Phoenix Imagining (Phoenix Prime Collection Book 1)

by Kat Lind

  To minimize the risk, he’d taken only what was easiest, with no regard to flavor. And he’d hated it all.

  It was only once he’d graduated from theft of bread buns and wedges of cheese to robbery of those who had coin pouches through threats and violence could he finally afford to experience the full flavor of real food.

  He’d sworn a vow to himself then that as long as it was within his power to do so, he would never go back to cheese and bread buns again.

  His crew rode in silence. Though Grun Baran might fume at the delay, he saw no contradiction in thinking that perhaps it had been a good thing that they had not started sooner. It wouldn’t have done for them to pluck wanderers from the hills so close to the city. Not when the Battlemen guarding the walls could have seen what they were doing. The laws governing slavery in Balgeron city were strict, and while Grun Baran would cut every corner he thought he could get away with, he would not risk being caught doing something so blatant.

  He would not risk being sold into slavery himself as punishment.

  At least with this delay, those townsfolk who had escaped the wyvern attack and were yet to make their way back to the city were far enough away that the Battlemen watchers wouldn’t be able to see.

  And yet it caught in Grun Baran’s craw. He’d wanted – no, needed – this to be a fast run. He’d expected the hills to be crawling with wanderers, and to have been able to fill up his wagon within a matter of minutes. But he hadn’t been able to do so. He and his men had been prowling the trade routes around Balgeron city for several hours, and so far they had caught not a one.

  Grun Baran sneered at Jax in his mind. This was all his fault. This slaving run had been his useless suggestion.

  If the man hadn’t been ranging ahead, Grun might have unleashed his fury in his direction.

  He was not fond of useless exertion. He wasn’t fond of exertion of any kind, save for that of inflicting pain on others. He only joined the slave runs himself to ensure that all the coin he was owed found its way into his purse. If he’d been able to figure some way to guarantee the loyalty of those who worked for him (beyond that gained by the immediacy of fear) he might have spent the rest of his life holed up in a brothel or gambling den with the coin rolling in, but only if he could get decent food there as well.

  He also didn’t like the heat under the baking sun. Nor did he enjoy riding. Even though this mount was more gentle than most, he felt an irrational hatred of it. He didn’t like the fact that a dumb animal could buck him off at any moment, leaving him stranded. All he cared about was his comfort, and out here there was none.

  So with every minute that passed without success, Grun Baran’s irritation increased. And with no new slaves yet in his wagon, he was starting to look for something to kick.

  He started to think that those who had run from the wyvern attack had already returned to their homes. And if not, perhaps they were making their way towards one or other of the surrounding villages.

  Either way, it meant that they were out of Grun Baran’s reach.

  He muttered under his breath and thought about calling the slave run off. They had Vaelin Larr’s chain back at the slave market. The profits they earned from them would ensure that they were all welcome in brothels and taverns for some days to come.

  But as the sun reached its zenith, Grun Baran heard one of his men callout.

  “Runner found!” someone bellowed.

  From the sound of the voice, it was Obin.

  Grun Baran’s mood lifted in an instant. As swiftly as he could, he urged his mount towards the sound. Cust and Rillin did likewise, leaving the slave wagon behind.

  “Ready your whips!” Grun bellowed to his men. On cue, they rode with one hand on the reins and their whips raised in the other. Grun had long ago learned that a lengthy whip was more effective than either a rope or a net for capturing runners from horseback. A skilled rider could wrap his whip around a flailing arm or leg or even a neck, and then the chase would be over.

  But this time, such proved unnecessary.

  They found Obin next to an outcropping of rock. He needed no aid. He was on the ground, kneeling on the back of a woman, with both of her hands held tightly behind her. The woman had turned her face away from the dirt, and she was calling out in panic and fear.

  “Leave me alone!” she said, struggling under Obin’s grip. “I have done nothing! You have no claim on me! Let me go!”

  Obin ignored her. As Grun Baran and the others dismounted, Obin wrapped a length of rope around the woman’s neck and tied her hands. This made her panic even more.

  “What are you doing?!” she called. Yet she already knew. “I am no slave! You cannot do this! Let me go!”

  Grun Baran felt a sense of satisfaction. He judged her worth automatically. She was not young, but not yet too old to have little value. Perhaps some wealthy merchant might pay up to a silver to use her as he would.

  And she was the first of this run. She might spend several days yet in the company of the crew. Grun Baran liked to sample his own wares where he could, but he was not averse to sharing them with his men.

  Grun Baran’s taste ran to violence. And he knew that Jax’s did as well. Likely this woman would carry bruises by the time she was sold, but that didn’t necessarily mean that her value would fade.

  Obin climbed off the woman’s back and hauled her to her feet. But he kept hold of the rope to make sure she could go nowhere.

  The woman looked at each of them in turn, quickly, like a ground lizard does when it’s wary of predators. Grun could see the fear in her eyes, but it meant nothing to him. All he cared about was that her face was prettier than he had imagined. Maybe he would get more than a silver for her at auction. And maybe he would not share her with the men after all.

  “Don’t do this,” she said. “I have money. I can pay you.”

  She was so scared that she trembled.

  Grun glared at Obin, but the man shook his head.

  “She had nothing on her,” he said quickly.

  Grun wasn’t sure he believed him, but the woman confirmed his words.

  “My husband has it,” she said.

  Grun Baran sneered. He stepped towards her, close enough that he could smell her fear and sense her trembling. For a moment he just breathed that in, simultaneously enjoying the woman’s fear and despising her for it. She tried to take half a step backwards, but Obin wouldn’t let her. He gave the rope a shake to remind her that it was there and to hold her in place.

  “Is your husband here?” Grun asked.

  The woman instinctively shook her head. Whether it was an answer to his question or just an involuntary reaction at his nearness, Grun Baran didn’t know. Nor did he care. He leaned a little closer.

  “Well? Is he?” he said.

  “No,” the woman said.

  Grun Baran leaned back a little.

  “Well, you’d better hope that your husband attends the next slave auction then, hadn’t you?” Grun said.

  “I’m not a slave!” the woman said.

  Grun Baran allowed himself a nasty grin. Obin and the other men snorted and laughed.

  “You have been found wandering alone, with no coin to support yourself. You have been found by a slaver who is known and authorized to work within Balgeron city. Woman, you are a slave.” Grun Baran uttered the words with malice.

  The woman stared, shocked.

  “I am not a slave,” she repeated. But where before she’d said it with a touch of anger, this time the only emotion within her words was fear. “And when we get back to Balgeron city, I will make it known that you tried to take an innocent person into slavery. I will see you imprisoned for this.”

  Grun Baran continued to grin. With no warning whatsoever, he smacked her across the face with his open palm hard enough that she staggered back and cried out in pain. Obin gave her no time to recover. He wrenched her back upright with his rope. She looked aghast at what Grun had done, her eyes wide with fear and hatred
and confusion.

  Grun Baran leaned in close once again.

  “You will say nothing!” Grun Baran growled. As quickly as he had hit her, he drew one of his knives and placed the tip on her cheek just below her right eye. “No one will believe you if you did. All slaves make claims such as you would make. And if you do, if you seek to speak out, I will cut out your tongue and put out your eyes so that you will live the rest of your days in darkness, unable to speak. And then I will fill your ears with molten lead so that you cannot hear. Your life will be an endless sequence of unexpected tortures and pain with no end. Is that what you want?” He put all of his bile and venom into his words, to make sure that she believed every single thing that he said.

  And it appeared that she did. Grun Baran could almost taste the fear that exuded from her. She was trying to focus on the knife at her cheek. She didn’t speak, didn’t voice an answer, yet nevertheless offered a response. She nodded just enough to signal her acquiescence, but not enough to let the knife on her cheek break her skin.

  Grun Baran felt like laughing. He would enjoy using this one, he thought, when the day came to an end.

  “Put her in the wagon,” he said to Obin. “The day is still young. We will find her a companion or two before long.”

  Chapter 5

  By the end of the day, there were three other slaves, huddled and scared in the back of the slave wagon. A man, a second woman, and a boy of no more than ten. All of them radiated misery and fear. Grun Baran had repeated his message to each of them, punctuating his words with promises of violence, until he was sure that they understood.

  Even then, they didn’t know the worst of it. There were men in Grun’s crew whose tastes leaned towards other men, and to boys as well, and active, willing participation was not high on their list of needs.

  Grun’s mood had become buoyant. He would allow his men their choice of the merchandise. Like their fear of him, it would help keep them loyal. And he was willing to wager that each of these new slaves would get a taste of what their lives had become before the night was through.

  As the slavers made camp for the night, Grun Baran uttered a deep growl of contentment. He now knew that he would be able to fill up his wagon completely over the next couple of days. He might even have to break out the slave collars if they found too many. It would be like it had been years ago when Grun had started in business. He would chain the slaves together, and walk them through the gates of Balgeron city.

  He might even pay more of his debt than he had planned.

  <<<>>>

  For four more days the slavers prowled the lands around Balgeron city, sticking mostly to the trade routes and never venturing as far as the villages that dotted the lands to the south and the east. If the townsfolk from Balgeron city had made it that far, they were beyond the slaver’s reach.

  Nor did they need to journey farther. At the end of the fifth day after the wyvern attack drew nearer, there were fifteen slaves jammed together in the slave wagon. If they were to take any more, Grun Baran would have to make good on his thought of having the extras walk. But even as it was, fifteen was as good a haul as ever he’d collected within so short a time.

  It would suffice. He was already counting the coin they would earn him as the day drew to a close.

  Their travels had taken them on a windy route that had brought them back to the west of Balgeron city. Grun Baran estimated that they were no more than half a day’s ride from the city gates. Which made the timing nearly ideal. They would return a couple of days before the next scheduled auction, which meant Grun Baran and his men would have an entire day to relax.

  All in all, it had been a good trip. Despite the short timeframe in which to gather supplies, the cook had produced meals worthy of Grun’s attention. Somehow the man managed to infuse such staples as stews and beans with delicate flavors that enticed Grun to come back for more. He made the camps smell like herb gardens and warmth, and as much as Grun liked the miasma of pain that hung over the slave market, he reveled in the more pleasant odors as well.

  In addition, he hadn’t had to berate the men overly much. All four men who had accompanied him to the slave market understood their failures. They knew that Grun had been displeased that they had left him and his merchandise behind. Obin and Jax had borne the full weight of his wrath at the time and had since done all they could to maintain his good graces. The other two still flinched whenever Grun so much as grunted or belched in their direction.

  As Grun watched them scurry about like rats to set up the camp, he nodded to himself. They feared him enough. They would continue to do his bidding for some while to come. Perhaps they would last a little longer than most before he sold them as well.

  Chapter 6

  Sub-Captain Jarvin Bakaar was half a day from Balgeron city. He had been walking for two days through the heat of the desert. He carried no food and had run out of water. Despite this, he still felt hale and strong, as if he could keep walking forever.

  Two days before, he and a company of Battlemen had tracked down the pack of wyverns that had attacked the city of Balgeron, as well as the dragon that the wyverns had been flying with.

  Despite their palpable fear, the men had shown courage. They had attacked the wyverns with longpikes coated in poison, murdering many of them. But the wyverns were powerful. Twice the size of a horse and covered in bronze scales, each was powerful and swift enough to do considerable damage.

  The toll had been awful. When the last of the wyvern survivors had flown away, only Jarvin, his captain, and a young healer called Marin were left alive. But even then Jarvin’s trials hadn’t been over.

  Much bigger than the wyverns and with four legs instead of just two, the dragon had been mortally wounded. It was bleeding profusely from numerous gashes all over its magnificent body. Jarvin’s captain had approached it with a long blade ready to strike. But the healer had stopped him. For reasons beyond Jarvin’s ken, the healer apparently valued the dragon’s life more than his own.

  The captain had responded with rage. Yet, despite being grievously wounded himself, the healer proved wily. He met rage with determination. And in the end, the captain had died with a slim sword jammed into his brain.

  Jarvin had been unable to offer assistance. He had also been wounded by a wyvern. His leg was broken and he’d been unable to move. So all he could do was watch from afar as Marin approached the dragon without fear, and collapsed against the huge creature’s side. Both he and the dragon appeared mortally wounded. Jarvin had thought they would die, and he did not regret it. The captain had been a friend, and his death had filled Jarvin with sadness.

  Something miraculous happened instead.

  Jarvin hadn’t seen it clearly, but between one moment and the next, both Marin and the Dragon had become whole.

  Somehow, they had been healed.

  Right away, the dragon launched itself into the air and cavorted there for a time, before winging its way to the east. A short while later, Marin walked away, unaware that Jarvin still lived.

  Jarvin thought he was going to die. His leg was broken, he was surrounded by corpses, and there was no aid to be had. And he was at least two days away from Balgeron city.

  Except that Marin and the dragon had both been on the verge of death, and had been magically healed. And if they could be healed, why couldn’t Jarvin be healed as well?

  Especially as he understood what had happened.

  Dragon blood.

  Jarvin had heard the stories of the healing properties of dragon blood just like everyone else. And like everyone else, he’d thought them no more than legends.

  But what if they weren’t?

  Perhaps he was delusional. Perhaps the pain in his leg–and elsewhere throughout his body–had somehow twisted his thinking so that he imagined what he’d seen.

  If that was the case, then it was over. He would die in the desert among the corpses of Battlemen, horses and wyverns, and that of his captain.

  He fe
lt a moment of sadness at the thought. Not for himself, exactly. But there was someone still in Balgeron city who would mourn him if he didn’t return.

  With a shake of his head, he dismissed the thought. It was premature. Though the dragon had gone, there was still hope. He still had a chance.

  The monster had left pools of its blood behind in the sand.

  Jarvin’s body was broken. His leg was the worst of it, but it wasn’t his only injury. His head ached as if it had been bashed with the club, and he thought his horse must have rolled over his ribs before it had settled. At least two ribs felt like they were broken, and the rest were nothing but bruises.

  Everything hurt.

  He didn’t know how he would make it to the pools of dragon blood in the sand, but he wasn’t about to die without trying.

  With grim determination, he set to it.

  It took him hours. He had to crawl through a field of fresh corpses, those of men he’d known for years, hauling himself along the ground by the strength of his arms and one leg. By the time he’d made it halfway to where the dragon had been, he could feel the tears on his face. He felt abandoned and feared that he wouldn’t survive. But they weren’t tears of grief for himself.

  They were tears wrought of determination and effort.

  He kept going. It was just who he was.

  And eventually, when he judged it close to midnight, he was there.

  He could see the indentations where the dragon had been by the light of the moons. And more, he could see where the sand had been stained by its blood.

  He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know exactly how dragon blood was supposed to heal. So he did the only thing he could think of, which was to gather the bloody sand in the palms of his hands and shovel it into his mouth.

  It was gritty and metallic and he almost choked on it. But he forced himself to swallow as much as he could, and then waited.

  For the longest time, nothing happened.