Chapter 180 - Zenzele, My Captor part 7

The atmosphere had an amazing clarity. The storm had passed and the stars were out in a glorious abundance. The moon perched upon the distant Carpathians, and the image of it was so clear, the illusion of its nearness so perfect, that I imagined I could reach out and grasp it, pluck it down from the heavens like some pale fruit and take a bite of it.

The slave traders rushed about as I walked to the center of the camp. They were too busy at their labors to give me any thought. Some of them were tearing down shelters. Others were piling gear upon the backs of their riding beasts. Two of the slave-tenders were ladling food and drink into the mouths of the slaves. The captives of the blood drinkers had been lined up in preparation for their march to Uroboros, and as the slave-tenders moved quickly through their ranks, they groaned and slurped at the nourishment the men splashed impatiently into their mouths. Some of them pleaded for more and sobbed when their appeals went unanswered. The sight of the mortals, so desperate and exhausted, tore at my heart. Finally, I could watch no longer. I turned around, taking in all the activity, and I thought how easy it would be to slip away in the chaos.

I knew I would not do such a thing. So far, Zenzele had kept her promise to spare the Tanti. The blood drinkers gave no sign of mounting a raiding party upon my people. The thought of escape only came because it was evident, but I had no intention of acting upon it.

The groans of the slaves drew my attention again. Something about their moaning sounded out-of-place. It was not a sound that despairing men might make, rather something more akin to carnal pleasure.

I observed the slave-tenders feeding the prisoners.

Both of them were large and powerfully muscled, with crude features and dim, pitiless eyes. Each bore a bulging sack from a strap around the shoulder, which they dipped from as they moved from slave to slave. Every prisoner received a hasty splash of gruel and a dipper of water as the slave-tenders moved along the ranks. The captives gulped down the water without any unusual behavior, but when the man with the feedbag came around, all the mortals made the same curious expression. They gobbled the swill down greedily when the wooden ladle pressed to their lips, and then their eyes rolled back in their heads and a shiver passed through their bodies. It was a convulsion of orgasmic bliss, out of all proportion to the meager amount of food they had received.

What, I wondered, was in that gruel?

Scowling, I moved a little closer, and then I smelled it.

Blood.

It was not the coppery tang of mortal blood. I would have noticed that immediately. It was the tarry scent of vampire blood, the ebu potashu, the living black blood.

And they were feeding it to their mortal captives!

"Thest!"

Zenzele approached from the other side of the camp, stalking toward me purposefully. She frowned when I did not scurry immediately to her summons.

"I see I am going to have to train you to be a proper attendant," she threatened.

"You feed it to them," I said.

She followed my gaze to the bulging feedbag.

"It is only a few drops," she replied. "Just enough to enliven them."

"To keep them healthy for the journey?"

"Would you prefer our prisoners suffer? Their fate has already run them down, beautiful one. It is a kindness."

To that, I had no reply.

"Come," she snapped. "There is no place for pity here. The others will interpret it as weakness."

She leaned toward me.

"A weakness that will reflect upon me as well," she whispered, staring at me meaningfully.

I nodded, and followed her to my labors.