blind bard

    I slid and tumbled down the embankment, away from my captors. Above me I could hear their angry shouts. Before arriving at the winding mountain path I’d been told specifically not to stray from the trail; sensing an opportunity, I did exactly that. Leaping clear of the wagon with my instrument and satchel in tow hadn’t been particularly difficult. My captors hadn’t even bothered putting restraints on me. Why would they need to? Escape isn’t particularly easy when you’re like me.
    Hugging the case close to my body, I protected the guitar from the worst of the debris while I slid down. The instrument was my lifeline; without it, I’d likely starve to death. I only wished I had been enclosed in a case, the rocks I passed over were painfully scoring my back. After what seemed to be an eternity, I reached the bottom of the hill; thank the gods I hadn’t run collided into any trees. I listened for sounds of pursuit from above; nothing. I reached under my shirt and gauged the severity of the scratches I’d received from my tumble. Nothing too serious, judging from the lack of blood.
    Gathering my things, I felt my way around until I reached a tree. I’d need a walking stick. After lopping off one of the lower branches I set off through the forest,  I was vaguely familiar with the layout of the region. If I could reach the River Blancus that wound its way through the valley, then I was home free. I could simply follow the river west back towards Tchell; a day’s journey, without rest. From there I’d be able to join a proper caravan and get back to making a living.
---
    The forest was old. Very old. I’d realized just how ancient the trees were as I made my way through the forest, using the stick to guide me. I let my hand trail over the gnarled wood of the huge trees, wondering how many thousands of years old they were. One thing that surprised me was just how quiet the forest was. The forests near the towns and cities I’d grown up around were always lively with activity; birds, squirrels, wild hogs, et cetera. There was none of this going on in the forest, the atmosphere was almost sombre.
    A deep voice (a woman, I gathered) called out immediately behind me. She spoke in Karhidish, a language native to this mountainous region. I wheeled around towards the voice and was promptly knocked onto my rear end. I was lifted up by the throat by furry paws and violently shaken. She spoke again, and I got the gist of what she was asking: ‘What are you doing here?’
    I wheezed out in broken Karhidish that I was a blind traveler and had fallen from the trail by accident. She set me back down on my feet and I gasped for breath, massaging my throat. I didn’t mention to her that I’d been enslaved. While some of the countries I’d visited had been sympathetic to the plight of slaves, this one wasn’t. Escaped slaves were severely punished, sometimes put to death to set an example.  If I were caught again by my captors then at the very least I’d lose a few fingers; a fate worse than death for musicians. I had no idea who this woman was or where her sympathies lay, so I kept my mouth shut.
    Her paw forcefully tilted my head up and I felt her gaze linger on me as she scrutinized my eyes. Satisfied that I was truly blind, she turned her attention to my luggage. My instrument and satchel were wrestled from my grip, my protests being silenced by a cuff to the head. After inspecting my belongings they were handed back to me. I exhaled in relief.
    She was silent for a while; then, furry digits grasped mine and tugged me forward. I followed, crossing my fingers and praying this violent woman was secretly kind.
---
    She kept a quick pace that I struggled to match. After tripping over countless roots, she ripped my belongings from me and tossed me over her shoulder. She was tall, considerably taller than me. Her pace increased and soon she was running. She crossed running water on several occasions, which threw me off; there was only the Blancus in this valley, which ran straight and had no branches. Her pace eventually slowed, and my belongings and I were unceremoniously dumped onto a pile of furs. We seemed to be in a wood cabin, judging by the creak underfoot.

“What happens now?”, I asked in her language.

“We eat, then discuss your situation,” she replied.

    While she left to catch dinner I undid the clasps on my case and methodically inspected the instrument for damage with my fingertips. Not a single scratch. I plucked each of the catgut strings and adjusted each tuning peg accordingly; the tumble down the steep hill had thrown it out of tune. I leaned back into the pile of furs and began playing. I plucked a slow and sweeping melody, and gradually began picking up the tempo. Several minutes in and my hands were flying, striking the body of the instrument percussively and swiftly returning to the strings. I continued until my hands began cramping; I plucked the last chord and let it fill the air.

“You’re quite a talent”

I gave a start, I hadn’t heard her enter.

“Mm. Goes with the profession, I’m a musician. I didn’t even hear you. When did you get back?”

“Around the time you started playing. You were a musician. You lied back there. You’re a slave now, aren’t you?”

“What gave it away?”

“Nothing, I was guessing. I brought rabbits.”

“What happens after this? I’ll be damned if I’m given back to them.”

“I have no intention to give you to them, I don’t hold with slavery. Not that that makes your situation any better. To be honest, I’m at a loss with what to do with you.”