by Jason Howard
He screamed and dove forward, thrusting his arm through the bars. His roar turned to a curdled scream as his skin singed, and the smell of his burning hair joined the smoke around him. His fingertips met the hot metal of the keyring stuttering and fumbling before they closed around it. He screamed with pain and desperation, but managed to move it closer before pulling his hand off the hot metal.
He knew he didn’t have much time . . . he snatched a solution out of his swirling thoughts. By tearing a piece of fabric from his tattered pants he was able to lift the hot key ring.
The first key didn’t work. Neither did the second.
He coughed hard as his lungs were seared by the hot air. His heart was pounding sickeningly and the burnt skin on his arm was throbbing.
Come on, come on, come on—
Finally, a key worked. He kicked the door open, wrapped the keys in the cloth, and stuffed the wad in his waistband.
Then he looked—with horror—at the wall of fire between him and his freedom. He had no choice. He backed up as much as possible and sprinted at the fire, jumping as high and far as he could. He soared through the flames, holding his breath and eyes closed until the end. He landed, rolled, and slammed into a wall. The smoke and light was all he could see, and the cold tingle of adrenaline was all he could feel.
Somehow, he emerged from the building. He staggered away and fell to the cool grass.
He gasped as he looked up and saw three of the black-armored knights, all on horseback. One leveled a sword at him. He rolled onto his back and put his hands up to show them that he was unarmed.
Chapter Three
Chulgar (slang)
–noun
1. a man who is impotent in bed and cowardly in life
2. as the most popular insult in the Ascadellian language, it is used to express general hatred or disgust
3. alternate forms include: chulgarous, chulgar’s son, chulgering, chulged, chulgish, and chulgar lover.
“I love the word chulgar! Just the sound of the word is foul. It brings the bile out of your voice. I make a habit of calling at least one person a chulgar every day, so I don’t get out of practice. You got that, you stinking chulgar?”
–Art Wheelihan, bard and jester
They brought him to a tall man with a mane of blonde hair down to his shoulders. Every inch of him was powerfully built. His muscles, especially those of his arms and neck, bulged freakishly against his chainmail. Zac looked up at him, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other.
Is that . . . Roen? he wondered. Zac had heard many murmurings among the slavemasters about Roen and his Raiders—nervous tidings of raided border towns, and of the futile search by King Lanthos’s enormous Ascadellian Army to capture Roen and his men. The Ascadellian Army could never quite catch up because of the guerilla warfare Roen employed.
Zac studied the man’s face carefully, trying to remember the descriptions he’d overheard.
“I’m almost out of energy,” the man said. “We might need to kill one of these last two instead.”
Zac’s legs buckled as the back of his knees were kicked. He fell backwards, and when he hit the ground his wind was knocked out.
“Don’t move,” one of the black-armored soldiers said.
Zac heard a thrashing noise and turned a little—it was Arrice, Zac’s best friend.
They slammed Arrice down next to Zac so they were both on their backs next to each other. Zac finally managed to get a breath.
Arrice whispered to Zac, “At least you won’t be tortured tomorrow.”
“True,” Zac said, then started laughing.
Arrice joined in, until one of the guards told them to shut up and kicked him hard in the ribs.
They sobered as Roen knelt between them and shut his eyes, muttering the words to a spell.
He put a hand on Arrice’s chest, and a vivid purple glow throbbed from his palm. Zac watched in horror as Arrice’s eyes took on that glow.
Then it was gone. Arrice looked normal again except for a dazed look on his face, like he was just waking from a deep sleep.
“What did you do to him?” Zac asked.
“Take that one away.”
One of the soldiers pulled Arrice to his feet and hustled him away.
“What was that spell?”
Ron’s smile said wouldn’t you like to know?
He put a hand on Zac’s chest and muttered the words to the spell again. Roen’s hand warmed and turned purple. Zac felt an intrusion on his mind. It was like someone just outside of his vision was staring at him, breathing down his neck, whispering something he couldn’t understand. Zac resisted the feeling and the warmth that seemed to be crackling along the inside of his skin and into his brain.
Roen gasped. The purple light glowing from his hand flickered and dulled. Ron shook his head in disgust and stood up.
“It didn’t work. Just kill this one.”
“You do it,” Zac said. “Don’t tell your ass-kissing lackeys to do it, you muscle-brained chulgar.”
Roen chuckled, but his eyes hardened. He unsheathed an enormous claymore and put it to Zac’s throat. “Fine. I’ll kill you myself, zell. Stand him up so I can take his head off.”
“Thank you, kind sir. The Gods will be impressed by your valor. Sure, I’m half naked, weaponless, and being held by one of your men, but I guess I should be happy that you give me the honor of dying by your own blade. When you recognized me I thought you might do something noble, but I should have known better. I can’t wait to tell the Gods what a father-thrusting chulgar you are when I see them.”
“What?”
“I can’t wait to tell the Gods what a father-thrusting chulgar—”
“No, you said something about me recognizing you.”
“Roen, you really are a cowbrained cud-swallower—you don’t remember me?”
“I’ve never known a zell in my life, don’t try and—”
“Come on, it’s me, Zac. Just look at me and try to use the other thing in your body besides muscle and that ever-lonely piece of flesh between your legs! If that didn’t narrow it down enough, I’m referring to your mind.”
Roen wasn’t fully buying it, but he was confused. He leaned in a bit closer, and that’s when Zac spit a hot wad of phlegm into his eyes.
Roen stood for a moment as if he couldn’t understand what had just happened. Then he roared and swung wildly, half-blind, for Zac’s head. The guard holding Zac dove ungracefully. Zac dipped under Roen’s overbalanced attack. Roen’s blade skimmed Zac’s hair. Even as Zac was moving under the blade he was shifting his bodyweight to his right foot so he could throw a right-handed counter.
As he came up, he unloaded a straight right. Roen was so tall that the punch hit slightly under the point of his chin. Zac had aimed here before when fighting taller men. Roen’s head jerked straight up. When it whiplashed back into place his eyes lost focus and went dull for a moment. He stumbled to one knee, not fully unconscious, but unable to regain his senses.
Zac knew he had no hope of winning this fight, so he ran.
The nearest of the black-armored knights tried to grab Zac but they were shocked at how quickly he could move his wiry frame.
“Archers hold!” Roen yelled. “Bring him to me. He will still die by my sword.”
Zac knew that he had only one possible course. If he ran toward the road or back toward Detren, Roen’s men would run him down on their steeds. So he ran for the trees so they’d be forced to dismount.
He heard them behind him, armor and chainmail clinking. The bootfalls of dozens of soldiers made a deafening thunder.
But Zac liked that sound, because their armor was his only chance at survival. He was lean and light, they were musclebound and burdened with steel plate and chainmail. He knew that in the forest, it would be an even bigger disadvantage. He knew the forest well here from frequent trips to chop lumber. He was small and would be able to slip easily through tight spaces and weave between trees.
>
Zac’s knew that if he ran blindly, they would track him down in the forest eventually. He was already forming a plan.
When he burst through the treeline, he avoided the path that he knew was nearby. He would lure them fully into the trees and then use the path to outrun them. All he had to do was get to the river. He pulled the wadded cloth out as he ran, unfolded it, and took the keyring out. He could only hope that the right key was on that ring, or he’d be dead in minutes.
Zac’s bare feet were so calloused that tree roots didn’t rip them open. His strides were so graceful that his pursuers couldn’t hear him over their own clumsy crashing. He grabbed a trunk and used it to shift his momentum, then jumped over a ridge of tree roots and soared through the air, legs pedaling. He landed, switched direction again, stooped and scooped up a rock the size of a grapefruit. He threw it. It crashed through the under brush some distance away. He hoped they would hear the decoy and think he’d headed off in that direction.
He spun and sprinted the opposite way, dodging between trees until he emerged onto the trail. Now, with no trees to dodge between, he sprinted all out. His natural athleticism had been sharpened by his hard years as a slave. Physical training is one thing, but the hellish physical torture Zac had been subjected to had actually killed some of his brothers. At the end of a whip they had labored until their bodies had given out. Zac had survived those horrible days when the sun was too hot or the masters were pushing them too hard. It was like his entire life had prepared him for this escape.
Still, his legs were on fire and his heart felt like it might explode. He pushed himself to the brink, until his vision blurred and the moonlight became glowing, fluctuating silver cut by the dark shapes of tree branches.
At the river he came to a small pier with a few canoes for fishing chained to it. Each chain was secured with a heavy iron lock. The links were thick and sturdy. The slavemasters knew that the river was the only feasible way that a slave might escape. No one trying to navigate the thick forests surrounding Detren could outrun a hunting party on foot.
Zac already knew that the chains were far too thick to break and the locks were of the highest quality. Zac could hear voices in the forest. They hadn’t reached the river yet, probably because they didn’t think he would run straight to a dead end like this. But they’d figure it out soon.
Zac’s fingers trembled as he used the keys, inserting one after another into the lock that secured one of the canoes. Finally one slid smoothly into place. The lock opened with a gentle click.
Zac put the chain and lock into the canoe. He got in and started paddling hard with an oar that had been left in it.
There was an island, thick with trees that split the current of the river. Zac made for it, straining as hard as he could. He was fueled by adrenaline, hope, and mortal fear. The voices behind him filled him with panicky chills.
When his pursuers made the shoreline, Zac stopped paddling, afraid to make a noise. His canoe eased behind the island, and he was hidden by its wall of trees. He kept paddling, but let the current pull him between strokes. He let his breathing slow. He laughed, relishing his luck and survival. If they had seen him he’d be dead. As it was they’d probably waste more time trying to contain him in the forest before they realized he’d somehow gotten a canoe.
He looked down at the thick, rusty chains coiled on the floor of the canoe. He gathered them and heaved them overboard.
Now the canoe was light, and rode just a little faster.
He felt overwhelmed—his brain seemed to buzz with little bits of nonsensical thoughts. He had escaped death in three different ways—execution, fire, and Roen’s enormous claymore. He had witnessed the destruction of Detren, had caused the destruction of the mine. His brothers were probably dead, and his masters also. So now he was . . . free? He was floating down the river in a canoe that he wasn’t chained to. He sat as a breeze iced his sweat and moonlight churned from the river. Each long, powerful stroke he took sent silvery swirls from his paddle and a gentle burn along the muscles of his arms and shoulders.
He had no masters now. He glanced down at his right arm, at his mark, the long line with the slashes in it. He could remember the horrible pain of his branding, and trying not to cry out because the master would beat him every time he moved or made a sound. He wondered how people would react if they saw this brand. He knew it was enchanted so that minor spells couldn’t erase it, and he knew it would mark him as a former slave. If word of his escape got around, it could mean his capture. He’d have to get some money so he could pay a skillful sorcerer to get rid of it.
He paddled harder, and promised himself that he would die before he ever had another master. He would stay free forever now.
Zac tried to smile, but something stopped him.
He repeated it to himself, trying to feel the freedom he deserved to feel.
But I also have no brothers. I’m alone.
Memories went through him, memories he would hold on to as long as he could. But their faces would fade eventually. Zac was young, but he knew about loss. He knew that the worst part was not the initial pain, but the eventual moment when you realize that you don’t even fully remember the people you once loved more than anything in the world.
Tears streaked his face. He didn’t bother wiping them, just kept paddling. The tears mingled with his hot sweat, and soon his vision was blurry. But he kept paddling, blinking until he could see again. He struggled to feel free and think of the future. He was lucky to finally have one.
I will be free forever now. I will live and die a free man.
The moonlight above agreed, but the dark gnarled shapes of the trees reaching from the shore whispered their mockery.
Chapter Four
Speaking stone
–noun
1. a speaking stone is an enchanted item used for communicating over long distances. The stone is enchanted so that the user can speak into it and their voice will emanate from another speaking stone.
2. the general populace, for the most part, does not have access to speaking stones. They are rare and hard to produce, requiring intricate spellwork and vast sums of energy to create. Sometimes it takes a team to enchant an especially long range speaking stone.
Roen screamed and spittle leapt from his lips, causing the conduit working on his chin to flinch. Zac’s punch had bruised his jaw, which was swelling. The conduit was a tall, willowy man. On the left side of his neck was a tattoo of a moonflower, a six-petaled species that soaked in sun during the day and glowed after nightfall. Amongst the crew of roughnecks that comprised Roen’s men, the flesh mage with the moonflower tattoo.
He would have been constantly scorned for his effeminate mannerisms if not for his incredibly useful skill set. The conduit had spent a lifetime honing his flesh magic so that he could use it for complex healing spells and had proven himself indispensible on many occasions.
Roen’s Raiders had made camp in a clearing north of Detren, in the woods. The trees above stretched into wretched shapes and gnarls against the moonlit sky, and the lush grass among the tents waved in the flickering firelight.
“It’s over, you should be fine now,” the flesh mage with the moonflower tattoo stammered.
“Good. Leave me.”
The flesh mage strode quickly away.
“Where is the chulgar that did this?”
One of Roen’s lieutenants stepped up and cleared his throat nervously.
“Speak!” Roen demanded.
“I just got word via speaking stone that they . . . they are having difficulty tracking him, but will soon—”
“He’s gone?” Roen whispered, eyes wide.
The lieutenant opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He started to shake his head when Roen grabbed him by his collar and screamed, “How?”
“We don’t know how he moved so quickly. Somehow he got outside of our perimeter. He may have used the river, because the only tracks we found were leading toward it, but even in tha
t case, he couldn’t have swam fast enough—”
Roen let the man go, ignoring the rest of his babbling. Roen was wondering how he would explain why he had left a witness.
Roen was the kind of man that disdained fear. He was the kind of man who had long ago learned that hesitation was the bane of power. But still, he feared his master, and the thought of telling his master of failure sent chills across his skin. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. There was no use delaying it.
“I’m going to my tent. I must . . . don’t disturb me,” Roen commanded.
The men nodded. They knew that he was going to use a speaking stone to report the escaped witness to their leader, the one their black armor and red insignias paid homage to.
Roen disappeared into his tent, which dwarfed the others, and stood at the center of the camp. The men sat in silence, hoping their leader wouldn’t be displeased. If Roen was punished he would surely take it out on them. This was the thought they shared with their awkward glances and unbroken silence.
That silence lasted for a minute perhaps. Then Roen walked out of the tent. Relief loosened the postures of the men.
Roen itched his brow and said, “He was displeased, but all is forgiven.”
Roen strode to the center of camp, all eyes on him. He scratched the back of his head absently as he said, “We must be more careful about witnesses escaping. No one can know our connection to Soulbane.”
Roen reached under his shirt and itched his chest. Then, with his other hand, he scratched his neck.
He continued, “And . . . we will have to hire a bounty hunter to go after the one who escaped, because we have a new mission—we are to attack the Windwalker Tribe, they are southwest of here in the—”
Roen stopped, seeming frustrated. He itched his lower back profusely, then itched his neck again. He didn’t seem to notice, but his fingers were raking the skin, leaving long red marks.
He continued, “. . . because they may have shamans that can counter Soulbane with ancient tribal healing spells. They will be an easy conquest, but we must be thorough and kill them all.”