2. 2
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 .”