“They fear dragons, Jahrra, like those in Aldehren. It’s one of the reasons I seldom leave the Ruin.” He sighed wearily. “They’ll act strangely with me walking around.”
Jahrra nodded in compliance, not needing any further explanation. That first day of school had been so long ago that she’d almost forgotten the effect her reptilian mentor had had on its inhabitants. Hroombra hadn’t gone into town with her since, well, not until today.
As the group approached the southern end of town a rather large field filled with a crowd of people fell into view. Hroombra slowed his pace to pass by the raucous mass, many of its members spilling from the swampy field onto the street. Jahrra leaned forward to get a better look. A few people glanced back grumpily to learn who had nudged them, only to move forward nervously when they noticed Hroombra walking past. A few began to whisper warnings to their comrades, and the outer circle of the crowd began pressing inward as more and more people turned to see the approaching Korli dragon.
“Who are all those people there in the middle of the crowd?” Scede asked aloud.
Jahrra glanced up then and immediately saw what her friend was talking about. In the center of the muddy field stood a line of ten or so people all with their heads bowed. They were dirty and thin, their hands and feet bound in chains and ropes and dressed in nothing more than rags. Jahrra gasped when Hroombra drew breath to answer Scede’s question.
“Those people are slaves Scede, taken forcefully from their homeland and brought here to be sold,” he said solemnly, ignoring the stares and jeers being thrown his way. “Usually slaves aren’t brought as far west as Oescienne, but every so often a slave trader makes a point to try his luck here. It’s a most horrendous and despicable thing to buy and sell another being. Unfortunately, not everyone feels this way.”
Jahrra turned her head to look at the poor creatures once more. She frowned as the first person in line, a young man with dark, tangled hair, was pushed upon a pedestal to be bartered off like an animal.
“Master Hroombra, how can some people sell other people?” she asked, a spark of anger coloring her voice.
“Because no one is willing to put an end to it,” he answered simply, masking his own fury and frustration. “At least, no one is brave enough to defy the Crimson King and his minions. It’s up to those of us who know better to find a way to do away with it.”
“How can we do that?” Gieaun asked.
“By growing up and teaching others that such things are wrong, young Gieaun. When enough people in the world know that owning another person is wrong then perhaps there will be enough people to change it.”
Hroombra continued on past the mustering crowd as quickly as he could. As they walked on, Jahrra turned to look upon the dismal scene behind them. The shouts of the bidders broke free from the general murmur and soon the first man was replaced by another slave on the pedestal.
Jahrra furrowed her brow and glared at the stuffy men and women, imagining that the twins’ parents were probably here somewhere. Those people bidding on the slaves wore robes of silk and fur and were attended by servants, or more likely, other slaves Jahrra realized. They resembled brightly plumed birds, fluffed up and shifting discontentedly in the filthy street.
The fancy women and spotless men were all quite impressive, but as Jahrra scanned the far edge of the crowd one man in particular caught her attention. This person’s impeccable clothing and tall, finely dressed horse were quite a contrast to the muddy streets and plain clothes of many of the common town folk. Even the other well-dressed men and women looked grungy standing next to him. He was slightly taller than most of those around him, and although he didn’t look at Jahrra, his gaze on the enslaved people was a hard, focused one. He wore what looked like green velvet, so dark it was almost black, but Jahrra suspected it was something more intriguing than just that; some rare fabric that had been woven with magic by elves. The reins he held belonged to his snow-white horse, or more likely, a semequin.
Suddenly, the man turned and looked directly at her, his bright, piercing green eyes locking with her own. Jahrra had never seen eyes like this, eyes that seemed to pierce her soul. Beneath a closely trimmed beard and mustache his features were fine and strong. He didn’t look old, but he didn’t look young either, and his face was grim and stony, as if he were trying to make a thousand difficult decisions at once.
The man eventually turned his attention back to look at the row of chained people with glum faces, releasing Jahrra from his overpowering gaze. As his head turned, Jahrra caught a glimpse of a sharply pointed ear resting against his dark hair. Her eyes grew wide as she let out a small gasp, quiet enough for no one else to hear. He had to be an elf; his ears were even more pointed than the twins’, and those two were always claiming to be almost pure elf.
Jahrra was enthralled by the strange elfin man, but her stomach turned as soon as she realized that he was here to buy slaves like everyone else. She didn’t know why, but she felt terribly disappointed in him for doing such an atrocious thing. Yes, she expected the evil twins and their family to do something as appalling as trade people like merchandise, but why was she so shocked to see this stranger doing it? Jahrra quickly turned her head and tucked her chin against her chest, trying to squeeze those bright green eyes out of her memory. They had been so cold, but so sad. It was almost as if the soul inside of the body had burned out long ago and there was just an emptiness left behind.
“Master Hroombra, how much farther are the marshlands from here?” Jahrra asked once Edyadth was behind them.
“Not long. I know it’s been a dull journey, but believe me, what is at the end of it is worth the wait.”
“Are the marshlands better than Lake Ossar?” Scede asked.
“I wouldn’t say they are better, but I think you’ll enjoy them just the same,” Hroombra said with a smile.
The lazy minutes ticked away as the dragon and his riders moved farther southward. The wide dirt road they traveled passed through golden green fields sprinkled with fading wildflowers and fell and climbed with the rolling landscape. Much of this land was grazing land, so the three friends took turns pointing out cows, horses, sheep and goats wandering freely through the open fields. The Longuinn Creek twisted and turned below the road, complimenting them with its cheery babble as they traveled along.
It was late afternoon by the time the group reached the wetlands. At first glance the marsh was a refreshing splash of brilliant green nestled between the dull olive and ocher hills, but as they moved closer Jahrra took note of the differences from Lake Ossar. Instead of sand dunes and the salty scent of sea water, the marshland was guarded by the rising land and the sweet aroma of a thousand wildflowers.
White water lily blossoms shone like a thousand moons upon the water’s dark surface, and rows of brilliant blue bog irises waved in the breeze like the standards of an army. Dragonflies and other insects darted and floated over the glimmering water paradise, their wings and legs clicking faintly in a summertime chorus. Birds and butterflies of all shapes and sizes painted bright spots against the blue sky as they visited flower after flower or searched for shallow places to bathe.
Jahrra closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She felt the sun’s warm caress on her skin, a sensation akin to a great, golden blanket enveloping her in safety. She smiled inwardly, happy that this beautiful scene was slowly taking the place of the oppressive images she’d witnessed in town.
“Now, children,” Hroombra said softly, breaking into Jahrra’s dream world, “we need to make camp, and we still have a little farther to go before we can do so.”