by E B Rose
Kallis blinked. “What do you…” he attempted to ask their intentions and failed again.
“I’m looking for a slave,” the man said, leaning forward on his elbows. “A purebred Beast.”
“Come to… office… take what you… want…”
The Kaldorian took his hand off Kallis’s shoulder and crossed his arms on his chest. He still didn’t look at the slave trader and continued studying the crowd, but his mouth was twisted as if he’d tasted something nasty. The larger man with the heavy armour hadn’t moved from where he stood. It was clear this conversation was going to be resolved between Kallis and the young blonde man.
The blondie’s smile had nothing to do with pleasure. “You misunderstood me, Master Gladwiel,” he said smugly. “I’m not buying a slave. I’m searching for a specific one; a purebred Beast with a certain fame.”
Kallis’s eyes widened with understanding for the third time since the blonde man sat at his table. He shook his head. “I don’t… know what...” Kallis coughed so hard, he couldn’t breathe for a few long seconds. “Please…”
The blonde man’s smile disappeared from his face and he was silent for a while. “I know you had him,” he said impatiently. “We’ve found the lowlifes who’d intercepted a convoy made of disguised Vogros soldiers. I know they sold you a dying slave for twenty Chinderian Blues.”
Kallis was shaking his head violently. “I don’t… it’s illegal…” He shook with another violent cough.
The blonde man rolled his eyes, then rubbed his temples. “I don’t care about the legitimacy of your business activities, Master Gladwiel. I’m not here to report you to the Domestic Assets Trade Union for selling unregistered slaves.”
The Kaldorian scoffed softly, but the blonde man continued without skipping a beat. “Give me a name, Master Gladwiel…” He pulled the cork off the vial with his teeth and placed the antidote at the edge of the table. He placed his hand right behind it, ready to push it off the table and spill Kallis’s life on the floor.
Kallis attempted to reach for the vial, but the Kaldorian grasped his wrist without looking and twisted it until Kallis buried his face into the crook of his elbow and whimpered.
The bard riled the crowd to join him on the last chorus of The Lion and The Bear. Several mugs rose to the air as the drunken patrons sang to the obnoxious things a lion with a long spear did to a soft, fluffy bear. Kallis’s coughs were lost in the noise.
When the Kaldorian let his wrist go, Kallis cradled his arm on his lap.
The young blonde man leaned forward on the table. He didn’t bother raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. Kallis read his lips clear as day: “A name, Master Gladwiel.”
Kallis closed his eyes. “Olira… Aryanna…” he coughed.
“And where can I find this Lady Olira?”
“Farm… West Kilrer…”
The man’s eyebrows twitched upwards. “You sold King Leonis’s Lion of Zarall to a farmer girl in West Kilrer?”
“Please…” Kallis’s face was starting to darken. “Tell King Kastian… I didn’t know…”
The man’s grin disappeared, though the arrogance didn’t leave his eyes. His eyes flared with a dangerous gleam. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Master Gladwiel.” He leaned further. “When I see Kastian Vogros, there won’t be much talking.”
With that, he stood up. Kallis reached for the vial, but the Kaldorian snatched it off him.
The blonde man walked out of The Mad Lion with not so much as a one last glance at the slave trader. His heavy armoured companion followed him closely. The Kaldorian lingered long enough to walk over to the bar and leave the vial there, before following the other two outside.
Kallis looked at the vial with longing. He pressed his fist in his mouth, forcing himself to stop coughing and breathe. Five steps, he thought. According to the blonde man who’d poisoned him, that was all he had left.
Lucky Hamgard, who was towering over his unconscious employee, his face creased with concern, straightened up and noticed the mysterious vial left at his bar. He narrowed his eyes.
No, Kallis thought with panic. That’s mine.
Five steps.
He stood up and took the first.
2
THE MAN WITH THE BEAST TATTOO
The man with the beast tattoo was afraid of the light.
He had stayed awake all night; lying on rough, itchy hay and staring into the blackness. He always liked the darkness. Darkness was comfortable. Peaceful. Safe. Pain always came with light. They always carried a source of light with them when they came, unless it was already day.
Free men and women were afraid of darkness. That’s why he liked it.
It had been just over three weeks in this barn; long enough to get used to the smell of fresh hay and dung. The log walls were protection against the wind, but he could still feel the chill of the night.
The long-sleeved shirt he was given in the afternoon was too small for his size. Most shirts were too small for his size. Despite all the weight he’d lost over the last four months, he was still larger than most men. Although it didn’t fit properly, the old shirt was woollen and he was glad for it. The weather was noticeably colder in this part of the country. He wondered if it would get any colder than this. He’d heard about snow, but never seen it.
He ran his fingernails through his short, blonde hair and scratched his itchy scalp again. He must have left soap in his hair. He looked towards the dark corner where he’d left the bucket of water which he’d used the previous afternoon to wash up. He considered getting up and rinsing his hair thoroughly, then decided against it. The water was probably ice cold by now. She wouldn’t be happy if he started sneezing in the morning.
She wasn’t all that hard to anger. The man with the beast tattoo knew what she was capable of doing when she was angry enough.
When he noticed there was enough light to see the outline of the beams in the ceiling, his heart started racing.
He could pick out the shapes of the bulging pouches and the charms dangling from the beams. He could even trace the wards and symbols carved near the ceiling. These were religious and superstitious markings that free men and women believed would protect them and their properties from adverse events.
The man’s chest twisted as he watched the first grey light of the day chase the shadows away.
The morning was coming.
He knew what was going to happen to him in the morning. She hadn’t said it openly, but he knew. Why else would she bring him clean clothes and ask him to wash up otherwise? Why else would she even bother to save his life? He swallowed.
“Twilight of Infinity,” he whispered for the hundredth time since last night, then he bit his lips. Speaking without permission was still difficult, even when he was alone. He was getting better at it though. He had to.
With a sigh, he pushed himself off the pile of hay he used as a bed. He started pacing back and forth in the stall. The door of his stall was no more than a thin, wooden panel hanging on a pair of rusty hinges. It was latched from outside. Yet, the man with the beast tattoo had no doubt he could break it in half with one kick. He imagined sneaking out of this barn and making his way into the dark woods he’d seen around the farm. He shuddered.
Fantasies of escaping was more terrifying than the threat of losing his life. Cold sweat ran down his spine. He even took a couple of steps back from the door, just to be safe. No, he would never escape.
Hunters always find you.
He would never escape.
He would have to earn his freedom the only way he could: Through Twilight of Infinity.
He sighed out loud; too loud that it would be considered speaking without permission. An Act of Defiance.
He covered his face and took a deep breath to ease his anxiety. He could hear their voices outside the barn. They were waking up. Faint, grey light was sneaking through the walls of the barn. Morning was coming.
His eyes were drawn to the gleaming, meta
l pile that she had left near the door the previous afternoon; iron chains and a collar. He doubled over, suddenly feeling nauseous.
He was not unfamiliar with the feelings of fear. He’d dealt with it his whole life. However, before all this - before he’d met and lost Saradra, the love of his miserable life - the only fear he’d had was the fear of punishment. The fear of failing to please his Owners.
The fear which was brutally twisting his insides right now felt different somehow, though he couldn’t understand why. He hated not being able to stop his hands from shaking, and his knees from trembling. He hated losing control of his body like this.
Not my body, he reminded himself almost reflexively.
He sat down on his hay bed and crossed his legs. He closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing.
His old trainer had taught him how to meditate. Badimar would order him to relax and visualize his fights in his head. Go over his stances, foot works, techniques, and strategies.
The man with the beast tattoo missed fighting. He missed training. He missed the feeling of a sword’s handle in his palm, and the warmth of blood splattered against his skin.
Soon, his breathing returned to normal. Yet, he refused to open his eyes.
He heard the two young boys running and talking outside the barn. An older voice, though no more than sixteen, gave them an impatient reply. The wooden gates of the barn opened with a creak and the boys walked in. The mule named Warrior greeted them with a cheerful bray.
The man with the beast tattoo exhaled quietly. She would come for him soon. His eyebrows twitched. As if to deny the first light of the morning for as long as he can, he stubbornly kept his eyes closed.
The older boy took Warrior out of its stall. The man could hear the hard, wooden brush running down the animal’s back, grooming the short grey hair. His eyebrows knitted together. It was getting harder to concentrate, yet he refused to open his eyes. Just outside his stall, the boy finished brushing Warrior and started saddling him.
Outside the barn, he heard her voice.
A sense of despair rose up from the bottom of his stomach, threatening to choke him. He felt powerless. Insecure. Terrified, because for the first time in his life, he had a goal. He had something he wanted more than anything in life and the thought of not getting it petrified him. He bit his lips and swallowed hard. He attacked at the imaginary opponent in his mind.
The older boy lead Warrior outside the barn. Then, the younger ones took the small herd of cows outside their pen. When they all left, the man with the beast tattoo opened his eyes.
He could hear her talking to her brothers outside. Her voice was approaching to the barn gates. She was coming for him. His heartless, ill-tempered Owner.
He swallowed.
The cold, dim light of the dawn was filling the barn now. It painted his little stall grey. He scowled at the collar and chains. It shined maliciously under the grey light.
He picked the collar up, brought it around his neck and clasped the two ends together. The clank made him clench his jaws.
Her soft, hasty footsteps approached the door of his stall. There was a brief pause, just enough for a deep breath.
The man stood up and brought his hands together in front of him just before she opened the door.
3
OLIRA
Olira took a deep breath before opening the door.
She couldn’t help but feeling intimidated by the slave’s size every time she saw him, no matter how much she prepared herself. He wasn’t enormous, but he was taller and wider than most men she knew.
The shirt she gave him was stretched tight around his shoulders and arms. It was barely long enough to cover his stomach. The pants ended at his ankles. He looked like a man wearing a child’s clothes. If it was another man, Olira would have found that funny. She didn’t.
She remembered one of the sermons she attended as a child at the Twelve’s Temple in Oxreach. Men aren’t born to be killers, Priest Imral had said. He clearly didn’t mean purebred beasts.
This man was exclusively bred and raised from childhood to be good at killing, and Olira had no doubt he was. The idea of having a beast in her barn, this close to her brothers, made Olira shudder, although most people would find her fear unreasonable. The slave was a purebred after all.
Beast stood with his hands clasped in front of him. The chain hung from his neck, grazing the floor. His blonde hair was only two fingers long and the dark stubble on his cheeks was growing into a short beard. His skin was tanned as if he had spent long hours under the sun. His face wore a blank expression and his grey eyes were cast down. Everything about him screamed ‘docile’ and ‘submissive’.
Until one day when he realizes what he can do, Olira thought darkly.
She raised her chin and felt her eyebrows forming a fierce scowl. I am his Owner, she reminded herself. I know his Words. I can hurt him. I control him. She touched her front pocket where she’d put the paper containing the slave’s three Words, though she didn’t need to read them. She had already memorized them.
The chain clanked when Beast took a step forward. Olira supressed her flinch and replaced it with an even deeper scowl. The slave pulled the chain off the floor and held the end to Olira.
Once again, she wondered how this chain was supposed to stop him if he had decided to snap her neck. Nothing could stop this man from acting quicker than Olira could voice his First Word or Pain Word. He could kill her in an instant if he wanted to.
She scoffed, wiped her palms on her travel cloak, and took the chain. The metal was cold against her skin, but it somehow eased her nerves. Beast had put that collar around his neck himself. He had offered the chain to Olira, himself. The chain couldn’t be an efficient physical restraint maybe, but it was still a restraint.
“Did you wash up?” she asked, although she could smell the soap.
“Yes, Owner.” Beast’s voice was husky. It reminded Olira of an unused brush.
Olira felt like she needed to say more, but couldn’t think of anything. “Okay then. Follow me.”
She led him out of the stall. Beast walked one step behind her, matching her speed and keeping the chain loose between them. She tried to ignore the prickling sensation at the back of her neck and resisted the urge to tell the slave to walk in front of her.
Outside, the sun was still behind the hills, but the horizon was brightened with a cold, pale light. She had to leave now, otherwise she would lose too much time on the road.
She approached Gilann, who was tying Olira’s travel bags on Warrior’s saddle. The oldest of Olira’s little brothers, Gilann was already sixteen. He was tall and wide, like their father, though the slave dwarfed him.
Olira attached the slave’s chain on a strap at the back of the saddle. Gilann threw a cautious glance at the man. A subtle scowl creased his forehead. Olira knew her brother was as uncomfortable as she was when it came to dealing with slaves.
“Hey,” Olira touched Gilann’s arm. Her voice was defensive and apologetic. “You know I didn’t have any choice.”
Gilann blinked. “I know, I know,” he said quickly. “But… According to the Pure Lies of Chinderia…”
“I know what the book says,” Olira said firmly. “But it is what it is.”
Despite the casualness in her voice, she couldn’t stop thinking about their father’s favourite book either. What she was doing disturbed her more than she showed.
Gilann sighed, but nodded. He looked away towards their rich, tidy herb garden. “Dad would understand.”
Olira bit her lips. She didn’t even bother pretending their father would approve any of this. She was almost relieved when she noticed her youngest two brothers slacking off behind the herd. Twin boys, almost eight years old, were gawking at the slave, completely unaware that some of the cows were trailing off towards the herb garden.
“Hey!” Olira yelled at the twins. “Are you trying to lose daylight?”
“No,” Andar said smugly. He didn’t
make any effort to hide his fascination with the slave. He regarded the purebred beast as if he was something out of a mythical story. He didn’t quite comprehend how dangerous this man could be.
Not even a man, Olira reminded herself. The slave didn’t have a rhoa after all.
Luckily, at least Andar’s twin, Kowas had enough sense under his thick skull to notice the wayward cows behind their backs. Prodding with his herding stick, he guided them back on the pathway leading to the meadows behind the farm. He grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and dragged him after the herd. Olira scrutinized after them until they disappeared behind the hill.
Looking over the hill, she noticed the storm clouds in the distance. She sighed.
“Gilann, you need to cover Oxeron and Tiger Blossom in the afternoon, before that rain hits.”
“I know.”
“Oh, and Witch’s Barberry. Make sure the tarp is supported with fences. It can’t endure any wind stronger than a breath.”
“I know.”
“I should be back by tonight, but in case I’m not, you’ll need to get up early and uncover them…”
“To catch the morning dew. Olira, I know how to farm herbs.” He scowled. “Wait, why would you not be back by tonight?”
“You know how slow and thorough Master Tholtus is.” She glanced at the slave, who stood next to Warrior, motionless. “If I can’t make it back before the sun sets, I’ll stay at Jygan’s. The roads are too dangerous to travel at night these days. Lord Rhuagh’s men don’t patrol this region anymore… Stop looking at me like that!”
Gilann was listening to her ramblings; his head tilted back and a smirk blooming on his lips. “Right. You know, you can still stay at Jygan’s, regardless if you’re running late or not. We can survive a day without you.”
“Gilann…” she said with a hint of warning.
“Jygan is a good man, Olira. Just saying…”
“Gilann!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll shut up.”
Olira turned her back at him before Gilann could see how her cheeks flushed.