Date Written: September 29, 2017
We prisoners walk in single file to death or bondage, over the straths of Zorden. The slavemaster is cruel, does not spare the whip. He once a great warrior, now deemed too ancient for the honour of battle.
The slavemaster stares northwards and sighs. The clouds are darkening by the hour. The streams and rivers are already swollen. The straths sodden by the spring falls. He fears our shackles will be a death sentence.
The slavemaster cannot release his prisoners. He has no key and his Queen would have his head. Like so many before his rotting on ten foot high poles.
Once he was admired by his comrades, had his pick of stolen women. Almost a prince among men. He had gold, silver, jewels and slaves of his own. Then he gambled and lost the lot in a game of chance. Now grown old, gnarled and bitter leading we slaves to almost certain death.