Chapter 2
The small warehouse was cluttered with rusty cages, crates full of chains, and old furniture. The wind beat against the walls outside and howled through the boarded-up windows, urging Gladwiel to hurry and finalize this business. Autumn had rolled in early, with its miserable weather and destructive storms. If Gladwiel and his men couldn’t return to Kiore before the storm picked up, they would be forced to stay overnight in this filthy place. And that was the last thing Gladwiel wanted.
Dravik, the leader of the four collectors, had made himself comfortable on one of the dusty crates. His posture was relaxed. In one hand, he casually flipped a knife, the blade catching the dim light of the lanterns. His three men spread around the warehouse: one watching outside through the cracks between the boards, while the other two leaned against the canvas-covered wagon that brought them here. The vehicle was weathered and worn, its wheels caked with mud. Their tired horses were underfed, their ribs visible under their damp coats. The canvas over the wagon was thick but old, torn in places.
For the time being, Gladwiel avoided looking at the wagon.
He knew what Dravik was trying to accomplish, leaving the back flap open just enough so Gladwiel could partially see the man lying inside. Dravik wanted him to get curious and ask what else he had in there. The sleazy collector would then claim that this particular slave was special and act as if he didn’t want to sell him. But Gladwiel was in the business for long enough to know every strategy. So, for now, he ignored the wagon and the mysterious man inside.
He kept his attention on the seven slaves who lined up on their knees in front of him. The slaves reeked of sweat and blood, the smell forcing Gladwiel to stay at least two meters away. His robe, adorned with intricate embroidery and shimmering jewels, stood in stark contrast to the slaves’ dirty, tattered rags. He scrunched his nose with dissatisfaction as he watched his assistant, Hasrey, examine the slaves.
After checking the last slave’s teeth and limbs for any obvious injuries, Hasrey walked up to Gladwiel. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands. “Well,” he said. “They’re all freeborn.”
“Of course they are,” Gladwiel said with obvious disdain. This wasn’t where he acquired his high-end products. He didn’t expect to find anything other than questionably enslaved freeborn slaves here. He let his face show what he thought of Dravik’s merchandise.
Dravik smirked, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth.
Gladwiel glanced at the wagon. He suddenly understood what Dravik’s play was. He tilted his head slightly as he listened to Hasrey’s report with boredom.
“Tattoos seem genuine enough,” Hasrey said. “Fresh ink…”
“This is a mistake!” one of the slaves, a man with dark hair and a missing ear, shouted. Bruises and bloody gashes covered his face, and he blinked rapidly whenever someone moved, yet he was still reckless enough to challenge them. “These tattoos are fake! We’re not criminals.”
“That one is freeborn house slave.” Hasrey pointed at the raving slave. He moved his finger to the next two. “Those two are freeborn beasts, but their tongues cut out.”
Gladwiel rolled his eyes at Dravik. “Mute slaves lose a lot of value.” That was true. Buyers were cautious about freeborn slaves who had their tongues cut out. That usually meant someone didn’t want these slaves talking. It indicated a suspicious background that could lead to potential trouble.
Dravik shrugged. “They’re good fighters. They don’t need tongues.”
“This is illegal enslavement!” the reckless slave kept shouting. “Do you know who we are?” He yelped and shrunk when one of Dravik’s men walked up to him with a club. Dravik’s brute beat the man into silence.
Hasrey had to raise his voice over the slave’s whimpers. “One more house slave, not the healthiest. The other three are flames. They’re young enough to be receptive to proper training.”
Gladwiel glanced at the last three slaves wearing a flame tattoo on their necks; a young man and two women. They trembled and kept their eyes on the floor. They seemed docile enough already. Gladwiel’s slave trainers could turn them into obedient pleasure slaves within a few weeks. Those three promised good returns on investment. He could make a decent profit out of the freeborn beasts too. Underground arena enthusiasts didn’t mind buying wild freeborns, as long as they could fight. Overall, this seemed like a good trade. He was glad his hour-long trip outside the city of Kiore in this terrible weather would be worth his time.
He glanced at the wagon again, wondering.
“Of course, the flames would need to be checked for any diseases,” Hasrey said.
Gladwiel nodded. “Nobody wants diseased pleasure slaves.”
Dravik shrugged. “Suit yourself. My men didn’t touch them.”
“Do you want me to arrange Master Tekdar to come and check them?” Hasrey asked, already knowing the answer.
The rain pounded on the walls and ceilings outside. Water leaked from a corner. Gladwiel longed to be back in his office inside the city, sit by the fire, and start sorting out paperwork for these sorry batch of slaves. “No need,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll take them.”
Dravik smiled his toothy grin again. He flipped his knife between his fingers. Gladwiel’s two bodyguards, who stood behind him, openly scowled at the blade.
“This is wrong,” the slave with the missing ear cried softly. “You’ll pay for this.”
“I’ll pay a Blue each for the flames and the beasts,” Gladwiel said. “And eight Greys for the other two.”
Dravik scoffed. “Three Blues each. For all.”
Gladwiel dug his hand into the brown sash around his waist and pulled his leather purse out. He started counting large blue coins, making sure each one caught the glint of the flickering lanterns. Dravik didn’t let his greed show, but his men glanced at each other with grins they couldn’t hide.
“Dravik, you and I have done enough business to know, there are costs involved in training slaves,” Gladwiel said. “I can’t sell these wild things without properly training them. And training costs money. And time.”
“They’ll learn quickly.”
“I doubt that.” He lifted his eyebrows at the pathetic slave, who still sobbed and muttered his objections at the legitimacy of this trade. Gladwiel looked back at Dravik, with clear exasperation on his face. “I’ll give you six Blues for all.”
Dravik scratched his stubby chin. He stood up and stretched his neck muscles. Gladwiel’s bodyguards loomed menacingly at him, their eyes fixed on Dravik’s knife, which he kept twirling between his fingers. Dravik’s jaw clenched as he casually walked to the sobbing slave.
Dravik grabbed the slave’s hair and slit his throat.
A scream escaped from one of the female slaves. The three flames and the house slave huddled closer together, as they watched the blood spurting out of the troublesome slave’s neck. The two freeborn beasts stirred in shock. The slave with the missing ear collapsed facedown, gurgling and choking in his own blood under the horrified gazes of the others.
“What was the point of that?” Gladwiel asked as he gestured his bodyguards to stand down.
Dravik smiled his crooked grin. “Just lowering your costs. Now they’ll be easier to train. More eager to learn.” He glared at the remaining slaves while he wiped his knife on his dirty pants.
Sadly, he was right. The flames and the house slave bent down eagerly, touching their foreheads to the dirt floor. They sobbed and shivered. Even the beasts hunched their shoulders and avoided their gaze. Gladwiel tilted his head as he studied them more carefully. He could tell these two were not lowlife thugs before they were collected and enslaved by Dravik. They came from a life of comfort, if not luxury. Perhaps personal guards of a wealthy merchant. Until this moment, they must have been in a state of daze, not quite accepting what was really happening.
As they watched the noisy slave bleed to death, realisation struck. Gladwiel could see it in their eyes. Only now, they were realizing what kind of life awaited them.
“You’re welcome,” Dravik said, spreading his arms with a mocking bow. “I’ve done half the job.”
“But now I’m purchasing six instead of seven slaves.”
“Six very trainable slaves.”
“I’m still not paying three Blues each for these.”
Dravik lifted his knife. “Should I off another one?”
“Put your knife away, Dravik,” Gladwiel sighed. “I’ll pay you ten Blues for all six, and I’ll let you show me what else you’ve got in that wagon.”
Dravik pursed his lips, pretending to consider the offer. Gladwiel let him play the reluctant seller. They both knew ten Blues was a generous offer for this bunch. Dravik sighed and nodded unwillingly. “Fine.” He raised a single finger. “But this one is very special.”
Gladwiel made an impatient gesture, urging him to hurry up and bring the slave out. Outside, the wind blasted against the walls. If they didn’t leave within the next few minutes, they would get caught in the torrent. Gladwiel didn’t look forward to getting drenched.
While Dravik and his men pulled the slave out of the wagon, Hasrey gestured to the bodyguards to move the other slaves into Gladwiel’s wagon, which stood at the edge of the room. His horses stamped their hooves impatiently.
“Here it is,” Dravik said as he rolled the slave at Gladwiel’s feet.
“Is this a joke?” Gladwiel covered his nose with the sleeve of his robe and stepped back. “This is a carcass. Do you expect me to pay for a corpse?”
The slave was unconscious. His chest rose and dropped with each laboured breath, but he was on the verge of death. Anger rose to Gladwiel’s cheeks. This wasn’t worth his time.
“He’s a purebred beast,” Dravik said, as if that was all Gladwiel needed to hear. Gladwiel’s intense glare pierced through the collector. Dravik didn’t look away. His smirk returned to his face. “See for yourself.”
“And how could you possibly get your hands on a purebred beast?” Gladwiel asked with open disbelief. Purebreds were expensive. They were not like random travellers who had the misfortune of crossing paths with Dravik and his thugs. Purebreds were born and raised to be slaves, trained from birth. They were valuable possessions.
“Come on, Master Gladwiel. All these years we’ve been doing business, you know better not to ask me that question.” Dravik patted the road dust off his clothes and pretended to fix his shirt. “As far as you know, I’m a legitimate merchant running a perfectly legal business.”
Gladwiel clenched his jaw. His bodyguards had loaded the purchased slaves into his wagon. He glanced at the doors. He could leave. A dying purebred beast wasn’t worth his time.
Dravik licked his lips. “When did I bring you trouble, Gladwiel? No heat coming after him. Especially not with what’s been happening at Brinescar. Everyone’s too busy with the riots and the fallout.”
Dravik had a point. Slave trade definitely blossomed in the last six months, since the Serpent’s Grip Tournament and the events that followed it. Nobles and the city lords were too busy with the riots and securing themselves, they rarely patrolled the roads other than the main trade routes. More and more travellers disappeared off the roads, and hardly anyone asked about the origins of so many fresh tattooed freeborns.
Still, Gladwiel looked grim as he continued negotiating. “His recovery is going to cost me more than his worth!”
“He’s a purebred!”
Gladwiel hesitated. His instincts were telling him to turn and leave. He’d already bought the others. He would make a good profit off them. He didn’t have to take a chance on a dying slave with suspicious origins.
He glanced at the shivering, filthy man who lay on the verge of death. A purebred beast. He had paid Dravik ten Blues for the six freeborn slaves. He could sell the flames for fifty Blues each. Freeborn beasts went for anywhere between ninety to one-hundred Blues, depending on how well they fought. Even the house slave could sell for at least twenty Blues, with appropriate training in manners. More if he had literacy.
A purebred beast was worth at least two hundred Blues, if sold at a legitimate auction, with appropriate paperwork in place. And Gladwiel knew people who could handle the paperwork.
His greed got the better of him.
Dravik flashed his crooked grin and waved a hand at the purebred. “Examine him, at least. See for yourself whether he’s worth it.”
With a resigned sigh, Gladwiel stepped closer. His polished leather shoes crunched on the dirt and grime that covered the floor.
The slave’s eyes were closed, though his eyelids trembled as if he was dreaming. His breathing was laboured. His face was bruised, like the rest of his naked body. Blood trailed down from a minor cut on his forehead. His skin was tanned from spending most of his life training under the sun. It looked even darker because of the thick layer of mud and filth that coated him like a hardened cloth.
“Did you drag him through mud or something? Why is he so filthy?”
Dravik shrugged. “Would you pay more if he was clean?”
“No.”
Dravik smiled and nodded, like they had agreed on something. Gladwiel rolled his eyes and returned to his examination. The slave was tall and large, though maybe a little underfed, his ribs flaring too visible with each shallow breath. That was okay. Gladwiel could fatten him up. He smelled like a mixture of urine, blood, and infection. After covering his nose with the loose sleeves of his robe, Gladwiel leaned forward to examine the purebred’s face better. His long, dirty blonde hair was curly, tangled, and grungy. His beard was bushy and messy. Under all that bruising and dirt, his face was good looking. Gladwiel held back an approving grin. Slaves who were nice to look at always found buyers quicker and easier.
Gladwiel pushed the slave’s chin, tilting his head to the right. He leaned closer to get a better look at the tattoo on the left side of his neck.
“Hasrey,” Gladwiel called out to his assistant. “Bring me a rag.”
“Yes, Master.”
Hasrey borrowed a waterskin from one of the bodyguards and poured some water on his handkerchief. He kneeled beside the slave and scrubbed the layer of dirt from the man’s neck, uncovering the details of a slave tattoo.
The first thing Gladwiel noticed was the colour of the ink. It was faded grey. Old. Unlike the others who had fresh ink, this one was tattooed as a child. Intricate swirls of lines and symbols framed a dog-like animal in a circle. The pattern of shapes was unique for each individual purebred, and almost impossible to imitate. Gladwiel smiled. The slave was a genuine purebred beast.
“Told you he was purebred,” Dravik said with triumph. “Would have left him in a ditch if he wasn’t.”
“Don’t start counting your Blues yet, Dravik.” Gladwiel shifted to examine the purebred’s injuries. A thick layer of mud and dried blood clung to the slave’s torso, obscuring the contours of his muscles and hiding old scars. There were no open wounds or excessive bleeding. Gladwiel didn’t see any missing limbs or broken bones either. The only concerning injury seemed to be the one on his right leg, which was bandaged poorly.
“Hasrey.” Gladwiel gestured to the injury.
Hasrey used his knife to cut the bandage around the slave’s right thigh. As soon as the wound was revealed, the putrid stench of decaying flesh and infection assaulted Gladwiel’s senses, making his stomach churn with disgust.
He was right to call the slave a corpse. It was going to take Twelve’s miracle to save this man.
Gladwiel glared at Dravik with distaste. “Why would you let this happen?”
Dravik, who still played with his knife, now cleaning under his fingernails with the tip of it, blinked innocently. “He was like that when we found him.”
Gladwiel growled with frustration. The purebred’s thigh was bright red and swollen. Yellow puss leaked out of the deep cut. The wound wasn’t new. This could have been prevented with timely care and treatment.
Hasrey proceeded to wipe the wound with the wet cloth. The slave’s eyes snapped open. He howled in pain, his breathing frantic. He growled at Hasrey and swatted his hand off. “Don’t touch…”
“Padlociatius,” Dravik said quickly. He had taken a piece of paper out of his pocket, though he spoke the word from his memory, with barely a glance at the paper.
The purebred’s hands dropped to his sides. His whole body relaxed as if he’d just lost consciousness, though Gladwiel knew he didn’t. His eyes were still wide open, fully aware of his surroundings. He’d simply lost control of his body.
Gladwiel shared a look with Hasrey. The shocked expression on his assistant’s face confirmed Gladwiel’s belief. “Did I just hear this slave speak without permission?”
“It’s an Act of Defiance,” Hasrey said in a hushed tone. “I’ve never heard purebreds commit Acts of Defiance.”
“It’s the fever,” Dravik explained. “He’s not himself. Don’t worry, he’s like a normal purebred when he’s properly awake.” He shook the paper in his head. “Besides, at least you got to see how he responds to his Words. In case you still doubt whether he’s a genuine purebred or not.”
He was right. Freeborns didn’t respond to Words. The Words were what made purebreds even more special. Although still disturbed by the slave’s behaviour, Gladwiel was pleased to see the demonstration.
Hasrey finished cleaning up the wound and examined the infected cut. Gladwiel narrowed his eyes at Dravik, looking for a sign of deception. But the collector was probably right. Despite their excellent discipline in obedience, even purebreds weren’t immune to fever induced craziness.
When the purebred started showing signs of regaining control of his body, Hasrey stood and stepped back. He hadn’t been gentle with his examination of the slave’s injury, so as soon as the effects of the First Word faded, the slave gasped in pain, then passed out.
“It’s bad,” Hasrey said. “I’m not even sure if we can save him.”
Dravik didn’t bat an eye. “Of course you can; he’s strong, and you’ve got those expensive herbs and stuff.”
“Those expensive herbs are very expensive,” Gladwiel said. “I only use them on injuries I know I can fix.”
“I’m telling you, give this purebred what he needs, and he’ll fight to live.”
Gladwiel lifted an eyebrow at Hasrey, a subtle question. Hasrey wiped his hands with the clean edge of his handkerchief, his eyes on the purebred, contemplating. “Maybe,” he said slowly with a sigh. But the discrete look and the subtle nod he gave Gladwiel was confident. Yes, the man could be saved.
Gladwiel sighed. “I’ll give you five Blues for him.”
Dravik scoffed. “Five? How about thirty?”
The slave moaned, his head rolling from side to side as he blinked rapidly. His breathing went erratic once again. He grabbed his thigh, howling in pain. He made an effort to raise his head and take in his surroundings, which Gladwiel took as a good sign. Terminally injured slaves did not usually have the strength to move or yell in pain.
“Ten Blues,” Gladwiel said, raising his voice to be heard over the purebred’s moan. Dravik laughed, shaking his head. “He’s Tribesman food if I end up having to chop that leg off,” Gladwiel insisted. “Ten Blues is a fair price for a corpse.”
Dravik snorted. Spinning his knife between his fingers, he walked up to the slave.
“Oh, please, no need for that,” Gladwiel sighed.
Dravik kneeled beside the purebred, grabbed his grungy blonde hair, and pressed his knife against his neck. “I’d rather slit his throat right now than give him away for free.”
The purebred’s hands grasped Dravik’s wrist. Gladwiel couldn’t help but take another step back. The purebred’s hands shook with a desperate strength and inched the knife away from his throat, before Dravik spoke his First Word and paralysed him again. The slave’s limbs went slack, though his eyes remained wide open. Despite feeling disturbed by another show of defiance, Gladwiel was pleased to see the purebred still had strength.
Dravik pressed the knife against the helpless man’s throat, drawing a few drops of blood.
“Enough,” Gladwiel gave in. “I hate wastefulness. I’ll give you twenty Blues for him, and that’s my final offer.”
Dravik pulled back. “Deal,” he snorted, standing up. After putting his knife away, he rubbed his wrist discreetly. How strong was the purebred’s brief grip? “He’s all yours.” He flashed another crooked grin.
Rain pounded on the roof and the wind howled through the cracks in the walls, causing the lantern flames to dance and cast eerie shadows on the purebred’s face. With the effects of his First Word fading once again, the purebred snarled and moaned. When Gladwiel’s bodyguards grabbed his arms and dragged him, the purebred struggled against them.
“His Words?” Gladwiel held out his hand. He narrowed his eyes at the purebred, who was growling and resisting maybe a little too fiercely.
Dravik placed the piece of paper in Gladwiel’s palm. After looking at the three words written on it, Gladwiel read the first one out loud: “Padlociatius.”
The purebred’s body went limp. When his snarls and howls suddenly died, the only sound that echoed through the warehouse was the storm outside. Thunder struck, and a flash of lightning sneaked through the boarded windows. Gladwiel gritted his teeth as he watched Dravik’s men climb back into their wagons. This transaction had taken longer than he wished, and it was going to be a wet and uncomfortable trip back to Kiore.
Gladwiel’s bodyguards tossed the slave into the wagon, with the other purchased slaves. Gladwiel pulled his purse out and counted thirty Blues, for the purebred and the others. Once he handed the money to Dravik, his purse felt disturbingly light. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, preparing himself for the miserable trip back to his office, he tried to cheer himself up by thinking about the auction value of a purebred beast.
The slave had the will to live. All he needed was a good physician, some rest, food, and a bath. He was going to pull through and one way or another, Gladwiel was going to make his profit.
*
Gladwiel’s warehouse, nestled within the city, was smaller than the one he’d met his suppliers outside. It consisted of two sections. The front office was a picture of wealth, with heavy tapestries hanging between the tall windows, and a thick, spotless carpet muffling the sounds of footsteps. This was where he handled the private sales. The operations section at the back was where he stored, prepared, and trained the slaves.
Ample sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the operations section. It was open space with uneven dirt floors and not much furniture. Three rows of large cages, which held a total of fifteen slaves including his latest purchases, occupied one side of the section. The opposite side was meticulously divided into separate work zones, each designated for various types of training and preparation. One of those distinct work zones, intentionally located nearest to the cages, drew attention to an imposing chair and tables full of torture devices.
Gladwiel walked the three rows with his head trainer, Master Kamal, at his side. Kamal, a lanky man who wore a leather whip at his belt, crossed his arms over his chest as he studied the new slaves Gladwiel had brought last night.
“The flames should be easy to train,” Gladwiel said, suppressing a yawn. He had arrived at the city well after the storm hit and was drenched like a street rat. After securing the slaves in the warehouse, he had gone home to get changed, then came back into the office to organise the slaves’ paperwork, so everything looked by the books. He had napped on the couch in his office for a few hours, but still felt tired and grumpy. “Do a three-week training plan, and I’ll evaluate them.” He raised his voice so the three slaves with flame tattoos could hear him. “If they’re not profitable by then, I might consider selling them at a red ribbon auction.”
The females didn’t react, but the male flame’s eyes widened. He clearly understood the extend of Gladwiel’s threat and hopefully would explain the stakes to the others, ensuring their obedience and commitment to training.
Kamal nodded with a grunt and followed Gladwiel to the next cage. Gladwiel hardly stopped at the next cage storing the house slaves. He pointed at the newest one. “See what talents or skills he has and if you can add any value to him.”
Gladwiel stopped at the next cage, where the two new freeborn beasts were locked. “Test their talents, see how good they are. But be careful. They’re at that stage where they might consider taking their chances with the Hunters.”
“I hate that stage,” Kamal grunted as he glowered at the two men who stared back at him. “I might just start with some intense discipline.”
“Sure,” Gladwiel said, distracted. In the training zone nearly, his second trainer, Dalle, was training one of the other slaves Gladwiel had purchased several weeks ago. The slave was young, with a fresh-faced beauty and shapely hips. Although she was mellow, she seemed to pick things up very slowly. Gladwiel had a private sale coming up next week and was hoping the girl would be ready.
“Tell me all the Acts of Defiance,” Dalle said, tapping his rod against his palm.
The girl stood naked in front of him, her head down and her hands clasped in front of her. “I will not make eye contact,” the girl said timidly.
“How much time do you want me to spend on these beasts?” Kamal asked. “Can they even be trained properly?”
Gladwiel, still watching the training, replied thoughtfully. “You know every slave can be trained properly, with enough time and dedication.” He rubbed his chin. Watching the girl recite the Acts of Defiance made him think of the purebred beast he had just purchased. He remembered the purebred beast looking at Dravik, making eye contact with him. It struck him as odd.
“I know,” Kamal said. “But not all are worth the time and the effort.”
“I will not speak without permission,” the girl said next.
Gladwiel scowled. The purebred had spoken without permission last night. But like Dravik had said, he had a fever. Purebred or not, people sometimes raved when they were feverish. It was fine.
“I’ll test how good they are and do a training proposal, with costs and timeline. You can decide whether they’re worth it.”
“Yes, yes,” Gladwiel said with a dismissive wave. He was still focused on the girl and the training.
“What’s the next one?” Dalle yelled.
Unable to remember the answer, the girl sobbed and teared up.
“What is it? We’ve done this a dozen times!” Dalle slapped the rod against this palm. The sound made the girl flinch. She opened and closed her mouth.
“What is the next Act of Defiance?” Dalle asked harshly.
Kamal followed Gladwiel’s gaze and let out a disapproving sound. “She’ll figure it out. Even the most stupid ones learn, eventually.”
Gladwiel’s stomach dropped. He couldn’t explain why watching this scene gave him goosebumps. He couldn’t explain why it made him think of the purebred either. That purebred… There was something about that purebred. The more he watched the training, the more on edge he felt.
The girl blabbered, crying and sobbing. “I… I don’t know… I’m sorry…”
Dalle struck her hard with the rod. She raised her arms to defend herself. “That right there!” Dalle barked. “If your Owner decides to strike you, you will not raise your hands. Now keep them down.”
Gladwiel felt hot and sick. The purebred had pushed the knife away when Dravik threatened to slit his throat. Raving with fever or not, Gladwiel clearly remembered the wild look in the purebred’s eyes when he grabbed Dravik’s wrist. And he remembered the bruise his grasp left behind.
“She still has that reflex,” Kamal said, watching Dalle beat the girl. “It takes a while to teach them to suppress that reflex.”
“Not purebreds, though,” Gladwiel muttered. “They don’t have that reflex.”
“Of course,” Kamal said with a chuckle. “Breeders beat that out of them when they’re kids.”
Gladwiel glanced at the doors leading to the office section of the warehouse. That’s where the infirmary was, where they kept the sick slaves until they were healthy enough to be trained or sold. The door opened, letting Hasrey’s nephew in. The snotty little brat had no use other than carrying messages, and Gladwiel would have gotten rid of him if it wasn’t for Hasrey.
“What is it?” Gladwiel snapped, pulling the boy out of his fascination with the naked flame Dalle was still beating.
The boy blinked at Gladwiel before remembering what he was here for. “My uncle says you should come and see something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. Says it’s urgent.” His eyes moved to Dalle and the woman, distracted again. The flame was finally keeping her arms down and taking the beating.
“Where?” Gladwiel sneered.
“Huh?”
“Where is Hasrey?” He held his breath, already guessing the answer.
“Oh, he’s at the infirmary.”
Gladwiel barged through the boy, almost taking him out. Behind him, Kamal muttered something about taking care of the rest here. Gladwiel hardly heard anything. His heart was pounding in his chest; a sense of impending trouble almost suffocating him.
This was about the purebred. He just knew it.
Gladwiel hurried through the doors, entering the warmly decorated and much brighter front lobby. He took the hallway to his left and followed it to the infirmary, which was the very last door.
He’s dead, he thought. The purebred is dead.
And he had paid twenty Blues for him. That was a big write-off.
When he walked into the sick bay, Gladwiel found the room evacuated, save for Hasrey and the purebred. His anxiety soared. To his knowledge, there was at least one other sick slave who needed some rest, and if Hasrey had kicked him out of the infirmary, he must have had a solid reason. The physician was nowhere to be seen, either.
Gladwiel’s eyes scanned the room and settled on the purebred. His chest heaved up and down under the blanket. Gladwiel released his breath, though he didn’t quite relax. Okay, at least the purebred was still alive.
He scowled on his assistant’s pale face. Hasrey looked as if he needed to lie down on one of the beds himself.
“What’s happening?” Gladwiel snapped, his eyes flicking between Hasrey and the slave. The purebred lay sprawled on the bed, unconscious yet restless. Damp strands of dirty blonde hair clung to his face. His eyes darted beneath closed lids, and a soft moan escaped his cracked lips.
“Why are you looking at me as if you’ve seen a fiend crawl out of Darkhome?”
“You have to see this,” Hasrey muttered, as he gestured Gladwiel to come closer. He pulled the blanket down and stepped back.
The slave’s muscles twitched. Sweat trickled down his skin, which was scrubbed clean now. The mud and blood were washed off to reveal bruised ribs and old, white battle scars, which was not a foreign sight on a beast’s body.
“What’s wrong…” Gladwiel started, then paused after noticing the marks.
Gladwiel’s jaw went slack. Blood withdrew from his face, and his expression matched Hasrey’s. He couldn’t pry his eyes off the four circular marks on the purebred’s chest.
“Do you think that’s Him?” Hasrey whispered.
Gladwiel didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the marks burned into the slave’s skin, each one seared by a hot branding iron. The brands displayed four figures in a neat row just beneath his collarbones, meticulously positioned at equal distance from each other. A stallion, a rose, and a maiden were the first three, old enough to appear faded and pale, their edges smooth and sunken into his skin. The fourth brand was the newest, mostly healed but still slightly raised with uneven edges. A sparrow, for the Golden Sparrow Tournament.
Four brands for four tournaments won.
There should have been a fifth, Gladwiel thought grimly. A serpent…
“I thought they were maybe imitations,” Hasrey said, babbled, “but the first few ones are older, and the sparrow is the newest…”
“That’s him,” Gladwiel cut him off. He studied the slave’s face. The blonde locks of hair splayed wildly on the pillow. Together with the golden, bushy beard, they looked like a lion’s mane.
Gladwiel pulled the blanket over the slave’s chest to hide the brands. He looked around the empty room. “Has anyone seen these?”
Hasrey shook his head. “As soon as I noticed what they were, I kicked everyone out.” He chewed on his thumbnail, as he did when he was stressed. “Bastards coated him in mud to hide those.”
Blood rushed to Gladwiel’s ears at the thought of Dravik and the collectors. “I’ll make sure they’ll conduct no business north of Riverdam ever again.”
“What do we do? Do we… Do we take him to Brinescar? Do you think we can get a reward?”
“A reward?” Gladwiel sneered. “We’d be lucky to keep our heads to ourselves, let alone a reward.”
Hasrey ran his hand down his face. “What… What then?”
Gladwiel considered his options. There weren’t many. He picked the safest — though least profitable — option.
Reaching out with a shaking hand, he pulled the pillow from under the purebred’s head and handed it to Hasrey.
“Are you sure?” Hasrey muttered as he took the pillow. “You just paid twenty Blues for him.”
“Flay those brands off his skin when you’re done. Make sure no one finds the body.”
Hasrey held the pillow between his hands and approached the purebred cautiously. He brought it over the slave’s face, swallowed, then pressed it down.
The slave woke up as soon as the pillow touched his face. He made a muffled noise. His back arched as he tried to breathe, but Hasrey pressed the pillow firmly.
Gladwiel found himself chewing his thumbnail; a nasty habit he’d copied from Hasrey. Fear brewed in his stomach. The slave started flailing his arms, trying to push the pillow off his face. His hands hit Hasrey’s face. Then, his fingers found Hasrey’s neck.
“M-Master Gladwiel,” Hasrey whimpered as he craned his neck, trying to shake the purebred’s clutch off.
Gladwiel watched in horror. The slave’s fingernails scratched Hasrey’s neck, drawing blood. He was defending himself. He was resisting. He was drawing blood from a free man.
He was what they said he was. He had gone broken. Disobedient. Mad. Rabid.
“Master Gladwiel, a little help!” Hasrey begged.
The blanket fell off as the slave started kicking wildly with his good leg. He had managed to push Hasrey back just enough to steal a shallow breath.
Gladwiel snapped out of his shock. His hands dipped into his pocket and found the paper with the purebred’s Words written on it. He dropped the paper, picked it back up with trembling hands, and read the First Word out loud: “Padlociatius.”
The slave’s arms and legs went limp on the bed, paralysed.
Hasrey was out of breath. He put all his weight on the pillow, as if the harder he pressed, the quicker the slave would suffocate. Blood trickled down his neck as he stared at Gladwiel in shock. “Have you seen what he just did?” Hasrey whispered.
“It’ll be over soon.” Gladwiel swallowed.
“Master Gladwiel!” Hasrey’s useless nephew opened the door without knocking.
“Not now!” Gladwiel roared. Remembering the blanket had fallen off and the purebred’s brands were visible, he positioned himself to block the boy’s view.
The boy blinked at him, then at Hasrey and the pillow. He shook his head, as if seeing them strangle a slave with a pillow was nothing new. “That farmer woman from West Kilrer is here, Master Gladwiel,” he announced.
The purebred’s arms started twitching as he regained control of his body. He made an angry noise under the pillow. His hands jerked up, searching for Hasrey’s neck again.
“I said not now!” Gladwiel sneered at the boy. He turned his attention back on the purebred and repeated: “Padlociatius.”
The slave’s body went limp. For the last time, Gladwiel hoped.
“But she says she’ll come back with the constables if she doesn’t see you now,” the boy insisted. He kept staring at the slave, his eyes not too far from discovering the famed brands.
Gladwiel stormed at the boy, grabbed his arm, and shoved him towards the door. “Tell her…” he started, then paused.
Tell her what?
Gladwiel didn’t want constables in his warehouse, especially not when he had Him in here. They would recognise the purebred, and then Gladwiel would have to part with his head. He needed more time to get rid of the purebred’s corpse, making sure it never led back to Gladwiel.
That annoying woman… She was relentless. Couldn’t she have found another time?
“Tell her what?” the boy prompted. His head turned back to the slave. Hasrey continued pressing the pillow down, trying to finish him off before the First Word wore off again.
A brilliant idea started shaping in Gladwiel’s head.
“Take her to my office. Tell her I’ll be with her shortly.” Gladwiel pushed the boy out and slammed the door shut behind him. He rushed to the bedside and pulled Hasrey back. He flung the pillow aside.
“What are you doing?” Hasrey yelled. He went to pick up the pillow.
“Just wait.” Gladwiel held out a hand. He stared at the purebred, whose face had turned purple. The slave’s eyes were flat, glassy, and were fixed on the ceiling. Red blotches had appeared on the whites of his eyes.
For a moment, Gladwiel thought he was too late. The purebred had passed. Maybe it was for the best.
Then, the slave’s arms started twitching as he slowly came out of his paralysis. He sucked in a shaky breath, coughed, blinked. He propped himself up on his elbows in jerky movements. His grey eyes found Gladwiel’s and fury twisted his face.
Hasrey took a step back.
With his tangled, mane-like hair and beard, the slave looked like an angry lion, ready to leap out of the bed. Gladwiel swallowed as he kept the First Word at the tip of his tongue.
“What are you doing?” Hasrey whispered.
“Hasrey, go get him some pemitoin,” Gladwiel said, making an effort to keep his voice steady. He didn’t break eye contact. Outside, his other slaves were learning how making eye contact was one of the Acts of Defiance. This slave had committed at least three Acts within the last five minutes and looked ready to commit a dozen more.
“Pemitoin?” Hasrey repeated. “Why?”
“Hasrey,” Gladwiel growled impatiently. “Do as I say and hurry.”
Hasrey hesitated only a split second before leaving the room. They’d kept the ingredients for pemitoin in Hasrey’s office, not trusting the expensive mixture with their physician.
The purebred narrowed his eyes, no doubt recognizing the name of the mixture and what it did. Sweat trickled down his face.
Gladwiel forced himself to take a step forward. He was within arm’s reach of the slave now. His mind screamed at him, telling him to get away from the dangerous creature, but he stayed put.
“I know who you are,” Gladwiel spoke, barely keeping the fear off his voice.
One of the slave’s hands shot up to his bare chest, over the exposed brands, and he scowled.
“You will do as I say,” Gladwiel demanded. “You will play along. And maybe you can walk out of here alive. If you try anything, I will make sure Hasrey finishes what he’d started.”
The slave glared at him for nearly a minute. When he finally parted his lips and spoke, Gladwiel almost flinched.
“Yes, Owner.”
Eddy Rose 