Priestess of War (The Bowl of Souls Book 10), page 27
That was the time Blayne had decided it wasn’t worth keeping Palky pretty anymore. He was far too aggressive for them to sell him as a toy. Besides, elf skin had its own marketplace and they could carve that off a piece at a time. They had spells that would make it grow back, even if it did leave scars.
“If I was a bettin’ type, and I am,” Whian said as more of his companions arrived. “I’d say that there’s one insistent wizard that’s finally gonna get himself that elf ear tip he’s been askin’ fer.”
Whian tossed his glowtorch to one of the four dwarf smugglers that had come up the trail from camp. They were tough, stone-hearted dwarves with handlebar mustache’s and wide brimmed hats. Well, except for one.
“How’d he get outta his cage?” wondered Lenui Firegobbler nervously. The dwarf, still young enough that he hadn’t grown into his mustache, had only come into the camp with his cousin Donjon a week ago. He’d been the one who’d left the thick wire in Palky’s food that had allowed him to pick his lock.
“Don’t got no durn idea,” Whian said. “But we’ll let yer Uncle Blayne worry ’bout that. Here, take him back down and don’t friggin’ drop him! Idjit’s so frail, he likely to break his neck.”
“Yes, Boss,” Lenui said and laid the elf over his own shoulder.
Whian shouted at the others. “Right! The rest of us’ll go get us that oxbear that’s frozen inside. It’s gonna take us all to haul the thing down to the cages.”
Lenui trotted down the slope towards the dwarf camp below. “Dag-gum it, Palky! Blayne’ll have my arse fer dinner if he finds out I helped you! Don’t you be blabbin’.”
Lenui’s voice was worried, but he had nothing to worry about. There was no way Palky was blabbing that little secret. If he was lucky, he’d be able to convince the young dwarf to do it again.
“Gonna talk to my momma ’bout this,” the young dwarf muttered. “Ain’t right. Animals’re one thing. But this . . ? Listen, elf. I’ll try one more time, but only after Blayne’s calmed himself down.”
Palky tried to take comfort in that despite the terrible punishment that was about to happen . . .
. . . In the slave markets of the orc city of Khulbath blood slavery was forbidden. Yet those who knew how to look could find it. A hidden corner of the markets where only the darkest and most perverse dared tread.
Now a slave of over two hundred years, Palky was stretched out on display, spread-eagled and immobilized, his arms and legs chained to the wall behind him. His sellers kept him there for one hour each night, naked accept for a gag in his mouth that kept him from shouting obscenities at prospective buyers. His current owners had found it difficult to sell him, not because of his scars or the missing tip of his right ear. It was the unending hatred in his eyes.
One night, a buyer approached and asked for a closer look. He was a tall man with an intense face, his body hidden beneath a gray cloak. The sellers allowed it, but only because interest had been so low.
“What is this slave’s name?” he asked them.
“Palky,” one seller, an orc who wore a patch over one eye, replied.
The man nodded slowly and walked up close to the elf, inspecting him in the manner of someone well versed in the slave trade. As he did so, he leaned in close. His eyes were kind. “Your name is not Palky. You are Lyramoor of the Pruball Elves. You were stolen long ago, but your people never forgot you. This is your last night as a slave.”
With that, Sabre Vlad turned away. He waved a dismissive hand at the sellers. “This one is too damaged for my uses . . .”
He took one step past the disappointed orc. Then in one smooth motion, he drew his sabre and spun, hacking the orc completely in two. Several other nearby sellers cried out in alarm, rousing the guards, but it didn’t matter. Vlad was soon joined by other Academy warriors and the members of the Khalpany’s royal guard that had hired them for this raid.
It was a bloodbath. Some few crafty smugglers got away, but most of them were either cut down or captured by the guards. The black market was shut down. No doubt another one would replace it soon enough, but for this night Khalpany’s King could claim a victory.
Palky watched the slavers fall with fevered eyes. He exulted. His moment of freedom was finally at hand, but Sabre Vlad’s promise of reuniting the elf with people he didn’t remember held no appeal to Palky. What he wanted was this. He wanted to fight . . .
Lyramoor’s mind briefly returned to the present. Disoriented, immobilized, and unable to see, he strained and struggled against the soft, but unyielding mass of the clay that surrounded him. Panicking, he hyperventilated, sucking air madly through the tiny hole the golem had left open to his mouth. The clay golem continued on, half rolling, half waddling as it made its slow way through the mountain passes.
Finally, with his body tired, Lyramoor’s crazed mind drifted away again. His thoughts flitted back and forth through more of the past horrible memories he’d repressed. There were many. Taken from his people at the age of five, he’d spent near two centuries enslaved. Not all of it had been as awful as that first dwarf camp or that last slave market but some of it had been worse.
In the time he’d spent as a slave, he’d been passed from owner to owner and smuggler to smuggler, all with the same purpose. Keeping him alive to harvest his blood magic. In the decades since Sabre Vlad had helped him gain his freedom, his nights were often filled by horrible dreams where he was still a slave. He greeted the rise of each new morning with the same firm thought.
Never again . . .
Cassandra rolled the large stone door to the side and let the misshapen form of the clay golem hobble inside. The magical construct was only half its original size and fit easily into the empty entryway. It was filthy with rocks, twigs, dirt, and other rubbish stuck to it.
She sent a wave of air magic over the thing, causing the debris to clatter to the floor around it. “Vastyr! Come clean this mess!”
The pampered slave walked over with a sigh and a broom. “Oh, it’s back.”
“It is,” she replied as she urged the golem to make its way through the open doorway.
She had not been pleased with the results of that most recent battle with the ogre tribe. Her golems were powerful creations and should have done much more damage to the tribe. Nevertheless, her plan had worked. The stone golem was to crush and destroy the enemy, creating confusion so that the clay golem could capture its target for her interrogation. There had been a short list. The only question was which target did the golem retrieve? She hadn’t been able to tell.
Her connection with the wraith beneath the black lake allowed her control over each and every single larvae it commanded. Unfortunately, despite her centuries of experience in controlling inferior creatures, the Priestess of War did not have the immense mental capacity that the Troll Queen had once commanded. There was no way she could keep track of them all at once.
In addition, their abilities to sense their surroundings were very basic. Though she was able to see some things from the eyes of the dead that the larvae inhabited, it turned out that the dead had horrible eyesight. This was why she had sent her hounds on the previous attack. Perhaps she should have done so again, despite having so few left.
Cassandra guided it to the rear of the great room where her implements of torture were kept. This was going to be fun. Raj rose from his place in front of the fire and paced next to the ponderous golem, sniffing at it as it made its way. A low growl issued from his throat.
“Do you know who it is?” she asked the striped lupero, scratching its head.
Vastyr returned from the entryway and leaned the broom against the wall before retrieving the glass of wine he had left on the fireplace mantle. He took a sip as he watched the clay golem roll up to the wall next to Cassandra’s workbench.
Swirling his glass, the elf asked in mild curiosity, “Does it have the wizard?”
“I do not believe so,” Cassandra replied. The clay golem had made its capture just before the powerful magical strike that had destroyed the rock golem. That meant it was likely one of the other defenders of the ogre camp.
“What have you brought me? Hmm?” She caressed the outside of the clay golem’s structure.
Not the rock giant or the rogue horse. They were too large for the golem’s current size. Perhaps the ogre mage or the gnome archer. She hoped it was the gnome archer. Cassandra had always enjoyed the challenge of breaking the mind of a gnome and the warriors were easy to command once they were broken. She would have it firing against its own companions soon enough.
She stretched out her hand and the golem pressed up against the wall, spreading itself out so that the outline of its captive began to show. It was in a fetal position. Too small for the ogre or gnome. So one of the two warriors. Indeed, it still held a sword in one hand.
Cassandra splayed her fingers and pushed out with her palm. The golem responded, the clay contracting as it forced its captive to move. The prisoner was turned to face her, its legs and arms splayed. She swiped her hand to the side and the clay around the captive’s face peeled to the side.
“Ah, so it’s you,” Cassandra said as a scarred and wild-eyed face was revealed. The captive let out the scream of a caged beast, then took deep breaths, his eyes darting around the room.
Raj growled. This was the half-elf that had murdered so many of its pack mates. Cassandra shushed the animal.
“Ugh,” Vastyr said dismissively, taking another sip from his wine. “A half-elf. And he’s ugly.”
“I don’t agree,” she said, gazing with interest at the ear that was missing its upper half, the chunk out of his left nostril, and the puckered scar that in some ways mirrored her own, stretching from just under his right eye to his upper lip. “He is beautiful. Battle has proven him.”
Cassandra switched to mage sight. The half-elf went blurry, making her unable to see anything within him. His sword, though, glowed a dull blue. Interesting. She switched to spirit sight. An earring on his intact ear glowed white and there was something else at his waist. Something distorted by the golem’s flesh.
“Who are you?” she wondered.
“I am the one who will kill you,” he replied, his lip curled with hatred. “Vampire.”
“Me?” she said, her good eye widening slightly in surprise.
“I can see it in you, that elf blood!” he snarled. “It’s coursing through your veins. Feeding you. You disgust me.”
“Silence!” shouted Vastyr, storming forward. The servant slapped the half-elf across the face. “Don’t you dare mock her, you weevil!”
Cassandra grasped Vastyr’s robes, jerking him back from the prisoner. “Fool! Remember your place!”
The elf looked down. “Sorry, Priestess. I could not bear to hear this ugly thing speak to you like tha-.”
“Enough! Sit. Calm yourself!” she ordered. Obediently, the elf moved to the front of her throne and sat on the rug in front of it, his wineglass held tightly in his lap.
“Yeah, plaything!” said the prisoner, his voice filled with venom. “I see what you are too! An obedient cow. Sit there, content to obey the owner that’s eating you alive.” Vastyr did not respond and the half elf sneered. “That’s right. Chew your cud, you lickspittle!”
Cassandra approached the vociferous prisoner. She was unused to being yelled at, but his insults did not provoke her. They perked her interest. His attitude told her so much about him.
“Can you really see the elf blood in my veins?” she asked softly, leaning in to look at him closer. “Do you have the gift of blood sight? That’s rare, even among elves. Is it a remnant of the elven side of your heritage?”
Realizing he had given too much away with his outburst, he clamped his mouth shut. A smile curled the edges of her lips.
“Perhaps you are a crusader? One that frees slaves? But if that’s the case, what are you doing here in these mountains with a base tribe of ogres?” Sensing what was coming, Cassandra brought up a screen of air just in time to catch the glob of spittle that he spat at her face. She snorted, letting the saliva fall to the floor. “Do you know who I am? Why I’m here?”
He said nothing, simply glaring at her with seething hatred.
“Yes. You know something,” she decided.
A suspicion hit her. She made a line with her finger and the clay parted down the center, exposing his torso. He wore scalemail over a light chainmail shirt. A leather weapon sash filled with throwing knives crossed his chest. The armor wasn’t magical, but its appearance was quite familiar.
“You are from the Dremaldrian Battle Academy,” she decided. “A scout? Here to provide information to the approaching army?”
He said nothing, spitting impotently again. She reached out with blades of air magic and cut the sash from him. The scalemail followed, as did the chain and the undershirt he wore beneath it.
Her breath caught at the sheer number of scars that crisscrossed his body. They exceeded even hers. Even more interestingly, she recognized the nature of many of them.
“No,” she said in fascination and her vision switched to blood sight. His body pulsed with life and she knew the truth instantly. “You are no half-elf.”
Vastyr stood and looked closer, his eyes widening in sudden understanding. “This is one of the unwilling!”
“Yes. An escaped blood slave, once owned by dwarf smugglers by the look of it,” Cassandra said. “How fascinating. To go from that to being trained by the Battle Academy? What a difficult life you must have led.”
She ran a fingernail across several of his scars. “Oh, they harvested your skin for potions didn’t they? Then instead of healing you with magic, they just sewed you up? Unusual. They must have done that as a punishment. Were you a naughty slave?”
The ex-slave said nothing, but grinned at her wolfishly.
“I’d say you were a repeat escapee. Otherwise this wouldn’t have happened.” She ran her hand across his chest stopping on a pitted scar where his nipple should have been. “How exotic. And I see you’re missing the tip of one ear. I know of a wizard that requests these kinds of parts, but the dwarves usually decline. They don’t like to leave their livestock maimed.”
The grin remained frozen on his face, but she could tell she had stricken a nerve. This explained his fervor towards Vastyr.
“These other scars, though.” Cassandra fingered several thin lines that appeared over the locations of vital organs in his body. “I have many of these types of scars myself. The results of surgeries. And done with practiced hands. Do they mark the locations of magical baubles that you have had implanted? Hmm. Is that why I cannot see inside of you with my mage sight?”
He growled and her grin widened. “My, what a fascinating morsel you are. And to think I was disappointed when you arrived. You are going to tell me so much.”
“You ain’t learning anything from me!” he vowed. “There ain’t a pain you can give me that I ain’t felt before a hundred blasted times over. If the dwarves couldn’t make me, neither can you! Even your spirit magic won’t work on me. It don’t matter how strong you are.”
“You seem confident,” she replied and felt him out with her bewitching magic. Strange. He seemed impenetrable. “So you have baubles for that too. How strange, considering the ban on spirit magic the last two hundred years.”
“You think that ban mattered to the dwarf smugglers or the dark wizards that kept me in their dungeons? No, I protected myself from everything,” he declared. “Not even your maggots work. My protection keeps your evil magic out. The minute they try to dig into my skin, they can’t hear it anymore. They just become regular bugs again. I already tried it out just to make sure.”
She didn’t let her disappointment show. If he was correct about the nature of his protection, then that was true. Piercing his soul wouldn’t matter if the wraith couldn’t command the larvae within him. No matter. She could always try throwing him in the lake later. Perhaps the combined attacks of thousands of larvae would be more than his petty defenses could handle.
Besides, that was just one angle. “And what would stop me from simply removing the baubles you so eagerly had implanted?”
“Because when I had ’em put those ‘baubles’ inside me, I had ’em put them in such away, that it’d kill me if somebody tried to get ’em out.” The elf laughed. “But go ahead. I’d rather die than spend this time with you anyway.”
Vastyr snorted. “He lies. No one would be that determined. No matter how unwilling!”
“Two hundred years a slave,” he said, spitting again, this time in Vastyr’s direction. To the servant’s disgust, it landed on the hem of his pants. The ex slave licked his lips. “Never again.”
His determination was indeed formidable. Cassandra shook her head. She was confident that she could use her magic to reverse any process that a surgeon could have done. Unfortunately, extracting the devices inside him would be quite difficult if she couldn’t decipher where they were in the first place. She had nothing but those scars to guide her and there were so many . . . How clever of him.
“Not all of your baubles are hidden,” she said. Her spirit magic showed them clearly. “This one for instance.”
Cassandra lashed out with a blade of air and the hoop earring in his pointed ear fell to the floor, cut in half. The magic in the earring fluttered and dissipated, the spirit of the animal bound to it freed. Blood dripped from the slice in his earlobe, running down his shoulder.
The ex-slave slumped in relief. “Thank you! I was worried about that one. Now my friends will think I’m dead. None of ’em will try to come and rescue me.” His wolfish grin returned. “And that means I have you all to myself. As soon as I get outta this thing, you’re dead.”
Cassandra gritted her teeth as she realized that she had indeed played into his hands. To make matters more complicated, the blood dripping from his ear was making her mouth water. She wondered how this driven elf would feel about becoming her blood slave? Perhaps that was why he was provoking her. Maybe he would rather die.
