Tyrion already knew what it would be. The slave wasn’t supposed to interact with them, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to be taking on extra tasks from other slaves. Tyrion also knew how the She’Har slave cities worked in the real world. There was always a hierarchy, and the slaves traded favors with one another.
The She’Har stood above all of them, but beneath them were the wardens, slaves who had fought long enough to be released from the endless killing of the arena. Wardens were allowed to wear clothing, and they commanded considerable respect amongst the other humans in the slave cities. They acted as trusted servants for the She’Har.
Among the wardens would be one feared and respected more than the others, one with considerable ability to affect the treatment and consideration shown to a new slave such as Haley.
Tyrion didn’t respond with words, instead his power lashed out, enclosing the nameless one and pinning him to the wall. “You will find the one called ‘Gwaeri’ and tell him that I wish to see him.” He had learned the name while interrogating his opponent in the arena. “Yes?”
The nameless one nodded fearfully, but not with the same terror someone from Colne might have shown. Fear and intimidation were part of daily life in Sabortrea.
Tyrion released him, stepping aside so he could pass through the door. “If he doesn’t visit before the next feeding time, I will find you,” he added.
Haley had shrunk back, terrified by the violent exchange.
“Stop that,” said Tyrion calmly. “Straighten your back. Keep your head up. I told you before, do not show fear or weakness. You will wind up like that one otherwise.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the doorway the nameless one had left through.
She nodded, sitting straighter and trying to look calm. The effort wasn’t enough to disguise her timidity, though.
“You saw the difference in strength, didn’t you?” continued Tyrion. “You could see how weak he was. I cannot see my own aythar, but I am guessing he looked like a candle beside a bonfire. Is that right?”
“Y—yes,” she stuttered.
“You are the same,” he responded. “Your aythar shines like the sun, even compared to one of the wardens.”
“Wardens?”
“The ones who are allowed to wear clothes.”
“Oh.”
“You must wear your strength with pride. You are a hunter, a predator. They can see your power; act like you know it, and they will fear you,” he told her.
“I d—don’t want p—people to fear me,” she struggled to say.
“Your old life is gone,” said Tyrion mercilessly. “These people are animals. The only thing they understand is fear and power. Strength is everything here; without it, you will be abused, but with it, your lot will be much less unpleasant.”
His words had the opposite effect of what he intended. Instead, Haley began to cry.
The sight of her tears was so different from the reactions he was used to from the slaves of the She’Har that it made his mind reel for a moment. It reminded him of his old life. The emotions that followed threatened to destabilize him. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to cry with her, for what he had lost as much as for what she had lost.
But he had not survived among the She’Har for the past fifteen years by giving in to such feelings. Viciously, he suppressed the sorrow that rose within him, shoving it back down, pushing it into the darkness where it must forever hide. Anger replaced it, and reaching out with his mind he touched her skin, sending a jolt of burning pain through her.
Haley gasped, choking on her tears.
“Put your shield back up. We aren’t finished,” he informed her.
***
The man who entered was not what Tyrion had expected. He was short and stout, neither of which was particularly unusual. What was strange, was his hair.
It was gray.
Tyrion stared at him for a long moment. In all of his years among the She’Har, he had not seen anyone with gray hair. People simply didn’t live that long in the slave cities. The closest thing to gray was the shining silver hair possessed by the Illeniel She’Har, which was almost metallic in its hue.
The old man stared back at him, appraising him with cautious eyes, mentally assessing the danger that Tyrion represented.
Tyrion had already recovered from his shock and had made his own mental calculation. The Mordan warden was strong, his aythar far brighter than most of the Mordan mages he had seen before, but it was not strong enough to concern him. “You are Gwaeri?” he asked.
The old man nodded.
There was little reason to delay the point. “I want you to see that the girl gets good treatment.”
Gwaeri listened but didn’t respond.
“No one is to harm her or seek favors from her. I want her treated as if she were your ‘friend’,” continued Tyrion. Friend was a word with a different meaning among the slaves of the She’Har. In essence, he was asking Gwaeri to make sure that Haley was treated as well as if she were one of his sex partners.
“I care little for favors anymore, certainly not from one so scarred as you are,” responded Gwaeri. “You have nothing to offer me.” One of the few currencies in the slave cities was sex. There was little else for slaves to trade, since they were allowed almost no personal possessions.
Being from outside of Sabortrea, there was little Tyrion could offer the man. His influence was non-existent there, and since Gwaeri was already at the top of the limited slave hierarchy, his good will meant nothing to the old man. “Your continued well-being should be of some value, even to one as old as yourself,” said Tyrion.
“I am Mordan.”
A simple statement, meaning that he couldn’t hope to threaten one who could be gone with a thought. The Mordan gift of teleportation made it difficult to threaten them.
Tyrion skirted the issue, “You think you could deny me?”
“I know your legend. I am not such a fool to think I could face you, but you have no way to keep me here. This is not the arena.”
He had expected that line of reasoning, but what the old man didn’t know was that he could render him helpless in less time than it would take the Mordan mage to teleport. He didn’t want to offer that threat, though, for it would end their negotiations. “You know what happened to the other warden. I have some influence among the She’Har. You could be sent to the arena.”
That was a complete fabrication. Tyrion had never discussed such a thing with Lyralliantha, nor did he know that the Mordan would even consider selling their most senior warden, but based on recent events, he judged it to be a credible threat.
Gwaeri laughed, an uncommon thing among the humans kept by the She’Har. Reaching up, he stroked the coarse gray hair that crowned his pate, “I have lived longer than most. I do not fear dying.”
Tyrion stared at him. Torture was his next option, but he had hoped to find a more amicable solution.
Gwaeri spoke again, “You have given away the importance this girl has to you. Perhaps we should consider how you will appease me so that her condition does not become worse after you leave.” The old man gave him a grin, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth. The glint in his eyes spoke of pure evil.
“You seek to extort me?” said Tyrion, surprised by the old warden’s boldness.
The old man sensed the flicker in his aythar. Gwaeri was wily as a fox and had only survived to such an age by trusting his considerably well-honed instincts. The Mordan mage raised a shield and then turned his mind to escape. A half-second would be all he needed.
Tyrion didn’t bother raising a shield himself. His first action was to lash out, crushing the warden against the wall with such sudden force that his shield collapsed. The backlash didn’t quite render the other mage unconscious, but it ruined his effort to teleport. Tyrion’s second attack was more precise, clamping down on the other mage’s still reeling mind.
He held Gwaeri trapped, his aythar crushing the old man’s will. He nearly missed the moveme
nt of the warden’s hand. The warden had somehow hidden the moment he had drawn his wooden sword. Eilen’tyral was the material it was made of; a special heartwood grown by the She’Har father-trees to produce weapons that were as strong as steel and just as sharp. The blade shattered as Tyrion’s rune-sheathed arm swept across, destroying the weapon.
Tyrion expanded his mental hold, paralyzing the warden’s body as well as his aythar. “Now that we understand your situation better, perhaps we can have a more meaningful discussion.”
Gwaeri’s eyes rolled wildly as he stared back at Tyrion. He was unable to speak or even scream as he saw the younger man produce a long red line of power from his hand—the red whip used so often by wardens to discipline their victims. It struck his leg first and then his mid-section, sending burning pain tearing through his body.
The old man’s body shook despite its paralysis, and tears ran from his eyes. The expected scream that filled the air though, came from Haley.
Tyrion had forgotten about her. The girl was frantic, with a look of stark terror in her eyes. She was frightened beyond reason, and not of the warden; she was afraid of her father.
If she only understood, thought Tyrion. “I am doing this for your benefit,” he told her.
She stopped screaming, but her fear was no less. Haley continued to cower, her eyes searching the room, hoping against reason to find some way to escape the horror.
Sighing, Tyrion dismissed the red whip. Obviously, Haley had been treated to its use a few times already, and the sight of it would only make her state of mind worse. Instead, he loosened his control of the old man’s throat, returning his power of speech.
“Please!” begged Gwaeri. “I’ll do anything.”
“Of course you will…” sneered Tyrion. “…now. But I have to make sure I can trust you after I have gone. You are obviously too sly to make a simple bargain.”
“No! I was just testing you. I never meant to offend. I will make sure no harm comes to her…”
“Yes,” interrupted Tyrion. “Yes, you will. After you awaken, I will explain precisely, why you will do anything and everything I ask of you.” Reaching out with his aythar, he drove the older mage into unconsciousness, forcing his mind to sleep. Then he relaxed his hold.
Haley stood at the door. She had been trying to force it to open, and now she shivered when she saw her father’s gaze fall on her.
“I need your help,” he told her. “Carve a small sliver of wood from your bed, then burn it. I need black ash to mark him, and a bit of urine.”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly, her mind in shock.
“Use your power to slice a small piece of wood off, then make a small flame to burn it. I’ve already shown you how to do both. Snap out of it!”
Startled, she jumped, but after a moment she moved to do as he told her. Her aythar was rough and untrained, but she managed to cut a small piece of wood as he had asked. She wasn’t sure where to burn it however, “Where…?”
“Use the food bowl,” he said, indicating the bowls they had recently emptied.
Haley dropped it in before producing a small flame and carefully burning the wood. She scorched the bowl as well, but that was of little consequence to Tyrion. After finishing, she held it out to her father.
“Mix a little urine in with it,” he commanded, “but crush the charred wood first.”
“Uri…” She stopped without completing the word.
“Piss in the bowl, or your hand, however you think best. Just a little bit mind you. I need it to be more fluid than a paste, but not much.”
Haley went to the farthest corner of the room, but it took several long minutes before she managed to complete the task.
I should have done that myself, he thought. Haley had been scared, and her body ill-equipped for the job. Her hands were a mess and her face was red with shame. Hesitantly, she brought him the bowl, retreating as soon as he had taken it from her hands.
He mixed the blackened charcoal as thoroughly as possible, crushing the larger pieces with his mind and turning it into a thick slurry. Then he leaned over the unconscious warden.
“W—what are y—you going to do?” asked Haley.
He grinned, but immediately regretted it. The expression seemed to frighten her more. Looking back at Gwaeri, he answered, “I’m going to tattoo our friend here to ensure his loyalty.” He pushed the man’s gray hair and slave collar aside, studying the warden’s neck as he chose the spot for his artwork.
***
When Gwaeri awoke sometime later, the first thing he noticed was a stinging burn at his throat. Instinctively, he tried to reach up, fearing a cut, but his arm refused to move.
“I’ll release you in a moment,” said the Illeniel warden looking down on him.
“What have you done?”
“I’ve given you a reason to cooperate,” answered Tyrion. With a thought, he activated the tattoos along his right arm. He held the force blade up in front of his prisoner’s eyes. “You know what this is?”
“Everyone has heard of your arm-blades.” Gwaeri’s attention was firmly on the deadly weapon.
“Does ‘everyone’ know that it is capable of severing She’Har spellweaving?” asked Tyrion.
“Your fight with the Krytek,” said the warden. “Not everyone believes the story, but there’s no other way…”
“I can sever a slave collar as well.” He lowered the tip of the blade to the old man’s throat. It made a shallow slice in the flesh as it slid close to the spellweave around Gwaeri’s neck. Blood welled and dripped to the ground, but the warden didn’t flinch or cry out. “Do you know what happens if the collar is broken?”
“Death.” Sweat was beading on the older man’s forehead, but he gave no other sign of fear.
Tyrion dismissed his enchanted arm-blade and then presented the outer edge of his arm for Gwaeri’s inspection. “See the runes there?” He waited for the other man to nod before continuing, “Those are the secret. They forge my aythar into a type of magic that is similar to She’Har spellweaving. I call it enchanting.
“If you refocus your magesight, you’ll find something similar on your skin.” He used a finger to push the slave collar up a bit, to make it easier for the warden to examine the symbols on his throat. They had been hidden by the collar.
Gwaeri frowned.
“I kept the marks as small as I could, so your masters won’t see it, unless you deliberately show them. I wouldn’t advise it, though.”
“What purpose does it serve?”
“Mine,” said Tyrion with steel in his voice, “just as you do now. If I decide you have been disloyal, I will activate the enchantment tattooed onto your skin, destroying your slave collar and ending your miserable life.”
“I cannot disobey, Dalleth,” said the warden.
“Then you should take care to make sure he never gives you an order that I will take exception to. If you displease me, if the girl comes to harm, or if you attempt to show your new decoration to anyone, the enchantment will activate,” Tyrion stated calmly.
In truth, the enchantment would do none of those things, unless he deliberately activated it, and that would still require him to be within a few hundred yards of the tattoo. It was possible to create an enchantment that would do all those things, but Tyrion had yet to discover how to trigger one beyond the limit of his own power. Nor did he know how to set an enchantment to detect betrayal.
But of course, Gwaeri knew none of those things.
Chapter 5
Haley had fallen asleep exhausted, both emotionally and physically. She lay on the living wooden pallet that grew from the floor. The buildings in Sabortrea, like those in Ellentrea, were actually part of the roots of one of the nearby god-trees. The She’Har could control how they grew, forming them into buildings complete with furniture-like protrusions such as the ‘bed’ she now slept on.
She was shivering now, her concentration had lapsed when she fell asleep, and the pocket of warm air she h
ad kept around herself had dissipated. Done properly, the spell that maintained the warmth around her would have lasted through the night, but she was still a novice, and her father had been pushing her hard.
Tyrion felt impatient. He only had twenty-four hours, and it bothered him that they were being forced to spend some of it sleeping, but he knew she wouldn’t be able to learn without rest. She had already had far more help than he had received when he had first been taken.
He picked up the blanket he had brought, his only gift to her, and draped it over her gently, tucking the edges around her shoulders and feet. Haley seemed small under his hands.
Looking down on her, he couldn’t help but examine her features. Her face was smooth, relaxed and calm with sleep. She was beautiful.
She’ll probably die in the arena.
Tyrion shoved that thought aside and stretched out on the ground. He spoke a word and wrapped himself more firmly in a shell of warmth, outlining it vividly in his mind. It would last long past his descent into unconsciousness. Years and constant practice had given his imagination and will a strength that iron would envy.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think of his own parents. He didn’t want to remember childhood, or his mother’s kind hands tucking him in at night. I am not a parent, he told himself, but Haley’s sleeping face returned to his mind before he drifted away.
He awoke sometime later. He felt hot, and his body was sweating. Something was covering his shoulders. He was disoriented for a moment until his senses sorted out what had happened.
He was covered by the blanket, and the warmth at his back was Haley, curled up soft behind him. Her body heat, combined with the extra insulation of the blanket, was the reason for his perspiration.
Dismissing the magical warmth was enough to allow his body to reach a more comfortable temperature. We’ve probably slept enough. I should wake her and continue training her.
He lay still, though, despite that thought, listening to his daughter’s slow breathing. Tyrion was filled with an odd sense of peace, and he was loathe to ruin the moment, despite knowing that it was an illusion.
The Silent Tempest (Book 2) Page 4