The Adamantists (The Crown Prophecy Book 2)

by M. D. Laird

  Fine! Maol flexed his muscles aware that he was still without a shirt. He wanted to intimidate the hominem, but he appeared unfazed.

  Maol was surprised to find that the hominem fought well. He was fast and skilled with the staff. Maol was stronger, but he was out of practice and out of shape. Still, the hominem did not stand a chance against Maol and, though he engaged well, Maol used his natural speed and strength to beat him. Even so, by the time he had swept the boy's legs from under him, he was out of breath.

  “Well done, Brandon,” remarked Kyle. “That was a sterling effort.” The boy beamed, he bowed towards Maol who nodded back—he would never bow to a hominem. “You have some skill, Maol, though you are out of practice.”

  “Well, I’ve barely had space to move for months.” Maol bristled.

  Kyle grinned. “Spar with me,” he said.

  If Maol thought he was out of shape when fighting the hominem, it was nothing when compared with fighting Kyle. Kyle was a skilled thorian warrior in peak condition, and he made Maol work for every hit. Maol had to fight defensively and barely got a hit in, but he enjoyed every minute. He enjoyed working his muscles and feeling his heart pound in his chest. Kyle’s staff crashed against his, and he stumbled when Maol shoved him backwards. Maol seized the opportunity and raised his staff and smashed it against Kyle’s with all of his might. Kyle’s staff fractured in his hand, and the wood split down the entire length.

  Kyle grinned and held his hand up to stop the fight. “You have some impressive strength,” he said. “You must be unstoppable when you’re in good shape?”

  “I’ve never lost a fight,” he boasted, but then cursed himself for his arrogance. Kyle just laughed.

  “You would have lost if you hadn’t broken my staff,” he said. “Come on. I’ll take you back to Niall.”

  Kyle waved to a hominem on the pit wall who lowered two ropes to allow them to climb out of the pit. He led Maol back to Niall before leaping back into the pit.

  “You did well,” said Niall. “Kyle is our best fighter. Follow me, I will show you around.”

  Maol followed Niall around the pit towards another gate.

  “What is the point of this place?” he asked.

  “Did no one explain it to you?” Niall asked.

  “No,” Maol replied. “They wouldn’t talk to me after I threw that tankard and that was the first night, so I know nothing other than that Lord Rya says she wants to free slaves, but I have seen no evidence of that.”

  “It is complicated,” said Niall. “Lord Rya has a reason why she needs so many men, and she wants strong men who can either fight or learn to fight. You won’t learn what that reason is unless she trusts you enough to tell you, but she has recruited many thorian to her cause and has been recruiting hominem slaves.”

  “I don’t see how that is freeing them.”

  A thorian opened the gate, and Maol followed Niall through the gate into a large enclosure. Barracks lined the left side of the enclosure, and some larger buildings lined the right. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, and Maol assumed the slaves were locked in cells. They headed towards the first building on the right.

  “She scours the slavers markets looking for young, strong males and she sends them to her island camp,” Niall continued. “She trains them in all manner of things—from fighting to trades—and hopes that they will agree to serve her. If they don’t, she sends them here to try a last attempt to inspire them to her cause. If they are still reluctant, then she lets them go free.”

  “She lets them go? And they know this?”

  “Yes. She wants them to serve her of their own free will,” said Niall, opening the door and allowing Maol to pass in front of him. “This is accoutrements. You can get your boots, clothing, weapons and any other such articles here. You’ll need an instructor with you to sign out weapons.” Maol nodded, and Niall handed a slip to the hominem behind a desk before turning around and leaving the building. “We’ll pick up your effects in a while.”

  Maol nodded again before continuing. “Does anyone stay at the island or does everyone come here?”

  They walked towards the next building.

  “Many stay with her. Not all as fighters, but many agree to work for her by running the camp or producing wares to sell and raise money.”

  “So all you have to do to be free is make no effort, and she lets you go?”

  “It’s all the others have to do.”

  “Right. Because she paid ten thousand marcs for me, she won’t free me.”

  “It is regretful. She would probably let your family pay for you or you could pay for yourself if you have money.”

  “My family have cut ties with me on orders of the king and the Crown has seized my fortune. I have nothing.”

  “That is unfortunate,” said Niall, opening the door to the next building. “This is the mess hall. The meal times are here.” He indicated to a sheet of vellum hanging on the wall. “It is likely to be the same as any barracks you have known—pick up a tray, join the queue and choose your food. It will be nothing like dining at the king’s table, but it is good food.”

  Anything is better than stale bread.

  “It may not seem like it at the moment,” continued Niall as he led him out of the mess hall, “but you will likely find Lord Rya is not as unpleasant to work for as you imagine. You seem to enjoy a good fight, and she wants fighters.”

  “I have always made my own choices. Even though I had to follow orders, it was my choice to be there in the first place. I don’t want to be a slave. I won’t be forced to serve under her.”

  Niall led Maol to the edge of the building, and they turned right and began to walk towards some training fields. Ranges were set up for knife throwing and archery and dummies for sword training and close combat. There were a number of thorian and hominem milling around, some were training, and others were talking and laughing amongst themselves.

  “If she sells you then you will be forced to work under someone. Some masters are cruel, and they will beat you until they break you.”

  “So I have no choice?”

  “She might let you work in the brothels. The patrons would probably pay extra for you.”

  “She said that was a ruse.”

  “It’s a front, but she does have them. Some of the guys here will choose to go there for a while because they think it will be fun. It doesn’t take long before most are asking to come back.”

  Maol shook his head. “What do I have to do to get to the island?”

  Niall smiled. “You can start by getting in shape. Get yourself fit and strong again. You could help with instructing some of the less experienced men. We can always use experienced instructors.”

  “Are the thorian here slaves as well?”

  “No, you’re the only thorian slave I have ever known,” said Niall. “Which is probably why her lordship got carried away and paid too much for you.”

  Maol raised an eyebrow. “Too much?”

  “Yes,” said Niall, grinning sheepishly. “You don’t really think you’re worth as much as a hundred hominem, do you?”

  “I’ll outlive all of them and my body is stronger than their puny, pathetic bodies.”

  “They are stronger than you think they are,” said Niall. “Arkazatinia has hominem armies, and they are incredibly skilful soldiers.”

  Maol huffed. “We’re taking lessons from those pussies over the water, are we?” he asked sarcastically. “They wouldn’t know a real battle if it approached them on parade waving a banner.”

  “Lord Rya doesn’t like prejudice, Maol. Especially against her own men.”

  “Why would she have slaves in her ranks anyway? What good are hominem going to do? By the time you have trained them they are ready for dying and you must waste time training more. What do you get out of them? Twenty years? They are not worth the effort.”

  “Perhaps you’ll change your mind once you’ve gotten to
know them better,” said Niall. “There are a few who are willing to try—you can help train them.”

  “Where are the ones who don’t try?”

  “Probably in their beds. They only get up in the evenings when supper is served, and the bar is open.”

  Maol whipped his head. “You have a bar?”

  “Of sorts. There is a limit of seven ales per man per week. You can have one each night or have them all in one night, it’s up to you, but if you start fighting then there are consequences. You are always being gauged.”

  “Is it in the mess hall?”

  “It’s on the edge of the barracks. I’ll show you when we get there.”

  Niall introduced Maol to some of the men in the training area. Maol did not bother to learn the names of the hominem, but the thorian instructors were Ben and Joel. Niall led Maol away from the training fields towards another walled enclosure. He opened the gate and led Maol inside.

  “This is our farm. We grow all the camp’s crops, fruit and vegetables here. We also keep cows, goats and chickens. We usually have pigs, though the last was slaughtered yesterday and we haven’t replenished our stock yet. The thorian will hunt deer, elk and rabbit in the forest.”

  The forest clearing was larger than Maol had imagined and the farmland within the camp—though on a smaller scale than a real farm—was an impressive size.

  “Who tends to this?” asked Maol.

  “The hominem who now work for Lord Rya. They live in the camp. You should be nice to them as they are the ones who brew the ale,” said Niall. Maol grinned. “We are mostly self-sufficient here as far as food and drink are concerned, though we don’t produce any wares. All our clothing, weapons and equipment comes from the island along with the occasional barrel of wine. We don’t have the space for a vineyard here, but they have them on the island.”

  “How did you end up here if you were not a slave?” Maol was not sure why he cared, though he could not help feeling a little intrigued.

  “Let’s just say I knew a man who knew a man. It’s a long story.”

  “And do you know Lord Rya’s secrets?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is it a worthy cause?”

  “I suppose it is. She certainly thinks so, but whilst she is accomplishing that, she is trying to free slaves. She doesn’t have the money to free them all or the power to outlaw slavery so she picks those who are young and have potential in the hope that they may aid her.”

  “So that’s why she thinks I’m a waste of money? Because she could have freed a hundred slaves for what she paid for me?”

  “Essentially yes, though I doubt she sees you as a waste of money, merely it is one life saved instead of one hundred.”

  “I’m never going to be able to take the place of a hundred men—even hominem men. Even if I am stronger, I’m not as strong as a hundred hominem, and I could never take on the battles that a hundred hominem could fight as one man. I will never be able to prove that I’m worth ten thousand marcs.”

  “She wanted you until you broke her nose. Impress her, and she will want you again,” said Niall, leading Maol out of the farm. “Help train the lads and make yourself indispensable.”

  Maol nodded and followed Niall out of the farm. He had just passed the gate when he stopped abruptly. Niall turned to face him. “You’re manipulating me,” Maol said. “This is you trying to inspire me.”

  “It’s my job, Maol,” said Niall.

  “I don’t like being taken for a fool.” Maol snarled, balling his fists.

  “I’m not taking you for a fool. I have been honest with you. You’re not like the others; if they don’t want to stay they can sleep their days away and her lordship will give up on them, and they are free. If she gives up on you, you will be sold to who knows who. How old are you, Maol?”

  “Six hundred and seventy-two.”

  “You have potentially got twenty-three hundred years of slavery ahead of you. It could be twenty-three hundred years under Lord Rya where you will be well-fed, clothed and likely working your way through her ranks doing what you love, or you have twenty-three hundred years of forced labour, beatings and starvation. You may be lucky and get a good master, but you may not. It’s your choice.”

  Maol relaxed his hands and stuffed them into his pockets. “It’s not much of a choice,” he grumbled, walking forwards.

  Niall led Maol towards the barracks. They were an improvement on his barracks in the army—it was still a room full of beds with a small trunk for belongings, but each bed was separated by a wooden partition to allow each man a degree of privacy. Niall showed him to the hollow, which was to be his before leading him back to accoutrements to collect his new clothing. On the way, he showed him where the bathing area and lavatories were and the door to the bar, which was currently locked.

  Maol collected his clothes and spent the rest of the day on his bed waiting for supper and the bar to open. He didn’t know what to make of Camp Lunar. Nothing was as he expected. A part of him felt excited to get back to the earlier days of his army career when he would train recruits. When he would battle them through the day and get drunk with them through the night. He wasn’t always so disliked. The newcomers would always like him until they got to know him. That was why he liked working with new arrivals, once they took a dislike to him they were off, and he would have another batch to train.

  The same part of him was excited about a fresh start—perhaps he could learn to be more amenable and maybe even have friends. He could get along with people when he tried to. It was when he lost his temper that there was a problem. He always went too far for very little provocation. Like in the pits—a starving slave tried to take his bread, so he beat him so badly he was executed. And Lord Rya—she shouldn’t have touched him, but did she deserve a broken nose and a bust lip? She was wrong, and she would not have been happy if he had done it to her, but he doubted she would have broken his nose. It was his temper that caused him to take the life of a man and get himself arrested, but he could control it. He had kept it under control for most of his life, and he’d only ever killed three people in a temper.

  That's pretty good in six hundred and seventy-two years.

  Another part of him wanted no part of Lord Rya’s plans and nothing to do with her promises of freedom. She could dress her camp up however she liked, but she was still a slaver, she was still pedalling flesh like every slaver in the pits. She claimed to dislike slavery, yet she was happy to create a demand for it. She was happy to keep the pit masters’ pockets lined by spending ten thousand marcs on one man.

  What was it Rya’s guard had said that first night? ‘Freedom is on a spectrum, and you move along it.’ But he would never be free unless he found himself in possession of ten thousand marcs—unlikely. That was a few years’ salary as guard captain, but it may as well be a century’s worth for all the chance he had of laying his hands on it.

  What then? Did he risk being sold on? He would know where he stood with a master—even a cruel one. Perhaps he could escape. Maybe he could kill them, steal their money and start a new life.

  It would never work. No one is going to pay for me if they haven’t got the guards to keep me locked down.

  Rya had given him no choice. He would have to make sure he stayed. He would have to get to that island and make sure that he gave her no reason to sell him. His choices were twenty-three hundred years of beatings, starvation and hard labour or twenty-three hundred years of whatever Rya wanted him for. Whether he liked it or not, he was better off in Rya’s camp. He would have to suck it up and a swallow his pride.

  I’ll start tomorrow, he thought, stretching out on his bed. His hollow was quite comfortable. Usually, he struggled to find a bed that would accommodate his height, but this one was a good size. The mattress and pillow were soft, and his blankets were warm.

  Perhaps it won’t be so bad here.

  Maol was back in the pit with Kyle and the hominem the next
morning. He had drunk three ales from his allowance the previous night and, having not consumed more than one in four months, his head felt heavy, but he had been awake early and keen to start—if only to get himself back in shape. He had no interest in the hominem.

  “Why do you have this pit?” asked Maol. “Is it for dog fights?”

  “No, of course not.” Kyle laughed. “It was supposed to be the cellar of a new building, but we’ve never had the money to finish it, so we use it as an extra training space. It also gives the commander a good vantage point to gauge the men’s progress.”

  Maol felt relieved that another of his assumptions was false, though he knew he would never have trouble winning the fights. Maol thought back to the times he had attended dog fights. He had worn a hood to conceal his face should anyone recognise the captain of the guard and had placed bets on the fights. They were bloody, brutal and fights to the death. If a slave gave up, then the hounds were released into the pit, and both men were torn apart. The last to die was declared the victor. He had always enjoyed the sport, though he suddenly felt a small twinge of shame.

  Kyle was joined by four hominem and sent two to train with Maol. Maol did not bother asking their names. He didn’t care what they were called—he just wanted to appear to be making an effort. The two were a sorry looking pair. They were a good foot shorter than Maol, one was lanky and did not appear to be able to hold up his own weight, the other was carrying too much weight.

  This is ridiculous. What the hell am I supposed to do with these? I thought Rya scoured the pits looking for strong men. She must have had her eyes in backwards when she found these two.

  “Okay,” he groaned, “start by sparing with each other, and I’ll make corrections.”

  The boys raised their wooden training swords and began to spar. They were pathetic. They looked like a pair of kids playing with toys.

  He sighed. “Stop, stop,” he said, holding up his hand and pointing to the lanky one. “You, what’s your name?”

  “Zayn.”