by Kat Lind
The auction would continue until all slaves, men, women, and children of all ages, had been sold. And then this place would become empty save for those young boys and girls who had the unenviable task of scrubbing the slave pens as clean as possible ahead of the next auction.
But today there were no Battlemen lining the walls. There was no sea of potential bidders out front. There were only the slavers and those loyal to them, and the merchandise that they had brought in to be sold.
One of those slavers was Grun Baran. Though not tall, he was the type of man who filled the senses, so that he seemed larger than he was. He was bald and fat and had last worn a tunic when he was a boy, preferring to display his corpulent bulk to one and all. He stalked towards the slave pens with a mighty sneer on his face as if he hated not only the people there but also the place itself.
But nothing could have been further from the truth. Grun Baran loved the slave auctions. Everything about it appealed to his soul. The dirt. The feeling of superiority he gained from being the one in control. The suffering of those who wore his slave collars and leg irons, and the sense of hopelessness and despair that they exuded when locked in the pens.
For Grun, it all gave him a sense of purpose. He might never be a lord or a king, but in this world he had status. He had power. He had weight.
He was a slaver. And not just any slaver. He was the slaver. His size and bulk and baldness and lack of tunic had become a signature that everyone in the industry knew. He was Grun Baran, a man who would put a collar around the neck of an innocent if he thought he could get away with it. The man all moneylenders knew to call upon if they had debtors who could never repay what they owed. The man who had no concern for the people he added to his chain, and who would have sold his own mother for a couple of coppers if he had the option to do so.
Grun Baran relished the celebrity that his position had brought him. He enjoyed seeing the fear in the eyes of passing strangers as they recognized who he was. He gained pleasure out of being able to intimidate his competition with no more than a whisper of his own name.
Such was his enjoyment at his notoriety that he had taken to wearing a rusted slave collar about his own neck, as a further symbol of who he was and how he gained his coin.
Unlike those worn by the people he captured, his wasn’t sealed. He could remove it any time that he wished.
Grun’s perpetual sneer twisted into a perverted version of a grin as he approached the slave pens. Two of his men followed behind him. Jax and Obin, who had been with him for decades, and had risen on the back of Grun’s renown. Both of them were tall, hard men, who commanded respect in their own right because of the violence they were known to mete out.
At first glance, Obin might have appeared the more dangerous, with his pockmarked face and his jaw constantly clenched as if he expected trouble at any moment. But it was Jax who would pause to assess. Jax who time and time again seemed to know just what to do or say to give rise to the outcome he wanted. He would gut an opponent or break legs or smash skulls at need, but was just as likely to disarm an adversary with nothing more than words.
Both Obin and Jax could have afforded fine tunics and robes. But they wore rougher clothing, more suited to the work that they did.
Following them was a line of a dozen men and women, who shuffled along as best they could while manacled and chained, exuding hopelessness and despair.
Grun Baran was not kind to his slaves. He took pleasure in beating them. He enjoyed breaking their wills. He would go out of his way to torment them in whatever manner he saw fit. And if those slaves appeared at the auction in less than their best state, Grun Baran cared not a whit. He would wrest all the coin from the audience that he could, not grasping that if he had only ensured that his merchandise was clean and fed and showed no facial bruises or unhealed sores from his ill-treatment, then perhaps he would earn more.
Besides, experience told him that they would sell nevertheless. And sometimes, depending on the buyer, the abuse he dealt them would lead to a higher price.
Nor was it only the slaves that bore the weight of his torments. He ruled his men through malice and fear, and they suffered almost as much.
Two of those men brought up the rear behind Grun Baran’s row of slaves. They held their whips at the ready to ensure that the slaves were motivated enough to keep walking, and to remind any who might have been watching that Grun Baran had a small army at his disposal. Cust and Rillin by name, these men were smaller than Jax and Obin. They had been with Grun Baran for less time. Their status was lower. And if their grim and angry expressions were directed mostly at the slaves they were there to control, they reserved some of their resentful glances for Grun Baran as well.
Oblivious to those glances, Grun Baran breathed deeply, enjoying the lingering foulness that no scrubbing could completely dispel. Where others may have coughed and gagged, Grun Baran reveled in the miasma. He would deliver these slaves into the iron pens at the back of the stage, and then he would be done for the day. He was already planning which brothels he would visit and what he would do to the whores he found there. And then, on the morrow, his slaves would be sold to the highest bidder, and he could pay back the necessary portion of the gambling debts he owed.
Nor would he have to wait overly long. In years gone by, he’d had to be content with whatever position his slaves could get at the auction. But now, such was his reputation, Grun Baran’s slaves enjoyed pride of place in the pens. They would be the first on the stage, first to be sold. Those who were willing to bid would have full purses, and Grun Baran’s prices would be the best.
So when Grun Baran saw that there was already a row of slaves occupying his place in the slave pens, he reacted in shock. He halted in place, causing his men behind him to lurch to a stop. His mouth dropped open. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing. He blinked a couple of times just to make sure that it was no illusion.
Half a dozen men and women were chained and ready, all of them in better condition than those in Grun’s chain.
It had been so long since anyone had challenged Grun Baran’s supremacy in such things that at first he didn’t know what to do. But then he focused on the man who was leaning with feigned nonchalance against the iron bars of the pen.
Grun Baran knew him. He understood the expression of defiance on the man’s face. This was a challenge to Grun Baran’s status, as surely as he was standing there.
The man’s name was Vaelin Larr. He was taller than Grun and had shoulders like those of a strawhog hidden within his tunic. And though the man might have been half a decade younger, already his face had developed hard lines, and had been weathered around obvious scars that made him look older.
There was no doubt that Vaelin Larr was tough. His reputation for violence was second only to Grun’s own. The things he was rumored to have done might have wrested admiration even from Grun on another day.
But he could afford no admiration for this man today. His challenge had to be met.
Grun Baran snapped his mouth shut. He glared at Vaelin Larr as if the force of his gaze could punch holes in his face. Although the shock of seeing other slaves in his place had caused him to stop, Grun Baran shifted his shoulders in preparation for battle. He stalked towards Vaelin Larr, showing no indication of hesitation or fear.
Where another man might have stopped short enough to give Vaelin Larr some space, Grun Baran took an extra half step closer, so that their faces were only the width of a hand apart. Grun hated that he had to look slightly upward as he glared at Vaelin Larr. Even so, he didn’t let that stop him.
“Move your slaves,” Grun Baran demanded. He didn’t waste any time on questions, or on pleasantries. Grun Baran hadn’t voiced any pleasantries in years. It was quite possible that he didn’t know any.
Vaelin didn’t even flinch. He didn’t back down and nothing about his expression indicated that he was the least bit intimidated by Grun Baran’s shuddering mass before him.
“My
slaves are comfortable where they are,” he said.
Grun Baran’s expression became a snarl. If he had any hair, he would have bristled. He wanted to hit Vaelin Larr in the face or knee him in the manhood. He wanted to keep hitting him until the man fell to the ground, and then he wanted to stomp on his face and chest and everything else enough times that the man would stop breathing.
But this was Balgeron city, and such things were frowned upon here. And there was a price to pay for his notoriety. Nor was the slave market empty. If anyone here spoke to the Battlemen, Grun Baran’s life would become difficult.
And Vaelin Larr had his own reputation. There was a chance that should Grun Baran attack him, he might not come out on top without help.
So instead of beating Vaelin Larr into a pulp, Grun Baran just leaned even closer.
“I don’t care about the comfort of your slaves,” he said. “I don’t care about you. All I care about is me. And you and your slaves are in my way. You have one more chance. Move. Your. Slaves.”
Grun Baran felt rather than saw Jax and Obin approach. He knew that his men flanked him, and that all three of them stood glaring at Vaelin Larr from close range.
But Vaelin Larr wouldn’t succumb to intimidation. He didn’t back away, and his relaxed stance didn’t change. In fact, he even smiled. But it wasn’t a smile that held any joy.
It was one filled with enough hate and animosity to match Grun Baran’s own.
Grun Baran thought the confrontation would come to violence. He thought that Vaelin Larr’s lack of conciliation would result in him being pummeled by Jax and Obin, and then being kicked and stomped on the ground by Grun Baran himself.
He could see no other way that this could go. He could not tolerate such a challenge. Grun needed to show Vaelin Larr his place, so that all the other pretenders would know that Grun Baran’s position was beyond their pathetic aspirations.
But before this confrontation could escalate further, something happened.
Grun Baran didn’t know what that something was. His full attention was taken by Vaelin Larr before him. But he heard it. He sensed the shock and surprise of the slaves in the pen beside him, and of his own behind Obin and Jax. And in the various others about the slave market.
He heard them gasp and curse. He heard them suck in great gulps of air in surprise. He heard chains rattle as slaves sought to see what was happening.
Nor was it just them. Even Vaelin Larr was not immune. The hard-faced man took his eyes from Grun’s for just a moment to glance upward. And his expression became one of shock to match the noises that Grun could hear from the others.
Wary that Vaelin Larr’s response could be some form of trick, Grun Baran hesitated. But he had no real choice. He took half a step away from Vaelin Larr and turned to see what was causing the commotion, as did his men.
He saw a monster descending from the sky towards them.
Just like the others, Grun Baran stared in shock. He knew what the creature was. Most everyone in Balgeron city would have known. It was a wyvern, close cousin to the dragon but smaller, perhaps twice the size of a horse, and with two legs instead of four.
He had never thought to see one in the flesh. Not so close up. For years such creatures had inhabited only the wastelands to the north. The last time one such beast had flown as far south as Balgeron city had been decades ago. And even when Grun Baran journeyed the lands between cities, hunting for flesh for his collars, he had seen them only in the distance.
As Grun Baran watched, the creature let out an ear-shattering screech, the sound of metal being torn. He felt his innards turn to water, and all of his belligerent malice became nothing but fear in an instant. Only a reflexive clenching prevented him from wetting himself where he stood.
The wyvern flapped its leathery wings as it descended. It became clear that the monster was heading towards them. It was close enough already that Grun Baran could see the malice in its eyes, and as it beat its wings, he felt the edge of the wind it created.
“Run!” someone shouted.
Many of those in the slave market area obeyed. Even Grun Baran’s men took to their heels, without looking back. In moments only Grun Baran, Vaelin Larr, and the two lines of slaves remained. Vaelin Larr’s were secure in their metal cage, but Grun Baran’s were out in the open.
Perhaps they were so beaten that they couldn’t think to save themselves. Perhaps it was that they were chained to one another. But for whatever the reason, Grun Baran’s slaves simply stood where they were, whimpering while they watched the wyvern approach.
Not that Grun Baran’s actions were any more useful. He also stared, aghast at the creature. As did Vaelin Larr. It seemed that both of them had the same visceral reaction to seeing the monster. Both of them reverted to scared, uncertain versions of themselves, versions that had long been supplanted or usurped by layers of spite and anger and the trappings of power.
The wyvern flared its wings. It gave another metal rending screech and landed directly before the slaves chained together.
It moved with astonishing swiftness. The slaves never stood a chance. One moment they wailed in terror, and the next the wyvern was upon them.
It tore them apart. It bit the first slave on the chain clean in half and swallowed the man’s torso and head while he was still screaming. The next slave in line was a woman. She showed more spark than the others. She tried to get away. But the chain around her ankle meant that she could go no more than a few paces before being dragged to a halt by her companions. The wyvern didn’t pause. It didn’t finish the lower half of its first victim. Instead, attracted by the movement perhaps, it used its wings as crutches to surge forward, and snaked out its neck. It bit the woman on the shoulder and wrenched her off her feet. But apparently, it wasn’t satisfied with its grip. It let her go briefly and Grun could hear her whimper in pain and fear. Then it bit her again.
Grun Baran watched it all. A small part of his mind was shrieking at him to run, to hide from this monster. But as yet that small part of him was unable to make itself heard. A greater part of him stood frozen in terror.
The wyvern worked its way through the chain of slaves, ripping them into pieces. The stench of blood and entrails filled the air, even stronger than the miasma of misery that clung to the slave market. Grun Baran felt a visceral chill work its way through his body. He had never been so frightened. And still he had done nothing to save himself.
The wyvern shook its head, sending splatters of blood and small gobbets of flesh flinging this way and that. A gobbet landed on Grun Baran’s naked chest and stuck there for a moment before sliding down and dropping to the ground.
It was enough to break him from his trance of fear. He looked around and saw that Vaelin Larr was equally paralyzed. Not that he cared about him. All that mattered was that the wyvern, finished with the slaves, was looking their way.
It was so close that Grun Baran could smell its metallic, acidic stench. He could see the recognition in its eyes as it sized him up. He could see it look to him as its next meal.
The wyvern was only moments from clamping its jaws over his face and ripping his flesh from his bones. He knew there was nothing he could do to defend himself from it if he stayed where he was.
But he was standing outside of a cage made of iron. If anything could protect him from the wyvern, it was that.
All he needed to do was buy himself enough time to get inside.
The distance between the wyvern and Grun Baran could be measured in no more than yards. And it was crutching closer still. It would be on him in moments.
If Grun Baran didn’t move now, he would be dead.
So he did the only thing he could think of. He turned and gripped Vaelin Larr by the tunic, and hauled him bodily out from behind him. The other slaver was heavy. But he was still frozen in fear. He did little to defend himself from what Grun Baran was doing.
As the wyvern lunged towards them, Grun Baran used all of his weight and strength to heave Vaelin
Larr towards it.
Finally, Vaelin Larr seemed to realize what was happening. He broke free of his paralysis. But it was much too late. He had time only to show an expression of pure terror and to cry out.
“No! AAAAHHH!”
His cry turned into a squeal, then a whimper as the wyvern’s teeth crunched into his shoulder.
Yet for some reason the wyvern seemed less interested in Vaelin Larr than in Grun. It shook its head and flung Vaelin Larr to the side. Then, ignoring the man moaning pitifully on the ground, it reared up over Grun Baran.
But Grun Baran hadn’t been idle. In the time that the wyvern had taken to dispose of Vaelin Larr, Grun had reached for the gate to the slave pen. Even in the pens, the slaves remained chained together. It was common for the slavers to chain them also to the bars of the pens. Because of this, the gate itself was seldom locked.
So the gate to the slave pen was held shut by no more than an iron latch.
As the wyvern started to lunge towards him, Grun Baran opened the latch and hurled his fat body into the slave pen itself.
He landed on his face in a pile of feculence left by the slaves. The smell was nauseating. But Grun Baran cared little about that. He flipped himself over and scurried on his behind as best he could over to the far wall of the slave pen.
He’d left the door open, but the wyvern was massive. It was too big to fit. Even so, it tried. It hurled itself at the open gate, trying to force its way in. But it could not. It reared backwards again and filled the air with another horrendous screech, and Grun Baran couldn’t help but cover his ears.
But he was safe. The slaves that had belonged to Vaelin Larr were also safe. The wyvern couldn’t get to them.
It kept trying for some minutes, crashing itself again and again against the iron bars of the pen, bending some of them. The strength the creature displayed was immense. And perhaps, if it had thought to use its acid, it might have succeeded in getting through. But it did not. It just screeched once more in frustration and rage, and then launched itself into the sky.