Time of Shadows (The Saga of the Seven Stars Book 2)

by Dayne Edmondson

  Boris closed his eyes. Darin was right. Killing him would only bring the ire of Victor down on the remaining slaves. Even if Boris managed to escape, the deaths on his hands would haunt him. He had been an assassin, trained to kill. He had killed his share of men and women, but always he justified the killings by telling himself the people he killed deserved it. These slaves - they were the least deserving of death. He lowered the dagger, though he kept it in a firm grip. “Fine, I will let you live. Are you going to punish me?”

  Darin studied Boris, his eyes staring into Boris’. “I should have you whipped and flayed for what you attempted to do. But I won’t.” He picked up his scimitar and knife. “I admire your resolve and determination. It will be of great use in the arenas. Now go back to your chambers before I change my mind.”

  Boris nodded and turned to go.

  “Oh, and Boris? If you say anything, and I mean anything, about this to any of the other slaves, I will gut you myself. Understood?”

  “I understand,” Boris said as he exited the room, fist clenched tight around the dagger until he was safe in his chambers.

  Chapter 15 - Parting of Ways

  Music and sounds of merriment escaped The Dancing Mare and reverberated down the cobblestone street illuminated by street lamps as John, Ashley and Jason approached, dragging their feet and feeling exhausted. Alivia had worked them hard, insisting that they keep practicing over and over the process of expanding their minds. They had found that holding their minds outside of their bodies for any length of time was tiring. Alivia assured them that with time and practice their ability to cast their minds outside of their bodies for longer periods of time would increase.

  The bouncer at the door, Bruno, recognizing them from earlier, nodded and waved them inside. “They’re in one of the private dining rooms. Ask Paul or Elizabeth which one,” he said as they passed.

  Dawyn and Anwyn were indeed in one of the private dining chambers. As the three companions entered the room, Dawyn set down his fork and turned his attention from the steaming platter of meat in front of him to the new arrivals. He smiled. “Ah, come in, please. How did training go?”

  The three took seats at the large dining table and sagged in relief. “Exhausting,” John said. “I can barely think straight right now.”

  “Well, perhaps a hearty meal will give you some energy. If not, there are three warm beds waiting upstairs for you.”

  “A hot meal sounds good right about now,” Ashley said. “All she gave us today was travel rations and nuts. Not very filling.”

  “You’ll learn that using magic of any kind can tire your body as well as your mind,” Anwyn said. “It is important to eat the proper amount of food to keep your body properly fueled. If you grow too weak, using your magic could harm you.”

  “Tell that to Alivia.”

  Dawyn smiled. “Alivia sometimes forgets what it was like when she first became a mage. She lived in the Tower all her life and seldom ventured outside it. It takes her time to realize that not everyone was raised in the Tower.”

  “What, in the Tower they can survive on what amounts to travel rations and peanuts?” Jason asked.

  Dawyn shook his head. “No, but my understanding is that mages have the ability to conserve their energy more than ordinary humans. This means that although they need a lot of fuel to keep their bodies and minds in tip-top condition, the fuel lasts much longer. Think of building a fire with hard wood versus soft wood, for example. The hard wood will burn for a long time, while the other wood will burn rapidly. Mages are like the hardest wood being burned - they can go for long periods of time before they need to add more large logs to the flame.”

  “I wish Alivia would have explained that to us,” John said. “I would have told her that our energy is like a pine tree on fire - it goes up in flames before you can blink.”

  The arrival of the innkeeper bringing food for the newcomers interrupted the conversation. The three ate in silence, and Dawyn and Anwyn joined them, finishing their meals.

  After about ten minutes, Dawyn spoke. “Anwyn and I are leaving tomorrow. Now that we’ve been assured that you three are in good hands, we must seek the slave master out and bring him to justice. I recommend you continue staying here at The Dancing Mare instead of taking rooms at the Tower. It’s just as important to become accustomed with the world outside of the Tower as it is to be within it.”

  “How long will you two be gone?” John asked.

  “It will take several weeks to reach the location where the slave master is rumored to be holed up in, and several weeks back. Not to mention the reconnaissance required and the actual fighting to bring him to justice. It could be two or three months before we return.”

  “What if we need you in the meantime?” Ashley asked. “We’ve only been on this world for less than a month.”

  “Paul and Elizabeth will give you anything you need,” Dawyn said, “and Alivia is more wise about the world than she once was. Between them, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Besides, you’ll be kept busy with training. But please, stay in Tar Ebon. If you leave the city without telling us where you’re going, we may never find you again. Even if you do tell us where you’re going, you may not be there when we arrive. I don’t relish a wild goose chase, so don’t be like wild geese.”

  “Safe travels, then,” Jason said. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

  “I am not worried,” Dawyn said.

  “How many rooms did you secure for us?” Ashley asked.

  “Two. One for you and John, as I understand you are lovers, and one for Jason.”

  John laughed at the sight of Ashley’s face turning crimson. “Ash, that’s what we are. There’s no need to blush.”

  Ashley turned her eyes on John and gave him a glare. “Shut up. I know what we are. It’s just strange hearing it from him,” she gestured to Dawyn. “It’s like hearing it from my dad.”

  Chapter 16 - The Arena

  The clatter of the iron gate ascending reverberated through the tunnel as Boris stood waiting. Outside, in the Rolstad gladiatorial arena, the crowd cheered, anticipating bloodshed. Boris hoped it would not be too much of his blood shed this day.

  After weeks of training in the yard, Darin deemed Boris ready to be placed in the arena. Victor may have been a slaver, but he valued his fighters and ordered Darin not to send out any slave until he could reasonably hold his own in the arena. The more winning slaves a slave master owned, the more prestige they had among the slave-owning nobility.

  Boris clenched his hand around the handhold of the iron shield, while his other hand clutched the iron sword that was the weapon of choice for this match. At his request, he had been allowed a dagger, which was strapped to his waist. He wore no shirt - only a loincloth.

  No sooner had the iron gate completed its ascent than a horn echoed and Boris was shoved by one of Victor’s guards into the arena. “Don’t die,” one of the guards said as the gate began to descend again.

  “Thanks,” Boris muttered. Across the circular arena, his opponent had also entered. The man was black of skin, with a shaved head. He wore sandals on his feet and was equipped with a sword and shield like Boris. He too studied Boris from across the arena.

  “Step forward,” a voice boomed from the stands. Boris turned to see a portly man dressed in purple robes standing up in a covered pavilion to his right. Victor sat to the left of the portly man, while another man, presumably the owner of the black slave, sat to his right. Each of the men munched on what looked to be grapes while holding a chalice in the other.

  Boris stepped toward the center of the arena. The two men met in the middle. As he came closer, he saw that the man before him had many scars on his body. A large scar covered most of his face, while his torso was covered with healed wounds. It was clear this man had fought many a time.

  “Bow to your opponent,” the portly man said.

  Boris bowed, though his eyes never left his opponent. “May the best man win,” he said
.

  The black gladiator had also bowed. “May you drown in your own blood, Imperial.” He spat to the side.

  Well, I tried to be polite, Boris thought. I won’t have as much compunction killing him now, though.

  “Prepare yourselves,” the voice from above said.

  Boris stepped back and held his shield up in front of him. His sword was out to his side, ready to slide or pierce at a moments notice. The black man held his shield and sword out to the side. In fact, the man had barely moved. What was he thinking?

  “Fight!”

  Before the words had even registered in Boris’ head, the black man began charging toward him. Boris held his shield up in front of him, hoping to stop any frontal thrusts. The man swung his shield up and turned it horizontally, intending to knock Boris in the side of the head with it. Boris ducked at the last moment and the shield whistled over his head. He pushed forward with his shield, hoping to push the man back, while thrusting with his sword. The black man was swift, however, for he had already danced back, his shield in place to block the piercing strike.

  Boris’ opponent slashed with his blade. Boris caught it squarely on his shield and was forced to take a step back from the force of the strike. He struck with his own blade, but the black man caught it on his shield with ease while circling around Boris.

  Back and forth the two fought, hammering at one another’s shields, trying to find weak spots in their opponent’s defenses. Boris felt his legs growing weak, his arms becoming fatigued, while his opponent showed no such sign of weakness. He felt the adrenaline within his blood beginning to recede. He had to end it, before his opponent ended him.

  Removing his hand from the binding behind the shield, Boris turned his shield horizontally and threw it as hard as he could toward his opponent. The man’s eyes grew wide with surprise as he saw the heavy shield coming toward him. The man instinctively lifted his shield to deflect the blow. In his state of distraction, Boris drew the dagger from its sheath and rushed forward. Boris’ shield slammed into the shield of the other man and the man swung his shield arm to the side to deflect it. In that moment, he was vulnerable. Boris raised his sword, batting aside the other man’s sword, and slammed his dagger hilt-deep beneath the larger man’s ribcage. The man staggered, then tried to clutch Boris in a bear hug and crush him. Boris continued stabbing, over and over again. With each stab, he felt the energy of the larger man fading. At last, satisfied, Boris stepped back and allowed the black gladiator to fall to his knees before him. “May you drown in your own blood, friend,” Boris said as blood began to pour from his opponents mouth and he toppled to the ground.

  A cheer rose up from the stands, echoing through the arena. Boris looked around him to see many people in the stands clapping. He sheathed his dagger and reclaimed his shield. That done, he turned toward the viewing box, where the portly arena master, Victor sat with the owner of the dead slave. The portly man was once again standing, holding his arms up for silence. Boris bowed to the man, sword and shield held out to his side, expecting that’s what he should do.

  “What is your name, slave?” the man asked.

  “Boris, sir.”

  “You defeated one of the greatest slaves in this arena, Boris. How does that make you feel?”

  Boris hesitated. Is this a trick? he thought. Should I tell the truth - that I feel angry at men like him for locking men up like animals and forcing them to fight? Should I tell him that the sycophants around who cheer as a slave dies before their eyes should be ashamed of themselves, and punished? “Good, sir,” he replied at last. No, his goal was to survive, not tell the truth.

  “Behold, people of Rolstad, today’s champion, Boris!”

  A cheer went up again and followed him as he exited through the tunnel he had entered. As he passed beneath the gate, Darin stood watching. “You got lucky,” he said. “Next time you won’t be so lucky - you can count on it.” He gestured to the guards. “Take him back to his cell with the others.” The guards stepped forward, snatched his sword and shield from his hands, and clapped irons around his wrists and legs once more.

  As Boris shuffled away he came to a realization. Darin, for all his talk of letting him live, had played some part in orchestrating such a challenging fight. He had fully expected Boris to die in the fight, not overcome the challenge and become the victor. Fool, Boris thought. Why couldn’t I have just left him alone? Now he’s out to get me. He won’t kill me outright - he’ll just put me up against more and more challenging opponents. A sinking feeling manifested in Boris’ stomach, and he feared he would not long survive.

  Chapter 17 - Stoneridge

  The town of Stoneridge, within the kingdom of Valnaria, sat wedged against the White Mountains. A mining town, Stoneridge was known for its large quarries that mined precious stone such as marble from the heart of the vast White Mountains. Around the town was an expanse of farmland, which Dawyn and Anwyn traversed as they approached. The slave master, Ferdinand, was rumored to be west of the city, hiding in the woods. Stoneridge, though, was said to be where slaves were illegally traded before being shipped over the mountains, put to work in the mines or sent south to the hidden Black Harbor to be sent to Imperial lands.

  As Dawyn and Anwyn made their way through the central square of Stoneridge, they witnessed a bustling town on market day. The sun was barely up, yet vendors cried their wares, urchins roamed the streets, beggars asked for spare coins, and customers went from vendor to vendor purchasing needed merchandise. There was no sign of slave trading, though.

  “Perhaps Horacio was incorrect,” Anwyn said from atop her horse. “Maybe Stoneridge isn’t the place we’re looking for. He may have lied just to throw us off the trail.”

  “Perhaps,” Dawyn said, though he was not convinced. “Still,” he trailed off as he saw a carriage pulled by half a dozen horses trundling out of an alleyway. The carriage had four walls and a roof, making it impossible to discern who was within the coach. The driver was dressed in livery and a man dressed as a footman sat next to him. At first, Dawyn assumed the carriage contained members of the nobility. But to come out of the alley like that…he studied the men as they passed. One of the men shot him a glare, but he held his gaze. No, those were not the eyes of a servant of nobility.

  Dawyn turned to Anwyn. “That carriage that just passed. It came out an alleyway, not from the palace or a wealthy estate.”

  “So? Perhaps they had business to attend to,” Anwyn said.

  “In a dark alleyway?” Dawyn pointed. “No, I think we’ve just discovered how the slavers are getting slaves out of town - they’re disguising them as nobility. Few people will question people of noble birth, including guards. They can smuggle the humans in and out of the city almost with impunity.”

  Anwyn’s eyes grew large. “Then that means there were slaves in that carriage?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have to tell someone. Go to the city watch, or the rangers, or someone.”

  “This is outside of the jurisdiction of the rangers. They have no authority within Valnaria. As for the city watch, it’s entirely possible they are in on the scheme and taking a cut of the profits. For now we will keep this information to ourselves. Remember, our primary mission is to find Ferdinand.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Anwyn growled. Her eyes took on a distant look. “I lived through that experience.”

  Their first stop was the Stoneridge Inn, what appeared to be the primary drinking and lodging establishment in town. They stabled their horses and went inside. As Dawyn suspected was typical on market day, the tavern was not busy. A few older men sat at tables scattered around the tavern, but it was the calm before the bustle of the evening rush. One young woman moved between those occupied tables, attending to the needs of her patrons.

  As Dawyn and Anwyn approached the bar, the young woman came up from behind, carrying a tray of empty dishes. “Can I help you folks?” she asked. Her dark brown hair was tied back, while a brown apron hung from her
neck, shielding her green dress.

  “Perhaps you can,” Dawyn said. “We’re looking for,” he stopped. What were they looking for? He couldn’t just say they were looking for Ferdinand, as word could reach him. “Rooms, we’re looking for rooms.” He looked at Anwyn. “Make that just one room,” he amended. “Also, is the keeper of this establishment here?”

  The young woman nodded. “We have plenty of rooms available. Would you like one that overlooks the front street or the back alley? My pa is out fetching more ale, but should be back soon.”

  “We’ll take the one overlooking the back alley,” Dawyn said. “What is your name?”

  “Victoria,” the young woman replied. She led them upstairs and handed them the keys to one of the rooms overlooking the back alley. “The washroom is down the hall and to your right,” she said.

  “Would you mind fetching some hot water to bathe with?” Dawyn asked. “Or tell us where to get it?”

  “I’ll put on some hot water down in the kitchen. You’ll have to come down and get it, though.”

  “That would be fine,” Dawyn said with a bow.

  Dawyn and Anwyn placed their belongings in the room and took their spare clothing to the washroom. Dawyn went downstairs and brought up two heaping buckets of water, which he poured into the metal wash tub. After a few more trips, the tub was full enough. Stripping down, the two of them helped one another wash, and languished in the warmth of the tub.

  Afterward, they dressed and made their way back to their room, where they set their travel-worn clothes aside and journeyed downstairs.

  A tall man with balding brown hair was carrying a barrel of ale in from the back yard when they arrived in the common room.