Zhair'lo awoke to the ash grey skies of a cold pre-dawn, only vaguely remembering his telepathic conversation with Talla. It was Zia, after all, whose bed he shared. Curled up behind her, he eyed her naked body over her shoulder, her slim breasts gently rising and falling with each breath.
The faint smell of sweat from the mandatory exertions of the night before tickled at his nose. Anticipating the weapons lessons ahead, he knew he wouldn't get back to sleep, so he gently extricated himself from his companion and slipped out of bed.
He wouldn't need his armour to go to breakfast, would he? No, probably not. Clothes in shirt and shorts, he slipped out the door.
For the first time, the Barrack felt like home to Zhair'lo. He had graduated, regardless of any impending lessons or rituals, from intruder to resident. Sure, he hadn't fought in any battles yet, nor even begun weapons training, but he could move around inside the Barracks at his leisure, just as he had in any of the dozens of places he'd lived before.
Hunger owned his list of priorities and the mess became his only plausible destination. The sun peeked mournfully at the horizon as he nodded his way past a quartet of guards and entered the mess. It was unusual to have the mess guarded like this and it made Zhair'lo uneasy.
Once inside, however, he noticed a small group of men, looking more grey than could be justified by the light that filtered in from the distant horizon, sitting in a dark corner of the mess. Apart from them sat another man, clothed in the same manner, but looking brighter perhaps due to the way the light struck the table he had taken for himself.
Zhair'lo knew this couldn't be all of the prisoners they'd taken and he wondered what had been done with the rest.
As he swept toward the kitchen, he watched the lone man carefully. Zhair'lo got the distinct impression from the way the larger group cast dark eyes his way that they kept away from him purpose, as if he didn't really belong.
Taking his tray, Zhair'lo made a decision. If the guards at the door wanted to stop him, they could do so and he could feign innocence.
He took a place opposite the man and, to avoid appearing aggressive, a little off to the side so they weren't staring directly at each other.
How, Zhair'lo wondered, did his people greet each other?
With a mental shrug, he spoke, "Zhair'lo."
"Is that your name?" the man heaved a sigh.
When Zhair'lo nodded, he added, "I'm Saren. Were you there yesterday?"
"Yeah."
So far so good. The Fighters standing guard at the doors ignored him.
"How you guys doing today?" Zhair'lo thought it would be a polite question.
Saren shrugged in that pathetic sort of manner Zhair'lo would forever associate with the lamest group of barbarians he could ever expect to meet. "Better fed than we would have been if you people hadn't come along."
"You all looked pretty hungry."
"You have no idea," Saren twitched an eye toward his fellows in the corner. "What'd you do with the others?"
"The others?"
"The other half of our 'tribe'," he spoke the last word with a lot more derision than Zhair'lo would have ever used to describe his own colleagues.
"You don't know where they are?"
"No, don't you?" Saren shook his head. "You guys took 'em away in the middle of the night. Haven't come back."
Zhair'lo realized Saren had no idea of Zhair'lo's lowly rank and consequently expected Zhair'lo to have some inside knowledge.
"You haven't killed them, have you?" Saren's tone turned accusatory, perhaps because of the guilty look on Zhair'lo's face.
"No, I doubt it," he quickly raised his hands, palms out, to reassure the former barbarian. "You were made a promise, after all."
"Promises are important to you people?"
"Yes," Zhair'lo replied instantly.
An image of Nadine, riding him in his bed back in the farmhouse, flashed in his mind.
"But you don't know where they went?"
"Not my area," Zhair'lo tilted his head sympathetically, "Maybe they've found jobs for your friends."
"Friends?" Saren gave another sideways look at the grey lot. "Do I look well befriended?"
"Ah ... no."
Saren returned his focus to his plate of food and carefully took another mouthful.
"You don't get along with the rest?" Zhair'lo prodded.
Saren chewed for a moment, a dark look coming over his face, "No."
They sat in silence for a while, neither looking at the other, and ate their food.
"You expecting us to do work for you?"
"What?" Zhair'lo asked.
"Use us, like slaves."
"Slaves? I - no - I mean, everyone has to do work. It's only fair."
This wasn't the first time Zhair'lo found himself in the unenviable position of having to defend a way of life he'd rather destroy. But honesty forced him to admit that Saren and his grey friends in the corner would find a far better life with the Temple.
"What if we don't want to work for you?"
"I - uh," Zhair'lo stammered to a stop.
The straightforward question stumped him. What did the Temple do with men - or women - who simply refused to work? Had he ever even heard of such a thing?
"It's never come up," he told Saren.
"Really?" Saren rolled his eyes. "You've never had one lazy lout that had to be kicked into doing his fair share of work?"
"Not any one I've ever known," he shrugged. "I mean, if you don't do your job properly, they say the women stop coming."
For a moment, it looked like Saren's heart had stopped.
"What?"
What had he said? For some reason the blood had drained from the man's face.
"What?" he echoed.
The two of them stared at each other in bewildered silence.
"The women stop coming? Like they stop feeding you?"
