by E B Rose
“Stand up and form a single file,” Astaldo ordered.
They stood up. The back row took a step forward between the front row, forming a quick and orderly line. With Astaldo’s gesture, the weapons trainer opened the wooden box he’d brought with him and handed out a knife for everyone.
Sweat poured down his back as the boy picked up his knife. Was Astaldo going to order them to cut their body parts off? The thought of doing what Ratsack had done, drained all his breath out of his lungs.
“Cut your palms and hold your hands behind your back.”
The boy sliced a shallow cut on his left palm. His blood flowed readily. He took both hands at the small of his back. His fingers were wet and sticky in no time.
A rustle of rough cloth was heard as the Hunter approached. The boy at the start of the line flinched and a yelp escaped his mouth before he could bite his lips shut. Astaldo narrowed his eyes at the purebred, but the whip didn’t leave its resting place. The young slave bit his lips bloody. His body shook intensely, yearning to get away from the Hunter behind him, but he held his stance.
Whatever the Hunter did to him, it didn’t last long. The next boy flinched only seconds after the first one. Then, the Hunter moved on to the next one, who managed to strangle a yelp, but cried silently.
The boy who would one day kill the woman he loved with his bare hands, had the time to prepare for his turn. Yet, he still gasped when he felt the Hunter’s touch.
The Hunter’s hands were cold and clammy, but not like someone who spent a few hours in the snow. They were cold as if made of ice. His fingers were thin, bony, and wrapped in a dry, creased tissue that the boy couldn’t bring himself to call skin.
The boy’s eyes popped wide open when he felt something cold, rough and wet rubbing inside his palm, licking his blood. Frozen lips closed around each one of the boy’s fingers, sucking the blood off them. There was an unusual number of sharp teeth inside that mouth.
He’s not human, the boy screamed in his mind. Hunters are not human!
He - or it - even licked the knife clean before moving on to the next purebred.
“Now you know,” Astaldo spoke when the last one of the young slaves exhaled a relieved breath. “Hunters always find you, because they know exactly where to look.”
Because they were not human.
“No doors or gates are ever locked in Faychill Ranch,” Astaldo continued. “They will be unlocked tonight as well. Those of you who have looked away, go and put yourselves in the hole. The rest of you, weapons training in fifteen. And feel free to take your chances to run away tonight if you dare. Now, drop the knives and get out.”
They raced each other to be the first one out of the room.
The boy wiped his hands on his pants and risked a glance over his shoulder. The Hunter, who was nothing but a shadowy hood and a tall robe, had kneeled beside Ratsack’s dead or dying body and leaned over.
He pried his eyes off them before seeing any more.
Spending centuries with Hunters in White Tower… Never. He would never disobey, never do anything that might bring that fate to him. He’d serve, he’d please and never even dream of being free.
*
Lion never forgot that a slave wasn’t permitted to possess anything. Not a name, not emotions, not desires, not even a body. His body was their property. That was the phrase Astaldo had taught them.
However, there was one thing free men could never take. One thing all slaves possessed, yet hid so deeply, never relieved. One thing no training could enslave.
Thoughts.
His Masters could teach him how to behave like a perfect slave. They could carve every drop of emotion out of him. But his mind was the only thing they couldn’t own. It was all his. It was all him.
Now, they were going to wash it away too. He would still breathe, but he would be no more.
He doubled over and threw up.
*
He didn’t remember how he’d climbed back down from that hill.
He had slipped a number of times and the knight walking behind him was the only reason he hadn’t tumbled all the way down the hill. Although, breaking his neck would have been a more preferable fate than White Tower.
After the second scare, the knight called Sir Quewlan hooked his fingers in Lion’s collar and supported him all the way down.
What Lion did remember before hopping back inside the cart was that none of the guards around the camp - including Sir Quewlan - were wearing House Vogros uniforms.
They want to keep this a secret.
Kastian was afraid of what might happen if one of the opposing families got their hands on the Zarall symbol. Hence the secrecy and the black covers around the cart.
Lion didn’t touch the food nor the medicine that evening. It was too late to starve himself to death, but he just didn’t have any appetite.
He wanted to pray for a miracle to save him from this end, but he didn’t know whom to pray to. The Twelve Riders had failed Saradra; the Goddess of Mercy was a deaf whore.
He played with the idea of praying to the sands and the steel, the only meaningful things in a beast’s life, but they seemed to fail one in every two beasts, which didn’t sound promising either.
So, he prayed to the darkness.
Darkness was peace. Darkness had always protected him from harm. Free men and women were afraid of it. They always carried light when they were set to bring pain to him. Therefore, he prayed to the darkness to save him from what would come with the light.
Then, he leaned against the side of the cart, and stayed up all night.
When the fighting begun, sleep still hadn’t showed itself. Lion couldn’t say the same thing for the guards, though.
The darkness had lulled them to sleep, just like it wrapped the attackers like a blanket and hid them from the eyes of the sentries.
Someone shouted and woke the others up, but not until the attackers had killed at least half a dozen.
The darkness served confusion to the Vogros men and the attackers exploited it.
Lion sat there, in the darkness of the covers, and listened to the sounds of the battle. A compulsion to laugh creeped in and he had to cover his mouth to suppress it. This was not the laughter of madness; this was pure joy.
He had prayed to the darkness to save him from White Tower, and the darkness had answered.
26
LION
When he heard the barn gates opening, the slave whose name wasn’t Lion anymore stood up from the pile of hay he’d been lying on. His leg hardly even ached when he put his weight on.
It had been three weeks, and he was used to the routine now. His Owner came into his stall three times a day to feed him. It was more often in the first few days, to check up on his leg frequently, to make sure it was healing. She was desperate to save her investment.
Once in the morning and once in the afternoon, she would open the barn doors to let her little brothers in and she would supervise them vigilantly to ensure they wouldn’t go near the slave’s stall. She’d urge them to hurry up and finish their chores in the barn as quickly as possible and get out.
The little boys talked a lot, constantly asking if they could at least have a peek. Why? The slave had no clue. Children of free men and women were annoying. They made him uncomfortable.
They got him into trouble. Like the other boy he almost killed by accident.
The kid was towering over his head, with a pillow in his hands. A pillow!
Master Gladwiel’s attempt at ending his life with a pillow was still too fresh in his mind. He was angry, hurting, and possessed by nightmares and madness. He didn’t think. He would have killed the boy.
As soon as he realized what he was doing, he’d stopped. He’d released the boy’s neck, but it wasn’t enough for Olira.
His Owner had a heart made of stone. She wasn’t conservative with her use of the Pain Word. She had a temper. And, he could clearly see it in her eyes: The woman hated his guts.
He narrowed
his eyes when he noticed multiple footsteps. Olira wasn’t alone. He scratched the stubble that coated his chin, unkempt and nowhere near as glorious as the beard he had before. This was odd. Olira always handled him alone. A sense of dread dried his mouth.
He heard the scuffling of the boys just before Olira unlatched the door of his stall.
“Stop pushing!” one of the twins complained.
“You’ll spill it!” the other whined.
“Stop it!”
“Get out of my way!”
Olira walked into the stall first, pinning the slave in his place with a glare. The slave lowered his eyes to the ground, clasped his hands together, and blanked his face.
When Olira stepped to the side, the twin boys barged in, elbowing each other. One was carrying a bucket of steaming water, which he spilt a some of it in his rush. The other balanced a large tray on his arms. The slave’s lunch and medicines.
“Leave them over there and go,” Olira instructed at the boys, pointing near the door.
The twins didn’t seem to hear her. Their faces were identical, but their expressions were extreme opposites at the sight of the slave. The one who carried the bucket watched the purebred beast with awe; his jaw slack, his eyes bright with excitement. The other scowled and blinked, disappointed.
“Are you really a purebred beast?” the first one asked.
“Can we see his tattoo from up close?”
“Have you ever fought Lion of Zarall?”
“Of course he hasn’t you idiot. He wouldn’t be alive!”
“How do you know? Maybe he’s really strong.”
“He doesn’t look all that impressive. He doesn’t even look like a purebred beast!”
“How do you know? You’ve never seen one!”
The other boy opened his mouth to reply, but saw Olira’s hand pulling back for a smack, and ducked, swiftly stepping out of range. The first boy wasn’t that quick. Or perceptive. He copped Olira’s slap at the back of his head, stumbling and spilling more of the hot water.
“Put those down and leave. Now,” Olira snapped.
The slave gritted his teeth discretely. His Owner wasn’t the most patient young woman in the world and the stupid kids were pissing her off.
This time, the boys complied, though lazily. Olira ushered them out of the stall, closing the door behind them.
The slave risked a quick glance to the tray, his eyes lingering on the cup with the purple tea greedily. When he noticed the neatly folded clothes under Olira’s arm, and the chain on her other hand, he knew what this was about.
Olira put down the clothes and the chain next to the bucket, before turning to face him.
“Let me see your leg,” she ordered.
The slave pulled his pants down to his knees and stayed still as Olira kneeled to have a quick look at the wound. The paste she’d put there and the mixtures she’d made him drink did a fantastic job. The infection had dried out, and the wound had almost closed. It didn’t bother him at all, and it certainly didn’t render his mobility. There was going to be a scar, but what was one more scar for the slave’s battered body?
“It’s good enough,” Olira muttered as she stepped back.
The slave pulled his pants back up. He dreaded Olira’s next words.
“Get cleaned,” his Owner ordered, gesturing at the hot water and a block of soap. “Then put those clothes on. Be ready first thing in the morning.”
The slave’s stomach churned as he answered, “Yes, Owner.”
Olira chewed her lips, searching his face for a reaction. The slave gave her none.
He waited until Olira left and locked the latch behind her, then went to the tray. He ignored the food and picked up the purple tea, gulping it down in one breath. It had an awful, tangy taste, but he didn’t care.
The tea stopped the nightmares, allowing him to sleep in peace. Olira had offered it to him later that day in the barn, after Lion had attacked her and her boyfriend. She gave him a cup every day. To keep the nightmares at bay.
Night demons, she called them.
He scoffed.
There were no demons in his head; only bad memories and uninvited feelings. Demons were safely locked away in Darkhome. The men and women that roamed free on Earthome were the ones responsible for his nightmares.
She also placed pouches and charms all over the barn and had carved religious symbols in his stall. To ward off the demons.
All they did was to remind him how the Twelve Riders had let Saradra down.
The slave sat down, propping his elbows at his knees, and resting his head in his arms. He threaded his fingers through his short hair furiously.
So, this was it then. His time in this barn had come to an end.
What was going to happen to him once he left this barn?
Kastian Vogros was going to come after him. Although Olira was oblivious, other people were going to recognize the brands on his chest. His future held nothing but more pain and misery.
What now?
He turned and twisted the question inside his head until he felt dizzy. When he closed his eyes, he heard Saradra’s voice.
Twilight of Infinity.
His eyes snapped open.
The tournament in which the winning beast was given his freedom.
He could get his tattoo removed.
He could live without chains. Without fearing the Hunters.
Without fearing the free men and women ever again.
“Twilight of Infinity, then” he repeated Saradra’s words out loud and felt her approving smile.
Acknowledgement
Hold - don't put this book down yet!
I have people to thank, but I promise to keep it short.
Dear reader, thanks for picking up my book. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing. In fact, I enjoyed writing Lion's story so much, I went and wrote another one!
Beast of Zarall is coming out in June. Click here to preorder it now.
If you'd like to contact me, check out my website.
I also would like to mention a few names here. Jason Yates, for his support and feedback; Rhonda and Frank Yates, for providing me a distraction-free environment with an amazing mountain view to write; Bora Celebi and Sacithan Gok, my fantasy fiction gurus, for their input on the creation of this world; and Ash Duggan for proofreading and being so passionate about this story. You guys are the best.
Thanks!
E.B. Rose
About The Author
E. B. Rose
E.B. Rose began writing short stories in third grade. Her first readers were a small group of classmates gathering around her desk every recess to read the story written in a notebook.
She enjoys - yes, actually enjoys - waking up at 5am in the mornings, sipping from her coffee, and writing. She lives in Queensland, Australia with her partner, and two German Shepherds - Kara and Kal-El.
Books In This Series
Earthome Series
Lion of Zarall
Beast of Zarall
Demon of Zarall
