Chapter 11
Livestock
The carriage wheels screeched as they slowed, splintered wood groaning under their own weight before coming to a halt. Varka leapt down first, his boots hitting the forest floor with barely a sound. In the same motion, he scaled a tree and melted into the canopy's shadow.
Snezna followed, heavier-footed but no less quick, still clutching the unconscious girl over one shoulder. His broad frame made the weight look manageable, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the strain. His breath came rough, uneven, as he pressed his back to the trunk of a tree.
The air smelled of damp bark and blood—stale blood from the slaughter left behind. Somewhere distant, a horn sounded, low and dragging, carried by the wind through the branches.
Varka's lips curved, the whisper escaping him like a predator's hum.
"Looks like I was right. Empire carriages never travel alone."
Snezna's eyes flicked toward him, sharp and tired, then back to the empty road where the sound grew closer.
"Then why the hell did they take so long?" he muttered, his voice edged with bitterness. "A horn that late… it reeks of carelessness."
"Not carelessness," Varka corrected in a low growl. "The Empire is stretched thin. Worse than we thought." His fingers drummed on the bark, twitching faintly, as if some unspoken itch ran down his nerves.
Snezna shifted the girl's limp body on his shoulder, exhaling hard through his nose. "So what then? Are we leaving? You know we can't afford to be caught. Not after last time."
His tone was sharp, weary, tinged with anxiety.
But Varka's answer was a quiet, hungry rasp:
"Wait. Judging by that horn… this caravan is carrying a commander. I want a good look."
Snezna stared at him, lips curling in disbelief. "You're serious?"
Varka only nodded, a slight movement, eyes never leaving the direction of the approaching sound.
"You really are out to get us killed," Snezna muttered, running a hand down his face. He adjusted the girl's weight again, his thick arms flexing. "I'll go deeper into the forest. Can't hide well with her. Watch if you must—but I'm not dying for your obsession."
Without waiting for a reply, he vanished into the undergrowth, the girl still slung across his shoulder.
Varka didn't stop him. He simply crouched on his branch, muttering a string of runes under his breath—words Carter couldn't decipher, syllables that bent the air itself. His form shimmered and bled into the dark, swallowed by the canopy.
Then he waited.
The forest grew heavy with silence, broken only by the distant rumble of hooves. It came slowly, then all at once: a procession of carriages emerged from the gloom of the road, a dozen or more, their iron-bound wheels crushing loose stone beneath them.
But these were no slave wagons.
Even Carter, peering through Varka's eyes, felt the difference. These carriages gleamed in the dim light—gold-threaded banners, red-painted wheels, embossed crests catching what little sunlight broke through the trees. And then there was one larger than the rest, a monstrous construction of wood and steel, pulled by twelve white stallions. It was no carriage—it was a house on wheels, a palace meant to move with an army.
Varka's focus narrowed on it, his grin sharp, wolfish.
The procession slowed, halted.
Soldiers poured out like ants, their formation precise, rehearsed. These were no tired patrolmen. Their armor shone black with crimson etchings, fresh and polished, as if they had never bled in battle. Massive swords hung at their sides, each blade identical—factory steel forged for a legion.
Varka's eye twitched. So their road's been safe… that explains the shine.
Then the carriage doors opened.
A tall figure descended—gaunt, broad-shouldered, helm concealing his face entirely. He moved with measured authority, every step deliberate. His voice rang out, cold and commanding, echoing even to Varka's perch above.
"Perimeter! Now!"
The soldiers obeyed instantly, fanning outward with mechanical precision. Their movements spoke of training leagues beyond the ones who had once captured Varka and Snezna. These were not fodder. These were wolves in iron.
Carter felt his throat tighten in Varka's silence. If he's caught now… it'll be a death sentence.
Varka leaned forward, crouched low, eyes half-lidded in hunger. "Now then," he whispered, "time to get a good look."
Carter said nothing. He hadn't said anything for some time. His silence wasn't just quiet—it was thick, suffocating. He wasn't indifferent. He wasn't calm. He was in shock, disbelief still gnawing at him. Silence was his shield, the only way he could keep from collapsing under what he'd seen, what he'd been dragged into.
But now, staring through Varka's eyes at the soldiers below, Carter's thoughts sharpened into one truth.
This man… this Varka… he's not right in the head. Not at all.
Below, the soldiers went about their work.
Though their faces were hidden by their helms, Varka could see it—the ripple of emotion beneath steel. Some stiffened at the carnage left behind. Others muttered old curses under their breath. A few knelt by the fallen, whispering quick prayers over bodies already cooling.
Some tore off their helmets to press charms to their lips, whispering for mercy. Others didn't waste time—light-armored scribes knelt by corpses, quills scratching ink into ledgers, indifferent, as if recording death were routine.
The air reeked of blood and burnt wood. Iron. Ash.
Yet not one of them—not a single soldier—glanced at the rows of ruined slave carriages. They were livestock in their eyes, not men or women. When the time came, they pushed the wreckage aside, piled it, and set it alight.
The slaves were not prayed for. They were not counted. They were ash.
Carter felt his stomach knot. His silence cracked into a faint tremor of nausea.
Varka's lips curved, voice too low for anyone but Carter to hear.
"Well… that's the Empire for you."
And then he fell silent.
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