Fallen

Woe is my calling, tattooed in my throat
In ink kissed with the blood of the rotten
Black is too light a color for my disposition

Agony is a good emotion for those around me
The wicked few that have called me brother and friend
The wretched few that saw some seed un-germinated
Light in my pain

I am the anger, the sainted, knightly
Anger in words and actions that shock and awe
I am that anger that civilized folk
Push to the depths of their personal abyss
And pray never to see the light of cultured minds

I am the hammer that drives the nail in my coffin
Everyday I drive them deeper
I am a charcoal smoked falsehood
A mirror of dated times
With ethics that don’t apply

Broken are my decisions
Broken are all the promises lied
Broken are my thoughts
Broken is my body

I am condemned to hell
Awaiting my arrival with room prepared
Sheets turned down
A nice mint on my pillow.

Backyard Genocide

One blade of grass stands in my way
But behind it are ten thousand more to defy me
They have allies among them
Tall leafy allies, I don’t care their name
I don’t want them here
The weeds are the artillery
Poison sumac their heavy infantry
I stand against them
My defoliant, chemical warfare in hand
I will cleanse them.

In my Room

My muscles twitch and spasm
My veins are full of blood
The agony of my predicament is ever present,
ever crushing
As the weights, pounds and pounds of iron
Beckon me to a time of war
Makes the Viking of my soul awaken
The Mongol come forward
The barbarian set fire to the village of my weakness
My veins, eyes, arms, legs, body all bulge
I want to vomit out all my hatred
Hatred of my gross form
I am dysmorphic, I am fanatic
I will become righteous strength
When the acid in my body burns
And the taste leaves my mouth
My heart becomes a shotgun
I am a warrior, a chain bound warrior
Set to battle my inside fear.

Instrument of Mine

I will play on your body as if it was a Steinway
My fingers to run over the ivory of your skin,
My hands will hold you in delicate grace
As you are the bass on which I will make great accompaniment
To the soft drumming I will have, rhythmic, resonating, deep
I will caress you not as a lover,
But as my muse, my instrument,
My Stradivarius gifted to me from some far off patron,
As I touch the voice that is your skin,I will pray that I can complement it,
my hands to pluck your violin.

Gas Prices

3.40 a gallon. At what point am I supposed to feel like I’m being tied to a wall and hit in the spine with a sledgehammer? I do not understand how gas is so expensive. I read the paper, the net, the blogs, the op-ed, magazines, watch TV, ask my co workers, and I can’t find a consistent answer. It’s Bush. It’s big oil. It’s a plot by the democrats to drive the elephants completely out of office. It’s Al-Qaeda. It’s your local station gouging you. I can’t get a consistent answer. I’m sure it’s a combination of most of those factors and a great of one’s I haven’t listed. Like most Americans, I am not to interested in why gas is so high, I am interested in it not being so high.

Three forty a gallon is ridiculous. It kills most of our wallets. It demoralizes people. Makes them lack faith in the government. For me, it pisses me off every time I go to Super America or BP. I see the cost and just get angry. Some sort of visceral reaction, a turning in my guts makes my face hot, and the veins on my forearms bulge. I think about ‘Hulk smash’ and for a second I wonder who to smash. Can’t think of anyone right away. What makes me even hotter, is that it doesn’t seem like it’s going to change.

Organize. Mass demonstrations and protest. Worked for Civil Rights. People listened. Now, don’t get me wrong I’m not equating gas prices to the struggle for Civil Rights, but I am saying that a nice strong sit in, massive protest, or march might get some people’s attention. I don’t think our politicians are doing anything about because I believe that they feel that we’re just going to take it on the chin and move on. I for one, can’t really afford to take it on the chin, and before anyone suggests ‘get a hybrid’ I can’t afford that either. It’s be nice if we were all west coast Sierra Club members, but the majority of us are just working class, disappearing middle class. Sometimes a new car payment just isn’t feasible.

So let’s organize. Pick a politicians office, some senator and all show up with our signs. Maybe wear some gas station attendant clothes. Maybe explain to our senator exactly how much it cost us to drive down to his office. Maybe we do a sit in at a gas station. Imagine CNN picking that up (sic). A group of people all chained to gas pumps. Chanting some catchy slogan. It might make a difference. It might not, but then maybe me, for one wouldn’t feel like I was being completely shafted.

Labyrinth Lock

The labyrinth begins to turn as you stand at it's center
the maze becomes fluid and alive,
it's coiling, serpentine around you
the restriction and control is stifling, misting
obscuring, you spend so long lost
until you found it's center, it's eye, it's command
and now it losses you again, and you are forgotten
you are 'past', history, a chronicle
the puzzle box closes down tight, and it's
the manhole of your life.

High School Wrestling

Wrestling is tough. There is no other way to put it. Wrestling demands all the physical tools of football, basketball, martial arts mixed together. It demands strength, flexibility, speed, aggression, and grit. Of all sports available to the High School athlete, it is the hardest, most grueling, demanding endeavor they can attempt. On the team I coach, we had probably a dozen or more come out for the team, and they quit during preseason training. This is typical. Wrestling is tough.

For my wrestlers we start the second day of school with preseason conditioning. Usually three days a week, about two hours a day. They do four or five hundred push ups. Maybe six hundred sit ups. Some pull ups, usually on the bleachers or on a chain linked fence. We run. Wind sprints, long distance, Indian runs, hills, high knees, side by sides, up the bleachers, down the bleachers, all of the above. They run, sometimes they carry each other on their backs; sometimes I have them carry large rocks. We’ll do all of this until they’re gassed, and then we lift some weights. Squats, dead lifts, bench presses, all in rapid fire succession, beating their bodies into the minimum shape they need to be competitive. Some of the parents say its torture, but their kids, the one’s that don’t quit, eat it up. They ask for more. I know we’re tougher than some schools, easier than others, but these guys thrive on this kind of stuff. It’s what makes them wrestlers.

Then come late October, the practices begin. For us, it’s a maelstrom of technique, conditioning, live wrestling, and mental preparation. I won’t get into the specifics, but the average practice usually two, three hours will leave them drained completely. We’ve had some guys so dog tired by the end of it all, the begged to quit. Their teammates wouldn’t let them. They returned the next day, you guessed it, hungry for more. It’s not that we push them to extremes. We push them to their limits, and the limits get higher and higher. Wrestling is a complete, total body workout. You use every muscle and you’ve got to have stamina and speed all molded together. These kids know this and the thrive on putting it all together, and hammering out more and more time on the mat until they get it right. Practice after practice, day after day, all leading up to the reason why they do it.

The meets. Marathon sessions on Saturdays lasting sometimes from four in the morning to nine at night. That’s not an exaggeration, and a lot of times it’s the norm. they sit and wait, until they wrestle, up to five matches in a day. Are there a lot of fans? No. it’s their friends, girlfriends, family, and that’s about it, if they’re lucky. Not many gyms get packed for the wrestling. They don’t care. They draw solidarity from each other. Wrestling is an individual sport, but you won’t find many teams stronger. It’s because these guys all sleep on the same bed of nails. They draw strength in that. They look at the guy next to him and see a solidarity, a brotherhood that didn’t exist before. It’s the shared burden of the drills, the conditioning, and the practices. Mold that together and you have a team, a team that thrives on each other’s successes, and bolsters each other in failure.

It’s a brutal sport. Injury wise it’s nowhere near as bad as football, soccer, or some of the others. These guys train with an intensity that most sports can’t. I talked to a few basketball coach friends of mine and we compared notes. They’re eyes bulged when they realized what we did. The standard response was, ‘my kids would quit’ or ‘the parent’s wouldn’t go for that’. The wrestlers smile at all this when I tell them. They take pride in what they do. They know they don’t get much recognition, but they realize what they put into it all. When they win, beat someone else who has gone through the same thing they have, it means something. They have tested themselves and passed. They have polished the stone and made a gem. Besides the competitive aspect, they thrive on the camaraderie. These guys look at their fellow wrestlers as an extended family, and it goes on well past High School. I still know guys that keep in contact years after their time on the mat is done.

When it’s late November, and the matches start, I want all of you to take a moment one Wednesday night or Saturday and go support your local wrestlers. They’ll appreciate it. As you sit in the stands, the rules may be a little hard to get at first, but the main point is pin the other guy. Watch them and see what they do, the sacrifices they make to be the best at a sport that drains so much from them. Appreciate it for a moment, and see for yourself what this wonderful sport is all about.

To Vote or Not to Vote

Various media in my town has reported, covered, and pointed out that American Idol got some 600 million votes, and this is tragic in comparison to voter turn out rates. This is a round peg being shoved into the square hole. I do not see a comparison other in the nominal sense that both are voting practices, and both had voters. Secondly, I cannot see it as a indictment on voter turnout in the United States. The two are apples and oranges. People vote for American Idol because a) they like the show b) it’s easy, either a text or a phone call. Modern political voting practices in America involve a) registering b) going somewhere to vote c) having an opinion. We don’t compare the physical strength of a baby to a Colt’s linebacker, so let’s stop with the blurbed media about the voting practices of American Idol and our recent political races.

It is a shame that few people in comparison to the population effected actually vote? Yes, in many ways it is. I want to have faith in the political system, I want to believe that it is me and you that makes decisions in the United States. I teach this to my students, and pray that they buy into it. Sad truth is, and maybe I’m jaded, but the socio-political monster parties don’t give me any hope that I and you have anything to do with how our country is run. This may be a slap of ‘duh, I knew that’, but it hammers me every time I think about.

America was founded by supremely intelligent, guardians of the philosophy of democratic government. Say what you will about slave holding, and womanizing, and anything else the founding fathers may have done wrong, but they were the reason our nation has the flexibility to be a great nation for many years to come. The system they created has infinite possibilities, and assures that checks/balances give no one person tyranny. What galls me is that we continually misuse and misrepresent ourselves by not going to the polls, and believing in the system far superior minded people passed down to us.

Bottom line is, we can debate partisan politics forever. I can rail against the big two parties. You can be frustrated with Bush, or Fletcher, or whoever, but the simple and fundamental truth that apparently a massive majority of us forgot is that none of it will change, will matter, or will mean anything to us; unless our voice is heard. For all our sake’s, speak up.

The Cobalt Girl

She tastes like acid,
her skin is like buried minefields,
when I touch things crumble,
when I am around I destroy,
She is the antifreeze rammed down my veins,
the veil on my eyes pulled tight,
the trigger on my gun,
she is contagious.

Ms. B

With delicate hands she picks up the book
and lays it in her tiny lap
her eyes light up with wonder and her cheeks flush
with delight
she opens up a world of animals, colors, and letters
she points to a dog and says 'cat.'
she points to a king and says 'cat'.
she points to a car and says 'cat'.
she points to a baby and says 'cat'.

She smiles,
I think she has tricked me,
and I am conquered.

Torture?

Now you are gone and I am forgotten
left with no landmark, no bookmark to hold me to this place
left with empty halls, bare walls, dirty carpets
and my bachelor dishes.

I hate being alone.
I hate being discarded.

I am disenfranchised, hell now ambivalent
to everything we were,
you broke my heart and then feasted upon it
and my mind shows me your bloody gorged jaws
and I hate you, hate you, hate you for it
as you set fire to the hole of your feast
pissed gasoline into my soul
and let the friction of your fuck with him
set it all ablaze.

I scream at myself when I am alone-
every day
I scream and I yell and I remind myself how much I hate you
and how much you mean to me.

Pilgrim III, 2

The wail of the soul is not often heard,
but to those attuned to such things,
it is deafening.

my brother he travels in lands of enlightenment
surrounded by inspiration of god's hallowed grace,
he travel's and grows, his ethic now changing,
he has become an idea walking as a man.

When he returns to the world that bore him,
these travels will show him the beauty of life, the fragile delicacy
of a few moments, the lack of meaning, but the understanding of grace.

I pray for him, as he prays for himself, as we pray for him
I pray not for safety, this man needs no such petition
god chooses those who walk with his purpose.
The serenity of self examination, the crucible of the trial
this man now looks into places once sealed off, inaccessible and hateful,
now open, dealt with, understood, and replaced-
with something new, organic, something not there before.

His soul wailed, and he didn't know how to answer,
he heard it quite clearly, but he didn't know, didn't care to know how to answer,
and then he did, and it was, and it was
he answered his wail and placed a question before himself,
in the place of the past he walks, with his questions
and he sees answers so brilliant that only he can see them
so awfully blinding only he can see them
so personal so fulfilling, palpable only he can see them

this wizard

this undeniable wordsmith, he brings the frame around these visions
and captures them, no coaxes them, asks them to bring into meaning
these things he has seen

this wizard

builds these things, these undeniable truths, unbearable and unanswerable
he pushes them into meaning.

there are no spells here, no incantations- this wizard
cast's no magic. his magic is inherent, his magic is him.

White Buffalo

He was not tall, he was not stout
at least not in body
at least not at his age.

In youth he was golden, a toe headed boy
exploring all around him, questing for knowledge.
His thirst lead him far and wide, his eyes covered many miles.
When he was older, they turned to books when his body failed him.

He was handsome, he was regal
his soul drew people in close, even if he thought himself a shy man.
He was one of the last of the truly kind hearted people
he touched all around him, and they were better for it.

In retrospect we deify those that have died, those that were close
this man was not to be deified, but he was to be celebrated.
The world lost a native son, one of the classics,
he brought joy to all who encountered him,
those with a unkind word for him-
were rotten sons of bitchs.

He was a good man, a very good man
he was a fine father, and a loving husband indeed,
he was a good man, a strong hearted man.
the lord couldn't wait,
so unkindly, he became greedy
and took this one from us.

Words of the past

If i was younger, so much younger than today
I'd change nothing but the unkind words said
I'd not re-work careers, or women, or employment
I'd not turn a blind eye to what I have become.
In age I see that it is words
coated in venom, and snarled in rage
that are what older men ponder over
and what young men trade.

Old Brahma

Bury me with my boots off,
as my journey will be over.
Wipe the dust away from them, polish them clean.
Put them out in the yard sale, priced at a dollar
and hope them bought by some man
younger, and more eager,
than me.

Patchwork Quilt

The clown fish is my father, the orange and white,
somewhere he swims in eternity, his eyes wide with wonder
as he answers questions for god.

Athena is my heart, her wisdom guides me
her delicate hands, and crafty smile,
her playful laugh, her light so bright to bring worlds afire.

Irish martyr wood guards my honor, stands in the face
of the serpant and his coils
it is not perfect as perfection is best worked over the nails of trial.

Three curves, each turning outward showing me the way
family, friends, self, each a piece of the same work
each a part of the same solution.

The Dragon guards my blindness and pushs me to work
for great things and accolades and praise
dragons are not humble and this one had razors.

The standard of the legion is my code, my writ
it reminds me of sacrifices of men of the past
and guides me to glory in my future.

The sword takes flight, and walks in the valley of death
and tells me daily that men of principal, of ethics
bend knee to no one.

this is my patchwork, piece of my soul
the interweaving of my flesh with my past, present, and future.
like it's owner it grows, it stretches, it fades
and like it's owner
it is renewed once again.

In you I shall Defend.

You sleep and dream of light,
and other playful things.
I see you wherever I am, in my vision, in the corner of my eye
I hear your laughter, soft like a butterfly kiss
I see you near me, your warmth worked up from so much movement,
exploring, learning, experiencing all around you.

You sleep and I watch, my eyes in the darkness
I whisper to you, sleep, nite nite, my little wonder
In you I shall defend.

I see you wherever I am, I feel your presence
I work, I learn to be as good as I can for you.
You are my honor, my reason for living,
Quiet, now hush my darling sleep tight
In you I shall defend.

Wish for Bowsprite

My eyes see no more,
my hands work no longer
Scatter my ashes on the sea so fair.
As I am once from this water,
so joyful return me
and give me back to the majesty
of a cold, thankless sea.

My eyes see no more,
my lips speak no longer,
Scatter my ashes for the gulls to feed,
make me a part of the joy of the ocean
give me back to the majesty
of a cold, tranquil sea.

Book One Chapters 1-3

Prologue- Endings

This was Cyan’s last day in the Pits. Fourteen years, fifteen days, nine hours of hard labor was coming to a close as the first sun set. He should have been happy, as the end of hard labor was here, but he felt nothing but the normal days fatigue, mixed with nervous anticipation of tomorrow.

Cyan was not being freed, but instead being moved, having been purchased by an unknown benefactor. Thus was the life of a slave, master to master, an existence built on the principle to ease the life of others. He knew he was nothing more than a commodity, to be bought and sold as supply demanded.

He worked his last day, hauling rocks and laying mortar for the construction of some sort of building someone as lowly as he would never be allowed to enter. He worked because quitting would mean death, and even though the life of a slave offered nothing, he was not ready to die. The sun beat down upon him, the dry air of the desert seemed to hang in his lungs like some heavy weight.

The trudge back to his sleeping barracks felt somewhat more lighthearted than the day’s work. At least he would not be in this hot sun anymore. He didn’t know what his new owner intended, but in his mind he hoped it was something indoors, something different from the only life he knew. He had become used to the sun, but it’s constant beating sometimes made men go mad, and he didn’t want to die a gibbering, mind-spent hulk like some of the others. Monotony was the bread of a slave, and anything would be better than the tasks at the Pits, as anything would be different from what he knew.

Hard labor had done nothing but build his body and feed his lackluster dreams. Years of repetitive work and near silence day in and day out allowed him to think and dream, sometimes to a life without slavery, to the life of a freeman. These thoughts came rarely, as he knew thoughts of freedom would only serve to make him ache all the more for it. ‘I am a slave, thus I was born, and thus I am. To think otherwise would be to admit hope, and that would be to die’.

The old adage rang truer now than ever.

He had not given in like the others; he had always worked his mind as he worked his body. He didn’t know if it served any purpose other than his own amusement, but then again, what other purpose could it serve? He knew what he was, and he accepted it. Still, at night before he slept, he would allow himself brief fantasies of walking free, among men as equals rather than servant. He imagined places where he could sit and rest, should he want. He imagined places where he could drink his fill without asking.

He ate his last meal in the barracks surrounded by his quiet comrades, and slept his last night on the same rough stone floor bed, surrounded by the slaves he had known for years, some of them almost friends. At first sun he would never see them again. He had no real lasting bonds here, and no possessions to take, and none to leave behind. Thus was the life of as slave.

***

The barracks master had awoken him before first sun, and given him time to bath and eat. Not much was said other than simple commands, just as always. Nothing much was ever said in the Pits, it was a life of silent work. He was shaved, cleaned, and waiting in the courtyard to see his new master, a new future if it could be called that.

Cyan stood roughly six feet tall, and was wide shouldered. The years of hard labor had left little fat on his body, and a large amount of lean muscle. His arms and chest were vascular, lines of veins visible under his skin, snaking around his body like small rivers. Constant sweating, and days near dehydration had made these rivers, dug them into his flesh, a latticework bearing testament to the labor his body had been through.

Sun scorched skin took him from white to a deep tan, and bleached his short cropped hair to a light brown. His face was clean-shaven, as was his back and chest. His hands were permanently calloused, more so than the workingman’s hands, they were slave hands. His knuckles were large and thick, his palms rough from years of sand.

He was attractive, fair to look at and rugged, manly. His cheeks high on his face, his eyes well-
balanced and slate gray with a look beyond owned, they always seemed to have a dull, un-kindled fire in them, something unquenched. His teeth were intact and clean, a mark of a vanity he possessed. He had always kept his teeth clean, scrubbing them against coarse fabric of his shirts, rubbing sand against them to keep them polished.

The ‘mark’, an octagonal shape with two wavy lines at top and bottom, crossed vertically in the middle; was burned into his right shoulder, the ancient sign of ownership that all slaves bore. It had been there since he was able to walk, and hence able to work. He knew no manner of removal would take it from his body, that somehow it had been made a part of his skin with magick; it was as much a part of him as his hands.

He was young; not a year past seventeen winters, if he had been free he would have been considered a man for three winters past. He stood in the hot first sun, as the second sun rose just behind it, a thin line of sweat on his shoulders and neck, his loincloth and sandals, only ‘possessions’, waiting for his new future.

Gorea, the taskmaster stood next to him in silence. A squat, not overly harsh man, he smelled of work and spirits, and scratched at his beard. He was not attractive, and was nearly forty winters old. His hair was graying, and his beard patchy. He was not a cruel master, he simply expected the slaves to work, and when they did not, he whipped them until they did, or they died. It was a simple relationship.

Cyan saw the horses trotting out of the desert. His slave camp was situated in the Imperial province of Watts, in the vast expanse of the Thies Desert, which was largely low mountains, rocky plains, and the desert, which stretched for months. The camp itself was in the middle region of the Thies desert, the largest desert, and largest wasteland on the continent. To say it was hot and dusty was an understatement of epic proportions. Some days the heat would scorch untested skin so deep that blisters and burns would form. It was an environment that breed the strong, and killed the weak. It was an alien land in the Empire, removed from all real civilization by the massive Thies Mountains, a wall standing between the lush grasslands of the Empire, and the wastes. The desert was a harsh place, a land of slaves, thieves, hard men, poor traders, and death. Cyan had seen nothing besides the Desert, but he knew there had to be somewhere better.

The horses breached the gate, one carriage pulled by a team of two large desert weary horses, and right behind it a wagon pulled by four. The wagon was covered, all wood, with two steel bars set into a small window on each side. The back door was padlocked and reinforced. It was a slavers wagon, and Cyan knew them well. The men coaxing the horses forward were each slaves as well, dressed in cassocks, headgear and baggy pants. They were in service to either a wealthy merchant or nobility by the look of the carriage. It was well built, and decorated with fine metalwork, latticing about the edges and door.

The carriage and wagon pulled in front of Cyan and Gorea, kicking dust over the both of them. Three years in the desert had made Cyan very accustomed to dust in the eyes and covering the body. He had forgotten what food tasted like without sand in it. He did not move and stared forward, off into the distance.

One of the two slaves from the carriage dismounted and walked to the door. Pulling the steps down he knocked once, then opened it. Cyan expected an older man dressed in fine clothes. Instead, he saw a young man dressed in half plate battle armor.

As he walked out, Cyan took his measure. As tall as Cyan, and near as wide, the man was imposing. His hair was black, long, and tied in a braid down his back. He wore a half plate steel breastplate, with somewhat intricate patterning worked into the darkened metal. It depicted a scene of battle, with mounted cavalry charging another mounted army. Under the plate the man wore thick heavy leather, well oiled and a baggy blue shirt tucked into baggy pants, tucked into heavy riding boots. At his side was a thin longsword in a simple leather scabbard; hanging on his belt was a whip. His eyes were bright blue, and he was clean-shaven, with a hint of a smile on his face. He was a warrior; Cyan could tell that from his equipment, more importantly, he seemed to be a confidant warrior, by his demeanor.

He stepped down and walked, a confident self assured stride, over to Cyan and Gorea. He never looked at Cyan, keeping his eyes on Gorea. It was as if Cyan, even in his six-foot size, wide as a small boulder did not exist. Cyan was used to this. He was property.

“ Greetings friend.” The warriors voice was casual, confident, well toned and likable. His face, impassive up until this point was now a full casual smile, one that would win many a person over, if they did not see the venom hidden beneath. Cyan sensed that this warrior was confidant because he was good. He sensed that this was a man who had killed before.

“ Greetings to you.” Gorea extended his hand and they shook. The man was wearing heavy studded leather gloves, newly fashioned.

“ How do you do on this so lovely a day?” The man asked, putting his hands on his hips. Cyan noticed he oozed confidence; it seeped off him like the sweat from his brow. It was tangible, and it made Cyan uneasy. His voice was smooth, commanding.

“ Hot as all hells.” Both men smiled.

“ Is this the one?” The man asked, gesturing towards Cyan with a tip of his head.

“ Aye, I assume you have been sent by her ladyship to receive him?”

“ As it is.” The man took a flask from his pocket, swallowed a long pull, and wiped his brow.

Cyan pondered ‘her ladyship’ for a moment, as there was silence. It didn’t bother him that they spoke of him as property, he was more than used to it. It was his life. He had seen what happened time and time again to willful slaves. They died. Cyan was not willful, he stood still and waited.

The man snapped his fingers, and one of the slaves brought forth a rolled parchment and put it into his gloved hand. Cyan saw ribbons hanging from it, one brown, one red, and one yellow. At the end of each was a piece of wax with pictures pressed into them, of what, he could not tell.

“ Papers are in order, I assume?”

Gorea took them, unfurled the parchment, read it over, grunted, and then placed the paper into his belt.

“ In order. Payment?”

The armored man took a leather pouch the size of Cyan’s fist from his belt and tossed it to Gorea, the sound of coin jingling. Gorea tossed it up and down in one hand, testing its weight and nodded.

“ All in order then. Have a good journey.” Gorea gave one last glance at Cyan and turned, walking back to the barracks. With that, Cyan had a new owner.

The armored man turned and looked Cyan up and down, appraising him. Cyan continued to stare forward, impassive. He knew not to meet the man’s eyes, for this would be considered willful for a slave. He sensed the man’s confidence, and he sensed the man was somewhat impressed with him; either that or he was smiling for the joy of smiling. Cyan had little to assess the man with; he saw his armor, his confidence, and his powerful eyes. He was unlike anyone else he had ever met before. The man oozed confidence, self-assurance, and seemed to be singularly possessed and in control of himself.

“ Strong. Lean. Muscular. I am sure she will find you exceptional.” Was the warrior’s perfunctory appraisal.

Cyan stared forward as the man snapped his fingers again. One of the slaves returned with a set of hard manacles.

“ Fit him with his bracelets.”

The slave placed the iron cuffs over Cyan’s wrists, and locked them, handing the key to the man. Cyan stared forward, the manacles were tight, and bit into his wrists. He showed no outward sign of the pain, but it hurt nonetheless.

“ That wagon will be your home on our journey. Now see to it.”

Cyan nodded and began to walk towards the iron conveyance. The pommel of the longsword caught him unaware as it came down on the back of his neck.

He crumpled to the ground with a groan, pain flashing over his body. A hard riding boot caught him in the ribs and he flipped onto his back. His eyes bolted shut to block the pain out, only to be reopened by his throat being compressed by a boot. Staring up, his eyes bulging, the armored man stood on him, crushing the wind and life from him.

“ Remember this slave, you are just that, a slave. I am the man you shall never want to cross. Keep this in mind always. You are a slave, to be used until we are done with you, and then to be discarded.” His words sounded like silken spider webs, and his boot felt like a hundred anvils on his throat. For a moment Cyan had thought the man kind by his demeanor, this illusion was now dispelled. The confidence was one of power, of knowing that he had the power to kill Cyan. This was a confidence Cyan now feared.

As Cyan began to feel his breath fail him, the weight was lifted and he coughed, sputtered for air, body wrenched with disorienting pain. Another kick to his ribs caused him to ball up in a fetal position. He felt himself being drug through the dust, the sand scratching along his back, and then being picked up by four sets of hands, and tossed onto a hot wooden floor. The air stank of sweat and urine, and the sound of the door clanging shut and locking jarred his mind from the pain just long enough to let him go unconscious.

Book One Chapter One

Freedom is the trap. It springs itself late at night, just before sleep. It latches onto you, strangles you until you have nothing left. It’s a hollow, hateful dream. Never let it trap you.
- Unknown slave

The dull thud of the road woke Cyan. His neck ached, and he could feel the bruise begin to well under the skin. His chest ached, and his head was sore. First day in service to his new master was not as good as he had hoped, but then again, he didn’t expect much.

In three years of service in the Pits he had never been beaten as sadistically as now. It hurt, both physically and mentally. The life of a slave was what he knew, but even so, he had a spirit, and he was a man, and attacks that lessoned that; he felt more than the normal lash. He tried to suppress his spirit because he knew what hope could lead to. ‘I am a slave, thus I was born, and thus I am. To think otherwise would be to admit hope, and that would be to die.’ He knew the creed well, the way of the slave. If he ever admitted to hoping for something better, ever thought for a moment he was something more, the masters would strike him down. He knew it, so he hid what little glimmer he had deep inside him, fearing that if it saw the light of day his life would be forfeit.

His eyes opened, and quickly became adjusted to the dim interior of the wagon. Sunlight filtered in through the two barred windows, but the rest of the wagon was quite dark. He made out the form of another humanoid in the corner, seemingly asleep. The wagon smelled strongly of sweat and urine, and it bounced with the road.

He sat up, propping his back on the wall. His manacles dug into his wrists, creating more pain to endure. To a slave, such was life. He was noisy as he moved, causing the form in the corner to shift and sit up. Eyes accustomed, he could see it to be human shaped, about a hand shorter than he, and two hands less wide. He could make out long hair, and little clothing. It opened its eyes, and they emitted a soft blue glow that framed the outline of its face. Cyan sat motionless.

Something incomprehensible came from it, a language Cyan did not know. It sounded fluid, melodic, and yet rough around the edges. Cyan stared at the glowing eyes.

“Guess you didn’t understand me?” Came from the form, a male voice, speaking in the human tongue, with a slight accent, emphasis placed heavily on the vowels. Cyan nodded, trying to discern what he could in the shadows, making out little.

The form slid closer, and Cyan could make him out better. Smaller than he, but well muscled, with long unkempt brown hair. It spilled over his shoulders, and mixed with his patchy beard, not trimmed or taken care of at all, patched onto his face. He had pointed ears, and the ever-glowing blue eyes. He bore the mark of a slave on his shoulder, and wore only a loincloth.

“Speak only human?” He sat down, resting his arms on his knees, and brushing strands of loose hair from his face.

“ Yes.”

“ Figures. Got a name?”

“ Cyan.”

“ Ah, Cyan, a good name, a well sounding name. Unless I am mistaken, then in the tongue of the nomad elves of this desert it means ‘fury’.” The pointed eared one said with a slight bit of awe. Cyan shrugged, thinking on the meaning of his name. Until now, he had not known it. It was just a name the den mothers had given him. It puzzled him, to be named ‘fury’. Such emotion in a slave would get that slave quickly killed, for the masters did not want anything but blind obedience and work from a slave. Anything else would be reproachful, and mean death. His thoughts were interrupted as the pointed eared one continued.

“ No last name?”

“ I’m a slave.” Cyan returned, evenly, no malice in his voice. He said it as a fact, with nothing more behind it.

“ So am I, but I’ve got one.” He was young, probably just a little older in winters than Cyan. But young nonetheless. He was an elf, Cyan knew that much, but not what kind. He had only met one other elf in his life, and that one had not had much to say. He knew that elves lived about twice as long as humans, and that there were three different races of elves. He didn’t know what the types were, or why they were distinctive. The elf he had known talked little, and only said as much as Cyan knew. Masters rarely educated their mortal livestock.

“ Okay. What is it?” Cyan asked, finding conversation to be inevitable.

“ Maris Morningdew, son of Crias, born in summers waking in the year of the cold heart.” The young elf said with great pride, and bowed his head slightly.

To all people of Cyan’s world, birth year and month, as well as time of birth were important both spiritually and divinsistically. A lot could be known about a person by their birth year and time. This elf was born in the year of the Cold Heart, the fifteenth year of the given hundred-year cycle. Cyan did the mental math and figured the elf to be a total of forty-five winters old. The current year was nineteen sixty after imperial rule, or one thousand nine hundred and sixty years since the empire was established, however to Cyan it was nineteen sixty, no more. He knew not of why the year was such, other than it was.

The current year was the year of the Sky’s call, a year marked for bounty in fishing and hunting. It was nearing the end of the year, as it was in the twelfth month, Fall’s slumber. When this month passed, a new year would start in the first month of winter, known as winters waking. This elf was born in summer’s waking, or the first month of summer, the ninth month of the year.

To Cyan it had always been puzzlement, the idea of ‘winter’. From other slaves he knew that in other places, winter was a time where the world was as cold as the desert night. In the desert, the temperature was hot, and hotter. The only chill came at night, but nonetheless, apparently in far places there was time when it was cold. Men measured their lives by how many winters they lived; this was puzzlement to Cyan as well, for he had never known this thing called winter. The elf continued, breaking Cyan’s thoughts.

“ Not my last name personally, but of my tribes. I am of the mountain elf folk.” The young elf said enthusiastically.

Cyan nodded, trying to quantify how old the elf was in human maturity, somewhere around twenty-one he guessed, not so young after all. It also sunk in that he knew two of the types of elves now, nomads and mountain folk. He knew of mountains, he had seen them on his few travels as a slave. Once, he had been told the mountains locked the desert from the main part of the Imperial Land. He only knew that the mountains were tall, and far away.

“ So quiet? I see. It would make our journey faster if we talked.” Maris scooted closer, and the sunlight filtering in from the barred window hit him. As the light passed over him, his eyes ceased to glow, leaving them a dull blue. His face was smooth except for the beard, and he was well tanned. Across his left breast he bore a set of four jagged scars, running from shoulder to mid torso. Each was thin and white, standing out on his chest.

Cyan sighed, wishing he could sleep again so the pain would go away. If not sleep, then he wished to think on what was said to him, his name, and these elves. He resigned himself to the fact that pain and Maris would neither go away, so might as well talk for a while, and in truth he knew it would make the journey go faster.

“ Where did you come across those?” Cyan asked, motioning to the scars.

Maris smiled, revealing a mouthful of missing teeth, and the ones that remained were yellow.

“ When I was fifteen winters old, my father and I hunted together. Our quarry marked me before I took it down. It was a fearsome beast. A large mountain cat, almost as big as I. It marked me, and I took it down with my axe, much to my father’s approval.”

Cyan realized he was dealing with a slave who was not born into the life, which explained his enthusiasm. Slaves who were not born slaves were both very enthusiastic and upbeat, or sullen and morose. This was the nature of coping. Cyan had seen many such men in his time as a slave. It was a truth that most died, as they could not deal with the taste of freedom taken from their mouth.

“ Looks painful.” Cyan remarked.

“ It was, but I returned that day blooded and a man.” Maris traced the scars as he spoke.

For a moment, Cyan wished his experience was something of the same. A day spent with his father, enjoying life, and returning home with a father’s pride upon him. He had never known that feeling, but inside he knew it was something he needed, wanted, but would never have. It made him both inspired, and resentful to Maris. Inspired by the sound of his love towards his father, but resentful for a sound he would never hear in his own voice.

“ Where do you come from?” He continued speaking, banishing the thoughts away.

“ Far north, in the Windspire Mountains, in the Morningdew tribal homeland.”

“ Tell me of it.” Cyan liked to hear of other places, it was the small freedom he knew as slave. Whenever a new slave had come to the pits, Cyan was the first who would ask quietly at night where the slave had been, what they had seen. The knowledge allowed Cyan to see places behind the dunes of sand, and fields of rock that was his existence as a slave.

As Maris began to speak, Cyan truly realized that he had not been a slave long, and his spirit had not yet been crushed. Cyan knew it would be soon, and felt sorry for the elf.

“ It is a land of beauty, true beauty. Not like this godforsaken desert. There are trees, tall trees, tall as a hundred men, wide as two men. Lakes so clear, so clear you can see the fish swim in them. The mountains are tall, and bountiful with game, and land to work. We live there in large huts and wooden homes among the mountains and trees. There is much room; our horses are never without exercise, and our nights never without stars. It is a beautiful land Cyan, you should visit it someday.”

The notion of ‘visit’ was alien and foreign to Cyan, and it took him a moment to let it sink in. The idea of visit implied freedom, a word Cyan did not like to think of. The only visit he would have would be his mind, for anything else would mean he was not a slave. Cyan knew what he was, and knew he was powerless to be anything else. It burdened him, but it did not eat at him like others of his kind. He was strangely resolved to it. I am a slave, thus I was born, and thus I am. To think otherwise would be to admit hope, and that would be to die. Words in his mind, given to him by an older, wiser slave he had briefly known in the pits. Words to live by, Cyan knew, and remembered how the old man died, hauling the rock Cyan had split.

Maris must have realized this, realized the big man was deep in thought, for he was silent for a few breaths. The uncomfortable silence hung between them, as rank as the fetid, hot air of the wagon. Cyan was the first to speak.

“ How long have you been captive?”

It didn’t seem to break Maris’s enthusiasm, and Cyan was glad for it. He thought Maris might not break, or may last longer than some. It would be good to see a smile around him for a time, as such things were rare.

“ About two winters now, give or take. I was taken at night near the deserts edge when I was riding. Ever since, I have been captive.”

“ I’m sorry for you.” Cyan didn’t mean to say it, but he meant it nonetheless. Maris looked surprised for a moment, almost touched. Cyan tried to shrug his words off, as if he had misspoke.

“ I am not. It is a new experience, one I shall outlive. I have the stars, and dawn to guide me. My path shall remain free.”

His words were genuine and heartfelt. In a matter of minutes Maris had made Cyan feel human for a time. Secretly he thanked the young elf. Unlike other slaves, Maris seemed to truly believe in freedom, and in something better. Cyan saw this, and wanted it for himself, but only for a moment. I am a slave, thus I was born, and thus I am. To think otherwise would be to admit hope, and that would be to die. He wanted to share this enthusiasm, but only for a moment. I am a slave, thus I was born, and thus I am. To think otherwise would be to admit hope, and that would be to die. He knew at that moment, he had met a true friend, and a true smile crossed his face, temporarily making the pain go away. The words of the old slave still held in his mind, but for that moment, they were put away as he saw friendship, a rare and dangerous thing.

“ Were you captured?”

“ No, I was born.” He said it with no emphasis. It was a fact, nothing more.

“ I’m sorry.”

“ Don’t be.” He didn’t follow it with ‘I’m not’ because he was sorry. He knew something was better out there, but never really wanted to admit it. To admit it would mean to hope, and to hope would mean to die. The words were always in his mind, there to comfort him should he think otherwise.

Another silence fell between them. Uncomfortable yes, but so much as the first one. Conversation picked up again easily.

“ Do you know where we are going?” Cyan asked.

“ No, I’m afraid not.”

“ Where did you last come from?”

“ I was a tracker for a merchant down south. He bought me a season ago because my people track game well. Silly ass was displeased with me because I couldn’t track in the desert. He just didn’t understand that rocks and trees are different ground than rocks and sand.” Maris laughed, and Cyan laughed with him.

“ What about you?”

“ The Pits.”

“ Ah, so I’m sure wherever we are off to is better than that?”

Cyan smiled and nodded.

“ Do you know who bought us?”

“ No, but I truly hope it isn’t that ass with the armor.”

“ Did he hit you as well?”

Maris nodded, rubbing his jaw, a thin bruise appearing on it.

“ From what I can tell he is serving whoever bought us. Either way, I don’t like him.” Cyan shoke his head, knowing the kind of person the swordsman was. He enjoyed cruelty; he enjoyed inflicting pain on others. The kind of sadistic person a slave wanted last to be their master.

“ Truly.” Maris leaned against the wall and stretched his legs out.

Cyan looked out the window and watched the suns set. Almost everyday they set together, the second sun just slightly behind the other. Cyan tried to watch everyday when this happened. He was a child of twilight, born during that time of the day, so it was his nature to feel more alive in that brief period of the absence of sun and moon.

“ Child of twilight?”

Cyan nodded.

“ I was born during the day.”

Cyan nodded, still watching the setting suns. Besides birth year and month, time of day was important. One’s personality and attraction coincided with the time of the day they were born. Someone had told Cyan that the wizards organized their orders by time of day at birth: dawn, day, twilight, night. Having never met or even seen a wizard, he did not know if it was true. He knew that such ‘wizards’ existed, and that these people could work the world around them, and this was magic. An odd idea, but to Cyan, anything outside of the desert was odd.

“ So am I the first elf you‘ve met?” Maris stretched out on the floor, leaning against the wall.

“ I met another, few years back. He wasn’t like you, short hair, more slender, no beard.”

“ Maris chuckled. “ One of my cousins, a high elf. Like you humans, who are black, white, yellow and so on, we elves have three races. Mountain, Nomadic and High elves.

Cyan settled in more against the wall, attempting to find a comfortable position for his neck. A question was answered for him, and he smiled to himself.

“ My people come from strong tribes. Our clans are our families. We hunt, farm, and work the mountains. We are nothing like our high cousins.”

“ What do they do?”

“ Build cities, armies, works of art. Unlike us, they have no idea how to work a horse. They have their noses shoved into the clouds.”

“ And the nomadic?”

“ More human than all of us. They live in large families, riding with no set home. I’ve never met one oddly enough.”

“ Do your people war?”

Maris shook his head. “ The high elves and us warred once, long ago. The war of the brotherhood as it was called.” As he said it, he sat up to the floor. “ It was long past, we have not warred since, or trusted them.”

Cyan nodded. “ How large is your tribe?”

“ The Morningdew are many cities worth of people strong. Behind the Ironhearts, we are the largest tribe.”

As Aoi’s pale light began to creep over their faces, both men sighed, trying to relax more, trying to be somewhat comfortable in such a situation. The soft moonlight Aoi gave, and the pale blue glow of Maris’s eyes made the ride somewhat peaceful.

“ Do all elves eyes glow?”

“ No. It is my Shei-hazar, my talent.”

“ My apologies for bringing it to attention.” Cyan bowed his head slightly.

“ None needed. You didn’t know.”

Almost everyone on Cyan’s world was born with some sort of special gift. Although many would never meet a wizard, almost all people could work magic. This ability was called the Shei-hazar in Elven, or ‘the talent’. Talent’s ranged from the mundane to the stuff of legends. The talent was an inborn ability to do something extra-worldly.

Where one person’s talent was blue eyes that see in the dark, another’s could be to conjure up storms of fire. In legend, one of the Emperors of long ago could raise the corpses of fallen foes to do his bidding. Ninety nine percent of the population who had talents simply possessed small, mostly useless powers. One slave Cyan knew had the ability to make a spark from his fingertip a few times a day. Another slave could make his hair grow at will. These things were nothing truly impressive, but were distinctive abilities in and of themselves. For those that possessed abilities grander, they had to be wish with their use of them, lest they become a subject of scrutiny from their neighbors. Just because someone was born with the ability to summon up a firestorm, or walk through stone did not mean that they had to use it, or use it to harm others.

The rule that was followed when dealing with talents was never to bring them up. About thirty percent of the population did not have a talent, and it was a long-standing social edict not to bring it up for fear of who did not have a talent feeling inferior. Like propping your elbows on a table, or not opening a door for a woman, it was a social grace not to ask. If one wished to show their talent and explain it, then so be it, if not, let it be.

Cyan was either talent-less, or his simply hadn’t manifested yet. He was more than old enough for it to show, but as of yet it had not. Normally a talent would manifest in a human about the time they hit puberty. Cyan had thus far experienced nothing.

Cyan was embarrassed that he had brought it up, so he shifted the topic as quickly as possible.

“ Do you have a woman?”

“ No, not as of yet. I am not old enough to mate in my clan yet.”

“ But you are a man?”

“ In deed yes, but not in experience.” Maris propped himself up on his elbow, his chained hands shining in the moonlight. “ I needed to see more of the world, so I would have more to offer to a wife.”

Cyan wished he could marry. The concept of wife, and family was something he would never have. He would make children; he had already been commanded to do so once already. It was a pleasurable experience, but it made him feel wrong at a base level. The slave girl his master had commanded him to stud with was decently pretty, polite, and he enjoyed it, but at the same time he came to the realization that she was not his love, and the child they created would never know a good life. The child their union made would grow up a slave, just as his father and mother. In the span of the hour they were together, no words passed between them accept the sounds of lust, not even their names passed their lips. He knew he would never see that slave girl, nor the product of their union ever again. That was the way of things, and he knew in years to come, he would be told to couple again and again to make sure his master’s had strong stock for the future.

The experience had made him wonder if his father, whoever the faceless slave was, had ever thought the same thing. He had known mothers, not one, but many mothers. The breeding women raised slaves communally. He wondered if they felt hollow, alone, surrounded by their illegitimate children condemned to a life of hell, knowing which was theirs, but forbidden to tell them.

Some of them secretly told their children, but none had ever told him. It made him feel even more alone, for he was not worth a mother to tell him; he was not even worth that. He wanted love, more than a real life, he wanted to love and be loved. Somewhere, his son/ daughter was out there, never to know him, just as he had a faceless father, so should he repeat the cycle. He never wanted to go back to such things, but thus was the life of a slave.

As he spoke, he tried not to let his voice crack with the raw emotion welling inside him. “ Did you have one in mind?”

Maris’s voice was quiet, introspective, the same voice he had used for his father. “ Yes, yes I do. Like the land she is beautiful.”

“ Will she wait for you?”

“ I have known her since birth, she will wait.”

“ Tell me of her.”

Maris lay back down on the wood floor, looking out into the moonlight.

“ She is almost as tall as me, very dark skinned, with hair dark as night down her back. She braids it, in two long locks, and it feels as silk, just as her skin. Her eyes are brown with small gold flecks. She is slender, strong, and better with a bow than I shall ever be, and almost my match with a sword. She took my heart from me long ago.” Maris laughed softly.

“ What is her name?”

“ Illyiana, which means in my language, ‘Mother of the Stars’.”

“ You sound to be a lucky man.”

“ Present situation excluded I am!” Both of them laughed. Now, there was no uncomfortable silence, just a time between friends. It felt good to Cyan. He had few friends at the pits, but not like this, none like this. This seemed real. In the span of a few minutes, he could feel he was connecting with the young elf. His optimism, and seemingly boundless energy intrigued Cyan.

The soft thud of the horses continued on, and quiet evening drifted over the wagon. The two talked for a while longer until the dull rhythm of the road quieted their voices and stilled their bodies. Soon Cyan could hear Maris’s soft snoring, and he became accustomed to the sounds of the road. It wasn’t long before he lapsed into a comfortable sleep.

***

The sunlight blinded Cyan. Water was being splashed on his face, and it was warm. The desert tended to do that to water.

“ You dead?” One of the slave’s voices from the wagon. Cyan sat up and blocked the sun from his eyes. Maris was awake and standing outside the wagon, stretching. Cyan slipped out of the wagon and stood on the hot sand. Two slaves stood guard, one bearing a whip on his belt, the other holding a waterskin. The man in armor was nowhere to be seen.

“ Drink.” The slave tossed the waterskin to Cyan, who drank thirstily. He was sore, half awake, and hungry.

“ Fine day it is.” Maris chuckled.

Cyan stretched his cramped muscles and looked around. Desert sand as far as the eye could see, and the road, worn sandstone slabs on which they traveled. Thank the empire for a road through the desert. Both suns were high in the air, and it was about midday.

The third slave walked up from behind the wagon and dropped a bag on the ground. He pointed at it and mumbled something about eating. Cyan and Maris took no time at all devouring the dry rations inside. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to placate their hunger for now. The dried bits of lizard and stale squares of bread could seem like a heroes feast in the desert.

“ How much more do we have to travel?” Maris asked.

The slave with the whip responded as he wiped his brow. “ One more night, give or take.”

Maris nodded. Neither of the slaves seemed to be used to the hot desert life, both were covered in a sheen of sweat, were drinking to much water, and looked almost half dead from fatigue.

“ Put em back in the hole!” was shouted from in front of the wagon. It was the man in armor’s voice.

“ Yes Lord Athrax.” Both slaves said on cue, and ushered Cyan and Maris back inside the wagon. As the lock slammed shut, both men settled into comfortable positions as the wagon took to the road again. Again the slow thud became distant, a part of existence.

“ A meal truly fit for a king.” Maris said as he patted his belly and sighed.

Cyan laughed and nodded, looking around the dark moving cell, taking in the absence of anything interesting besides the elf.

“ Tell me more of the mountains.” Cyan asked, squinting to see the elf as his eyes adjusted.

Maris leaned back and rested his head against the wall as he spoke.

“ Have you ever seen trees?”

Cyan chuckled. “Yes.”

“ No really, it’s a valid question. I don’t mean these scrub desert trees they have here, but real, vibrant trees?”

Cyan thought for a moment. “ No, nothing more than the desert scrub.”

“ These trees are not even trees compared to the trees in my homeland. Truly, I cannot stress enough how expansive our forests are. The mountains breed the mighty.”

“ As large as a man?” Cyan asked, his eyes somewhat wide.

“ Sometimes more, the mountain is most bountiful. Everything there is larger than life. The trees are so tall and plentiful that their branches mix together above your head, sometimes obscuring the sun.”

“ Is it warm?”

“ Near the bottom of the mountains and the middle yes. On the tops of some of the mountains it can be so cold there is snow.”

“ Snow?” Cyan had a puzzled look on his face.

“ You don’t know what snow is?”

“ No.”

Maris smiled. “ Snow is water that has become so cold it becomes white and powder like sand.”

Cyan took a moment to contemplate this before Maris continued.

“ Can you survive in it?”

“ Yes, we wear the furs of animals we kill to keep warm.”

Cyan nodded, understanding.

“ The middle and bottom of the mountains is where we live though. Most tribes cluster around the inland sea. Do you know what a sea is?”

“ Yes, I’ve been told of such things.” Cyan grumbled, feeling somewhat stupid. It was not often he had the chance to talk to anyone, and usually when he did he could feel his lack of education.

“ Just checking. We have a large sea, locked inside between the mountains, as far as you can see there is water. To walk around it, it would take weeks.”

“ Are there fish?” Cyan asked, remembering a story once told to him of the animals that lived in water.

“ Many. The catch is plentiful there. We sometimes just live off the inland sea when we are sedate and the farm crop is not so good.”

“ I think I would like to fish.”

Maris smiled. “ A pole would do you no good. You look like more of a spear man, or perhaps your bare hands, and you could wrestle the fish ashore!”

Cyan laughed thinking of how absurd it would be to see himself in water, trying to grapple with fish. He had never seen enough water to submerge himself completely. He had bathed before, but with jugs that were poured into catch basins to be used again. He understood the concept of a sea, but visualization was a problem.

“ Is the water cool, or hot?”

“ In the north, it is very cool. The mountains snow melts into it, more south, it is warm, not hot, not truly cold, but the proper temperature.”

“ Your tribe lives in the south I take it?”

“ Yes, very south near the river that feeds the inland sea. We are the southernmost of the tribes, closet to the main Imperial Lands. Our grounds cover mostly trees, small farms, a river, and rocky hills. It’s home to about three hundred of us, give or take.”

Cyan paused for a moment, gauging his next question.

“ Do your people keep slaves?”

Maris was caught slightly off guard, and blinked his surprise. Cyan could tell it was not a question that sat well with the elf, a slight anger in his eyes. When he responded his voice echoed the frustration of their situation.

“ No, we don’t.”




Book One Chapter Two

The act of pressment is quite simple. You press someone no one will miss. Urban slums yield great press results, for no one misses the poor. Better still are remote areas, most notably the Thies Desert. No one remembers some rock farmer out in the middle of the sand. Remember, even the lowliest of gutter scum can be forced to work well with the right motivation.
- Baron Deus Valkerig, Patriarch of House Valkerig

The wagon came to a halt, wheels grinding loudly as the coachmen cursed at the horses. Cyan and Maris were roused from the somewhat blissful sleep they had entered, returning them now to their lives. It was night outside, and Aoi’s pale, shadowed light crept into the wagon. An eerie, anxious feeling hung in the air.

Both men sat up and shook the sleep from their minds as the locks were unbolted and the doors opened. They climbed out into the cool desert night air into a moonlit courtyard.

They were surrounded on all sides by structure. To the left was a two-story sandstone building with iron barred windows, and a heavy wooden door, bolted. To the right was a three-story sandstone building, it’s walls much more faded and chipped than the others, with no bars on any of the windows. Behind them the horses were being stabled in a set of large open-air buildings, with a small blacksmith’s forge set off to the side, the dying embers of the day’s work still glowing. Ahead of them was the gate to the complex, iron, about sixteen feet tall, set into two large sandstone towers with parapets, and twenty five foot walls extending along the entire complex. The ground was hard packed sand, with sandstone slates set in front of each door to each building. In the middle of the courtyard was a well, and just in front of it two man sized wooden poles stuck into the earth, about a man’s length apart, with iron manacles on new chains hanging from each. This was their home.

It was different from the Pits, a lot different. Cyan was used to sleeping on the sandstone in a large cage, iron bars that baked hot during the day holding them in. There was a hole for refuse in the middle of the pen he had lived in, and a few bundles of old, dirty rags to sleep on. The hole was both toilet and garbage pit. It was not a rare occurrence to wake up to find the person next to you dead. This place seemed like a quiet heaven compared to the hell the Pits had been.

The courtyard was quiet except for the horses being attended to, and the night was cool. In the distance Cyan could hear what sounded like city sounds, quiet nighttime rustlings of thousands of people. Beyond the walls he could see the tops of many buildings poking out into the night and a tall sandstone tower in the distance, dominating the skyline.

Athrax walked from behind the wagon, and looking both men up and down he nodded once and jerked his thumb in the direction of one of the slaves who quickly came forth and undid their manacles. The slave scuttled off to the blacksmith with the cuffs, leaving the three of them alone.

“ I trust you are well rested?” Neither Cyan nor Maris did anything more than nod.

“ Good.” Athrax smiled, the fake pretentious winning smile that Cyan already hated.

“ That door there, walk.” He pointed to the barred door on the smaller building. Both men did as they were told, and Athrax followed. When they reached it, from inside it opened revealing a short, squat hairy man and a dark hallway.

“ Follow him.”

The short man walked down the hallway, turning once into another hallway and then descended down a set of stairs. At the base of the stairs he opened a door, producing a key from his pocket, into a room dimly lit with torches. Maris and Cyan walked in. The room was bare except for a set of water buckets, which were full, a table against the wall with a pair of scissors and a skinning knife, and a wooden chest next to the table. Set into the floor was an iron grate, and under it, darkness.

“Stand there.” Athrax pointed to the middle of the room and both men did as they were told. The short man, who wore a thick, set of pants and no shirt to hide his large stretch marked belly walked over to the table and picked up the knife and scissors. Athrax leaned in the doorway and pointed at Maris.

“ Him first.”

The short man walked up to Maris and looked him up and down.

“ Sit.” It was a grunt more than a word.

Maris did. The short man took a handful of his hair and unceremoniously lopped it off, letting the clump of it fall into Maris’s lap. He did not move, but closed his eyes. Cyan wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have heard a whimper as the hair continued to fall. Every once and awhile his lip would quiver, and Cyan realized that maybe Maris finally understood he was a slave. It was a hard realization, one that Cyan had seen drive the spirit and life from many a man.

When the hair was removed, Maris was shaved bald. Thin rivulets of blood appeared and crept down his face like lines of ants from the short man taking little care with the skinning knife. Maris opened his eyes and stared forward, ignoring the red lines running down his cheeks.

When Maris was done, Cyan sat and the man went to work. It did not take him long because Cyan’s hair was short for this was done to him quite often at the pits. He calmly bore it as another part of his life and wondered if Maris knew what always came next after a slave was shaved.

When the short man finished he walked over to the table and put down his instruments.

“ Stand up, drop your loincloths and spread your arms out.” Both men did so. Cyan did as he had done countless times before, Maris seemed uneasy, his face showing he did not know what was to come.

The short man then picked up his instruments again and went about cleaning them with a white rag from his pocket. He cleaned them very slowly, dragging to time along as both men stood naked and bleeding. The short man made sure both the knife and the scissors were as shiny as they were when forged before he continued.

The short man sat the instruments down and took a pair of heavy leather gloves from his pants pocket. The gloves were triple stitched and the palms were as smooth as glass, having been worn down by something over time. He picked up the wood chest and placed it onto the table, and unclasped it, opened it and reached his hand inside. Cyan immediately tensed up and closed his eyes, shut his mouth, before he did, he noticed Maris had not. He wanted to tell the elf what was to come, but speaking would only mean more trouble, possibly, and most likely a severe beating.

The man turned around with two handfuls of white and gray powder. He began to toss it on them, handful after handful, quickly covering their bodies in gray ashy powder. As it hit Cyan’s scalp it burned, but being used to this type of pain he gritted his teeth and waited. The first time this was ever done to him when he was four he had screamed, but never again.

Maris screamed as the powder hit his open wounds. It only made it worse for the screaming opened his mouth, and the gray powder hit his tongue. He screamed and collapsed to his knees, but the short man did not stop. Maris frantically tried to get the taste out of his mouth but only wound up getting the powder in his eyes. He fell down to his side and began to twitch his body racked in screams and pain. The short man did not stop until both men were ashen, making sure that Maris was thoroughly covered.

The short man let the powder sit on them for a minute or so, as Maris’s screams faded to whimpers and sobs. Then the short man threw the water on them, Cyan first.

Cyan’s body twitched as the water hit and the powder began to burn all over him. He did not let a sound out, just grimaced. This was a form of pain he had mastered long ago. He was not a hard man, but this he could understand, and this he could deal with. Maris could not. The powder was activated and he screamed. Cyan thought he might scream so loud as to lose his voice, expelling it permanently from his body with the force he was producing. He screamed, and did not stop until the short man had flushed them with enough water to remove the powder. The short man then nodded once to Athrax and walked out.

“ Stand up.” Athrax said, his voice impatient.

Maris lay on the ground, whimpering and spitting, his eyes bloodshot red, and his body quivering.

Athrax walked forward and kicked the young elf in the side hard enough to send him a foot into the air, until he splashed into the remnants of the water and powder on the floor.

“ Stand up.” Athrax said, his voice clearly impatient.

Maris looked up from his heap and wiped tears from his eyes, slowly standing, trying to regain the pride that had just escaped him. His whole body was shaking, and Cyan felt as if he should be too, but remained in control of himself. He was used to the pain.

“ Good. Welcome home.” Athrax’s voice was a perverse sneer.

Cyan glanced at Maris who was quickly recovering his composure. He was hurt, beaten, but not defeated. That was a good sign, it meant he might survive. He hoped the elf would.

“ You will sleep tonight. Your last real sleep before the work begins. Tomorrow we begin, and in two days you meet your master, the Lady of the house. Now,” he smiled broadly, his teeth clean like Cyan’s shining in the torchlight. “ I’m sure both of you have questions, and this is the only time you will ever be allowed to freely speak to me. I implore you, ask away.”

Cyan shifted his feet, wondering if this was a ploy that would cause Athrax to use his whip on them, or if the man was telling the truth. He had learned long ago to keep his mouth shut, and appear as receptive and stupid as he could. Any spark of intelligence could be mistaken as willfulness, which would end in a severe beating.

“ Where are we?” Maris asked, his voice shaky, but the edge returning to it, the unbreakable spirit he seemed to possess.

“ The Imperial city of Tacoma, in the northern reaches of the Thies desert.”

Maris eyes became downcast, and Cyan looked at him puzzled.

“ I take it by your expression that you know what Tacoma is to a slave then?” Athrax asked a hint of laughter in his voice.

Maris nodded. Cyan looked puzzled. Athrax addressed him with his next statement.

“ You are no longer a worker. No more shall you toil in the quarries, Tacoma has no quarries to toil in. Your task here is quite different. You are fortunate to be in one of the seven Imperial cities in the League.” Athrax smiled, waiting for the question. Cyan obliged.

“ What is league?” Cyan kept his voice low, controlled. He was afraid of the expression Athrax wore. This did not sound good, and the warrior’s sneer meant it would probably be worse than Cyan could imagine.

“ The Imperial League of Combat. Congratulations, you now live and die by the sword.” He smiled. “ In simple terms, you are a fighter, warrior, a gladiator, a spectacle for other’s enjoyment and betting. Your life belongs to the arena.”

Cyan nodded, not wanting to show his fear. He knew what a slave fighter was, having been told of them by other slaves in hushed tones. The life of the sword was not one any slave wished to live for it was hard, brutal, and ended in death. He held back his fear, even though everything he had ever been told of the life of the sword made him want to hide, run away, and attempt to escape. Slaves died in the life, or killed others in the same predicament. He wished he was free, the same wish he always made in his heart, but now he wished just to be back in the Pits. A lifetime of backbreaking labor seemed to be the best life possible now, a fortunate escape, almost a found memory of what the future held.

“ I know nothing of combat.” He said, trying, but failing to hide the fear in his voice.

“ Oh, don’t worry, you’ll learn. Trust me, you’ll learn, or you will die.” He shrugged and flipped the whip back and forth between his fingers. “ There is no choice slave, fight or die.” Cyan nodded, biting his fear back. “ But don’t worry, there are benefits you will find here to make your life easier.” A sarcastic tone dripped from every word he said. “You’ll never have to work the land again, nor work days from sun up to sun down. When you are not training you will rest and have time to yourself. It is our wish to keep you healthy and in good focus for your
battles.”

“ Even if we fight one battle and die?”

Athrax smiled. “ It is a lie to say all the trials are too the death. You fight until you fall, until you submit, not die. We’d never make any money if that were the case, having to buy new slaves all the time. But, on occasion trials to the death have been known to happen. The crowd does love them so.”

Cyan nodded and Maris continued to stare at the floor.

“ And of course, the easiest way to die here is not the trials, but to refuse to fight. You will find soon that the Arena is nothing compared to my wrath.”

Cyan looked Athrax in the eyes, a bold gesture. He couldn’t help it; he needed to see the look, to confirm whether or not this was that type of man. The cold, hate filled eyes told him everything he needed to know. This was a man who was to be feared, he knew it days before, but now he knew it for sure. He accepted that Athrax was deadly; he accepted this as he accepted that stone was hard.

“ If, say, you should manage to garner enough wins the trials, enough support, and liking of your benefactor, then there is always the possibility of freedom. Every year, there is a grand tournament, and yes, it is all to the death, in Imperial city, were the slave who stands alone in the end is granted freedom by Imperial edict. I’ll tell you now boy, this pipe dream was created to motivate you slaves into fighting harder. You won’t make it that far, and I have always felt that the best motivation” he looked down at his whip “ is found in other places.”

Cyan felt the fear leave him for a moment, and be replaced with hope, a gentle flame that was quickly snuffed out as he realized it was in fact a pipe dream, and he wasn’t surprised with how quickly he resigned himself to this fact. This would be worse by a long shot than the Pits. He could already envision days of battle, fighting and probably dying. At least it would be an escape. I am a slave, thus I was born, and thus I am. To think otherwise would be to admit hope, and that would be to die He knew the words well, and he stamped the pipe dream from his mind. No sense in believing in something that would not happen. He cast his eyes back to the floor.

“ The rules are simple: obey.” Athrax cracked his knuckles. “ Obey and we will have no problems. Disobey, and you suffer. I leave no room for willfulness. I broach no room for error or for disagreement. Fight well, and live. Fight well, and be rewarded.” His tone changed to a rather upbeat, happy pattern. “ You will find the rewards are worth your dedication. We know the whip will only inevitably motivate you into falling on a blade in the Arena. However, you can live a good life if you follow the rules and fight well. If not, you die, and you are replaced. I only promise to make it as painful as possible should you oppose me.”

Cyan knew he meant every word. This was not a man that tried to con him into good behavior as some masters had. This was not a weak man who feared his slave’s revolt. This was a man who knew he had all the power, and the ability to enforce it at will. He saw the competence, the arrogance, and the attitude that said this man would not hesitate to replace him. It was a cold fact, one that made Cyan wish again to be waking in the Pits, for another year of rock breaking. It was brutal, but he did not have to fear death, it would come eventually, one day it would be too hot and he would die. One day a master would work him to hard and he would die. One day another slave might fail his work and hit Cyan with a pick, and he would die. It was simple. Here was not. Here he feared. He did not like the feeling.

***

They were shown to their rooms, each a separate room, next to each other. The room was small but comfortable. It was clean, and it did not smell. The only light source was a small iron barred window, which allowed moonlight to fall in exactly the center of the floor. Cyan inspected the iron bars and they were thick and well placed into the stone. A few marks had been put on them were perhaps the previous resident had attempted to wear them away. They did not look to give anytime soon, and even if they were removed from the wall, Cyan knew the hole would be much to small to fit through. Down below the window after a two floor drop was the courtyard. His view was of the well and stockade, and a small part of the nighttime skyline of the city.

The room had a bed, surprisingly large enough for Cyan with straw bedding and soft fabric sheets. He held the sheets, noting their fabric to be much softer than any he held before. It reminded him of the clothes of the masters, and he gently laid it back on the bed, as if he should not touch it. A heavy wool blanket was folded up at the bottom of the bed for the colder nights in the desert. He looked at both items for a moment, wondering if they were truly his to us, or if it was some sort of cruel joke or test. He looked around, craning his neck through the door to see if anyone was watching.

Cyan sat down on the bed and it was not uncomfortable to him, but to anyone in a normal life it would have been atrocious, a mass of lumps and sags. To Cyan, it was the first time in his life that he would be sleeping in a place by himself, and not with upwards of thirty other people. He was pleased to not have to smell the sweat drenched bodies of those around him, a smell he had never gotten used to. He could deal with living by himself, regardless of the circumstances surrounding why he was here. It was a comforting feeling to know that perhaps, he might be at peace at night in the room. He did not believe it was truly his to us, and warily looked around once more. After a time he settled himself to the realization that no one was coming to remove or beat him, and leaned back onto the bed.

The room contained a footlocker with three pair of baggy brown pants, made of thick material, yet breathable, the basic work material of the desert. The clothes did not look as if they had been worn before, and looked newly stitched and sewed. Whoever had done the work on them was adequate at what they did, and Cyan approved, they seemed as if they would fit him comfortably. Two brown cassocks with short sleeves sat under the pants, and two brown sleeveless shorts underneath that. Three sets of undergarments and a pair of sandals made up the rest of the wardrobe, with one last addition, his only accessory, a rope belt. He was pleased, for now he had more access to clothing than he had ever really had. For years now he had worn a loincloth and sandals, shirts and pants would be a nice change of pace. It was an odd feeling to know that he could now change clothes. In the Pits, he wore his loincloth until the masters gave him a new one, sometimes days, weeks, even months. He liked the idea of being able to change clothes.

Despite all of the new things he was not happy with his situation; in truth the fear was still with him, slowly eating at his insides while he tried to push it away. He knew that while the pants, the shirts, the bed, the room were all benefits, none of it mattered in the fact that he could be put to death at any moment. In truth, he would give it all up in a heartbeat just to spend his life in loincloths, and sandals in the pit. Right now, nothing could make him happier. All the benefits of his new home did not outweigh the payment he might make.

He sighed gently, laying down onto the bed and folding his hands across his chest. Despite the fear, the bed was nice, much softer than the sand and rock of the sleeping area of the pit. He pulled the covers around him, feeling the soft fabric, remembering the lack of blankets in the Pits. It was a nice addition, something he knew he would enjoy, but still fear hung in the back of his mind. Despite all of this, I am still a slave. He knew the thought well, having come to terms with his life some time ago.

If I do not fight well, I will die. The notion made him afraid. He had never fought, never raised his hand in anger. He did not know how he would fare, and his mortality stared back him. I always knew one day I would die, I would be of no more use, and I would die. He knew what happened to older slaves in the Pits. They passed on, no longer able to keep up with the demands of the masters. Perhaps they were sold away to wealthy people as servants, and Cyan wondered if that was so much of a better life. Ever slave that came to the Pits and was a servant before had wanted to return to that life, and Cyan wondered if it was so good to be surrounded by wealth and power, yet be constantly reminded that one was beneath all of that, yet another possession.




Book One Chapter Three

Slavery is less expensive than having to deal with a peasant population. It is much more difficult to bury a peasant.
- John Wesley, Patriarch of House Wesley (Slaver House)


The next morning Cyan was awoken by another slave, a tall, dark skinned man with no hair or beard, middle aged and missing a finger on his left hand. The man shook him until he awoke and then bid him to dress and follow him. He did not speak after that, leaving Cyan to follow.

He was lead to a large, open room that smelled of spices and aged wood. Two long tables with benches were the only furniture in the room. He saw a door off to the side, and another on the far wall, open, exposing a kitchen were work was being done. He sat down at the long table and waited, the events of the night before almost forgotten as a reality of life he could not change. Such was the life of a slave.

Maris arrived shortly thereafter, sitting across from him. He seemed awake, alert, and not a bit of the last night hung about him. His spirit had seemed to rebound, and Cyan was glad for it. He didn’t want to watch his friends spirit be crushed, as he had seen happen so many times before. Kitchen noises continued in the distance, the smell of food magnified, a good smell that made Cyan question if this place was so bad.

“ Sleep well?”

Cyan nodded, crossing his arms and leaning on the table, taking in the smells for the kitchen.

A tall, broad shouldered man walked in and sat at the table. He had no hair, bearing the short close shave hair that was symptomatic to the slave. His look was intimidating, an air of menace about him that spoke of a confidence in ability, and a resignation to station. Cyan knew he was a fighter, and his age said he was a veteran. Cyan wondered about the people he had fought, if he was afraid, and how many had fallen to his blade. This was a man to be respected for surviving, but to be feared if ever pitted against.

He wondered if the man would be like some old slaves, distrustful and hateful to younger ones they thought might take their place. He hoped he was not. He didn’t want to battle another slave, not one he lived with. It would complicate life even more, and he was not used to complications.

His brown eyes were alert, bright, taking in the surroundings. He bore scars criss-crossing his arms and hands, and he looked to be about thirty. He bore the mark of the slave on his shoulder; just under it was a deep gash that was quite old. His scars looked like a second skin, and Cyan wondered if he would get many before he died.

The three of them sat in silence for a moment until another arrived. This one not so human. About five hands high, with green-brown skin and smelling of a livery, a gobbeley walked into the room and plopped onto the bench. Its eyes were red, beady and darting to and fro. Its head was a cross between a reptile and a human, with ears much to large for its head, about double the size of ears that should be there. It smelled, and it’s pointed teeth were more green than yellow. It bore the mark of a slave as well. Cyan had seen gobbeleys before, menial workers in the Pits, usually dying quickly. When they worked with other of their kind, they worked well, drawing on some sort of quiet communal aspect, completing tasks as a unit. A lone gobbeley was virtually worthless however, a slave that would die quickly. However they eat little, and took up little space, being quite fine in the worst of living environments.

One more joined the table. A woman, human, in her mid thirties. Her hair was short and her body was muscular. She walked more like a man than a woman, with brown eyes to match her hair. She sat across from the gobbeley and next to the scarred man. She was not unattractive but neither attractive either, a happy medium between the too. She was plain, with smooth tanned skin and a finger long scar running from her nose to her chin. She placed her hand over the man’s and he smiled slightly, a smile that made Cyan realize that the intimidation was just an exterior, that this man was likely a good person. The smile was genuine, and that was a good sign of things to come.

All of them sat in silence for a time, the quiet sound of the kitchen dominating the room. Maris looked about, every once and a while staring at the gobbeley before catching himself. The air was thick, both with the desert morning, and with newness. It seemed no one wanted to talk, a resignation between the three old hands, and the two new. Cyan had encountered this before. When new slaves were brought to the Pit, those who had lived there for a time gave them their distance, allowing them to deal with their life before talking. There had never been much talk in the Pit, it was discouraged, and usually punished severely. Cyan wondered how it was here.

“ Can I have your carrots?” A thin, almost squeaky voice came from the gobbeley. It sounded like a cross between metal scrapping on metal, and the call of a dying bird.

Cyan looked first at Maris who held an incredulous smile, and then to the gobbeley.

“Pardon?” Maris asked the gobbeley.

“ Soon, they’ll bring carrots. I want them.” The gobbeley smiled revealing the green, yellow teeth. There was no malice in its voice, just statement of want. Maris stared at it, as did Cyan. The muscular woman laughed slightly, as the man smiled and shook his head.

“ Seems to be a valid question me thinks.” The gobbeley continued, undaunted.

“ I suppose so.” Maris relented.

The gobbeley smiled again, very pleased with itself and the prospect of more carrots.

“ Bad choice friend, now he’ll always expect them.” The man said, his voice deep, but kind.

Maris smiled. “ I am Maris Morningdew, son of Elijah, child of day, and you?”

“ Memos, son of no man, I have no idea when I was born either. Pleased to meet you.” The scarred man smiled, a kind, gentle smile. Turning his attention to Cyan “ And you lad?”

Cyan looked away from the gobbeley and to Memos. “ Cyan.”

“ Pleasure as well. I am Memos, and this” he nodded towards the woman “ is Sherill, and this” nodding with a grin to the gobbeley “ Is Pix.”

The woman smiled and nodded, and the gobbeley climbed onto the table, walked over to Cyan and extended a knobby, green hand to him.

“ Pleasure.” Pix grinned. Cyan and Maris shoke his hand in turn. Done, it turned around and trotted off the table back to its seat.

“ Where have you come from?” Sherill asked, her voice almost as deep as Memos’s but just as kind.

“ For me, the Morningdew tribal homeland, the southern reaches of the Windspire mountains. Cyan hails from The Pits.”

Sherill and Memos both nodded.

“ You are all league fighters?” Cyan asked.

Memos and Sherill nodded, Pix belched, which Cyan took for a yes.

“ I have fought for nine years, four for her, and this is his second.” Memos said.

“ Are there many more of us here?” Maris asked.

“ No more fighters, a few more slaves yes. Us five, assuming, and by the looks of you, you are to fight, we are the only fighters here. There are two other slaves here, Briel the house girl, and Harrod who does not speak. Lydia is the cook here, she is a freewoman, Chesir is the healer, he is free as well, and we have a smithy and about a dozen or so guards. And of course Athrax.” Cyan noted the derision in his voice when he spoke the name. “ Also, Ulrag whom I assume you will meet later today.” Memos said.

“ And of our mistress?” Maris asked.

“ The Lady Imona.” Sherill said with such disdain that it sounded as a curse.

“ Is it true we have time to ourselves?” Cyan asked.

Memos nodded. “ Yes we normally train from morning meal to past high sun, then eat again and spend the rest of the day to ourselves. We stay in the walls and as long as we remain quiet, we have until dawn again to do as we please.”

Despite the fact that soon he would have to risk his life to survive, Cyan was happy with this small freedom given to him. Happy and slightly annoyed, because he had no idea what to do with his free time. It was a good problem to have he realized, but the only time he had ever had to himself was before sleep, and he was allowed no allowances with his time.

“ What do we do?” He voiced his mental question.

“ I read!” Pix interjected, obviously quite proud.

“ Yes, we do have a small selection of books to read. Some old manuals on geography, history and the like. We also have training equipment, the small forge in the courtyard, and each other’s company.” Memos replied.

“ We are allowed this?” Cyan said more than asked, the prospect intrigued him. He read a little, having been taught a few secrets among the nights in the Pit from slaves who had garnered wisdom secretly from their masters.

“ Yes. They want us to be in our best condition to fight.” Memos’s voice was flavored with sarcasm. “ Despite that, trust me, you will learn relish it. You will find it has its advantages.” Cyan noticed Sherill smiled slightly as he said this. “ It’s not the best situation, but take what you can get.”

“ I have never had any time to myself.” Cyan said.

“ Most who come here haven’t. Like I said though, they realize we will fight better if we are not tired and angry all the time. Our masters, while brutal, are not foolish. They know that by fighting well we make them money. They also know if they treat us too poorly, who’s to say we wouldn’t just fall on a blade next time we train, or fight in the trials. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not freedom, but it’s better than many alternatives.”

“ I agree. I like this idea.”

“ Most do.”

The smells coming from the kitchen were almost intoxicating. It smelled good to say the least, unlike any of the other meals he had ever smelled that were slave food. It smelled of heavily salted lizard hank, vegetables, and spices. It made his stomach rumble and turn, and his mouth water in anticipation.

The door to the kitchen opened and a young woman walked out, holding a heavily laden tray. She was about five and a half feet tall, and her hair was slightly red, sun stained, colored such as the desert sand just before twilight. She was wearing a long skirt, down to her ankles and a light cassock with the sleeves rolled up around her elbows. The clothes were brown, and had spots of dirt and food stains on them, most of them ground in. These stains did nothing to hid the fact that she was well curved, with a most shapely figure that in a tighter, cleaner dress would make men’s necks crack following her around a room.

Her face, although glazed with the sweat of a hot kitchen, and pathed with strands of dust was fine, with high defined cheekbones, thick but full pink lips, and stray curls of her pinned up desert hair falling down the sides of her face.

Her eyes were bright green, the kind of green that reminded a person of a four-leaf clover amid a field, standing out, shining. They were an intoxicating green, more potent than the smell of the rich food. Her skin was pale white, and somehow untouched from the desert suns. Her hands were strong, yet seemingly fragile and delicate, but christened in a life of hard work.

As she moved about the table, laying plates and cups, her gait was graceful. Despite her clothes, and the work all over her, permeating her, she seemed elegant and out of place. She seemed rare, a quality a female slave did not want. She did not smile, nor did she look sad, she simply worked about the room with an unpassioned determination. As soon as she had come, she was gone, back through the kitchen door. She returned moments later, much to the thankfulness of Cyan’s eyes with more food, and then she was gone again.

Cyan was still staring at the door of the kitchen, not really remembering the grumbling of his stomach, nor the food in front of him. An elbow to his ribs brought him back to reality.

“ Still there?” Maris asked, and the table laughed, Cyan realized they were all looking at
him and his face went red. Sherill flashed him a sly, knowing look, and he became redder still. He picked up the piece of lizard hank and tore and mouthful off and chewed, looking down at his plate. Maris laughed again beside him, poured him a mug and shook his head. Cyan drank; it was water, clean water, and good. People began to eat, and Cyan welcomed the focus leaving him.

“ Cyan, how many winters have you seen?” Memos asked in between mouthfuls.

“ Seventeen. You?”

“ Thirty- four.”

Cyan raised an eyebrow and nodded. His respect for Memos had just risen. At thirty-four, and with the number of years he had fought, Memos was a survivor. This was respectable. Cyan was musing over this when he noticed a small, clawed, green-brown hand creeping onto his plate, circling around a potato. He looked at Pix, catching him red handed.

The gobbeley looked at him with an innocent, childlike expression. It might have worked if his teeth were not so yellow. Cyan smiled, and gestured to him anyway to take it. The gobbeley smiled and shoved it whole into his moth, chewing loudly. He nodded his thanks as he gorged on it, and Cyan smiled and continued to eat.

She returned, refilling mugs of water, and cleaning up plates. Cyan did not overtly stare, but felt his blood getting hot, and a not so unfamiliar sensation passing over his groin. As she walked into the kitchen, Cyan stared at her backside hard enough to give her a bruise. Maris elbowed him in the ribs again, causing him to almost choke on his food. The beat red blush returned to his face.

“ Son of an adder.” He muttered good-naturedly.

Maris snickered and poured more water for both of them. Cyan drank it greedily, this being the first time he had experienced clean water. Pix stole another potato from him.

“ Attractive, yes?” Memos said.

Cyan blushed slightly, looked up and nodded.

“ Her name is Briel.” Sherill said.

“ She is like us?” Maris asked.

“ Yes, owned just as we are, but not a fighter.”

“ Right, she’s the house girl.” Maris said.

“ Among other things.” Sherill muttered.

“ Yes, the house girl, cooks, cleans, serves, mends the clothes, and so on.” Memos said, over top of Sherill.

Maris nodded, understanding, Cyan did not catch what she said, still thinking of her pale skin.

A bell began to ring outside the room. As it tolled, everyone stood up, taking last quick drinks of water, and Pix shoveled leftovers into his face. Cyan looked at Memos quizzically.

“ Time to train.” They all began to fill out of the room down the hallway, turning left and walking into the courtyard. Half of it was shrouded in the shadows of the building, the other half burning in the two suns gaze. Cyan and Maris followed everyone else’s lead, lining up along the east wall in the shade, Memos first, Sherill second, Pix third, followed by Maris and Cyan.

A door slammed across the courtyard and a man, more so a mountain walked out of the doorway and lumbered over to them. To say he was large would be doing him an injustice. He stood at least eight hands high, and was a wide as an ox. His skin was brown and yellow, deeply suntanned, with the completion of a worn out boot. He wore large boots laced up his claves, with brown heavy leather pants tucked over the top of them. His belt wrapped around his tree trunk waist and was studded with small bits of iron. Hanging from the side of it was a coiled up whip.
He did not wear a shirt, and was muscled and crisscrossed in scars. His hands could easily have wrapped around Cyan’s neck with room to spar. With the size of his muscles, Cyan reasoned he could easily squeeze water from a stone, and pop a skull much as one would open a letter. His face was round, his hair curly, black and dirty. His eyes were gray, cracked yellow lips with cracked yellow teeth behind them. In his left hand was a wooden longsword, and his face was cruel. He stopped about ten spans from the group and tossed the sword down in front of them.

He looked Maris over, then to Cyan, and then back and forth between them. Slight curl went into his lip as he looked at Cyan, and he grunted, pointed at the sword and then at Cyan and grunted again.

Cyan looked to Memos for comprehension. “ He wants you to take the sword and fight him.” His voice was quiet, but not scared. Memos’s eyes did not hold fear, but concern.

Cyan shrugged, trying to appear calm and walked forward, then hesitated as he really looked at the large yellow skinned humanoid. He wasn’t sure what to do with the sword, but he picked it up. He looked at the humanoid and waited. The thing smiled, a nasty, cruel looking smile, showing the gaps in his yellow teeth.

“ What is he?” Cyan breathed over his shoulder.

“ That’s Ulrag, our trainer. He’s a half ogre.”

Cyan swallowed hard. He had heard tales of ogres. They were not allowed in the Empire, but were found down very far south. They were cruel, evil beings that enjoyed hatred, slavery, and killing. He had heard they were as tall as two, perhaps three men, and could kill and man with but a punch. If Ulrag was a half ogre, that meant he had the strength of an ogre, but the speed of a human. Cyan regarded the ogre with shaking hands, not trying to hide the rising fear in his body.

They circled for a few more minutes, and then Cyan advanced within the Ogre’s reach. He didn’t know how to fight, but he knew he had to. A club like fist sailed for his head, slowly, but if it connected Cyan reasoned his head might be no more. He ducked it, and moved in closer, swinging the wooden sword wildly. It struck the bulk of Ulrag in the thigh, making a loud smack. Ulrag grunted, annoyed, and snaked out a hand, three times as fast as the first deceptively slow blow. His meaty hand encircled Cyan’s neck and lifted him off his feet. Cyan smacked him in the side of the head with the wooden sword, and the half ogre punched him in the face as he dangled two spans off the ground.

He remembered being hit, and he remembered dropping the sword. He vaguely remembered being punched two or three more times before he was on the ground. His eyes opened slowly, and his jaw felt like fire. He was greeted with the big half ogre standing over him, smiling. Cyan wasn’t sure if he was going to die or not, but he felt like he would. The half ogre grunted and extended his hand. Cyan stared back at it for a moment, breathed a sigh of relief and then took it. Ulrag helped him up to his feet and brushed the dirt off his back with his large yellow hand. Ulrag grunted, and gestured to the south wall were Cyan saw Maris and Memos sitting in the shade. Cyan nodded and walked over, sitting down next to Maris. Maris’s jaw was slightly swollen and he was rubbing it.

Cyan leaned against the wall and looked about the courtyard. Ulrag had his back to them, arms crossed while he watched Pix armed with a small wooden shield and shortsword fight Sherill armed with a halberd fight. Both weapons were wood, and they fought mostly to touch, not hurting each other. Ulrag would grunt occasionally and walk over, take a weapon and demonstrate a new technique, and then the two would fight some more. They never swung hard enough to hurt each other, but both were sweating and bruised nonetheless. After a while, they would switch out weapons and resume fighting. Cyan looked down to Memos.

“ How long was I out?”

“ Half hour or so.” Memos smiled.

“ Why did he do that?”

“ To test you.” Memos shrugged.

“ No, I mean, why did he help me up?”

Memos shrugged again. “ Despite the ogre in him, and his brutal face he’s a very decent fellow. I have never seen him raise a hand to a fighter, nor even use that whip on his belt unless punishing someone, which is very rare. All in all, he’s averagely decent.”

Cyan nodded, rubbing his jaw. He looked at Maris. “ You okay?”

“ Yeah, just sore. I feel like I was hit in the face with a mountain.”

Cyan and Memos laughed.

Pix and Sherill fought for another twenty or so minutes, and then sat down, sweating. Ulrag gestured to Memos and Maris and the two came forward, each arming themselves with a wooden sword and shield. They fought and Cyan could tell why Memos had lived to the age of thirty-four. He was a good, fluid, strong warrior. He was going easy on Maris, but was quickly tiring the mountain elf out. Ulrag would stop them often, grunt, and show Maris what he was doing wrong and how to improve it.

They fought with sword and shield, one sword, two swords, quarterstaffs, and then both sat in the shade, winded and sweating.

Ulrag gestured at Cyan and then at Sherill, both then walked onto the field. Ulrag pointed at a sword and shield, and both slaves armed themselves. Sherill dropped into an informed, warrior’s stance; Cyan just stood there and then began to circle as she did. Back and forth Cyan would attempt to flail wildly, and most often he would be parried away by her trained sword arm and he would be hit somewhere about the ribs. She was almost as good as Memos, and were she lacked in his skill, she made up for in fortitude and passion.

They switched weapons to one sword, and Cyan’s untrained swings were easily deflected. Ulrag would stop them and show him something new, and the young slave would then attempt his best to do better.

They took up two swords, a pair of wooden mock rapiers, light and quick weapons. Cyan did a little better with these, paying attention to the training and actually attempting some technique while they fought. He was getting into it a little and scored a solid smack on Sherrill’s arm, with most of his strength behind it. It was a loud hit and she fell to her knees, dropping one sword and clutching her arm with the free hand and a shriek of pain. Cyan stared dumbly, hoping he did not hurt her badly, he leaned forward to help her, and was met with the tip of her other sword in his sternum and a smile on her face. She let go of her arm and stood up, pushing Cyan back with the top of her sword.

“ Never underestimate your opponent.” She smiled broadly. “ And try not to show mercy.” She winked at him. He realized he had not hurt her, and it was a valuable lesson she had taught him. It wasn’t long before Ulrag grunted and they went back to training.

They continued the dance throughout the day, changing partners, rhythm, but keeping the same pace. Cyan fought all of his new comrades, and although not anywhere near what a warrior should be, he easily gauged the relative strengths and weaknesses of the five of them.

He surmised he was the worst. He had no grace, finesse, or skill. However, he had strength, Ulrag being the only one that had more. Years in the Pits had made him very strong and hardy, and he surmised if he landed a good blow, it could injure severely.

Pix was quick, agile, and well trained with the shield and shortsword. He was ambidextrous, capable of equal action in both hands. He was small, a quick target and was surprisingly strong for his size. His best asset was his speed.

Sherill was a passionate, well-trained warrior. Her best skill lay in the polearm, effectively using the bladed as well as the blunt end. She was quick, somewhat graceful and strong. Her only limitation was that it seemed sometimes her passion got in the way of good decisions.

Memos was the best of the group by leaps and bounds. He was incredibly graceful for his size, and had strength to back up his speed. His prowess with a pair of longswords was amazing; they seemed to be extensions of his arms rather than tools in his hands. If one was not attacking you, the other was making your weapon useless. He did not let passion override his decisions; the heat of battle never seemed to cloud his mind. He was reasoned, deliberate and decisive. Each hit, each parry, each feint all meant something, all set up something else. It was like watching a complex math problem when he battled.

Maris was utterly ineffective with anything but a pair of hand axes. Everything else seemed alien and useless in his hands, but the wooden hand axes seemed to come alive when he held them. Even versus Memos, he seemed to decently hold his own, effectually using the axes to parry as well as strike. Cyan reasoned the axes must be what the mountain elves used most often.

They trained long and hard returning to the small table many hours later as the suns went past midday sky. Lunch was an affair that hurt. Each movement Cyan made brought out another bruise, or sore muscle. His muscles were tight, overworked, a feeling he had not known in years. Life in the Pits had gotten his body accustomed to work, but not to swordplay. Muscles he didn’t even knew he had hurt, and his arms and torso were patched in bruises from the score after score of hits laid upon him. He felt like an old man.

As they sat around the table Cyan tried to move very little. Maris was still jovial, not seeming to be sore at all. Everyone else seemed accustomed to the work, so they did not seem tired. Cyan hurt, all over.

Briel came and served them, and Cyan looked up from his sore body and stared at her again, his eyes following her every move. After she disappeared into the kitchen again, he bowed his head and slowly ate his food.

“ Sore?” Memos asked.

Cyan nodded slowly, his neck muscles hurting.

“ That shit you gave me smarts quite a bit.” Memos said, rubbing his side. Cyan raised his eyebrow and smiled.

“ What do we do now?” Maris asked.

“ You have the day to yourself, until next dawn. If you are anything like me, you’ll do what I did after my first day.”

“ What was that?”

“ Sleep.” He smiled. “ I slept even past dinner, letting my body work away the pain. First, I went and bathed, soaking the muscles in the hottest water I could find so they didn’t burst from tension. I almost drowned in the tub that night!” Memos chuckled.

“ We can bath? In a tub?” Cyan said, shocked.

“ Yes, after the meal I’ll show you where to go.”

Cyan looked at his water cup, and made sure the water was as clear as he thought it was. “ Do they use the water again?”

“ No. You just use it to bath in, then they toss it away.”

Cyan nodded, relishing in the idea of a bath. When he was told to bath in the Pits it meant to douse yourself in water and towel off, maybe shave if given the opportunity. The water was then collected in a catch basin to be used again for the next bather, or as drinking water. The idea of a real bath was alien, exotic and intriguing to him. He finished his meal quickly.

***

Memos closed the door to the bathroom, leaving Cyan alone. Twelve buckets of water, all warmed by the suns sat against the wall next to the iron tub. This would be the first real bath he had experienced, and he was on edge, about to enjoy himself thoroughly. He put the stopper in the drain hole of the tub, and began pouring buckets into it. Half full, he dropped his sandals and loincloth, and stood a moment before it, watching wisps of steam rise off the iron, letting the whole idea soak into his mind.

The room was small, sandstone with a small window that filtered in the suns. Except for the tub, and an iron drain grate under it, the room was bare. The door was heavy and wooden, with reinforced iron hinges.

Cyan looked down at the bruises on his body, and lost count as he tried to track them. Slowly he slid into the warm water, and stretched out until his head was just above the waterline. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

The water soaked into his body, and for a moment he forgot where he was. The bruises did not hurt anymore, and it was as if all he could feel was his face, for the rest of him was under water, and the water took the pain away. It was a wonderful, new feeling. No one was watching over him, telling him what to do, and he enjoyed it. Before him lay the rest of the day and evening. Dinner, a room and a bed, and books if he so choose. He could read, barely, having been taught by one of the slaves in the quiet of the night so long ago. Perhaps he would find a book and slowly pour over it, or perhaps he would take Memos’s suggestion and simply sleep. Either way, until dawn, it was his decision on what to do. It was this fact that made the pain go away, and for a moment he was happy.

I am a slave, thus I was born, and thus I am. To think otherwise would be to admit hope, and that would be to die. The happiness was short lived, as he could not forget what he was. He felt no hope, no clinging dream to run free into the night, but the bath was nice. He wondered if he could accept the benefits, while living through the flaws around him. The future was uncertain, and he held no hope that it would be any better. He resigned himself to the now, and enjoyed the bath.

He heard the door open and his eyes went wide. Expecting Athrax with a whip, or Ulrag with his heavy fists, he was greeted instead by Briel, holding a towel. His hands shot down and he covered himself, and his face was red an instant later. Never before had he experienced such a feeling, nor had to hide himself, modesty overcoming him. He had stood naked among the Pits quite often, as did most. This time was different, and he did not know why, the confusing feeling wailing inside him, the hot water cool to the temperature of his red cheeks.

“ It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” Her voice was smooth, flat, and emotionless. She dropped the towel next to the tub. She looked at him with neither interest, nor disinterest, an impassive stare in her eyes.

“ Umm, what, what um, are you…” He stammered out, unsuccessfully attempting to speak. He had never stammered before, the confusion growing inside him. It was an odd, yet exciting feeling.

“ Your clothes.” She scooped up his meager cloth and sandals and smiled; the first time he had seen her do so. It was mischievous, almost grating, yet more alluring. She glanced back at him, and walked out, closing the door behind her. He could have sworn he heard a small squeaky laugh, coupled with an Elven laugh coming from the hall.

Cyan closed his eyes again and sighed. Never mind what his body thought, it’s feeling were apparent on the matter, his mind was stuck on this girl; more beautiful than any other he had ever seen. He knew it to be lust, and even so, he felt the wave of it all over his body, and it burned even more than the bruises. This new place was not as he expected, and for the measure, perhaps life would not be so bad here. Either way, he had no choice in the matter, for thus was the life of a slave.