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.

Book One Chapters 4-7

Chapter 4

Slaves are not people. Remember that even a slave child is property. None of them deserve mercy, or consideration beyond that of a prized horse. They are inventory, just as any another livestock.
- Baron Deus Valkerig, Patriarch of House Valkerig


The next day was much the same as the first. Cyan awoke early, ate, trained, and ate again. Training was tiring, and his body was sore, but quickly adapting to the new type of work. His body was accustomed to work. His new comrades made it easier to take his mind of fatigue, and Briel made it easier to forget what he was here for.

The rest of the day greeted Cyan as he sat in the shade of the north wall of the training field. He was sore, and tired. He was contemplating a bath again when his musing were interrupted.
Athrax stood before him, dressed, as he was when they met. The same casual wolf-like smile played across his face.

“ Taking well to the work?” His voice as always, was smooth.

Cyan nodded.

“ Good. Ulrag seems to think you have promise.”

Cyan wondered if Ulrag could convey such things with mere grunts.

“ I take it you’d rather that I just get to the point?” He smiled, and Cyan nodded. “ The lady of the house wishes your presence.”

Cyan stood, immediately holding his arms out to be shackled. Doing so was second nature.

“ That won’t be necessary. We both know any idea you might entertain of harming her would simply end in your death. Follow me.”

He turned and walked across the courtyard, through the oak door and up a set of stairs. When they reached the top the hallway that they entered was furnished with a fine long rug, woven of a heavy, richly colored fabric. It was obviously expensive, and coupled with the silver candelabras that lined the hall, it was obvious the lady of the house had at least a decent amount of wealth. A faint scent of jasmine hung in the air, and even faint it seemed to drown out the smell of sweat and work on Cyan.

Athrax walked him to the end of the hall to another heavy oak door set with bronze hinges and trimmings. It was there the warrior stopped, folding his arms across his chest.

“ I warn you to be polite. The mistress does not balk any insult. Should you think me a cruel hand, then I bid you” he curled his lips into a smile “ bid you, to but test her once, and my temper will pale in comparison.”

Cyan nodded and opened the door. A sunlit parlor lay before him, and the smell of jasmine was strong in the air. He walked in, shutting the door behind him quietly. The parlor was expansive, and well decorated. A few tapestries hung on the walls, depicting finely woven scenes of beauty; young Elven men and women in forests, birds in flight, and a sunlit day. A heavy rug was on the floor, spreading out over most of the room, woven in as fine a detail as the tapestries. Two bookshelves stood on the far wall, one full of bound tomes, the other arrayed with various curios and knick-knacks. He was interested slightly in the books, having a base amount of reading knowledge, taught to him in secret by an old slave from the pits. The interest was only passing, realizing these were not his, and to demonstrate that he could read was a crime for a slave, punishable by severe flogging.

There was a table in the middle of the room with a bowl laden with fruit. Two chairs sat around it, wooden with intricate carvings worked up the legs. Each was a latticework of leaves on a vine, working their way up the legs to the backs of the chairs. Sunlight poured in from the two suns through a large window canopied with purple silk, overlooking the bustling city of Tacoma. A game table, stacked with the Haiji pieces sat off to the corner, with two comfortable looking wooden seats with pillows in front of it. A door set into the north wall was closed, oak with bronze trimmings as the first door. On the lentil was a peculiar symbol, carved into the sandstone and laced with bronze. Cyan had never seen it before, an upside down ‘v’ with two lines through the top. He surmised it was probably magical, and should not be touched. Leaning beside the door was a heavy crossbow, made of ironwood, dark stained, with a jet-black trigger and guard.

He was alone in the room. Standing stock still, he waited. Almost two minutes passed, and become restless he walked over to the window. As he approached he realized it was large enough for him to fit through and perhaps escape. The thought crossed his mind until he looked out and down; below the window stood two men in light leather armor, bearing swords at their sides. Before them was the wall to the complex. Escape did not seem like an option.

He looked out into the city, amazed at how large it was. He had heard Tacoma was about the sixth largest Imperial City, boasting some thirty thousand inhabitants. By the size of what he saw, it was hard to imagine a larger place. Buildings, some five stories tall stretched the landscape. Three things stood out in the horizon. The first was the Windshear mountain range in the distance, the separation between the Thies Desert and the Imperial heartland. The second was the tallest structure in all of Tacoma, a tower made of dark brown sandstone, standing at least twenty stories tall and in the middle of the city. The third was the dustbowl dug into Tacoma, some streets over. Cyan saw it and knew what it was immediately. It was the arena in which he would fight.

The rest of Tacoma consisted of sandstone structures and silk tents. Activity was everywhere as the merchants hustled their wares, and the commoners bustled about. Patrols of guards roamed the street, and laborers labored. Cyan could not help but feel intimidated by the size of the place, and fascinated with the possibilities it could offer, even as he realized that he could not take part in them. Musing, he wondered what it would be like to stroll down the promenade and eat sweet dates as a freeman. The thought soon vanished as the door behind him opened.

He turned around to face a woman of great beauty. It stunned him, she was neither young nor old, but mature, and beautiful. Standing five hands tall, with a slim graceful figure, she was enviable at the least, revered at the best. To say she was attractive would be using to small a word. Beautiful was more applicable. She wore a tight fitting corseted silk blouse, cut low to accent her figure. A thin line of perspiration traced down her neck, going down where any man would have wished to follow. One arm was tucked behind her back, the other nonchalantly waving a fan back and forth, making the tips of hair long black hair dance on her shoulders. Her skin was bronzed, not tanned, just lightly kissed by the suns. A long indigo skirt wrapped tight around her legs, the sheer silk giving Cyan an idea of exactly how she looked. Her eyes were a tinge of brown, with small, but noticeably exotic green specks.

“ Commanding view, don’t you think?” Her voice was soft, but imposing in it’s presence, and tone.

Cyan nodded, overtaken for the second time in as many days by a beautiful woman.

“ The city has grown much in the last few years.” She continued to stroll forward, her eyes slowly moving up and down him, appraising him. “ Please, do sit.” She gestured with the fan towards a chair at the table. He did so, moving slowly, and feeling like an ox as he did.

She took the seat across from him and smiled slightly, a polite smile. It was almost comforting, but Cyan quickly remembered she was no slave, she was not his equal. She was his master.

“ You are Cyan?”

He nodded.

“ Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Lady Imona Valkrieg, of the ninth Imperial House, daughter of Lord Deus Valkrieg; Baron of the Valkerig holdings in Holstamp.
Cyan nodded. His last master was by no means this important. Even a slave knew what power her title held. She was a member of one of the Imperial houses, one of the forty seven Imperial noble families, the hereditary lords of the Empire. It was from the first house that the Emperor came, and to be of the ninth house meant that she had power, and influence that spread far and wide.

“ You are a slave. My slave to be precise. I wish that to be stated first.”

Cyan nodded once again.

“ However, please Cyan, you look so stiff. Relax. Take an apple if you wish.” She gestured to the bowl of fruit, and Cyan had to pull his eyes from her to notice it. He hesitantly nodded again, and took a ripe apple from the bowl, tentatively holding it in his hands.

“ You are my slave, yes, but trust me, it is not as bad as it may seem. True, you are now a combatant, and will risk life and limb in the trials for my profit and the cheers of the crowds. But this is not as bad as it may seem.”

She relaxed more into her seat, lazily fanning herself.

“ It has it’s advantages. Freedom being the foremost. I’ll have you know, two of mine have gone free now.”

Cyan nodded, not sure if this was remotely true, but wanting it to be.

“ I do not wish you to be beaten if you do wrong, nor punished simply because you are a slave. I look at our relationship as more of a business proposition. Why would I have you whipped, beaten, if you are so much more valuable intact and well? Would you not fight better in the trials if you are in good health?”

Cyan nodded.

“ To me, this is a business. I provide you with a means to get what you want; freedom. You provide me with impeccable service in the trials , which garners accolades and winnings for my house, and makes me a profit. Do you see how this is mutually beneficial?

Cyan nodded.

“ Cyan.” Her smile broadened, and it made his body tingle. “ You may speak if you wish.”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ I am sure you are wondering why I would employ” her smile bcame coy “ someone like Athrax if I meant all that I am saying.”

The question caught Cyan off guard, bit he nodded nonetheless.

“ He can be over exuberant, yes, but realize, simply, he is my insurance, so to speak, to make sure no one would take advantage of our business arrangement.”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ I give him too much free reign sometimes, but I’m sure you understand his purpose?”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ Good.” She gestured at the apple. “ Please, enjoy it.”

He quickly bit into the apple, and found it intoxicating. It was in perfect season he guessed, this being the first real fruit he had eaten. It was truly one of the best pieces of food he had ever eaten, and he quickly devoured it as they continued to talk.

“ You are young Cyan, how young?”

“ Seventeen winters my lady.” His voice cracked as he spoke, and she smiled slightly, causing him to blush.

“ And you were born a slave?”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ I’m sure you hope to impress the crowds and myself enough that you will get your chance before the Emperor to gain freedom?”

When he answered, his voice did not crack and he spoke with conviction. “ Yes.”

She smiled. “ Do well, train hard, and your chance will come.”

He nodded, smiling, and finished the apple.

“ Have you had combat experience before?”

“ No my lady.”

“ Well, with your size, I’m sure you will do well despite that. Ulrag is an excellent trainer.”

“ Yes my lady.”

“ Have you found any weapons you prefer yet?”

“ Yes, the broad rapier, it feels as if it will be my choice of weapons.”

“ Ah yes, the knight’s sword. Excellent choice. Coupled with the gloved main gauche, the crowd will love it.”

Cyan nodded.

“ They love to see someone emulate the knights, wielding their weaponry of choice, traditionally most combatants who emulate the knightly tradition do very well in the trials.”

“ Yes my lady.”

She laughed, a slight airy laugh. “ Cyan, ease yourself, you are too tense. You never know, when you are a freeman, you may find yourself speaking to a woman of stately grace, and simple yes and no my ladies will not work when having polite conversation.”

The thought entertained him, a bold image of himself wearing fine clothes, free, escorting Lady Imona into a state dinner, speaking, walking, and acting as a free man.

“ I’m sure a young man such as yourself let free into the masses of noble women would make quite an impact.” He blushed immediately, smiling.

“ So tell me, what are your thoughts on the other’s here?”

He paused a moment, making sure his voice would not crack when he spoke. “ Memos is the best among us. He’s strong, quick, smart. He is the best. Sherrill is close behind him, not as strong as Memos, but more resolute. Pix is quick, agile, and Maris could be among the best as well.”

“ And yourself?” She smiled.

He shrugged “ I have something to work for, so I will be the best.”

Her eyes lit up “ Good Cyan. I am pleased to have talked with you. I think we both understand which page we are on.” He nodded as they stood up and walked to the door. As she opened it he nodded his head to her. She smiled in return and closed the door behind him.

“ Enjoy your visit?” Athrax asked, leaning against the wall, regarding the young man coolly.

“ Yes.”

“ Good. She’s as deadly as she is beautiful.” Athrax said, smiling.

“ I imagine so.”

“ Slaves aren’t allowed an imagination. Get moving.”

Cyan turned and walked down the corridor. Athrax followed him until they got outside and then the warrior departed.

Cyan walked over to the wall and sat down, feeling the heat from the day pass away as the shade fell over him. She still stood out in his mind, her beauty, her voice, her promises. All of them were intoxicating. Visions of freedom, what life could be like, would be like if he was released from the shackles. This concept frightened him but at the same time created an odd sensation inside him, one of hope. This sensation made him feel strong, and yet weak with such a fragile idea.

“ So she had the talk with you.” Briel’s voice from beside him brought him back to reality quickly. Twice now the women had caught him off guard, and he felt it to be a good indication of the way his life would be structured.

He turned to face her. She was leaning in the door with her arms crossed, hair tied up in a bun, small strands of it going this way and that. The toll of work was painted all over her, and although not as clean, not as made up, not as sensual, or exotic as Lady Imona, Briel was beautiful, and once again the bashfulness that Cyan hated crept upon him. She was different from the Lady Valkerig. Beautiful in a different, softer, yet somehow stronger way. It confused Cyan, the distinction, and he stared at her, even as the red warmth came to his cheeks.

“ The talk?” His voice almost cracked, but he enforced ironclad control over it.

“ The talk. Let me guess, she promised you freedom, right?”

He nodded.

“ A business arrangement, right?” He noted the sarcasm heavy in her voice and nodded.

“ Briel I have need of you, now.” Athrax’s voice called from across the courtyard.
She looked over at him. “ Coming Athrax.” Cyan was surprised she called him by name, the familiarity implied a great deal, and it agitated him. He knew the familiarity a slave was forced into, or sometimes chose from their masters. The feeling did not sit well with him.

She looked back down at him. “ Good luck.” Turning she followed Athrax into the compound. As the door closed, Cyan saw his arm encircle her torso.

He stood up and spit to the ground, feeling a new anger well up inside him. He stalked out of the courtyard, fists clenched. Passing by the common room he heard his name called and turned around.

“ Are you alright?” Maris asked, sitting at the banquet table with Memos.

Cyan breathed in deeply, letting the anger pass, feeling it starting to leave his body, almost a tangible force. He sat down at the table next to Maris.

“ Fine.” He breathed.

Memos Chuckled. “ You are far to young to have learned to control your emotions yet. Just this morning I believe you were almost to the point of passing out at the mere sight of someone?”

Cyan frowned, the anger slowly rising again.

Memos lost the humor in his voice as he spoke. “ Ah, I see. The source of your problems?”

Cyan nodded, letting his fists unclench.

“ And why is that?”

“ I don’t know.”

“ Come now, out with it. What’s bothering you?”

Cyan sighed. “ I don’t know. A couple of things.”

“ Such as?”

“ Something Briel said and did.”

“ Ah. So I was right. Explain.”

“ I just met with Lady Imona, and she explained how things work here.”

“ The business arrangement.” Memos said, chuckling.

“ Yes.” Cyan responded, a look of confusion on his face.

“ You didn’t believe her did you?”

Cyan continued to look confused.

“ Oh dear. I see. Cyan, she is our master, and I for one don’t buy that line of business arrangement. If things were so, I would have been freed years ago.”

The anger continued to work its course through Cyan, and he buried his face into his hands. “ Then the part about freedom isn’t true?”

“ Oh yes, it is. But it’s far, far away in the hands of one man, and his choice. Don’t believe her, trust in yourself, and hope you can make it to that day when at one trial, the Emperor notices you. Don’t look for help from her.”

Cyan sighed, and clenched and unclenched his fists as they spoke. He could feel his anger, hot, burning, rolling inside him.

“ Continue though.”

“ I think that’s what Briel was getting at. Until we were interrupted.”

“ By Athrax?”

“ Yes.”

“ And this bothers you?”

“ I may be young Memos, but I know what I see.”

“ Explain.”

His words were almost spat out as he spoke. “ She calls him by name and goes to his beck and call!”

“ Yes. Yes she does. She is one of us after all.”

“ Yes I know ” he searched for the words, finding it hard to concentrate as he felt his head pounding, and his body tensing up “ I know when a slave must..., must” his jaw clenched as he said it “ must please their masters. I am not so young that I have not seen this.”
Memos nodded, realizing that he mistook Cyan for being too naive.

“ But, she called him by name! And this, this isn't done! Unless-”

Memos furrowed his eyebrows, looking to Maris.

“ Cyan you would have found out soon enough. It is fortunate that you found out now before you develop any feeling towards her.”

“ I have no such feelings.” He spat back.

“ In any case, she is not really forced to please him.”

Cyan stared icily at Memos. “ She chooses to please him?”

“ Who’s to say? I am no sage; I don’t know the answer to that. I will not lie to you and say she does seem to enjoy it.”

“ You’ve been here the longest, tell me, how long has she been with him?” The anger inside him felt as if it was coming to a boil.

“ Since she came her about six years ago, she slept in her own chambers one night, and then never again.”

Cyan did not know why but he couldn’t control it any more. He couldn’t rationalize it, but the anger became tangible, coiled inside him as a serpent before the strike, constricting his breathing and crushing his insides. Suddenly the sensation was gone, and everything around him became hazy. His vision faltered, and the sensation of raw emotion, raw feeling began to cover his body, spreading like wildfire about him, feeling as if he had just dove into a lake of fire. His eyes lost sight, and his ears lost sound, the sensation of the world collapsed around him, and everything became unreal.

Detached from himself, standing over his shoulder and seeing the room from a different view he saw Memos slowly, very slowly pull his hands to shield his face, and Maris do the same. He saw himself striking the table with his fist as hard as he could, his muscles rippling, as Memos and Maris jumped back, looks of shock covering their faces. The table shattered, splintering in the middle, sending slivers and shards of wood through the air. The rest of it splintered and cracked into a ‘v’ and Cyan saw his body, felt his body in the bath of emotion, the veins in his arms and chest glowing, standing out as they pulsed. The glow emanating from them was the same a Maris’s eyes, a bright, but cold blue. It frightened and confused him, and the sensation of standing apart and seeing life from behind his shoulder sickened him.

As soon as the feeling was there, it was gone, and he saw life from his own eyes again. He fell to his knees, feeling the raw emotion, the bath over his body suddenly gone, and the world thrusting itself around him again. Maris’s eyes glowed as he lay on his back, absently picking splinters from his leg as he stared at Cyan. Memos locked eyes with the young man and watched as fatigue suddenly set into him. Cyan looked around half mindedly, searching, feeling, and thinking about what had just happened. The blue glow pulsed and slowly crept from his veins.

“ She-hazar!” Was all Maris said as he stared wide-eyed.

“ The birth of the talent.” Memos whispered.

Cyan felt briefly pleased with himself, he was among those with the special magical gift. This pleasure was fleeting, and he collapsed onto the ground, lapsing into the world of dreams.



Chapter 5

The warrior’s most potent weapon is not his sword, but his mind. It may be honed and sharpened to an interminable edge, a thousand times more than any blade.
- Knights of Dawn axiom


Cyan awoke without even a headache. No fatigue, no soreness, nothing. He felt fine, as if he had gone to bed after an easy day and slept well. He sat up in his small bed and found Maris leaning against the wall tossing a rock into the air and catching it. When he noticed Cyan was awake, he stopped and his face was calm and serious.

“ May we speak of it?” His voice was flat, serious.

Cyan nodded, knowing what the question entailed, and was pleased that he was now among the people to whom it could be addressed.

“ The first time is always the worst.”

“ Was yours as violent?”

“ No.”

“ It felt as if I was not myself, as if I had no control.”

“ My first experience left me blind for about two days.”

“ But when you use it now, you are not blind?”

Maris shook his head. “ No. Over the years, I have learned about it, experimented with it, learned to control it.”

“ Was it difficult?”

“ In some ways yes. As difficult as it is to learn anything about one’s self. The way I regard my talent is that is as natural an extension of myself as my legs are. I had to learn walk when I was little, and I had to learn to control my talent when I was older.”

Cyan saw the logic in the argument. “ I’m not really sure all that happened, tell me.”

“ We were talking; you, I, Memos. You were angry. You got madder as we talked, and then you swung on the table. The veins lining your arms chest and shoulders all started to radiate a color such as my eyes do. Your punch shattered, not just broke, truly shattered the wood. It was such a blow that I would compare it to a hammer striking a piece of plank. It was almost as if you had blown it up instead of punched it. After that you wobbled, and passed out.”

“ How many people know?”

“ Everyone. The next day I was introduced to Lady Imona, and that was pretty much all we talked about.”

“ The next day?”

“ You’ve been asleep now for three days. No one could rouse you.”

Cyan nodded, surprised, but now he knew why he felt so rested. “ What did Lady Imona have to say about it?”

“ She of course wants you to learn how to control it. She feels you would make a better combatant if you knew how. I think one punch when you are like that would shatter a man’s ribcage, or even fold plate mail.”

Cyan nodded, stroking his chin, not surprised to find stubble. He had no idea how to learn to control this. He felt that if he had to get as mad as he was to invoke it again, he best leave it be.

“ What do you think Maris?”

The young mountain elf shrugged. “ Well, if they see it as an advantage, I imagine they’ll either treat you with a little more kindness “ he smiled “ or they’ll just find a way to eventually use it completely for their own gain.”

“ Lady Imona told me that here, she works with us, for us, that she -”

“ Has a business arrangement with us?” Maris interjected.

“ Yes.”

“ Cyan, it’s all well and good, but it’s just words. Words and horseshit amount to horseshit.”

“ You think it’s just her way of trying to buy us?”

“ Wouldn’t doubt it for a bit. She’s a snake.”

“ Seemed nice enough to me.”

“ She owns you. And the rest of us.”

Cyan nodded.

“ I really don’t see our best intentions as being the top of her priorities.”

“ I wish they were.” Cyan mused.

“ So do I.” Maris patted Cyan on the shoulder.

“ It seems things are different here though.”

“ Agreed, but still much the same as anywhere else.” Maris said, sitting on the bed beside Cyan.

“ I wonder why they don’t lock us in our rooms at night?”

“ I think it’s because of the dozen or so guards, Athrax, Ulrag, the fact that they are all armed to the teeth maybe. It’s that and we’re all damn near dead tired at the end of a day of training, and they probably think we’re all too stupid to attempt escape anyway.”

“ True. Don’t forget that the walls are three of me high.”

Maris laughed. “ True as well.”

“ So are you adapting here more so than in the pits?”

Cyan shrugged. “ I guess. It’s just here, more things have been happening, much faster than before. Nothing ever really changed in the pits. The only change was a new slave now and again, new conversations.”

“ But never good looking young women, and the birth of your She-Hazar?”

Cyan nodded.

“ All changing too fast.”

“ Yes. Tell me, what was it like, to be free one moment, and then wake a slave the next?”
Maris scratched the back of his neck. “ Depressing. I don’t know, just depressing. One minute I have life in front of me, the next, life out of my hands, in the whims of another's.”

“ Can I ask you a more personal question?”

Maris shrugged. “ I don’t see why not.”

“ When did you know that you loved Illyania?

Maris smiled. “ I see. Weighty question. Oh, I don’t know, I just did. it wasn’t anything she did, it was just her. I just knew. I always thought of her, still do, when she wasn’t around I wanted her to be, still do. I did stupid things to impress her, all the time. I felt like a fool around her, lesser, and I just wanted to be closer to her so that I might find out what made her so special.”

“ You just knew?”

“ Yeah, something like that.”

“ And you think of her all the time?”

“ Yes. Why do you ask, are you in love?”

Cyan shook his head no. “ No, I was just wondering. I am not in love, I am not even allowed to be in love. Slaves are not supposed to be know to such things.” He said with wry sarcasm.

“ Memos and Sherrill are.”

“ There is an exception to every rule.”

“ I am in love.”

“ Alright, two exceptions.

Maris smiled. “ You will be, someday. You’ll find it to be the greatest and most vexing of feelings.”

“ Vexing?” Cyan’s eyebrow rose.

“ Yes. You find that you blush, stammer, you do the dimmest things while you are in love.”

“ And it’s all worth it?”

“ Of course.” Maris smiled broadly.

“ How many children do you want?”

“ Many.” Maris spread his arms out. “ When I have enough to fill my arms until I can hold no more, then it shall be time to make no more, that is, time for no more kids, I shall still hope to go about making them with my wife.” He smiled again.

Cyan grinned and nodded. “ You will be a good father.” He said this even with no comparison of his own.

“ I hope so. My father was a good father, still is. If I could do half the job he has.”

“ He is a good man?” Cyan asked.

“ Yes. Judges no one until they give him reason. Wise, strong, but not a harsh man. He is
temperate, modest, he is everything I have ever aspired to be.”

Cyan nodded, wishing he had the same words to speak of his father. “ What about your mother?”

Maris shrugged. “ She died when I was very young. It was the year of the Desert’s Call I believe, I was about four.”

“ You have brothers, sisters?”

“ No, I am the last of my line.”

“ Your father has not remarried?

“ No, he loved my mother very much. He has said he made one pledge, and for the rest of his days he will hold true to it.”

Cyan wondered again as he often did which one of the slave mothers was actually his.

“ What was her name?

“ Arinanea. Elven for sun blessed.”

“ Very beautiful.”

“ Aye. She was named as thus because she was born in the dawn, in the year of the Sun’s
contemplation. I am told by my father her favorite thing was to hold me on our porch in the sunlight, and just feel the warmth come down upon us.”

Cyan smiled. “ Sounds wonderful.”

“ Truly. Well, I’ve been standing in this room since we ate evening meal, and it’s time for me to find some sleep. Be well my friend.” He stood up and playfully smacked the back of Cyan’s head as he walked out of the room.

Cyan stood up and stretched his muscles, tight from three days of sleeping. He had not noticed how imperiously hungry he was during his talk with Maris and hoped the kitchen still had some food left from evening meal. Walking out of his room he made his way to the privy and after doing his business took the dull knife, no good for fighting and quickly shaved the stubble from his face. All his life he had never really liked hair on his face and found it mostly to be an annoyance. In the Pits when he was rarely ever given access to even as dull a knife as this one, he had shaved with rocks that he would chip during the day. At first, it was quite painful, but as time grew on he had gotten used it, and had perfected his routine to the point of close shaves. It was one of the few things he could call his own, and never missed his daily routine of it. How dearly I hold such a vanity, my only true definition of myself.

He made his way down to the eating hall, noticing the new table that they had already put it in. Walking past it he went into the kitchen to find it unoccupied. Looking around he wondered if they would beat him for eating now, but reasoned they would not, for if they did not want him to they would have either locked him in his room, or at least locked the kitchen. He did notice the case with the carving knives was locked with a very sturdy lock however. Rummaging around he found some dry stores of meat and bread. Pouring water from the tall pot, he took his meal into the dining hall and quietly began to eat. It was not long before someone else joined him.
Briel walked in, past him, and into the kitchen. Moments later she returned with the same meal as his, and sat down across from him. She was wearing her work attire, and was dirty, her hair pinned up and going all angles. She smelled of heavy soap and wash water. He immediately looked down at his meal, blushing slightly from close proximity to her, and the fact the he still felt mad at her for being with Athrax.

“ Are you alright?” She asked.

“ Fine.”

“ Right. I heard what happened.”

He continued to eat slowly, not looking at her.

“ Alright, I’ll leave it be.”

They both eat for a few moments in silence, until she resumed conversation. “ How old are you?”

“ Seventeen winters.”

“ Right. Cyan, it’s okay, you can look at me.”

Shrugging, attempting to play it cool he looked up, immediately confronted with the fact that he did not have any idea how to act around her, or why he was acting so strangely to begin with.

“ Were you born a slave?” She continued.

“ Yes.”

“ Me too.”

He noticed how she ate. It was not like any other woman he had ever seen eat before. She was delicate with her food, each mouthful a small amount, each time she ate her mouth was closed, and she sat her fork down with each bite. He found it to be odd, but more proof of how she was different from every other slave woman he knew.

“ Like it here?”

“ It’s fine.” He almost stammered.

“ Hard work?”

He nodded.

“ Sore?”

He nodded again.

“ Right.”

They continued to eat in silence for another few minutes. He finished first and quickly stood up, banging his knee on the table. Wincing he took his plate to the kitchen and set it aside. Walking back out into the dining hall he nodded to her and quickly made his exit. He swore she giggled as he left, and it both excited and annoyed him.

***

Morning meal was uneventful. Memos and Sherrill were not present, and Pix ate quickly and left. Cyan and Maris traded small talk, and every time Briel came to bring food Cyan ignored her. After the previous nights exchange he did not know what to do around her. He did not understand her, or begin to know how. She angered him for what she did was Athrax, but she also made him feel for her just by her very nature. She was so different from what he knew, he knew that she stood out to him, and this must be why he felt so odd around her. He tried to put it out of his mind, but every time he attempted to do that, he thought more and more about his talent. How could he control it? Did he have any idea where to begin? Could he ever control it? He knew that the extreme anger her felt that night made it come out, but if that was what triggered it he never wanted to trigger it again.

He found that training took his mind off of his thoughts. Losing himself in the heat of the mock battles he did not have to think. He trained hard being so well rested, and even Memos took a few more hits from that day. He was not good by any means, but was slowly improving. Given a few years time, he might even be good. This is the way the Cyan saw it at least, he felt that his performance was lacking, and resolved to train harder tomorrow. The training made him calm, and cleared his mind. With the events surrounding him, he could ask for nothing more.
After training, as they walked to midday meal he was summoned by one of the guards to the forge, where Athrax stood waiting. The warrior held his whip in one hand, and gently slapped it against his leather glove. His face was curled into the same wolf smile that he always wore.

“ Awake finally. Good. Hope you enjoyed your little nap, because sleep will be forgotten here soon.”

Cyan stood and locked at the ground, bowing his head and readying himself for either a verbal or physical lashing. He had expected both.

“ You can’t just go around shattering tables whenever you get a little mad. I don’t care if this birthed your talent, for in my mind any talent you have is owned by us as well. I understand it’s impressive to see your talent at work, but let me warn you now. Ever attempt to use it on me, I'll cut your throat and watch you die.”

Cyan did not like him talking about his talent, and finally understood why it was such a social faux pas to do so. It made him feel odd when Athrax talked about his special inborn power, and he wished him to stop. The threat on his life passed over his head, as he thought about this. It was an odd feeling, because he was always being berated by his masters, no it felt as if Athrax talked about something forbidden, something that was no rights his to speak of.

“ In any case, you have more work now. Discipline is what you need. Ever day from now on you will report to the stables the second you are done with training. No midday meal for you. You will clean them, and make them spotless, or you will then clean them with your tongue. After you are done with them, you will clean the forge, and help the smithy with whatever he needs. When you are done with that, you will mop the dining hall clean, and then you may eat. Then you will sleep, and awake do it all again. Understood?”

Cyan nodded. The work would not be hard to him, and he quietly laughed at Athrax for thinking that it would be. In the pits, he worked with rocks, breaking, hauling, from sun up to sun down. There was no break for meals. While he enjoyed his brief time here of meals with his friends, he was not saddened that it would be no more. He would still eat with them at morning meal, and train with them. Perhaps the new work schedule would give him more to take his mind of things.
“ Now, get to work.” The warrior turned and walked away. Cyan worked the rest of the day, cleaning the stables first. It did not take him long, and was easy work. The smell bothered him at first, but his distaste for it was replaced by his liking for the horses. It was his first real experience with the beasts. There were nine in the stables, two that pulled the wagon he had come in on, three more that looked like workhorses, two that looked young, and had marks of heavy saddles, probably the mounts of some of the guards.

The last held at the far end of the stable were the most prominent of the group. One was a large warhorse, temperamental and well groomed. It was black, young, and well muscled. He felt that it must have been Athrax’s horse, and hoped the warrior treated it with more respect than he did the slaves. He must have for it was well fed, well worked, and in wonderful condition. It was a beast to be admired.

The last horse was smaller and it’s coat was sleek. Black and gray, it was a desert born horse, Cyan could tell by the brand of the nomadic desert peoples from the south. Even as slave, he knew the brand, for it was highly sought after and expensive. It was a good horse, young, strong, the mount of Lady Imona no doubt. It was further confirmation that she was indeed very rich.
The forge was his next assignment and it too was easy work, and he thought he would find it to his liking. The smithy barely talked to him, just pointing at what he wanted done as he continued to bang away at his work. Their speaking was limited to ‘do this’ and ‘don’t do that’. The smithy was not mean, he just seemed to want to be left alone, and Cyan respected that. He cleaned the forge, kept the firing running, and restocked the coal barrels and water casks. It was hot, but Cyan was desert born and did not mind. His work there took until past evening meal, and then he reported to the dining hall and mopped it clean, another easy task. Just as the evening before, he ate late, and this time alone. Aoi was high in the sky when he was finished so he went to his room, and lay in bed. It was some time for he went to sleep, for as he worked all day he did not dwell on thoughts of women, of talents, or of fighting. Now he was alone, and the world was quiet so his mind opened up with pent up force held back by the day. Eventually, he just shut it all away, and stared out his barred window at the moon until he went to sleep.

***

The training and the chores continued. The days past by quickly, occupied by his work and his training. He attempted to bring his talent to bear a few times, searching somehow to make the blue light appear again, but each time proved futile. He threw himself into his work, but the back of his mind was preoccupied with Briel, his talent, and when he would have to fight. Each night was filled with these thoughts converging in on themselves, and each night he went to sleep with no new answers.

As training continued Cyan found that the weapons of the knight best fit his hands, with a slight modification. He liked using the broad rapier, but the main gauche did not fit his style. Instead, taking a page from Maris’s book he used a hand axe. Maris taught him the basics of the weapon, and by no stretch was he good with it yet, but he was reaching competency.

It was Memos who taught him the most. He taught the young man the ways of single combat, instructed him on the feelings his body would hold when the time came for battle. He told him of the places to put his blade where it would kill a man swiftly, and where it would simply leave him a scar. He showed his the anatomy of men, their vulnerable points were little skin and bone protected vital places. He taught him how to immobilize foes with a hamstring, how to make a foe spout blood with an arterial strike, how to quickly kill a man with strikes to soft parts of the head. He taught him the tools necessary to kill.

The older slave was an excellent warrior, well versed in a variety of weapons. With Ulrag concentrating on their daily discipline, and Athrax watching periodically, Memos spent the majority of his time teaching what he knew to Cyan. He pinpointed the big man’s attributes: mobility, intelligence, and strength. He also showed the big man the truth of his weaknesses: speed, knowledge, and attitude. Memos explained that knowledge would be the easiest to come by; it was simply a matter of dedication. Speed would come with time, daily work towards increasing his speed. Attitude was a different story.

He taught him that his life would be on the line every time he held steel in his hands. This was the attitude that he must know, the attitude of a warrior. It was a kill or be killed world in the arena for the most part, with little or no quarter given. Memos taught him that he would be afraid, and fear was a healthy motivator. He taught him to let only as much fear as necessary enter his mind to keep him in the highest state of awareness. Fear could cloud reason, but when used to an advantage it could keep a warrior alive. Too much fear and he would buckle; too little fear and he would forfeit his life foolishly.

They spent the majority of the training regime together, the older slave taking him as a pupil. Cyan learned quickly, taking the man’s lessons to heart. His speed began to improve, soon he had gone from deadly slow to moderately quick. He had a long way to go before he was anywhere near the level of Memos, and a distance to go before he was near Athrax, but Cyan felt it would come in time. His muscles had to have time to get used to quick movements. They knew strength, but speed was foreign to them. He dedicated himself to this new art.

Memos taught him a style of fighting that used little art behind it, it was a simple, straightforward way of defending oneself, and killing the opponent. There was no flashy blade work involved, it was not the form of a Knight. His form was that of a warrior, fighting in single combat. It emphasized defense with deadly return strikes. Wounding was taught, but Memos stressed that compassion must rarely be present in battle; only present when Cyan knew it was warranted. Cyan adapted, learned this way, and was quickly becoming competent in the way of a warrior. The fear of the first battle still festered in the recess of his mind, but he began to become accustomed to the movements of fighting, his body reacting to it precognitivly, as if it knew the movements, but had hidden them, waiting for their time to be released.

The daily training regime and chores served to remove what fat he had on his body. It did not take long for his lean muscle to form into solid mass, and his strength was focused and improved, and his body loose. He grew stronger by every passing nightfall, his muscles trimming themselves into fighting shape. He lost the bulk around his body, replacing it with lean cut muscle. He found that his strength knew little bounds after a time, a vast untapped reserve. Where over the years repetitive work had formed his body in a certain way, the training molded this form into a new loose ready form, his muscles knotted cords wound and ready to strike. He was limber, able to twist his body in ways he had not before, able to bend and grab his toes with his legs straight, able to take his arms over his head and turn them around to touch his lower back. Working muscle had been sculpted into fighting muscle.

The daily bruises and welts suffered in the beginning were not present now, as he learned to dodge and parry effectively. Those blows that made it into his guard did not bruise him, they only toughened his skin. He was being molded into a warrior, but still in the back of his mind he feared the day he would put his skills into practice. He felt he would be just fine with training and never actually putting it to the test. The fatigue and soreness was gone, each night he went to bed tired, but not exhausted, the day’s toil making him stronger. His body was now used to the regime it was given, and he thought the extra work served to keep him in better shape, pushing him to his limits. The build of a worker forged in the pits was transformed into the build of a warrior.

Life was now a routine, and he was used to it. It was good from the standpoint that he could focus, and attempt to push the questions running free in his mind away. He got up every morning and stretched, spending at least ten minutes doing this. Each muscle was pulled and worked, readying for the day. He cleaned his teeth and shaved every morning before making his way to morning meal. Morning meal was the highlight of his day, when everyone else was groggily waking up; he was relishing his time with his first friends. Pix’s humor was something he looked forward to, Sherrill’s dark mood every morning, and Memos’s quiet laughter at her served to keep him going. His friendship with Maris was deepening, and he felt he truly had a close friend now. He continued to feel odd around Briel, and did his best not to notice or acknowledge her.

He would eat and then train, as hard as he could, throwing himself into Memos’s lessons. The fear of combat was still present, but he put it away just as did everything else. It seemed as time rolled on, day after day Ulrag was pushing them harder, and while Pix and Maris groaned, Cyan welcomed it. After training each day he would dutifully do his chores, and then retire to bed where his mind would open up once again.

On the forty- fifth day of his life at the compound the routine changed. He awoke in the morning as normal, and while stretching he found a small circular piece of wood painted red slipped under his door. He picked it up and went through the rest of his routine and went to morning meal.
The room was quiet as he walked in, and he noticed everyone seemed sullen. Pix was absently poking at his food, Maris stared at the wall, and Memos and Sherill sat close together, her head resting on his shoulder. Each one of them except Memos had the same small disk on the table in front of them.

Cyan sat down and set his disk on the table. “ What is this?”

Memos looked at him, his eye a little downcast. “ The marker. It means you have been selected to do battle tomorrow.”

It hit Cyan as hard as one of Ulrag’s punches. It had not dawned on him that he would have to fight, that the training was for a reason. He had been told so, but it did not register. Tomorrow he would have to fight with steel, and live by the sword. The idea that this place’s purpose was that had not sunk in yet, but now it had. He had to hold his throat tight and swallow hard not to vomit out of nerves.

“ You’ll do fine.” Sherill said, a uncharteristicly motherly tone in her voice.

“ To the death?” Cyan’s voice cracked as he looked at Memos.

“ No, the marker would be black if so. But let’s not lie, it can be brutal. It’s bloody work, people have lost arms, legs, and sometimes more.” His voice was gravely as he spoke. “ You fight to submission, or first blood, whatever the master of ceremonies calls for. If it for submission, then one fighter gives up and the other wins. Some give up easier than others, for fear their masters may look down upon them. And sometimes, accidents happen.”

“ I’m not ready.” Cyan said.

“ You have no choice. “ Sherill said.

“ I can’t, I don’t know what to do.” Cyan continued.

“ Hey!” Pix poked Cyan in the ribs with a fork. “ Stick with me, I’ll keep ya safe.” He brandished his fork menacingly while doing his best growl. Cyan couldn’t help but laugh, breaking the tension for everyone at the table. The rest of the meal was quiet but lighthearted, and they went to train as usual.

Cyan and Maris watched one of the most fearsome mock battles they had ever seen that afternoon. Sherill and Memos, although very much in love battled each other tooth and nail, offering no quarter to each other.

“ Beautiful isn’t it?” Maris said to Cyan.

“ How so?”

“ They’re so much in love, yet they beat the living hells out of each other.”

“ How is that beautiful?” Cyan laughed.

“ Because both realize that she must be ready tomorrow. He for some reason didn’t get the marker, but she did. We both know few could be his equal, and what better training than to fight him, which will make tomorrow’s bout easy by comparison.”

“ True.”

“ I imagine they make love as hard as they fight.” Maris said. Cyan blushed at the comment.

“ Does your woman fight?” Cyan asked.

“ Much better than I do, yes. She is a marksman with a bow, and not bad with a longsword either.”

Cyan nodded.

“ She trains with my cousin, Sir Alain Morningdew. I think you’d like him, he’s a knight.”

“ I have never even seen a knight.”

“ You’ll meet him someday, trust me. He is a honorable man, he even swore to protect Illyiana while I was away. He’s a master of the blade.”

“ Better than Memos?”

“ By far.”

“ How does one become a knight?”

“ I think you just petition and prove your worth. I’m not sure, he’d be able to answer it much better than I.”

Cyan nodded.

“ He’s a knight of the Dawn, have you heard of them?”

“ Yes.” Even Cyan had heard of the Knights of Dawn, sworn protectors of law and order for all the Empire. Oldest of all knightly orders they were formed by Sir Meric Cole some thousands of years before the present. They were the embodiment of virtue, and if what was said was true, they were truly good men and women to a ‘t’.

“ You ever thought about following your cousin’s footsteps?”

“ No, I’m not a warrior, regardless of what this place makes me. I hope to be like my father, old, wise, with many people around to talk to.

“ Sounds as a good life.”

“ It will be.”

Ulrag grunted and Maris was called to train with Pix. Cyan watched, deep in thought. As hard as he tried, he not picture himself old, wise, and with many people to talk to.

***

After training they were taken to the smithy and made to try out different sizes of armor. Pix and Sherill put the armor they always wore on, and made sure it still fit well. Sherill remarked it had been about thirty-five days since she last fought. Memos stayed with Cyan and Maris and helped them to find the armor that best suited them. Maris settled on a light leather armor packed with studs, and Cyan settled on the traditional half plate, half chain mail of the knights, keeping with the motif.

After they were fitted Cyan went about his chores, cleaning the stables and doing his work in the smithy. That night his work did nothing to block the thoughts of tomorrow, no matter how hard he tried. The work went slowly, and his mind was full. His normal routine broken, work was unpleasant and unfulfilling for the first time in a long time.

He went to do his last chore, the cleaning of the dining hall and found Briel half done with his work. He stood in the door confused until she turned and noticed him.

“ This is my task.” He said, his voice calm for once. He found he could suppress the excitement of being around her with the confrontation of his own mortality in a day to come.

She wiped a line of sweat from her brow. “ You fight tomorrow, I figured you might need the extra rest.”

“ I am commanded to do this.”

“ Athrax approved of my taking your place tonight, and would have you rested. I have already spoken with him.

“ I’m sure you have.” He spoke without thinking and regretted it the moment that he did.
She looked him in the eye and for a split second, he thought she he had hurt her. A mix of anger and depression flashed across her face then was gone.

“ Not all of us can be warriors. We do what we have to do to survive.” Her words dripped with malice, and Cyan felt her anger deep inside. She straightened her apron before she spoke again, this time her voice calm. “ I’ve drawn you a bath, and a towel has been laid out.” She turned back to her work.

He stood still for a moment, regretting what he had said. He was mad, and disappointed with himself. He stalked out of the hall and went to his bath, trying to clear his mind but failing.

He lay in bed for over two hours, the extra time to sleep wasted. His body was anticipating the next day, the feeling of butterflies dancing lightly on his skin. The sensation of anticipation made it hard to sit; and still sleep was made impossible. He cursed himself for what he said, he cursed himself for his outburst with his talent, he cursed his talent, and he cursed the fact that he was a slave. Finally, none of it mattered, as sleep took him.



Chapter 6

Death is the only freedom a slave ever has.
-Unknown Taskmaster
Even in death the master sells our bodies.
-Unknown Slave

Cyan woke up and went through his morning routine as if nothing was different about the day. He arrived at morning meal clean-shaven with a clam expression on his face. Pix was not so patiently waiting for his food, fidgeting with one of his long yellow fingernails. Maris sat across from Cyan, and looked like he had gotten the same amount of sleep, or lack thereof. Nonetheless he was positive, and his expression was casual and laidback. Sherill and Memos were not present.

“ Battle day means the best food.” Pix said as Cyan sat down. “ They give us a whole slab of meat to eat, as much as we can fill ourselves on!” Looking around capriciously he said, “ I’ll eat what you don’t.” He smiled a yellow-toothed grin.

Cyan nodded and inhaled deeply, taking the smell from the kitchen to heart. Indeed it did smell good, and it seemed they would be eating well today.

“ Have you been in many battles Pix?” Maris asked.

“ Pix has fought eighteen times and won twelve of them!” Thumping his chest as he spoke.

“ How did you lose the six?” Cyan asked.

Narrowing his eyes Pix responded, “ The other guys cheated.”

Cyan left it at that and turned to Maris. One look between them said enough. Briel brought food trays forth and it was more than enough to feed the three of them twice over. That is, until Pix started on his fifth plate. After Cyan was finished he absently watched the gobbeley devour his food, shoving handful after handful into his small mouth. His green-brown face was caked with bits of beef and cheese, and his stomach was bloated by the time he was done. More than once Pix belched loudly.

“ Were are Memos and Sherill?” Cyan asked.

Pix picked a piece of carrot from his teeth and after looking at it swallowed it. “ They never come to eat on battle days. They uh, sleep in.”

“ Why wasn’t Memos chosen today?”

“ They are selective about when he fight. Master does not want him to lose. Memos has not lost in a long time.” Pix belched again, loudly.

“ So they rarely have him fight?” Maris asked.

“ No no, “ Pix shook his head furiously “ Only fight him when he will win.”

“ And they’re not sure he will win today?”

“ Dunno? Maybe he not win?” Loudly, he belched again. Cyan was beginning to notice that the gobbeley’s belches smelled worse than the gobbeley itself.

A grunt from the doorway got their attention. Ulrag stood there, motioning his large meaty hand for them to follow. Standing, they obeyed and were lead to the courtyard were the slave wagon waited. Getting in, Sherill was already inside waiting. When they were seated the doors were closed and latched.

“ Do you know who we’ll be fighting today?” Maris asked Sherrill.

She shook her head no.

“ No matter who fight, I win.” Pix said before belching.

“ Unless they cheat.” Maris chimed in.

The gobbeley nodded knowingly.

“ How long before we fight?” Cyan asked.

“ We suit up and get ready by late day, and usually battle about twilight.” Sherill responded.

“ What about all the time before that?” Maris asked.

“ We wait.”

Cyan realized the waiting would be hell itself, but having no choice in the matter, he accepted it and moved on.

They rode the rest of the way in silence all preoccupied with thoughts of what was to come. It wasn’t before they stopped that Cyan realized he could have looked out the barred window and seen the town, and chided himself for missing the opportunity. The doors were unlatched and opened and before them was a large sandstone wall set with two double doors, and beside it Athrax and Ulrag.

The pair herded them through the door and down many sets of steps, into a large damp torchlight room with benches and a water basin. It smelled of a mixture of sweat, moss, and stagnant water set deeply into old stone. Cyan felt they were underground somewhat, and the room was quite cool. There were six benches, each about two men long lining the walls, and the water basin was set into the middle of the room, about the size of a large cooking pot. Set into the ground in front of it was a metal grate. Besides the door they came in, there was one other door opposite it on the far wall. The group of them took benches and sat as Ulrag hauled down four heavy sacks and gently set them to the floor. Ulrag turned and returned up the stairs, leaving them with Athrax who paced about the room.

“ Make yourselves at home. “ He barked.

“ Who do we fight today?” Sherill asked.

The armor-clad warrior shrugged. “ A few new fighters, and one experienced freeman.”

“ Who?” Sherill continued.

“ Vizarn.” Athrax replied.

“ I have fought him before, he should not be too much of a challenge.”

“ Well,” Athrax sighed, as if talking to her was a great burden put upon him “bitch you won’t be fighting him so you needn’t worry about it.” Cyan saw Sherill put her anger in check quickly, but the rage was apparent across her face.

“ Who will?” She continued, her face twitching slightly.

“ Cyan.”

“ Your putting him against Vizarn, he has over twenty fights to his name! Who’s idea was-.”

“ Shut up.” Athrax cut her off. “ It is my lady and your masters will. You all seem to think you have a choice in the matter. You will do” he let the word hang for emphasis “as you are told, or else. You all will be fighting in single combat today. Pix first, Maris second, you third, and Cyan fourth.”

“ But its doesn’t-“ Sherill continued.

Athrax held up a gloved finger to silence her. “ Do shut up. You have no opinion.” He stared at her for a moment, and for a brief second Cyan thought she would fight him, but she held her anger in check. This is his greatest pleasure. Cyan thought, once again feeling his dislike, almost hate for Athrax wash over his body. Sherrill pursed her lips and danger flashed all over her face. Cyan saw the daggers in her eyes, and then it was gone as she bowed her head. Ulrag returned with his arms loaded by a long sack cloth. He laid it down gently beside the other four sacks and spread out the contents. They were all weapons, all made of steel. Swords, knives, and axes. Ulrag returned moments later and set out halberds and staves. Cyan saw all of this and had no idea how any fight with such obviously real weapons could be to anything but the death. He hoped the armor he chose truly would protect him. He could need see how men armed with steel could not but maim or kill an opponent. These were not wooden practice weapons, these were real, hard metal, and the edges held sharp. Small fear began to work its way over him.

Ulrag opened up the remaining sacks and set their armor out on the floor. When he was done he picked up a large double bladed battle axe and sat down beside the door on the far wall and closed his eyes. Athrax turned and surveyed the room, taking each of their measures.

“ Alright louts. Remember this, you are here to fight. If I don’t see you claw tooth and nail to win, then you shall fight me without the luxury of such fine weapons. Good luck to all of you.” He looked each one of them over again and turned and walked out the door Ulrag sat beside. The group was quiet for about five minutes.

“ Insufferable ass.” Sherill spat.

Maris and Pix snickered.

“ Son of goat’s whore.” Maris giggled.

“ Donkey.” Pix continued.

They all laughed, even Cyan, and the mounting tension and anxiety was broken for a few minutes.

“ Sherill, I have a question. How exactly are we supposed to not kill each other with these weapons?” Maris asked, voicing Cyan’s mental query.

“ Most of those we fight are as we are, unwilling participants. They do not wish to die, nor do they wish to kill. It is an unwritten rule if your opponent bears the slaves mark, fight and make the battle look good, but do not try to kill. Subdue, break bones if you have to, but do not end them. Try to knock them out. You would hope to expect the same from them.”

“ And if they don’t bear the slave’s mark?” Maris continued.

“ Kill or be killed. Do what you have to do to survive. This is the law of life. Some people come to trials who are freemen, just to fight and earn money. They care not whether you wear the mark or not.”

“ Does Vizarn wear the mark?” Cyan asked.

Sherill shook her head. “ No he does not. But don’t worry, he’s sloppy, too aggressive. You should do fine.”

Maris stood and began to pace, flexing and stretching his muscles as he walked. “ I imagine that so called healer Chesir mends our injuries?” Maris said.

“ Healer.” She said it with as much disdain as when she spoke of Lady Imona. “ He makes sure we do not lay down long. His magic’s are powerful.”

“ He is a mage?” Cyan asked.

“ Yes. I imagine you have not encountered one before?”

“ No.”

“ Trust me, if all were like him, they may all rot in the hells.” She spit on the ground as she finished speaking.

***

Time passed in the dank room, the only break in the quiet was Pix snoring as he lay sprawled on a bench. Ulrag never moved, his eyes still closed. Maris still paced and stretched, his unease beginning to show. Sherill wet her hair in the basin and then stretched out on a bench and closed her eyes. Cyan simply sat, trying to quell his breaking nerves. He could not prevent his hands from shaking, and he could feel his heart beating faster than it should.

The time past as slow as the ages, and Cyan’s mood did not improve. Eventually someone knocked twice on the door and Ulrag’s eyes opened and he grunted, pointing at the armor. Sherill sat up, as if expecting this at this very time, and kicked Pix in the side lightly on her way over to hers. In turn they helped each other suit up, Pix in his light leather chest protector and leggings, Sherill in her studded leather and chain suit, Maris in his light leather greaves and chest piece, and Cyan in his half plate mail and chain.

The armor Cyan wore was a little tight, but was well put together. The breastplate was steel, shined, with few knicks in the metal. Under it was the chain mail, which covered his chest, shoulders, and waist. Underneath that was a thin layer of leather and cotton. His shoulders were then covered in steel plate pieces with upper arm guards. Each forearm was fitted with a leather guard, finishing in studded leather gloves. It was thick, and would grip a weapon firmly. A last chain mail swath extending down to his knees, almost like an apron, covered his crotch. His thighs were then plated in steel pieces, ending just above his knees. He wore heavy leather boots, and no helmet. Even though he was nervous, he had never felt the odd sensation of putting on armor, it was powerful, exciting, and frightening because he knew he was to do battle.
Sherill picked up a halberd and began to stretch with it, her lean muscles flexing. Cyan noticed how in control she was, yet behind it he sensed that even she was a little nervous, maybe even worried. He wondered how many times she had fought without Memos present. Pix took up his shortsword and stabbed at the air a few times before setting it aside and falling back asleep. Maris walked to the far corner of the room and knelt down, his head bowed.

Cyan watched Maris, but could not see what he was doing as his back was to him. His hands were to his face, and he saw his body twitch more than once, and then set his hand axe down on the ground. His head bowed, Cyan watched him kneel his face down all the way to the ground, burying his face into his hands. This lasted for a few minutes and then he stood and turned around. His face was now calm, resolved, and Cyan was not sure, but he thought perhaps he had prayed, a thing forbidden to slaves. From birth they were denied the gods, and their teachings. Cyan knew Maris was not a born slave, and wondered if the gods allowed him to pray to them because of this. Cyan did not understand prayer, or the gods. It was said the gods did not smile upon slaves, and would not give them their blessings. This did not bother Cyan, but prayer did intrigue him. As Maris walked closer Cyan saw his face clearly. Besides the calm resolve he had made fine cuts into his cheeks and forehead. Not deep, just enough to draw blood. Maris had smeared the lines of blood into an upside down horseshoe on his forehead and three wavy lines on each cheek. On his chin, running up his nose to just between his eyes he had smeared a long streak of wet dirt. The whole arrangement had some meaning, but Cyan did not know what, and did not see a point in asking, for he saw the result. Maris was calm, and resolved. Cyan reasoned the gods did favor him because he was not born a slave, and these markings must have been made to garner their favor. Nodding to himself he accepted this and turned back to his thoughts.
One knock came from the door and Pix sat up, his sleep gone. He hopped down from his bench and walked over to Ulrag. The door opened and Athrax stood in it, Pix held out his shortsword and Athrax took it and moved aside. Pix walked out the door and Athrax closed it behind him, following.

Silence reigned over the room. Maris had sat down and closed his eyes, his head bowed once again. Sherill had not moved in about half an hour. Cyan sat still, his heart beating loudly. The silence was too much. He stood and paced, walking over the weapons eventually. He saw a short, well built hand axe and picked it up, testing the weight. He found a broad rapier, the only one on the table, and picked it up as well. It was his first time to hold a steel weapon.

The broad rapier was a cross between the longsword and rapier, developed by the Knights of Dawn many years ago. They had seen merit in the quickness of the rapier, and the length and heft of the longsword. Time had lead them to the perfect amalgamation of the two, a pointed, longer, thicker bladed version of the rapier, the broad rapier. Still quick, but with all the advantages of the long sword. It had a swept back hilt, covering the fist three fingers back in a layer of netted steel. The blade itself was nicked and well used, but sharp and oiled.
Cyan didn’t bother to practice swing the weapons. He was sure that he would drop both of them he was so nervous. He wondered if his talent would come to bear today, but realized anger would have to provoke it, and he was not angry, but feeling complete anxiety and cowardice. He felt like a frightening scared little boy, and was ashamed by it, but could do nothing about it. He’s hands shook all the more.

Time crawled, seeming to go as slow as the changes of the seasons. The door finally opened, and Athrax walked in and motioned to Maris, who stood up and followed. He walked to the door and handed Athrax his weapons as Pix had and walked out.

“ Where, uhm, where, is Pix?” Cyan stammered, losing control of his voice.

Athrax smiled, making Cyan feel even more like a little boy. “ None of your concern boy.” He turned and followed Maris out the door, slamming it behind him. Cyan stood staring at the door his heart beating rapidly. He was covered in a cold sweat now, and his body was so tense he felt as if he would break in half. He was sure he was going to die, and no doubt even attempted to cloud his mind. The fear welled up inside him, covered him like a cloak. It smothered him, controlled him, and ruled him. He searched for a way to relieve the tension, to put it away, but that made his heart race more.

Then he felt shame as he had never felt it before as the warm trickle of urine traced down his leg and pooled at his feet. The cold sweat covered him and the smell mixed with the acrid urine and he felt as if he would vomit. He looked at Ulrag, and the half ogre still lay still with his eyes closed. He felt shame in his mind, body and soul, it quickly gave way to despair. Tears began to fall down his face, slowly, and then fell quickly from his eyes and his shoulders heaved and he quietly sobbed. The tears splashed lightly in the pool at his feet, and he dropped his weapons.
He felt two calloused hands go to his cheeks. Opening his eyes he staring into Sherrill’s eyes, and her face was so motherly it hurt him.

“ Shh, shh, c’mon darling you’ll be fine.” She took one hand from his cheek and took some of her long hair and gently dabbed at the tears running down his face. He felt so small, so hurting, but at the same time, so warm. He was not six and a half hands tall and strong enough to lift an oxcart, but a little boy, innocent to all that his life was. She pulled his head down onto her shoulder and gently stroked his neck, lightly rocking him back and forth. He didn’t care if Ulrag or Athrax saw, saw his shame, saw him cry, he never wanted the warm feeling to end. He cried into her shoulder until he needed to cry no more, and she gently rocked him and soothed him. Soon, his sobs ceased, and she let him go. Her face was warm, and her smile was the smile of a mother, a smile that touched him deeply. She was not his comrade or his friend, or Memo’s woman as she kissed him lightly one the forehead and dabbed the last tear from his face. She walked over to the basin and poured water into the pool at his feet, washing it away to the grating so no one would know. She returned and took both of his hands in hers.

“ You will be fine, and you will live.” Her voice was calm and even, and it spoke to him from his childhood, and he remembered the slave mothers.

He nodded and smiled, the tension gone from his body.

“ You will live.” She smiled. “ Before every battle Memos says to me ‘You will live because I have the world to give to you, and I refuse to give the world to anyone else.’” Her smile broadened. “ Cyan, you will live because the world will give it self to you. You will live.”
He nodded and straightened himself, still a little nervous, still a little frightened, but resolved. He felt calmed and strengthened by her words. However he almost wanted to cry again, not out of fear, not out of shame, but because no one had ever made him feel the way she just had. No one since he was little had shown him such true kindness, and in one moment made everything all right for the time being. It had touched him in a place that he thought was gone long ago, a place slaves were not allowed to have. He would remember that moment from now until he died, whether it be in the trials that day, or many years later.

She picked up his weapons and handed them to him. The moment was over, and the motherly expression was gone from her face, replaced by the look of a warrior, and Cyan could see her for the passionate warrior she was. She would not lost this day, and Cyan could not see her ever losing a battle with her determination. She had just given him a small part of that heart, that passion, and he was resolved to use it as she would. He would not back down, he would fight, and he would win.

The door opened and Pix shuffled in. He was alive, and had all his limbs. Cyan’s heart had skipped a beat when the door opened, thinking it was for him. He looked Pix over and the gobbeley was hurt, but not badly. He had a fresh bandage on his scalp, and left arm, with spots of blood on each. He looked tired, hurt, and broken in spirit. He walked past Sherill and Cyan muttered what sounded like curses in another language. Falling like a sack of potatoes to his bench he spit to the floor and began unbuckling his armor.

“Damned sons of goats cheated.” He grumbled, stripping his last layer of armor off. Sherrill chuckled quietly, and Cyan’s mood improved slightly. Pix lay back down on the bench and was quickly snoring, ever once and awhile cursing in his sleep.

The door opened again and Cyan turned. Athrax stood in the doorway, leering at him. “ C’mon boy, no time like the present.”

Cyan did not move.

Athrax looked at Cyan’s weapons and then down at his own. A leering smile crossed the warriors face.“ Give me a reason.” His voice was so cocky, so inviting, so begging it seemed to drip down his chin. “ I’d just as soon have you dead here as up there, makes no difference to me. Cyan briefly considered the invitation a vision of Athrax’s head ripped clean from his shoulders, but dismissed it. He shook his head no and walked forward, handing his weapons to the warrior, pommels first. He went through the door into a long hallway that stretched upward, and Athrax followed, slamming the door behind him.


Chapter 7

For all the glory of winning the Imperial Fighters Cup, and the honor of the Emperor himself freeing me; I would have traded it all to have known the children I made while in captivity.
- Robert Barret Flynn, Imperial Fighters Cup Champion 1953 I.R


The walk up the stairs in the dimly lit corridor was the longest walk of his life. It seemed the actual arena floor must have been miles away as he plodded up the stairs. In truth it was not long, less than a minute, but to Cyan it seemed as ages.

When he crested the last step the dim light from the arena crept down the corridor and fell onto him. Athrax stood at the top of the stairs beside him and nodded forward. Cyan continued to walk. When he breached the last archway he felt he might be ready for what he was about to see. He wasn’t. Before him was a storm of humanity, and himself the eye. He had expected a bowl shaped arena, much like the profile he saw in the distance from Imona’s window, with flat ground walled in, surrounded by stands. Instead before him stood a set of stone stairs, not sandstone but granite, about three men wide, extending four men high up onto a wooden platform. The ground beneath was packed dirt, surrounded by fifteen hand high walls that separated the raised disk from the crowd. The drop to the recessed dirt below the platform was a good five men, and would most likely end in broken bones. The size of the platform was comparable to four wagons laid down in a square.

The audience was loud. Their voices formed together into one cacophonous maelstrom of sound, the loudest sound Cyan had ever heard. It echoed off the stone stairs and the raised platform, swirling in the arena and amplifying it fivefold. The rows of people started at the wall top and extended back about sixty deep. Cyan guessed that perhaps twenty thousand people were present, ranging from lower class seated up close to the walls, to middle class merchants, and the wealthier seated in box seats far behind. The lower class up close was to a man armed with various types of rotten fruit, their acrid smell already staining Cyan’s nose. As he walked out before the stairs most jeered at him, and some even threw the fruit at him, one hitting him on the shoulder, splattering red, rotten sludge down his arm.

He started up the stairs, his legs feeling like blocks of iron from nervousness. He attempted to keep his head held high, but found his hands were more the problem, as they would not stop shaking. He reached the top to see he was alone. As he stood looking out over the crowd he truly felt all eyes on him. He had to fight himself not to vomit from the anxiety he felt. The platforms edge was drawing closer to him as he felt a wave of vertigo hit, when it passed he saw the edge was at least ten hands from the wall, so escaping through the crowd was not an option.
He looked out over the people, his eyes burning in his face, as did his whole body. He did not see faces, but saw the snarling teeth and bright eyes of wolves, hungry for his blood. He shook and he waited. Soon, another man crested the stairs opposite him. The man was a little older than him, and walked with an air of confidence.

Vizarn held himself well, and the crowd cheered. His muscles were full, lean, and he looked quick. He was girded in studded leather armor with heavy plate forearm guards with half finger long spikes. The buckles on his armor were shiny, and the leather was well oiled. His hair was shaved into a Mohawk, and the scars he wore signified his prowess for survival. In his hands was a shield, small with an iron spike set in the middle, and a longsword, trimmed with a faux gold crosspiece. As he stood for the crowd he threw his arms into the air and yelled an incomprehensible war cry and the crowd clamored it’s appreciation. Cyan stood and watched, shaking.

Vizarn began to circle the young man, staring at him. His eyes bore into Cyan like the sword he carried, and his sword arm was already held at the ready. Cyan shook and watched him circle. Uneasily he began to counter circle his opponent, slowly drawing the two of them closer. He held his broad rapier in the position Memos had taught him, and his axe the way Maris had instructed. The slowly came closer.

They came closer, the blood racing in Cyan’s body, his mind hoping to desperately get this over with soon and come out alive. Cyan knew Vizarn sensed his fear, and he did not care. He couldn’t hide his fear no matter how hard he tried, so he let himself shake. They got within a few hands of each other and Vizarn twitched his sword arm and Cyan completely overcompensated, jumping back. The crowd jeered and Vizarn howled, laughing. Cyan felt more the fool than ever.
Once again, they resumed and came in close together, Cyan moving slowly, defensively. Vizarn dashed forward, shield first and swung his sword towards Cyan’s torso. Somehow, Cyan got his sword up and glanced off the shield, while the longsword slashed into his left shoulder biting through flesh and muscle. The pain assaulted him and he dropped the hand axe, and pitched backward, almost falling down.

Vizarn was still coming, and the pain was bold, more of an opponent now than Vizarn. He felt his blood course down his arm, and sensing impending death at Vizarn’s hand swung wildly with the broad rapier. Vizarn jumped back, and looked hungrily as he began to circle Cyan once again. The pain continued to shot lightning bolts through his arm and blood formed a river that was quickly making a lake at his feet. The crowd roared it’s appreciation, and Cyan realized this was not a first blood match, but to submission, which meant he was probably dead. Cyan shook and felt tears come to his eyes as the stinging pain set in.

Vizarn stabbed forward and Cyan haphazardly slapped his blade to the side, dodging a sure running through. He tried hard to remember everything that was taught tom him and realized technique didn’t matter, it was instinct, and right now he had no instinct to fight. He saw no way to get out of it but through death, and he felt if he lost too much more blood, that would come soon.

Vizarn pressed forward and Cyan backpedaled and swung wildly to parry. His parries were awkward, but effective. Five minutes of this went on, as Cyan clutched his arm in between sword blows while he let Vizarn run him all over the ring. His left arm was pale now, and blood was all over the wood ground. He was sure that much blood could not have come from him and wondered how he was still standing. He had been cut three more times, none as deep as his shoulder, but all painful. His right arm held a slash across it, just between his elbow and shoulder plate. His chin was bleeding from a stab that would have split his skull, and his leg was bleeding from a deflected blow aimed for his heart. He had not picked up the hand axe and was sure he couldn’t even make his left hand grasp anything at this point. He wanted to get it over with, but more importantly he wanted to live.

A mistake ended the contest, and to Cyan’s utter shock it wasn’t his. As before Vizarn lead with his shield, charging at Cyan full force. However this time as he lunged in and Cyan bashed his shield with his sword, Vizarn slipped in the pools of Cyan’s blood, flipping backwards and landing on his skull. Cyan was shocked, but saw opportunity for what it was. Lunging forward he pressed the tip of his broad rapier into Vizarn’s throat, just under his chin. Cyan drew his first blood from Vizarn not on purpose, but because his hand was shaking so badly.
“ Submit.” Cyan’s voice wobbled, was weak, and sounded far off.

A stream of obscenities in a language Cyan did not know came from Vizarn’s mouth, and cursing he tossed his weapons away. He closed his eyes and spit to the side, continuing his tirade. Cyan stared down at him for a moment, almost delirious, and the crowd roared. Not knowing any better he held his sword up high in the air and they roared all the louder. He stood for a moment, wobbling, bleeding before he lowered the weapon, and began to make his way to the stairs. As he walked away from Vizarn the prone cursing warrior was pelted with all sorts of gone bad food items, which only served to make him curse louder. Cyan walked over and picked up his hand axe, holding it in his right hand with his broad rapier.

He made his way down the stairs slowly, leaving drops of blood on every step on his way down. As he reached the archway Athrax stood there with his arms cross and what Cyan thought was a proud smile, until he realized it was a sneer. He absently turned his eyes to the cut on his shoulder and realized that he was looking at a mass of split open flesh, with torn, ripped muscle, and his exposed, chipped shoulder bone. He stared at it for a moment, vomited, and the last thing he remembered was his face getting hit by the ground very hard.