Scrambling up from the stream, Marcus looked around in every direction. For an instant he saw motion in the direction of the sea, but it was probably nothing but the swaying heads of wild grains on the dunes. All the birds were making their usual sounds but from in among the bushes there was only silence when earlier there had been the sound of intermittent blows from a hammer. Had Sina noticed the new menu warning? Marcus very much hoped so.

As he ran towards their camp a human male stepped out from the line of trees: small; green jacket; a weapon cradled in his arms (shotgun?) and a very hostile glare. Having only a moment to gather an impression of authority, arrogance even, from the man’s expression, Marcus turned and sprinted back towards the sea. He had not forgotten Sina, far from it. By running, he hoped to lead the slavers – there were surely more of them than just this man? ­– away from her.

As Marcus pounded over the soft soil, a whistling sound rushed upon him. A sharp memory filled his mind. Different legs, the scrawny ones of a child; knees with scabs on. His legs. The string of his kite had broken and it was impossibly high already. No matter how fast he ran, he would never hold that kite again. The pattern of the kite was bright orange with tiger stripes. Against the blue of the sky, it was stunningly beautiful and his heart ached at the thought it was already too late to save anything but the memory of the juxtaposition of those exact colours along with a deep sense of loss.

He came around to find four people standing over him. What?

Pain was pulsing in his head, lower left ribs and shins. It was difficult to breathe as a cord was wrapped tight around his torso, from hip to shoulder, pinning his arms against his body.

‘Who are the Fins?’ Shadows made it hard to see the man’s face but this was the small guy Marcus had spotted at the forest edge. However long he’d been knocked out for, it had been sufficient for this man to walk over to where he lay on the first of the dunes. Where was Sina? Was she still safe?

The man kicked him in the hip, without malice but painfully all the same. ‘Who are the Fins?’

Beside their leader a tall, dark-haired woman smirked. When she noticed that Marcus’s eyes were on her, her scornful expression turned angry. ‘Don’t look at me, slave.’

Tempted as he was to stare back, Marcus knew better. There would be a time and a place to resist these captors. First though, he needed to understand them better.

‘The Fins,’ said the short man again, a note of impatience in his voice.

‘Oh, the Fins. That’s us,’ Marcus remembered now, ‘Fins’ was the name that Sina had given their community. Was that fixed now on the planet’s menus? Were they forever going to be the Fins? It wasn’t so bad; it sounded like they were sharks.

‘Where’s your base?’

‘At the crash site.’

‘Crash site?’

‘Our spaceship crashed in the forest.’

‘Where?’

‘About four hour's walk inland, following the stream. Then about thirty minutes to your right. You’ll see the gap where the trees were destroyed.’

Marcus looked around the group; the other three – two women, one man – wore expressions that were mocking. He noticed too, how deferential they were to the man with the shotgun, how they checked with quick glances to see what their leader was doing.

‘Are there many of you?’ The man squatted down and Marcus could study his face. If he were to sketch the man, he would start with an X-shaped shadow centred on the nose. The top of the X were two sharp eyebrows and lines that were clearly more used to frowning than any other expression. The bottom of the X was a turned down mouth. This was a bitter and disappointed man. Also, when someone on Earth devoted themselves to decades of drinking – to knocking back spirits especially – their nose became scarlet and their face became lined in exactly this way. This was a man who liked his whiskey, or whatever they drank here. His eyes though were not dull, like those of alcoholic, no, they were glittering with what Marcus imagined might be fox-like cunning.

‘Twenty. Half of us died in the crash.’

The man rubbed his nose. ‘You’re lying. But we’ll find out soon enough. Now let’s look at your stats. See what you’re worth.’ He closed his eyes, only to open them again with expression of astonishment. ‘Marcus Korol; Artistry twenty.’

The four other people showed surprise too and not simply in their sycophantic echoing of their leader’s expression. The dark-haired woman said nothing, even when Marcus studied her.

‘You can see my character sheet?’ asked Marcus.

‘Don’t speak unless I ask you a question.’ The man stood up and looked around his group. ‘Artistry twenty!’ he repeated with a shake of his head. He poked Marcus in the ribs with his foot. ‘You don’t look like a genius. In fact, you look rather stupid.’

Dark hair loved that and her gloating expression was restored.

It was some consolation, Marcus supposed, that the revelation about his Artistry skill had impressed his captors. The information their leader had been able to see had obviously been completely unexpected. And perhaps it was a good thing that this man seemed to be able to open his character sheet, because Marcus might now have a value to these people that would mean better treatment.

‘Let’s get him away from here, in case his friends have ideas of saving him. Or worse, decent weapons.’

Marcus felt a wave of relief at these words, though he strove not to let his feelings show. Sina would be safe. Sina. They had not known each other for very long but it was long enough for Marcus to be glad she was not a captive. Would slavers value her beauty as something tradeable? Or would they use her as a spoil of conquest? In other words, did the slavers practice rape of their slaves? At least in his case, it seemed that he had a skill these people wanted and that might give him some leverage in the face of whatever violence and abuse their slaves were obliged to endure.

One of the women flicked a wooden grip and the cords around him loosened. But even as he was lifted to his feet, his hands were bound again, this time behind his back, and a noose of thin metal was tightened against his neck.

‘Run on,’ said their leader, looking back towards the forest, covering the view with his shotgun raised and ready to fire.

A tug on his neck and Marcus found himself having to run so as to avoid choking; the man in front of him was pulling on a cord attached to the metal noose. After jogging along the top of the dunes for about a kilometre, another two slavers appeared from among the grasses and joined their small party. Not long after, two more fell in. That seemed to be the extent of their group: eight people. Eight people who had Marcus entirely at their mercy. He hated them for this. And yet he was ready for whatever difficulties lay ahead. It was a part of the deal he’d already anticipated. A new lease of life, but in a world filled with danger.

***

The journey had been tough but Marcus had refused to show his captors any signs of distress. Although he was weaker and slower than most of the people herding him south-eastwards, Marcus allowed himself a small sense of achievement when he realised that he was at least faster and fitter than their leader. The small man – called Jaskar by the others – needed a breather from time to time, perhaps because as well as his short stride, his shotgun was a heavy burden. Escape was completely out of the question, so Marcus had concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other while listening to the slavers, trying to learn as much as he could about them.

These people were the Ark-Andulan and their base was a city called Three Towers. They were cheerful to be returning with Marcus as their prize, he was worth at least a thousand silver ingots, maybe a lot more. No one had ever heard of an Artistry skill higher than twelve. Could he be made to work for them? They believed he was a space farer, his stretchy cloth garment was not made from any natural fibre. Who would get that? Jaskar probably, though it was much too big for him. And there had been that meteor yesterday. That must have been the spacecraft. What weapons did they have? This one had none. But did some powerful guns survive the crash?

With the sun low over the forest, Marcus came over a slight rise to see a wide river glistening with orange and silver about three kilometres away. On the river, near the forest, was a city with stone walls, like a medieval town. It was not a particularly large city and this gave Marcus encouragement. There had been many slave civilisations in Earth’s history, some of them like the Aztecs had massive cities and spread across thousands of square kilometres. The unimpressive town before him did not suggest a enormous, all-powerful empire. And that meant escape would be easier.

As they drew near a stout, wooden gate, Marcus got a view of the soldiers on the walls and again felt that this was not a particularly powerful community. None of them had guns, instead they were using bows and arrows. Their armour was medieval too, some kind of ring-mail.

A few shouts on either side and the doors opened to let them in. There was an unpleasant tang of human waste in the air, as well as a great deal of smoke drifting from the roofs of dozens of long houses Marcus could see before him. There were plenty of citizens around, mostly long haired and dressed in tunics and trousers of wool that had been dyed navy or dark green. Other people clearly were slaves. They wore much shorter garments made out of a rough, brown fibre and often the slaves were leashed to their owners by the neck, just as Marcus was.

While the slaves kept their heads down, the citizens of Three Towers stared at Marcus curiously as the group made their way through crooked streets to an open square in which were six statues to warlike figures. Gods? Former kings and queens? The statues were carved from wood at a slightly larger than human scale. They were not particularly well done, Marcus felt at once that all of them had hands and feet that were too small in proportion to their torsos. One of the gods wore a helmet with a crown and a small bird carved on top of it. Before this god, the small leader of the slave band bowed.

‘Hail Laske, god of the hunt. We have returned, all safe and unharmed. We thank you for your benevolence and for this gift.’ Jaskar gestured to Marcus and a sudden blow to the back of his knee brought him down, leg pulsing in pain.

All the slavers bowed and then while Jaskar strode away towards a large wooden hall, four of them took a limb each and carried Marcus to a stinking pit in which were a dozen wretched people of all ages. Stripping him of his long-johns, they threw him down naked and then someone tossed a coarse skirt and waistcoat nearby. The other slaves just recoiled and watched as with a groan, Marcus dressed himself.

When the pain in his limbs had subsided, Marcus looked around. ‘Any of you from Kangara?’ he asked quietly.

A young man and a young woman at his side both looked up sharply.

‘You two? Are you from Kangara?’

The woman nodded.

‘Pleased to meet you. My name is Marcus and I’m here to rescue you.’