by James Fuller
“Try not to show fear,” Luna whispered across to them, “it gets them off.”
“Come now, ladies, I know you are all awake,” Lance called out smugly. “Do not be shy… we have a guest to impress. Go open the far window, Mitch, so our guest can better see the goods,” Lance ordered and Mitch quickly obeyed. “All are for sale except the two in the last cell on the end,” Lance explained. “We just brought them in and have yet to tame them and see what their worth might be.”
“I do not always like them tame,” the well-groomed man laughed as he glanced into the first cell. “Do not cry, my dear,” he cooed to the short, plump woman inside. “I am not going to hurt you. What is your name?”
The woman inside stared at the floor, not willing to look at the man while trying to hold back her whimpering.
“We caught this little thing on the road with her betrothed. Thought we got ourselves a double deal,” Lance explained. “A shame the cur could not fight, though his death provided some amusement.” The woman began to weep harder.
The man waved his hand in disgust and walked over to Luna’s cell and peered in. “Now what do we have here?” He mused, tapping the bars with one of the large rings on his fingers.
“Her name is Luna; she is a desert half-breed,” Lance explained eagerly.
“Nothing like a little wild meat,” the man said, licking his lips, a perverted gleam in his eyes as Luna tried to hide a shudder.
“This one over here is the virgin daughter of a wealthy merchant,” Lance said, walking over to Nina’s cell. “He owed us a great deal of money and could not pay, so instead, he gave us her. A very nice trade, we thought.”
“Very nice indeed,” the buyer smiled, rubbing his chin.
“I will cut your fat, slimy throat, pig!” Nina hissed through the bars at the man and he grinned all the wider.
“The girl’s got fire. I sometimes like that in a slave,” he replied. Nina spat in his face and his expression changed. “Even fire can be put out!” he growled, wiping his face with his sleeve before continuing down the hall. “What do we have here?” He whispered more to himself than Lance.
“This one’s my favorite,” Mitch grinned, reaching his arm in through the bars, scaring the small girl inside and he burst out in a hearty laugh.
“How old is she?” The buyer asked, his fingers getting fidgety with fancy.
“Not sure, my guess is around eleven,” Lance replied. “We found her in a barn in one of the villages that had been sacked by the barbarians. Everyone in the village was butchered, it is a wonder she is even alive.”
“There were all them burnt bodies in the barn too and half the barn had burnt down,” Mitch cut in.
“A virgin as well, I presume?” the buyer asked, raising an eyebrow at Mitch who was still tormenting her.
“She had better still be,” Lance said firmly, getting Mitch’s attention.
“Of course she is, Lance, I never touched her. You told me not to.” Mitch stuttered back, finally backing away from the cell.
“Does she have a name?” The man asked.
“She has not said a word the fortnight she been here - she might be a mute,” Lance told him honestly.
“I see. What else do we have today?” The man said, making it to the last two cells by the window and looking into the left cell. “Let me see your face girl!” He commanded and she slowly stood and walked over to the bars. “My god, what happened to this one?!” The man gasped in disgust.
“That one and her sister tried to escape,” Lance said bitterly, glaring at her. “A hard lesson learned, but timid and obedient now, I assure you.”
“A shame her sister gone and killed herself…she was better looking,” Mitch grumbled, hitting the bars and causing her to jump.
“I see, well I am not interested in buying damaged goods, even if wounds do heal,” the man replied before turning his attention to Nicolette and Shania’s cell.
“These two are not for sale yet,” Lance said again.
“Are you so sure?” the buyer asked, getting closer to the bars so he could see Nicolette better. “Show me your face girl,” He ordered, but Nicolette did not even flinch, she just sat on the cot with her back against the wall and head in her knees. “Do not make me tell you twice!” the man barked.
“I told you they are not for sale,” Lance repeated. “Now are you interested in any of the others?”
“I want to see her face,” the man barked at Lance. “I have a lot of money and a lot more power and I get what I want, now let me see her damn face, and if I so want to buy her then you will sell her to me, Lance!” the man hissed.
“I would mind your tongue,” Lance hissed back, his jaw firm.
“You would dare insult me like this, over a slave girl - are you daft in the head?” the man raged. “How dare you, you piece of filth!” the man barked, raising a hand to strike him, but was stopped as a dagger went around his throat.
“That would be a bad idea,” Mitch whispered in the buyer’s ear, pressing the blade harder to the man’s throat.
“What do you think you are doing?” the chubby man bellowed.
Lance sneered. “You think you can come into my camp and threatened me? You are the dimwit. Take him outside Mitch, to the Pit.”
Mitch grinned and pushed the man out of the building.
“The Pit! You cannot be serious, Lance!” the man cried out.
Lance stood there for several long moments, deep in thought, before he finally exited the slave barn. “Untie him,” Lance ordered, pointing to Zehava.
“What do you want from me?” Zehava coughed, knowing something was amiss as the man cut his bindings.
“I have a use for you,” Lance replied casually, his eyes cold.
“I am not doing anything for you,” Zehava spat defiantly, rubbing the blood back into his hands.
Lance smiled angrily and stepped in swiftly, a solid punch connecting with Zehava’s midsection, doubling him over in a coughing mess. “I really am getting sick of people telling me what ‘they’ and going to do. Let me get something straight to you. If you do not do as I tell you, your friend here…” Lance grabbed a handful of Dahak’s hair and pulled his head back, pressing his dagger into his throat. “…well, I will cut his throat and then I will give those two sweet little girls we found you with to my men to do with as they will, before I cut their throats as well! So what is it going to be?” he pushed the blade down harder, a thin trickle of blood escaping Dahak’s neck and he whimpered in terror.
Zehava glared at Lance. The slaver was not bluffing. “What do you want me to do?”
Lance smiled and sheathed his blade. “Smart choice, follow me.”
Zehava followed, two armed guards behind him. They stopped in front of a large pit in the middle of the camp.
“You see the man down there?” Lance pointed. “He wanted to buy one of your little girlfriends. Do you know what he was going to do with her if I sold her to him?” Lance asked, seeing the anger flare to life in Zehava’s eyes. “Go down there and kill him.”
“I can hardly stand straight and you want me to fight this man?” Zehava replied, a sick feeling building up in him.
“You are right…what was I thinking.” Lance said, throwing his dagger down into the pit. “Better get in there and get it before he does,” Lance teased, nodding his head and the brutes behind Zehava pushed him into the pit.
Zehava had somewhat expected the move and managed to land on his feet, though pain shot through his entire body at the impact and he fell to his hands and knees.
“By the way, if he kills you, I will give him the girl for free,” Lance called down.
“This is madness, Lance!” the man bellowed up to him, trying to find a foothold to climb out. “I am sorry, Lance, I swear it to you, I am sorry.”
“Far too late for that.”
“What do you want?” The man cried. “I will give you anything - money, weapons, girls, anything you name it!”
“H
ere, let me ask my men,” Lance replied smugly. “What do you want?” He called out to the small crowd that had gathered around.
“FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!” they all cheered together.
“There you have it,” Lance laughed, lifting his arms in the air with a helpless shrug. “Who am I to overrule what the collective wants.”
The man looked around franticly; fear looming on his face as he realized his fate was sealed. “This is not good business! Do you really think people will not notice I am gone?” the man cried, in a futile attempt to find freedom.
“See…you missed your chance at killing him, while he was at a disadvantage and on the ground,” Lance called down to him, seeing Zehava on his feet and the dagger firmly in hand.
“Please do not kill me, stranger!” The man pleaded to Zehava. “I beg of you, we do not need to do this!”
Zehava stood swaying - his body aching and his vision blurred from exhaustion. He looked at the blubbering mess in front of him. He was shorter than the average man, and by his plump belly Zehava could tell he was not much of a fighter. He had the look of a merchant and one that lived well and paid others to do his bidding.
“What are you waiting for?” Lance yelled down at Zehava. “Kill him already.”
“No… please! Do not listen to him, I have a family, four kids, they need me!” Tears staining his fat cheeks.
“Do not make me laugh,” Lance called down. “Do you know what he does to his eldest daughter after he has too much to drink? He is far from a decent human being. How about you tell him what you would have done to one of his friends, had you bought them?” Lance egged on.
Zehava knew he had no way out of this - he had to kill him. He forced himself to imagine everything this man could have possibly done that was vile and immoral. He thought about what he would have done to Nicolette and Shania and his blood began to heat. He took a step towards the man and stumbled slightly.
The man knew the time for words was over and took his chance when he saw Zehava stumble, charging forward in a mad rage and backhanding Zehava as hard as he could. Zehava fell back against the dirt wall, his mind finally set on one thing.
The man came in for a second attack, but Zehava was ready this time and ducked the wild swing, slamming his own fist into the man’s gut causing him to buckle over, gasping. Zehava kicked the back of the man’s knees and he fell to the earth. Zehava grabbed a handful of his thick, greasy hair and pulled his head back, exposing his fatty throat. He knew he had to do this quickly and not think about it - he had no choice.
“No, please, do not!” the man blubbered. “Please do not kill me.”
“I have no choice,” Zehava replied coldly as he ran the dagger across the man’s throat and pushed him to the ground.
Zehava dropped the dagger and walked back to the edge of the pit. He did not watch the man die - he had seen men die before and did not need to see it again, not like this. Zehava made sure he blocked out the gurgles and grunts of the man as his attempts to draw breath were filled with thick blood instead of air. He forced himself to think of Nicolette - his Queen, the only heir to Draco Kingdom. He had just saved her life, in a sense. Zehava looked up at Lance, who was smiling down at him.
“You will do just fine,” Lance said, lowering the ladder.
Chapter 6
Lord Dagon and his escort of soldiers thundered north for Draco Castle, stopping only when their horses threatened to collapse, setting up camp when it became too dark to travel safely. The men were tired and sore, yet not a single murmur of complaint left their lips. Each man knew the vital importance of their mission.
They did not slow as they rode through the ruins of the towns and villages they passed. There was nothing left in them worth saving. The scavengers and animals had already stripped most of the corpses clean - all that remained were the sun-bleaching bones of the souls that used to reside there. The thought of all the innocent people that died already only fueled Dagon’s resolve. He would avenge every one.
He had already lost two of his oldest friends to the bastard disguised as the Zandorian Prince. King Borrack and Lord Tundal had been like brothers to him. He smiled as he recalled when they had all first known they would be friends for life. It seemed nearly a lifetime ago now. It had been at the spring festival more than a score of years ago now.
They all had made it into the sword-fighting finals and were eager to take first prize, along with the bragging rights and affections of all who would witness it. Their dream was quickly doused by an unknown challenger in the finals; a large, curly, redheaded youth by the name of Morthos, who no one seemed to know. He had been dressed poorly; his sword had been dented and rusty as if he had taken it from a blacksmith’s scrap pile. No one had given the lad much thought at first, but his colossal strength, surprising speed, and unorthodox technique had quickly turned the crowd’s eye.
All three of them had taken a beating when they faced the large redhead and he had taken the well-deserved title of Champion. It had been while they were sitting in the infirmary tent, having their wounds tended, that they had discovered they were all of a like mind.
It had taken them nearly three days to track down the redheaded brute who had bested nobles and soldiers alike. To their surprise, he was nothing more than the son of a farmer, on a near-barren plot of land. They had found him working in the fields alone. At first, Morthos thought he was to be punished for beating them, but to his surprise that was not the case. They had come to learn from him, to better their own skills with a blade.
After seeing the condition that Morthos and his family lived, they had convinced their fathers to donate gold and laborers to the small farm, in exchange for Morthos’ teachings. It had worked out well for everyone and had not taken long until Tundal’s father hired Morthos full time, to train new recruits in Drandor. A title and job he still held.
Jarroth, Ursa and Marcus were his only trusted friend’s left…if Ursa and Marcus were even still alive. Dagon promised himself once he dealt with this imposter, Ursa and Meath’s names would be cleared of all blame, and their reputations restored. He could only hope they would hear the news quickly and return with the Princess. He paused… she was no longer a Princess. She was a Queen.
“My Lord, there are riders up ahead,” one of his scouts called back. Dagon ordered a halt, his men gripping sword and axe hilts eagerly.
“Hold steady, we know not if they are friends or foe.” Dagon shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand as the riders drew near.
“Halt! Who are you?” a soldier called out to the two riders, who were now close enough to be heard.
The two riders slowed their horses. “The name is Master Wallace and this is Master Jacob. We have been sent from Draco Castle to help Lord Dagon and his forces take back his lands. We have an armed force just around the bend of six hundred soldiers.”
“What did they just say?” Dagon called out, forcing his horse through his escort.
“Lord Dagon, I presume?” Master Jacob said, with a low bow of his head.
“How do you know that?” Dagon asked suspiciously.
Jacob smiled. “I recognize you from your painting in Draco castle, my Lord.”
“They said they were sent to aid us against the savages,” Dagon’s scout explained. “They are wizards.”
“The Creator just keeps giving,” Dagon beamed, his mood lifting. “Tell your soldiers to continue on to Mandrake. I will send two of my escort back with them to show them the way to our camps,” Dagon explained, drawing queer looks from both wizards.
“Where are you heading, my Lord?” Jacob asked, confused.
Dagon’s expression hardened. “Back to Draco Castle.”
Wallace spurred his horse closer. “Whatever for?” his brow rose in question.
“To kill the treasonous bastard we call Prince Berrit!” Dagon growled.
“What do you know?” Master Wallace asked, with growing intrigue.
“I know that I may need one of you to
help me… I will explain on the way.”
“You go with him, Wallace,” Jacob replied. “I would much rather kill barbarians than entangle myself in that plot.”
Wallace nodded to his companion, knowing Jacob was a war-wizard and preferred the company of warriors over nobles. “I will accompany you back to Draco Castle and assist you in your task, my Lord.”
*****
The night was eerily still and tranquil. All that moved was the slow rising fog that escaped from the depths of the earth. The expected noises of the jungle had ceased when the unholy act had begun, almost as if it did not want to add its voice to the sinful act in fear of association.
“How do you feel?” Astaroth asked almost eagerly, looking down at Keithen on the cool earth.
Keithen was on his hands and knees, his head slumped between his arms, his body still shuddering and trembling violently. His body ached and his mind swirled with fear and excitement. Slowly, he opened his eyes - the world spun and nausea quickly overtook him. He vomited once again.
Astaroth knew what Keithen was experiencing - he too had felt that way the first few times he had taken a Gift. “It will pass after a while, I promise you. The more Gifts you take, the easier it will become.”
Keithen pushed himself up and forced his eyes to focus on the limp bodies tied to the tree in front of him. He looked up at the apprentice wizard and one of his mentors, smiling maliciously. Astaroth had allowed him both of their Gifts as reward for his help.
Slowly the nausea lifted and he gathered his feet beneath him. Still, his head pounded and his body screamed in protest, but he ignored it, relishing the moment. He felt different - as if he was taller, stronger, braver. He could feel his Gift inside him, flowing through him more pronounced than ever before.
“It feels good, does it not?” Astaroth asked, seeing the energy behind Keithen’s eyes now.
“It is… it is like nothing I have ever felt before. I can feel the power all throughout me. Its rushing through my veins like a river, when before I could hardly feel it. Now I can feel it …everywhere.” Keithen replied, holding up his palm, the air around it crisped as moisture was pulled to his hand, instantly forming a sphere of solid ice. “Amazing!” he gasped.