by T. Norman
“That evening, Allister disappeared while you sat waiting for Marian. She never showed up to your meeting, so you decided to go looking for her. I followed you as you walked down to the lake and heard the screams.” The memory flowed through Han’s mind of running down the grassy hill toward the huddled figures wrestling on the ground. “I thought you were going to kill him, I really did. I screamed in horror as you threw Allister off of her and drew your sword to his throat.”
Victor’s eyes were shut, but Han knew he was listening to every word he said.
“Allister laughed as your sobs mixed with Marian’s. He laughed as you realized that he had taken from you the one thing you desired.”
Victor’s eyes shot open. His cheeks burned red with fury and anger toward his cousin. “Get to the point.”
Han nodded. “Well, it seems Marian kept a secret from our dear cousin, a secret that came to life nine months after our encounter. Allister gave Marian a son. That son recently helped a certain princess escape Ansaroth, fell overboard in a storm, and is now sitting outside these doors in chains.” Han smiled as his brother saw their situation for what it was.
“You would have me kill Allister’s bastard son because of what he did to that whore?” Victor hid his true feelings well, but Han was always able to see past the surface when it came to his brother.
Han laughed at the absurdity of his brother’s question. “On the contrary, I would have you endorse him as the rightful heir to the throne.”
For the first time in his life, Han watched his brother’s jaw drop in shock. “You want me to endorse a bastard as the heir to the throne?”
“You seem to forget that our dear cousin foolishly married for love. To a woman that was barren, I might add.” Han had heard the rumors, and he knew the truth. “We both know it’s true. The queen was unable to hold a child, so Allister took his needs elsewhere.”
“That might be, but any child that came to them, besides Dirk, he had killed.”
“That’s true,” Han admitted. “But you forget that those children were born after Dirk. Our current crown prince is eighteen, but our newly found prince is twenty-five. By rights, that makes him the heir.”
Victor shook his head. “What good would it do, making this man the heir? We already have a capable prince.”
Han clenched his fists, trying to calm himself. “We both know that Allister is ruthless. I have no doubt that he will conquer all of Draxos and bring it under his rule. However, I struggle to believe that he can keep the peace.” Victor nodded in agreement as Han continued. “Allister is a man of war, lost without fighting. I would rather not spend my entire life fighting this war.”
“So how does this man fix that problem?”
“Dirk is a great young man, but he lacks the fire of his father.” The corner of Han’s mouth rose as he revealed the motives of his plan. “And besides, Dirk doesn’t have us lending our wisdom. Our new prince would be advised by his trusted uncles.”
Victor smiled, enjoying the idea of having control over the crown prince. “Even if he is the heir, if we brought him forward as the king’s son, Allister would simply deny it. It would be his word over ours.”
“You’re right, the king would never accept him.” Han gave another wicked smile; he was enjoying this all too much. “Fortunately, once this war is over, it’s likely that our dear king might suffer a serious injury in battle, leaving the throne wide open.”
Victor stood from his seat, walking forward to meet his brother. He returned the same wicked smile. “I suppose that’s true.” He clasped his brother’s shoulder. “So, tell me, how do you know that this man is the king’s heir?”
Han laughed. “One look at the boy and you will have all the proof you need. As if that’s not enough, his mother, Marian, had the audacity to give him the surname ‘Stowe.’”
42
“What do you mean; you killed everyone he made you face?” Henrik rose, shaking his head at the revelation.
Mic looked at him blankly. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
Henrik opened his mouth to rebut him, but Valcor interrupted his first mate. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Mic stared into the distance for a few moments before he began his story. Gant sat silently watching his friend, seeing the emotion on his face as he recalled his past. “Alldor Vas runs the fighting pits in Laytos. He buys slaves and pits them against all sorts of challenges. Sometimes it’s wild beasts, others times it’s guards, and rarely, against his champion.”
“Why would guards want to fight against slaves?” Gant couldn’t hold back his question.
“It was always those young men looking to take a shortcut to rise in power.” Mic gave Gant a shrug. “Unarmed slaves against armed guards makes it more enticing.” Mic turned back to the rest of the group. “Laytos is home to the largest slave trade in all of Draxos, and it’s also a hub for many pirates.”
“I didn’t think there were slaves in Draxos,” Gant interrupted again.
Gant was surprised when Alric spoke up. “Many of the larger cities will buy slaves and use them in their forts. Andarok has one of the largest slave populations.”
Gant always assumed they were hired servants, not purchased slaves.
“Let’s hold off on the questions and let Mic continue.” Valcor looked directly at Gant as he spoke.
Feeling embarrassed, Gant cast his gaze aside. “Right. Sorry, Mic, please continue.”
Mic gave Gant a warm smile; he knew the boy was always curious. “My mother was purchased as a child. One day a guard, who was drunk and bored, decided to visit my mother.” Mic clenched his jaw at his bitterness. Gant could only guess that he eventually showed that guard his true feelings. “Normally, Vas kills any babe born in his pits, but he favored my mother. She was an excellent healer and a loyal slave. He let her raise her child under one condition: my life was forfeit to the fighting pits.
“Occasionally, Vas will raise the status of one slave to that of champion. He makes a huge spectacle of it. He is a master at keeping things interesting. Sometimes he would pair the champion up with the other slaves to take on a wild beast or guards. When he got really adventurous, he would make the champion face off against a group of slaves.”
Mic didn’t try to hide the pain of his memories. He rubbed his left forearm, where a long scar covered his skin. “When one champion gets old or the crowd loses interest, Vas sets up for a new champion to be crowned by defeating the past one in single combat. When I was fifteen, I faced the champion and killed him. I fought as Vas’s champion for six years.”
Gant couldn’t contain his curiosity as he blurted out, “Six years? How did you get set free? How long do champions normally last? Why didn’t he try and replace you?” Gant stopped after the last question, realizing that he had spoken out of turn again. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Ghost let out a loud laugh. “I’m surprised the kid made it that far without bursting with questions. Did any of you see his face? I thought he was going to explode.”
Gant turned beet-red at the attention directed at him. Everyone else smiled and laughed. Gant looked to Ghost and was working on a retort when he realized that Ghost didn’t embarrass him as a form of punishment, but rather to lighten the mood of Mic’s dark story. Gant smiled and laughed along with the others.
“I guess I should answer your many questions.” Mic scratched his chin as he thought. “Most champions only last a year, maybe two. After three, Vas did try to replace me. He had me face odds that would have killed most men. I kept surviving and I kept killing. Eventually, after failing more times than he had anticipated, Vas decided it was time to set me free.” Mic closed his eyes. Gant could only imagine how happy he must have felt that day. “He made a huge show of it. There was a ceremony, which consisted of hundreds of slaves fighting to the death, and at the end of it he had me come forward, said some words, and set me free.” Mic kept his eyes close as he spoke. A single tear rolled down his cheek. �
�I can still hear the crowd cheering as I marched from the arena.”
Mic opened his eyes. The tears were gone and his face was stone cold, all emotion lost except for resentment. “I barely made it out of Laytos before a dozen riders came chasing after me. Vas sent them to make sure I didn’t make it off the island.”
“What did you do?” Gant was thankful Henrik asked the question, as he was wondering the same thing.
Mic shrugged. “I killed them, stole one of their horses and rode as fast as I could to the coast. There I found a ship and made my way to Ansaroth.”
Silence lingered over the group as Mic concluded his story. The cries of seagulls in the distance filled their ears. Gant looked from Mic to the others sitting in the circle. The story wasn’t an easy one to take in, and he knew it wasn’t easy for Mic to share.
“So, how do we get in and get our friends out?” Valcor turned to Mic, looking for his professional opinion.
Mic pondered their situation. “I know someone, another slave owner, who could possibly help us. Her name is Lady Dekhart. She purchases almost as many slaves as Vas and would do anything to take his power from him.”
“Sounds like she might be as bad as this Vas character,” Henrik joked.
Mic turned to him, straight-faced. “She’s worse, but if we want our friends out, she’s our best bet at getting to them.”
Time passed slowly as they debated methods to infiltrate the fighting pits. Mic shot down plan after plan, reinforcing how many guards Vas had and how tight his security was. Eventually they decided to pose as a potential investor being brought in by Lady Dekhart. Now they only needed to figure out the details.
“We’re going to need someone to finish repairs on the ship and have it ready to go once we free the others,” Henrik pointed out.
“All right.” Valcor stood, putting the discussion to an end. “Henrik, you’re in charge of the ship. I’ll pose as the buyer.”
Henrik laughed. “No offense, Valcor, but you look more like a slave than a buyer. Let me go in as a buyer, I can pull it off.”
Valcor looked skeptical. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he spoke. Turning to their expert, he asked, “Mic, what do you think?”
Mic looked between the two men. “I would have to agree with Henrik. You could pass as a guard, but you need someone to steer the ship.”
“Fine,” Valcor barked, obviously upset with the plan. “Henrik will pose as the buyer, with Mic and Don as his guards. The rest of you will be with me. We’ll get Serenity repaired and then wait in North Bend to pick everyone up.”
Gant knew it was time to voice his opinion. “I want to go to Laytos, too. I can pose as a guard.”
“Gant, I know you’re fierce, but you’re too small. Any merchant with you as their guard would be looked down upon.” Mic could see the disappointment in Gant’s face. “But all merchants have servants that attend to them.”
Gant’s eyes lit up. “Then I will be the servant!” he exclaimed. “That’s perfect.”
Valcor sighed. “Fine, you’ll go with as a servant. Everyone else settled? Any more questions?”
The silence lingered for a moment and Valcor was about to give the next command when Mic spoke up. “There is one last thing. In order to be taken seriously, Henrik will need to have a woman with him.”
Ghost chuckled and joked, “Want me to put on a wig?” Valcor shot him a warning glance.
“I think I might know someone who can help.” Henrik turned to Gant with a smile. “Want to pay our friend Eliana a visit?”
43
Rysh fell in and out of consciousness, unsure of where he was or how long he had been like this. He remembered trying to break free of his chains at the slave market, only to be knocked out sometime after he got his hands on a sword.
He remembered being in a metal cell, the smell of human excrement, cries of pain, and the now-familiar stench of death.
Time was lost to him as he fought starvation and his injuries sustained in the storm.
Rysh rolled onto his side, feeling a burning sensation in his wrists. He forced his eyes open to realize that what he had hoped were dreams were, in fact, reality. He was lying in a dark cell. A couple others were in the cell with him, but they sat silently in the corner, rocking back and forth.
Rysh tried to sit up, but fell back down in pain. His muscles were weak from his injuries, and had grown even weaker without proper sustenance and use.
“I was beginning to think you would never wake up.” Rysh knew the voice, though it was one he would rather not have heard.
He turned to look at the cell next to his, only to find Carn sitting next to the bars looking in at him.
“What happened?” Rysh’s voice was hoarse, his throat aching as he spoke.
Carn relaxed, seeing that Rysh was fully conscious. “We’re in the Laytos fighting pits.”
Rysh felt a twinge of fear creep up his spine. “Where’s Julia?” He remembered her being sold at the auction, but didn’t know where she ended up.
“She was sold to the same man we were. I haven’t seen her since.” Carn sounded sincere.
Rysh took stock of his injuries. His whole body ached, and he guessed that sleeping on the hard ground was the cause of most of his pain. Rysh wiggled his toes and fingers, making sure he had complete mobility. “What exactly do you mean by fighting pits?” Rysh questioned Carn. He had heard many stories about fighting pits and knew they meant trouble for anyone involved.
“The man that purchased us is named Alldor Vas. He buys slaves and makes them fight.” Carn showed no emotion, only solemn acceptance of their situation. “Sounds pretty straightforward to me.”
Rysh sat in silence until the jingling of keys tugged at his focus. The other slaves began to stir, some crying out pleas, others shouting curses at the group of guards marching down the hall. The guards stopped outside the cell opposite Carn’s, ordering the slaves to form a line. Rysh watched the slaves march out of their cell without protest, chains tied around their wrists and ankles.
As they were nearly out of sight, Rysh realized he knew the stocky man at the back, who walked with a distinct limp. “Two Foot,” he breathed.
A few minutes passed in silence before the guards could be heard approaching again. This time, they stopped outside Rysh’s cell. His stomach dropped in fear.
Rysh turned to Carn, looking for help. Carn gave him a sympathetic shake of his head; there was nothing he could do.
Holding his head up high, Rysh tried to swallow his fears and doubts. He had promised Darren that he would keep Julia safe, and he meant to keep it.
The chains dug into Rysh’s wrists and ankles as he and the other slaves with him were led out of the cell and down the hall. As they climbed away from the cells, struggling on the steps and falling onto one another, sunlight burst through a large door, temporarily blinding Rysh.
He kept walking, his eyes slowly adjusting, and found himself in a large arena. The other group of slaves stood on the other side of the arena.
In the seating above, Rysh saw a large, shaded pavilion full of people, slaves tending to their every need. Rysh recognized the man sitting in the middle from the day he was sold, and thanks to Carn he was able to put a name to the man. Vas.
Rysh didn’t notice the guards moving among their ranks, unbinding their ankles and wrists from one another and freeing their limbs temporarily. A man at the back of his group turned and ran for the door they came out of. Rysh watched as he met two spears in his chest, falling limp in mere seconds. No one else moved.
A horn sounded from above. The men in the circle looked around nervously. Rysh counted seven slaves on the other side, four on his side.
To his left, a large metal grate lifted along its tracks in the arena wall, showing a dark opening beyond. Rysh heard a growl coming from the darkness.
Rysh looked across to Two Foot and the others from the first group, seeing their terror as they stood shaking in place. Rysh shook his hea
d; he wasn’t going to die standing here.
He turned to the man behind him. “We need to stay together. We can use the chains as a whip if we circle up and watch each other’s backs.” The man stared at him, confused. He stood in silence, as if he didn’t comprehend Rysh’s words.
Rysh sighed. He didn’t have time to waste on fear. He stepped in front of the men standing before him and said, “If you want to live, grab those chains and follow me.”
Rysh felt relief as the men nodded; they wanted to survive. Rysh began to run across the arena toward the others when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see a lion, bigger than any horse he had ever seen, stalk out of the cavern. The lion noticed the man who had been behind him, who still stood shaking in fear.
The lion took a few lunges and was on top of the slave in seconds. The man’s screams lasted only seconds as his limbs were torn from his body. Rysh doubled his pace, as did the men behind him.
Rysh stumbled briefly as the lion roared. He was finished with his first course and looking for more. They didn’t have much time. “Grab the chains!” he shouted at Two Foot and the other slaves. “Circle up, we can use the chains as whips to fend him off.”
Two Foot stood staring in the distance, looking dazed, but two of the other slaves quickly followed orders and picked up their chains. As Rysh made it to the other group he took a few seconds to catch his breath, but then he heard the screams.
He turned to see that the two men who had been following him were now underneath the paws of the massive lion, who bit at their flailing arms and legs. A man next to Rysh fell to his knees and began to vomit.
Rysh picked up his chain and began to whip it in a circle. “Don’t let him get close, use all the length that you have,” he instructed. He turned to Two Foot, who was standing away from the group. “Two Foot,” Rysh called out. His friend stood watching the lion, a few feet from the rest of the group. Rysh grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back with the others.
