Peschek the Slaver looked over his wares with a sneer. Louts and rebels, all of them. Three women and three men. He'd be happy to be rid of the pests, all but one of them had been trouble.<br/><br/>His patient vigil was rewarded, a smile coming to his face as he spotted the black dots on the horizon. "Finally." The black dots grew, becoming obvious as six riders and a wagon. As they approached, more details became obvious. Several of the men were armored in leather jerkins and chain, wielding lances and gathered protectively around one man, a larger and better-fed one. The evident leader wore heavier armor, a pointed, almost onion-shaped helmet. A thick mustache was evident on his face.<br/><br/>They flew a banner, a bear rampant on a field of azure. The heraldry of the House of Valishin.<br/><br/>As the riders and wagon slowed in approach to the tiny cluster on the side of the road, Peschek smiled, gave a bow that was somewhat lacking in formality. "Greetings, Your Excellency. I am delighted to see you in such fine health today."<br/><br/>Count Valishin grinned beneath his bushy mustache. "Peschek, you old rogue. How are the roads from Orbazl these days?"<br/><br/>"Poor, Your Excellency. I am afraid that conditions have somewhat depleted my stock," Peschek said with a wave to his seated slaves. "Still, I wanted to be sure to honor our agreement."<br/><br/>Valishin nodded as he dismounted his horse, his armor creaking slightly as he looked over the slaves. "You did well, slaver. That idiot Gorskiy does not recognize quality stock if it came and bit him. Why, I suppose he'd put these women to work in the kitchens!" he said with a barked laugh. He leered down at the three women, a bit taken aback by the two icy stares that met him, before settling on the one that could not meet his eyes, the girl with the copper hair. "And how about it,<span style="font-style: italic">milashka</span>?" he said, leaning in closely to the girl. She shrank away, her eyes still studying the ground. "You'll come to like me,<span style="font-style: italic">milashka</span>," he said quietly. "You'll live in my castle, you'll eat better than this shit," he said. His gauntlet swung, tapped against her hand. The girl gasped, and the half-gnawed beet went flying into the mud. Count Valishin laughed to see her trying to crawl away from him backwards, hampered by the chains. Turning back to Peschek, his good humor was obvious. "I'll take the three women. The other two will be a challenge, I'll like that. I'll give you twice Gorskiy's rate for them, and you'll still be able to give him these dogs," he said with a dismissive wave to Kolya, Pietr, and Aelus.<br/><br/>"Thank you, Your Excellency," Peschek said, deftly catching the bag of silver ingots. "Everyone wins once again."<br/><br/>Count Valishin grinned at the slaver, about to reply with a joke of his own, when he heard something behind him, frowned as he span around. The girl with the copper hair, eyes still firmly to the ground, was saying something. What, he could not tell. Her lips were moving rapidly, but virtually silently. One of the slave drivers growled, made to give her a cuff, but stopped at a look from Count Valishin. Smiling broadly under his mustache, he crouched down to her. "What was that,<span style="font-style: italic">milashka</span>? You have something to say? Come on, we'd all like to hear it. What're you saying, girl?" Once again, his cold steel gauntlet reached out to her, taking her by the chin, forced her head upwards to make eye contact. Her lips continued to move in soundless speech, but her eyes, green like two chips of emerald, seemed to blaze.<br/><br/>Count Valishin suddenly remembered old stories he heard as a child, nights beside the hearth listening to his grandmother. The old noblewoman had so many stories, folk tales. Histories of the days of Ilya. And suddenly, those details were rushing back to mind.<br/><br/>"Oh shit. . ."<br/><br/>The final syllable of the girl's quiet words was suddenly screamed, as two things happened simultaneously. Count Valishin stood, screaming himself for the good reason that he was now on fire, wreathed in flames that danced over his armor, his clothing, underneath his skin. Staggering, screaming, his guards and the slavers could do little more than gape in horror.<br/><br/>And the chains, the bits of iron that had held the six of them together, crumbled into dust that blew away on the wind. There was no trace of the shackles, it was as though they had never been.