The Vultures - Part 1

Gelmin the vulture walks ahead, hunched and splay-toed. I step after him, boots flattening the splintered grass. The grasslands out here--The Amberlands is what we called it; the elves called it something unpronounceable--crunches underfoot like burnt rye. Wind whips the dust sideways and snags the stitched hem of my coat.

We're tracking. Three sets of footprints, small and light. Elves. The heel-drag, though, says they're more tired than young.

"You seeing this?" he calls over his shoulder, one hand shading his eyes, the other holding the stub of a cigarello.

"I'm not blind," I say. "They split up here. Then someone changed their mind." I point to the place where the tracks stagger. One set veers to the left, then swerves back.

The old man cackles, phlegmy. "Herd animals, every one of them. Run together or die together."

They're too desperate, too clumsy. "They're losing it," I say. "They know someone is following them."

I take a deep breath and look east. The sun is a hammered coin, fat and hot and uncaring.

They wouldn't last long out here. Our wagon is the only source of shade. The cage is built onto the back of our wagon, welded rough by some lunatic blacksmith who'd never seen a straight line in his life. Painted on the wagon side in looping red letters: "Gelmin Procurement and Recovery Service." The rest of the paint has worn off, but once in the past it must have looked pretty officious.

The best part of the show is in front. Two centauresses, harnessed with leather and steel, with a crossbeam that puts a bow into their backs, jutting out their breasts. Their breasts are double-D, veined and swinging, each nipple pierced with a ring as thick as a wedding band. They're matched by a similar ring through the nose.

I set my hand to the wood and vault onto the driver's seat. The left one--her human half has the olive skin and curled hair of some southern city, but the horse part's pure draft stock--glances up at me, then away.

My open palm cracks against the rump of her powerful hindquarter. The sound is flat and sharp in the still air. A low, guttural growl vibrates through the steel bit gagging her, the words muffled but unmistakable: a thick, equine curse on all stupid humans. The impact sends a shudder through her whole body, and the heavy, veined weight of her breasts swings pendulous in their leather harness, the thick iron rings through her nipples glinting dully in the sun.

"You get bored while I was out?" I ask.

She grinds her teeth, lips tight. The right one huffs, stamping a hoof and tossing her braid.

"Save it," I say. "We'll feed and water once we get to some shade. We have work to do."

They start moving when I flick the whip, but I don't even need to touch them. The harness does most of the work. Old man designed it that way, said centaurs were never meant to be free anyway.

He sits next to me on the wagon tongue, boots dangling, and taps ashes onto my sleeve. "You ever catch elf before?" he asks.

I chew the jerky, let it grind between my molars. "Not alive, no."

He grunts."You gotta get your hands on 'em, kid. A lot. Or they wither and die." He spits over the side of the wagon. "They need contact. They go stupid for it. Like scratching a bitch in heat."

He's been teaching me since I got out of the company, though he'd deny he's teaching at all. I was Imperial once. Not frontline--conscripts don't last--but scout, long range patrols ahead of the infantry, used to working solo, travelling light. Slavery was legal but looked down on, unless you had the right paperwork or the right rank. The old man had both, and the first time I saw him, he was arguing with an officer over the price of a wounded centaur. He won.

I had enough of the war. The recruiters promised slaves and spoils and maybe that was true early in the conquest, but after decades of attrition, the Demi-humans had been pushed to the edge of the empire, and most citizens got their slaves from aristocrat owned breeding farms. When the old man offered me a job, I cashed out my wages, and took him on. Figured I'd go into business for myself.

"You know why they run?"

I shrug. "To get away from us?"

He laughs, then coughs. "From the army. We're the mercy, kid. When the army's done, nothing left but bone and singed hair. What we do, it's clean. You mark 'em, you break 'em in, you sell 'em off. No mess."

I don't believe him.

We're not the only slavers working this stretch. Word is, the Imperials are getting organized. They run patrols along the tree lines, herd the Demi-humans south, let the freelancers mop up what leaks through. There's money in it, if you don't mind the looks people gave you on the street.

The old man picked me because of my scouting experience, and because I knew people in the army. Like Corlo, who leaked like a sieve if you handed him a few imperial coins. Coin spent better than the scrip they got from the army.

We ride the high ridge, eyes peeled. The centauresses move faster than any horse team, their hooves sure and mean.

The old man grins, leaning over the driver's board. "You haul ass today, I'll pay the stable master to let his minotaur stud have a go at you."

The centauresses stamped and snorted, their powerful flanks quivering with anticipation. Their ears pricked forward, and the one on the left let out a low, eager whinny, tossing her head against the traces.

He points. "There. Moving west of the ditch."

I see them. Three figures, small and staggered, trying to keep low but failing. Every step kicks up dust.

I grip the net gun.

"Let's go make a living," the old man says, and we bear down on them, the wagon rattling like a drum.

The grasslands aren't empty. The worst are the packs of bone dogs, though some call them razors. Each one's a ribcage on legs, jaws wider than their skulls, tongue like a strip of bloodied leather. You see them from a distance: a shimmer in the heat, then a dozen skulls bobbing just above the grass. They follow the same logic as we do, chase the weak, snatch the tired, eat what can't run, save a few to breed.

"Fucking bone hounds," he mutters. "They'll eat our catchif we don't get there first."

It's not an idle threat. Last season, we lost a whole cage of goblin girls to a night raid, razors tunneled right under the wagon, dragged them out by the ankles. I still hear the girl's screaming, sometimes.

We bear down on the elves. I ready the net gun and brace for the fight.

The centauresses dig in, nostrils flared and legs piston-strong. I jump out before the wagon stops. The net gun's heavy in my grip, but I'm used to its pull. The first elf--skinny, black-haired, young man by the looks of the jaw--tries to bolt. He gets maybe six feet before I put a net around his shoulders and yank him down. He hits the dirt with a mouthful of grass and doesn't get back up.

The next two--girls, one dark, one pale, both filthy--freeze. Their ears twitch, eyes wide as coins. They don't move, not at first. I aim at the darker one, but she just drops to her knees, hands out, fingers spread. It's almost polite.

The old man laughs from the seat, high and mean. "Didn't even make you sweat, kid. Bag the rest."

I toss another net over the kneeling dark skinned girl and tie her wrists with quick loops of wire. She shivers but doesn't fight. I run my hands over her tits and flank, she's too skinny from starving, but will be a prize catch once we put some meat on her

The last one's trembling so hard she looks like she might break herself in half, but I don't see any weapons. Just rags and bones and the long, white hair that gave them away.

I march them back to the wagon, ignoring the razor pack that's started to circle, waiting for scraps. The centauresses shift nervously in their harness, eyes glued to the predators.

The elves weigh nothing. I stuff them in the cage, two on one side, one on the other, and lock the grate behind. They make no sound, not even when the old man spits in their direction and calls them "merchandise."

I look at them, hunched and silent in the shadow of the cage. I try to picture them as people, not product, but it's easier not to.

The razors don't care about cages, or about anything except meat. As soon as the elves are locked up, the pack tightens around the wagon. There's at least eight of them, maybe more, shadows darting between the tufts. Mouths whispering, mocking us in our own language.

The old man grabs the shotgun from the rack, checks the load, and fires a warning into the sky. The sound echoes for miles, but the bone dogs only flinch for a second, then edge closer.

"I figured that probably wouldn't work." He shrugged.

The centauresses start to panic, stamping and snorting, but the harness keeps them in line. I watch as the lead razor, bigger than the others, makes a play for the back wheel. It's all ribs and teeth, low to the ground, eyes rolling with hunger.

"Hold the line!" the old man shouts.

I make a quick count left to right, put the rifle to my shoulder and start to fire. One shot for each, a second to lever rack the next round, and softly squeeze.

Beside me, angling from the other direction, the old man fires. My mind ignores the loud booms echoing in my ear.

Dogs in the midst of pouncing forward, somersault, and fall in the dirt. Some explode into gore and viscera from the shotgun. The rest break.

After the razors scatter, the air goes thin and silent. The centauresses are sweaty and spooked, but unharmed. I check the rearview: the cage is intact, elves pressed to the bars, staring at the horizon.

For a moment, the tension breaks. The light-haired boy--bruised but breathing--smiles, just a flicker, when he sees the bone dogs gone. The two girls huddle close, but there's less fear, more confusion. They whisper to each other in their strange litling tongue, glancing at us, at the empty grass, at their own hands like they can't believe they're still attached.

It's weird, the gratitude. I'm not sure if it's for killing the razors or for being alive at all. Maybe both. The old man sees it, too. He taps a match against his boot, lights up, and gives the cage a nod.

He sticks his cigarillo through the bars and forces it into the light skinned girl's mouth. Scared to disobey, she presses her lips around the cigarillo, and sucks in the smoke, immediately coughing.

"See? Told you we're the mercy," he says, and for a second, I want to hit him.

But he's right. For now, the elves are safer with us than with anything else on the plains.

It doesn't take long for hope to rot back into fear. The elves don't talk, but their eyes never stop moving. The boy, once the shock wears off, tests every bar, every hinge. The dark girl mutters in a language I half recognize from my army days, maybe just panic. The pale one stares at me, her gaze cold and sharp as a pin.

They've figured it out. They know what we are, and what's coming. I see it in the way they shrink from my shadow, the way their hands tremble when I toss in a water skin or a crust of bread.

The dark one speaks for the lighter skin. When I pass in the bread she takes my hands, kissing my calloused fingers. "Please, master, we not fight."

The old man keeps his distance, just watches. "Smart one," he says. "She knows what sells. Pay attention to her; she'll keep the other alive. "

As the day gets hotter, the elves start to wilt. Sweat beads on their foreheads; sweat soon sheens their body, rolled off of their nipples. I keep them shaded as best I can, and give them the rest of our water.

By sundown, they're curled together at the bottom of the cell, bodies locked, eyes shut tight.

The old man tosses his cigarette butt in the dirt and spits. "Like lambs," he says. It's a long night around the fire. Quiet. The old man smokes. I listen to the sounds of the thicket around us, the crackling as a nocturnal animal passes our camp through the brush.

In the morning, the old man hands me the dart kit. The darts are hollow, loaded with a blend he calls "mercy milk." It knocks the fight out but leaves the body limp and compliant, like a drunk with no memory.

I load three darts, one for each. The boy is first; he yelps, then slumps against the bars.

The old man waits until the elves are out cold, then nods for me to open the cage. We drag them out one by one, careful not to bang their heads on the iron. They're lighter than I expect, like birds.

First thing we do is strip them. The boy is first. I check his limbs for breaks. He's marked with scars--old burns, belt stripes, the telltale triangle of a branding iron just under the collarbone.

The dark girl is next. She's older, maybe 25, but malnourished. Her skin is a map of faded ink--tattoos from a clan I don't recognize. That will lower the asking price, and whoever buys her will likely remark her skin with something obscene.