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This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental, and no harm or slanderous intent is implied or intentional.
The carriage shook and rattled as it slowly but surely made its way down one of the many broad, tree-lined avenues of Portios. Rory had to clench his teeth to stop them from rattling in sync with the covered cabin that shook with every small rock its spoked wheels seemed to find. And find them the wheels did—every single bloody one of them.
“Alright there boy?” the hand of the emperor asked. Beneath his generous white moustache his lips were down-turned with--displeasure? Concern? It was impossible to tell. Little Disel was happily oblivious to Rory’s discomfort. She was still beaming and swinging her legs jovially from the seat opposite her father. She had been overjoyed when her father had bought Rory.
Rory was forced to unclench his teeth in order to respond to the man. He was still dressed in a black cloak, but now that Rory was in such close proximity to the man, green robes embroidered with gold threads were clearly visible. The Hand of the King: Sir Edmund Worchester, lord of Iyre—whatever or wherever that was.
“F…fine…uhh Sir.” Rory managed between jolts, wishing with all his heart to be anywhere other than this bouncing, jolting, noisy carriage. He had never seen a carriage in his life. Up North there were no paved roads like this one. And even if any Northman had wanted a carriage, the snow made owning one simply a ludicrous idea.
“Ah, I insist you call me Edmund. At least while we’re in private like this. Hmm?” he raised his eyebrows at Rory’s surprise, “Oh in public you may address me and Sir…but it sounds very silly in private. Doesn’t it darling?” he turned towards his daughter, who only paused long enough to giggle before resuming her leg swinging, her heels thumping against the soft cedar of the seat. She hadn’t met Rory’s eyes once since the slave auction, he wondered if it meant anything. Probably.
The other occupant of the ornate carriage had no such compunction, in fact he was having a rather tough time keeping his eyes in his sockets, such were they bulging. Jorb, his protruding stomach bouncing in time to the carriage’s repetitive up and down motion, eyes were wide with surprise. “M…my Lord? Do you think that’s wise? He is only a slave after all.” His eyes flicked to Rory for a moment, his lips twitching as though they longed to curl into a sneer had the hand of the King not also been present in the cramped cabin. “He might get some ideas about…his status. If you see what I mean.”
“I do not,” Sir Edmund’s voice was hard when he turned his grey eyes to consider the overseer. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion on the matter Jorb Overseer.”
“But…my lord…you must understand. This one hasn’t even been broken in yet. He might yet get it in his head to escape…or worse!” he said, spittle flicking his lips in consternation, “He might try to harm my lord or his family. He’s Bern’alad after all…dangerous people! That’s why I’m here.” Jorb said, slapping his large stomach for effect. He looked rather proud of himself, most likely because he was talking to the hand of the Emperor.
Sir Edmund’s eyes turned to Rory, who tried to swallow and found his mouth rather dry. Sir Edmund held Rory in his gaze for a moment before he snorted. “He won’t harm anyone. I’d stake my life on it. Will you boy?”
Rory shrugged, causing his chains to rattle ominously. “No sir,” he said, trying not to flinch as he stared into eyes that were doing an excellent impression of steel.
“There,” Sir Edmund said, “Now that that’s settled, we come to the next matter-“
But Jorb interrupted before he could finish, his face had gone all red and this time he really did sneer. “You’ll trust the word of a Northman?” he said, making Northman sound like some sort of mental disorder. “I’d keep him in chains until I’ve broken him in nice and proper were I you.”
A look from Sir Edmund was all it took to shut the fat man up. Rory was certain Sir Edmund’s frown was one of displeasure now. “I am not accustomed to be interrupted when I speak Overseer.” He said, emphasising Jorb’s title coldly. “It is because he’s a Northman that I will take him at his word; although you probably wouldn’t understand Overseer, never having been to the North.”
“I-I’m sorry…forgive me-“ Jorb paled as he realised how far he had overstepped his bounds.
“You…you’ve been to the North?” Rory suddenly found his voice, ignoring the scathing glare Jorb shot him as his voice carried over the other man’s. Instead of being angry, Sir Edmund smiled slightly and fingered his moustache.
“Ah, yes indeed. I was—but that was before the wars broke out.” He lost his smile when he spoke. “But that’s a story for another time and another place—one for an occasion without the stench of animals.”
The way Sir Edmund had said animals so offhand made Jorb almost miss the reference. It wasn’t until Rory smirked in his direction that he picked up on the reference to his rather…sweaty armpits. When he realised that Sir Edmund was talking about him he turned an outrageous shade of red and lowered his eyes quickly to the wagon floor. Disel just giggled some more and shot a secretive smile Rory’s way. Strange Girl.
Sir Edmund snorted in disgust. His fist curled and he hammered on the roof of the carriage twice. The carriage shuddered to a halt, nearly throwing Rory off his seat since he couldn’t use his hands quite properly to grip the wall.
“M…my lord?” Jorb managed, his face had lost all its blood. He pulled of a rather convincing impression of a sheet, Rory decided.
“Now that it comes to it, I think this farce has gone on long enough. Out Overseer. Get out of my carriage. I let you ride just for pretences, but enough is enough.” He shoved the small door open. “Hurry up now, I’m late for an appointment. And for goodness sake take those bloody chains off the boy.”
Jorb’s jowls opened and closed several times silently. It looked like he was going to protest several times but kept thinking better of it. He slumped into his seat when Sir Edmunds gaze would not yield. Rory couldn’t help flashing Jorb a smile of triumph. His white face turned to regard Rory with a look of utter loathing. Break me indeed. I hope you rot somewhere unpleasant, Rory thought to himself.
“I’m rapidly losing my patience Overseer. Or shall I report you?” Sir Edmund said, tilting his head slightly as he said it. Get out or I get you fired. Rory just couldn’t resist. He had seen Jorb unlock the chain earlier. He hoped the wristlets opened in the same manner. They were impossible to open unless you knew exactly how to twist and flick your wrists. Just like…that!
The cuffs slipped from Rory’s wrists and clattered to the floor. Rory couldn’t decide what was more satisfying: The sharp intake of Jorb’s breath, or the look on his face after he realised what had happened.
“You…but…how?” he stuttered incoherently.
“Now means now Overseer.” Sir Edmund snapped. Jorb paled even further, if that were possible. He hastily grabbed the chains and squeezed his bulk out of the cabin—trying his best to give Rory a look that promised retribution. As soon as his body cleared the doorway Sir Edmund slammed the door shut without even a glance for the Overseer and pounded his fist again on the roof. The carriage trundled into its rough motion once again.
They traveled in silence for a fair bit—letting the creaking of the wagon serenade them—before Rory could work up the courage to speak.
“You... you’ll really take me at my word…Sir?” he added belatedly. Rory could scarcely believe his good fortune. To think that this man—an important man to be sure judging from the auction—would put any amount of trust in him was unbelievable. There must be a catch…somewhere.
Sir Edmund looked up and smiled. “I told you before, I’m quite familiar with Northlanders strange obsession with honour. If you say you won’t harm us, or try to escape then I’ll take you at your word.” He paused, “I do have your word on it do I not?”
Rory was jounced unceremoniously as the wagon hit some sort of hole, giving him time to think. It was strange to think this man knew anything about the traditions of the North. He had always been brought up to believe the people of the Thiian Empire were heartless and ignorant. But then, he had always thought slaves were badly mistreated—exactly the opposite of what was happening to him. Talking to Sir Edmund—it was almost like talking with any man from the North. There was this aura…something that told anyone who cared to look that this was a man of his word. It was his eyes, Rory finally decided. He had never met anyone with such strong looking grey eyes. This was a man who truly did what he said he would do. A man of integrity. Put orange hair on him and he might be mistaken for a man from the North.
Rory tried not to grimace, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was. If he gave his word he would have to keep it. He squirmed for a moment with indecision…but what choice did he really have? Either he gave the oath and was given a sort of freedom, or he refused and would be denied freedom completely. “You have my word Sir” he said at last, quietly.
Sir Edmund smiled, a smile that reached even his eyes, creasing the skin around them. “Good then…and for the last time, stop calling me Sir. You make me feel much older than I’d like to be.” He said, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. Rory could only nod weakly before he continued. “But what I’d really like to know is…how you managed to figure out how to undo those bracelets by yourself. I could’ve sworn Jorb was just telling me how they were the latest technology…impossible to undo if you’re a slave.”
Rory felt his face flush, regretting undoing the chain in front of Sir Edmund. “I…well…” what could he say to that? “The truth is I saw how Jorb undid the chain in the park. I figured the bracelets worked the same way.” He said fiercely, it was suddenly important that Sir Edmund not feel ill towards him. To his surprise, the elder man was chuckling to himself.
“I’ll have to remember the look on Jorb’s face. Brilliant.” He chuckled some more then glanced down at the lonely iron bracelet that had been soldered onto his wrist when he had been first caught. “First thing we’ll do is get that off you. I’ll have Jinx take a look, he’s my blacksmith.”
“Daddy are we home yet?” a small voice whined.
“Nearly flower, be patient.”
Disel pouted, then with a grin she scooted sideways to tug on Rory’s arm. “When we get home, you have to come visit my room. You have to promise!”
Home. No…Rory’s home was far away…to the north. It could be worse, Rory supposed. He could have been sold to the Bird lady, that hulking tub with the grin Rory wasn’t all too sure he liked. Who knew what he’d be doing right now had she bought him instead. Certainly not chuckling about a fat man in the company of a gentleman and his little girl; that much Rory was sure.
“Sure,” he said, trying to inject a little energy he certainly did not feel into his voice.
Gods but he missed his home.
* * *
Dusk had fallen. The streets of Jenkin’s Crossing were mostly empty now, aside from the many bodies Jaden imagined were still lying there. Jaden dared to sigh with relief. A shifting beside him revealed the presence of Sergeant Bernweld, in the darkness a bright slash of red could be seen slowly dribbling blood down his gaunt features.
The attic they found themselves in was cramped. Jaden and the Sergeant were crammed into the low-ceilinged room covered with sawdust. And Jaden had been sure he would finally get away from dust by hiding inside—It became apparent that it didn’t really matter where you were. Everything was dusty, and inside smelled like unwashed bodies—a foul stench.
“We should see to your wound Sergeant.” Jaden whispered. The Sergeant just grunted.
“A scratch. Quiet, I think I hear something,” he said, pressing his ear to the floor, his features set in concentration. Jaden refrained from retorting by pure will. It was a scratch at that, just one that bled a lot.
It had been a moment where Jaden’s stomach had left him as those mercenaries poured out of the wagon. Luckily, the men that had come pouring out received a surprise of their own in kind. Not only Jaden and the Sergeant’s blade come to their rescue, but other unknown men had drawn weapons and started cutting into the small force—then they started cutting each other apart until the street was one giant free-for-all and the gutters were running red with blood. There were no sides, just mayhem. It was in the confusion that they had slipped off—it was also in the confusion that Bernweld had been injured. He had a rather embarrassing run-in with a rolling-pin, wielded by a woman none-too pleased to be jostled by a ‘pig-headed bear’ as she had identified Bernweld.
Jaden pressed his own ear to the dusty floor. Through it two muffled voices could be heard arguing with each other. One was yelling while the other seemed to be holding his voice neutral. Jaden quickly gave up trying to distinguish what they were arguing about. He snorted and turned back to Bernweld.
“Well? What do you hear?”
The older man grunted and pulled his ear up from the ground, wiping blood off his forehead with an already stained kerchief as he did. “It’s them.”
“You’re sure?” Jaden said, shifting his weight so as to regain some semblance of feeling in his right leg. “There can’t be any more mistakes, not when my men are scattered like they are.”
The corners of the Sergeant’s mouth twitched. “I’m sure Sir. It’s him.” Jaden didn’t bother to ask whose voice his voice was. That was obvious, it was their quarry.
Indicating that Bernweld should take the lead, the two men, their black cloaks stained a bright orange, dropped down the hatch onto the second floor of the ragged old Inn. In front of them stretched the second floor balcony which open up to the main floor and commons area. As they neared the open railing and stairway the shouting voice finally became intelligible.
“…told you! It was them. I had to let them attack. What else was I to do!? Sit and be bullied, made a fool? Think you I am a fool? You would be wrong. I…”
There was a quick chilling sound of a sword being drawn followed by a sickening squelching sound and a thump. So much for the trader.
“Sir…Sir…wait” Bernweld was hissing, but Jaden just grinned. It had to be him, the traitor. The end of this long journey was nearing…and Jaden had just run out of patience. He dodged out of Bernweld’s grasp and lightly jumped over the second floor railing, landing with a soft thump on the befouled tavern floor. He rose steadily ovserving his surroundings carefully for a trap. Tables were strewn about, some on their sides other splintered where bodies had been flung physically through them. And there he was, wiping his long bastard sword calmly on the trader’s ornate robes. SIVIG.
Sivig’s black on black eyes flickered up in surprise at the cloaked apparition. The man’s lips compressed in a grimace, “Are they sending children now to do the dirty work?” His voice was hoarse as if having shouted too much. Perhaps that was another remnant of the curse that had left his eyes all black.
Jaden quickly took in two bodies in black cloaks that were lying still, half-propped up in one corner of the messy room. His temper flared, one of the men’s faceguard had fallen. He recognized the thin face as Fernald’s, his chest opened at the seams as if gutted like an animal. Anger, white hot burned in his chest. Fernald had been the most annoying self-centred nitwit this side of the mountains…but he had been under his command. Jaden unwound his cowl slowly and let his faceguard drop, revealing sweaty raven black hair plastered atop his pale, unmarked face. Jaden returned the man’s black gaze—a strange remnant of some magical curse—with his own piercing dark grey eyes. Making the sign of challenge with a flick of his wrist and spread fingers Jaden spoke contemptibly.
“You’ve sunk to a new low if you need to hide in a place like this trash. This may be wasted, but I suppose formalities should be observed:” Jaden spat, his spittle orange from the mud. “Blood traitor and deserter, surrender or be cut down where you stand.”
Sivig was laughing, his skin tightening around his thin, ravaged face. Even the pockmarks on his face looked like little scowling mouths. “Do you know who I am boy?” He brought his sword edge up to his forehead in mock salute, “I am Sivig, a blademaster of the sixth tier. You are a great fool if you think you can kill me alone with that toothpick at your side.”
“He is NOT alone,” Bernweld’s thunderous voice rose as he reached the bottom of the stairs behind Sivig unnoticed and declared himself. “I am Sergeant Willhelm Bernweld of the seventh patrol squad and swordsman of the fifth tier-“
Jaden scowled and barked, “Stay out of this Sergeant! I challenge you Sivig of the sixth, Sergeant you will second us!”
Sivig had started to face the new threat when Jaden spoke. He laughed suddenly, “A duel? With a child? Why should I?”
“I would have thought that even a traitorous mongrel like you would seek honour. Let the gods judge us as they will.”
Sivig’s eyes narrowed suddenly, “And if I win?”
“You shall go free.” Jaden said simply.
Bernweld had gone visibly pale, he thought only briefly about arguing before realising it would have been futile. He marched past Sivig to stand to one side. He knew all to well the look on Jaden’s face—he had only seen it twice—and that was twice too many. “Very well,” Bernweld grunted quickly, dreading what was to happen next. “Present yourselves and your arms.”
Sivig the challenged stepped forwards first, his dry lips split in a great smile. “Sivig the sixth presenting,” he saluted with his sword again, “the sword bloodlust.” He whipped his sword downwards so it pointed at the floor, slightly raised in front of him.
Jaden stepped forwards hurriedly, not wanting to waste time he pulled the cloak the rest of the way off his back. The expression on Sivig’s face was almost worth the trouble. The cloak fell to the ground noiselessly, revealing Jaden’s armour and the hidden sword strapped to his back. On the chest of his almost weightless red-black breastplate were seven white swords, crossed in battle. “I am Jaden swordfighter, of the seventh tier.” he said with the traditional challenge, from his back he drew his sword, it gleamed silver with a taint of red in the dim light. “Wielder of Dusk and Captain of the 7th patrol. In the name of the Emperor I would have justice. DRAW!”
Sivig was quick to recover, he snarled wordlessly and rushed, his long legs covered the distance quickly, his arms taut, he swung his sword smoothly. Jaden sidestepped, deflecting the swordsman with a quick flick of his wrists. That was no attack worthy of a sixth! Jaden watched half-amused as Sivig stumbled over a broken chair that had lain hidden behind Jaden. With a flash Jaden struck upwards at cinq, his sword slowing only briefly as it cut through Sivig’s sword-arm.
“Yield?” Bernweld said none too hurriedly, knowing Jaden would never stop now. Sivig screamed then as blood poured from his severed limb, spattering floor and opponent alike. Without emotion Jaden stepped forward and sliced through the man’s neck cleanly, silencing his pitiful cry. Then, after the body had toppled with a wet splat, as an act of the utmost contempt Jaden wiped his sword on a dry patch of Sivig’s pants.
“Justice served.” Jaden said then turned to glance at the two slumped figures in the corner again and sighed, then slammed his sword back into its sheath. “He must have had help…Sivig of the sixth should have actually been something like ‘Sivig of the third’. But to have been able to kill Fernald…I must be a horrible Captain.”
Bernweld shuddered and slowly relaxed as Jaden sheathed Dusk. Sivig had been lucky, Bernweld reflected. The last man who had made Jaden draw Dusk in anger had lived for four cruel days after the duel before he had been granted the gift of mercy.
“What should we do?”
Abruptly, the young captain’s manner changed. Jaden bent and detached Sivig’s sword from the severed limb. He turned to Bernweld and grinned looking much like a puppy seeking praise, a strange vision of innocence tainted by Sivig’s blood which matted his hair and dribbled from his chin as it ran down his pale sharp features. “Home now, I think; we should report what we found out here to my father. Besides, I can’t wait to see my sister again.”
Bern didn’t bother to ask about the two dead soldiers…he knew Jaden had already forgotten them.
| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |
| Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 |
| Chapter 9 |
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