How I longed for the endless days of summer one finds in Skos. Why couldn’t I have been reborn there? While I was at it, why couldn’t I have been resurrected on Earth? I wanted my mother. No man ever outgrows the need for his own mother when times gets tough. “Damn you, Mannana,” I mumbled to myself.
Chapter 5
The group of us were marched through open plazas and passed gardens that glowed silver. Because of the appearance of being magically polished, the inner ring was among one of the most beautiful sights I have seen in all of Fjorgyn. The inner city had a miasma of jasmine, one of the most common herbs known, serving as a base ingredient for various useful potions and tonics. It was opulent.
As we were led deep into the district, the scent faded. The gardens no longer sprouted white jasmine flowers but contained many ingredients, some known to me. One garden exclusively included moon grass, a rare and expensive ingredient used in both health and invisibility potions. I made a mental note of its location in my head. If I could somehow gather enough of it along with a few other ingredients that I needed, I could fashion us an exit from Elatha.
I was too lost in thought to realize we had stopped, bumping into the side of the wagon. No one noticed. It appeared we had arrived at our new home and prison: a beautiful four story mansion made from white stone. It had a blue-tiled roof and high walls encompassing the entire estate.
White pillars supported the roof. The massive doors of the house were open, most likely to let in the unexpectedly cold air in the city. In the courtyard in front of the home, a giant fountain sprayed a single stream of water. It filled a central basin, pouring into two lower tiers before emptying into a pool at the bottom. The bottom basin, twenty feet in diameter, also contained a fair number of aquatic herbs that I knew from sight alone.
I finally understood how the elites of this city maintained their grip. They prospered on a monopoly of magic and herbalism.
Standing beside the fountain was a single brazier illuminated by a blue flame. There was a poker sticking out of the flames with a durable leather grip.
“That’s not a poker, you know. It’s an enchanted brand.” I jumped at the sound of a familiar voice.
“Where have you been!?”
The bird settled on my shoulder - his now all-too-familiar and most favorite roost. Neeta's sleeping head occupied my other shoulder.
“Exploring as you commanded. We can talk about this later. First I am going to apologize.”
“Apologize? For wha-“
The rope tying us together was cut and ripped out of the ring in our neck collars. Now surrounded by guards who had swords at the ready to slice down anyone who attempted escape, our pudgy buyer silently glided to the brazier. For a man of his size, I was amazed that he possessed grace enough to move in silence.
“Welcome. I am Lord Clifford Grey. My son, here, is your new master – Clifford Grey II.” There was an echo of disdain in his voice when he said ‘the second.' “He is to be obeyed in all things for the duration of your service to our great and noble house. Obey him, and you will be treated with respect. Disobey him, and you will be punished. Severely. When I call your name, please step forward to receive your mark.”
“I apologize… for this. I don’t think Balama meant for us to follow this path. I failed you in my guidance,” Vindur whispered. There was sadness in his tone I have never heard from him before.
“Cilden Thane, level 7.”
Cilden left the line and walked forward to stand in front of his new master. Two guards rushed him, pulled him to his knees and pulled his shirt down his arm to expose his shoulder, ripping the fabric in the process. The younger Clifford turned and walked away, triggering a look of disapproval in his father’s eyes. It faded, however, and was replaced with a devilish grin as he picked up the brand from the brazier. “This mark is the sigil of our house. It must be made visible upon request from any freeman of Elatha.” Lord Grey chanted a few words under his breath and forcefully pressed the brand into Cilden’s shoulder. I could hear the sizzling of Cilden’s skin as the brand glowed a bright azure. Blood bubbled as it melted into his skin like a warm knife through soft butter. Cilden shook in pain, but let out no scream.
He was lifted to his feet and allowed to stumble back into line. Claiming his sleeping daughter from my arms, he whispered to me. “Please don’t scream. I do not want to scare my children.” His lip was bloody, having bitten into it to supress his agony. A stream of tears ran down his face leaving only a trail of clean skin behind.
“Michael Dian-Cecht.” I repeated the process. When the brand bit into my shoulder, an electric pain filled my entire body.
Damage received: 117
Attention: You have been branded a slave belonging to the house of Grey. The brand is enchanted. Until you escape or earn your freedom, you may not leave the entrapment barrier surrounding Elatha. Any attempt to cross the barrier will result in a health loss double that incurred upon being branded.
Your resurrection point has been fixed to the home of Clifford Grey II. This location cannot be changed until the completion of “Let My People Go!”
The notifications distracted me enough from the pain. I was able to contain everything beyond a quiet whimper. In my current state, I was sure I could be mistaken for an injured dog. With tears welling, I returned to my place in line while the others went through the same process. Clifford Grey didn't spare the children the agony of the mark. Their screams of terror and agony broke my heart.
After the marking ceremony, if one can call that monstrous injustice a ceremony, the fifteen of us were brought to a basement corridor consisting of three bedrooms, a single washing facility, and a small kitchen and lounge. Because of Neeta’s persistence, “Uncy Michael” was able to remain with the Thane family. I don’t know when the girl decided to consider me an uncle. Her parents did not argue with her. She was injured and still on the verge of tears. The remainder of our group chose their rooms, some with family and others with complete strangers.
With doors finally shut, the horrors of our being sold and magically marked faded somewhat. Rose knelt beside her children and examined the mark: a circle with a portrait of an owl within it. Blood had soaked into their shirts. She called for their removal, along with Cilden’s and mine, and set the bloodied shirts aside. Part of me was sad to separate from it. The shirt represented the first act of kindness bestowed upon me in Fjorgyn. I quietly hoped it would not be the last.
Then Rose did something amazing. Hovering her hands above her children’s arms, a white light emanated from her palms and washed over their skin, soothing the burn and stemming the flow of blood.
“You’re a healer,” I stated in disbelief. The low-level woman had cast now healing touch on her husband. His health slowly replenished while his wound magically stitched itself closed. Sure. The scar remained. It was a magical mark after all.
She explained her skill while repeating the process on me: “Not in so many words. I have a skill in healing like so many of my people. You’re an elf. I’m surprised you don’t possess some healing ability. Then again, you seem to be an elf who is full of many secrets, like being found nearly dead on the side of the road only to be back to full health a few hours later. You’ll have to tell me more about that.” The same white glow washed over my skin and my health had also trickled up to 25% full. “There, Neeta. Uncle Michael is all better.” Rose didn’t sound happy with the thought of me, a complete stranger, being held in high regard by her daughter.
The girl gave out a gleeful cheer and beckoned for me to play with her. I had to oblige. These people have taken me in and trusted me with their children. They showed kindness even in the face of insurmountable challenges.
“Call me Mike,” I said to the group. “It's what my friends and family called me.” I held one of Neeta’s hands above her head as she spun around like a prima ballerina, having completely forgotten her earlier torture.
“Rose.” I hesitated to ask the question. “Can yo
u teach me to heal?” I looked at her while the same soft-white glow washed over her arm.
While she expressed a strong desire to teach me, she explained in as few details as possible that her skill was not high enough. To teach me to heal, she had to raise her healing rank to level 30. She was currently level 4. Given the circumstances, she couldn’t heal frequently enough to raise it any higher. It had taken her years of scrapes and cuts even to raise it as high as she did. And unless someone was willing to mutilate himself, she wouldn’t be able to force the level high enough in a meaningful amount of time.
When everyone settled in for the night, I took my leave and went to the washroom. Removing my clothes, I sat on a cold, wooden stool, pouring water over my head and wept. Not from pain, but in grief over my death, the separation from my family, and the newfound horrors of the land I had once thought a second-home. I always knew there were darker and more dangerous nations in Fjorgyn. I had, however, been perfectly content remaining in Skos. There was always plenty to do. The never-ending stream of quests and tasks prevented me from crossing into other nations before. Washing away the shit and mud and blood and tears was the therapy I needed. Vindur granted me my moment of introspection, himself also overwhelmed by his charge’s misfortune.
I wasn’t alone in my despair. Another young man, barely twenty, had also taken the opportunity to clean himself. He sat in the corner, his back turned from me. The points of his ears twitched in response to the cold water he poured over his head. I left him alone as well. Neither of us had any interest in making new friends right now.
------
A grand plan was born in my head on the night of our forced servitude. Over the next week, we cooked, cleaned, did laundry, tended horses, bought trade goods for the master, and received the occasional lashing for taking too long. Never from the master, though. His paid guards weren't as forgiving as him. He talked to each one of us individually to determine what skills we were best at. He was surprised upon meeting me. I was the same level as a four-year-old and had no aptitude for anything.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he said. He had brought me into his private study where he had talked to the others in more public settings. “Your fellows know nothing about you. You didn’t come from their village. They said the guards found you on the edge of a forest next to the corpse of a giant rat – one that you had apparently killed. Now how does a level 3 elf end up trekking through the woods covered in naught but a poncho?”
“It wasn’t a poncho. It was a tunic.”
“My mistake.” The young master adopted a faint smile when I had corrected him. “Still. Please explain.”
I had tried to explain to him what had happened – that I was born to another world and reincarnated here upon my prior death. I tried to tell him of both the divine blessing and curse. I trusted him for some reason enough to reveal my secrets. But that is not what he heard.
Clifford’s cheeks were turning a bright pink, and he began laughing uncontrollably. “So they just left you there? Naked? In the woods?” He almost fell out of his chair in laughter. “However incredible your story is, I can’t imagine any man making up one like that. And while it doesn’t answer everything, I am beginning to see why your skills are so underdeveloped. I do hope the gambling won’t be a problem for us.”
I was colored confused, not sure what he had heard when I told my story.
The young master determined that I would be most fit for any and all everyday tasks. I was all right with this. It afforded me some semblance of freedom. I could leave the grounds to go to the market, tended the garden and the stables, and did any odd job that needed a helping hand.
This gave me plenty of time to think, meet and talk to slaves from other houses, and learn the lay of the land.
I discovered that the entrapment barrier was fed nightly by hundreds of mages in the company palace. It was a spell of dark magic, fueled by the divine power of Mannana – the second time the death god has slighted me. The same magic infused in the fires and the brand that the masters owned. This is what the slaves called the oligarchs in private. “The masters.”
The mark was less of a brand and more of a rune. When the entrapment barrier and the rune met, it activated a magical blood poison that quickly reduced HP at twice the loss of the person’s HP pool upon being branded. This loss, they said, occurred in less than 30 seconds – meaning a slave could enjoy 30 seconds of freedom before death. Some have tried to cheat this by cutting the brand out of the skin, but doing so triggered it instantly.
Others earned their freedom from benevolent masters. The cost of liberty? 1000 gold per level and the master’s verbal consent in front of a certified bailiff. In our case, I learned that our master was technically Lord Clifford Grey. It was his brand that we wore. And it was his first order as our master to bind us to his son. In our case, both father and son needed to consent to freedom. It didn’t matter, though. Freeing myself and the Thane family would cost 17,000 gold – well beyond our current lifetime earning power. There was also the question of consent. That was not going to happen. Ever. Lord Clifford was known to be lawful neutral. He obeyed the laws in everything but did not hesitate to act in his self-interest whenever legal. He was an oligarch, after all. And one does not become a member of the elite class by being charitable.
I learned one thing, most of all. While our master was benevolent and had guards who were slow to the lash, others did not share the same fortune. Many were beaten only because their owners enjoyed it. Families were separated. Wives, girls, and boys were sold as whores. Children were often sold to mining guilds as punishment for disobedient parents. Men, women, and children were all raped by some of the more cruel masters. And masters juggled slaves between themselves like a clown would juggle bowling pins. And at each slave exchange, the mark was painfully erased and re-branded.
Because it took me a week to learn what I could about Vros and Elatha, it took me more time to create my inspired escape plan. Sitting in a room with Cilden, Moga, Rose, and others from our group, I put all of my cards on the table:
“I know I may look weak. I’m only level 3, and my skills are undeveloped, but I have knowledge. I know how we can escape. And not just us. Hundreds of us.”
A deafening silence filled our small lounge. If my ears were ringing from the silence any louder, the ringing would have woken the children in the next room.
“Impossible, Mike.” Even in a week, Cilden and I have become fast friends. I spared him and his wife a few lashings by tending to the children while they performed their duties – Cilden in the garden and his wife in the kitchen.
“Not impossible. Not at all. Just… difficult. I am going to need all of you to help. Rose – I know you’re not going to like this – but I will need Neeta and Junta to help as well.”
Rose pushed back from the table, roaring with motherly protection, the thought of involving her children unacceptable. I quickly continued.
“They will not be in danger, but they are the most important part of this plan. As children, they can get what I need without anyone seeing them as more than a nuisance.”
I continued to lay out the plot in great detail. To get to the barrier, we needed a distraction. The masters often have meetings and parties with no slaves in attendance. Apparently, they had secrets that idle ears should not hear. When we are ready, we could act during one of these events.
I would need a significant number of invisibility potions. Four flasks per escaping slave. We would need each slave to have one or two healing potions. And we would need a dozen slaves trained in casting Healing Touch.
“But Michael,” Rose called me Michael when she was upset with me. The woman was slow to be my friend. “You don’t know how to cast healing touch. And I can’t teach it. You certainly don’t know how to make an invisibility potion.”
“Moon grass, jasmine flower, wisp root, and water. I know how to make it. We just need to increase our Herbalism skill enough to be sucecssful. Add a drop of
blood from the imbiber and go to town. One hour of complete invisibility unless damage is taken. You can make it quick by biting your cheek to draw blood before you drink it.”
“Why would we go to town?” Moga asked. I laughed a little, explaining that it was an expression from my homeland.
Rose looked at me in disbelief. She didn’t know if I spoke the truth, but I think my Leadership skill triggered. She ended her fervent pacing and sat back down.
“As for you teaching us how to heal. You’re not going to like this. Last week you said ‘unless someone was willing to mutilate himself.’ Well… I’m someone. Whenever we have the chance, I will willingly harm myself for you to heal me. It’s going to suck, but we will get you to rank 30, so you can teach me that spell.”
The plan dumbfounded the group. “Once we’re ready, the core group of us, the children, the healers, and their families will all escape using the invisibility potions. I’ve already scoured the outskirts of the barrier when I’ve gone to the outer markets. We can station ourselves at random positions and pass through the barrier one at a time. Since I am the lowest level, I will go first. I can offset the damage over time spell with a strong healing potion. I know the ingredients and will have to make hundreds of them until I can raise my skill enough to make the invisibility flasks. Once I am through, you and the other healers will follow. An hour later, the rest of the slaves should arrive. We will use lesser healing potions and Healing Touch to keep them alive. We can then flee to a safe place – where we can remain hidden, gain strength, and secure passage out of this ass-backwards country.”
They all looked at me in confusion. I needed to avoid using slang from home. It didn’t translate here.
Fjorgyn: A Rebel Rises Page 5
