Lion of Zarall

by E B Rose

  “Are you okay?” Olira asked, eyeing him with concern. The last thing she needed was the slave making himself sick for eating too much.

  The slave’s eyes snapped open. He pushed himself up on his feet and stood with his hands clasped in front. “I live to serve; I breathe to please, Owner.”

  Olira’s eyebrows shot upwards. That sounded like a well-rehearsed statement rather than an actual answer to her question. She waited for another sign of life, but found nothing. The man had gone from a mindless slave to a starving animal, then back to a mindless slave within seconds.

  She decided not to press and continued with her business in the city.

  She bought cloth, wool, spices and food supply for the winter. She could have bought all these from Master Tholthus, who ran a General Store at Oxreach, but it was cheaper this way and she didn’t want to add more to her debt. She tracked the cheapest stores, avoiding the ones Hasrey had recommended. It all cost her five Blues, but the packsaddle looked full enough to ease her mind about the winter.

  For the first time all day, her worries lifted enough to let her breath. She smiled, telling herself everything was going to work out fine.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  4

  OLIRA

  Several hours past midday, Olira and the slave had joined the crowd of people leaving the city.

  City guards were taking their time, stopping and questioning some of the travellers and merchants, checking the contents in their carts randomly, but letting most people go without so much as a second glance.

  One of the guards gestured Olira to step aside and asked for the slave’s sales papers. Olira handed them over and waited patiently as the guard inspected the slave’s physical description. He tilted the slave’s head to the side to study his tattoo. His quizzical gaze flickered between Olira and the slave. He even sized Olira up and down, taking in her plain dress and old travel cloak.

  Olira scowled at the man, daring him to make a comment, but the guard kept his judgement to himself. Yet, he didn’t fail to investigate the genuineness of the seal at the bottom of the page.

  “That’ll be fifteen Blues, ma’am,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Excuse me?”

  The city guard looked at Olira as if the Twelve haven’t been generous with her. “That will be fifteen Chinderian Blues, ma’am,” he repeated, slowly and clearly.

  “Fifteen Blues for what?” Olira asked after taking a deep breath.

  The guard rolled his eyes. “Domestic assets tax, ma’am. You bought a slave and you’re exiting the city with it. You pay ten percent of the slave’s value.” He shook the sales paper. “He’s worth hundred and fifty Blues. So, that’s fifteen…”

  “Domestic assets tax?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The guard gritted his teeth, fidgeted impatiently. “Are you paying or not?”

  Olira was having difficulty breathing. Rage coloured her face. She mouthed a silent prayer to Alunwea, demanding to know what she did to offend the Goddess of Mercy. This day was a nightmare.

  “What happens if I don’t pay?”

  The slave, who was scratching his neck lazily, stopped and brought his hand down. He didn’t raise his head, nor did he glance at Olira, but he seemed alarmed in the most subtle way.

  “If you don’t pay, we’ll confiscate your slave. You’ll have thirty days to pay off, or the city will repossess him.”

  A headache was starting to bloom. Olira rubbed her temples and took slow, deep breaths. She found herself glaring at the slave’s stupid, indifferent face. The core of all her problems…

  “Are you paying or not, ma’am?” The guard raised his voice. “I ain’t got all day.”

  “Yes, I’m paying,” Olira hissed through gritted teeth, without taking her eyes off the man she wished she’d never met. She counted fifteen Blues out of her purse. One. She only had one Chinderian Blue left in her purse now. It almost hurt physically. The guard had to pry the coins out of Olira’s fingers.

  “Wait here,” the city guard mumbled as he walked into the guardhouse with the slave’s paper. Twenty minutes later he returned and handed the paper back to Olira. She eyed the scribble at the bottom of the paper, confirming she’d paid the slave’s tax. After rolling it carefully, she placed the paper back in her bag.

  By the time they left Kiore, the sun was stretching their shadows long. There was a fair number of travellers on the road, some heading in the same direction while others going towards the city.

  Olira followed the signposts pointing West Kilrer. After every intersection, the well-maintained dirt road became less and less busy. When they took the narrow pathway leading south, they were the only ones left.

  Olira’s headache wasn’t subsiding. Her face muscles were hurting from scowling and gritting her teeth. She wanted to scream her anger out. She wanted to yell at someone.

  The slave walked on the other side of Warrior. He’d snuck his hand under his collar, scratching the irritated skin. He didn’t even look guilty for all the troubles he’d caused to Olira.

  She exhaled through her nose, and somehow managed to collect herself. Taking her anger out on the slave would be wrong. Gladwiel was the one she should’ve been mad at. The slave trader forced her to take the slave, and didn’t even mention the tax. The slave didn’t deserve to be the target of Olira’s resentment.

  Plus, it wasn’t like Olira wouldn’t profit from this either. Trading a slave made her feel dirty, but she’d find a way to live with it… as a debtless and rich woman.

  Still… Part of her wished the slave would give her a reason to lash out.

  She got her reason an hour before sunset.

  The slave had fallen behind Warrior, though he still remained within the range of his chain. Warrior twitched his ears and let out a bray. Olira patted his neck. The animal was getting tired and hungry, but Olira didn’t want to stop yet. There was a roadside inn not too far from here. They could make it before sunset.

  When she noticed the slave had been breathing laboriously for the last few minutes, she glanced over her shoulder. The slave was stumbling after the mule, the chain stretched tight between them. He was doubling over and his face remained hidden.

  Olira tugged Warrior’s bridle to stop the animal. She walked around him; her eyebrows drawn together.

  “We’re not stopping yet,” she scolded. “You need to…”

  She slapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream at the sight of the slave. She flinched a step back, trying to comprehend what she was seeing.

  The slave dropped on his knees. He let out a gasp that sounded more like a cough.

  “Merciful Alunwea!” whispered Olira.

  The slave wheezed. His fingers tore at his collar, pulling it futilely. His neck was red and swollen to the size of a watermelon. The collar was cutting deep into his flesh. His chin had disappeared. His neck looked like a second head, only redder and uglier.

  “What… What’s happening…?” Olira babbled.

  The slave’s fingers left bloody trails all over that… bulbous globe which used to be his neck. He coughed. He was staring at Olira’s bag, as he clawed at his collar desperately.

  Olira snapped out of her shock. She dipped her hands in her bag and started searching for the key for the collar.

  The slave sucked a rough breath in and coughed again. His face was turning dark. The chain was choking him. Olira turned her bag upside down and spilt the contents on the ground. She fumbled through her belongings with trembling hands until she found the small, iron key.

  The slave opened his mouth, gasping for air. His face was an ugly tone of blue now. Olira kneeled beside him. The collar, slick with blood, had almost disappeared under the swollen flesh. She searched for the keyhole. The slave’s eyes shut as he swayed on his knees. Olira grabbed his shoulder to steady him. She found the keyhole and pushed the key in. The collar snapped open.

  The slave opened his eyes. He took a raspy breath. When he swayed for
ward, his forehead touched Olira’s shoulder. The collar had cut his skin deep, left a bloody mark around his bulging neck. He was breathing easier, but his neck was still swollen, and it seemed to be getting bigger.

  Olira grabbed the man’s shoulders and pushed him back. “Look at me,” she said, still fearful. “What’s happening to your neck? What… What did you take?”

  “Pem…” the slave gasped, but was interrupted by another cough.

  “Pem what?”

  “Ton…” he breathed out before sprawling on his back. He scratched his neck, wheezing and coughing uncontrollably.

  “Pem... ton?” she mouthed desperately. “Pem… Pemitoin?” She paled, shifting away from him. “He gave you pemitoin?”

  The slave didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. He was too busy coughing and taking short breaths.

  Olira took her head between her hands. She felt dizzy and she struggled to breathe. This couldn’t have been happening.

  The slave was dying.

  “He gave you pemitoin!” Olira repeated, though it was more an accusation than a question now. Shock bloomed from her toes to her head. This couldn’t have been happening!

  The slave’s skin was already stretched tight over his neck. It was going to continue swelling, and this wasn’t even the worst part to come.

  She was familiar with pemitoin. It was made from Oxeron roots; the ones Olira sold to Gladwiel. It dulled the pain and gave strength to the individual. However, the aftereffects were…

  Well, Olira was looking at the start of the aftereffects.

  She went through the contents of her bag and picked up her purse. She took the single blue coin out of it and stuffed it into one of the saddle bags. Folding the leather purse in half, she kneeled beside the slave and slid it between his teeth.

  “Bite this,” she instructed. “Don’t spit it out.”

  The slave stared at the orange sky, his eyes displaying no sign of comprehension. He gaped his mouth, trying to breathe around the purse. He coughed it out. Olira pushed the leather back in, pulled its strings, and tied them around the slave’s head.

  “You have to bite this, or you’ll lose your tongue in a few minutes.”

  She wasn’t sure if the slave understood her and she didn’t have the time to make sure he did. She jumped up on her feet, pulled her skirt up, and started running back the way they came from.

  She found the stream a couple minutes off the road. She’d remembered hearing the gentle sound of the water as they walked past it before. The stream flowed carelessly through rock and mud, dragging dead leaves and small pebbles with its current. She looked around frantically until she spotted the bright green, squiggly leaves of the plant on the other side of the stream.

  Not caring about getting her feet soaked in the icy water, she walked across to the other side of the bank.

  Etegon Thorn.

  The plant commonly grew near water. All she needed was a handful. She used the hem of her travel cloak to rip the thorny leaves off, making sure not to touch them directly. The thorn was poisonous, and although it was not deadly, Olira preferred her muscles not numbed right now. After sparing a moment to secure the precious leaves inside her travel cloak, she ran back to the road.

  Just as she’d feared, the aftereffects of the pemitoin had progressed rapidly. The convulsions had started. The slave’s arms and legs jerked in every direction, his muscles twitching, as he spasmed violently. His back arched, his heels dug into the ground. His eyes had rolled back in his skull. His teeth were clamped tight around Olira’s purse.

  Olira didn’t waste any time checking on him. She had to hurry. Grabbing a bowl from one of her saddle bags, she crushed the thorn with a rock. The thorns released a sharp, peppery smell. She added a dash of water to turn it into a soggy paste.

  The slave’s arms jerked uncontrollably and hit Olira when she sat down beside him with the paste. His skin looked so tight, Olira was afraid it might pop under her touch. His tattoo had stretched and the dog-like shape was distorted. Dodging the jolting arms, she dabbed the hem of her cloak into the paste and rubbed it all over the slave’s neck.

  The slave was thrashing too violently, he could have hurt himself. Olira had to keep him safe until the paste started working. She caught one of his arms and pinned it under her knees. She reached over his chest and grabbed the other arm.

  She smelled urine and wasn’t surprised to see the crotch of his pants glistened wet. The spasms had caused him to lose control of his bladder. She turned her head up, breathing through the mixed odour of urine, sweat, Etegon paste, and something else…

  Rotten flesh?

  She placed all her weight on the slave’s torso, yet barely managed to restrict his convulsions. His legs kicked the ground so hard; she was afraid to hear them breaking. She pushed down on his thighs as hard as she could. The slave’s skin was too hot to her touch. His body radiated heat. Sweat trickled down from Olira’s face and mixed with his.

  There was nothing else she could do, other than pray for Alunwea’s mercy. She did.

  The slave’s neck deflated and returned to its normal proportions, but the convulsions continued violently until the last light of the day. When they finally weakened, Olira sat back and rubbed her aching muscles. She was out of breath.

  The slave’s eyes fluttered. He took shallow, raspy breaths as he blinked at his surroundings, looking confused. His muscles still twitched, though not as hard as before.

  His grey eyes met Olira’s.

  “Aftereffects of pemitoin are swelling in the neck, difficulty breathing, and violent muscle contractions,” Olira listed. “Fever is not among them.”

  The slave swallowed.

  Olira untied the strings of her purse and pulled it out of his mouth, but the man remained silent. The whites of his eyes were red. He averted them from Olira’s gaze.

  “Don’t touch your neck,” Olira muttered when the man took a trembling hand towards his neck. She went to fetch her waterskin. After wetting the hem of her ruined travel cloak, she wiped the leftover paste and the dried blood off his neck.

  She helped him sit up and held the waterskin to his mouth. He drank greedily. He was both burning with fever and trembling visibly. His eyes were half-closed, his head sagging forward, exhausted.

  Olira stepped back. “Get up,” she ordered.

  The slave blinked his eyes open. To his credit, he attempted to comply without delay. Yet, it took almost half a dozen tries to climb up on his feet. Olira watched each failed attempt with increasing frustration. He held back a moan and slanted awkwardly to his left. He swayed on his left foot, favouring his right.

  “Pull your pants down.”

  The slave untied the strings with trembling hands and dropped his pants down his knees. He wasn’t wearing any undergarment, and if the situation hadn’t been this grim, Olira would have blushed at the sight of his manhood. She’d raised four little brothers, but never seen a grown man’s.

  She hardly even looked at it, her gaze fixating on the bloody bandage around his right thigh. The sight of the hastily tied, dirty cloth brought her headache back.

  She took a deep breath before ordering: “Untie it.”

  The slave pulled at the knots with clumsy fingers, until the bandage came loose. The putrid odour of the infection struck Olira hard. She gagged, pressing her palm over her mouth and nose. One glance at the red, inflamed wound and the yellow puss spilling out of it, and she knew what she was dealing with.

  “You’re injured!” Olira accused.

  “Yes, Owner,” the slave responded, exhausted.

  “Why haven’t you said anything before? Why haven’t you said anything about the pemitoin while we were at the city?”

  The slave swayed on his foot. “You haven’t asked, Owner.”

  His tone was neither arrogant, nor it was audacious, but it still flushed Olira’s cheeks with hot rage. She curled her hands into fists, her nails digging at her palms.

  “Are you kidding me?” she
gritted through her teeth.

  She hadn’t intended it as a question, but the slave answered anyway: “No, Owner.”

  Olira ran her hands through her hair. She turned her back at him, because the slave’s mere presence was filling her with fury. She started packing the contents of her bags, hoping she hadn’t missed anything in the dim light of late afternoon. She unrolled the slave’s sales paper and held it up, forcing her eyes to read the neat lines in the faint light. She found the statement she was looking for:

  I was given a chance to inspect the property before purchase and I accept the property in his current physical condition.

  She pressed her fist into her mouth to stifle an angry scream. She scrunched the paper in one hand and almost threw it away, before collecting herself and stuffing it back in her bag.

  The slave stood where she’d left him; his eyes on the ground, trembling and swaying wearily.

  “Pull your pants up!” Olira snapped.

  Although the man didn’t flinch, he complied promptly.

  “Walk!”

  Olira tugged Warrior’s lead behind her. The mule twitched his ears nervously as he followed his Owner. The slave stumbled after them. He stifled his groans and managed to keep up, for the first twenty minutes, until his legs started shaking too violently. More than once, he had to clutch at Warrior’s saddle to regain his balance. The mule brayed crankily each time.

  “There’s an inn just behind that hill,” Olira gritted through her teeth. “They’ll have something I can use for your leg.”

  Of course, the slave wasn’t done ruining Olira’s day. He tripped and fell unconscious only a couple of minutes later.

  *

  “Get up you piece of meat!” Astaldo’s whip lashed at his face and neck, sending waves of pain through his body.

  “Get up!”

  “Get up!”

  A haze of brown hair hovered over his face. A cold glimmer lit up her eyes.

  Furious.

  Cruel.

  Astaldo struck again.

  The woman struck harder.

  *

  The slave flailed his arms. His eyes bulged in their sockets, frantic.