Part II: The Slaughter He was oppressed and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; he was led as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, he opened not his mouth. -- Isaiah 53:7 She smelled them before she saw them – the acrid stench of excrement, blood and putrefaction. They wore these things like badges of honor, these men, these brutes.
It was mid-morning, and the women had only just finished packing their camp when the slavers descended upon them. Seven men there were, thick and muscled, wearing tattered finery and tarnished jewels; missing teeth and bearing the marks of their indiscretions, they eyed the ladies like a wild dog might eye a sick rabbit. Only one of them spoke, and he spoke with a hint of satisfaction, and not a little hubris. “If it isn't Caelia De'Nerys, prized slut of Sunberth.”
Caelia was cool, relaxed, her hands in her saddlebags as she was thus addressed by the towering, bald-headed man. She canted her head gently to the side but did not turn, regarding him at the far edges of her periphery. “Why, that must be Javed – I'd know that stench anywhere.” She cast a sharp, azure gaze to each of her daughters in turn, and they knew well enough to move slowly and quietly behind her, each one keeping an eye on one or two of the other men.
“Lord Marek will be so thrilled when I bring you back to him. He has so loathed to be without you all these years,” he grinned broadly at her, revealing dark gaps where some of his teeth had rotted out. Caelia had wrapped her deft fingers around the hilts of her Suvai blades, drawing them slowly and purposefully out of her saddlebag. She turned to face the Slaver, then, sharp blue eyes twinkling at the very prospect of running him through with her blade.
“I'm sure Marek has gotten on fine in my absence,” she replied, her tone icy. “He had so many other slaves at his disposal, surely I did not leave him wanting for... company.”
“What pretty blades those are,” Javed commented absently, “Aren't those pretty, boys?” He scoffed, spitting on the dirt at Caelia's feet. “I'll make you a deal, how 'bout? How about you put them pretty blades away, and you and your friends here can keep your lives.”
“Mm, how about... you leave now, and you and your men may keep yours.”
Javed laughed, full bodied and unabashed. “Oh, 'Lia, you beautiful thing. I'm going to like having you again.” He propped his hands up on his hips, adopting a faux-scolding pose and gave a shake of his head. “Now, honestly – what are you doing on this road without an escort? You're practically begging us to take you.”
“Girls, get on your mounts. We're leaving now.” She said as evenly as possible, but her command betrayed the nervousness that bubbled in her blood. Seven men, she thought, noting each of their positions with the utmost care without ever taking her eyes off of Javed. Seven men...
And the girls where frozen, clinging to one another in a trembling clump of blond hair, small bones and wide, blue eyes. The girls themselves did not see the command from Javed to his men – but Caelia did. It was no more than a jerk of his head, abrupt as it was brief, toward Caelia, when one of the men, large, round, and breathless from the effort of transporting such body weight, came forward with both hands out in front of him. He lunged – “Mama!” Came Lillis' perilous cry – and Caelia dodged deftly out of the way in one fluid, dance-like spin that sent her full, yellow curls to spinning around her head like a mane. She sliced him from ear to ear so quickly that Lillis did not know he'd been injured until he dropped to his knees, a cascade of red spilling down the front of him.
Javed narrowed his coal-black eyes at Caelia, no longer amused. “You have deprived me of one of my men.”
“I have bettered my odds.” Caelia was breathing heavily now, the thrill of adrenaline pumping hard through her veins.
“Quite.” Javed looked past her, then, to the girls. That should have been the moment that Caelia made her move – she felt the opportunity come, and go, quick as a lightning flash. He looked back at Caelia and smiled blankly. “Your daughters.”
Caelia said nothing, but stood with her blades at the ready.
“They'll fetch quite a price,” he continued, tugging at his black leather vest as he paced in front of her. “That little one, there,” he gestured vaguely toward Lillis, “might make a nice companion for Marek, should unfortunate circumstances continue to deprive him of the pleasure of your company.”
“I would rather see her dead than in your hands,” Caelia spat acid back at these men, and Lillis looked then away from the men and toward her mother, wondering for the first time in her young life what it was, exactly, that her mother had suffered.
“Well, perhaps we can arrange that.” He bowed his head only slightly and the remaining men began to close in on Caelia De'Nerys and her daughters and panic gripped the mother's heart.
“Run!” She shouted, even as she lunged forward to attack Javed himself.
With a push from one of her sisters, Lillis shot off like a bolt away from the fray. She did not see where her sisters had gone, simply kept watch in front of her, darting between trees and over logs until she could hear the clatter of hooves behind her. She never looked back, not even as the sound of hooves drew nearer, she kept running with the full force of terror, her hair a yellow streak behind her.
Two of the men bore down on her without much difficulty, one of them reaching down to grasp a handful of those flaxen curls and jerk her to a stop. She was lifted by the neck, as though she weighed no more than a snared fox, and thrown over the front of the saddle, the pommel jabbing her in the tummy as they rode back.
One of her pursuers immediately rejoined the group, but the man who had captured her held back, just far enough away so that she could hear the shrieks and cries of her family but could not see them. He dismounted, and as she struggled down herself; he assisted her by throwing her to the ground with such force that it knocked the wind out of her. He did not speak, nor did she, when he tore the dress from her body. He did not speak, nor did she, when he used one hand to curl around her throat and the other to loosen the laces of his breeches. He did not speak, nor did she when he forced himself into her, laying the full weight of his bloated form on top of her. She did not speak; she did not even cry out.
When he was finished, he tossed the remains of her tattered dress at her, and she slipped it over her shoulders, hugging herself tightly. He gripped her upper arm and dragged her along, back to the gruesome party.
When she emerged from the woods, she saw that both Javed and her mother were sprawled lifelessly by the side of the road. Despite his cruelty, it seemed that Javed was the arbiter of order in this band of madmen. Her eldest sister had been sliced from navel to nose, her torso opened as though to sate curiosity. The twins were being used by the other four men – Lillis and her captor were the last of the group.
She could see the colors of these men, feel what they felt as they destroyed her sisters, feel what they felt as they destroyed her. The man with his hand on her arm threw her once more to the ground and took a blade to her, and she could see the hatred, the overwhelming hatred, and she could not understand what she had done to garner such hatred from a perfect stranger. Such perfect hatred from this perfect stranger. “Why do you hate me?” She asked him, her eyes wide and glassy, her body trembling despite her best efforts at staying brave. Her mother had been very brave; she wanted to be brave as well.
Lillis was given no reply, not even a second glance. And she could still see that bubbling hatred, black and murky, the loathing, the abhorrence. And to be hated so profoundly is what finally made her weep.
When he finally sliced into her, it was a great relief. He was cutting the scales off on her left leg, as though she, too, were mere curiosity. The scales were flayed from her muscle, and he looked at them in long strips, finding that they lost their luster when thus disembodied. But when he cut into her, she could not see the hatred, she could not feel the loathing, just the arc of the blade through her skin and the warm feeling of blood as it pooled and ran down her limb.
She was nearly unconscious by the time the other four men turned their attentions to her. The knife was abandoned in favor of positioning her legs so that she might receive them best. All of them. She did not feel it then, despite the completeness of how she was used, she did not feel it. She turned her head and saw the vacant eyes of the twins, of Isla, of her mother, and thought contentedly that she might join them soon. She was almost giddy at the thought that it would all be over in a few moments, and she embraced the blackness that descended with a smiling heart.
But she did not count on waking up.
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