Mozenrath sat slumped with his back against the wall, glaring contemplatively at the rubble of the once magnificent dome ceiling. He sighed for the thousandth time that night, absently toeing the remains all around him. He should have been ranting and raving his frustration to the uncaring and unsympathetic stones of the Citadel and surrounding dunes of black sand, but he simply didn't have the inclination to do such a useless and altogether pointless thing at the moment. He had screwed up, again, and it was all his fault.
It would be so easy to blame his misfortune in forging the Sorcerer's Stone on Aladdin, the street rat who would be hero, but it would do him no good now would it? Khartoum would have stolen the stone anyway even if Aladdin hadn't shown up to save his pathetic Djinn and his brutish green female companion.
Mozenrath lifted his gauntleted hand and stared. It had felt odd when he had been hit by that blast. Like an peculiar combination of a weak sleeping potion and that tingly feeling when you hit your elbow too hard. He remembered the panicked rush when he had realized he couldn't make his blue-black fire come forth, and shuddered.
Mozenrath knew very well that if the street rat *hadn't* come for them he himself may have lost his life as well as his power to the monster. It was a disturbing thought. Disturbing enough to keep him thoughtfully propped up on the floor to sulk.
He sighed again, the sound beginning to annoy himself as well as Xerxes, who floated lazily in circles over his master's head. This was pointless. Mozenrath picked up a rather heavy piece of rubble and hurled it at Xerxes in an unprovoked fit of anger. The familiar hissed in indignation before flying away at an impressive speed, trying to put distance between him and Mozenrath. The sorcerer watched his familiar fly away and out the door. It wasn't until a few moments later that the image registered in his numb mind and he scowled.
"Fine, then! Go! No doubt you've better things to do than serve a powerless master, you worthless flying eel! Find someone else to handicap with your incompetence! GO!" he raged, throwing more bits of rubble pointlessly at the open doorway.
After thoroughly wearing himself out on that fruitless little tantrum, he slumped back into his former place against the wall. He sighed yet again, then angrily slapped himself for it. The sound and sting made him marginally more composed, and he leaned his head back against the crumbling plaster to think.
There had to be some way of regaining his power. There was always a way. His mind immediately went through it's mental library of magical items, spells, hexes, enchantments and texts in varying languages.
He found nothing in his memory he could use for such a task. A visit to the libraries may be of some use. Perhaps. But if there had been a way to gain so much power all at once he would have researched and attempted it by now. He would remember if such an endeavor had been successful.
Mozenrath put his face in his hands, breathing deep in an effort to keep calm. There had to be a way. There just *had* to be. He flexed his gauntleted hand and furrowed his brow in consternation. It felt... different. He did it again and sat up straight in a panic.
He couldn't feel the connection anymore!
He whipped the gauntlet off and felt no sting of pain for the action, no reprimand for denying the thing it's feast upon the energies and flesh of his body.
Nothing.
It was just a leather gauntlet now.
Nothing more than that.
Growling he thrust it back upon his bones and stood, attempting to bring forth the magic he knew was locked within him.
He felt a small warmth, but it was gone almost before it had started.
Mozenrath's knees went weak, and he collapsed.
He had truly lost his power. His eyes stung, and he reached up in a daze to rub the pain away. He almost didn't know what it was when his fingers came back wet. It had been so long since he'd cried. The sensation was utterly foreign to him, and it only served to confuse him further. He yelled. Long and loud. The sound echoed off the walls, it's desperate and defeated air permeated every iota of the surrounding atmosphere.
In a fit of indescribable emotion, he wrenched the gauntlet off and hurled it across the debris-laden room. It made a dull sound as it hit the crumbling plaster and slid to the floor. Mozenrath stared at it a moment, his usually pale cheeks flushed from his adrenaline rush, tears staining his face.
*I need to think.*
He took several deep breaths, bracing his hands on the floor to keep his balance properly. Wiping the moisture from his face, he stood and walked from the room. Hall after hall passed him as he strode determinedly toward the main gate. He didn't even flinch as his boots encountered the disintegrated remains of his Mamluks. He simply kicked it aside, scattering the grey dust all over the floors.
*I need to relax. I just need a break... then I can think.*
Desperate for any kind of distraction, he stormed out the front doors, his cape billowing out impressively behind him. He walked at a furious pace, heart racing within minutes. It had been a long time since he'd exerted himself so much. Mozenrath refused to acknowledge the fact that his legs and lungs burned, that his head was pounding painfully in sync with his heart. All he could think of was that he had to regain his power somehow.
He groaned with the unfairness of it, picking up speed. He was now kicking up sand as he went. He didn't even notice when he passed the boundaries of his kingdom, where the sand changed color in an instant and the sun broke through to shine down in all it's strength the instant you passed the line. Mozenrath paused, looking back.
This place never ceased to amaze him, no matter how many times he had seen it. Once you passed the line where the sand turned golden, you could see blue from horizon to horizon. But when you stepped back onto the black sand, the sky went black as far as you could see. He chuckled minutely, planting one foot on the gold sand, and one on his own black sand. The sky swirled colors, looking as if a black miasma was fighting the sun for dominance of the sky. It was beautiful, and terrifying at once. He frowned, stepping back onto the gold desert sand. Like lighting a candle suddenly the sky turned a cheerful blue once more, and he sighed.
Mozenrath started off at a run, infuriated once again now that his moment of interest in the sky had passed. He didn’t look where he was going, not really caring where he ended up at this point. His lungs burned relentlessly, but it only fueled his depression, fueled his desire to run. And he did run.
It wasn’t until he had to force himself to take step after horribly agonizing step that he allowed himself to collapse in exhaustion upon the hot sand. He didn’t even have the strength to cry out as he hit and the sand seared the flesh on his face. Mozenrath panted, his chest aching and heart racing in his ears. It may sound odd, but he felt better. The pain he was feeling now was akin to the amount that he endured when the gauntlet fed on his life energy, and it comforted him because it was familiar to him.
He had barely caught his breath when a hand grabbed him roughly from behind. He made a rather undignified squeak of surprise as he was hauled up and held over the sand by at least a head of height. He blinked bleary and red eyes open to glare at his captor, not afraid at all even though he knew he had no chance of defeating someone so very large without his power.
“Well, what’s this pretty little thing here?” the man mocked in a deep, gravelly voice.
Mozenrath’s eyes widened at the sight of him, causing the man to grin. He was enormous. At least two heads taller than Mozenrath, with bulging muscles that bore many scars of battle. Everything on this man was thick and rock-hard, even his face. His neck was as thick as Mozenrath’s waist, and it was at that thought that Mozenrath realized that just one of the man’s hands was wrapped completely around his waist holding him up. The man’s hair was short and spiked, black with tips of blood-red. His nails and teeth had been sharpened into points, giving him a look that was akin to the carvings and depictions of demons of fire from his library. He was dressed in street clothes, but they were of a material that not many could afford. He even had shoes of leather.
“What are you doing all alone all the way out here, pet?” he asked, almost purring. His hand tightened when Mozenrath scowled at him, making him want to yelp. He held it back carefully.
“My name is not ‘Pet’, and unhand me.” he ordered with all the ferocity he could muster. It wasn’t much, his throat was parched from running so long under the punishing desert sun. The man laughed, and Mozenrath found himself on the ground, set down easily. He stood with all of his posture, facing the man.
“Sounds like you need a drink.” he said, offering his water skin.
Mozenrath looked suspiciously at it. He was indeed thirsty, but he knew better than to take unknown liquids from strangers. Especially strangers that appeared so undeniably vicious. “No thank you.” he said as politely as he could manage in his current mood. The man smiled at him, looking very predatory.
“But, if you don’t drink, little one,” he growled, “you will not survive long.”
Mozenrath lifted an eyebrow quizzically. “What do you mean? My home is near. I can get back on my own. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.” Mozenrath turned to leave, but that hand wrapped around his waist once more, pulling him up. He profanely shouted his protest to such rough treatment, but soon found that to be a big mistake. The hand squeezed, pressing his insides painfully. He refused to scream though. He would never scream.
The man laughed, a barking, evil sound. “I don’t think you understand, little one.” he growled again. “You are mine, now. I will decide your home.”
It was then, when the man turned around and took Mozenrath with him, that he saw them. Carriages. Carriages lined with thick metal bars and securely riveted in place around the solid ebony wood planks. The dirty and bruised faces of children, women and young men peering out at him fearfully. A slave trader. He had gone and went too far from his home. Mozenrath struggled, knowing that if he did not get free now, while he could still run, then he wouldn’t get free at all until he could come up with some kind of plan. The hand squeezed him again, and he yelped in pain, all the air forced from his chest.
“You have two choices. You can obey me, or you can die. Either way I’ll have fun with you, little one. Now, I want you to be a good little thing and sit with me up front. I suspect you’re a mite smarter than the rest of the cargo.” he grinned. Once they got to the head of the line he laughed and held the no longer struggling wizard as if to say ’look what I’ve got’. The other men, not so burly but just as menacing, cheered and laughed at their leader’s pretty new prize. He was a trophy now. At least until he found a way to escape.
The man climbed up onto the lead carriage, settling Mozenrath on his lap. The wizard growled, furious at this embarrassing situation, but that hand once again snaked around him from the front, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, but certainly enough to keep him in his place and quiet. He took a breath to calm himself. This was nothing to worry about. He may not have his magic anymore, but he was a tactical genius if he didn’t say so himself. He’d find a way out sooner or later, and when he did this man would pay dearly for this humiliation.
With a snap of the reigns, the horses bolted off, taking the carriages and their passengers through the desert at breakneck speed. The suddenness of it startled Mozenrath, and before he could stop himself he had grabbed onto that giant hand for support. The man chuckled and he let go, furious at himself. Well, now he knew why the carriages were made of ebony. No other wood would have been able to hold together at such a fast pace, especially under so much strain with so many people inside each one. Expensive to say the least, but a reasonably good investment for any successful slave trader.
This man was no fool.
“What about my drink?” he demanded audaciously, leaning his head back to look up at the man. He felt that pressure again, but this time it didn’t stop, and Mozenrath soon found himself whimpering in pain, unable to breathe. The quick constriction at the end followed by the immediate release told him he was being entirely too bold. He caught his breath, a hand over his mouth and nose too keep the sand out of his air passages as he gasped.
“You will drink when I say, pet. Not before.” was the harsh reply.
Mozenrath’s eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue smartly, not wanting another reprimand like the last. He remained silent until night fell. The men made their camp, fed their ‘cargo’ a meager meal with little more than enough water to live on, and sat around to tell their exaggerated tales of captures past and present.
Mozenrath was apparently worth more than the others, as he was still held tightly in the leader’s hands at all times. He was permitted more fare than the rest of the leader’s men even, and he soon found himself comfortably full and sitting by the fire with the traders. Given a better view of them, Mozenrath was able to learn more about them by listening to their conversations. Soon he knew their names, and mentally ticked them off in their circle going from left to right.
The one to his immediate left was the smallest, but one of the strongest. He went by the name Sly. He was by no means thin, but rather a short man with a lot of muscle. Though all the men carried weapons and whips to punish the slaves, he was the only one that held a whip with metal spikes embedded in the thick leather. The slaves feared him no less than the leader, who had apparently been known to squeeze those that misbehaved until blood spurted from their mouths.
Next was a larger, but not so muscular man by the name of Hilgerd. He was taller than all but the leader, but not so muscular as any of them by far. He was the most ruthless though, and had killed a young girl earlier that day for biting him when he forced a kiss on her. Mozenrath shuddered at the memory of her screams. He had ripped her insides out with his bare hands, his nails were also filed into sharp claws. The leader had admonished him for it, but no real punishment was earned. Misbehavior was not tolerated at all.
Beside Hilgerd sat a man very similar in size and build as the leader. He was second in command, called Rorek. Rorek was the leader’s younger brother, and matched him in all ways but one, his hair tips were tinted blue, not red. At his back was a girl he’d been carting around as the leader had been carrying Mozenrath, and she attended his every need with enthusiasm. Mozenrath had heard her called Morda. It was obvious she was important to Rorek, but still a slave. If she misbehaved she would be punished cruelly as all the others. Seeing this Mozenrath made a note to control himself. He didn’t really fancy being disemboweled.
Rorek was chatting with the man beside him, referring to him as Bogarth. He was filled out, and as large as all the rest, but not so defined in build. Bogarth obviously fancied young boys, and currently had four of them massaging his shoulders, arms and legs while another fed him pieces of meat with his little fingers. They were all thin, and had lightly colored hair. He pulled one across his lap and petted him while he talked, ignoring the frightened sound the child emitted.
Between Bogarth and the leader was a frighteningly silent and stolid man. No one had said his name. He was the dealer of the bunch, responsible for selling the cargo and carting off the corpses of those that died in the carriages from the heat. It didn’t surprise Mozenrath that so many of them died in this heat, with no less than ten or fifteen in each carriage there was barely enough room to breathe. Apparently, it was their peak season for random captures, such as the wizard himself.
The leader was next. His name, which on its own scared Mozenrath even more, was Grim. He was the largest of them all, and had the deepest voice. In fact, Mozenrath had felt his skull shaking with the sheer volume of it when he spoke. It didn’t help that he still had the wizard sitting on his lap. His head was right underneath the man’s foul smelling mouth, making avoiding the booming voice difficult.
Mozenrath, on his part, was very intelligent and had not spoken since the frightening episode on the carriage. He had been mimicking the actions and posture of the other slaves, determined to stay alive until he was released from Grim’s grasp long enough to escape. He endured his humiliations with ease, even when Grim had insisted on hand feeding the wizard his meal. Mozenrath was in dire need of nourishment and energy, so he allowed it, though grudgingly.
Grim’s booming laughter... no, not laughter... guffawing, had succeeded in giving Mozenrath a terrible headache, and he groaned involuntarily. The chatter stopped, and all looked right at him. Mozenrath knew he had done something wrong. He looked around in fright, then looked up at Grim, who was grinning maliciously down at him.
“Looks like you’ve got a good one, there.” Rorek chortled. Grim nodded as if the man had said something sagely.
“I think it’s time for sleep.” he barked at his men. They scattered to sleep beside their carriages, leaving Mozenrath alone with Grim. Grim chuckled without mirth down at Mozenrath. “Do you have any idea how pretty that sound you made was, little one?” he asked in a very familiar tone. Images of Disdain flashed through Mozenrath’s mind, and he tried to recoil instinctively. Grim gripped him harder. “You are so very pretty, aren’t you? That skin and your hair contrast, yet compliment each other perfectly. Black on icy white...” he almost purred.
Mozenrath’s eyes widened. He kicked out at the man’s burly arm when his free hand went to grab one of his legs, but to no avail. Thin as he was, Mozenrath’s leg fit in Grim’s hand like a sword handle. Grim lifted that leg up high, forcing Mozenrath to lie across his lap on his back. One... just one of those sharpened fingers went to press the delicate organ between his thighs, and he gasped and struggled. the wizard was about to shout his dismay, but he remembered the constricting punishment from before and imagined if he were squeezed now. He whimpered, going still.
Grim chuckled. “I was right. You learn fast. Behave yourself, now. I would hate to kill such a pretty treasure...”
Ambassador to Nowhere by Suzunomiko