by M. D. Laird
What is this woman playing at? I’m starting to wish I’d been sent to the sewers.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“We’re taking you to my camp.”
“Where is that?”
“It’s on an island two-hundred miles off the eastern peninsula. It’s going to take a few weeks of travelling to get there.”
Wonderful! “What’s there?”
“Just my people—I own the island.”
“So you’re taking me to live on some idyllic island paradise full of freed slaves?” he asked sarcastically.
She smirked. “Something like that.”
“Are you going to keep me chained this way for the entire journey?”
“Of course not. I just didn’t want you attacking me whilst we were becoming better acquainted.”
“Well, now we’re acquainted. Unchain me, get out and leave me alone!”
“Do you have a name, Captain?”
“Yes, it’s Captain,” he snapped.
“Do you have a real name?”
“You have my papers,” he raged, struggling against his chains. “You know what my damn name is. Now get me out of these chains.”
She knocked on the wall of the wagon. The door opened, she jumped out whilst it was still moving, and guards left their horses and piled in to unchain him. Within a few moments, he was left alone. He rubbed his wrists where they ached from the shackles and stretched his arms and shoulders. Then he spotted a sack that had been left beside the door. He rushed over to find it contained a shirt, a bedroll, a skin of water, a loaf of fresh bread, cheese and fruit.
Maol didn’t know how long the food was supposed to last him, but he had finished it within minutes and had a full stomach for the first time since his arrest. It was only bread and cheese, but he may as well have dined at the king’s table.
He pulled on the shirt and unfurled the bed roll, climbed inside the blankets, rested his head on the pillow and allowed the rocking motion of the moving wagon to soothe him to sleep.
Maol woke to the sound of the wagon door being opened.
“Supper,” said a guard. “Turn around and put your hands above your head.”
Maol did as the guard asked and the wagon filled with guards who held his arms whilst the shackles were fixed to his wrists in front of him. A length of chain was attached to the shackles, which was held by a guard who led him out of the wagon. He could have taken on the guards if he’d wanted to, he could have strangled them all with the damn chain. Then what? He had nowhere to go.
The guard told Maol to relieve himself in the bushes before leading him to the campsite. The party had clearly been here a while before Maol was woken and the guards had already pitched tents and lit a fire. There was a delicious smell of broth coming from the camp, which made Maol hungry. He was under no illusions that he would get any of it and expected another meal of bread.
The other three slaves were already sat beside the fire. They had been cleaned, shaven and were wearing new clothes. They were chained in the same manner as Maol, and their chains were attached to a stake driven into the ground. That would never be enough to hold Maol and, realising that, the guard fastened his chain to a nearby wagon before indicating for him to sit with the other slaves.
The slaves smiled at him, and he glared back.
What are they so chirpy about?
Maol glanced around the camp. He could see no sign of its leader. A guard approached him and handed him a bowl of broth and buttered rolls. Maol almost snatched it from his hand. It seemed like an eternity since he had eaten a hot meal.
“Wine or ale?” asked the guard
Maol felt his eyes widen and cursed himself. “Ale,” he replied.
The guard drew him a tankard of ale from a cask in the wagon Maol was chained to and handed it to him.
Maol took a swig of the ale. It was good. Not good enough for the king’s table, but as good as the best inns in town. He placed the tankard at his feet and tasted his broth. It was delicious. The bread too. Maol finished it in a few mouthfuls drinking the last dregs from the bowl.
“Do you want more?” asked a guard. “We usually have more mouths to feed on the return journey, so we have a lot of food.”
Maol nodded, and the guard filled his bowl and gave him more rolls. The guard then took a seat beside the fire with his own food. Maol ate the second bowl slower, savouring the flavours, and mulled over the events of the day.
“If we are to be free men,” he asked the guard, “then why must we be chained?”
The guard moved his gaze from his meal to Maol. “There isn’t just absolute freedom and slavery,” he replied, “it’s more of a spectrum. You’ve moved along a little more.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“It is up to our lord to tell you what that means.”
Maol shook his head. He didn’t want to speak to that woman again.
Who does she think she is?
Having her guards chain him so she could touch him.
I will snap her neck like a twig!
Maol was glowering into his broth as the lord approached the fireside. She smiled at everyone and received smiles back. She received a glare from Maol, but the other slaves looked at her like puppy dogs. He tore off a chunk of bread and chomped angrily on it.
The lord sat near her guards across from Maol. The guards handed her broth and wine. She tasted the food and gave an approving nod to the guard who had cooked it.
“Markus is often left on cooking duty because he is such a terrific cook,” she said, addressing the slaves. “I expect it has been a while since you enjoyed a hot meal.”
The other slaves nodded, but Maol ignored her.
“We caught these rabbits this morning on the way to the pits,” she continued.
“Is that a royal we?” asked Maol sarcastically. “Or do you actually do any work yourself, Lord… I’m sorry, you weren’t kind enough to introduce yourself before you began groping me.”
She gave him a devilish smile, which made him angrier. “My name is Lord Rya,” she said. “And yes, I did snare one of the rabbits.”
Maol huffed. “You’re either lying about your name or you’re lying about your title, Lord Rya.”
“And why is that?”
“No lord would give his daughter a commoner’s name.”
She smiled again. “It is not a commoner’s name where I am from.”
“And where is that?”
She sipped lazily at her wine and deigned no reply. Maol did not care enough to press the issue and finished the last of his broth. He turned to the guard beside him.
“I want to go back to my wagon,” he grunted.
“You can share with the others,” the guard said. “You don’t have to be on your own.”
Maol shook his head. “I like being on my own.” He picked up his tankard and finished the last of his ale and before he had thought about what he was doing he threw the mug hard into Rya’s face. Blood erupted from her mouth and nose. He snarled. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”
The guards leapt up, but Rya waved them to stand down. She pulled out a white handkerchief to stem the flow of blood and left the fireside followed by one of her guards. The others led Maol to his wagon. They said nothing as they unshackled him inside the wagon and locked the door.
Maol sat with his back against the wall. He could hear the camp through the bars, and very little was said for the rest of the supper. Maol had apparently ruined the ambience.
Later, he heard the other slaves being taken to their wagon, and the guards began to talk at the fireside. He could only catch whispers of their conversation, though they seemed to say that Maol was never going to fit in.
No surprises there.
A short while later, Lord Rya returned to the fireside. Maol cursed himself for feeling alerted by her presence as he pulled himself to his feet so he could see the fireside through th
e bars. He had made a mess of her face: her nose was bust and looked broken, her lip was split, and she would have black eyes for a few weeks. Maol ignored the twinge of guilt he felt.
“You should see a conservator and have it set properly, your lordship,” one of the guards said to her. “It won’t heal if you leave it.”
“You’re trained in field surgery; you could do it,” she answered.
“We have no analgesia left—it will hurt.”
She nodded and the guard sat in front of her. Maol could not see what the guard was doing, but he heard her whimpering. Maol winced.
I shouldn’t have done that.
The guard sat back down. The lord’s nose was bleeding again, but it looked much straighter. Maol hoped it would heal.
The lord wiped the tears from her eyes and began to speak quietly to the guards. Maol strained and could just make out what was said.
“I made an impulsive decision buying him,” she said. “I don’t think it’s going to work out.”
“What are you going to do with him?” the guard, whom she had addressed as Markus, asked.
“I’ll have to sell him on. I hate to do that, but if we can’t use him, we will need that money back. I could have bought a hundred hominem for the price of him, and I wouldn’t be nursing a broken nose.” The guard nodded. “We’ll take him to Camp Lunar for now and see how he settles in. If he doesn’t improve, he will have to go.”
Maol frowned and sat back down.
What does she want with me?
Maol was woken early the next morning by a guard placing wash bowl and towel in the wagon along with a plate of bacon and eggs and a mug of coffee. The guard closed the door without speaking. Maol stood and looked through the bars—the other slaves were at the fireside. Maol was not welcome there anymore.
He washed and dried himself before tucking into his breakfast. He had just drained the last of his coffee before the guard returned and collected the things. He was locking the door when Maol called him.
“Wait!” he said. “I need a piss.”
The guard signalled to the other guards. Maol placed his hands on his head and waited for them to shackle him before leading him outside. The camp was packing up and readying to move, and guards shuttled equipment and supplies between the wagons. The large tent, which, Maol assumed, belonged to the lord was still up and fastened closed.
Maol was returned to the wagon after relieving himself, and a sack was placed inside the door. The guards still hadn’t spoken to him, so Maol had to guess that the food inside was to last him until supper.
Moments later, Maol heard the guards uttering farewell to each other, and his wagon began to move leaving the rest of the slaves and the camp behind.
What? “Where are we going?” he called to the guard riding on horseback at the side of the wagon.
“Camp Lunar,” came the reply.
“Why are we leaving without everyone else?”
“They’re going to the island.”
“Why am I going somewhere else?”
“Talk later. I can barely hear you over the wagon.”
Maol snarled.
He can hear me just fine. He just doesn’t want to talk to me because I hurt his precious lord… Damn it!
She was still behind. He wouldn’t get to ask her what she wanted him for.
What is this Camp Lunar anyway?
“We will go to the Procnatus party,” said Thomas. “I have accepted the invitation.”
The princess smiled. “I’m going to need a new dress.”
“You have lots of dresses.”
“They are for every day, not for parties,” she said. “Can we go shopping?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Why not?”
“I am not going dress shopping.”
“I have my allowance; you only need to take me to the shops.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Let me go with Queen Genevieve then or on my own.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with the queen, and it might not be safe for you to go out alone—not until we know what your father is really up to.”
“The queen may lend me some of her guards. I’m sure she can spare some to guard a foreign dignitary.”
He growled. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no need. You can go in what you’re wearing now; that dress is fine.”
She sat at the table and slumped her head onto her chin. “Fine,” she said, “but I am going to need clothes at some point during my life. You can’t avoid taking me shopping forever.”
Eleanor selected a few dresses to try on from the boutique shop in Tethys. Prince Thomas was making his distaste abundantly clear as he sprawled himself on the shop’s sofa. He picked up a magazine and began flicking through it without reading it.
“What do you think?” asked Eleanor, emerging from the changing room after trying on the first dress. The prince did not look up.
“I don’t care, Princess,” he said. “I will take you to bed whatever you’re wearing.”
Eleanor smirked and tried on the other dresses before settling on the first one.
Maol spent the next week travelling with six guards for company. They barely spoke to him and rarely needed to once they had established a routine. As soon as they opened the door of the wagon, Maol would stand with his hands on his head, and they would lead him to the bushes to relieve himself before leading him back. They fed him in the wagon and never invited him to the fireside. He was well-fed, he received hot water to wash each day, clean clothes every other day and then he was left alone. He was dreadfully bored.
Maol would listen to the guards chatting and laughing around the fireside each night. He was reminded of his position as captain of the guard when he would hear his men laughing, joking and drinking in the barracks. He could hear them from his office, but whenever he entered the barracks the conversation would fall silent, and the guards would find somewhere else to be. He had been hated by his men. They did as he commanded, but they detested him. They were not loyal to him and were happy to see the back of him when he was arrested.
Lord Rya’s guards hated him, too. They carried out their duty, they ensured his basic needs were met, but they wanted nothing to do with him. Maol was tired of sleeping, but he had nothing else to do. He climbed into his bedroll and slept.
They travelled a further two days before they arrived at Camp Lunar. The camp, nestled within the confines of a vast forest, occupied a large clearing and was fortified by a log wall towering fifteen feet around the camp.
Guards opened heavy gates to allow the horses and the wagon entry. They rolled to a stop beside a pit.
I’m not living in another pit!
Maol’s guards left the wagon and approached a thorian male at the edge of the pit. He was sat at a makeshift desk completing ledgers and observing what was happening in the pit. Maol could not see the inside of the pit from where he was. His guards gave the male Maol’s paperwork, and they spoke for a few minutes before the guards came for him. They let him out without shackles, and they approached the male.
“Maol,” said the male, glancing down at the paperwork. “I am Niall. I’m the camp commander. Do you know what Camp Lunar is?” Maol shook his head. “It is an incendiary camp. The camp where we send troublemakers and lost causes. If you don’t behave and show promise whilst you’re here, then you will be sold at auction. Do you understand?”
“Show promise in what?” Maol asked.
“In anything you are asked to do.”
Maol grimaced. He did not know what he wanted. Did he want to prove himself or did he want to be sold on?
Niall continued to look through Maol’s papers. “Okay. It seems, apart from being a bit of an asshole, you have managed a prestigious military career. You’ve also been a head warden and a captain of the king’s personal guard.”
Maol nodded and felt his chin rise higher.
“So you
should be able to follow orders, though you have probably gotten too comfortable giving them. We’re going to get back to basics. Let’s have a look at you then, take your shirt off.”
Why do they all want to see me without my shirt?
He obeyed and removed his shirt.
The commander nodded. “I can see why she wanted him,” he said to the guards. “I thought he was big because he was overweight, but he is all muscle. He looks strong and has good definition. He needs to tone up a little, though—have you exercised him?”
“Apart from launching the cup at Lord Rya, he has just eaten and slept since we’ve had him.”
Niall raised a disapproving eyebrow. “It’s not very honourable for a soldier to attack an unarmed woman,” he said.
“I know that,” Maol said.
Niall frowned. He turned to the guards. “Leave him with me, gentlemen, I will let her lordship know how he is progressing.”
The guards nodded and left Maol with the commander.
“Let’s see you in action,” he said.
Doing what? I still don’t know what you people want from me.
“Kyle,” he called down to the pit. Maol had forgotten about the pit and now looked down to see people engaged in combat.
They want me to fight? This is her plan for her freed slaves? To send them to dog fights?
The male Niall had addressed looked up.
“Kyle, this is Maol. Find him someone to spar with.” Niall turned his attention to Maol. “And I mean spar. Do not hurt anyone.” Maol nodded. “Jump in then.”
Maol jumped the ten feet into the pit and landed in a crouch. Kyle approached him and threw him a staff, which Maol caught easily. “You can spar with Brandon,” he said, indicating to a hominem male.
“You expect me to fight hominem?” he glowered towards Kyle.
“Her lordship will not appreciate that prejudice,” he said. “I suggest you get it in check.”
