The March to Death

It had taken several days for the old warrior to get back to his tale. It was almost as if the speaking of it, and the reliving of it took a toll on him. She did not press. Curious? Yes, but there was enough respect for the man that had become her confidante, to allow him to tell the tale at his own pace. Life went on, they worked, visited with others as was normal, then late one evening, he asked for tea. It was served, and he just began to talk.

He cannot even remember the number of times that he tried to escape in those first few days, or the number of beatings that the overseer's handed out. A time had come when he simply walked, the weight of the chains a constant reminder of what he considered his own folly. There were few stops along the road, rations were sparse especially the water. He probably held up better than most, being who he was and having led the life he had previously.

When they did stop for the night he would listen to the conversations around him, garnering information where he could. It seemed they were on their way to a place called Klima. Some on this chain had been sentenced to the salt pits in Klima for crimes, whether real or on trumped charges, it made no difference the sentence was the same. Some were like him, being fools who had allowed themselves to be duped or tricked into their present situation. There was talk of men that did as his peasant friend did. Enticed the unaware into paga dens, places of that ilk, seeing that they were served paga that was laced with sleeping potions. They awoke the next morning, just as he had. Stripped, in chains and on their way to what was considered a certain death in the pits of Klima.

The hardest part for him, had been not being able to see the skies. The purposes of the hoods was to keep them from knowing exactly where they were going. Much about the pits was secret, and he would later learn, that they were all slaves to the salt. Even the ones that wielded the whips were the same as the ones that walked in the chains. They were simply those that were trusted to move the new slaves to their certain lives at Klima. Even the pasha's, that run the entire place were said to be slaves to the salt in their own ways.

So, they marched. From what he was able tell, they started early in the morning and walked until after the rays of the Central Fire were gone. It was difficult to tell at times, for there was not the cool breezes that he had known on the plains. The air was hot, dry and unmerciful. The weaker died quickly, their bodies unchained and left to the mercies of those that ate the carrion on the road. With each that died, the chains became heavier for those that managed to survive. After several days, they had reached the Tahari. At the time he did not know what this was, but he was able to tell the difference in the ground. It was no longer hot and solid, but something much different. Each step that was taken, his feet would sink deep into the hot sands, the grains causing cuts to the flesh. It reminded him of when he had scars placed, the painful pinpricks. The longer they marched, the worse it became. There were times when he wanted to scream to the skies in pain and frustration, but he would give none that satisfaction.

After walking for pasang after pasang on the burning sands, each day it grew worse. One day, they stopped. Still hooded, the ones of them that were left, had their feet and legs wrapped in thick strips of leather. One of the keepers told them that it was to protect their feet now that they were near their destination. When questioned as to why this had not been done earlier, his answer was very blunt. Why protect those that were too weak to finish the journey. After walking for two more days, they stopped mid-day. The hoods were finally removed. What met his eye was like nothing he had ever seen before, like nothing he could have ever dreamed. For as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the hot, blindingly white sands. Or what he thought was sand, he would be told later that it was salt. Precious salt.

His hand lifted to shade his eyes from the dazzling reflection of the Central Fire off of the salt. It looked somewhat like the snows he had seen in the past, but much more desolate, and there was not that comforting chill, only the stifling heat that hung in the air. There were precious few tents about, there was nothing but the salt. One of the handlers walked by, unlocking the chains. The only words that came from him were........enjoy your last look at the skies, for you will never see them again. It was then, that they were herded into the pits. The pits from which most of them would never leave alive again. Turning to look over his shoulder one last time, he whispered more to himself than to anyone else. "Skies help me."