by Regina Watts
“You speak very eloquently for a warrior. Are you sure you’re not a spy?”
“I speak as I was taught to speak by my teachers in the Temple of Weltyr. Paladins are not your average fighters, Your Excellency. My friend—ah, that is, my mistress here”—Odile glanced sidelong at me but soon corrected her gaze to the Materna—“calls me ‘warrior-priest,’ which is closer to the truth.”
“And what are you really called? Among men, and the women who no doubt scream your name at night?”
Taken aback, able to utter little more than a slight laugh for more than a second, at last I managed, “Rorke Burningsoul, Materna.”
“Burningsoul,” she repeated, her fingertips trailing unconsciously beneath the gold-inlaid halter of her gown. At last, blinking herself from a stupor, the glorious leader of Roserpine’s army glanced between the durrow flanking me. “He certainly seems obedient enough. Have you seen him in action on the field?”
“Not in fighting, Your Worship,” answered Odile with the ghost of a smirk.
“Undress for us, human.” The Materna settled back in her seat, drawing the hem of her gown up a few inches to aid in the crossing of finely built legs. “We would see how you are shaped beneath that bloodstained tatter of a tunic before we decided on price.”
“You heard her,” said Odile for effect, though I was already in the process of removing my belt.
The truth is that any manner of military life quickly strips the shyness from a man, but it was surprisingly easy to be bold before all those watching women—servants and nobles of the royal court who studied me with glittering eyes, each of them inferior to agonizing Valeria only by comparison. Some men would have had cause to be embarrassed to disrobe before such an audience, perhaps, but my physique was as much a point of pride for me as were my fighting skills. And, at any rate…the Materna was like a painting of Anroa, the love-goddess Weltyr crafted for Himself from the mingling of starlight with the darkness of the sky. My heart was seized by the thrill of her unflinching gaze, and though all the durrow in the room were just as bold as she, I was not half so moved by their attention as I was by hers.
First the tunic, then the trousers, then all the rest of the scraps of fabric I wore fell at my feet. A few pleased murmurs rose up from the durrow around, and as the vizier stiffly reminded her mistress, “This is a thief who has stolen the precious artifacts already alienated from us by the spirit-thieves, Your Grace,” the Materna lifted her hand to bid silence.
The holy woman’s eyes slid over my body and I could not mitigate the natural effect her scrutiny had upon my anatomy. I stared on into the heart of the closely-gazing woman, who then—to the surprise of the room, my comrades, and most of all me—sat back in her throne and announced to my mistresses after only a second more of contemplation, “You will give him to me.”
With a sputter of displeasure and a look over at Indra, Odile dared say from her kneeling position, “But…Materna, Your Worship, we gave him some very expensive elixir to bring him back, and—”
“I will reimburse the cost for you.”
“I was hoping to consider it an investment, Your Grace.”
“Are you saying that I should pay you, Darkstar?” Odile’s lips clamped shut and the high priestess went on, “Need I remind you that whatever goods you brought out of that den of spirit-thieves belong, by rights, to Roserpine? How many times, after all, have the spirit-thieves killed and emptied the coffers of hapless durrow merchants, simple travelers? I have no doubt you spent the morning pawning off any number of treasures that should have been brought here for assessment along with this new slave of yours.”
“Well,” stuttered Odile, “well—”
“Still you argue!”
“It’s only—we promised his services to someone in the market. I would prefer not to break my word. Your Grace.”
“Then you had ought not to make an oath that isn’t guaranteed. Offering the services of unregistered slaves is a foolish mistake. Their appraisal might reveal them to be spies, sickly—worse, impotent, or celibate.”
“We can assure you he is not celibate,” answered Odile, the words a grumble under her breath.
“Then you have already been well-rewarded for your acquisition, taking an opportunity as you have to try the goods. Consider yourself lucky I am not inclined to punish you today, either for theft of precious artifacts or for consorting with an unregistered slave.”
At last, with an irritated glance to me, Odile bit her lip and ducked her head, silencing herself.
The Materna folded her hands before her waist. “You’re wiser than you act, Darkstar, I’ll give you credit enough for that. Take the slave to be marked and have him delivered to my chambers.”
Now it was my turn to speak above my station, given the approach of a few guards who did not seem inclined to give me a chance to dress again. “Wait,” I said, earning an arched brow from more than a few durrow but a look from the Materna that was anything but surprised. “My sword—Strife. It was checked at the door of the Palace. Surely you can no more take my blade from me than my arm, my heart.”
“We take the arms and hearts of slaves quite often,” warned the Materna, incidentally echoing the warning Odile had earlier for another part of my anatomy. “Do not tempt me to show you.”
“If I cannot be in possession of Strife, you had might as well end my life. The sword is my bond between myself and Lord Weltyr—surely you, Materna, appreciate the importance of these embodied gestures from the divine. You are a priestess of Roserpine; you know the gods are not kind to those who break their vows, even if forced by circumstance.”
For a flash, the dark lids of her eyes fluttered down at the ring gleaming upon her finger. Then, with a sigh, she waved that same bejeweled hand. “Very well. Someone get the sword to my chambers, as well, with the usual locks and charms.”
The vizier looked almost panicked by this and stepped forward, only at the last second remembering her station and leaving the near touch of the priestess’s arm incomplete. “But Materna—”
“Not even the most powerful of Weltyr’s paladins could slice a hair from the top of my head, Trystera—not when his sword has been charmed to leave his mistress unmolested. At any rate…if he is to serve me as a private guard, he will need a weapon of some kind or another. What will he do without one? Wrestle my would-be assassins to the ground and crush them to death with his bulk when he dies of whatever poison bolt or dagger they’ve been forced to expend on him? My word is final.”
Then, like a mechanical device of dwarfish engineering switching off as quickly as it switched on, the Materna once more settled back into her seat with a last wave of her hand. “Darkstar, Nocturna, you are both dismissed. The next time you scavenge an emptied den of our enemies, remember this lesson.”
The women exchanged a look—Odile annoyed, Indra sorrowful—and rose unsteadily to their feet. “We thank you for your audience, Your Grace,” answered Odile, who was indeed far wiser than she pretended to be. With one last darting look into me, she turned away and led Indra off in the direction of the exit doors. While they departed, the guards already on their ways to me each took an arm and proceeded to drag me along.
Amazing that women a full head shorter than I was could still prove so strong. “What about my clothes?”
My question yielded a snort from one. “Don’t flatter yourself, slave. If we cared to, even the lowest-born durrow woman could command all the unattended slaves in the capital to strip off their clothes. No one here is interested in you.”
Almost no one, anyway. The Materna’s interest had been clear enough, which was perhaps the only reason my chaperones saw fit to speak to me at all. I did not push my luck with them and decided it was best to stay quiet, much as obedience and respect had so far served me in avoiding the more brutal fates of slaves.
Not all aspects of a slave’s harsh entry into the world of El’ryh were spared me, however. For some reason I had thought I would be taken directly
to the Materna’s chambers: instead I was brought into some strange box of engineering I assumed to be dwarven based on the tiles arrayed on its front wall. Each bore a numeric character and the chaperone who had spoken to me was also the same that touched one of these tiles. At the tap of her finger, the box in which we stood gave a jolt; then, amid the grinding of gears, the box steadily dropped us down the floors of the palace.
After a few seconds of this marvel of invention, the silver doors that had shut us in slid open again. I was guided out into a hallway bereft of windows but plentiful in doors. My pair of guides dragged me down the left, and by the step the hallway was ever more suffused by the oppressive heat of what I knew by instinct to be a forge.
Sure enough, the silent guard threw open the last door of the hall and I was amazed to find a wide array of enslaved men working within. A few—new, I sensed, and untrustworthy—had been quite literally chained to their stations and crafted their swords or spearheads with looks of bitter disdain for the task, as if willing these devices to turn upon the mistresses who would someday wield them. A durrow overseer, whip in-hand, kept close eye on the workers (or at least pretended she had been for the benefit of her arriving comrades) while a berich dwarf forge-master—either the only free male I had yet to see, or simply a very high-ranking slave—strode up and down the ranks to inspect the work of the captive smiths.
“We’ve got a new one here,” announced one of my guides, pushing me toward the berich who, as they had promised, spared not a second glance at my nude state. I had the sense that the gray dwarf saw more than his share of new registrations, though he did look surprised when the guard continued to him, “He’s to bear the Materna’s crest, so you’d better dig that iron out from wherever it’s rusting.”
“Rusting is right.” The berich chuckled, stroking his wild white beard and studying my expression. “It’s been ages since the Materna took on a slave of her own. Looks like this one’s already owned, too.”
His dark gaze hovered around the sigil of Weltyr upon my neck before he turned away, studying the irons arranged along the wall opposite. Each, I gathered, was the crest of a durrow house; whether it only accounted for those servants of Roserpine ranked highly enough to dwell in the Palace, or of every noble family in El’ryh, I could not say. I only know that my body tensed as the dwarf picked the iron from the farthest peg along the wall and, sure enough, blew dust off its surface before strolling to heat it in the fire.
Somehow, my situation had not been real to me until that moment. I glanced reflexively toward the door and suggested, “Surely, obedient as I’ve been, such a thing is unnecessary.”
“Oh,” said the berich dwarf, “it’s necessary…trust me. You don’t want to be caught in the city without a brand of one kind or another. Better to have one and get it over with than go without and get a whipping and re-sale the first time you set foot in public to fetch your mistress’s lunch.”
My throat tightened to see the progressive reddening of the metal, red as the swords being shaped all around me. A few of the more adapted—that is to say, crueler—slaves smirked, but most kept their eyes on their work, fully accustomed to blotting out the screams of new arrivals.
It was not the pain I feared quite so much as the thought of being marked for anyone or anything but Weltyr. Surely, as with the oath, my Lord would understand that I had no say in the matter, and would applaud the dignity I showed throughout the course of my ordeal—yet I could not help but recall my brief conversation with the Materna about the gods’ treatments of oath-breakers, whether consenting or no.
The berich dwarf turned with the iron in his hand, and my animal instincts overruled my prior decision to win privilege by obedience. With a kick in the knee of one durrow, I wrenched my grip from the other and scanned the room for an available weapon. Options were plentiful in that hot smithy, but I was not quick enough—or rather, the elves were quicker. While the one whose knee had bent beneath my kick recovered, her sister-in-arms, cursing, drew a bullwhip from her belt.
In a practiced motion its singular tongue licked the air, then swept across my back. I swore, myself, but did not stop my effort to retrieve the flail mounted upon the wall nearby. Soon that cruel whip wound itself around my throat and squeezed like the python that slithered about the Materna’s shoulders. I gagged, caught in its grip, and had no choice but turn in an effort to yank it from its wielder’s hand.
Alas, this was not to be. Her partner, having recovered, caught me by the wrist and swept my feet from under me. When I went down she followed, her slight elfin frame nonetheless packed with muscles and more than adequately equipped to subdue even the most powerful male warriors. I caught myself with one hand upon the hard stone floor while she maintained her grip of the other and climbed astride me as though I were a horse. Playing my part, I bucked and twisted and attempted with all my might to free myself of either her powerful thighs or the lash strangling around my neck. All to no avail.
Meanwhile, the berich watched.
“I understand how it is you’re feeling at this very moment. We all do.” I detected, from the corner of my eye and the rhythms of the clanging of iron on anvils, that few if any of the laboring slaves had stopped to watch my humiliation. My ability to see any of this was vanquished when the durrow upon my back pushed my head down to the ground and bent my hand into the crevice of my spine. I would have hissed with the pain of it had I air enough to do so, but darkness swiftly encroached from all sides of my vision. The berich stood over me, a dwarf towering over a human, yet one too old and beaten-down by his own servitude to enjoy it.
“You’re just making it harder for yourself, though. Come on, lad…stay still, this’ll only hurt a moment. It’ll be over and you’ll be up right quick.”
Had I been able to produce any sounds, the hiss of pain to have my arm so manipulated would have quickly devolved into a kind of snarl. The hot iron of the brand seared into the flesh upon my shoulder, its pressure enough that it seemed my whole upper arm burst into flames. Sweat sprang upon my head and to save the pain of the iron bouncing around as a consequence of struggle I instead fell still, teeth clenched, head swimming with the deprivation of both blood and oxygen.
“There you are,” said the berich, lifting the brand away. “Not so bad.”
“Whatever happened to your obedience?” The durrow on my back jeered and, releasing the pressure against my head, unwound the whip from around my neck. I gasped for air when I could and once more struggled, succeeding in bucking her from her mount upon me. As she cried out and barely caught herself while fallng to the floor, her companion looked on her with obvious derision for her weakness.
“Get yourself up, come on.” I wasn’t sure if she spoke to me or her companion while winding her whip back up to sling upon her hip again. Bending down and catching me by the forearm, she dragged me upright and told her embarrassed partner, “Let’s get him to the Materna’s quarters and be done with him before he gets any other ideas in his head.”
Though I glanced back toward the berich on my way out of the smithy, he had already turned to replace the iron upon its mounted peg.
A SLAVE’S LOT
MY SHOULDER THROBBED all the way to the Materna’s chambers. Thankfully, it was not long before we reached them. We once again took those doors of dwarven engineering and now, as it shifted up in an altogether less alarming sensation, the guard who seemed to do the brunt of the speaking told me, “You’ll have your sword soon enough, but don’t feel too clever. By the time you have it, it’ll have been branded just like you—marked with a sigil to keep it from being turned against not just your mistress but any durrow.”
“Am I not meant to protect my mistress? What if some would-be assassin were a durrow just like yourselves?”
“No woman of our ilk would be so foolish,” answered the other guard. “Roserpine would have her head on a platter.”
“And so would the whole city. The Materna is much too valuable and admired to be assai
led.”
I glanced between them, unwilling to prove supplicant in manner, treating them as casually as I treated Odile and Indra. “I’ve heard it said the durrow are insidious schemers, each with infinite designs for wealth and power.”
“And humans aren’t?” The senior guard shook her head and, at the opening of the doors, led me into a bright, wisp lantern-lit hall where more guards milled about and looked upon us now with curiosity.
“Humans are such chauvinist beings…this one’s for the Materna,” said the guard, pushing me toward the door at the end of the reception hall lightly furnished with sofas and a few merry purple exotic plants to further brighten the décor. “One of you may wish to keep an eye on him until she retires to her apartments for the dark.”
“As you command,” answered the guard who caught me up by the unmarred shoulder without sparing the least glance down at my unclothed state. “Come on, slave. We’ve been given word of your arrival…let’s make it easy.”
The door at the hall’s end was opened for us and the guard led me into the chambers beyond.
My first thought, oddly, was of the Temple of Weltyr. Indeed, a great nostalgia washed over me to step into the Materna’s chambers that first time, for I was reminded at once of the rectory where the Light God’s priests lived and entertained visitors. I never saw much of those chambers, but the impression made by their bright, airy windows and exquisite antique furnishings never left. They felt almost a kind of blueprint for the chambers of the Materna, whose front sitting room with its lounges and low round chairs bore the same brightness even if it did not possess the same, somewhat ascetic sense of old-fashioned furniture.
“These are your mistress’s quarters,” the durrow who had led me in told me while I looked around in awe. Following my gaze to the window overlooking the dark city of El’ryh, she went on to say, “It is situated in one of the highest floors of the Palace. Attempting to climb your way down is extremely ill-advised.”