Phoenix Imagining (Phoenix Prime Collection Book 1)

by Kat Lind

  Grun Baran sat in the filth of the slave pen and breathed hard. He found he was shaking. His heart was pounding in his chest. His throat had gone dry. He had never before felt such fear as he felt then.

  But he had survived.

  Chapter 2

  Grun Baran surveyed the ruin. The wyvern had not been particular. In the short time that it had been within the slave market area, it had not only murdered Grun’s line of slaves and wounded Vaelin Larr as it had flung him to the ground, but it had also damaged both the slave pen and the stage upon which the slaves would normally be sold.

  Once a gallows and platform for beheadings, the stage still looked the part. It was a low, brooding structure complete with a notched crossbar (although the ropes had long since rotted away) and a matched pair of trapdoors that had been nailed shut. Somehow the wyvern had broken the main support post that held up part of the stairs. And the metal bars of the slave pen where Grun had cowered were bent. When Grun felt safe enough to leave, he found that he could not properly shut the gate anymore.

  Not that he cared about that. It wasn’t his problem. He cared only that his slaves were dead, and he would receive no coin for their corpses. That was bad enough, for without his slaves, he would have no way to pay off his debts – and he knew better than most what that might mean.

  Perhaps just as bad was that he had responded to the attack with no more than paralyzing terror.

  He was a slaver. The slaver. His reputation was everything. His very presence was enough to make grown men shiver in fear, and women had been known to hide their children as he passed by.

  It was how he controlled his merchandise. They knew who he was, knew what he was, and would do anything that they could to avoid his displeasure.

  And more than that, it was also how he controlled his men. All of them, from Obin and Jax down to the slave wagon driver (who had been with Grun for only a couple of months and had the singular virtue of having no tongue), knew of his unpredictable temper and relentless willingness to cause immense bodily harm.

  They feared him. And with that fear came a certain respect. They knew to do as he said, when he said it and how he wanted it done, or they would face the consequences. They would face his rage and fury, and if their transgression proved bad enough, they might not survive the experience.

  If they knew that he had met the wyvern with nothing but cowardice, they might fear him a little less. They might respect him a little less.

  And they might be less willing to follow his orders.

  Grun Baran wasn’t the sort to ponder the patterns made by the stars. His grasp of economics stretched far enough that he knew how much coin he needed from each sale to pay his bills, but no more. He understood that within the world were those who wrote poetry or painted for pleasure, but such pastimes were entirely beyond what he was capable of.

  Yet he understood people. Their baser motivations. He knew how little there was between not following orders and sticking a knife into his back.

  After all, that was how he’d got his own start in the slave business years before.

  Grun Baran snarled at the future he saw. He knew that there was nothing he could do to change how he’d acted.

  But there was something he could do to change the result.

  The slave market area was still empty. There was no one about save for himself, the slaves in the pen, and Vaelin Larr, who was moaning in pain on the ground.

  Grun Baran stalked over and sneered down at the moaning man who was lying face-down in the dirt. His tunic had been torn open at the shoulder, revealing the wreckage that remained of Vaelin Larr’s once mighty shoulder. It looked like nothing more than flayed meat.

  Grun Baran’s lip curled in scorn. Vaelin Larr knew his secret. He’d witnessed his cowardice in the face of the wyvern even as he’d acted the same. And now he lay writhing in pain on the ground.

  Now he was as good as dead.

  Grun Baran looked around. No one had yet returned to survey the damage or to see if anyone had survived.

  Which meant that Grun Baran was free to act as he wished.

  He knelt down beside the man in pain and rolled him ungently onto his back. He noted the man’s grimace that mixed pain and fear. He sucked in air in short quick gasps, and stared at Grun Baran with wide eyes. He was sweating profusely enough that his face was covered in dirt from the ground. Yet despite his injury, despite the pain he was in, and despite his previous interaction with Grun Baran, his expression when he saw Grun’s face above his contorted into an aspect of hope.

  Grun Baran increased his snarl. He relished the opportunity to shatter that hope.

  “You should not have chained your slaves in my place,” Grun Baran grated.

  He cast a glance to the slaves chained in the pen to make sure they were watching, then reached out and gripped Vaelin Larr by the damaged shoulder. Before Vaelin Larr could understand what he was doing, Grun Baran squeezed the man’s shoulder with all of his strength.

  Vaelin Larr let out a scream of agony. Grun felt the flayed flesh beneath his palm and fingers change shape to conform to that of his hand. Not like normal flesh would have done at all.

  And he felt the dampness of the man’s blood through what remained of his tunic.

  Grun Baran’s face was not built for smiles. His lips were too thin and his mouth too narrow and surly. Yet as the man on the ground drew breath to continue his scream, he allowed himself to crack half a grin.

  Vaelin Larr brought his other hand around to claw at Grun’s hand, in a feeble attempt to stop him from what he was doing. But he lacked the strength. He was pathetically weak. Grun batted the man’s hand away with dismissive ease and increased the pressure on his shoulder.

  Vaelin Larr writhed on the ground and screamed even louder. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

  He’d fainted from the pain.

  Grun Baran’s grin grew broader. He gave the man’s shoulder one final squeeze and let go. He looked at the blood on his hand in disgust and wiped it on the man’s clothing.

  “You will not chain your slaves in my place ever again,” Grun Baran snarled.

  Once more he checked to ensure they were alone, and to make sure that the slaves in the pen were watching. They were. Their eyes were wide and they stared in shock and horror.

  Satisfied, Grun Baran drew a narrow blade from its sheath at his waist, aimed its point at the wound on the man’s shoulder, angled the blade and pushed it through into Vaelin Larr’s heart.

  Vaelin Larr didn’t flinch. He was already unconscious. He died without ever knowing what killed him.

  Grun Baran withdrew his knife and wiped it on the man’s clothing before putting it away. No one else would know how the man died either. The only visible wounds were those left by the wyvern.

  Grun Baran stood. He took a moment to spit at the dead man and kick him solidly in the side, then moved to the slave pen to survey the slaves within.

  None met his gaze. They knew that their very lives were at stake.

  “What did you see here?” Grun Baran snarled.

  Silence.

  Beyond a terrified whimper, not a single slave said a word.

  “Answer me!” Grun bellowed.

  To Grun Baran’s pleasure, the slaves flinched. Even though they had recently survived a wyvern attack, they were still terrified of him.

  “N-nothing!” one of them stammered.

  Grun Baran didn’t care who it was. He cared only that it was the answer he sought.

  Secure in the knowledge that his cowardice would remain secret, he grunted an acknowledgment.

  “Good,” he said. “Make sure it stays that way.”

  With that, he headed over to the stage. Ignoring the uncertain stairs, Grun Baran hauled himself up onto the edge and waited for his men to return.

  Chapter 3

  It was some time before people started to drift back into the slave market. Among the first were Obin and Jax. Grun Baran watched them look around with wide eyes an
d expressions of shock. And while he could understand the reaction, it did nothing to lighten his mood. He continued to sit on the edge of the stage and wait, his gaze boring into them as they approached.

  Obin spotted him first. Grun Baran saw when it happened. The pockmark-faced man was scanning left and right, his attention mostly focused on the ground, but when he saw who it was sitting on the edge of the stage, his focus sharpened.

  He turned to his taller companion and muttered something Grun couldn’t hear. Then both of them increased their pace and headed towards him.

  Grun Baran waited with his snarl set in place.

  Neither of his men was the talkative type, and yet as they approached they were babbling.

  “You live!”

  “How did you–?”

  “What happened with the monster?”

  “What of Vaelin Larr?”

  “Enough!” Grun bellowed.

  His two men looked as if he’d slapped them across their faces. They stole a quick glance at each other and lapsed into silence. Perhaps they knew what was to come.

  Without moving from his place on the edge of the stage, Grun Baran licked his lips. He looked his men up and down. Obin was stockier than Jax and more muscular. But when it came to knives and weapons, Jax was the more dangerous. Each of them was more than capable as a slave hunter, and to provide intimidation at need.

  And yet….

  “You left me,” Grun Baran said. He kept his tone surprisingly neutral.

  Again the two men stole a glance at each other. This time Grun Baran could read the uncertainty in their expressions.

  “I didn’t know–” Obin began.

  “We thought you were following,” said Jax. “If we had known–”

  Grun Baran abruptly slid from the edge of the stage and stood in front of his men. He was shorter than each of them and nowhere near as dangerous, yet he somehow managed to intimidate them both.

  “We didn’t know! If we’d known!” Grun Baran mimicked. “You had only to look and you would have known. But you did not. Neither of you. As soon as that monster appeared, you ran. You ran like cowards! You left my inventory to the beast’s mercy! You left me to the beast’s mercy! And you just ran!”

  Grun Baran’s jaw jutted in rage as he spoke. He saw no reason to mention that his own reaction had been one of no more than paralyzing fear. All that mattered was that these men understood that their behavior was not condoned.

  Obin could not maintain eye contact. He dropped his gaze and stared at the ground at his feet. Jax was made of sterner stuff. He kept his face neutral, kept his eyes on those of Grun Baran, but kept his thoughts hidden.

  Grun Baran was not finished.

  “Because of your actions, the monster murdered my slaves! You did not hurry them to safety. You did not even think to do so! And as a result, my slaves are dead!”

  Grun Baran stepped nearer to his men until he stood as close to them as he had to Vaelin Larr before the wyvern had attacked. He sensed them shift uncomfortably, but neither of them took a step backwards.

  “Who is going to pay me for dead slaves?” Grun Baran demanded. “Who is going to pay my bills?”

  Now Jax also looked away.

  Grun Baran growled deep in his throat. Other than that he said nothing for some moments.

  “Do you not have an answer?” Grun Baran asked.

  Obin shook his head. After a moment, Jax did as well.

  Grun Baran allowed his sneer into his voice.

  “Do neither of you see a way for me to recover at least some my losses from all this?” he said.

  Again there was silence.

  “Because I do,” Grun Baran said, his voice low and dangerous.

  Jax flinched and looked at him, his expression a mixture of shock and uncertainty. Perhaps he thought Grun would take both of them as his slaves, and put them up on the auctioneer’s stage. But if that’s what he thought, he was mistaken.

  Yet Grun Baran allowed him to continue thinking this way for a few seconds more. Let him be uncertain about their status with him, he thought. Let him sweat that at any moment Grun Baran might place a slave collar around his neck. Let him worry that one mistake too many and he would join those unlucky folk to know the brand of a slave.

  He let the silence grow until he was satisfied that Jax and Obin still feared him. Still respected him enough to obey his will.

  Only then did he relent.

  “You may have forgotten that Vaelin Larr was here before us,” Grun Baran said, allowing his voice to drip with malice as he mentioned the name. “He’s dead now. The wyvern left him moaning in pain, and my knife found its way into his heart.” Obin and Jax both knew that Grun was a cold-hearted murderer, but it didn’t hurt to remind them of that awful fact every now and again. “Before he died, he’d already chained his line of slaves in the pens. They aren’t as many as we’d brought, but they are still there. The wyvern didn’t touch them. And their master is dead.”

  He watched understanding dawn in Jax’s eyes. Even Obin lifted his head.

  Grun Baran allowed himself a sneer.

  “Take Vaelin Larr’s slave collars from his line of slaves. Replace them with our manacles. Smear the slaves in dirt and rip their clothing so that none will think that they belonged to another. Make sure they are unwilling to speak of this transfer of ownership. Or unable. And when the auctioneer arrives, we will claim these few slaves as our own.”

  It would not be sufficient to pay all of what Grun owed. Not even close.

  Obin grinned. It seemed that he liked the idea.

  But it was Jax who surprised Grun Baran the most. He was nodding at Grun’s plan as if it appealed, but it seemed that his mind had gone in another direction.

  “There is another way we can gain from all this,” he said.

  Grun Baran said nothing. He glowered at Jax in anger, affronted that the man should speak up. Grun had laid out his plan. All that was left to do was enact it.

  And yet, sometimes Jax saw things that Grun himself could not.

  Grudgingly, mindful that even this could serve to crack the control he had over his men but also grimly aware of his own needs, Grun indicated that Jax should speak.

  “There was more than one wyvern,” Jax said. “There was a dozen of them, attacking all over the city. The streets are crowded with people running to escape. They are leaving. Hundreds of them. They are panicked and have nowhere to go. They will be wandering,” he said.

  Grun Baran wasn’t slow to grasp the possibilities.

  “We can claim them as vagrants,” he said. “Fit for a slaver’s collar.”

  Jax nodded.

  Grun Baran glared at him until the man started to fidget, as if uncertain if he’d said something wrong. And he had. Claiming ordinary townsfolk as slaves went against Balgeron law.

  But it wasn’t as if they’d never done it before. It was only a problem if they were actually caught, or if one of their number admitted the crime.

  Neither of which was likely.

  Grun Baran glared out of little more than habit. In his own mind, he was relieved. Perhaps he would be safe from the debt collectors for a while yet.

  He finally allowed himself a smile. The wyvern attack had become an unexpected boon.

  “Rouse the men from their brothels and taverns!” he barked. “We have more slaves to capture!”

  Chapter 4

  Grun Baran was anxious to get started. He’d hoped to start his slaving run that afternoon. If he had, the pickings would have been easier. The wandering townsfolk would have been closer to the city, and he would have been able to fill up his slave wagon quickly. Perhaps quickly enough to unload them at the slave market and head out again for a second run.

  Then he would no longer have to worry about his debt.

  But things did not go according to plan. The wyverns had disrupted much of the city. He couldn’t find the auctioneer to lay claim to Vaelin Larr’s slaves until most of the afternoon had passed. Nor di
d Obin and Jax have an easy time rousing the rest of his men. Cust and Rillin returned by themselves some time later, but the tongueless wagon driver and the cook were nowhere to be found. Grun had given them leave for the afternoon, not expecting the drama that had unfolded.

  By the time he learned where they were, it was too late to get started. So he cursed and snarled angrily for a time and demanded that they be ready the following morning.

  They were. Grun Baran and his men finally left the city of Balgeron behind them early on the day after the wyvern attack.

  Grun Baran rode at the front of the column, on a placid grey mare that had grown used to his weight and cruelty and volatile temper. Jax and Obin roamed wide seeking tracks to follow, perhaps happy to be away from Grun’s hostility and spite. Cust and Rillin stayed in close, ready to move in any direction at need and keeping their heads down lest they attract Grun’s hateful attention.

  And then, bringing up the rear, was the slave wagon. It was nothing more than an iron cage much like the pens at the slave market, but sitting on top of a normal wagon, and pulled by a team of four sturdy horses.

  Next to the wagon driver was the cook, the last man in Grun Baran’s crew, and one of the few who was largely exempt from the slaver’s ongoing wrath.

  In times gone by, Grun Baran’s crew had been larger. It had needed to be. He’d walked his slaves instead of keeping them caged and roamed in more dangerous lands.

  Even then, he’d always had a cook. Other slavers had scorned him for this needless excess. They had argued that any man could cook at need, so dragging an extra hireling along was foolish. And it wasn’t as if the slaves would require anything beyond the most meager of fare.

  But Grun Baran didn’t care what they thought. He valued his food. For him, it was about more than just fuel. It was about taste as well.

  It was this taste for good food that had first impelled him to strive for more than he had.

  As a boy, he’d lived on the streets of Balgeron city. He’d stolen what he needed to survive from the market stalls and shops, always in fear of having his hand chopped off by a Battleman, or being taken by a slaver and sold, or having some random stall holder come at him with a knife.