Phoenix Imagining (Phoenix Prime Collection Book 1)

by Kat Lind

  He couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He’d seen it work with the healer, after all.

  And while death didn’t scare him, he would have preferred that it came to claim him when he was considerably older.

  Then, long after he’d given up hope, he felt a warming sensation that spread from his stomach and grew throughout his body. The pain in his leg faded away, as did that in his head and his chest.

  He felt good.

  Better than good, he felt whole and well and alive.

  It had worked!

  Cautiously, still not quite believing, he rose to his feet.

  His leg was fully healed. It was back to how it had been before.

  He breathed in deeply and felt no pain from his ribs.

  Jarvin Bakaar wasn’t normally given to displays of emotion, but this time he couldn’t help himself. He grinned and whooped in pure joy.

  Then, after a while, he reminded himself that his job wasn’t done. He might be alive now, but he was alone in the desert, days away from Balgeron city. And not all of the wyverns were dead. Nor was the dragon.

  If he wanted to make it back, he had to be careful.

  He made his way over to the supply wagon and gathered what he needed. A couple of water skins. An unbroken longpike still coated in poison. A cloak that had belonged to the wagon driver. Because somehow his leather armor had been torn in the battle, and the nights in the desert could get cold. And the wagon driver no longer had need of it.

  He regretted the death of his horse and would have liked to borrow another for the journey back home, but if any had survived the wyvern attack, they had long since departed.

  His collection complete, he returned to where the dragon had been and scooped as much of the dragon blood and sand as he could into one of the water skins.

  With that, he was done. There were still some hours to go before dawn, but he intended to put some distance between himself and the dead in case scavengers came prowling. So he said a sad farewell to his brother Battlemen, oriented himself by the stars, and started his journey.

  <<<>>>

  For two days, everything had gone as well as he’d hoped. Though hungry, he was somehow sustained by the dragon blood that coursed through his veins. And while the longpike was heavy, he was a Battleman. He wasn’t afraid to carry such burdens. Even if he never set eyes on a wyvern again, he would still call it wise to do so. Because it was far better to be prepared for an eventuality that never occurred than to not be prepared for one that did.

  But the loss of his Battleman brothers weighed heavily on him. Particularly that of the Captain, his friend.

  Jarvin Bakaar was a man not given to strong emotions, but he wasn’t completely immune to them either. He grieved for those who had been slain and lamented their loss.

  As well, somewhere on the second day, he’d started to consider what sort of reception he would receive back at Balgeron Castle. He and the others had been ordered by Lord Pilgray Studge himself to slaughter the wyverns that had attacked Balgeron city. And they had done so, as much as it could have been done. Of the dozen monsters that had attacked, no more than a third of that number had survived to fly away.

  But part of that order had included returning with the wyverns’ heads, and that was something Jarvin could never have done all by himself.

  And he had to deliver the news of the loss of the men.

  The Battleman Prime was not known to treat bearers of such news kindly.

  So even with the dragon blood in his water skin, Jarvin couldn’t help but worry.

  But he was a Battleman, and a sub-captain. Whatever the consequences of this failure might be, he would face them squarely.

  He continued to trudge through the darkening gloom contemplating thoughts of this nature, until something in the distance caught his attention.

  It was a campfire.

  Though distant yet, Jarvin could easily make out a small number of men around the fire and a wagon.

  He considered going around them and making his own way to Balgeron city. But he’d been alone for two days. Normally, this wouldn’t have concerned him overly much. He’d been alone before, sometimes for years at a time. But his men, his friends were all dead. Talking to someone might help to lift the weight that had left in his heart.

  And besides, they had food. Even so far away, it smelled good. Roasted meat with enough of a hint of delicate herbs to suggest that whoever had cooked it knew plenty about flavor.

  And perhaps he could gain a ride in the wagon if they happened to be heading to Balgeron city as well.

  It would beat walking the rest of the way.

  With no more than this in mind, he headed towards them.

  When he was near enough that he could hear the thin, scrubby branches cracking and spitting in the flames and the low voices of men talking, he raised his longpike high to announce that he was there.

  “Hallo! At the camp!” he called out, loud enough for them to hear. “I come alone and ask no more than your company for the night!”

  It was only after the bald, brutish-looking man sitting on a rock near the fire turned towards him with a tray of food on his lap did he notice that the wagon wasn’t just a wagon at all.

  It was a slave wagon, and in the firelight, he could see a row of faces looking at him from between the bars.

  Even at that distance, he couldn’t mistake their looks of hopelessness and despair.

  Chapter 7

  Grun Baran couldn’t have been happier. He had everything he’d ever wanted. He commanded the loyalty of men to do his bidding. He would soon be returning to the comforts of Balgeron city, where he would have the coin to pay what he owed and gamble and whore. And to make it even better, his cook had prepared yet another fine meal.

  He held his tray up to his nose and breathed deeply, shutting his eyes so that he could focus on the delicious aromas. It was no more than roasted ground lizard with a few herbs and root vegetables all mixed into a gravy. The type of thing anyone could throw together at need.

  And yet, somehow his cook could elevate even so simple a meal to a level Grun had seldom experienced before. He could tell before tasting that every last morsel of meat would be tender and full of flavor. He knew that the vegetables would be just the right texture and that the gravy would excite every taste bud at the same time as it drew all the flavors together.

  Grun Baran didn’t know what combination of herbs his cook had added to his meal. He wouldn’t have been able to tell how his cook knew when each part of the meal was done to perfection. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to replicate the effort himself.

  All he knew was that his latest cook, who was a thin older man with sunken cheeks and no flesh on him whatsoever, was the best he’d ever had.

  It didn’t matter whether the man used the finest cuts of meat from the best store in Balgeron city or a ground lizard trapped by one of his men. The result was uniformly delicious.

  For long moments Grun Baran kept his eyes closed and luxuriated in the aroma. He almost enjoyed this better than actually eating the food his cook produced.

  Almost.

  Because for him, the aroma was just the beginning. He lived for the taste.

  Using one of his knives and his fingers, he shoveled the first morsel into his mouth. He cared not a single whit that the slaves had been given nothing but gruel, or that his men only shared the repast offered to him if there was enough to go around. And ground lizards were not large. This evening, his men would have been served a mixture of gruel with a few slivers of meat and the dregs of the gravy.

  Such was Grun’s control over them that they didn’t complain. They wouldn’t dare. And this reality gave Grun a perverse pleasure that somehow improved the flavor of his meal even more.

  He hadn’t yet satisfied his main hunger when a voice called out from the dark.

  “Hallo! At the camp! I come alone and ask no more than your company for the night!”

  Startled, Grun flinched, nearly sp
illing his food. His first response after that was anger. His men knew not to interrupt him when he was eating. If they did, then the least they could expect was the worst of his tongue.

  But he quickly realized that the speaker was not one of his men. It was someone from beyond the camp. Someone who was alone.

  Someone whose evening was going to take an unexpected turn.

  Grun Baran wanted nothing more than to continue his eating. Instead, he turned towards the sound of the voice.

  He’d been looking towards the brightness of the campfire as the evening had faded, and it took his eyes a moment or two to adjust. When they did, he saw a tall, slim man, standing perhaps twenty paces into the gloom. He was dressed in a cloak and for some reason that Grun couldn’t fathom, was carrying a longpike.

  Grun Baran allowed himself a sardonic grin. His slave wagon was full. He and his crew were no longer searching for stragglers. He would have been more than happy to return to Balgeron city with only those fifteen slaves that he and his men had already captured.

  This stranger in the cloak was an unexpected bonus. He looked healthy. While he wouldn’t attract the same level of coin as any of the women, there were always buyers for men such as this. The plantation owners and salt miners and others who needed strong labor. They would buy this one and work him as long as they could.

  Grun Baran had heard stories of such slaves lasting more than a year before their bodies gave out.

  He stood. To the stranger, he no doubt looked as if he was about to offer him welcome. But he turned to his men instead.

  None of them had moved. Each of them still sat on the ground or on whatever rock they had found for their seats, watching Grun for some signal as to how to respond. Even the tongueless wagon driver and cook were watching closely from the other side of the fire.

  Grun Baran made eye contact with Jax and Obin and Rillin and Cust.

  “Get him,” he grunted, keeping his voice low enough that the stranger couldn’t have heard.

  His men reacted instantly. They also stood. As one, they advanced towards the stranger, leaving only the wagon driver and cook behind.

  They were clever enough to keep their movements casual. Jax even offered a smile.

  “Welcome,” he said, doing all he could to put the stranger at ease.

  It didn’t work. The stranger apparently sensed something amiss. He dropped his longpike on the ground and without hesitation, turned and ran.

  Grun Baran uttered a curse.

  “Find him!” he snarled.

  He didn’t really need another slave. Nor did he believe the man to be able to interfere with his business in any meaningful way. And his slave wagon was full.

  He could have let him go. But to have a stranger wander into his camp and practically offer his neck to Grun’s collar was too much of a temptation. And to then have the man scurry away before that collar could be fitted was irksome. It annoyed him.

  And he had interrupted his meal!

  So Grun Baran watched with malevolent intent as his men disappeared into the gloom. The land around them was filled with low barren hills that offered plenty of places for hiding in the form of rocky outcroppings. Yet Grun was sure that his men would quickly return with the stranger. All he had to do was wait.

  With this thought in mind, he settled himself back down on his rock. The rest of his meal demanded his attention. Perhaps his men would return with the stranger before he was done.

  He was still eating when he felt the tip of a knife dig into his back, under his ribs.

  “Make no sound,” said a voice. “If you do, you will be skewered.”

  <<<>>>

  For much of his life, Grun Baran had controlled others through fear. It was his way of getting things done. Always had been, even when he had been living on the streets as a child in Balgeron city.

  This was because he understood fear better than anything else. Honor meant nothing to him. Nor did integrity or courage, or altruism. Loyalty. Kindness. Compassion. Generosity.

  For him, these virtues were no more than words without meaning. But fear, he knew well. It was the most fundamental of emotions. It could be used to motivate others. It could be used as a shield to protect him from danger. It could even be used as a torture, to extract whatever information he needed.

  For him, it was true power. It was his strength. It was his key to survival. He could hold it in his fist and crush those around him with it.

  But it was also his weakness. He understood it so well because it had been with him throughout his whole life. Even now, it was at the heart of his being, and everything else that he had was no more than a mask.

  Grun Baran was a powerful man, a slaver with a reputation for violence and ruthlessness and greed. But hidden deep inside him, there was still a small boy who shivered in fright, hiding from the world and the dangers that it held.

  And when he was threatened, be it by a wyvern or a knife, that scared little boy reemerged.

  Grun Baran’s first response to the knife at his back was the same as his response when the wyvern had attacked. He froze in terror. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything.

  He uttered a fearful, inarticulate whimper, but said nothing else.

  The wagon driver and the cook were not so inhibited. They lurched to their feet and scampered away. The wagon driver had no tongue with which to call out, but the cook had no such impediment to speech.

  “Help! He is here!” he cried out as he hid beneath the wagon.

  Grun Baran thought he was dead. He felt the tip of the knife gouge into his flesh. He feared that he was an instant away from having it buried in his heart. And yet, for some reason the stranger held off. For some reason, instead of jamming his knife into his flesh up to the hilt, the stranger grabbed him by the seat of his trousers and heaved him into a standing position.

  The remains of his meal went flying. On any other day, that would have awakened his rage, and the stranger would have felt the full force of it in the form of his fists.

  But just at that moment he had other things to worry about. Like staying alive.

  Then he understood why the stranger had hauled him upright. As Jax and Obin returned to the camp, followed soon after by Rillin and Cust, the stranger stepped around behind him.

  Grun Baran’s own body shielded the stranger from view.

  Even though Grun controlled his men through nothing but fear, he couldn’t help but pray that they would somehow come to his rescue.

  “Tell your men to stay back,” the voice said from behind him. “Do it quickly.”

  Grun uttered another small squeak of terror but could get no words out. He saw Jax and Obin exchange a glance that he couldn’t interpret. They seemed uncertain as to what they should do.

  Then he felt the stranger lean in close to his ear, and could sense the tip of his blade changing angle.

  “I know you,” the voice said. “You are Grun Baran. You once threatened my life. And if you don’t do as I say, I will carve out your tripes and stuff them down your throat. Do I make myself clear?”

  Grun Baran had rarely been so afraid. He couldn’t recall ever having threatened the stranger, but that didn’t mean anything. He’d threatened many people over the course of his life.

  When confronted by the wyvern, only a reflexive clenching prevented him from wetting himself where he stood. This time that reflex was found wanting. He felt the warmth of his own urine spread from his crotch and run down his legs.

  He offered a second whimper, grimly aware that his shame was being highlighted by the light of the fire for all his men to see. Despite the stranger’s demands, he still could force no words out through his fear.

  The stranger made a noise of disgust.

  “Stay where you are!” he demanded. It took Grun a moment to realize that he was addressing his men. “If you come any nearer, my blade will shine with the blood of this man!”

  Again, Grun Baran’s men looked uncertain. Nor did the stran
ger give them any time to form a response.

  “Move!” the stranger grated.

  He gripped Grun by the back of his trousers and dragged him off to the side, towards the slave wagon. Grun Baran had no choice but to stumble along, whimpering and cowering as he went until they both stood against slave wagon’s end.

  The stranger shoved him hard enough that his face smashed into the metal bars of the wagon. Grun brought his hands up to protect himself, but too late. His nose deformed against the bars. Immediately, it started throbbing with pain, and blood began to flow.

  The slaves within the wagon looked at him and the stranger with expressions that mixed fear and anger and hope and disgust.

  “Stop your whining!” the stranger demanded. “Now look at me!”

  Grun Baran’s nose hurt. He wanted to hurt the stranger, wanted to grab his face in his hands and push his thumbs deep into his eyes. But he knew without even trying that this man was too strong. And his blade was too sharp. He would find it sticking out of his gullet before he could move.

  With that piteous thought came a wave of despair. His fearful child came to the fore and instead of wishing for violence, he found himself wanting no more than to collapse onto the ground and blubber and weep. But he sensed that the stranger would have no tolerance for that. He had no choice but to do as he was told. He blubbered anyway, and once he’d turned to face the stranger, he finally found his voice.

  He used it to beg for mercy, beg for his life.

  Even to him, his words sounded pathetic.

  “I said stop that!” the stranger said.

  Grun Baran tried to stop. He really did. But the stranger had already bashed his face against the metal bars. His nose was bleeding. For the first time in years, he felt powerless and overwhelmed.

  His only response was to cower.

  “Stay back!” the stranger said. Now he held his knife not over Grun Baran himself but aimed towards his men. “Come any closer and you will get to see what your leader’s liver looks like! Although why you should care to defend such a disgusting waste of skin is beyond me!”

  Grun Baran thought he’d been afraid before. He’d thought the threat of the stranger’s knife was the most dangerous thing he currently faced. But at his words, he understood this not to be true.