The girl moved slowly toward the tent’s opening. She could see cages, and men rushing about with torches. The cages sat in open wagons that were hitched to tired, droopy horses. A man asked each person their name, then he directed them to climb into one of the cages. As she approached the man, she declared, “I’m part of the crew.”
The man looked down at Maren and said, “Of course you are. What’s your name?”
“Maren,” she stated.
“Well, Maren,” the man said, looking over a scroll. “Looks like you’re in the first pen.” He then pointed toward a wagon that contained several women and her friend Micah.
The girl squinted at the wagon and rubbed her chin. The wonderful feelings she felt watching the play were quickly fading. “I have to ride in that?” she said.
“Well, we’re all out of fancy carriages,” the man replied as his face turned sour.
“Okay,” the girl said, and began to take small, petite steps toward the vehicle.
Before she could get very far, the man shouted out, “Wait!”
Maren froze and turned toward him. “Yes?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to give me that sword,” the man said.
The girl swallowed. Even though she was willing to relinquish it earlier that day, she was nervous about parting with it now. “But, my friend Faymia gave it to me,” she timidly protested.
“I don’t care who gave it to you!” the man barked. “There are no weapons allowed on the crew.”
Maren wondered about her decision to leave Laor. She thought about running off into the nearby fields, but was afraid. Slowly, she unstrapped her sword and handed it to the man. Turning back toward the wagons, she reached up to massage her ear and slowly walked over. She looked up into the cage. With the exception of Micah, its occupants appeared tired and joyless. Ascending the small staircase at the end of it, she took a deep breath and climbed in.
CHAPTER SIX
What’s Left Behind
Son walked down the road, pulling a small cart behind him. It was filled with wooden toys and miniature versions of a trebuchet, catapult, and battering ram. He was always proud of his creations, and they sold very well when he would bring them into town.
Moving closer to the village, he noticed an unusual amount of litter in the normally tidy setting of Laor. There were bottles, papers, and even uneaten food strewn along the ground. It irked the boy to see such a disregard for common courtesy, and he wondered if selling his wares to a bunch of slovenly festivalgoers was such a good idea.
As he approached the town square, it looked as if a battle had taken place there. Rubbish was everywhere, and shopkeepers were tiredly picking it up and tossing it on a large fire that burned high into the cloudy afternoon sky. Others walked about searching for something, or someone, Son did not know.
When he saw an older woman sitting outside of the pub, sobbing into her hands, he let go of his cart and slowly approached her. “Ma’am, are you okay?” he quietly asked.
The woman wore a gray kirtle that was clean and handsomely embroidered. The places on her dress where her tears had fallen looked dark and stained. She wiped her lovely face with a handkerchief and looked up at Son. “My family is gone,” she lamented.
“Where did they go?” the boy asked.
“They left,” she began. “Gone with all the rest to a place I do not know. They chose to be carted off with a slaver crew rather than stay here with their mother.”
Suddenly a feeling akin to being kicked in the stomach by a mule came over Son. Waves of dizziness and nausea flowed from his head to his feet. “Did you say slaver crew?” he asked, hoping that her next words would inform him that he’d heard her wrong and that there were never slavers in Laor.
“Yes,” the woman confirmed. “They’ve been here for weeks, throwing their parties, getting the townsfolk fat and lazy. You must not be from around here.”
The boy’s knees shook and felt weak. All the suspicious interactions he’d had with Maren over the last few days came back to him with agonizing clarity. The pie, the insistence on traveling to town every day, the tight clothing, and the loss of Earl; they all pointed toward what he should have seen all along. He cursed himself for being too preoccupied to realize what was happening. He’d sworn to watch over the girl and care for her, but failed to protect her from the snare of the slavers. “I’m very sorry for your family,” he consoled. “I have to find out what happened to my friend.” He then ran off to speak to a nearby shopkeeper who was sweeping broken glass away from the entrance of his store.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for someone,” Son said, introducing himself.
The man looked exhausted. His apron was filthy, and his eyes were red with angst. He leaned against his broom and replied, “As are many today, lad. Who is it that ye seek?”
“A young girl, about yea high,” the boy answered, gesturing with his right hand. “She has dark hair and wears an embroidered dress.”
The shopkeeper scratched the white whiskers on his chin and looked toward the sky. “What’s her name?” he asked.
“It’s Maren.”
“Well, I don’t recognize the name,” the man said. “But I do remember seeing a young girl runnin’ around with a little boy over the last few days. She used to ride a burro into town until she gave it to those horrible slavers.”
A lump formed in Son’s throat, and feelings of dismay beat at his shoulders as he processed what had happened. “That’s her!” he exclaimed. “I’m supposed to be looking after her.”
The shopkeeper began to speak but quickly stopped himself. He drew in a deep breath, then said, “Many of our young people went off today, even whole
