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Suddenly, he was standing in the middle of a square, and to his amazement, he was no longer dressed in his robes. Instead, he wore a navy-blue tunic with white pants and bare feet. Although he was dressed, he felt more naked and vulnerable than he had ever done before. The ground was covered with tiny sharp stones that cut into his bare feet. He tried to shuffle them around to avoid the sharp edges, but he only seemed to make it worse. He looked down and saw that his feet were now covered with cuts and bruises. When he raised his head again, the square was surrounded by buildings—windowless, wooden buildings—that stretched towards the sky as if they tried to block out the sunlight itself. As if by some predestined order, a mass of people sprang from the small openings in between the buildings and gathered before him. He was taken aback at the appearance of the figures. They were all the same height and width with shoulder-length auburn hair, and they all wore foot-long light brown tunics, but it was the faces of the figures that chilled him to the bone for they had none. Under the long hair was a blank slate—no eyes, nose, not a single wrinkle or crevasse gave a hint as to who they were or what they felt. Eyeless, they faced him and seemed to penetrate him with their blank stares. He took a step back when he suddenly noticed a face he did recognize. It was Naed’s. In the center of the crowd, he saw his son struggling to get to him. He began walking towards the boy when, all of a sudden, a figure rose above the faceless characters. It was a figure dressed in armor atop a horse. It was the knight from his previous dream, and it was moving towards Naed with a sword raised, batting faceless figures to the side. He screamed and tried to push his way forward, but the figures would not let him through. The knight was on top of Naed and was about to bring his sword down when Prolur woke up with a start.
From that moment on he kept moving in and out of consciousness. Sometimes when he opened his eyes there would be women leaning over him with rags in their hands that they dabbed across his forehead while whispering words he could scarcely hear. Other times the hut would be completely empty, and he would be left to stare up into the ceiling where something hung. At these times, when he found himself alone, he would try to rise or roll over to get a different view of his surroundings, but for some reason, his limbs would not obey him at all. He had noticed that whatever had captured him had stripped him of his robes so that he now lay naked under a thick fur skin. What made him perplexed was that he had not performed any of his natural needs since his capture, and since his bedclothes were neither soiled nor wet, this must have been taken care of some other way—as well as his feeding. The times he awoke to find himself alone, he was left to his own thoughts. He would think about his family, his time in the army, how his cousin tugged at him in one direction, and then how the sudden appearance of Prince Quale had tugged him in another. Most of the time, his thoughts went to Naed and Taura. How he never could be a father to his own son or a husband to the woman he had known as his wife. At the start of his journey, there had been a chance that he might return. But what lay ahead of him now? What was in store for him? What did Destiana have planned?
Then one time he opened his eyes and he was not alone or surrounded by women. Rather he was joined by the man who had greeted him by the fire. The man sat on his haunches, staring at him, his face partially hidden in the shadows cast about by a light hanging from the ceiling of the hut.
The sight of the large man’s frame in the dusky light startled him, and he quickly sat up and scurried back against the wall. The man’s eyes watched him as he suddenly realized that his body once again obeyed his commands.
“Forgive us,” the man spoke with a dark, steady voice, colored by an accent that was very different from how the Sauranians spoke. Haugarian and Sauranian was pretty much the same language but with varying pronunciation. Haugarian was harsher, and Sauranian was smoother and less guttural. The way the man spoke was softer and almost melodic. “We gave you herbs, and they stopped you from moving.”
Prolur couldn’t get a word out—partly because his throat was dry from not speaking and partly from astonishment and fear. The man moved closer to him, and the light hit his entire face. It was tanned and weathered, but not in any way old. The face was stern, but Prolur could tell that the man was trying to smile and seem friendly. However, he had obviously not had a lot of practice. It was the eyes, the same kind of eyes as the rest of them, that scared him. They weren’t natural—not like anything he’d seen before.
The man halted his advance when he noticed Prolur’s frightened look and turned around to grab something from behind his back. He then stretched his arm out towards Prolur and handed him his robes. Prolur snatched them from the man’s hands and looked them over. They had been well taken care of. Holes had been stitched together, and it had been carefully and thoroughly washed.
“You are completely healed,” the man said and again tried to smile. “You may now move as freely as you please. Put your garments on and join us outside for food.” The man then rose and slowly exited the hut.
Prolur stayed still for a moment with his back all the while pressed against the wall. He could hear the voices of men and women in the same singing tone as the man had spoken outside the hut. There seemed to be some kind of feast being held because he could hear music and much merriment.
Maybe they are going to sacrifice me to their gods, he thought. Maybe this is my fated end.