Sold to Serve: The Dark Brothers Book 1

by Kyra Alessy

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  Chapter 1

  It was hot for the time of year. The midmorning sun beat down on her fair skin, making her squirm in the ropes that held her to the wooden slaver’s pole. If she survived the day, whatever wasn’t covered would be well and truly burnt by this evening. She glanced down at her body. Her robes and shift were long gone, but thankfully some of her smallclothes remained. The wrapping around her hips provided at least some modesty, though her chest was bared to all. A good portion of her was still caked in dried mud from the night before. That might at least help with the sun, she thought.

  A bead of sweat trickled down her scalp under her hair, leaving an itch in its wake. She pushed herself up onto her toes, but it was no use. Her wrists were bound too high to reach. The best she could do was to rub her head on her arm, spreading the wetness and dirt alike.

  She scanned the busy street of Kingway, a typical market of trinkets and foodstuffs in a bustling town, large enough to get lost in, but certainly nothing like the mammoth cities in the north she’d heard about. She and two others, an unfriendly old man with a nasty cough and an equally hostile youth, were the only slaves for purchase, it seemed. Neither of them had spoken to her since she had found herself chained alongside them in the wagon.

  Her lip quivered. Only yesterday evening she was saying the final rites, beginning the three-day ritual that would see her cast off her old life and step happily into the priesthood. Being a Priest of the Mount was – well, if she was honest, it wasn’t as if it had been her fondest dream. She admitted to herself that she did not feel the call to serve the way the other novices professed to, though she had never spoken those thoughts aloud. For her, a life in service to the Mount was a means of escape and of safety. Complete and irreversible. Or at least it would have been in three days’ time when she said her vows and swapped her grey novice’s robes for the black ones of the priests. A tear tracked its way down her dirty cheek. For the thousandth time, she hoped to the gods that this was a dream, just a silly nightmare, and she’d wake up a bit late for morning prayer and be chastised as usual. But as she heard the tell-tale jingle of the coin purse at the portly slaver’s belt, she knew it wasn’t so.

  She had been stolen last night as she slept in her narrow cot in the long room with the other novices. A tall, cloaked figure hefted her up easily, covered her mouth and threatened to kill her if she struggled. She was frozen; heart thundering, ears roaring. Her life had not prepared her for anything like this. It wasn’t until she felt the thud as she landed on the ground outside the walls of the cloister that she finally came to her senses. After her months of hiding, they had found her … she couldn’t go back! She pushed him as hard as she could, but he didn’t let go. He grunted in pain and slipped in the mud instead, taking her with him and covering them both in it. He recovered his balance first and slapped her hard.

  When she awoke, she was chained in the wagon and her abductor was gone. Her angry demands, questions and, finally, pleas were pointedly ignored by the other slaves and saw her gagged by the slaver; the smelly rag was still tied tightly around her head and jammed between cracked lips she wished she could moisten. She’d realised then that she’d been wrong. He hadn’t taken her to bring her back to her family, nor to Blackhale, her betrothed. It had simply been to sell her. She’d never had to worry about this before. She knew it was done, especially here in the south, but the estate had been guarded and no one stole freewomen with property. She had been taken for no other reason than that she was nearest the window in the dormitory and she was no one. A part of her had been relieved – at the time.

  Now, the slaver approached her, the wisp of a licentious smile on his face from the attention her semi-naked body was garnering, filthy though it was. He didn’t seem interested in her except for the money she would bring him, thank the gods. He looked past her, into the crowd, and she jumped as he suddenly bellowed, ‘Flesh auction! Midday!’

  Flesh auction. She closed her eyes rather than see everyone’s on her. She’d heard of such things, but of course never been to one. And now she was to be the main attraction.

  She was left to braise, and after a while she couldn’t help but drift, half-dozing and pretending she wasn’t here, that this wasn’t happening. The voices, noise and frenzy of the marketplace melted into the background.

  ‘Is she alive? Looks like a dried-up corpse.’

  Her eyes opened just a crack. They felt sore, swollen. She turned her head towards the voice and was ensnared by a man’s gaze. He was older than she, with dark hair that was greying at the temples. He was a large man and wore a fine green tunic embroidered with a house sigil that she recognised but couldn’t place.

  He perused her body slowly from bare feet to chest, where his stare lingered, and she shifted uncomfortably, her face burning from more than the sun, which was now almost overhead. He smirked when his eyes met hers.

  ‘I’ll be at the auction,’ he called – to the slaver, she assumed – ‘but looking at her, the price better be low.’ Then he stepped closer and said, for her ears alone, ‘You’re going to be mine, girl.’ His hand darted out and kneaded her breast, pinching her nipple hard. A hoarse cry erupted from her throat, weak and muffled by the gag, and she kicked out at him instinctively. He chuckled and pulled the gag down, taking in her face almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Save your strength,’ he muttered. ‘You’re going to need it before the day is done.’ And then he was gone, leaving her shivering at his words even though she was absurdly grateful she could finally moisten her lips.

  Looking out into the street, her eyes filled with tears. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but, perhaps naïvely, it wasn’t that. What was going to happen to her? She’d never even kissed a member of the opposite sex nor had the talk that she knew other girls had before their wedding nights. She wished her father hadn’t kept her so cossetted. The most she’d seen were servants’ stolen moments in stairwells when she’d snuck around at night. She had little idea of what to expect.

  She noticed a man standing not far from her. He seemed frozen in the middle of the street – in everyone’s way. People tutted as they passed him, but he ignored them. He was staring at her – not at her nakedness like the others, at her. She stared back, taking him in. He looked … weathered. That was the first word that came to mind to describe him. That and handsome, she supposed, in a brutish sort of way. He looked like a stable hand or a … a mercenary. Yes, that was apt. She’d never met a sell-sword before, but he was what she imagined them to be like. The look in his eyes was hard; dangerous. His hair was the colour of wheat, cropped quite short. His shoulders were broad. He was a head taller than anyone else in the street and she guessed she’d barely make it to his chest. He wore black despite the heat of the day, and his dark leather boots were dusty and worn. He was no farmer nor merchant, that was for certain.

  The slaver appeared in front of her with a bucket and, before she knew what he was about, she was doused in freezing water. She gasped at the sudden cold on her burning skin and screamed in shock. Then he beg
an to sluice the water down her body, rubbing the worst of the mud and dirt away with his hands like she was a dog or a horse. She twisted and kicked, striking his shin with her foot, and he swore and took a short whip from his belt. He struck her twice in quick succession, and she squealed as it bit into her back and shoulder.

  ‘Please, I beg you. Stop!’ she whimpered.

  ‘Shut your mouth, slave,’ he growled at her and then, as if only just taking in her words, ‘You speak prettily. He didn’t tell me where he found you, but you aren’t some village lass, eh?’ He sounded surprised and then made a deep, horrible sound of satisfaction. ‘They’re going to be chomping at the bit for you.’

  She stopped fighting, not liking the gleam that suddenly appeared in his eye. She held her breath as he continued with his ministrations. His impersonal fingers trailed up and down her skin until she could bear it no longer and then he poured another bucket over her head. She gritted her teeth and didn’t make a sound, sagging in the ropes that bound her numb hands as he pushed the gag back into her mouth.

  He cut the bonds moments later and she fell to her knees. The younger of the other two slaves picked her up at the slaver’s direction and they began to walk down the road to the town square. She was glad of it. At least this hid her body somewhat and she didn’t have to traipse through the town with everyone watching. Even if she was of a mind to walk, she didn’t have the strength to struggle away from his grasp anyway.

  She was thrown roughly into the middle of a raised platform. Grit dug into her knees, but she didn’t move until the slaver wrapped his meaty hand in her long dark hair and dragged her to her feet. He began to speak loudly for the gathered crowd to hear.

  ‘This slave comes to me from a ruling house. She’s a hard worker. She can cook and clean. She can perform any menial tasks set before her. Who will give me five?’

  ‘House slaves go for thrice that in these parts!’, yelled someone from the crowd. ‘Your words ring false.’

  ‘House slaves are rarely sold,’ another added from close by. ‘Why has this one been cast out?’

  ‘She was caught stealing,’ the slaver replied smoothly, unmoved at being branded a liar. ‘But she comes from good stock. Needs a firm hand is all.’

  Kora gaped at his lies, looking at the men and women around her whose faces ranged from surprise to outright revulsion. The man was a fool. No one of means would buy such a house slave for their home. Short of killing their master, thievery was one of the worst grievances that a slave of status could have against them. It meant they weren’t trustworthy and therefore useless to a noble family of any rank.

  ‘I’ll give you three for her,’ someone called out, sounding bored.

  She recognised the voice as the wealthy man in the green tunic from before and tensed. He didn’t want a house slave, he wanted a pleasure one. If she knew anything at all, it was that.

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Seven.’ Green tunic.

  The voices sounded uninterested. This was very much not the frenzy of bidding the slaver had expected. She didn’t look up to see who bid on her; she was too busy praying to the gods that this would not be her fate.

  She realised dully that the number had stayed at seven. The slaver’s hand tightened in her wet hair. She winced in pain as he pulled her head back, displaying her body more blatantly as if just realising his blunder. His hand reached down to the cloth wrapped around her hips. He meant to pull it off! Here in front of everyone. He wasn’t trying to peddle her simply as a house slave anymore. No! She twisted away from him with a cry and she felt his grip on her hair loosen, but he pulled her back roughly with a forced laugh that spoke of a nasty beating with that small lash he carried if she was still in his power later.

  ‘Come, come, good people. She’s a spirited one is all. Worth ten at least!’

  ‘Twenty.’

  The crowd hushed and the slaver’s eyes gleamed. He was silent for a moment. ‘Can you pay it?’ he asked at last.

  ‘I can.’

  The voice was hard and gruff. She sighed through the gag in relief. That wasn’t the man in the green tunic’s voice. She opened her eyes and dared a look. The man from the street. The mercenary. She swallowed hard, in some ways more terrified. What could he want her for that was any different from the other one? Her eyes flicked to the man who’d been outbid, his crisp lime clothes a beacon in the crowd. He looked gracious, as if he didn’t care, but she could see a barely contained fury in his countenance that no one else seemed to notice. He was anything but satisfied with the outcome.

  The blond sell-sword came forward. Her new master until she could escape and make her way back to the Temple. She had a week, perhaps, before the moons moved out of alignment. After that it would be too late to begin the rites, and the door to the Mount would be closed to her for good.

  The slaver waved him back. ‘You can come for her later.’ He squeezed her arm hard as he said it, his eyes promising more pain.

  She turned her gaze to the mercenary, trying not to let the fear show in her eyes. The slaver wanted time for his revenge. No doubt he’d make up some lie about her trying to escape if asked.

  The mercenary’s hard expression didn’t waver as he threw a bag of coins onto the dais. It landed at the slaver’s feet. ‘I’ll take her now.’

  Thank the gods. Her shoulders almost sagged in relief, but she didn’t want to give the awful man any satisfaction.

  The slaver’s lip curled slightly as he manoeuvred his body down to pick up the purse. He didn’t let go of her, instead using his teeth to open the drawstring. Looking inside, he smiled coldly.

  ‘So be it,’ he said and pushed her hard. She yelled as she fell off the platform, but she was caught long before she hit the ground. She didn’t need to look up to know it was him, her new master.

  But she did look up, and her breath hitched as her eyes caught his. For a moment neither of them moved, but then his gaze flicked down, just a moment before she realised she was in a man’s arms all but naked. She began to squirm and he set her down, his face hardening as he looked at her. Someone handed him the Writ of Ownership, which he took and pocketed, not even deigning to look at it.

  Then he simply turned and walked away, what was left of the now-dispersing crowd parting before his long stride. Unsure of what to do, and feeling green tunic’s eyes on her, she hurried after him, crossing her arms over her chest to conceal herself.

  She caught up with him as he neared the outskirts of the small town. He never even looked back to ensure she followed. They came to a stable, where a large horse was tethered outside. He finally turned to her, a length of rope in his fist. He took her hands and looped the rope around her wrists, tying them together in front of her firmly but gently. The other end he tied to the saddle. He took the horse’s bridle and began to lead it towards the forest road but hesitated. He turned and her eyes flicked to a knife he now held, wondering what he would do. She was surprised when the gag around her head went slack and fell to the ground. She immediately licked her cracked lips, grateful for this small mercy after the past day.

  He mounted his horse in silence and it began to walk slowly, its gait steady. She was pulled forward and she gasped. She took a halting step and then another, wondering where he was taking her. Her skin was on fire, she needed water and she was this man’s prisoner, but it was either move forward or be dragged, so walk she did.

  They travelled for a time. She wasn’t sure how long for, but the forest began to darken and still horse and rider showed no signs of stopping. She focused, as she had all afternoon, on putting one bare foot in front of the other. It was all she could do. Step. Step. Step. On and on and on.

  Finally and inevitably, her toes caught a stone and she stumbled, her knees giving way in betrayal. At first he didn’t stop, and she was afraid he’d let the horse plod on, dragging her behind like a felled deer.

  ‘Please. Stop. I beg you.’ Her voice broke and she hated the sound of it.

  The hors
e drew to a standstill. She tried to stand up as he dismounted and approached, but it was no use. Her legs just wouldn’t hold her any longer. She fell back to the ground with a low cry.

  ‘I can go no further. Please let me rest,’ she implored, raising her eyes to his.

  He looked surprised at her weakness, as if he hadn’t even considered she might tire. She saw no kindness in his face, and for a horrible moment she thought he might simply continue, whether she was on her feet or not.

  But he let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Very well. We’ll camp nearby for the night.’ He scanned the forest path ahead of them. ‘But not on the road.’

  She gave a squeak as he picked her up and set her on his horse’s back. His eyes narrowed at her. ‘He’s a war horse. He won’t obey you, so don’t even try,’ he ground out.

  She nodded as she gripped the saddle with her bound hands and he led them into the forest. Soon she heard the trickle of water and they came upon a small clearing with a shallow stream running beside it. She looked around her. The trees here were old; thick and foreboding. She shivered and then inwardly chastised herself. When had she become so foolish? They’re just trees. It didn’t matter that the closest thing to a forest that she’d ever been in before today was a small hunting wood on her family’s land. She’d spent time in nature as a novice during her training, after all. Though she’d never camped outside overnight.

  The mercenary took her from the horse and set her on the mossy ground, pushing her down to sit with a heavy hand on her shoulder. She frowned at his back while he busied himself with his horse, ignoring her once more. She looked out into the forest and then at the stream. After the ride, she was feeling a bit better. Should she try to run while his back was turned or slake her thirst? Shaking her head at the thought of attempting to get away in her current state, she half crawled to the bank, gulping the cool, clear water until she felt sick. She wouldn’t have got far anyway, she reasoned, and there would be other opportunities.