Fractures, page 6
part #1 of Ledgers of a Dark Mage Series
After, a giant of a man with red hair came to take him. He took Dawyn’s arm in a punishing grip then manhandled him along the deck to disembark the ship. Dawyn tried to keep up on his wobbling legs while taking in the sight around him in awe.
Massive sails of ships too many to count blew gallantly in the searing wind, proudly displaying the crests of different merchant houses. Every ship crawled with men working like ants and more arrived every passing minute.
The largest and the best looking ships bore an image of a golden swallow with its wings outstretched against a navy background. At least a third of the vessels present bore the swallow crest and Dawyn wondered how rich someone had to be to own so many ships.
The raider dragged him through the crowded madness of the docks. Men loaded and unloaded shipping containers as far as the eyes could see and coins exchanged hands everywhere.
A heavy chest being presented to a merchant caught his eyes and Dawyn craned his neck as its lid lifted, curious of what lay inside.
Gold.
The same gold pieces given to his father in exchange for his life filled the chest to the brim. While his father had been given five, here sat a chest full of them.
He tried to judge how many coins would be needed to fill a chest so large. Five hundred? A thousand? With so many coins, a man could live like a king without having to work another day. The gold shone like fire under the sun and Dawyn could hardly pull his eyes away even as impatient hands tugged him forward.
Away from the chaos of the docks stood a market with rows of street vendors hawking at potential customers. Eager to make a sale, they continuously yelled over each other in hopes of luring a customer. Not one wanted to be outdone, and the sellers of similar goods acted particularly aggressive towards each other. The resulting chaotic flurry of activity left Dawyn dizzy just from watching.
The sheer amount of people astounded him. It seemed individuals from all parts of Itothia flooded this place—he could pick out the Northerners with their darker skin in stiff austere clothing and the Southerners in their bright silk robes with giant sleeves trailing like pairs of exquisite wings behind them.
He even saw Haskians in the mix with their deep olive skin, black curls and steel-gray eyes lined with kohl. As the relations between Itothia and Haskia were tense at best, few Haskians ventured into their rival nation and the reverse held for Itothians. Dawyn had never seen a Haskian but had heard enough stories to recognize their foreign dress and distinct features.
A Haskian girl in a rich blue robe browsed a stand of vibrant eggs as large as a man’s head. The sheer number of jewelry gleaming on her slight figure caught Dawyn’s attention—even with her back turned, he saw more jewels on her single person than he’d seen in his entire life.
Numerous rings set with precious stones glittered as she ran a hand along a smooth golden egg and held it up for examination. It was a wonder she could lift her hands at all with the layers of heavy gold bracelets hanging from her fine wrists. Even the black curls tumbling down to the small of her back gleamed with the delicate gold chains hung with tiny sapphires.
She turned to allow the egg to catch the sun and Dawyn blinked in surprise.
The Haskian he had been observing was a boy barely older than himself—with both men and women of Haskia wearing their hair long and donning heavy jewelry, it had been easy to mistake the slender figure as a woman.
The boy dressed more effeminately than others and wore gleaming gold paint in addition to the standard black kohl around the eyes. The gold—tastefully applied to the eyelids, the cheekbones and the lips—gave the already attractive boy an almost ethereal appearance.
As Dawyn watched, an older Haskian man approached to wrap an arm about the boy’s slim shoulder and leaned in to whisper something into his ear.
“Keep moving,” the raider growled.
Dawyn winced when the man jerked his arm. He craned his head back to see the Haskian boy strolling through rows of vendors with one arm casually threaded through the older man’s and the other cradling the golden egg to his side.
A loud growl rang out from the right and Dawyn jumped just in time to avoid the swing of a whip-like tail cutting through the air where his head had been seconds prior. The man holding him cursed.
“Keep your beast in line!” the raider yelled at the slight woman who merely lifted a dark brow and peered at him through disheveled waves, blue eyes lucid.
Dawyn paid no attention to the woman, wide eyes fixated upon the beast she stood next to.
A four-legged creature about the size of a horse, red fur covered its lean body, complemented by the rich blue of its mane. Enormous leathery wings protruded from its shoulders lined by small spikes and two graceful white horns sat just above the furry ears reminiscent of a deer’s. Its long snout inched forward, the nostrils flaring, as the electric blue eyes eyed him curiously. The long tail, also covered in red fur, swished gently from side to side as the creature blinked—the white spike on its end shone in the sun, as long as a dagger.
The raider dragged him away muttering foreign curses under his breath.
A short walk later, Dawyn found himself in a circular open space laid down with white and gray stones—they felt as smooth as a baby’s bottom, beaten down by hundreds of feet before his.
The place held solemnity absent in others. No shouting vendors or sweating workers broke its quiet air hanging like a breath held before a shout. Groups of bound prisoners sitting quietly and their captors keeping watch served as its only occupants.
“Sit down and keep your mouth shut.”
Dawyn went tumbling down at the shove then grimaced as his bare knees hit the hard stones. The giant man walked off, presumably to bring more captives from the ship.
The fierce intensity of Scyrta’s sun made the sun back home seem like the moon. It beat down mercilessly, its searing touch magnified by the air too heavy, too hot.
Dawyn began feeling lightheaded, his strength sapped away by the unrelenting heat. Many younger children began slumping over—a few raiders deigned to give small sips from the waterskins they carried.
An hour or so passed without much happening.
More youths arrived from different ships, every single one looking worn and terrified. The space filled with Haskians, Itothians and others whose features suggested they came from lands far beyond either—it seemed Scyrtan slavers did not discriminate when it came to their goods.
Dawyn surveyed the captives, searching for familiar faces. He recognized a few youths from Alfhum and tried to catch their eyes, but most sat too far away to do so without drawing unnecessary attention.
He resigned to sitting quietly, curled up into himself, trying to keep down the bubbling anxiety as he faced his uncertain future.
Another hour or so passed and richly dressed men and women began arriving in what Dawyn could describe as fancy boxes.
Soft cushions lined their interior and long drapes hung at their sides to effectively keep out the harsh sun. Groups of six well-built, heavily perspiring men carried the boxes, balancing the wooden poles protruding out the bottom on their broad shoulders. They settled the boxes and its occupants with exquisite care at the edges of the circular space.
Servants who had been trailing behind rushed forward with elaborate canopies and the occupants of the boxes stepped out only after the large clothes hung fully in position. The men and women stepped into the circular space, followed closely by the servants who held up the canopies with painstaking care, daring not to allow a single ray of the sun to touch their masters’ skin.
The largest number of servants trailed after a dark-haired woman in crimson silks and heavy gold jewelry. She looked to be in mid-twenties—the bold hue of the dress complemented her smooth dark skin beautifully as it clung to each well-formed curve.
Sharp perfume released into the air with her each step and Dawyn wrinkled his nose at the foreign scent as she passed. Her kohl-lined gray eyes scanned the rows of captives with interest.
The lazy strolling came to a halt in front of a young Itothian girl who trembled under the unwelcome attention. She kept her gaze fixed on the ground as critical eyes ran over her naked form, petrified.
A female servant who had been keeping close to the red-clad woman stepped forward to address the cowering girl. “What is your name?”
Dawyn, surprised to hear perfect Itothian, shot a curious glance at the servant. He had assumed her a foreigner due to the deep bronze hue of her skin.
“Myra,” came the girl’s response, barely above a whisper.
Dawyn recognized the girl as the same Myra he had spoken to briefly on the ship by the familiar voice. The pale, near-gold brown waves and skin a shade lighter than his own hinted she came from the southern provinces. Her eyes, a soft green reminiscent of young blades of grass in early spring, flickered up at the woman looming over her.
“Age?” said the female servant.
“Fifteen.”
The red-clad woman leaned in to whisper something into her servant’s ear. The servant nodded and called over to one of the raiders who had been watching from the side.
“Master Louthe will see this one.”
Dawyn found it intriguing to hear the servant refer to her mistress as a master. He recalled his father mentioning the word was used to refer to all those in power regardless of gender in Scyrta.
The raider, a thickly built man with a shaved head, made his way over and reached down to clamp a large hand on Myra’s comparatively frail arm.
He hauled her up unceremoniously and she flushed a deep red as the position revealed more of her nakedness. She squirmed in his hold, bound hands curling and uncurling, as he held her up for full display.
Other shoppers glanced over at the commotion, then resumed their strolling with cool disinterest. At the servant’s nod, the raider turned Myra to show her backside then pried open her mouth. The man forcibly held open her unwilling jaws while the servant examined her teeth with as much interest could be expected when examining livestock.
The Itothian servant looked Myra over from head to toe, occasionally running a hand over the skin or threading her fingers through the long hair to part it different ways.
Myra, whose face had turned a deep crimson, seemed infinitely relieved when the man released her. She held herself still where she fell as the woman turned to her master with a firm nod. Louthe nodded back, and the servant faced the raider, producing a heavy coin purse from the folds of her robe.
“Master Louthe will take her.” The servant peered up at the raider expectantly.
The bald man seemed pleased at this announcement. “Forty gold pieces.” He eyed the purse with keen interest as if trying to judge how many coins lay within.
“Thirty,” said the servant, already counting the coins out.
The man’s face darkened. “This one is young. She will be good for many years. The price is firm.”
The servant’s lips drew into a thin line with poorly masked contempt. Meanwhile, Louth’s attention flew to the other captives. Every child averted their eyes, shrinking into themselves to avoid drawing attention. Dawyn, not so quick, made the mistake of meeting the woman’s steely gaze.
Louthe’s eyes took him in like pools of oil, grazing over every inch and leaving him shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Although over in a matter of seconds, the attention left him feeling tainted.
The servant abandoned negotiations at Louthe’s motion then listened attentively as her master whispered quiet words into her ear. Dawyn’s unease intensified at the sidelong glance from the two women.
The servant returned her attention to the raider barely keeping his impatience in check. “Forty for the girl”—the man’s expression grew pleased—“and twenty for him.”
The woman’s raised finger pointed directly at Dawyn. His breath caught even as his eyes darted to Louthe standing leisurely under the canopy already observing the other captives—she did not look at him.
“No, thirty for the boy. Nothing less.” The raider’s voice rose. He scowled—the muscles of his arms twitched as if he wanted to strike the woman before him.
The servant, not at all intimidated by a man twice her size, said, “Twenty. Master Louthe has been a loyal customer for years.” Exasperation cracked through her cool exterior as her voice rose to match the raider’s.
“The price is firm,” said the man, nearly shouting. His thin patience had worn through.
“Master Louthe!”
All eyes turned to the man approaching hastily. His golden eyes glittered with mirth and his lips pulled into a charming smile as if he was blind to the thick cloud of tension he walked into.
Dawyn stared openly, finding it strange to see Ae’lisian features on someone other than Thaleon and Aunt Aleth. Others stared too, and whispers rose as more captives noticed the golden-eyed man.
Hostile feelings brought on by the events of Darius’ Rebellion could not completely void the fascination most Itothians held towards Ae’lis. The stories of magnificent feats accomplished with their magic and the rarity of seeing one outside the isle led many Itothians—especially those from remote villages—to regard Ae’lisians as near-mythical beings.
The Ae’lisian wore clothing fine enough to rival Louthe’s although he seemed to prefer darker, heavier fabrics to bright silks. He placed himself between the agitated raider and Louthe’s party, placing a firm hand on the man’s chest.
Dawyn figured he would have placed his hand on the raider’s shoulder had he been tall enough, but the raider being unusually tall and the Ae’lisian being short by Itothian standards, he would have ended up standing on his tip-toes had he been so ambitious.
The raider could have beaten the smaller man to a pulp, but he backed off with a scowl and the Ae’lisian beamed as he turned to face Louthe. He placed his right hand over his chest and fell into an elaborate bow.
“Please forgive my employee. He is new and does not yet know our loyal customers.” The man’s hands spread in a placating gesture as his charming smile turned apologetic.
The raider stared at the man with ill-concealed contempt then walked off without another word. The Ae’lisian gave a regretful sigh and shot an apologetic look at Louthe.
“My apologies. You know how they are. They get the job done but can’t expect them to have manners too.” His smile went unreciprocated by Louthe whose expression remained haughty.
“Fifty for both the girl and the boy. For your troubles,” said the Ae’lisian.
The tension in the air eased. At Louthe’s nod, the servant began counting out the coins.
Dawyn braced himself for the same inspection Myra had endured, but the servant did not seem interested in repeating the process. Not knowing what it meant brought a sense of unease but he wasn’t going to ask to be displayed and examined so he kept his mouth shut and watched the coins exchange hands.
“Good doing business with you again,” the Ae’lisian said to Louthe’s back as she strolled away with the servants trailing after her. She stepped into her awaiting box and the six men lifted it into the air with well-practiced motions.
Two armed guards from Louthe’s party stepped forward with long pieces of rope. Dawyn held still as one secured the end of the rope to the bindings of his hands, effectively creating a leash. The other repeated the action to Myra.
The guards began trailing after Louthe, tugging at the ropes with enough force so Dawyn and Myra had to choose quickly between walking or being dragged behind.
Myra trailed after them, face hidden behind her long hair.
Dawyn cast hesitant glances at her slumped shoulders, then asked, “Are you okay?”
She did not answer.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. The tremors of his voice betrayed how frightened he felt.
She whirled.
Dawyn froze, stunned by the burning rage in her pretty eyes. Her whole body shook with it as she fixed him with a scathing glare.
“You really are dumb, aren’t you? Do you know what slaves have to do in Scyrta?” Her eyes raked him up and down. “Maybe you’ll be assigned to less exciting duties. You aren’t anything to look at.”
“Myra—”
They fell to their knees when the guards jerked their ropes. Dawyn tried to help Myra up in spite of his bound hands but she refused to look at him and rose awkwardly without his help. She stalked off, leaving him staring.
The man holding the end of his rope shot him a warning glare and Dawyn rose quickly, knees aching. He searched for the right words as he followed after Myra but the words refused to come, leaving him staring at her trembling shoulders.
7
“We should stop for the night,” said Laurits, peering out the window. The mage’s brows drew down as he surveyed the rapidly darkening road ahead surrounded by nothing but trees.
“I suppose we should,” said Cedrik, straightening in his seat.
The carriage rolled to a stop at a word from the nobleman.
“This is why I hate the country. No inns for miles around.” Laurits’ lips twisted in displeasure.
Cedrik chuckled. “Think of it as an opportunity to spend some time outdoors.”
“You know I hate the outdoors,” Laurits said as he left the carriage.
Thaleon sat up and grimaced as his body protested the sudden motion—the muscles of his neck and shoulders cramped painfully from being slumped in one position the entire ride.
Cedrik smiled at him. “You are awake.”
Thaleon blushed, embarrassed, as realization dawned he had slept the entire day away.
As if reading his thoughts, Cedrik said, “It’s normal for young mages to be fatigued after touching magic for the first time. It takes a lot out of you. Gets easier with time.” The nobleman motioned for Thaleon to follow as he exited the carriage.
The soldiers moved busily to set up camp. Laurits stood a bit to the side, one hand upturned and magic lifting off him. Orbs of white light emerged from his palm and floated off into the air like the paper lanterns people lit to celebrate harvest.
