Chapter 203 - Uroboros part 4

In the middle of a broad piazza, Zenzele raised her hand, signaling the caravan to halt. She slipped from the back of her mount as mortal attendants rushed out to meet us. These were men and women of the Arth, the high caste mortal denizens of Uroboros. Slaves, yes, but most of them were affiliated with one Clan or another, and some might even be given the Strix one day, made into a blood drinker by an indulgent patron—a status that was tantamount to godhood in this depraved and brutal society.

They were plump and healthy and dressed in fine warm clothing, these repulsive traitors-of-their-own-kind. I could not help but bare my fangs at them.

"Mistress Zenzele! We heard you were on your way home!" the man in charge of the group called. "What a glorious surprise on such a cold and miserable night!" I watched in disdain as the mortals groveled. A few of them even gashed open their arms so that their blood might serve as refreshments.

One such man approached me, holding out a bleeding wrist. Though I was obviously Zenzele's captive—she had put my leash back around my neck when we drew near to Uroboros—I was still a blood drinker, and he was eager to curry favor with any blood god he could. He had even painted his face in imitation of his masters. White face. Red lips.

"This must be the wild blood god from the Western Dominions," he said to Zenzele. His blood dribbled to the stone cobbles, steaming in the cold.

I was tempted to throw myself upon him. I could always claim that I had lost control. I was, after all, a "wild blood god".

As if sensing my thoughts, Zenzele gave my leash a tug. "Careful, Strudo!" she warned the man. "This one does not know our ways yet! He might just make a meal of you."

The fat man jerked back, clamping his hand over his dribbling wrist. Eyes flashing in my direction, he veered toward one of the other vampires, stuttering an apology.

"Palifver's tongue has been restless," Zenzele murmured, inclining her head toward mine.

"Let us hope he has not spoiled my prospects," I whispered back.

Her eyes darkened and her lips pressed together, but she did not comment.

More mortals were coming out to greet us. Two young men dashed around the perimeter of the plaza, lighting torches. A runner was dispatched to the Fen to inform the gods that new slaves had arrived. Before long, the courtyard was thronged with mortal and immortal alike. The blood gods had come down from their aerie, descending the long stairway or crawling straight down the face of the mountain like spiders. Our captives were forced to their feet (they had collapsed as soon as our caravan came to a halt) and were dragged one at a time to stand upon a dais in the center of the excited crowd.

There was no exchange of money. We had no concept of such a thing in those ancient days. The slaves were bartered for with the promise of goods or services, or simply claimed outright by clan leaders and other citizens of high rank, as was their right by status. Several mortal functionaries kept track of the bargains that were struck and the goods that were exchanged. They yelled out, pointing at this one and that one, making inscrutable gestures with their hands, and collecting barter. For a simple hunter-gatherer like me, the entire episode was chaotic and incomprehensible. If you'd like a modern analogy, visualize the trading floor of the Wall Street stock exchange. Yes, it was that mad! Humanity was the lifeblood of Uroboros, the coin of the realm, and that night its dark heart beat vigorously.

I watched in disgust as our captives were dragged to the auction block. Some of them were so exhausted from our long trek they could barely stand—even fortified by vampire blood.

"What do you offer for this raven-headed beauty? Look at these childbearing hips, and these fine, big udders. This one was made for bearing children," the mortal auctioneer cried out. Moments later: "Look at the size of this brute! Imagine the uses you can get out of this one, once he's been properly broke in!"

What paltry rags they still bore were torn from their bodies. The most comely, the most generously endowed, were purchased as body slaves, to be used for the sexual gratification of their masters, or employed in the brothels. They were, perhaps, the luckiest of the lot, though the sturdiest men and women were snapped up almost as quickly. Physical vitality was just as valuable a commodity as ample breasts or an impressive cock. The ugly, the diseased, the scrawny and the old were dragged back down the road to the Shol, to labor in the mines, or, if they were too weak to work, to be bled and butchered, their carcasses tossed into the charnel pits.

The slaves were poked and prodded. Their assholes were checked for tightness. Their breasts and cocks weighed by eye and by hand. Every now and then, a vampire would step forward and demand a taste of a mortal captive's blood. The slave's arm would be forced to the mouth of the vampire, and the crowd would lean forward, almost as one, and watch avidly as the blood drinker's fangs sank into the proffered flesh.

Each time an immortal brought attention to his or herself, Zenzele leaned toward me to identify the blood drinker.

"That tall one is named Maubis. He is one of Khronos's most trusted advisors," she murmured. Later: "That one is Eyore. He is House Daunis. Very low status. Their House Mother is scarcely older than I. Topol will not cut him a deal!"

Vehnfear sidled up to her as we watched the proceedings, and Zenzele squatted to run her fingers through his pelt. The immortal animal, canny beast that he was, sensed her anxiety and licked her on the mouth to comfort her.

She turned her face aside with a smile, and the animal trotted away, tongue lolling.

"Home, Vehnfear!" she called after him, and the wolf broke into a lope. She looked up at me, still smiling. "It is almost over," she said.