I was woken from a deep sleep in the darkest hours of the night, but that was nothing unusual. My Master, Goren the Grumbler - a name everyone called him behind his back because he was always agitated about something money related - was shaking me awake and calling my name with both irritation and urgency.

"Dammit girl, WAKE!" I heard him shout in my ear from the deep recesses of my mind.

I smiled at the underlining frustration I heard, but let my eyes flutter open rather than torment the man any further. "Yes, Master?" I asked in a sleep-laden voice.

"Get up girl, quick!"

He grabbed my arm and hauled me up into a sitting position. I teetered on the edge of my cot and tried to keep my eyes open for him.

He shook me and cried in frustration, "Don't you dare fall asleep!" He then yanked me off the bed and up to my feet.

I shook the sleep off and gave him a nod. "I'm up Master."

"Good, good," he said nervously. "Come quickly."

He turned and rushed from the cramped little room I shared with several other slave girls. They were all awake and staring at the pair of us in wonder. I cast them all a silly grin, which none of them returned. They were too frightened of Master Goren to display any feeling at all but obedience and pliancy. They had no sense of adventure.

I grinned all the more at their terrified little faces as I trotted out of the room and after the Master. But, as I went, a part of me fretted that the poor things wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Dawn came early and sleep was a precious commodity for a slave. I felt a twinge of regret now as I quietly followed Master through darkened corridors and stairwells. I should have gotten up right away. If I had, the others might still be sleeping. Sighing, I knew I would have to apologize later and try to make it up to them somehow.

All thoughts of them were gone when we crossed the great stoned courtyard, which was currently lit here and there by oil lamps that gave off a noxious odour. Under the soft glow, the courtyard was enchanting. However, it was too bad about the foul smelling lamps. I scrunched up my face and plugged my nose in protest as we hurried across the yard and entered into the Hall of Song.

The Hall of Song should have been named the Hall of Gluttony and Every Kind of Vice. But, I admit, it wouldn't make a catchy name. I could hear the revelry long before we reached the tall intricately carved oak doors that lead into the hall. A sentry pushed the door open for Master. I did not hesitate to follow him in.

The room was well lit and I could see that the entire hall was filled to capacity with guests – men mostly – who sat on benches along long wooden tables where there were drinks a plenty, food spilling over platters set in the center of the tables, and lots of loud and boisterous conversations. I could even hear some men singing at one end of the hall. They all made a merry sight and I smiled as we passed them quite unnoticed.

Master stuck to the right side of the hall, along the stone wall, and I followed close at his heels until we passed through another large wooden door at the far end. Once the door shut behind us the sound of merriment was cut in half, and as we continued down a poorly lit corridor the sounds of the guests all but disappeared.

It didn't take me a minute to guess where we were off too when I saw the Hall had been filled with guests. There must have been a show that night. Master's guests paid good money to watch grown men and women cut each other down in the Auk - a great pit with seating all around for hundreds of spectators if not more.

Though, these days, it was hard to bring in large crowds anymore. Everyone had a pit it seemed, and brutal fights could be held anywhere and any night of the week. It wasn't such a high-end business anymore. Still, Master got a good ticket price for his matches. He was one of the few slave-owners who still had Dagaa - the fiercest fighters the world had ever know. They were bred for one thing and one thing only - killing.

One of his Dagaa, someone of value, must have been badly injured during the evening's event. Otherwise, I would never have been fetched by Master himself.

I was a Dhuuni - a healer. Dhuuni was the name of my mother's people. They were a nomadic tribe that travelled through the northern mountains, along the eastern plains and even as far south as the white sands. Then they would travel back to the northern mountains by another route and repeat the cycle over and over again.The Dhuuni had been doing so for more than three thousand years. My mother had made the journey herself, which could take several years depending on whether the years were lean or fat and whether war broke out in the territories they traversed.

I had always wished to travel that road with my mother someday - the road home to our people. She said it wasn't possible to go back anymore. She'd been stolen, along with several other woman, by slavers while doing laundry at some obscure river's edge in the middle of no where important. Despite being pregnant with me at the time, she was sold into slavery along with the rest.

Mother was not a healer. Few among the Dhuuni tribe were anymore, she told me. So, I was special. No healer had been born in the tribe during her generation and the people thought that the healers had all died out. It was a source of great sadness for the Dhuuni people. Mother said they would be overjoyed to know there were still healers being born. Only, she wept quietly every time she told me this. It broke her heart knowing she and I would never be reunited with her tribe's people. Still, she told me over and over again what a great honour it was that she had born a healer.

She spoke to me as often as she could about her people and told me everything she could remember about healers - both those she knew and those who had come before. Mother was convinced my gift would make Master happy and perhaps she hoped it might also ease her burdensome life in his household. Only, Master sold her before she could reap the benefits of having born a Dhuuni in captivity. Master sold her to an interested buyer who named the right price. Master was all about getting the right price.

I was but ten years old, and asleep in my cot, the night she was carted off. Someone told me the following morning that she'd been dragged away crying and begging for me. Though I was heartbroken and inconsolable for several days afterwards, many of the slaves reminded me just how lucky I had been to know my mother at all. I was the lucky one, they said, because I had lived with her for so many years when most slaves never knew their closest kin.If I wanted to bring honour to my mother, theses same slaves told me, I should learn to be a good slave, an obedient slave, a respectful and quiet slave. It was hard, but I managed to become a great many of those things while the Master was looking!

The door to the infirmary was ahead of us now, confirming for me that Master had summoned me to heal one of his prized Dagaa. The battles were all to the death. There was only ever one victor. Sometimes the victor was so badly wounded though, that he or she would die from the injuries sustained in the fight.

If a Dagaa was victorious and his injuries minor, I would not be sent for. The doctors in the infirmary would be called upon instead. If he was victorious and his injuries grievous, but he was not a valuable asset, then neither I or the doctors would be called. Master always left the less desirable Dagaa to bleed out in the barracks after the fight. If, however, the Dagaa had been victorious, left with life-threatening injuries, and was deemed irreplaceable, well then, I was always sent for.

It was my guess that tonight's warrior had been victorious but only by the skin of his teeth. And, he had to be one of Master's favourites. Otherwise, Master would have just let him die in the barracks.

By ash and fire, I was glad I was not a Dagaa. My life was no picnic. No slave's life was. But at least I did not have to face life and death daily as the Dagaa did in practice rings or in the Auk. I pitied them, though I would never admit it. They would likely beat me within an inch of my life if they thought I did.

They were trained to be vicious and arrogant. I might pity them in my heart but I knew full well they did not pity themselves, and they did not look on other slaves, such as myself, with any sense of camaraderie. They thought too well of themselves. I liked them even if they did not particularly like me. I couldn't help myself. I admired their ferocious spirits. I spent most of my days with slaves who rarely tore their eyes from the ground. It was exhilarating to look into the face of a slave whose eyes burned with feeling.

Master pushed open the infirmary doors and I had to shield my eyes from the sudden assault of bright light and the glow of pristine white walls. The infirmary was a modern facility and in stark contrast to the rest of the Master's crumbling estate.

It was well lit with the latest in technology - gas lights - while the rest of Master's estate had to make do with stinking oil lamps, candle light and fireplaces. The walls here were painted white and the floors were polished and spotless too, while the same sanitary conditions could not be met or kept anywhere else in the estate. The estate was just too big, and the slaves and servants were too few in number, for such a monumental task. The infirmary also had a distinct smell. It reeked of antiseptic. However, that was easily preferred to the smell of oil lamps, fire smoke, and raw sewage - the scents that dominated most other rooms in Master's enormous dwelling. Yes, the infirmary was, by far, the most modern facility in the place, and maybe in all the city for all I knew. I, myself, had never been outside the estate walls.

The large, spacious room was also very cold. I shivered as soon as my bare feet touched the cold stone floor. Had I known he was bringing me here I would have grabbed my blanket from my cot and kept it to wrap around my shoulders. But, since I was half asleep and not thinking at the time, I was now left to rub my hands up and down my thin arms in an effort to keep the chill away. I hated being cold. It made me stupid. I could hardly think a single thought when my teeth chattered in my head. However, healing made me warm. It burned through me and kept me warm until it burned out. So, if we could just reach my patient, whomever he was, I was sure to warm up soon. That thought alone had the power to perk up my spirits in this cold place.

The head physician, Sophus Isidore, met Master and when he let his grey eyes fall on me briefly, the disgust in them was nearly tangible. I smiled widely at the old goat. He knew all about the science of healing, but he was not a Dhuuni. He was well educated, came from a distinguished family, and had advanced the science and methods of healing in tremendous ways. Or so I was constantly told by his 'superiorness'. However, he could not reach out his hand and bring back a single man or woman from the brink of death. He could not heal even the smallest scratch with the touch of his finger. And he made sure I perfectly understood that he hated me because I could.

It was foolishness to me. Why hate me for healing? For such a learned man, I thought him very narrow-minded. But, I did not let his looks, his remarks, and his attitude bother me. He would be glad to have me heal him if ever he was in need. Oh yes, of that I was quite sure. So, I smiled and took no offence, which I think heightened his disgust and his anger. And this made me smile all the more. I was a wicked girl for sure, but I took my pleasure where I could get it. Any slave would. Our pleasures were few and far between after all.

Isidore escorted us to a small room where there was a single bed and patient upon it. The head physician closed the door behind us and stood in the corner watching me like a hawk. Master went over and looked down on the man. It was Castor the great Phrisian Dagaa. I had been called in to heal him a few times. He was also Master's favourite fighter. I'd never seen him look so battered before. He was hardly recognizable.

"Is he even alive?" Master asked Isidore with a hiss.

Isidore looked shocked for a brief moment before striding over to the patient and feeling for a pulse. Master would be livid if Castor died before I could get to him, and he'd be mad at Isidore - not me. It was the physician's job to keep the patients breathing till I could arrive. I knew he was alive though. I could feel his life force. Another trait of a Dhuuni. However, it would not hurt for Isidore to squirm for a moment. So, I kept my peace.

Isidore checked Castor's vitals and said with haughty confidence, "He's alive Master Goren."

"But, just barely!" Master seethed. Master then turned to me and commanded me saying, "Heal him, Hashy."

I gave him a quick nod and approached the unconscious Dagaa. While I looked him over, Master pointed any angry finger at Isidore and said through gritted teeth, "Come with me!"

I watched Master storm out, while Isidore trailed after him looking very meek and mild. I hid a small smile knowing that Master was going to rake him over the coals. Ah, it was the small things in life that gave me the greatest pleasure.

My amusement was forgotten when I could feel my patient's life force waning. Grabbing a nearby stool, I set it by his bedside so that I could sit comfortably while healing him. It was going to be a monumental task bringing him back from the brink of death. I would have to use all my concentration and physical endurance to heal him. Anything less and his life force could slip away entirely.

I wondered, not for the first time, whether he would want to come back if given the choice. I often thought that death would be a wonderful release. Especially, for someone who lived such a violent life by no choice of their own. Would he be happy to be free of the brutality of his life? He did have the means to end his life all the time though. Men died in training and in the Auk every day. If he wanted to die, he could find a way. He could let down his defences. He could take the blow that would end it all. Yet, he'd been in the Auk for a few years now and was still alive. Looking at him even now, I could see that he fought this evening to live.

Living was the one thing I knew I could help him with. I was not a good slave, but I was a competent healer. So, with great confidence I set straight to work. This job was going to take me all night.