It doesn’t matter now, Boris thought. I have to focus on remaining alive and getting to freedom. The rest can come later. Boris recalled tales of the slave markets from his time as a boy. At the time, slaves were men and women captured during one of the many Imperial campaigns. No one but the lord of the town of Vergingrad had owned any slaves, for it was too expensive; but travel to one of the southern cities, closer to the capital, and one would find slaves doing a great many menial tasks. Female slaves might be pressed into service as whores, housekeepers or nannies, while strong men served as transportation for lords and ladies in palanquins, carried goods from place to place, served as conscripts in the Imperial army or fought in the gladiatorial arenas. It had sickened Boris’ father that so many people flocked to the coliseums to see men fight like animals, oftentimes to the death.
The guards ushered him into the yard next to the kitchens. There a wagon waited. Three other men, also in shackles, waited in the cart. A dozen guards stood around the cart, while the lord’s chamberlain watched from his seat at the head of the wagon. “About time, you fools. Get him in the wagon and let’s go. I want to be at the markets when they open tomorrow.”
Boris was shoved up into the wagon and placed next to a slender pale skinned man. He surveyed the other two men, a large man with a long red beard and a fat man, balding, who seemed to be incapable of ceasing to sweat. Boris nodded. “What are you all in for?”
“Quiet back there,” the chamberlain called.
The large man ignored the chamberlain and began speaking. “I killed my foreman, out at the lumber camp. You?”
“I,” Boris hesitated. What had been the reason? “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The large man grunted.
“I was caught stealing a loaf of bread in town,” the slender man said. “They said I could either lose my hand or go off and be sold as a slave. I’d rather become a slave and have food than lose a hand and go hungry.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Boris found himself saying. “I imagine some slaves wish they were dead rather than be enslaved. What about you,” he pointed at the fat man. “What did you do?”
“I couldn’t pay my debts,” the man said as he studied his feet. “Gambled away everything I had. My wife disowned me and took the children with her. The lord’s men came and hauled me away so that I might pay off my debts.”
Boris nodded. His father had taught Boris and his siblings the value of money. He had taught them never to borrow money if they could help it at all, for one bad streak of luck could result in them losing their freedom.
“Where do you think we’re headed?” the slender man asked.
“They said we’re going to market,” Boris said. “Since there’s no slave market in Vergingrad, we must be heading to Rolstad. It’s the closest town with a slave market, I believe.” Rolstad was the provincial capital of the northern highlands. Though significantly larger than Vergingrad, the city paled in comparison to ancient cities like Tar Ebon or the Imperial capital.
The wagon began moving and the group quieted down. It was a full day’s walk to Rolstad. Better to conserve their strength than waste time talking to men they would never see again.
Chapter 9 - Departure
The morning after the dinner with Dawyn, Anwyn and the others, John walked down the stairs of the inn they were staying at (Dawyn had told him it was named The Plump Chicken). He found Ashley and Jason already seated, speaking in low voices with Anwyn. John took a seat at the table. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Ashley said, smiling. They had slept in separate bedrooms because Dawyn insisted that John rest. Not that he would have been up for anything but resting, but he had agreed to spend the night separate from Ashley.
“Mmmm, what smells so good?” He surveyed the food on Ashley’s plate. It looked like eggs, sausage and bacon was on the menu this morning.
The serving girl came over and asked him what he wanted. He ordered the same as Ashley. As the serving girl departed, he turned toward the others. “What were you all discussing?”
“Anwyn was just telling us about what it’s like to be a druid. It’s quite exciting, being able to transform into an animal on a whim. Not to mention being so in tune with nature.”
“Oh, here we go again,” Jason said as he rolled his eyes. “Don’t mind her, Anwyn, she was in the 4H club, a sort of nature and animal lover club back home, when she was younger. She’s always loved horses and other animals.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Anwyn said with a smile.
“Anwyn, are you and Dawyn,” John hesitated. “Brother and sister?”
Anwyn laughed in her melodious voice. “Oh no, I am not his sister. I guess you could say we are lovers.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” John felt his face growing warm and he began to focus his sight on the grains of the table.
“No offense taken. I can see where you might get that impression. No, Dawyn’s sister, Bridgette, was lost many years ago.”
“Oh, that’s so sad. How did she die?”
A strange look came over Anwyn. “It turns out she didn’t die. She is alive still, but Dawyn has been unable to locate her again. Ah, here comes your food.”
John recognized a change in conversation when he heard one and didn’t ask the question that had been on his lips to ask next: how did Dawyn know his sister was alive?
John had just finished eating when Dawyn made his way down the stairs. He too, sat and ate breakfast after exchanging pleasantries.
“Alright,” Dawyn said as he finished his meal with a swig of ale. “Follow me to the stables.” He rose and headed toward the door of the inn, and the others rose and followed him. They had slept in their clothes and had no possessions to speak of, so there was no need to return to their rooms. Dawyn led them to the stables, where five horses sat in their stalls. Dawyn took the black horse, named Shadow, Anwyn the white, while Ashley and John each took a brown horse and Jason received the gray horse.
Ashley helped Jason and John saddle and groom their horses before departing. Grooming, she told them, was important to help build a relationship of trust with the horse, so that they would do as bidden by their rider. At last they were all mounted. “Alright, let’s ride,” Dawyn said, and led the group out of town, the early morning sun at their backs.
Chapter 10 - Shackles and Cages
Boris was jolted awake as the wagon trundled into Rolstad. They had traveled through the previous day and into the night before the wagon had ceased moving. The captives had been unceremoniously tossed to the ground and told to not cause any trouble. It was then that Boris had considered escaping, but he thought better of it as he eyed the guards. T’was not the time.
Rolstad was the regional capitol of the northern region of Salaymria within the Rakosh Empire. It was a central hub of the northern steppes, attracting farmers and merchants from far and wide. Like any commodity, slaves were traded in the city.
The wagon passed through the gate with barely a pause and headed straight for the open markets. Along the street, merchants cried out their wares, urchins roamed the streets and citizens went about their daily monotonous business. Conspicuously absent to Boris’ eyes in Rolstad was the lack of any street beggars. Across the sea, every city of a few thousand people had been frequented by street beggars. In Imperial lands, however, the lack of beggars was not due to abundance of food - beggars were hauled off to work in the mines until they died or fight in the arena until they met a similar fate. To be poor in the empire was to be a ripe target for indenture as a slave.
The slavers market consisted of a large wooden stage erected against a large warehouse near the docks. Slaves were lined up on the stage, while potential buyers walked up on the stage to peruse them. Other slave buyers stood down from the stage and simply pointed at the ones they wanted. Today three women and four men stood atop the stage, to which Boris and his traveling companions were added. They were stripped of their clothing
and forced to stand naked upon the stage. Boris was self-conscious of being stared at, but felt pity for the women, who must have felt much worse.
A man stepped up to Boris and studied him. “What’s your name?”
“Boris.”
“You look big and strong. What did you do before you became a slave?”
The man acted as if becoming a slave had been a choice. Boris hesitated before replying. “I was a bodyguard.”
“Really. A bodyguard to who?”
“You wouldn’t know him.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Boris knew they had been a mistake. The man slapped his face hard with the back of his hand.
“You’ll learn to respect your betters, slave. Now, I’ll ask again. Who did you work for?”
“Lord Garik, leader of the assassin’s guilds in the kingdom of Tar Ebon.”
“Oh ho, so we have ourselves an assassin, do we?” The man rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful!” He turned toward the chamberlain, who stood on the ground below. “I’ll take this one. I’ll give you five gold coins for him.”
The chamberlain considered the offer, but at last nodded. “He’s yours.”
The slave master snapped his fingers and two hulking men came and hauled Boris from the stage and into the warehouse.
Inside the warehouse, the stench of sweat and human waste almost overwhelmed Boris’ senses. It reminded him of the prison beneath the Vergingrad manor. Cages lined the walls, many filled with human slaves, while others were filled with beasts. Boris was thrown into an empty cage located between a cage full of vicious dogs and a pair of women. They tossed his clothing to him and he dressed.
As the day wore on, Boris wondered if he had been forgotten. By the end of the day, four men and two women were added to cages. Boris ended up sharing a cage with two other men. They left him alone, and he left them alone in turn. At last, the market closed and the slave master entered the warehouse. He perused his new merchandise, inspecting each of them as if they were pigs being assessed for the slaughterhouse. He pointed to one of the new women and she was dragged out of her cage. Before the eyes of the gathered slaves, the slave master took the woman repeatedly. His men jeered, while most of the slaves averted their eyes. Boris watched, but only to remember the reasons he needed to be free.
Chapter 11 - The Long Road
Cold water splashed against John’s face as he brought his hands from within the stream up to his face. Standing up, he turned and walked back to camp, cringing at the pain. Having spent more than a week in the saddle, John and the others had developed saddle sores that caused them pain every time they sat or walked. Dawyn and Ashley assured him the sores would go away with time, replaced by hard calluses, but John had a hard time waiting.
Though he was nowhere to be seen, Dawyn had a fire going, over which Anwyn was cooking several rabbits. Jason and Ashley had already visited the stream and stood off at the edge of the firelight talking in soft voices. John walked over to join them. “Hey, what’s up?”
Ashley turned toward him. “Jason and I were discussing the possibility of the three of us leaving, going our own way.” She lowered her voice further. “I mean, how do we know we can trust them?”
John turned slightly to see Anwyn out of the corner of his eyes. “We don’t, but Ashley, we are better off with them than on our own. Need I remind you what happened when we were on our own?” He tapped his chest. “I owe them my life. I say we continue with them to Tar Ebon, meet this mage they want to hook us up with and see what she has to say.” He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe we’ll find we actually do have magic.”
Jason snorted. “Fat chance of that. Magic doesn’t exist - it defies the laws of physics. The way Dawyn described it, it consists of manipulating matter and energy with your mind. That’s impossible - the human mind doesn’t generate enough energy to manipulate anything outside of the human body, and on top of that, there’s no way to project it. Also, these nanites saved your life, not them.”
John sighed. “Jason, would you put aside your analytical nature for a moment and feel? This is the right thing to do. Whether or not magic exists, we’ll have better odds of finding a way home from a large city than out here in the wilderness. So let’s just drop it for now, okay?”
Jason nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Ashley mouthed a silent “thank you” to John while her back was turned to Jason, before turning and walking back to the fire. John and Jason followed.
Anwyn looked up as they approached and smiled. “The conies are almost ready. Dawyn went to fetch some more wood for the fire. Have a…” seeing the grimaces on their faces she stopped. “Oh, right, I forgot. It will be less painful if you stand.”
“Isn’t there anything in that druid toolkit of yours that can heal saddle sores?” Jason asked.
“No, there isn’t anything in my ‘toolkit’ as you called it that can heal saddle sores. I’m sorry. Time is the only medicine for those.”
“Bah, what I wouldn’t give for some modern medicine. Why aren’t these nanites healing the sores?”
“Perhaps they’re smarter than you,” Dawyn said as he returned with an armful of wood. “If the nanites continually healed the saddle sores you’d keep getting them. Better to let you get calluses and adapt to your environment than constantly be fighting discomfort.”
“Hmmph,” Jason grunted. “Maybe.”
“The conies smell good, my darling,” Dawyn said as he leaned down to kiss Anwyn.
“Thank you,” Anwyn replied as she returned the kiss.
Minutes later, the group was gnawing on cooked rabbit. John had to chew at it for a bit, but it tasted good after a long day traveling. They had travel rations for during the day, but at night Dawyn insisted on hunting game for them to eat. Anwyn would shift into a predatory animal form, such as a wolf or a large hawk, and go hunt at Dawyn’s side.
“How much further to Tar Ebon?” John asked in between bites.
“It’s about three day’s ride. Do you remember the bridge we crossed a short ways back? That’s generally the three day mark for anyone riding at a normal pace.”
Chapter 12 - Practice
“Thrust!” The voice of the gladiatorial instructor Darin boomed across the training yard of the Helgstad estates, where the gladiators owned by Victor Helgstad were trained. Darin Verkov towered over even Boris, with muscles bulging from beneath the leather jerkin he wore. At his belt hung several implements of training - a long leather whip, two wooden swords and two long knives. As he paced he turned, the light reflecting on the shield hanging from his back.
Boris thrust, as commanded. The man facing off against him, Clarence, lifted his shield to block the blow before attempting to counter with a forward thrust of his shield. Boris sidestepped the shield thrust and swung low with the wooden practice sword, sweeping the legs out from beneath Clarence. He pressed the tip of the blade into the soft center of Clarence’s throat. “Do you yield?” he asked.
“I yield,” Clarence said before shoving the blade away from him and clasping Boris’ hand to get to his feet.
Darin surveyed the slaves. Many had been struck by shield or sword, some lay on the ground while others were bent over due to lack of breath. “Again,” he snapped. “Switch weapons, resume your positions and prepare to thrust.”
Boris sighed but resumed the fighting stance for a countless time. Over a fortnight had passed since Boris had been sold in Rolstad. The day after being sold, Boris was shoved into a cage with several men and a few women and sent to Helgstad estates. Victor told the male slaves they would be trained as gladiators, while the female slaves were put to work in the kitchens or around the estate doing various odd jobs, including fulfilling Victor’s more personal desires.
The group of slaves being trained had been much larger when the group began. During the first day of training, one of the slaves fainted. Darin walked up to the slave and slit the man’s throat. “You faint and you die,” he said, and the unmarked graves
outside of the estates attested to that. Two of the slaves attempted to escape in the night but had been caught by the guards. Darin whipped them personally with his leather whip until their backs were raw and bloody, before leaving them strung up to die.
“Thrust,” Darin shouted.
Boris, anticipating Clarence’s clumsy thrust, blocked the thrust squarely on his shield, causing Clarence to recoil. Boris held his arm out to the side and twisted it, causing the shield to become horizontal to the ground. He swept the shield through Clarence’s legs and once again knocked him on his back.
“How do you do that?” Clarence asked, his chest heaving.
“Practice,” Boris said.
“Were you a soldier?”
Boris snorted. “I learned how to kill a man using whatever means necessary. That’s what soldiers do too, but I’m no soldier.”
“Oh.”
I need to think of a plan to escape, Boris thought. Those two fools the other night were careless. Perhaps I could do it. Even with his certainty, Boris was still wary. After the escape attempt the other night, the guards were likely more alert for escaped slaves. There was also the issue of the shackles around his feet and arms that were placed on him each night. Perhaps I can slip something off of one of the guards, like a key or knife to help pick the locks.
The training continued throughout the day, ending with a dinner consisting of bowls of sludge the cooks attempted to pass off as porridge. Boris sat down at an empty table, though Clarence soon joined him. Boris looked up at him as he sat down. “What are you doing?”
“I’m eating,” Clarence said. “Or was this seat taken?”
Boris looked down into his bowl. “Next time, ask.”
Time of Shadows (The Saga of the Seven Stars Book 2) Page 6
