7. OLIRA
7
OLIRA
Olira was up before the first light of dawn touched the sky.
She procrastinated sitting up for as long as she could, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling in her bones. She allowed herself to keep her eyes closed and pretend she didn’t have a gruesome task to do today. But she couldn’t escape it for long. With a sigh, she finally mustered the willpower to sit up, which she immediately regretted. Her muscles were stiff and aching from yesterday’s physical labour of dragging the slave off the road and nurturing him. Sleeping on the cold, hard ground had locked her muscles stiff. She’d only shut her eyes for no longer than two hours. It was the shortest, most uncomfortable sleep she’d ever had.
This was not how she’d planned this trip to go.
She was supposed to spend the last night at the inn further down the road and wake up as a well-rested and happy, rich woman with hundred and fifty Blues in her pocket.
And where was she now? In the middle of nowhere, with a poor, dead slave in her hands.
Her stomach churned when she glanced at the slave’s outline under the dim light of the fading night. She sighed again. She would have to bury him before she continued her way home. It felt wrong to leave a dead body out in the open like that, even if it belonged to a slave. She considered holding a sending ritual, but the purebred didn’t have a rhoa , so there was nothing to send to Farhome.
Last night, she’d bundled the slave’s trembling body up in her spare blanket and the rolls of cloth she’d bought. She’d tried to give him water frequently, but he was unconscious most of the time, and trembling so violently that was a wasted effort. All she could do was keep his head cool with a wet cloth and make him as comfortable as possible until he passed. Feeling hopeless and defeated, and not wanting to watch a man die in front of her, she had gone to sleep.
Olira stood up and stretched. The sun was rapidly painting the sky in red hues of light. Reluctantly, she approached the slave’s body and paused sharply when she noticed the movement. His chest was moving. Olira gasped. The slave was still alive!
“Merciful Alunwea!” She drew the Twelve’s sign in the air as she hurried to snatch her waterskin. She kneeled beside the slave. He was trembling and his lips were moving without noise.
“Hey.” She shook him gently. “Can you hear me? Can you sit up?”
The slave’s eyebrows twitched, but his eyes remained closed. The cloth on his forehead was hot and dry. Olira damped it with water and wiped the sweat off his face. She slid a hand behind his back and supported him to sit up.
The smell of sweat, urine, and infection made her gag, but she managed it. His body was too hot to her touch, and hard and heavy with solid muscles. His dried lips parted when she brought the waterskin. He drank some and sputtered the rest.
Still alive, partially conscious, and willing to drink. His heart was thumping fast but strong under Olira’s touch. He was fighting teeth and nails to stay alive. This was as good as Olira could dare to hope.
Olira carefully lowered his trembling body back down. His lips moved again, but the sound he made was more a whimper than words. She soaked the cloth in water and placed it on his forehead. Then she stood up.
She chewed her lip as she considered her options. She was fully expecting to bury the slave this morning and move on, but this changed things. Warrior, who was tied nearby, raised his head and brayed at her, his intelligent eyes gleaming with curiosity and hunger. He tilted his ears back and brayed again.
“I know, you’re hungry. I just need a second.”
The supplies she bought lay in a heap near Warrior’s packsaddle. She narrowed her eyes, trying to estimate how much they weighed. Rolls of cloth and a few bags of grains, dry goods, and cured meat surely didn't weigh more than the purebred beast. The man was tall and wide, with layers of bulging muscles. She sighed.
“I’m sorry, Warrior. You’re not gonna like this.”
Warrior twitched his ears and huffed.
“You're gonna have to drag him.” She grimaced. “And I’ll carry the supplies.”
Warrior brayed loudly and shook his head.
“Yeah, I know, I know. I’m tired too. But we’ll only have to get to the inn. It can't be too far and once we get there, we'll figure something else out.”
Her farm was only half a day from the inn. She didn't know what help she could ask for once she got there, but at least that would be one step closer to home. She had a stash of Asennamon root at home, which was used to fight the infection. She could send word for Varelya, Oxreach’s healer. Olira knew basic wound care — raising four reckless and energetic brothers, she had to learn quick — and of course she had extensive knowledge of medicinal herbs. But Varelya’s skills would certainly save the slave.
Hope replenished her strength better than the two hours of broken sleep did. She got to work. First, she released Warrior to graze on the cold, barren patch of grass nearby. The animal's intelligent eyes continued to follow her as he nibbled at the grass. She then turned her attention to her next task, her breath visible in the frigid air. She gathered branches and sturdy sticks to fashion a makeshift stretcher. She pulled out the hunting knife Gilann had insisted she took with her and started slicing through the wood. From her bags, she reluctantly took out rolls of cloth, carefully tearing them into strips. She winced at the thought of ruining them, but hoped she could at least salvage the scraps once she returned home.
Using the strips of cloth, she tied the branches together, creating a sturdy frame. She worked quickly but meticulously, ensuring the stretcher would hold the slave’s weight securely. Once satisfied with her work, she left her knife on a nearby rock and sat back for a moment to rest.
The sun was climbing fast, casting a cool light over the landscape. It didn’t do much to take the chill of the early morning air. Her eyes fell on the slave, still shivering unconscious. His face was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. He was still burning, and the cloth on his forehead had dried already. She grabbed her waterskin to offer the man more water and noticed it was nearly empty.
“I’ll get some water and be right back,” she told Warrior, who paused and stared at her with his ears pricked up and a mouthful of grass sticking out of his velvety mouth. “I’ll be back,” she repeated. “Just don’t go anywhere.” Warrior lowered his head and resumed eating, swatting his tail lazily.
She headed towards a small stream she had noticed the day before. She filled her waterskin quickly, then headed back to the camp. When the campsite was in sight, she stopped abruptly, then resumed walking faster.
The slave had moved.
He had rolled facedown, and seemed to have dragged himself a few feet, before passing out again. The blanket had tangled around his legs. His right hand rested near his face, while his left hand reached forward. Olira’s heart skipped a beat, a sense of unease washing over her as she traced the distance between the man’s left hand and the small rock she had left her knife on. It almost looked like the purebred was dragging himself towards the rock.
She brushed the thought, though her eyebrows knitted deeply. He must have been searching for water or something. He was feverish.
She hurried over to the slave, her pulse quickening. Carefully, she lifted his head and brought the waterskin to his cracked lips, letting a small stream trickle into his mouth. He sputtered slightly, but then drank eagerly.
Satisfied that he had taken some water, Olira turned her attention to breakfast. She pulled out a strip of cured meat for herself, chewing it quickly while her eyes never left the purebred. Then she tore a piece of rye bread, mashing it with water to make it easier for the slave to swallow. She brought one of the grain bags over to use as a support. She helped him sit up with his back against the bag. As she prepared to feed him, his eyes snapped open, and he grabbed her wrist with surprising strength.
“Easy now,” Olira said, trying to remain calm despite the tension rising in her chest. “You need to eat.”
His grip tightened as he blinked rapidly, his eyes dry and bloodshot. He looked without seeing, as if he wasn't really here, his mind elsewhere. Olira wondered where he was. Then, she marvelled at how strong the man was still, despite the fever, the infection, and surviving the brutal aftereffects of pemitoin . He shouldn't have had the strength to lift his arm, let alone grip Olira’s hand this tightly.
Then, the marvel turned to horror as she realised again how strong he really was . This was a purebred beast, raised for the arenas. A mindless, emotionless weapon who had no rhoa to call him human. If not for the ingrained obedience the slave breeders diligently instilled in them, purebred beasts would be the most dangerous things in all of Chinderia.
And she was taking him home to her brothers.
“It’s okay, you’re safe,” Olira said, trying to stay calm, despite the stinging pain on her wrist. She firmed her voice and ordered. “Let go!”
Just as she pried his fingers from her wrist, the slave’s grip loosened. He slipped back into unconsciousness, his brief moment of strength fading.
Olira exhaled slowly, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. She resumed her task of feeding him the mashed bread and water. He swallowed reflexively, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Her heartbeat picked up when the purebred’s eyes fluttered open again. This time, he didn't grab her and he looked more alert, his feverish haze lifting for a moment. He scanned the campsite, his eyes lingering on the makeshift stretcher. Then he stared ahead, his gaze fixed on nothing.
“Hey,” Olira said carefully. “Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”
“I am well, Owner,” the slave said. His voice was dry and scratchy, so Olira offered him more water.
“You’re anything but well,” Olira huffed. “But it’s good that you’re awake and eating and talking.” She looked up towards the road. “If I can get you home, I can treat that injury. You’ll most likely be okay.”
The purebred didn’t reply. He blinked and resumed staring at the campsite.
“How long have you been like this? When did it get infected?”
“I don’t remember, Owner.”
“And why didn’t Gladwiel do anything about it? I know he has the resources to treat this.”
“I live to serve, I breathe to please.”
Olira scowled and gritted her teeth. “Why do you keep saying that? That’s not an answer.”
The slave remained quiet. His head sagged, and he seemed to focus on his lap.
“Why didn’t you say anything back at Kiore? You helped Gladwiel deceive me.”
She stared at the man's clean-shaved face. His grey eyes were still bloodshot as he blinked slowly.
“How did you get this cut, anyway?” Olira asked. “From a fight or something?”
The purebred reached slowly and touched the bandaged leg. Olira saw a flicker of dread and determination on his face. Before she could react, he clenched his jaw and punched his injured leg with all the strength he could muster.
Her eyes widened as the purebred cried out in agony, his body convulsing briefly before he slumped back. He was unconscious once again. She stared at him, her heart pounding. Had he just chosen to knock himself unconscious to avoid Olira’s questions? For a long moment, she couldn’t do anything but stare at the man’s closed eyelids. That feeling of unease crept back to her.
She was taking this man home.
She checked his pulse and made sure the idiot was still breathing. Doubt gnawed at her mind as she went to prepare Warrior. She saddled him and then fastened the straps of the makeshift stretcher to the saddle. Using the leftover cloth, she fashioned a large pouch to hold the rest of her supplies. She tied it snugly and created two sturdy loops to serve as shoulder straps, allowing her to carry the weight behind her like an oversized backpack.
As she worked, she kept glancing at the purebred. Who was this man? What had driven him to hurt himself so severely just to escape a conversation? Questions swirled in her mind, each more troubling than the last. The man’s avoidance made Olira more curious and determined to get her answers.
Before she went to secure him onto the stretcher, she fetched her bag and found the small note Hasrey had given her. The purebred’s three Words were written neatly. Hasrey had assured her she would never need those, but she took a moment and etched them in her memory before going near him again. Knowing she could control him with these Words somewhat eased her concerns.
The morning sun had fully risen, casting long shadows and warming the chilly air, though her breath still fogged. She checked all the straps again, then took a deep breath and put her backpack on, her knees almost giving under the weight. Once she regained her balance, she took Warrior’s reins and started walking.
Olira had been walking for about an hour, her steps growing heavier with each passing minute. The makeshift backpack strapped to her shoulders was unbearably heavy. The straps dug into her skin, leaving scars. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest. She was already exhausted from the previous day’s efforts, and now her legs felt like lead, each step a battle.
She couldn’t burden Warrior with this weight. The mule was already struggling with the man’s weight, who had remained unconscious.
The inn couldn’t have been too far ahead. The hill they had been climbing seemed familiar. She was certain the inn was behind this hill. She could even see the faint smoke rising behind the inn.
Finally, as the sun climbed higher, she reached the top of the hill and looked down at the clearing where the inn should have stood.
Her heart sank at the sight. “Merciful Alunwea,” she gasped as she covered her mouth.
The inn was nothing more than a smouldering ruin made of charred beams and ash. A faint smoke still lingered in the air.
She staggered down the hill, her mind struggling to comprehend the scene. Warrior snorted and tilted his ears back, the smell of smoke making him uneasy. Olira tugged his rein assuringly.
As she moved closer, she spotted the remnants of the inn’s sign scattered on the ground. It was scorched beyond recognition. Among the wreckage, she noticed a charred pile, burned with such heat that it had melted together. She turned away and threw up.
Bodies.
Her heart pounded, and she felt sick. She looked around, finally acting with a delayed caution. Until now, she hadn't even considered the possibility of this not being an unfortunate accident — an unattended brazier, a spilt oil lantern, a curtain catching a spark from a hearth when everyone was in deep sleep. But those bodies… They all seemed to be in the same room when they burned all together.
Like they were trapped.
There were no signs of anyone else around, though she still didn't let her guard down. She dropped her backpack and surveyed the wreckage quickly for any survivors. The charred ruins were cool to the touch. This was done a while ago, maybe last night. She shuddered. If she had made it to the inn last night like she wanted to… She glanced at the pile and almost threw up again.
The back wall of the inn remained half standing. There, she found the message; large, messy letters scribbled across the wall with a dark red, dried paint.
Not paint. Blood.
“Lion of Zarall shall not fall,” she read the words out loud.
Pushing her hair back, she took a deep breath. So, it had spread all the way up here to Northern Chinderia. Jygan had been wrong. He had assured her that West Kilrer and the rest of the Northern Chinderia would stay out of it. But people here were the most loyal. How could they stay out of it?
Bandits wouldn't have done this. Bandits robbed unprotected travellers that they could easily outnumber. They didn't burn down inns.
She returned to where she left Warrior and her backpack. The slave was still unconscious. Her heart sank as she stared at the heavy backpack. The last hour was like a century of torment in Darkhome. There was no way she could carry all that weight home. And she couldn't risk overburdening Warrior either. The man was heavy enough.
She stared at the slave’s anguished face, his eyelids fluttering as he breathed irregularly. The purebred had brought her nothing but pain and trouble. Not to mention, there was something off about him. Bringing him home was only going to cause her more problems. She glanced at the precious supplies. They couldn't survive the winter without them. She would have to beg Master Tholthus for his generosity. The thought was enough to choke the air out of her.
She stood there, the decision weighing heavily on her shoulders, her heart aching with the gravity of the choice before her. She knew what she had to do, and she hated it.