11. OLIRA
11
OLIRA
Olira walked out of the shed, a large hammer gripped tightly in one hand, and a lantern in the other. The farm was shrouded in darkness just after sunset, the light of the lantern barely keeping the night away. Long shadows stretched across the yard as she made her way towards the barn. Her face was a mask of cold determination and the crunch of gravel under her boots echoed in the still night.
Torren burst out of the house, his small frame silhouetted against the dim light from inside. “Olira, please!” he cried, his voice still hoarse. “Don’t hurt him! He only attacked me because I startled him. He’s just scared and confused.”
Olira’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t break her stride. “Get back inside, Torren.”
“But Olira,” Torren pleaded, running to keep up with her. “He’s sick and feverish. He’s probably—”
“I said go back inside,” Olira interrupted, her grip on the hammer tightening. Her eyes were fixed on the barn ahead. Part of her knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. Anger had wiped common sense clear from her thoughts. The image of Torren’s bruised neck and frightened eyes haunted her mind, fueling her rage.
Torren’s pleas grew more desperate as they neared the barn. “Please, Olira! You’re not like this. You can’t hurt him!”
Olira stopped abruptly, turning to face her brother. The look in her eyes was enough to make Torren flinch. “I will handle this,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “Go. Inside. Now.”
Torren hesitated, tears welling in his eyes, but Olira’s fierce expression left no room for argument. He backed away slowly, watching his sister with a mixture of fear and sadness.
Olira turned back towards the barn, her steps echoing in the night. The weight of the hammer felt reassuring in her hands. She didn’t try to be quiet. Let him know I’m coming, she thought recklessly. The barn door creaked as she pushed it open, the shadows inside running from her.
The startled sounds of the animals greeted her. Warrior brayed tiredly. The cows shifted in their stalls, and the goat bleated curiously.
Olira made her way to the stall where she had dragged the man into. After making sure Torren was okay, she had returned to the boys’ room and spoke the purebred’s First Word again. The slave had passed out, so it was hard to tell whether the First Word had worked or not, but she didn’t trust him one bit. She had run and fetched the stretcher, and spoken the First Word again before pulling him onto the stretcher. She had dragged him to the barn, her back and shoulders screaming from the strain, and had kept repeating the First Word every minute despite the slave never showing any sign of waking up. Then she had rushed to the shed to retrieve a hammer.
She expected the effects of the First Word to have faded, but hoped the man would still be unconscious. Still, she clutched the hammer tightly as she walked to the stall, the word ready on her lips. She pushed the stall door open to find the slave stirring awake. He lifted his head, breathing laboriously. His eyes widened with pain and confusion. He took a sharp breath, as if to speak or to spring into action. Olira didn’t give him a chance. “ Padlociatius .”
The purebred’s limbs went slack, and he lay perfectly still on the stretcher, his face vacant, and his eyes intense as he stared at the ceiling without blinking. So helpless, Olira thought as she scowled at the purebred beast, fully awake but unable to lift a finger. The image of his monstrous figure strangling Torren flashed in front of her eyes again, and she remembered the suffocating feeling of helplessness. The slave’s eyes reflected that same emotion now as Olira looked down at him with a hammer in her hand.
Olira set the hammer down briefly and placed the lantern in the corner, out of the way. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a sturdy iron hoop and a handful of nails she brought from the shed. She picked up the hammer again and began to nail the hoop onto the wooden wall of the stall.
As she worked, she watched the slave in her peripheral. The slave gasped when the effects of the First Word ended. His muscles twitched as he stirred, like it was hard to move. So he can’t start moving immediately then, she thought. That was good. He wouldn't be able to catch her unaware. He grimaced as he tried to look up, his face reflecting dread and worry.
“ Padlociatius ,” Olira said as she resumed pounding the nails on the wood. The slave crumpled onto the stretcher, his eyes bulging with fear.
She repeated the First Word three more times as she worked. Then, a disturbing suspicion started bugging her. The man had stopped stirring and trying to move when the First Word faded the last time. His face was an utter mask of agony. He wasn't trying to be deceitful. The changes to his breathing and the miserable noise he made gave away when the effects were fading. But the expression she saw on his face bothered her.
She stopped and moved to the other end of the stall, as far away from him as possible. With the hammer still casually resting in her hand, she leaned against the wall and waited. The slave blinked rapidly, gasped, and groaned softly. He lay still, an anguished expression on his face, and his muscles twitching slightly. She gave him another minute to recover from the paralysis before she spoke.
“When I say your First Word,” she said sharply, “does it cause you pain?”
The slave kept his eyes on the ceiling, a subtle grimace deepening the lines on his face. He swallowed several times and grunted as if he couldn’t yet fully control his throat muscles. “No, Owner,” he said finally. He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips tight before he spoke again. “I won’t move,” he said softly, quieter than a whisper.
Olira narrowed her eyes at the purebred’s battered, muscular frame, still as a statue. She wasn’t comfortable turning her back to him. Not when he was allowed to move. He must have sensed her decision, as he closed his eyes tiredly.
“ Padlociatius ,” Olira said, returning to her task.
The look of anguish was wiped clean from the slave’s face. With his eyes closed, he almost appeared to be in a peaceful slumber, though she knew he probably wasn’t.
He’s not in pain , she reminded herself as she worked faster. He had said it himself. It was probably just unpleasant, lying there helpless. She didn’t mind letting him feel what she felt when she walked into the room and found him nearly killing her little brother. Breathing out her fury, she wiped the single tear that trickled down her cheek. She couldn’t shake the bloodthirsty expression she saw on the purebred’s face and couldn’t let herself forget this man was bred and raised for violence. She had to keep her brothers safe.
With the final strike of the hammer, the hoop was firmly in place. She walked into the next stall, where Warrior’s packsaddle was stored, and she found the chain and the collar. Returning to the slave’s stall — remembering to repeat the First Word at intervals — she attached the end of the chain to the hoop. Then, she clasped the collar around the slave’s neck and stood.
Olira’s eyes flickered between the purebred beast, who was built like an ox, and the puny little hook she nailed to the old wooden wall. If the man wanted to, he could easily rip the hook free from the wall and let himself out. She took a deep breath. She had to convince him not to try anything. As she waited for the paralysis to fade, she thought about what she could threaten him with.
“You will not get out of this stall unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Owner,” the slave whispered, his eyes still closed.
Olira swallowed. She tried to muster every bit of resolve and filled her voice with conviction before she continued: “If I see you outside of this stall, I will say the other word.”
She didn’t ask if he understood. She had seen his shiver. He clearly understood what she meant, and how determined she was to follow through with this threat.
She picked up her lantern and hammer, then turned to leave the stall, casting one last glance at the chained man who shuddered with fever and fear. The hammer felt heavier in her hand than it did before.