The Slaver:
Berouz looked up from the faded map on his wartable. A Dawi-Zharr had just entered the room, and his clanking steel armor had disturbed his concentration. He thought of using the whip, but decided against it. That was saved for the slaves, not his loyal servants.
“My lord, the raid was a success. We have captured (typo fixed!)22 slaves; 12 men, 7 women, and 3 young. What are your orders sir.”
Berouz tried, but couldn’t hide his malicious grin. His cracked and yellowing tusk poked through the ringlets of his black beard.
“Are the men strong enough to march?”
" Yes, My Lord."
“Then have them attached to the slave lines. Have them whipped, and then brand them. Have the women flayed, and kill the children. Hang the women’s skins from the banner poles. Leave their bodies for the crows.”
The Sergeant bowed and then backed out of the tent. Behrouz poured himself a large goblet of blood wine, and felt it slid down the back of his throat, alleviating the cracked feeling he had from marching all day. The air here was crisp, and nipped at your lungs with it’s cold. Not like the air at Zharr-Naggrund. There you could taste the smog on the air, and almost feel the blood on your tongue! But then of course, there, you could barley escape the grasping claws of the sorcerers.��
“Damn magicians.” Behrouz said to himself. “All they do is order you around for the “greater good” of Hashut. If Hashut were still here, he would smite them, and let us make our own money! However we wanted to!”
His rambling oratory was interrupted by the rustle of the tent flap as a lanky greenskin entered. He was clad in rough burlap garments, wore a misshapen red hood, and stood almost as tall as a human man.��He carried a large curved scimitar, thrust through his leather belt , and a large wooden shield was lashed on to his back.
" Ogla-Kha. My dear friend." Berhouz’s voice dripped with sarcasm
" Grettingz, my master." Spit the hobgoblin in a Cathayan accent.
" Tell me again, why did I set you free?"
������������"Becauze sire, had I not gutted that ogre, his foot would have surely crushed your fancy hat, along with your head."
“Ah yes, of course. I called you hear to inform you of the nights happenings. Soon we should be expecting the first of our guests, a envoy from Norsca. I want you here to hear his orders, as they will in some way affect my orders to you. Second, we will receive a “diplomat” form Zharr-Naggrund. The sorcerer concil saw it fit to assign a overseer to my slaving run. Ignore his orders, unless I relay them to you. "
The air was suddenly filled with the sound of thundering hooves and guttural barbaric yells.��A large Norscan man entered the tent, stopping low through the flap, and was flanked by two of his countrymen, brandishing menacing axes.
" Ah, Prince Jorrugund I assume.” The barbarian only stared at the black armored hand extened towards him. Berhouz snorted. " Well, to business then."
" My father wants a 50 percent cut of your lot from the plundering of this land, in return we will give you a great number of slaves."
" Ha! And imagine these slaves are starved and half way toward the lands of the dead! I need a guarantee that your king will deliver choice goods for my money."
With a quick jerk, Berhouz flipped out a curved blade and brought it down on the Norscan’s left hand. The Prince let out a blood curdeling scream and ran fleeing from the tent. His two gaurds stood dumbfounded, then scrambled to get away from the madman in front of them. Behrouz grinned, his eyes gleaming with a dark, inner light.
“So we have an accord.”
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