by E B Rose
His weapon in his right hand, he dropped on one knee and bowed his head. This was the only occasion when a slave was permitted to salute the free men like a free man. He counted to ten in his head, stood without looking up, and left the Switchblade Arena through the victor’s gate.
He was greeted by Sir Dramesh behind the gate. The knight and his unit escorted Lion back to the dressing room. Only then, Lion started noticing the sharp pain in his left shoulder.
Vanalten, the physician responsible for the health of King Leonis’s beasts, was waiting ready in the dressing room. He made Lion to sit down on the bench and gestured at the slaves to take his armour off.
The rest of the team had already started their celebrations. The old physician glanced at them often, his eyes gleaming with their shared excitement. He was eager to grab a pint and join them, but first, he had to check if Lion received a notable injury.
Joharin, Doha and Caesh, Badimar’s three trainers, were congratulating each other loudly, shaking hands and slapping backs. Every tournament Lion had won brought them the King’s blessing and a small pouch of Blues. Sir Dramesh was standing with them, laughing and imitating some of the moves from the fight. His men and two errand boys were crowding the room with excited talking and laugher.
The small room felt too packed, stuffy and loud. Lion closed his eyes, wishing he was alone.
“I will see you in Farhome.”
He blinked his eyes open. His stomach twisted. Those words made him uneasy. They shook his sense of reality in so many ways. Skullsworn shouldn’t have been able to speak.
Unless…
The same old slave who’d put his armour on earlier, took it off gently. Vanalten pushed him aside impatiently and leaned over Lion’s left shoulder. He touched and poked, feeling the red bruise swelling around his shoulder. He lifted the arm up and down, forward and back. Lion grimaced but managed not to groan.
“What’s the word, Van?” Doha asked. The ginger haired trainer was the youngest of them.
“All good,” said Vanalten. “Just a bruise. No heavy training for a couple of days, that’s all.”
This time, the men in the room celebrated the good news with more laughter and back slaps and loud comments. Lion leaned back and pressed his head against the wall. He didn’t enjoy the noise.
Vanalten sent one of the errand boys to find some ice. He rubbed the bruised area with an ointment and wrapped it in a neat bandage. He inspected the rest of Lion’s body quickly to make sure there was no unattended injuries. Once the errand boy came back with the ice ten minutes later, Vanalten instructed Lion to apply it on the bruise before joining the others in celebration.
Lion closed his eyes, then opened them again, still remembering Skullsworn’s last words. He scowled at the ground. The older beast must have fought without his Kill Word. That had to be the only explanation. Lion didn’t know how or why his Owner hadn’t used Skullsworn’s Kill Word, but he couldn’t think of any other explanation.
After realizing he was about to die, Skullsworn must have lost all his purebred training and had spoken without permission. He must have found comfort in babbling about Farhome. Some free men cherished the thought of going to a better place after their deaths. It took away their fears, gave them peace…
A thunderstorm of claps pulled him out of his thoughts. Badimar had just walked in.
“The man of the day!” shouted Joharin, giving the Master of the Beast a rough embrace.
“You are one hell of a trainer,” said Dramesh, shaking Badimar’s arm.
Badimar accepted the compliments with grunts and curt nods. Between handshakes and bear-hugs, his eyes strayed at Lion for a single second.
Cold sweat ran down Lion’s back.
He knows.
Badimar’s sharp eyes hadn’t missed Lion’s disrespectful delay in saluting the King. He knew exactly when Lion had woken up from the red mist. He knew how many minutes had passed until Lion finally remembered to salute his Owner.
“How’s the shoulder?” Badimar asked Vanalten.
“Don’t push him for two days and he’ll be swinging again in no time.”
“He’ll be swinging something else pretty soon, from what I’ve heard,” Caesh said with a snicker.
What?
Without looking up, Lion pricked up his ears.
“No way the King is gonna permit that!” Joharis drawled.
“Apparently Lord Hosten had finally got an audience with the King…”
“Enough,” Badimar cut their chatter with a sharp gesture of his hand. “Everybody out. I want time alone with the beast. Doha, get the carriage ready. We’ll be out in ten.”
The men emptied the room without delay. Within seconds, Lion was alone with Badimar.
He straightened up on his seat, put the ice pack aside. Badimar towered in front of the beast with his arms crossed. Lion studied his boots.
The Master of the Beast didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He knew what Lion had done and Lion knew that he did. A freeborn would have begged for mercy and forgiveness. Purebreds were raised believing that begging was an Act of Defiance as well. It was too close to wanting, requesting, demanding, not to mention it required speaking without permission.
No, begging hadn’t even crossed Lion’s mind. He’d made a mistake. Punishment was justified.
Badimar’s penetrating gaze sliced Lion’s flesh. As the silence dragged, Lion’s stomach twisted with the anticipation of pain. He clenched his jaw, held his breath, bracing for the punishment. The silence and the delay intensified his dread.
After what felt like hours, Badimar finally uttered one word: “Prihjtivaviula.”
Lion collapsed on the floor with a pain that he had no words to describe.
He’d seen a man being flayed alive. He’d seen a man dipped in honey and buried up to his chest, his flesh rippling under a layer of hungry ants eating him slowly. He’d seen a man whose head had been tied securely under a tap with water drilling his skull one drop at a time. He’d seen a man being burned alive.
The effects of Pain Word felt like all those things, combined and multiplied by ten.
The pain didn’t focus on a single part of his body; it was everywhere and it was everything. He felt it in his blood and at the tip of every single hair on his body. Invisible flames consumed all his flesh, veins, muscles, and bones. He couldn’t even scream to let the pain out, because the air in his lungs was on fire, and all his muscles - including the ones on his neck - were locked in an agonizing pain. No sound could climb out of his throat. He simply laid there, his body twitching and convulsing into itself, in a cradle of pain.
The effects of the Pain Word only lasted for half a minute. To Lion, it felt like a lifetime. He took strained, broken gasps that sounded more like sobs. He rolled face down, bringing his knees to his chest, and wrapped his arms around his head, with his forehead pressed on the floor. He shook whimpered like a kicked stray dog.
Badimar watched him without moving a muscle. He continued to torture him with his silence, maybe waiting to see if Lion would show another Act of Defiance by begging for mercy. When he opened his mouth, and took a breath to talk, Lion flinched.
“Put that ice back on your shoulder. It’s time to leave.”
6
OLIRA
Olira was up before the first light of the dawn touched the sky.
Sitting up brought a grimace to her face. Her muscles were stiff and aching from yesterday’s physical labour and from sleeping on the cold, hard ground. She’d only shut her eyes for no longer than two hours. It was the shortest, most uncomfortable sleep she’d ever had.
This was not how she’d planned this trip to go.
She was supposed to spend the last night at the inn further down the road and wake up as a well-rested and happy, rich woman with hundred and fifty Blues in her pocket.
And, where was she now? In the middle of nowhere with a poor, dead slave in her hands.
Her stomach churned when she glan
ced at the slave’s outline under the dim light of the fading night. She sighed. There was no point in delaying to face the unavoidable.
Last night, she’d bundled the slave’s trembling body up in her spare blanket and the rolls of cloth she’d bought. She’d tried to give him water frequently, but he was unconscious most of the time, and trembling so violently, that was a wasted effort. All she could do was to keep his head cool with wet cloth and make him as comfortable as possible until he passed.
She’d gone to sleep long past midnight, feeling hopeless and defeated. She didn’t want to watch a man die if there was nothing she could do about it.
She approached the slave’s body and paused when she noticed the movement. His body was shuddering in waves, and his lips were moving.
He was still alive!
A smile split Olira’s face in half. Alunwea was merciful!
She snatched her waterskin before kneeling beside the slave.
“Hey,” she shook him gently. “Can you hear me? Can you sit up?”
The slave neither opened his eyes, nor he replied. The cloth on his forehead was hot and dry. Olira damped it with water and wiped the sweat off his face. Sliding a hand behind his back, she hoisted him up to sit.
The smell of sweat, urine, and infection made her gag, but she managed it. His body was too hot to her touch, and hard and heavy with solid muscles. His dried lips parted when she brought the waterskin. He drank greedily, though his eyes remained closed.
Still alive, partially conscious, and willing to drink. His heart was thumping fast but strong under Olira’s touch. He was fighting teeth and nails to stay alive. This was as good as Olira could dare to hope.
She chewed her lower lip. Her gaze went from the neat pile of supplies she’d bought yesterday, to her sleeping mule. The slave was in no condition to walk. Several options went through her head.
None had a more promising outcome than the others.
7
LION
The banquet hall was vast.
It was the second largest room after the throne room and it probably had the highest ceiling in all of Castle Brinescar. A chandelier, which held five hundred candles, was hanging over the guests’ heads. It was made of a kind of metal that changed colour depending on which angle the viewer looked from. Even the flames displayed exquisite colours. When looked at from below, some guests claimed they could see the face of Kahil, the God of Craftsmen.
King Leonis Zarall was sitting at the table at the far end of the hall. Only his queen and the most important of his guests - high lords and bannermen - were seated with him. The rest of the guests - all noble families and successful merchants - were sitting on the two long tables stretching along the length of the hall.
In the empty space between the tables, a band of musicians were playing cheerful songs.
The food had already been served, though only a few were actually eating, which was a shame, considering how delicate the dishes looked. Guests were more occupied with walking around in the hall with their cups in their hands, talking to each other, making connections, spreading rumours, or doing whatever free men did at dinners, which obviously wasn’t eating.
Lion had already eaten a modest supper. He was on a strict diet - rich in meat and poor in taste - which was carefully planned by Badimar and Vanalten. Three meals and two snacks each day. Lion was surely not being starved, yet, the sight of fried goose hash, lamb roast and mushroom, smoked boar kebabs, baked duck and lentils, cherry crumble, roasted liver pasties, apricot pie, blueberry cake and many other foods that he didn’t even recognize made his stomach rumble.
He took a slow, deep breath, and let it out steadily. The smell of the food distracted him, but he did his best to focus on his breathing.
He was positioned at the other end of the hall, opposite from King Leonis’s table. The platform he stood on was three feet high off the ground, so all the guests could get a good view of him from where they sat. Although slaves typically stood with their gaze down, Lion was instructed to keep his head high and his eyes straight across.
Like a proud lion, so many of the guests had already commented with admiration.
The King’s Master of the Slaves had spent quite a long time working on Lion’s appearance. It was surprising how much time it had taken, considering how little clothing he ended up wearing.
After a scalding hot bath where they’d washed his hair and scrubbed all the dirt and blood off his body, they’d shaped his blonde, curly hair first, giving it more volume to make it look like a lion’s mane.
Raydon, the Master of the Slaves, had chosen Lion’s outfit himself: A pair of black leather pants and black boots were pretty much all the clothing he had on. His accessories were a pair of golden greaves on his shins, a large, golden belt around his waist, and a black half-cape which hung over his left shoulder; a clever choice to conceal the bandages on Lion’s left shoulder.
He held the net and the trident he’d used at the battle on each hand. His chest was bare, displaying the four brands he’d acquired by winning four important tournaments.
The last one of the brands - the one with a little sparrow inside - was still red. It was only received an hour ago.
Lion took another deep breath, held, and released it quietly. His chest hurt like Darkhome. He could still feel the touch of the hot iron on his skin. He inhaled and exhaled again. His face did not reflect the pain he was in.
After returning to the Castle Brinescar from the Switchblade Arena, Raydon and Vanalten had taken charge of administering Lion’s next brand. He was familiar with the routine by now; he’d taken his shirt off and laid on the table quietly. They hadn’t tied him, nor had they done anything to restrain him. Lion had grabbed the sides of the table and kept himself still while they worked.
The branding iron was crafted days before the tournament. Raydon had measured and marked where the brand should go, and Vanalten had pressed the iron after heating it. Lion hadn’t screamed. He’d curbed all his pain and hadn’t let anything more than a sharp gasp escape his throat. The branding was done within seconds, but Lion was going to feel his flesh burning for hours after that.
“What’s gotten into Vanalten?” Sir Gennald asked quietly, pulling Lion out of his thoughts.
Two of the King’s personal knights stood on either side of the platform, keeping Lion of Zarall safe from any potential threats, including the guests who were too handsy. Leonis loved displaying Lion at every event. But he was also paranoid about his safety. He always tasked one or two of his royal knights with protecting him. One was almost always Sir Dramesh. The other was Sir Gennald tonight.
“Seating arrangements,” Sir Dramesh smirked subtly.
Slow breath in, slow breath out…
Lion couldn’t help but glancing at one of the tables where the King’s revered staff were seated. Badimar and Vanalten were sitting somewhere around the middle of the table. Badimar seemed to be enjoying the food and he was engaging in conversations with the guests around him, but Vanalten had a sour face. He was glaring daggers at the three old men sitting near the head of their table.
Lion recognized one of them as the King’s head physician. The second man - wearing a white robe with red flames embroidered on its cuffs - was also from the King’s court. The third man was wearing a plain black robe. Lion had never seen him before.
“Who’s the black robe?” Sir Gennald asked suspiciously. “Looks like he’s from Eternal Pillar.”
Sir Dramesh scoffed. “Hope not.”
Lion didn’t know what that meant, and they didn’t elaborate, so he went back to his breathing.
Free men and women were complex. He didn’t understand why they’d get touchy about frugal issues such as who sat where - there was enough food at every corner of the table anyway - but it wasn’t his place to judge the actions of his superiors. His only duty was to follow his training and obey.
The feast went on for another two hours. Then, the celebrations moved on to the throne room.
Lion followed Sir Dramesh and Gennald, and climbed up on another platform placed nearby the throne.
Guests were served drinks by well-dressed house slaves carrying the Zarall coat of arms - a black and gold lion - on their uniforms. A group of male and female slaves with flame tattoos on their necks performed a steamy dance on the stage set in the middle. Free troubadours, fire-eaters, acrobats, poets and bards took the stage as well, though none could get the attention the pleasure slaves received.
Lion didn’t mind being in the throne room, because he got to see the map here.
A gigantic map of Chinderia was drawn on the floor. Although he was ordered to stand tall and look straight ahead this evening, in other occasions Lion would keep his eyes on the floor and examine every bit of the map.
His eyes craved to look at the neat drawings depicting the mountains in the north, the plains and forests of the south, and the cities and towns scattered between. He’d memorized almost every bit of it. Moreover, he had a secret about this map; a secret that could send him straight back to Faychill Ranch for some brutal retraining with Breeder Astaldo.
The thought of doing something wrong - though technically it wasn’t an Act of Defiance - stirred Lion’s stomach and made him feel nauseous, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to finish it.
He risked stealing a couple of glances at the floor, etching the elegant lines into his mind. The map even made him forget about the burning pain on his chest. He stopped and fixed his gaze back ahead when he noticed a group of guests were approaching to gawk at him.
One of the men was dressed elegantly. A nobleman. The second man was a slave Breeder; the symbolic golden whip hanging low on his hips gave him away.
The last member of their group was a female slave.
Lion remembered a famed storyteller visiting the King’s court last year. The storyteller had told the tale of Elrimandel and Galeahil in this very hall. It was a love tale. At the end of the exhaustingly long story, all the ladies in the hall were in tears and half the men had anguished expressions on their faces.