Lion of Zarall

by E B Rose

  She cradled his head in her lap and he breathed in the smell of her hair. He moved his hand across the length of her leg, feeling the soft, warm skin. His heartbeat picked up, his breathing becoming quick and shallow, as the seconds piled up on top of each other. Realization grew like a throbbing bump on his head.

  “You’re… you’re here,” Lion whispered hoarsely. “You’re really here.”

  He clutched at her hand, squeezing it tightly as if fearing she’d disappear. Saradra winced and used her free hand to loosen his fingers, but didn’t let go of his hand.

  Lion attempted to sit up. His chains restricted his movements, and his body was still sore from the maltreatment, but he was able to straighten up enough to see the outline of her face in the semidarkness. “But… You…” he choked. “How are you here? How…?”

  Saradra placed one of her delicate fingers - warm and alive and unbroken - against his lips as she hushed him into silence. “I can’t stay,” she whispered apologetically.

  “No, no, no, no…” Lion struggled against his chains, shaking his head violently. “You’re here! Don’t… Don’t go, don’t go…”

  She hushed him again, reaching out and taking him in her arms. She clasped him to her bosom, muffling his protests. Lion sobbed, whimpered silently, uncontrollably. He breathed her in, soaked in her warmth, too afraid to move, to break this moment.

  Saradra held him, until the cart started slowing down for another camp on the road.

  “I’m sorry,” Lion whispered. “I’m so sorry. I… I tried to fight it. I did…”

  “I know,” Saradra said softly. “It’s okay, I know…”

  “But… but you’re here now. You’re okay! You…”

  “I have to leave,” Saradra interrupted reluctantly. “But you’ll find me in Farhome.”

  Lion started shaking his head. “I can’t go to Farhome. Purebreds don’t have…” He stilled. The hair at the back of his neck stood up, a shiver running down his spine. Slowly, he pulled himself back, searching her face in semidarkness. He let out a long, shuddering breath, as he finished his sentence in a whisper: “rhoa.”

  A weary smile played across Saradra’s lips. Her silence encouraged Lion to arrive at the conclusion himself: This was Saradra’s rhoa.

  His chains didn’t let him raise his hands to caress her face, so he stroked her knees with the back of his fingers. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s a lie,” he whispered.

  The cart came to a stop. Outside, men jumped down from their horses, moving around the cart, to set up camp. Saradra held his face between her hands.

  “Don’t go,” Lion begged, his voice no more than a whimper. “Take me with you. Please.”

  Footsteps rounded the cart, approaching the flaps that served as entrance at the back.

  “You have somewhere else to be,” Saradra replied. Her eyes sparkled with passion, excitement. Her voice had an urgency as she whispered; “Twilight of Infinity.”

  Lion’s eyes grew large. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. Saradra sealed her words with a kiss. Her lips were hungry. Warm. Real.

  Lion leaned forward, his chained hands aching to take her between his arms, to angle her head back, to deepen the kiss. A desire like he’d never experienced before boiled out of his insides. His blood rushed, his muscles tensed, a growl humming in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to scorch the whole Earthome, until there was nothing left but Saradra and him.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  Karhad pulled the flap back, filling the cart with the cursed light of the setting sun.

  Lion opened his eyes to find the space in front of him empty. He sank down on the floor like a brick sinking into the muddy, filthy, airless bottom of a lake. Invisible hands cut his chest open, ripped his heart out. Ripped Saradra out of him. But this time, they replaced the empty space she’d left behind with something else.

  Twilight of Infinity.

  Karhad climbed into the cart. He asked another question, but Lion’s heart was thumping in his ears. He didn’t hear it. Saradra’s last whisper echoed in his mind, louder and louder.

  Twilight of Infinity.

  Karhad muttered something about Lion’s head losing it completely before he left, closing the flap behind him.

  When Lion thought of his tattoo being removed from his neck, a new kind of desire set his blood on fire. No more chains. No more collars. No more pain.

  Freedom.

  For a brief, intangible moment, he wanted it more than he wanted death.

  After that day, Lion didn’t have that powerful compulsion to laugh or scream any more. Days flew past in a blur. He was so quiet that at one point, Karhad ordered the convoy to stop so he could check up on the slave. Lion’s silence unnerved the Master of the Slaves more than his crazed laughter did.

  Even when Lion had greeted him on his knees and responded to his questions with his head down, Karhad still had difficulty believing Lion was behaving again. He’d thought this was a ploy and ordered the men to beat him. When they’d started moving again, Lion’s silence was replaced by pained groans.

  Now, when the convoy stopped for the thirteenth night, Lion was still bruised from the last beating. An hour later, covers at the back of the cart slid open and Karhad brought a bowl of goulash and a cup of medicine.

  Kastian’s head physician had given Karhad a mixture to make Lion drink every night, in order to assist with the recovery of his leg. The wound throbbed and itched every now and then, but at least it didn’t give him a fever and it seemed to be healing well.

  Karhad had removed the bandage from his ear, which now resembled a half-eaten, dried prune. He was wrapped tightly in a woollen travel cloak. His nose was red and runny. He looked miserable.

  Lion sat up on his knees and dropped his head down to greet him.

  Karhad scoffed at Lion’s show of obedience. “You think this is a joke, huh?”

  “No, Master.”

  Karhad sneezed, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “You think just because you’re behaving again, we’ll turn back to Brinescar after travelling this far, huh?”

  “No, Master,” Lion repeated.

  Karhad banged the bowl and the cup of medicine to the floor, splashing grey juice and meat everywhere. “Up,” he said, fumbling for his keys. “Get up you mongrel!”

  Karhad’s keys jingled as they slipped and turned in the lock. He released Lion’s chain from the cart and dragged him outside, jerking the chain roughly.

  Although the sun was out of sight, remaining daylight still dazzled Lion’s eyes. He stumbled behind Karhad, barely aware of the men setting up camp around the cart.

  “Master Karhad,” a voice called behind them. “Where are you taking him?”

  “Just up on that hill, Sir Quewlan.”

  “Is that a good idea, Master?”

  When Karhad ignored him, Sir Quewlan trailed behind them. Lion was honoured the King had assigned one of his knights to oversee his escort. How considerate of him.

  The hill Karhad dragged him to was not exceptionally steep, but Lion still tripped and fell several times. By the time they reached the top, his knees were bleeding and his eyes were still blurry.

  “Look!” Karhad said and urged him with a slap. “Open your eyes, worm.”

  Lion blinked them rapidly, shading them with chained hands. It still took a minute to get used to the light and more than a few seconds to understand what he was looking at.

  Karhad waited with a stunning amount of patience, staring at his face to catch the moment Lion would figure out what the shape on the horizon was.

  This was the first time he’d seen the sea. The vastness of it was frightening and beautiful at the same time. The blue glassy surface stretching from one end to the other, reflecting the last gleam of light left in the sky. If there’d been more daylight, the colour would have been the same as Saradra’s eyes.

  The map of Chinderia flashed across Lion’s eyes. This must have been the Was
ted Sea. Then, that piece of land right near the edge of the horizon…

  Lion’s stomach heaved with nausea.

  Karhad grinned as Lion shivered, suddenly feeling queasy. He couldn’t take his eyes off what stood in the middle of the island. Its grey-white walls were washed by a touch of orange light. It was an ugly, coarse structure that presented nothing worth looking at. Yet, White Tower imprisoned Lion’s eyes and started torturing him even before he’d stepped inside the building.

  “Three days,” Karhad said. “Three days and you’ll be exploring all the different sounds you can produce from your throat.”

  Lion’s heart sank deeper with every word. The promise of more torture didn’t terrify him. It was a disturbing future of course; no one was thrilled of the idea of getting tortured. However, that wasn’t what paralysed him with horror.

  Inside White Tower, they didn’t simply torture a slave until he behaved again. They took away the only thing a slave was allowed possess.

  *

  Astaldo dragged his hawkish gaze amongst the blank faces of his property.

  Their eyes were firmly attached to the floor. Their stances were identical. Each one of them were wearing coarse cotton tunics and dust coloured pants. Even their hair length was identical; shorter than one finger above the scalp.

  “Sit,” Astaldo said.

  He hadn’t even raised his voice, but ten scrawny bottoms dropped down to the floor promptly.

  The young slaves had formed two rows; five at the front and five at the back. Astaldo started walking amongst them, the whip hanging on his belt making that dull thud every time it touched his thigh. It was a sound all the young purebreds were familiar with. Astaldo completed a circle around the slaves, dragging every step and filling the air with the threat of punishment for one reason or another, or none at all.

  He stopped when he reached the front of the classroom. “Bring him in,” he said, raising his voice for whoever was waiting outside.

  The door squeaked open and two men walked inside. One was the weapons trainer they had all spent half their days with. He was carrying a wooden box, the size of a pillow, between his hands.

  The other was a slave.

  “Stand there,” Astaldo pointed at the slave, who obeyed and stood at the front where all young purebreds could see him.

  “All of you, look at him,” Astaldo commanded.

  For a split second, one of the nameless purebred boys feared the breeder would ask them to make eye contact with the new slave. To his relief, the new slave had kept his eyes on the floor.

  The boy had noticed the slave’s tattoo; a freeborn labourer. He looked surprisingly well-trained for a freeborn though. He must have been enslaved at a very young age.

  Astaldo stood with his feet apart, hands on his hips. “I want you to watch and see. Listen and hear. Whoever closes their eyes or looks away will spend the next week in the hole. Acknowledge.”

  “Yes, Owner!” said ten eager-to-please voices in unison.

  Astaldo turned his face to the freeborn, without taking his eyes off the purebreds. “Tell them who you are.”

  “I am the property of Astaldo Luuhun, Slave Breeder, Master of Faychill Ranch.”

  “And what are you called?”

  “You have named me Ratsack.”

  As the purebred boy with blonde hair and grey eyes listened to Ratsack speak, he felt all the hair on his arms and legs stand up. The freeborn’s voice reminded him of the sound decaying bones made as they were dragged on dry land. His eyes never left the ground, which was not unusual for a well-trained slave. In fact, it was what would have been expected from any slave.

  However, the freeborn’s eyes were nothing more than two empty, black holes, carved on a corpse’s face.

  “Tell them what you did, Ratsack.”

  “I escaped.”

  Nobody gasped or looked at each other in fear, but the boy could almost feel the shudder passing between them.

  He escaped! Steel and sands forbid, he escaped!

  “And then what happened?”

  “Hunters found me, Owner.”

  Astaldo raised his voice to indicate he was addressing the purebreds this time. “What do we say here, maggots?”

  “Hunters always find you!” the boys yelled, loud and clear.

  Slave Breeder nodded. “What happened when they found you, Ratsack?”

  The boy who would become the King’s champion beast one day already knew the answer, but hearing it still filled him with terror.

  “They took me to White Tower to be re-trained,” Ratsack said dully.

  “Tell them about how time flows inside White Tower.”

  “For every hour outside, three days pass inside the tower.”

  “And how long did you spend there.”

  “Six months had passed outside when I was returned to my Owner.”

  If every hour outside equalled three days inside, six months would have been… The boy who would one day defeat a giant bear naked and unarmed, held back a gasp. He didn’t have the knowledge to calculate how many days that would make it, but he knew it was a lot. Centuries. Hundreds of years, if not thousands!

  He was having difficulty breathing.

  “What do they do to escaped slaves in White Tower?”

  “They wash their flaws away.”

  “How?”

  “They can torture you until death, then bring you back intact, to torture more. Countless deaths wash off everything.”

  Everything, until all that was left was an empty shell.

  “Do you obey now, Ratsack?”

  “Yes, Owner.”

  “Then take your clothes off.”

  As the slave undressed, Astaldo borrowed a knife from the weapons trainer. He handed the knife to Ratsack. “Cut yourself.”

  Ratsack dragged the knife over his naked chest, leaving a red trail behind.

  The boy who would one day fall in love with a flame-haired girl, couldn’t say he’d found this impressive. Had Astaldo given him the knife and the order, he could have done this as well. He doubted if he could keep his face as impassive as Ratsack’s, but he would still obey.

  “Cut your ear off.”

  Ratsack took the knife to his ear without hesitation. He pulled it with one hand and cut with the other. His face didn’t even twitch as the blade scraped against the bone and cartilage. He dropped the cut-off ear and stood there, blood seeping down his neck, ready for his next order.

  “Cut your balls off.”

  The boy had to spend every drop of his willpower to stop himself from looking away. Astaldo’s vigilant eyes studied their faces carefully. This was what he wanted the boys to watch and see, listen and hear.

  To learn. This was another lesson to be learned.

  Dark blood rushed down Ratsack’s legs. He almost looked as if he’d peed himself, if not for the colour.

  “Eat them,” was Astaldo’s next order.

  The boy stabbed his fingernails at his knees. The pain drove the nausea away.

  Ratsack chewed the organs for minutes, yet still struggled swallowing; it took three attempts to gulp the whole thing down.

  “Now, stab yourself in the stomach and leave the knife there.”

  Again, no hesitation, no sound, no twitch.

  “Dig your eyes out, using your fingers.”

  Astaldo’s hand moved in a blur and his whip lashed at one of the other boys. The boy stifled a moan and turned his gaze back on the slave, just in time to witness fingers curling into hooks and pushing inside. Ratsack gouged his eyes out of their sockets, releasing a wet sound as he tore off the tendons.

  “Rip your tongue out.”

  Ratsack obeyed. It took several attempts to grab his tongue, as it was soft and slippery, and his fingers were wet with blood. He bent his head down to let the gravity help him. He wrapped both his hands around and pulled it free with another wet sound that would haunt the purebreds for months. Blood came out pouring, followed by vomit. Ratsack straightened
up, gawking at them with empty sockets and a red beard mixed with saliva and half-digested food.

  Next, Astaldo made him bite all his fingers off. After eight slushy crunches, Ratsack dropped to the floor, unconscious from the blood loss.

  Astaldo’s whip had lashed five more times, bringing back each pair of eyes which had strayed off the demonstration. A fair number of purebreds were going to visit the hole tonight.

  The Slave Breeder didn’t grant Ratsack’s mutilated body a second glance. He had brought the slave here for this demonstration - maybe even bought him for this purpose. Losing his property for the occasion didn’t bother him the slightest.

  He stepped over the puddle of blood and scrutinized the effects of his latest lesson. However, the way he took a deep breath and tilted his head to the side indicated what he wanted to teach them today wasn’t over yet.

  “I hear that some of you,” he started, lowering his voice and stretching the silence between each word. “have been dreaming of running away.”

  The boy who would one day kill free men and attempt an escape with the woman he loved, shuddered. He turned his head down, cold sweat running down his spine. Who would even dream of something like that? Certainly not him, not ever!

  I live to serve, I breathe to please, he repeated in his head like a prayer. He had no wants, no desires, let alone dreams of running away. Even the thought petrified him.

  The silence was pregnant with punishment. “Remind me,” Astaldo said, blinking his eyes lazily. “What happens if you escape?”

  “Hunters always find you!” This time, they didn’t speak in perfect unison. Each one of them was rushing to finish the sentence before the others, to prove how well they knew the consequences.

  “They already did,” Astaldo said quietly.

  They heard the shuffle of its robes before seeing it.

  The boy almost flinched. There was someone behind them! But how? The door had never opened after the weapons trainer and Ratsack walked in and there was no one else in the classroom when the purebreds had first entered.

  He moved his head an inch to the side to see a pair of boots dragging a long, black robe behind them.

  A Hunter! There was a real Hunter in the room!