as the day was apart from the night. The woman shoved the poor man to the ground and left without uttering a single word.

The man, who had to be the leader of the foreigners, squatted next to the wretch and said something to his in their strange tongue.

“I am Kala Ins Numia.” The slave introduced himself to the villagers without standing up. “This man is called Regus, the leader of this band of masters.”

“Praise to the Hollowed Gods!” Gasara exclaimed. “They do keep slaves! There is yet hope for us!”

To everyone’s surprise, the wretch of a man reacted as being struck by the words of the elder.

“The Hollow Gods…” Kala said with venom in his voice. “You will soon curse them as I do.”

“Blasphemer! Heretic!” Almost everyone screamed back at him. Cylin could feel her blood boil as she joined in the shouts.

This earned the slave a fist to the side of his face from the one called Regus. An order was barked and the charming smile was gone, replaced by a vicious snarl. It also stopped all sound coming from the captured people of the Nahar tribe. They may hate the slave for his words, but by doing so they were risking enraging the foreigners.

“The master wants to know who amongst you is the servant of the gods,” Kala said after finishing spitting sand.

“You can tell your master he will never find out.” Gasara spat at the slave prostrated before the cage.

“Foolish Sand Roamer. The masters are not as kind as the slavers. You will wish to have told them sooner what they want to know.” Kala curled his lip and spoke once more in the tongue of the foreigners.

For a moment the man called Regus stood still and closed his eyes. Slowly he turned his head to one of the brutes beside him and indicated with his head towards the cage. The one without any hair stepped forward and lifted his axe. With a single strike he broke the lock on the cage and kicked in the small door.

He grabbed Nasha by the hair and made an attempt to drag her out. Her little sister broke through the bodies encircling the children, too fast for Cylin to react and grab her as she whizzed past her, and bit the man’s arm. He only looked confused and pushed Nasha back, while embracing the child with his large hand. Little Bastia screamed and kicked, but it was all in vain.

Finally, the savage threw the girl to the ground as she bit him once more. He shouted something at her and kicked her with all his might. The small child skidded over the sand for a good three meters before curling in a bundle. As one the Nahar women rushed at the open door but were met by the other brute. Arms crossed before his chest he dared them to try and exit the cage.

They could only look in horror as the bald brute stepped over poor Bastia and lifted his axe. The blade came down and bit deep into the child’s left leg. A blood-chilling cry of agony followed the weapon’s kiss. The jagged piece of metal reflected the setting sun as it was lifted up and came down again. The second blow severed Bastia’s leg. By the time a third swing of the axe came, the poor child had stopped making any sound. That did not prevent the monster in guise of a man from severing each limb and picking what remained of her in one arm.

Cylin wanted to vomit. She had never felt this weak and helpless. A single man was barring the exit of the cage, he could not stop all of them. And yet, none of her fellow tribesmen moved. They simply allowed for this to happen. The girl saw it on their faces, they were afraid that they could die, despite all their talk and the teachings, they valued their lives more than the lives of the young. It was disgusting to look at them as much as what happened to poor little Bastia. Cylin hated each and every one of them, more than she hated the foreigners. However, at this moment, she hated herself as much, if not more, for she was the same.

Her gifts, even crudely wielded, would have allowed her to save the child at the cost of her life. It might have actually given pause and strike fear in the hearts of the savages. Even if it was for a moment, but at least then she could face the Hollow Gods with dignity. Instead, like the others, she chose to cower.

With ease the beast threw Bastia’s mangled body inside the cage. As Nasha jumped at the ruined body of her sister, she was caught by the one with the silvery hair and pulled out of the cage. Once the bald brute had her pinned under his foot, he tore her dress and reached for the dismembered arm of Bastia. With one hand, he pushed Nasha’s legs apart, breaking one of them at the hip in the process. Cylin eyes widened in horror, as the brute’s intentions became clear. The world around her began to spin as she saw the severed limb make its way between Nasha’s legs and a howl, like none she had heard before, split the air.

“No!!!” Cylin scream as loud as her voice would allow it. “Hartha!!! It’s Hartha you want!!!” She pointed feverishly at the curled woman at the back of the cage.

“Damn you girl!!!” Mother Etha and mother Dinna yelled at her landing punches and kicks on her body and head.

“Vor.” The single word from the one called Regus was enough to stop the man from finishing the atrocity he was about to commit.

Both tattooed men went into the cage. One dragged the screaming and kicking Hartha, while the other pushed and punched anyone who dared help her. As if from nowhere the black-haired man from earlier had also entered and grabbed Cylin by the foot, dragging her across the wooden floor and onto the sand.

“All speak, when the masters ask,” Kala said, lunacy clouding his violet eyes. “Do not worry, Sand Roamer. She will be free, like me.”

“In the name of the Hollow Gods, I curse you to a thousand deaths traitor! May your line rot as your soul has rotted!” Gasara half sobbed, half screamed as his ageing body pushed at the bars.

Cylin felt numb as the words reach her, as foreign as the words of the savages. Her attention fixed on Nasha, the girl saw the woman with the fiery hair approach the now quiet woman and slit her throat. At least her suffering had come to an end. It had cost Cylin’s soul, but she had managed to save the Nahar tribe from witnessing a madness like none other. An act of cruelty that would have scarred all of them for all eternity.

“The Hollowed Gods are deaf to your words,” Kala spoke in a droning voice and his eyes changed to a bright orange for a brief second.

“Why! Why? WHY!!!” The elder fell to his knees and buried his face in his spotted hands.

The slave did not pay any attention to the demands of the man. He smiled to himself and turned to face Cylin. His usual subservience returned. He offered the girl his hand, which she kicked away. A strong hand pinned her to the ground and the black-haired man loomed over her. Nimbly he yanked the slave’s chain and barked a few words at him.

“The master Two-in-Line has claimed you as his,” Kala spoke choking all the while. “Obey and nothing bad will happen to you. He so pledges.”