Rial was awoken while it was still dark outside, seen through the small windows lodged high in the rafters, the only light provided by flickering torches at either end of the dormitory.

They dressed and packed in silence, then stepped carefully over the now crowded floor and made their way down the stairs and out the door. Outside the sounds of early-morning business carried across the street despite the gloom, shops preparing for another day’s business and carts dragging their wares to where they were needed.

Brin led them towards a different set of gates from which they had entered, these smaller and narrower, a set of doors carved into the wall rather than a full section of the wall. A single guard opened them, and after they departed the solid clunk of a bolt being swung shut told them they were locked out.

The first sun was beginning to rise, revealing the dry, level plains stretching out ahead. A chill wind cut across their faces, forcing Rial to stop and take out an extra layer of clothing from his pack.

Once they were ready, Brin led them away from the wall. They walked for some time, Rial was uncertain how long, and by the time they stopped the first sun was risen at least halfway to its peak.

There was a rocky outcropping on the horizon, a cluster of boulders jutting out of the ground in discord with the rest of the plains, as if a giant had gathered them from some distant mountain and laid them there.

“That is where we meet them,” said Brin, staring ahead.

Rial followed his gaze and could just make out what he was looking at.

Atop the largest boulder, little more than a speck, sat a figure on a horse. Rial was impressed. Horses were rare and highly valued; easy prey for larger grakar and other predators, the upkeep and care of such creatures required a great deal of knowledge, resources, and power. They couldn’t even survive on the vegetation of land – they had to be fed fragile and specially nurtured grasses that withered rapidly in normal soil. The leader of these traffickers must be a rich man indeed.

“Stay with me, and let me do the talking,” ordered Brin.

They made their way slowly to the rocky outcrop, allowing the waiting figures plentiful time to mark their approach. As they came closer Rial realised just how large these boulders were. They stood at least twice the height of a man, and between them were sharp and jagged slabs of rock that jutted out at wild degrees. To fall from one of those boulders would mean serious injury or death.

A man with a scarred face and ragged beard came to meet them, the sun casting his shadow streaming ahead of him in the dust. Rial recognised him as the man from Gryrne’s story.

“You brought a trade?” he asked.

Brin raised the hand holding the cloth-wrapped treasure.

“Where are my people?” he asked.

The scarred man raised a hand to the sky without looking behind him, and immediately figures appeared from behind the boulders. Rial counted at least a dozen.

In the centre of the group emerged six people bound together who Rial recognised immediately as the villagers. The youth looked terrified, faces blackened with dust and what looked like bruising. The men behind poked them with their crude swords,[1] laughing as the villagers cried out and staggered forward.

A piercing whistle from above their heads made everyone look up. Atop the highest boulder, seated on his large, heavy-set chestnut horse, was a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat, face hidden by shade.

“Show him the trade,” said the pox-marked man, waving his sword towards Brin.

Brin slowly placed the treasure on the ground and unwrapped it. In the bright sunlight of the plain the effect Rial had seen within the trees was even more powerful, a myriad of colours pouring off the object in every direction. The colours whirled and coruscated, flashing across the boulders and into the air.

Gasps came not only from the villagers, but from the bandits too.

“Khaf's son,” whispered the scarred man in awe, staring at the object.[2]

The scarred man shook his head and called up to his leader.

“That’s gotta be worth their whole damn village! Whole damn mountains!” he shouted.

The man on the horse nodded, and the scarred man turned to his men.

“Alright, let ‘em go,” he said.

The men standing behind the villagers shoved them hard, sending them sprawling into the dust. Still bound together they crawled to their feet and scurried towards Brin.

Brin held up a hand, and everyone paused.

“This is for all my people,” he said, staring directly up at the leader despite the sun in his face.

All looked up at the horse-mounted man. The wind was picking up, whipping dust across bare skin and down burning throats. A single sob escaped one of the bound villagers.

Slowly, with deliberation, the saddled man shook his head, then turned his horse away. Rial assumed there must be a passable descent the other side.

“Sorry, friend,” grinned the scarred man, “No deal.”

Brin was instantly reaching for his sword, but the scarred man was ready. His own blade rose in a flash, point hovering against Brin’s jugular. This weapon was in a far better condition than the others, and it glinted in the sun.

At the same time the other men had their own swords out and were upon the villagers, grabbing them and dragging them back away from Brin and Rial.

Rial stood there, heart racing, at a loss for what to do.

“All of them,” said Brin through gritted teeth.

“And we already said; no,” replied the scarred man, increasing the pressure of his sword on Brin’s throat.

Brin’s eyes flickered upwards, and he uttered a brief prayer to the sky.

“I have more to offer!” he shouted.

The scarred man withdrew his sword from Brin’s throat, holding it ready at one side.

Rial saw the leader stop his horse and once more turn to look down upon what was happening.

Brin looked briefly to Rial, his eyes full of sadness.

“I’m sorry, boy. I didn’t want to…”

He turned once more to the front and called up.

“He is strong, stronger than most others his age! He will be a good trade for you!”

Rial couldn’t understand what was happening at first, then it was as if someone had poured the winter waters of the mountain stream into his veins. He felt his knees go weak and barely managed to keep himself from falling to the floor.

Cries of horror and realisation rose from the other villagers. Brin turned to them.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly. “The Kotaku…”

He turned to Rial, and Rial saw his despair.

The scene was interrupted as all became aware of a low, throaty chuckle coming from the figure on the horse above.

The man burst into laughter, flinging his head back and slapping the sides of his horse, which whinnied uncomfortably. The laughter continued for a long time, and when it finished, he looked down and nodded.

Another cry from behind a boulder drew Rial and Brin’s eyes, and then Tamarla emerged. She had been beaten, livid bruises down one side of her face and tears in her journeyman’s outfit showing where she must have struggled against her captors.

“What are you doing, Brin?” she shouted, face a snarl of anger and disgust.

“I am sorry, my lady. It is your father’s…”

“My father would never order such a thing! Never!”

Brin bowed towards her, eyes down.

Rial didn’t take in the next few minutes. His head was spinning with emotion, feelings of betrayal and sadness swirling and mixing with shock and disbelief. All these emotions, however, were subsumed by an incredible feeling of powerlessness. There was nothing he could do, nowhere to run, nobody to turn to. He had nothing, no one.

He was no one.

The bindings with which they tied his hands together were meaningless. He didn’t have the strength to fight, no will to resist. What would be the point? He didn't flinch as the cord cut into his skin.

"C'mon, you cast-off," said the pox-marked man, pushing him forward.

The shouts and cries of his fellow… his former fellow villagers meant nothing to him. The village had sacrificed him for the greater good, had surrendered his life in exchange for the lives of others.

Only one emotion overcame the feeling of powerlessness. Only one sensation was stronger than his shame. A burning rage.

He raged inside at the Kotaku, at Brin, at the village.

They hadn’t given him a choice. He would have accepted! In exchange for the lives of seven, of six, even of one, he would have offered his own. They could have asked him!

Yet they had sold him like cattle.

The village went to the market to trade. This time had been no different.

He ignored Tamarla’s cries and Brin’s shouts as the slavers dragged him away.

[1] If Rial had known what a machete was, he would have used the term to describe the thin, rusty weapons.

[2] Even in the seriousness of the situation, Rial cursed himself for not asking Hamist what a khaf was when he’d had the chance.