by Jim Galford
“We’ll see how civil they are,” Raeln told them, closing his eyes. “We get to act the part of slaves until we see an opportunity to run.”
Coming over and sitting beside Raeln, Yoska patted his shoulder. “Could be worse, no? Carrying small armload of wood is not so bad life. Beside, I find many lovely women in this village who are oh so fascinated by my stories of travel.”
*
The next morning, Raeln got the answer to whether it could be worse.
Before dawn broke, the door of the hut was kicked open by three human men and one woman. They rushed in and grabbed Dalania before Raeln could wake fully. Yoska hopped up from his mat and raised his hands to surrender while Dalania was shoved outside.
“What’s happening?” Raeln asked, rolling to hands and feet, ready to spring at the nearest human, who bore Turessian tattoos. He searched Yoska’s face for answers, but found annoyed acceptance rather than fear. When he bared his teeth, Dalania gave him a panicked shake of her head, warning him to stop.
“Is regular wake up,” Yoska said, his voice calm, despite the dazed look on his face. He clearly had not been quite ready for it either. “They did same last few days. We are last slaves awake, so they come for us. Something about lazy southerners, no?”
The human man nearest Raeln nodded at that and offered a hand to Raeln to help him stand. “No time for sleep when work needs to be done,” the man told him, pulling Raeln up. “You’ll get used to it. We all do. We aren’t going to harm any of you without reason.”
Raeln let his eyes drift over the man’s tattoos and down at their clasped hands, as the human laughed.
“Fallen clan,” he explained. “Feirenn crushed my clan during a challenge over some of the northern woods. I couldn’t prove myself in their clan’s trials, so I’m no better than you now, beast. The rule against contact is a matter of pride. Slaves have no use for pride. I could kiss you on the cheek and no one would care anymore, though I won’t deny it would disgust me.”
“Don’t call me a beast,” warned Raeln, tightening his grip until the man winced. Despite his obvious pain, the man said nothing and did not stop meeting Raeln’s glare.
Dalania came back into the hut quickly and put her hand on Raeln’s, silently asking him to stop. He relented a second later, releasing the man.
The Turessian scowled at Raeln, rubbing his hand. He motioned toward the door of the small hut. “Get moving. One of the preservers is waiting for you three.”
Dreading what they might want from him, knowing it could be anything from execution to being forced to fight with another child, Raeln led the way out of the hut and into the bitter winds that circled through the tiny village, snow swirling through the gaps between huts. Outside, the entire village waited in the “streets,” surrounding Raeln, Yoska, and Dalania. Nearly thirty slaves stared at them expectantly.
“What’s this?” Raeln demanded as his friends were pushed up beside him. “You said a preserver was waiting.”
“He is. This is to make sure you arrive safely,” the Turessian told Raeln. “We thought you three might do something stupid. Most newcomers do, and those with friends are the worst. This is entirely for your own good.”
With a lurch, the slaves closed in on Raeln and the others, grabbing him roughly. He was practically dragged off his feet by the men and woman, but when he raised his hand to strike at them, he realized there were two small elven children clinging to his belt, helping the others move him. His anger cooling instantly, Raeln let the people push and pull him along, becoming more curious about them as he went.
The group led him up the path that ran between the slave village and the woods—not far from the place where he had fought the child—where he saw dozens of abandoned work stations with sanding planes, half-chopped lumber, and trees being stripped of their bark. They pushed him on past this area and into an open section of the woods that looked to have been cleared long ago. There, little more than a large stone slab lay under the dawn light. At the far side of the slab, a robed Turessian waited, his hands clasped behind himself in calm relaxation, his shaved head catching the dawn and highlighting the black tattoos against his pale skin. After studying the man during their approach, Raeln realized it was the same man who had helped remove the stone from his stomach days before.
“What am I supposed to do here?” asked Raeln, as Dalania and Yoska were brought up alongside him. They both looked as confused as he felt.
“Stay calm,” one of the dwarven slaves told him. A dozen hands pushed him down onto his knees, holding him there. “We’ll be able to get to work soon.”
Being told to be calm had the distinct effect of making Raeln anything but calm. He looked around nervously as the slaves adjusted their grip on his shoulders and arms, keeping him from moving at all. Yoska was being similarly held, though by a few less people. A pair of burly humans held Dalania, who was not resisting at all.
After a few seconds, Dalania was pushed up onto the stone slab by the men holding her. She looked terrified, glancing back at Raeln every few steps, her eyes pleading with him to make some sense of what was happening. He could see no way of helping her, shy of beating down every single person out there. He also knew that was the last thing she would want of him.
Once Dalania had been brought to the middle of the slab, the two slaves holding her forced her to her knees in front of the preserver, who approached her with his hands still behind himself. After she had been settled, he brought his hand around, revealing a metal rod with an elaborate metal shape at the end. He waved his free hand, and the metal flared bright red, heating almost instantly to the point that it steamed in the cold air.
“No!” Raeln gasped, flailing to free himself. He had worked on enough farms growing up that he knew exactly what was going on. Dalania was about to be branded like cattle. “Let us go!”
The slaves fought him, and more joined those holding him, trying to keep him from interfering. They encircled him to get a better grip on his clothing and fur, cutting off his sight of Dalania. He twisted and struggled, trying to free himself, but there were too many. Someone even kicked him in his wounded side, knocking the breath from his lungs. Then a scream and the telltale sizzle of flesh burning filled his ears.
All of Raeln’s anger and fear vanished instantly, replaced by an utter calm. He was going to kill everyone between him and the Turessian that had hurt Dalania.
Raeln twisted his arm and easily broke the hold of the three people on that side. Turning and using his freed hand, he struck out at the remaining people on him, gaining more freedom of movement with each person he got off him. He could hear screams and see people moving, but his calm shielded him from any detail beyond the constant drive to push through them. He felt bones break as he got his hands on one person and then another, until he was free of those that wanted to keep him from saving Dalania. He rushed up the stone slab, his long-dead sister’s face floating in his mind as echoes of Dalania’s screams faded.
Icy blasts of wind slammed into Raeln with the force of a wall crashing into his chest and legs. He struggled on another step or two, but fell as the weight of the winds dragged him down, pressing him facedown on the stone. He was only a few feet from where Dalania lay curled into a ball, clutching her steaming arm. Raeln could see a bloody pattern of Turessian runewords, but he could not get to her. He felt like an utter failure, trying desperately to reach Dalania.
Raeln gasped, trying to pull breath into his lungs, but the magical winds made even breathing difficult. He managed to slide along the smooth stone another few inches by digging in his claws and pulling, grinding his skin until he bled through his shredded clothing. Before he could make another push forward, polished black leather boots stepped between him and Dalania. A small group of the slaves ran past him to help Dalania to her feet.
“I’m going to release you, beast,” the Turessian preserver said, taking a knee in front of Raeln. The man appeared sincerely worried, but not for himself and not at all a
ngry. “I will explain this only once. If you strike me, I will execute the friend that you prize above working together with your fellow slaves. Obey me and relent, and you will be the only one punished. This is the most basic rule of living in these lands. Do you understand me?”
The crushing weight of the winds faded a second later. Raeln rolled onto his hands and knees, rising slowly to growl at the man in front of him, ready to strike. Looking past the preserver, he saw Dalania and started to get his mind around what the man had told him. They would kill her for his disobedience. He could easily kill this man, but it would cost Dalania her life. It was insidious and crippling, knowing his actions would be reflected on others he cared about. He began to really understand why the slaves aided their masters here.
Lowering his head and letting his tension fade, Raeln settled back onto his knees in front of the Turessian.
“Yiral did say you were smarter than most of your kind,” the preserver said, raising the brand as it flared with heat again. “Do we need to hold you down, or are you stubborn enough to remain still on your own?”
“I will not fight.”
An elven slave moved to Raeln’s side and pulled his shirt sleeve up, exposing his upper arm for the Turessian holding the brand. A moment later, the hot crackle of burning-hot metal touching fur filled Raeln’s nose with its acrid scent as agony tore through his arm. He kept his eyes down and refused to cry out, clenching his jaw until the pain faded and the brand was taken away, leaving the lingering scent of burned fur.
“Your other friend will be dealt with shortly. First, to the matter of trying to attack me,” the preserver went on, throwing the brand aside. The iron rod clattered on the stone slab, where a wiry man picked it up and held it as though waiting for the preserver to ask for it back. “You learned your lesson about what happens the next time you rebel. You still must be punished for this time. No one else will be punished for this incident because of your willingness to learn from your mistake.”
Raeln looked up at the man, trying to control his anger through the throbbing of his shoulder and the sight of Dalania trembling among the slaves at the edge of the stone slab where he knelt. “What is my punishment?”
“Ten lashes,” the man said, frowning as though he were saddened by the statement.
“I’ve had far worse,” Raeln countered, staying on his knees but straightening as much as he could.
The human shook his head. “Unlikely.”
Crackling energy flowed out from the Turessian’s glove to form a long whip of sparking lightning. “You would be wise to take off your shirt and any other garments above the waist. Blood in clothing severely limits its warmth and we cannot provide new clothing every time you disobey. That is your choice, though. I would still find respect for you if you chose to hide your body from others.”
Stripping to the waist, Raeln closed his eyes and focused on the incredible cold of the region, letting the wind soothe his body. The first crack of the magical whip nearly threw him onto his stomach, the force behind it surprising him. He kept his eyes closed and his back straight, ready for the next impact.
He could endure anything so long as he knew he would not make matters worse for the others.
Chapter Three
“Bedfellows”
Why do we dream when our dreams torture us? I have fought my dreams for much of my life, and when times were worst, I clung to better dreams for solace and a gentle nudge in the right direction when my waking mind resisted me. Those dreams got me through loss and emptiness, and helped me find peace when the world fell apart around me. Without the dreams that haunted me, I would never have found the love of my life, and I certainly would not have managed to live through the loss of my son.
Now my dreams are filled with fear that separation will be my last living memory. Even worse still, I fear my children share those dreams and those dreams will become the nightmares of loss that haunted me growing up. I dread their own hatred of me for leaving them behind.
My dreams also taunt me for my own weakness. I once was strong enough to defend my family against anything or escape those things I could not fight. Now I am powerless. During my waking hours, I do what I can to push on. During sleep, I know my limitations—I can no longer protect Feanne from the dangers that chase us. I am like a child among fearsome warriors.
How can I protect my children a thousand miles away when I cannot even protect my mate at my side? I can’t. I know this and I must let go. I must accept that my children are gone, as I’ve accepted that Atall is dead. Only then can I move on and attempt to save both Feanne and myself.
I must abandon what I most need and love if I am to protect it.
Estin woke to a steady rocking sensation. He opened his eyes to see snow passing by and the long legs of the horse he was draped over only inches from his face. Turning his head, he could see stars and clouds overhead. He attempted to sit up, but a strong hand with claws came down near his spine, stopping him. Looking to his left, he could see Feanne’s leg hanging down, her paw not quite reaching the stirrups and the pads of her foot covered with dried mud and what he guessed to be blood.
“Stay still,” warned Feanne, easing the pressure on his back. “I managed to stop the bleeding and stem any infection, but the wound could break open at any time. I had you sleep to give you time to heal and for the pain of removing the arrow to fade.”
“You used magic to keep me unconscious?”
“No, I fed you shadow weed…forced it down your throat is probably more accurate. It makes one drowsy, but once you’re already unconscious, it keeps you that way. In your case, about a four days longer.”
“You drugged me? What is wrong with you, Feanne?”
Estin did not need to look up to know Feanne was grinning at that. She had threatened to sneak various herbs into his food for years…one of many reasons he tended to prepare the meals for her and the kits. This was the first time he knew of her actually carrying through on it, though.
“Where are we?” he asked, trying to sit up. His left shoulder felt swollen, and he could not move that arm at all, forcing him to use his legs and tail to swing himself into a seated position behind Feanne on the horse. “We should have met with the others by now.”
“I never saw them escape the tunnels. Liris and one of her fellow Turessians chased us until about two hours ago. I had wondered if they would follow us no matter where we went. For some reason, they broke off.”
“And where did we go, Feanne? Is this their horse?”
She inclined her head to examine the sky and then answered, “Mostly south. There are some hills ahead. When we arrive, I intend to rest until morning. We can decide our course from there. And, yes, I stole Liris’s horse and scared off the rest. I thought it might keep her from following the others, though they found at least one horse, given that I could see one in the distance as recently as sunset.”
Estin said nothing, knowing that arguing at this point would serve no purpose. Instead, he picked at the wadded cloth on his shoulder, peeling it away from the wound. Beneath, he found a large puffed-up section of raw flesh, where the bolt’s barbs had torn the skin when it was pulled free. He wondered how he could have managed to sleep through that, even with Feanne’s herbs.
“No magic?” he asked, noticing the uneven thread she had used to sew shut the wound before packing it with herbs and the cloth.
“Too dangerous,” Feanne said, keeping her eyes on the path ahead. “We both were wounded. My magic can either accelerate natural healing or transfer wounds from one to another. The former would have killed you, as the wound would not have closed properly on its own. The latter would have given you my wounds and killed you within minutes.”
Estin put an arm around Feanne’s side to balance himself as he leaned forward, trying to get an eye on her injuries. The burns on her thigh appeared partially healed, though the furless patch surrounded by scorched clothing made it easy to see where they had been, the exposed skin raw and b
listered. Where he had seen two crossbow bolts in her torso earlier, she now had wadded cloth like the one on his shoulder.
“How bad?” he asked.
“I’m able to recover faster than you are,” Feanne reminded him. “My leg will be fine in a day or two.”
“That’s not an answer. Faster doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt or killed.”
Feanne glanced sideways at him, her eyes narrowing, warning him that she was in no mood for that argument. She glared for a moment, but then looked away and sighed. “The wound in my stomach is infected. My arm is unusable. I cannot fight. When we stop, I’ll see if I can get the infection under control. It will take time that we did not have until recently. If I cannot heal on my own, I will die slowly.”
“And if you don’t get the infection down, how long before I have to carry you?”
“Another day. Maybe less. It largely depends on how badly torn things are on the inside. Be thankful that we did not have to crawl through a sewer this time. I would likely already be dead.”
Estin sat back, watching the subtle changes in scenery for some time. The near-constant ache in his jaw prompted him to touch his face, finding dried blood spread across the whole side of his nose and muzzle. “Why did you hit me?”
“I’ve hit you before, Estin.”
“This wasn’t sparring.”
“I’ve hit you in anger before. I have never claimed that I was as civil as the females in Altis. You need to learn to take a blow.”
“I know how you are in a real fight. There would’ve been claws.”
Apparently resigned to the idea that he would keep pushing, Feanne finally replied, “Raeln made me promise. He thought you would try to sacrifice yourself, when that was his intention as well. He was in charge and it was his choice. I obeyed an order.”
“Did he actually tell you to punch me?”
“No, he told me to make sure you left when told to. I was losing too much blood to argue. Had I debated it, the Turessians would have caught us before we got away. Hitting you was the right answer, as my mother always told me. Any male that argues too much deserves to choke on his own fangs, she once said.”