The plains of Ruthen are vast, inconceivably so, an ocean of earth that swallows everything. Even the largest towns, the mightiest thoroughfares are but feeble specks when viewed by the birds. They are flat, without so much as a tree for miles, nothing grows higher than the wheat that much of the Grand Duchy subsists on.<br/><br/>See the road.<br/><br/>It has no name, no pavement, no signs. It is merely a dirt track, beaten down by years of long treks, crawling in the general direction of Bolshoi Gorskiy.<br/><br/>See Peschek the Slaver.<br/><br/>He is a small man underneath his heavy sheepskin coat, thin but knotted with muscle, like beads on a wire. He considers himself wise in his choice of weapon. The crossbow he carries on his back is perfect for the plains. Any man or woman who might choose to flee from him will discover that here on the plains, there is no cover, no hiding place. Running in this vast open space results in nothing but one of Peschek's bolts between the shoulder blades. Four serfs have already discovered this on the long drive. For those who do not flee, but still require gentle encouragement, there is the long bullwhip neatly coiled on Peschek's side. And, naturally, his ten men, armed with staves and clubs that see liberal usage.<br/><br/>See Peschek's wares.<br/><br/>There were perhaps a hundred of them, when they first left the border outpost at Orbazl, some thirty days ago. The beatings, the auctions, and of course the biting, knifelike cold has reduced their numbers to fewer than a dozen. The last handful needs only one length of cold, rattling chain to link together their manacles. Those who can still walk strain to drag along those who have difficulty, their blue wrists bleeding. No one has given them coats, no one has given them blankets. Nothing protects them from the cold but luck or willpower.<br/><br/>At the front of the shambling procession is a girl, perhaps nineteen, her green eyes studying the ground, her hair the color of copper. She is wrapped in a piece of loose, filthy linen. No one pays her any mind. But she walks before all the others. They cannot help but see her.<br/><br/>And so they march on, as they have for a month, all thoughts lost in the howling of the wind and the emptiness in their bellies.<br/><br/>Suddenly, there comes a change in the routine.<br/><br/>Peschek, walking ahead, suddenly holds up a gloved fist. "Company halt," he hollers back. His men and the serfs stop, puzzled. There is nothing here, no comfortable inn for Peschek and his men to lay their heads. Just the meeting of two anonymous dirt roads. An unscheduled stop. Peschek looks around the crossroads, nods. "This is the place," he says to no one. Seeing the questioning look of his men, he shrugs. "We're meeting someone here. Might as well get a rest from it. Gregor, feed the lazy bastards." Peschek laughs, high-pitched and rapid. "I want everyone to look their best.<br/><br/>The slaves, still chained together, are roughly pushed to a seated position in the dirt. One of the slave drivers walks down the line, handing a beet to each slave from a burlap sack. Another comes behind him with a goatskin of water, holding a rough wooden spoon full of the freezing liquid to each chapped mouth.<br/><br/>Peschek studies the horizon, impatience in his face. "Where could he be?" the slaver mutters to himself.