Prologue

The slave merchant hated the Mad Lion.

The tavern was located in Swuglus East, a lower-class section of the city of Coldpost. The street stank of vomit and piss. The single-story building was old, its stone walls weathered and cracked, with moss creeping through the mortar. And the regulars of the establishment — including the person whom he was going to meet — were the kinds of people he wouldn’t see out in daylight.

But none of these were the reason he felt antsy as he approached the place. It was the name.

Soft light spilled onto the street from the Mad Lion’s front windows. Music and raucous voices carried farther than the light. There was a bard singing inside, but the lyrics were lost beneath the slurred attempts of drunken men trying to sing along.

A large man slouched on a stool just outside the doors. His head fell on his chest as if he was asleep, but the slave merchant doubted that. Swuglus East wasn’t the sort of place you could nap with both eyes closed. The bouncer at the Mad Lion watched the street through narrowed eyes, fully awake and alert.

The slave merchant tugged at his heavy coat against the cold. Beyond the dark hills that overlooked the city, he could see dark clouds swallowing the stars. He was hoping to strike a good deal with the supplier and get home before the storm hit. He shivered at the idea of walking all the way to the other side of the city through rain and mud.

The bouncer didn’t stir as the slave merchant climbed up the stairs to the porch and walked into the Mad Lion. The mixed smell of sweat, tobacco and oily food greeted him. He stood by the open doors, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

Once again, he was reminded how much he didn’t like this tavern.

The common room was filled with rows of tables, benches and stools, all occupied by eating, drinking, singing and gambling men. A stage the size of a bed was built on the corner where a bard played his lute and sang an obscene version of a popular folk song. The Mad Lion didn’t look all that different from an ordinary, lowlife tavern, with the only exception being the ugly, rebellious decor.

Gold and black banners were hanging from every wall and column. Behind the bartender, there hung an elaborate tapestry that portrayed the Lion of Zarall’s battle against the Bear of Vogros. A round, wooden shield with House Zarall’s coat of arms was displayed proudly above it.

Sarte ‘Lucky’ Hamgard, owner of the Mad Lion, was a veteran house guard who had served late King Leonis Zarall and had the luck to retire several years before the coup. The man’s blood ran golden and black and he was not shy about showing his colours, despite the fact that another king with different colours was now sitting on the throne of Chinderia.

The slave merchant could never understand the blind loyalty free men felt for each other. It was a good quality on a slave, but was not useful otherwise.

He wondered if Lucky would still feel lucky enough to openly show Zarall colours if it wasn’t for the ongoing riots.

Kastian Vogros was sitting on the throne, and he even had the support of all the noble families, but Vogrosses did not have a solid grip on the country yet. At least not in the Northern Chinderia, where people had been louder and more reluctant to accept the change.

The slave merchant didn’t think the instability would last for long. Zaralls were gone and there wasn’t anyone else well-connected enough to have a claim on the throne against Kastian Vogros. People could whine all they wanted; Kastian Vogros was still the head of the strongest family in Chinderia. His line still went all the way back to Merduth the Axe, founder of the country. And he still controlled the largest army of slaves and free men.

Riots would go on until the common folk started to realise Leonis Zarall wasn’t coming back from Farhome to feed their throats, so they would go back to worrying about themselves. People like Lucky would continue to rant about how Kastian Vogros couldn’t even defeat Leonis’s slave, but he would lose ears every day until one morning he’d wake to find those Zarall banners burnt down, along with his piss hole of an establishment.

It took the slave merchant a moment to spot the man he was going to meet. He started towards the table at the back of the room. It was a time of uncertainty for most businesses, but not for his. Times like these were when the slave business thrived most.

Public disorder meant people went unaccounted for, leading to a fresh wave of tattoos on the market. Kastian’s soldiers were busy securing Brinsescar and the main roads leading to it, leaving the lesser-used routes dangerous. Travellers vanished, and the slave merchant was about to meet one of the men responsible.

Tonight’s deal could potentially double or even triple his investment.

“Master Kallis,” the man at the table said, gesturing for the slave merchant to join him. He was a large man with streaks of grey in his beard. The heavy leather armour he wore was faded and creased at the joints. It looked old, but bore no scars. Kallis wasn’t sure if that meant the man was skilled enough to avoid being hit, or if he simply avoided fights altogether.

But you didn’t become the bandit king of the Kilrer region by avoiding fights, so Kallis assumed it was the former.

“Master Vurkom,” he greeted, offering the criminal a deep bow. He shrugged off his coat before lowering himself onto the bench. A massive fireplace burned fiercely in the centre of the room, and the windows had been blocked against the night breeze. Kallis would be sweating soon, and he didn’t want the man getting the wrong impression.

Vurkom grabbed one of the serving girls by the arm and ordered two ales. Kallis didn’t even like ale, but he didn’t make any comment. He’d rather let the bandit think he was in control. For the same reason, he kept his silence until Vurkom decided to talk.

“I understand you’re interested in my merchandise,” Vurkom said. He was sitting sideways with one elbow at the table, the other hand on his knee, appearing to watch the bard across the room.

Kallis sipped his ale before speaking. “With all due respect, Master Vurkom, I wouldn’t call them merchandise.”

Vurkom glanced at Kallis, his lips curved with amusement. “And what would you call them?”

“Raw materials.” Kallis imitated Vurkom’s body language by facing towards the bard. He was vaguely aware the bard switched to a song about a fierce lion and a fluffy bear. Enough of the lyrics were caught in his ear to know this was another song about the mighty Lion of Zarall. He pushed his dislike aside and prepared himself to make the speech he’d done to others before.

“Go outside the city, Master Vurkom, and you’ll see trees everywhere. Anyone with an axe can cut one down, but not everyone can turn it into good furniture. It takes time, skill, resources, and connections to craft merchandise from fallen logs.”

Vurkom took a sip from his drink and stayed silent for a while. Kallis didn’t break the quiet.

“Let me guess,” the bandit said. “This is the part where you start haggling about how hard it is to find a good inker with steady hands.”

“Finding a tattoo artist who can forge a genuine slave tattoo isn’t the hardest part, Master Vurkom. At least not for me. Training is the most expensive and time-consuming part.”

Vurkom’s brows drew closer. “I can train them,” he grunted. “Cut their tongues so they won’t talk back, beat the shit out of them until they learn to do as they’re told.”

Kallis tried not to grimace. “Mutilated slaves lose at least a sixth of their value, Master Vurkom. Not everyone wants a mute. And training isn’t just about beating the shit out of them. If you’ve believed the sky is blue your whole life, it takes more than pain to convince you the sky doesn’t exist anymore — no matter the colour.”

He paused, watching for a reaction. Vurkom’s scowl faded into a vague grin. Kallis suspected the bandit already knew what came next, but he said it anyway.

“I have connections with breeders at slave ranches — people who can turn freeborn men and women into good slaves, regardless of their age. But time, Master Vurkom, time is my enemy. Every day they spend in those ranches costs me money. And they lose value as they age. It takes at least two years to break a man properly, if he’s over twenty. Even then, some wills won’t bend. It’s hardly worth it.”

Kallis stopped speaking. Vurkom’s grin had spread into a smug smile. That wasn’t the intended effect of his speech. He waited until the bandit spilt what he had.

“I’ve got kids,” Vurkom said, leaning back in his chair.

Kallis took a long sip to cover his smile. He glanced around the room, hoping the bandit hadn’t caught the anticipation in his eyes.

“How old?”

Vurkom pursed his lips. “A couple about this size.” He held his hand at the height of the table. “Three more a bit older. That should reduce your costs, huh?”

“Indeed.” Kallis licked his lips, finished the rest of his ale, and ordered some wine from one of the serving girls. He didn’t expect them to have Serpentblood, and was pleasantly surprised to find they did. This business meeting had just proved worthy of a bottle of the most expensive wine.

Moreover, Kallis had noticed Vurkom was holding something back, and he had a good guess at what it was.

“Too bad they’re not young enough for Wording.”

Vurkom grinned. “One of the bitches is due next month. Could find more.”

“Mother should have proper paperwork in place, of course.”

“Which I’m sure you can handle, being a registered trader yourself.”

“Finding a mage who’s authorized to do the Wording is going to be expensive. Casters Board of Chinderia is extremely strict with their regulations.”

“I bet you already know someone.” Vurkom leaned forward at the table. His mouth was still smiling, but his eyes were sharp and cold as steel. “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? I already know you have all the permits and the connections I need. I could swing my dick and hit another slave merchant in this city. Why do you think I’m meeting you? You wanna do business, or not?

“As they say, Master Vurkom,” Kallis said. “Children are the future of this country.”

They started negotiating before their wines were served. It wasn’t the fastest service Kallis ever had, but they were lucky to be served at all. The serving girl stumbled, nearly dropping the Serpentblood as she approached their table. If it wasn’t for the quick reflexes of a patron sitting nearby, Kallis’s expensive liquid gold would have washed the mud and sawdust off the tavern’s floors.

But even the clumsiness of the serving girl couldn’t spoil Kallis’s mood. He was going to leave this meeting already feeling like a richer man.

By the time the slave merchant poured their cups, they had already agreed on the rough terms. Details were to be discussed next morning at Kallis’s office. Vurkom accompanied him for another cup of wine, then left. Five brutes, armed to the teeth, who had been blended in other tables, stood and left with the bandit leader.

The bard started another repetition of The Lion and The Bear. Kallis made an annoyed sound from the back of his throat, which turned into a cough. He rolled his eyes at the patrons joining in with the chorus. He didn’t understand the passionate admiration these people felt for a non-compliant, broken slave.

It wasn’t the slave himself that people cheered for; it was the idea of a worthless piece of property making fun of the strongest man in the country. They found it amusing. It was amusing. But also disturbing for a man who made his living from selling slaves.

Kallis picked up the bottle of Serpentblood. There was still enough left for two more cups. He decided to finish his bottle before heading back home.

He was just starting to notice the persistent itch on his throat when a stranger sat down at his table.

A frown creased the slave merchant’s brow. He glared at the man, his displeasure at the invasion of his privacy quite evident.

The stranger wore an expensive shirt and vest, though both were creased and dusted with the grime of travel. A short sword hung from a plain belt at his hips. His blonde hair was cropped short, his features sharp and youthful — early twenties, at most. Bright blue eyes scanned the room with confident, effortless charm. An arrogant grin curled at the corner of his mouth. Something in the way he carried himself — relaxed, assured — unsettled Kallis.

The song finished and the patrons cheered for another repetition. The bard, enjoying the ecstasy of a powerful crowd, climbed up on a table and started his tune again. Kallis straightened and stared at his uninvited guest.

“I don’t remember —” the slave merchant started, but his throat spasmed and choked the rest of his words. He coughed on his hand, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I don’t remember — inviting —” He coughed, glaring at the man. To quench the itch in his throat, he drank a large gulp of wine.

That’s when he saw the little green vial between the stranger’s gloved fingers.

The young man was looking at Kallis, his head tilted slightly, turning and twisting the vial in his hands. His arrogant grin widened when comprehension dawned on Kallis’s face.

The slave merchant gawked at his cup of wine. He knocked it down, the red wine spreading on the table like blood. The sound was lost beneath the bard’s tune and the voices of the patrons. Kallis moved to stand.

A hand clamped down on Kallis’s shoulder, forcing him back into his seat. A second man slid onto the bench beside him, sitting with his back to the table, eyes scanning the tavern crowd. He was as young as the first — mid-twenties, maybe — with light brown hair, a ready smile, and the faint scatter of freckles across his nose. His features marked him as foreign. Kallis had dealt with enough foreign-born merchandise to recognise the long, narrow facial lines of a Kaldorian.

Unlike the first man, this one wore armour — a strange, overlapping kind that looked like layered plates — and carried more weapons: a short bow, a pair of daggers, throwing knives. Kallis made another attempt to rise, but the Kaldorian’s hand stayed firm on his shoulder.

“You’d rather be sitting,” the blonde young man said, his voice calm and confident. “Take five steps and you’ll drop dead.” He shook the little vial at Kallis. “This is the only antidote within your reach.”

Kallis’s eyes grew large at the statement. “What do — Who are —?”

A surprised shout turned a few heads toward the back of the room. Kallis saw Lucky Hamgard rushing through the tables, shoving patrons aside. He knelt down, briefly vanishing among the curious crowd, then straightened with the serving girl in his arms. The patrons had already turned back to the bard as Hamgard carried her toward the back of the bar.

While Kallis watched the tavern workers gather around the girl, he noticed a third man. He knew at once this one was with the other two at his table. Larger and older than the others, the man’s bulk was impressive — as big as a purebred beast. He had dark, short-cropped hair, a somewhat flat nose, and a serious expression that didn’t waver. Kallis could make out the bulging outline of a heavy breastplate beneath the man’s baggy tunic. A long sword and a short sword hung at either hip, and the hilt of a massive two-hander jutted over his shoulder. He stood several paces away, casually leaning against the wall. A beer mug in one hand, eyes on Kallis’s table. He didn’t look away when Kallis noticed him.

The blond young man took the bottle of Serpentblood, poured some into Vurkom’s cup, and raised it to his lips. Kallis blinked, confused. He didn’t understand — then he did. His eyes flicked to the bottle, to the man’s gloved hands, to the unmoving body of the serving girl, and finally to his own fingers. The faint discolouration was already there.

“The bottle,” he said and coughed again.

The blonde man smiled and took another sip of wine. “There’s no reason to spoil a good wine like this.”

“What —?” Kallis gasped between his coughs.

The blonde man put the cup aside, indicating he was ready for business now. “You are hard to track down, Master Kallis. Or would you prefer Master Gladwiel?”

Kallis blinked. “What do you —” he once again attempted to ask their intentions and failed.

“I’m looking for a slave,” the man said, leaning forward on his elbows. “A purebred beast.”

“Come to — come to my office. Take — take what you want.”

The Kaldorian took his hand off Kallis’s shoulder and crossed his arms over his chest. He still didn’t look at the slave merchant and continued studying the crowd, but his mouth was twisted as if he’d tasted something nasty. The larger man with the heavy armour hadn’t moved from where he stood. It was clear this conversation was going to be resolved between Kallis and the young blonde man.

The blondie’s smile had nothing to do with pleasure. “You misunderstood me, Master Gladwiel,” he said smugly. “I’m not buying a slave. I’m searching for a specific one; a purebred beast with a certain fame.”

Kallis’s eyes widened with understanding for the third time since the blonde man sat at his table. He shook his head. “I don’t — know what —” Kallis coughed so hard, he couldn’t breathe for a few long seconds. “Please…”

The blonde man’s smile disappeared from his face and he was silent for a while. “I know you had him,” he said impatiently. “We’ve found the thugs who’d intercepted a convoy of disguised Vogros soldiers. I know they sold you a dying purebred beast for twenty Chinderian Blues.”

Kallis was shaking his head violently. “I don’t — I don’t do business with —” He shook with another violent cough.

The blonde man rolled his eyes, then rubbed his temples. “I don’t care about the legitimacy of your business activities, Master Gladwiel. I’m not here to report you to the Domestic Assets Trade Union.”

The Kaldorian scoffed softly, but the blonde man continued without skipping a beat. “Give me a name, Master Gladwiel…” He pulled the cork off the vial with his teeth and set the antidote at the edge of the table. He placed his hand right behind it, ready to push it off the table and spill Kallis’s life on the floor.

Kallis attempted to reach for the vial, but the Kaldorian grasped his wrist without looking and twisted it until Kallis buried his face into the crook of his elbow and whimpered.

The bard riled the crowd to join him on the last chorus of The Lion and The Bear. Several mugs rose to the air as the drunken patrons sang to the obnoxious things a lion with a long spear did to a soft, fluffy bear. Kallis’s coughs were lost in the noise.

When the Kaldorian let his wrist go, Kallis cradled his arm in his lap.

The young blonde man leaned forward on the table. He didn’t bother raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. Kallis read his lips clear as day: “A name, Master Gladwiel.”

Kallis closed his eyes. “Olira — Aryanna —” he coughed.

“And where can I find this Lady Olira?”

“Farm — West Kilrer.”

The man’s eyebrows twitched upwards. “You sold King Leonis’s Lion of Zarall to a farmer girl in West Kilrer?”

“Please —” Kallis’s face had turned purple from gasping and coughing. “Tell King Kastian — I didn’t know.”

The man’s grin disappeared, and danger sparked in his eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Master Gladwiel.” He leaned further. “When I see Kastian Vogros, there won’t be much talking.”

With that, he stood. Kallis reached for the vial, but the Kaldorian snatched it off him.

The blonde man walked out of the Mad Lion with not so much as a one last glance at the slave merchant. His heavy armoured companion followed him closely. The Kaldorian lingered long enough to walk over to the bar and leave the vial there, before following the other two outside.

Kallis looked at the vial with longing. He pressed his fist in his mouth, forcing himself to stop coughing and breathe. Five steps, he thought. According to the blonde man who’d poisoned him, that was all he had left.

Lucky Hamgard, who was towering over his unconscious employee, his face creased with concern, straightened up and noticed the mysterious vial left at his bar. He narrowed his eyes.

No, Kallis thought with panic. That’s mine.

Five steps.

He stood and took the first.