“Asheal, asheal …”
A voice spoke in the darkness disturbing his slumber. Though if this was the sleep of the living, or the forever sleep of the dead, Gar did not know.
For he had been places in the dreams he had been having. And the silence there; was a silence composed of the clash of swords and the screams of people in torment. These were places he was sure no living man was meant to see.
Throughout it all Gar had been guided by a presence, someone he felt but never saw. But he’d known it was the same presence he’d felt on the night before he’d found the Chieftain, Kel’s father, dead. The presence, the man, who had called him Asheal.
Gar came awake with a start. The ground beneath him was damp and the same bulrush-type plants that had been in the forest obscured his view of the people he could hear shouting and laughing raucously all about him.
Gar began to lever himself upright ready to peer through the reeds when a hand was suddenly clasped over his mouth.
“If you value your life,” whispered a voice, as a knife was jabbed into his back, “you won’t make a sound.”
The hand that pressed over his mouth was surprisingly small but the strength they possessed was that of a much larger person as they twisted his body around towards a gap in the bulrushes.
A single word was hissed in his ear, “Slavers!”
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.