by K T Munson
She turned back to the road, watching as other travelers went by, diverting their eyes. Shame, guilt, pity, disgust, and emotionless stares; she had become familiar with every kind of emotion on the faces that passed her. After days of nothing to look at and learn but the many expressions of misery, she’d learned them all. Her heart was broken, and all her emotions had spilled out from it and onto the muddied ground. She was empty, a slave without rights or freedom.
A family of five on a covered wagon moved past, pulled by two cows. The man studied them, but the woman averted their eyes with pity on her face. She saw a young girl stick her head out and look around curiously. Her hair was pushed under a white hood, and her eyes darted around. She hoped the girl died young and never saw the sorrows of the world.
Celia was leaving her home, Lorian, to be carried to the heart of Ostapor. She saw a man in dark clothes and a girl on a horse go by. He walked, and she rode, and although they traveled together, they didn’t seem to belong together. At least they were free, while she was alone and belonged to no one but her slaver.
Looking at the man’s long, dark hair reminded her of Harrison. She closed her eyes, and she was back in Lorian. The moon guided her to her lover as he waited for her along the river bank. His hair was curled coals, his lips full, and his hands hungry. She could remember them together consummating their love in the light of the moon.
It was summer; the heat had filled her veins with madness. Her legs had carried her over streams and through meadows. She had moved with the sureness of someone who was naïve to the secret workings of the world. Sheltered and sure, her legs had carried her by fading light towards her own doom.
Harrison had been waiting on the bridge, a link between his world and hers. Their two towns traded with one another but did little else. Her people worshiped the land and believed it should remain as untouched and pure as their bodies. They bathed daily, and only copulated for reproduction of offspring. When a child was born, the community raised them, there were no mothers and fathers, only the community.
Harrison and his people were from Damshir but only believed in the Lord of Light. They had left Damshir in hopes of building their own small community in Lorian, fifty years prior. They had built their town, and it had flourished in the fifty years, built on the craftsmanship of their woodworkers. They made everything from bows to furniture and sold it all throughout the north and even so far as the Tiam.
Celia could still hear his voice as he swore to love her always, that they were bound by Heaven to bring happiness together as a joined pair and swear eternal love to one another. That she should leave her community and join his so that they might be together. She had done as he asked; she had packed her things and gathered her courage.
She had been caught trying to leave, and her sister had betrayed her. Though they did not have blood relations, Silvia and Celia knew they were born from the same womb. Their green eyes, bright as emeralds could only have come from one person. They differed in that Silvia had hair as bright the sun and Celia’s hair as dark as mud.
When they had discovered she had soiled her body, they wanted to cast her out. Instead, Silvia had gone to Harrison, to make up for her betrayal. When Harrison came, he claimed she had seduced him, and he renounced her. Still, she did not know why he had betrayed her, only that he had. She had begged him to admit what he said as she screamed that her heart was his and he was her love. Love; the word left a bitter taste in her mouth. She nearly spat out the word as she opened her eyes and looked at the sullen sky. Clouds blocked out the sun, and yet the rain did not come, it just settled and waited. Celia would have cried, but there was nothing left to cry. She was empty now. Her sister had betrayed her, the community that had been her family all her life had sold her to buy grain, and the man she had loved abandoned her. She had been a happy little fool, but a fool nonetheless.
She must have fallen asleep because when she awoke she could see the city in the distance. Ostapor, the name felt dirty in her mind because it stood against everything she believed in. It was unlawful and unholy to own a slave; one of the few laws of Lorian was no one may own another person. Selling them was another thing entirely.
Many were sold into slavery, and there were all types of slaves; pleasure, cooking, and killing. All of them were nothing but useful cattle bought and sold. She almost felt like mooing to show that she too was a piece of cattle. That amused her so much she smiled, though it was twisted and sharp, it was still a smile.
Once she had burned as bright as any flame, filled with happiness and besotted with the aspect of a true love. She had dreamt of a family where she was a wife and her children called her mother. She had dreamed of something different. As she gazed up at the walls of the city, her dreams turned to ash in her mouth.
Chapter 6
Lancel Storm
The wall was quiet today, but the light of day did not make it any less daunting. He looked to the north where he knew their real goal, the Maiden’s Gate, was. Eliron had written to say that he was returning to the front and should join him shortly. Two days had passed, and it would not be long until he arrived.
He could hear the sound of trees being felled to make fresh battering rams. Their siege weapons were being distributed up and down the wall, and yet the men on the walls did not seem intimidated. He had wondered where their strength came from; was it because if this fell all of Roanoak would be open to them or was it because when Eliron’s men had first attacked, they had failed?
It had taken hundreds of years for the other wall to fall and Eliron had only taken it by going around and into the desert. This wall, the last wall, had proved to be as formidable as the first and Eliron’s tricks would not work a second time. Lancel’s King would need to think up new ones if King Rohan denied him. Yet what Lancel knew of the King of Roanoak led him to believe they would not be forced to such terms. Even as he thought this, the news of battle to the north rippled through the ranks.
“Hold,” he told them, his voice coated in authority.
Lancel was close to an Eagle’s nest; he selected one, mounted, and sent it north with him holding tight. They soared over men, still without orders but to hold the line. He saw the wink of battle, the spray of blood as he circled; the Maiden’s Gate lay open and her soldiers spilled forth. What fool would open the gate and march into an enemy they could not hope to defeat?
Lancel rode the Eagle down to the northern Eagle’s nest, the bird was undaunted by the bloodshed. He quickly dismounted and left the Eagle to rest and eat. Lancel rushed headlong into battle, yelling orders into the chaos. Men knew his voice, recognized its authority amidst the frenzy of battle. He pulled the men into order in the back and reformed the lines.
He marched them forward as a line of shields and strength, as he roared, “Push them back to the Maiden’s Gate!”
Inch by inch they pushed, shield and muscle driving forward into their undisciplined counterparts. Men’s voices of agony filled the air as they fell to Vargosian sword and spear. Someone was trying to call order, but their voice fell on deaf ears and was lost. They continued forward until the last abandoned the fight and fled to the Maiden’s Gate.
“Fall back!” He called as the Maiden’s Gate began to close and soldiers of Roanoak still outside the gate scurried to dive for safety.
The Vargosian’s claimed their wounded and moved them back to their ranks. Lancel saw to the wounded and brought the large walls to blot out the arrows, should they bring archers next. Men guarding the Maiden’s Gate doubled and Lancel waited. Soon there would be women sent to gather the dead and bring them back to Roanoak.
“See to the wounded,” Lancel commanded as the herbalists were brought forward.
Lancel sought out Roderick, the one put in charge of the Maiden’s Gate. He was an older man, well-seasoned, with a rough personality that was somehow endearing. Lancel found him with a broken leg and a wounded pride.
“What happened?” Lancel asked as he sat watching the herbali
st set the break.
“Bloody came out of nowhere,” Roderick said, his face gone white from pain. “They rushed out of the gate and straight into our unprepared men. It was slaughter at first. I tried to call order but one of them bledin' horses ran me down and left me crippled in the mud.”
“Who led them?” Lancel asked, wondering what fool had thought to charge, when they should have hidden.
“Someone in black armor on a white horse,” he said, and jerked when the herbalist touched a part of his leg.
The herbalist looked to Lancel and said, “When I set the break, he will not remain conscious.”
“Do it,” Lancel said and rose.
“Sit back down,” she said and nodded towards his arm, “I will see to you next.”
Lancel glanced over at his arm only to see his shirt torn under his armor and blood. He had been wounded and gingerly touched the wound. He had not been hurt badly, nothing but a glancing spear. Yet he knew that sometimes the smallest cuts were the deadliest.
Roderick gave a cry and passed out as she set the break. She set two planks on either side and bound it to his leg. He murmured, but Roderick was no longer conscious. The only one he knew that rode a white horse and wore black armor was the Water Dancer, Prince Cain. He had seen the Water Dancer and he was a formidable foe. Something was wrong, either Roderick’s memory, or the Water Dancer had taken leave of his senses.
The herbalist finished with Roderick and silently came over to tend to his wounds. He sat quietly and let an herbalist wrap his arm in fresh bandages. She smelled of an earthy forest floor and mothballs. The woman had deft hands and she did not take long to wrap the wound.
“Any word on how many dead?” he asked, his voice held carefully in check, as not to betray his sadness.
“Six of our dead so far, but there will be more,” she said, her voice as emotionless as his.
Lancel saw to the dead, there were nine by the end of the day. It was strange; the Maiden’s Gate still remained closed throughout the day. No one came for the dead as the bodies cooked under the fading sun. It was evening before a rider appeared at the gate. He was clad in black armor and mounted on a white stallion. How these people loved their horses.
“I would speak to whoever commands this unit.” The man called.
Lancel rose from his seat, walked to the edge of their camp, and called back, “I am Lancel Storm, and I command this unit. To whom do I speak with?”
The gate began to rise as the man’s horse pulled back. He rode it forward once the gate was high enough. Lancel could hear the strain of the old gears and chains. Lancel knew, before he spoke, from the way he moved, this was the Water Dancer. A chill went up his spine and Lancel knew something was wrong.
“I am Prince Cain of Roanoak, I demand passage and to speak with King Highlander.” he said, his eyes blazing hatred behind his helmet.
“You can collect your dead.” Lancel answered. “You may do so unmolested.”
“I demand the King answer for this butchery,” Prince Cain yelled furiously, his stallion dancing under his feet. “For the death of a Prince!”
Lancel felt all the hair on his arms and neck stand on end. He tried not to show his discomfort, but instead hid it behind his shock. A Prince’s death would end all talks of surrender; the people would rally behind King Rohan and demand justice for their fallen Prince.
“King Highlander was not present, nor is he now,” Lancel admitted. “You may gather your dead and return on the morrow.”
“I shall,” Cain said, his voice full of contempt, “You can be sure of that.”
Lancel watched him and any hope Eliron had at ending this war, pass beneath the gate.
Chapter 7
Celia
The city smelled worse than any farm; perhaps because the city tried to hide the smell under heavy perfumes and incense. It was like a funeral that never ended. She stood on the street, chained to the other slaves. Next to her, a man yelled out the price of blood oranges from Tiam and her own slaver yelled for the buyers to make an offer on his new merchandise.
She was a piece of fruit. She was used to being called a piece of meat but never a piece of fruit. The thought nearly made her laugh, but she turned her smile into a scowl. A woman stepped from a fine litter carried by fifteen slaves. She looked at each in turn, lifting heads and asking questions.
When she got to Celia, the woman smiled while inspecting Celia’s neck and asked, “Are you untouched?”
“No.” Celia answered when all she really wanted to do, was spit in her face.
“Pity,” the woman said with her long finger under Celia’s chin, “I do love a good virgin.”
The woman ended up buying none of them before climbing back into her litter of gold and being carried away. That is how it all went but sometimes they were bought. Celia was inspected twice and instead another was bought. She was relieved when evening came and many of the market places closed to return home for dinner with their families.
As they were being loaded, a man on an elephant rode over. His hair was shaped into great butterfly wings around his head and he dismounted by a small set of steps, and then on the backs of his slaves. He was ridiculous to Celia, and she wondered if his hair flapped he would just float away. He called to one of the slavers and the man waited for him.
He inspected each row and chose a woman in the group in front of her. She was relieved and hunched her back. She was not purchased yet, and there was still a chance she could escape. Celia felt a hand on her shoulder and she looked up in surprise. The man with the butterfly hair smiled at her, his teeth stained yellow and he smelt of tobacco.
“I will take this one, too,” he said, and Celia jerked away on instinct.
The slaver came to punish her, but the man raised a hand and said, “I will not have you beat what is mine.”
Celia had not expected kindness from the man purchasing her. Her shackles were undone, and he led both women up the stairs made of men until they reached the steps mounted to the saddle. She glanced down wondering, if she ran now she could get lost in the departing crowd.
The man reached back for her and said, “Do not worry my little flower, you are quite safe.”
Hesitantly, Celia grasped his hand and let herself be pulled onto the back of the elephant. She sat down next to the dark-skinned girl, as she consumed the wine offered to her. He filled a second cup and passed it to Celia. She tried to smile but it came out more of a grimace as she swallowed a sip of the wine.
“I am Vovo,” he said taking a drink from a golden goblet. “What names were you born to?”
“Celia,” she answered softly and took another drink.
The other girl finished her wine and held it out for more as she said, “Divina.”
“You have been bought by a good man,” he insisted. “I will shower you with jewels and beautiful things.”
“Why would you do this?” Celia asked suspiciously.
“I am the owner of the Satin Pillow and many more,” he answered, as he swirled the wine around in his cup.
Celia’s eyes went wide as she choked on her wine and asked, “A brothel?”
The worst, she would have preferred to be a house slave to a pleasure slave. Celia tried to stand but couldn’t seem to rise as the world tipped. She glanced at the other girl to gauge her reaction only to find her fast asleep. She was curled up and the empty wine cup was spilt on the silk sheets. Celia immediately tried to stand but the world swirled once more, the lines blurred, and she fell to her knees.
She gazed at Vovo who smiled at her and said, “You are mine now.”
Celia awoke in darkness; she blinked a few times and found that moonlight was pouring through a window. She stood and the jewelry on her neck and wrists clinked together. She wore a sheer outfit of black. She tried not to grimace at the realization someone had undressed her. She strode to the window and gazed out into the night. Her earrings sounded like little bells as she walked, until she was bathed in moonlight.
It was only then, she realized her outfit was deep purple.
She heard the sweep of clothes before she knew anyone was there. She turned around, her own jewelry noisily announcing her movements. Vovo stood with a lantern in his hand, making his hair fill with holes and made it look like his butterfly was full of light on one wing. Taking a worried step back; she knew what was to come.
He strode forward as he spoke, “I always try the merchandise before I let others use it. Let’s see if I place you with honor, at the front or hide you in the back, in shame.”
She took a step away from the bed and closer to the only other door in the room. When he saw what she was doing he tilted his head back and laughed. She bolted; her legs carried her to the door and through it as his laughter followed. The guard outside the door caught her by the arm and held her there. She tried to pull away but he would not give.
“How disappointing,” Vovo said walking to the threshold of the room.
“What shall I do with her?” The guard asked, a large dark-skinned man with one eye and a bald head.
“Take her to the red room.” Vovo said closing the door.
She struggled to get away as she asked, “What is the red room?”
“Your punishment,” he answered, and she went suddenly very still, in fright.
She was hauled along regardless of her fear. They took the first set of stairs and then another until they were underground. Here the perfume didn’t penetrate and it smelled of suffering and rotting flesh. She shuddered and felt tears threaten but she held her head up; nothing would stir her to tears.
He marched her down the row of cells, a dungeon of sorts in the dark. Hands reached for him, begging for food and death. In that instant she knew she was among the darkness that her people feared. The impure deserved to be forever tormented, with the crime they committed. This was her punishment, worse than what Vovo had in store her.
