Grey-Eyed Justice - Book One: Worlds Apart

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Chapter 1 - Icy Northern Slope

The city of Portios Pass lay at the base of a great mountain the people had named the Grey Ghost. It belonged to a chain of mounts called the ‘finest four’ as they were named long past when the Empire first spread its roots. They were four of the largest and tallest mountains, located on the four corners of the Thiian Empire. Their mere presence, it was said, was testament and tribute to the Empire’s glory.

The Grey Ghost itself was a mystery. Not a path up its jagged slopes, dotted with gnarled and pointy rocks could be found, and no serious climbing attempts had ever been made. Awispy mist hangs over the mountain whether the season be warm or cold—preventing even the sharpest of eyes from glimpsing its spiralling and thorny snow-capped peaks dreamt of by starry eyed gazers.

The borders between the Thiian Empire and its neighbours were almost always seething nests of violence. Patrols from the Empire and the lesser nations that enclosed it would wander over and cause havoc before being chased out by a large and angry army. Of course, none of the countries neighbouring the Thiian Empire had remotely enough strength to strike into the heart of the Empire, for that matter dealing with the Empire’s ‘patrols’ caused them enough grief that made thinking about an invasion almost laughable.

The Emperor of the Thiian Empire, one Vernulus Crokhower III was well aware of this fact. He was also aware that he had but snap his fingers and the border countries would be swept away by a tide of his soldiers—yet he stayed his hand. It was easy enough to conquer a people he had learned, but once he tasted of victory, pesky bureaucrats had this nasty habit of strangling him with ridiculous concepts of ‘rights’ and the obligation he had to protect them because they were now his people. His solution was a simple one. Don’t conquer them, just keep abusing them from afar.

If they weren’t his people, they were fair game.

The success of the Thiian Empire was partially due to its large, and utterly inexpensive workforce. The workforce at first was composed of criminals and convicts. But as the Thiian Empire settled into its current borders, they started to accumulate a large quantity of slaves. These slaves essentially became the backbone of the new Thiian Empire. Slave markets were set up and businesses flourished. Slaves became a part of the lives of almost ever citizen in the Thiian Empire. Whether they were gladiators in great arenas, bed-slaves in brothels, or simply ‘the old hunched bearded guy’ who cleans out the privy; Slaves had earned an important place in society. The only thing that kept the slaves, who numbered close to a quarter of the Thiian Empire’s population from revolting was the threat of strong magic and retaliation from the vast Thiian army.

The city of Portios Pass had flourished when slave trading became essential to the survival and high living standards of its citizens. The buttresses of a huge fortress of black stone loomed over the large town—guarding its broad parks and terraces, cobble stone streets and walkways. The city of Portios Pass, sheltered beneath the shadow of the Grey Ghost, was a man-made paradise. Poor and homeless were quickly removed from the city in an effort to keep the city sparkling. Portios Pass was yet another tribute to the Empire’s glory--or so its people would have everyone believe.

Oddly enough, none of the city’s glorious history or gleaming streets and smiling people mattered one bit to Rory, who at the moment was feeling rather helpless and sad as he stared up at the misty peaks of the mountain far in the distance. Like countless before him, Rory longed to be anywhere but where he was, even if it meant climbing the mountain whose glistening ramparts vanished up into the overhanging clouds. He just couldn’t quite bring himself to accept his fate. Of all the things he had imagined himself doing, being a slave was certainly not one of them.

He sat disconsolately; his shoulders slumped and head in his hands on a bench of stone and iron. A clean and shiny silver bracelet connected his wrist to the bench by way of a thin looking iron chain. A precaution so that he wouldn’t get it in his mind to run while his overseer was off somewhere doing something-or-rather—he hadn’t told Rory where he was going. The bench he sat on was thankfully under a tall tree whose name he could not place, but provided plenty of shade from the afternoon sun with its tall branches covered with wide, leathery leaves that stretched towards the sky in adoration.

If Rory thought the mountain and the trees strange, they were nothing compared to the people. Couples strolling in the park gave him no more than a single glance. Children smiled and waved at him, as if it was a common sight to see a boy chained to a park bench in the middle of their afternoon stroll. A small girl no more than seven or eight years old had even come over and given him a small cutting of lavender. She presented it smiling broadly to him, and said that it went well with his hair.

Rory stared down at the cutting clenched in his right hand, contrasting harshly with the metal that encircled his wrist. He didn’t even bother to laugh when he realised that the purple flower in no way matched, or went well with his startling orange-red hair, but then, who was he to tell her anything? He was still trying to figure out just why he had gotten into this mess.

It was only a few days ago that he had been trying to decide on a plan of action on how best to gain the attraction of a certain young woman he fancied while he tended the family’s herd of wild horses. To the north, where Rory lived, it was common practice to have herds of wild horses. They were raised and sold at market, and it was considered to be a proud occupation, one his family had done for generations.

Idly, Rory wondered what had become of all his family’s horses. One moment he had been watching the twenty odd horses drink from a fresh spring but he must have dozed off, lulled by the sweet whispers of running water, for when he awoke it was to the warning whinnies of the horses as they scattered into the trees. Rory found himself frozen as pounding hoofs of a different sort topped the rise in the small gully. It was unthinkable, having Thiian soldier penetrate so far north. His hometown of Faywerth was at least six days travel from the border, yet there the troops were, burnished light plate mail gleaming in the sun as they descended upon Rory shouting gleefully.

After futilely attempting to escape, Rory had been herded by the lightning fast horsement, tackled, and unceremoniously trussed and thrown onto the back of a huge bear of a man, who he was forced to ride behind for the rest of their trek. He remembered the conversation he had with the man vividly. There was not much else to do but talk while riding for a week, and the man had been so happy, he had even seemed polite to his prisoner—if bland and unhelpful.

Rory rubbed his bottom in memory of the painful ride across the plains. Even for someone who rode as much as he did, the trip had been a blistering experience—one he was not eager to repeat. They arrived in Portios Pass two days ago and he had been passed onto the local government slave guild who assigned him an overseer—a fat man with rosy cheeks and a bowl of hair who went by the name of Jorb. After showing Rory a bit of the city, the rotund man had locked him to the cursed bench and departed with an eager gleam in his small beady eyes and a smile that showed all of his revolting yellow and crooked teeth.

So here Rory sat…waiting. Wondering what exactly everyone was so happy about when they saw him. His overseer had rubbed his bloated hands together gleefully, a smile plastered on his wet lips. The soldiers that had originally captured him had looked for all the world that their wildest dreams had come true for each and every one of them. In his life, Rory had never felt so out of place as he did sitting on the bench.

He had always pictured slaves being whipped as they pushed unbearably heavy blocks of stone up steep slopes. But so far, they hadn’t really done much of anything to him except solder a damnable iron bracelet onto his wrist, so he could be attached to objects to ensure he would not escape. Rory wondered bitterly if the passer-by’s in the park would find it at all odd if he suddenly got down on his haunches and started scratching his ear with his foot…and maybe throw in a bark or two for good measure. At least then he’d really be acting the part.

Back at headquarters, or ‘the compound’ as his overseer had referred to it, he had been given a simple brown tunic and shoes to wear, of local styling. Even so, he still felt out of place among the people who walked the park. They were a myriad of colours, ranging from soft greens and yellows to harsh reds and orange, all competing with each other to attract the most eyes. He felt like they might mistake him for a tree if he stopped shifting his weight on the bench for too long and sat still.

A tugging on his arm brought Rory’s mind back to the present. The child who had given him the lavender had returned. Her eyes shined with undampened enthusiasm as she held out another flower in her hands. Rory swapped a strained smile for her broad grin. She held a Daisy this time from the looks of it; its bright yellow petals wouldn’t look out of place on many of the outrageous dresses worn by some of the ladies.

“For you!” she squeaked eagerly, thrusting the flower into his left hand. Rory reluctantly took the flower and mumbled a polite thank you. She hopped up onto the bench beside him. Undeterred by Rory’s apparent lack of enthusiasm she started talking, swinging her legs as she did so.

“I’ve never seen red hair before. I wish I had red hair. Or is it orange? Either way I think it’s pretty.” She smiled again, a charming smile that reminded Rory strongly of one of his many cousins. Rory felt like sighing. “I’m Disel.” She said suddenly, almost as an afterthought. She then waited impatiently swinging her legs on the bench, her eyes locked on his face.

Rory did sigh this time. It wasn’t this girl’s fault that he was here he supposed. “I’m Rory.” Disel looked up as he spoke, her smile almost splitting her face in two.

“You have a funny accent.” She said, giggling slightly, “I guess that’s ‘cause you’re not from around here are you? I wish I could talk like that. Papa said you looked lonely, but that’s not why I came over to talk to you.” She said as a statement of fact. “I really liked your hair!”

If she was expecting a reply she didn’t wait long, before she had quite finished she had started up again. Dio had never met a little girl as forward as this one…nor one who talked so much.

“Do all the people from where you come from have dark spots on their faces like that?” she asked, pointing at his face.

Rory hadn’t been feeling like smiling much lately, but he couldn’t prevent the corners of his mouth from twitching upwards regardless of his determination to be as miserable as possible. “No, they don’t. And they’re called ‘freckles’ not spots.”

Disel’s eyes went wide and she started swinging her legs again excitedly, “I wish I had fregles.” She giggled again as she said the word, like he had made it funny on purpose.

For the first time in a week, Rory smiled genuinely. “Listen…I think you look just fine without freckles. Here…” he tucked the daisy behind her ear and looped the stem into the braids that ran from her forehead all the way down to her shoulders. Disel squealed with laughter. She hopped off the bench and made a beeline for the large fountain in the middle of the small clearing. She came back having examined her new ornament, her cheeks all rosy.

“Pretty! Thank you.” Her eyes brightened even more, if that were possible, when they alighted on something behind him. “Daddy! Look what the boy made for me.” She said, turning her head a bit so the large daisy was clearly visible tucked behind her ear.

A deep appreciative chuckle startled Rory, he glanced back to discover a man looming over him. His robes a startling black, unusual considering the riot of colours the other walkers were wearing. The man must move like a cat, Rory thought to himself. He hadn’t made a sound before he let loose that chuckle. Rory didn’t know whether to be scared or impressed.

The man circled the bench so the sun wouldn’t blare into his eyes, instead, Rory was forced to strain his neck and shade his eyes. “I suppose from the chain you’re newly caught?” the man’s voice had a distinct ring to it that sounded vaguely familiar to Rory, but he couldn’t quite place.

The chain Rory was attached to jingled as he shifted his arm, suddenly uncomfortable now that the man had drawn attention to it. “I suppose I am.” Disel had apparently lost interest and started to wander off to the fountain. The man however, stayed. He turned to watch his daughter chase after a particularly large butterfly, who had mistaken the little girl’s dress for a flower—much to her delight.

“Its rare to see a Northman in chains…much less unattended. Where did your caretaker go?”

Rory didn’t quite know how to respond. He didn’t want to get in trouble with his caretaker if he wasn’t supposed to tell, but Rory had always been told the truth is better than a lie. So that’s exactly what he did, told the man the truth. “Left me here a couple hours ago. Needed to ‘attend some business’ I think he said.”

The man sighed and sat down heavily beside him. “Ha! Most likely he’s off getting his pleasure with the local whore house. Slave detail is considered a most laid back position—let me guess, your caretaker is Jorb?”

Rory couldn’t quite remember the man’s name, even though he had been told. There was just something about the fat man that made Rory want to forget about him as soon as he had left. Rory shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t remember.” He said truthfully.

“Mmm…fat man…balding on top like this,” he made a sort of bowl shape with his hands, “rancid breath…”

“That’s him,” Rory replied, smiling slightly.

The man unhooked a leather canteen from his belt and tossed it to Rory. It sloshed delightfully as he caught it. The man grumbled something before he spoke, “Bloody git… Anyways, he should have left you with some water or something, seeing how it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

Rory gaped for a moment and covered it quickly as he took a long drought from the canteen. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he had become from being out in the sun so long, even if he was partially shaded.

The man stood abruptly. “My daughter is wandering off…if you’ll excuse me.” He said, inclining his head slightly, “it was nice meeting you. Keep the canteen, I’ll get it back someday I’m sure.”

Rory watched the man’s retreating back, his cloak dangling limply behind him. It was all very confusing. Rory had always thought slaves were supposed to be beaten and abused. But a nobleman bowing his head? And pleased to have gained a slave’s acquaintance? It was all very confusing. After trying to warp his head around the concept for a bit Rory decided that it wasn’t worth thinking about any longer. The people of the Thiian Empire weren’t only powerful. They were absolutely stark raving mad!

He kept testing the chain lazily, hoping it would have a moment of weakness. He had no luck of course. The thin rope-like chain was incredibly strong. After a few minutes Rory sighed and gave up.

“Flowers are nice but…what I wouldn’t give for a big sledge right about now.” Rory muttered to himself. He would have to mention it to the caretaker of the park someday for his foolish oversight.

The sun was just beginning to set when a shadow interrupted his view of the spectacular red streamer-like clouds that littered the sky above the trees. “Enjoying the sun are we boy?” Jorb had finally returned. His face was flushed and held an enormous grin from ear to ear.

“I see you enjoyed yourself...” Rory said carefully. He was finding it very hard not to flinch away from the man. The manner in which his shirt was messily tucked into his pants told Rory all he needed to know about the afternoon's activities.

“That I did, that I did!” he chuckled again, his many chins wobbling, and Rory got the vague impression he was no longer talking to a man, but an oversized turkey. “Well we had best be off, got to get you ready for tonight.” He said, detaching the chain from the bench with a clever twist and flick of his flabby wrist. Rory’s eyes widened with surprise, he hadn’t been allowed to watch when Jorb had put it on the first time, the man had obviously forgotten this time. Rory didn’t say anything as he stood, rubbing his bottom surreptitiously as he did.

“Tonight?” he asked, trying not to let his curiosity be heard.

“The auction of course! It shall be a grand party. We can’t have you show up in such flimsy and—dare I say--dreary rags.” He paused and rubbed his hands together and sent a slant-eyed glance Rory’s way. “I hope you like crowds.”

* * *

“I look, like a fool.” Rory stated as he looked himself up and down in the mirror. The two maids that had nabbed him once they returned to ‘the compound’ as it was lovingly named, had hustled him off into a clean, small, but cramped room and proceeded to dunk him in a freezing bath and scrub him until his skin started turning pink. Worse, his skin had gotten tender from being out in the sun so long and it stung, badly.

Then, just when he thought they were finished, and he could relax in the thick towel they had provided, they stuffed him into dark blue trousers and a light blue shirt. Both made of some sort of soft material that had a quiet sheen to it. He had never had a nice shirt like this one in his life. Fortunately they had rejected another outfit that had had lace on the sleeves. He had at least some dignity left.

“What was wrong with my other clothes?” he asked indignantly.

One of the maids huffed, and gently slapped one of his hands that had strayed to his collar, trying to make it just a little looser. “Everyone will be dressed like this boy. In fact you shall be the least outrageously dressed at the auction I have no doubt. You’ll look plain, but at least you won’t look dull.” She shook her head, not bothering to hide her distain for the boy’s crazy notion of dressing in brown. “Besides, I think you look smashing. You’ll be the prize of the night.”

Her last words sobered him. It was galling, a slap in the face. He was a slave now. To be bought and sold like…like an animal. Ever since he had been taken he had not cried, he had even tried not to be sad. It was his mother’s words that he treasured to this very day. She had always said that a person needed to take each day one step at a time and find the joy in each of those steps, no matter how tough it may be—because there is joy, somewhere. It was hiding in the cracks and crevices, waiting to be found. All you had to do is look.

In truth, Rory was tired of looking. All he had to be thankful for was that he hadn’t been beaten--or worse! In fact everyone was being quite polite to him considering his circumstances. But he missed his family terribly. It was a huge gaping emptiness inside of him, something that tore at his self-control and Rory had to scrub unexplained tears from his eyes several times before he was finally dressed. Fortunately, the maids had just thought his collar was too tight.

Gods but I miss them.

Jorb walked in sometime later, his rotund mass squashed into a surprisingly dull set of black trousers and grey shirt, decorated lavishly with lace. He looked Rory up and down before he pronounced his satisfaction and threw the maid a shining silver coin. He winked at them, eliciting a tittering of laughter, but as Jorb's jowls turned away they scowled at his back, loating filling their eyes.

“Follow.” Was all he said to Rory before he squeezed through the small doorway and out into the hall, pulling Rory behind him like some mongrel he found off the street. Other men dressed in a similar fashion to Jorb passed in the hall, with fancifully dressed men and women in tow. He was by far the youngest of the slaves he caught sight of. And the only one who had orange hair, he noted soberly. Obviously not many slaves were taken from the North. That was reason enough for Rory to feel some sense of pride for his land well up inside him. Northland bowed to no one. And then Rory was battling another fresh set of tears.

What had he been doing? Going where they wanted him to go like some lost puppy. Doing exactly what they told him to do. It suddenly rankled as he walked down the corridor, trailing Jorb who held the chain loosely tucked under one arm, watching the other slaves trail their overseers with their eyes focused on the ground. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. There was no way he would ever become like them. Never. Not even if it meant he would have to die. Better dead than a mindless slave. Never. He would look for joy, but on his terms. And he would find his family, no matter what! Rory set his mind and took a deep breath.

* * *

“And next up on our agenda-“ the thin reedy man up on the podium, bedecked by a tall, pouffy hat that marked him as the maitre-d, paused to consult his clipboard. “Ah yes! A slave recently picked up on a raid in Dunmoroh. Hayleh is maybe twenty-five—we can’t be sure of course, she can’t speak a word of English.” He paused again as the amphitheatre tittered with laughter. Not the sort Rory heard at the local taverns back home…that was more of a roaring laughter. This laughter was more a hesitant and proper laughter. The sort of polite, condescending laughter only snotty nobles could ever manage to pull off.

Enjoying the crowd’s reaction, the maitre continued his description, looking rather pleased with himself—a slick smile never far from his lips.

Rory shivered. He was off to one side of the podium, half-hidden by the bright red curtain. From his vantage point the crowd was a sea of clashing colours. Most of the patrons wore masks of some sort. Even the maitre-d wore a half mask—pure white to contrast his black silk shirt and grey trousers. And there wasn’t an empty seat in the theatre! It felt like the gladiator fights he watched back home…like a family outing of some sort.

Heyleh, the slave up on the stage looked absolutely terrified. She was dressed modestly in a long green robe strangled by white lace. She might have been pretty if the blood ever returned to her face. She was so pale Rory started to think she might faint soon. He wondered if all the fat nobles who had laid claim to the front seats would laugh at that as well. The thought put a scowl on his lips.

“One hundred thousand going thrice!” the maitre-d yelled in good humour. “Sold! To Lord Albert Schrauss for one hundred thousand golden eagles.” A short dumpy sort of man stood up in the crowd, his dog mask couldn’t hide the huge smile on his face as he went to claim his prize. “I can guess what sort of lessons he has planned!” the maitre-d said, catching sight of the man’s smile. Laughter rang sour in Rory’s ears.

Once the monetary exchange had occurred, and the hall had once again started to echo with impatient mutterings, the maitre-d finally stood up and held up his hands for silence. Rory’s stomach clenched painfully. “My Lords, Ladies and gentlemen. I realise you’ve waited a lengthy period of time, and you must all have flat bottoms by now.” Half-hearted laughter at that, “but all that waiting has not been in vain! Our final item is unique to Portios! Recently taken on an expedition deep into Northland territory he goes by the name Rory—age sixteen. But, any description I give won’t do justice—come on then,” he said beckoning in Rory’s direction.

Rory planted his feet firmly. He had the sudden urge to stick out his tongue at the maitre-d. The man wasn’t even funny. Rory’s thoughts of rebellion died as he felt two huge brutish hands grab his shoulders and force him out on stage. He was marched briskly to the podium by the hooded gaoler and left to fend off the sea of suddenly predatory eyes. Rory felt his ears burn. He felt like some sort of exotic animal on display for the masses.

Should I stand on my hands and bark?

The podium was arranged just in front and to one side of the maitre-d. So Rory couldn’t see the man without turning. Under all those eyes he didn’t think he could move one inch without someone prodding him along. He suddenly understood how Heyleh must have felt. All those eyes grabbed him and held him fast better than any chain or rope ever could. It would be a mercy Rory decided, if he just fainted right here and now. He didn’t of course. The maitre was speaking again. His voice seemed so far away.

The maitre couldn't hide the enthusiasm in his voice as he started up again. "I have assurances from reliable sources that Rory's red hair and freckles are a sign of his pure Northern heritage." The maitre stepped from behind his podium and Rory nearly jumped as the maitre lifted one of his arms up and turned Rory about. Rory had seen Hayleh being treated in a similar manner, but nothing quite prepared him for it when it actually happened. He had blushed before...but not like this!

"As you can see, an excellent physical specimen for a youngster, shoulders aren't quite broad enough to do much manual work...he's pretty thin, but as you can see," the maitre said, pulling Rory's tunic up suddenly to expose his stomach. The cold air made his muscles clench immediately, and Rory could hear some hawkish murmurings suddenly. Rory glared angrily at the maitre as he returned behind his podium without so much as a thought for Rory's hate-filled glare.

“Well then…considering he has pure Nordland blood, he’s young and handsome lad, not to mention he knows English,” the maitre paused obviously for some laughter. When no-one bit he continued, sounding only slightly disgruntled, “Hrmph…I’m also told he’s an expert on horses of all sort—one of the Bern’alad.” Rory started at the mention of his trade in the Nordland tongue. He looked back at the maitre and earned a sharp frown. “Taking all that into account, I think we’ll start the bidding at ten thousand golden eagles!”

Rory’s eyes boggled. He didn’t have an inkling of what a golden eagle was worth—but it sure sounded like a lot. Ten thousand of them even more so. Who would ever want to pay money for a boy who only wanted to tend horses?

“Ten-thousand!”

A woman in the front row, her mask a pretty songbird jumped to her feet. “Thirty thousand!”

“Fourty!” a voice yelled from the back row.

“Eighty.” Another called, a deep resonating barritone.

All Rory could do was stand quietly as the bids started mounting, and reflect again how absolutely flaming mad all these people were. Rory thought they’d be more sane if they all stood up at this exact moment and started a singing and dancing rendition of ‘I’m a little Teapot’—actions and all.

Voices were clamouring for the maitre’s attention now as he tried to keep up with the bids. His eyes were wide under his mask and he had to pause to lick his lips more than once, probably already planning exactly what he was going to do with the money he was to get from Rory’s sale.

“Six hundred thousand!” the woman who had spoken second yelled, dragging Rory’s mind back into the present.

Silence.

Then grumbling as the other bidders sat down. Rory tried to yawn in order to cover a gasp. She was absolutely nutters. Over the edge. No-one was worth that much gold. No-one.

The bird-lady was smiling triumphantly, apparently not aware of the small fortune she had just thrown away in order to purchase Rory. A mere boy who had red-hair and didn’t think he was all that special. She smirked at him, and made his stomach clench unpleasantly. Something about the look in her eyes…

“One-million golden eagles.” A new voice said quietly. A familiar voice. But it couldn’t be…

The maitre-d choked, he coughed noisily trying to cover his surprise at the new unexpected bidder, “One-million from the Lord of Iyre, hand of the Emperor.” Rory searched the crowd with his eyes, but he couldn’t find the owner of the voice.

The bird-lady had clenched her hands angrily when the voice overturned her bid and she looked like she wanted to bid some more until a hand pulled her back into her seat. Her neighbour whispered something to her ear. She shook her head, got up and left, stalking up the aisle to the door, her flared dress swishing this way and that.

It wasn’t until the maitre declared Rory sold for one million golden eagles and the bidder stood up did Rory recognise the voice. It was the man who had given him the canteen.

Disel waved up at him, beaming happily as the gathered audience filled the dome with ringing applause. A drooping daisy was still tucked behind the little girl’s ear. Relief flooded through Rory. But one thing that the maitre had said niggled at his memory.

Hand of the Emperor? Just what exactly had Rory gotten himself thrown into?

Chapter 1	Chapter 2	Chapter 3	Chapter 4
Chapter 5	Chapter 6	Chapter 7	Chapter 8
Chapter 9