Final Part
Thran, Part Five
Sixteen. Thran had been paired a dozen times, producing six children that had already been sold away. He had grown into one of his master’s best stock - tall and strong of body, good constitution, little to no illness and intelligent. He was good with the animals and in the fields and could work independently without fear of him running. He took little to discipline. After the incident with Rilia, Thran had found himself totally impotent against his surroundings. His situation may have been better with Master Ilios, but the brutality of his former master was no different than the quiet mistreatment of the women and girls that was undertaken by the master’s son, Torthas. Thran watched the elf continue to use his status to prey on the servitude of Rilia and the others.
The spring calves were a month old and Thran had been busy branding them. Master Ilios had sold most of the heard the fall before, making a huge profit that everyone had benefited from through the winter months. Karn had put him in charge of birthing and raising twenty calves. It was a task that he had not minded, being able to taste a bit of freedom from the barracks for a full two weeks. Of course, it meant sleeping in the barn once again, but since he had it all to himself, he did not mind the solitude.
As he tied down another calf, he glanced back at the main house as Rilia and another younger girl carried service trays from the servants’ porch to the cook building. Though only a few years older than he, she appeared to have white hair and her face was deeply lined with wrinkles and scars. She barely looked at him anymore, becoming more of a ghost of herself as the months passed by. There was even talk that madness had touched her mind. Thran could remember her softness, her kind eyes and hands on him from those long ago years.
Taking the iron from the fire, he bent and pressed the brand into the calf’s hind leg then quickly dipped his fingers in a thick salve and spread it over the wound. Releasing the leather strap, he smacked the calf on its rear and turned back to the fire to stoke it. Rilia was standing alone, her face drawn and pale. He watched her as he worked, his eyes hardening as he watched Torthas walk up behind her and push her towards the barracks. It was no different than his treatment to any of the others, and certainly no different than any other time, but Thran hated to have stand aside and do nothing. He tried to stamp down the anger as he could not help but to watch. Even as Rilia walked the elf taunted her, pushed and hit her. It was a brutal cycle that was played out over again on a daily basis and Master Ilios cared nothing about his son’s behavior.
Turning away, Thran went back to the calves and took another by the neck to guide it to the fire. Strapping it down, he stoked the fire once more, ensuring the brand was hot enough. Between the bleating of the calf, he heard Rilia screaming and his mind clouded with hate for the elf. Pressing the brand into the calf’s hind leg, he smeared on the salve and let it go. Shoving the brand back into the fire, he wiped the sweat from his brow and tucked his hair back behind his ears. Everything was silent and his heart stilled. Taking in a deep breath, he saw Torthas stop at the side of the barracks to remove a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe at his face. Slowly, the elf’s mouth broke in a smile as he walked towards the main house, making sure that Thran saw him and the gore that covered his shirt. At the sight of Rilia’s blood, he went wild and jumped over the fencing and ran at full sprint at the elf.
An inhuman cry fell from his mouth as Thran grabbed Torthas by the front of the shirt and threw him to the ground. As fast and as hard as he could, he hit the elf over and over in the face and body before Karn and the others got to him. He felt blood on his knuckles and the crunch of bone and it sent him into a frenzied state. Three men yanked him back and away from the elf. His mind sped back to Rilia and he fought and struggled until he was free and ran back to the barracks to find the door of the single chamber cracked open. Peeking inside, he saw her on the bed, her body bloody and her right hand still cuffed to the wall. She had struggled against his brutality and had paid the price for her insolence against Torthas.
Gently, he unlatched the cuff and placed her arms at her sides. Wrapping her in the single blanket of the bed, he lifted her body and held it tight against him. Walking out of the chamber, he saw that most of the other slaves had gathered and were watching him with horrified faces. The men had dragged Torthas to his feet and the elf was walking towards him with a club in his hand. Karn was right behind the elf, the man’s face full of a mix of concern and disdain. Looking down at Rilia’s lifeless face, Thran felt his whole body shaking with anger. Karn rounded the elf and slipped his hands under the girl’s body.
“Let go, boy,” he whispered, looking directly into Thran’s eyes. “Let her go now.”
“I know what I’ve done,” Thran said in a firm tone, “and I have no regret. Tend to her, will you?”
Karn nodded as he let the body go. Balling his hands into tight fists, Thran stood to his full height with his face hard and his eyes distant. Torthas seethed as he slammed the club into Thran’s shoulder. He bit into his tongue so that he would not cry out in fury. The elf brought down the club again, this time against his ribs. As he slumped forward, Torthas struck him across the face, sending him into the dirt.
Torthas laughed as he wiped the blood from his mouth. “Take him back to the barn. Tie him down with the calves’ strap.”
The men hesitated for only moments before they grabbed him and dragged him towards the barn. He heard Torthas order the others to resume their work and the sound of Karn shouting made him slump further in the men’s grasp. He decided at that moment that he was not going to give the elf the satisfaction that Rilia had given him - he was not going to give in to the pain, no matter what was done to him. All he could see was her bloodied face and broken body. Her beautiful dark hair that had grown so long and silky had been matted against her face and head. He felt his body being thrown down and he winced, but stifled a grunt. He would remain silent, no matter what was done to him.
Torthas leaned low, his black eyes were hard and threatening, but Thran just looked at him, no emotion on his face. “If you’re little bitch would’ve just listened to me, she’d be alive now,” the elf taunted, his words snaking out of his mouth that was stretched in an evil twist.
A tear slid down his cheek, but Thran showed nothing of the anger that boiled under his skin. The elf’s face was bruised and bloodied from his attack. He favored his right side and Thran knew that he had caused damage to his ribs and possibly even his innards. As the elf beat upon him, he allowed his mind to wander away, to green fields and tall trees with blue skies and puffy white clouds. Rilia was there, her hair being carried wildly on the wind all around her face and she was smiling at him. He whispered her name and it broke on his mouth as the elf’s rage intensified and the blows grew all the more harsh. Returning to himself for only moments, he saw that Torthas was all the more enraged by his lack of reaction. The elf had fallen back, looking around wildly. Through his swollen eyes, he saw Karn standing to the side of the fence; the man’s face a tangle of emotion. He shook his head just as he had when he had put Thran onto the whipping pole. Swallowing, he knew he had to remain conscious or Torthas would win. He could not live with that - not after killing Rilia who had meant no harm to anyone.
“No!” Karn called out with his hand outstretched towards the elf.
“Shut your mouth or you’ll have the same,” Torthas warned through clenched teeth. Thran caught the sight of the hot brand as it came close, just above his left shoulder. Torthas tore open his shirt and glared down at him. “This will remind you that you are nothing more than a slave, you bastard.”
The elf pressed the brand down onto Thran’s chest and he sucked his breath in against the pain. He wanted to scream, he wanted to grab the Master’s son and choke the life from him, he wanted to run. Instead, he bared his teeth and swallowed the pain and anger and rage that filled his soul at that moment. When the brand was lifted away, he looked deep into the elf’s eyes. Torthas backed away from him, dropping the iron from sheer exhaustion. Voices were calling out and Thran tried to remain focused on the elf, tried to block everything out. Karn was suddenly behind him, lifting him and smearing the salve that he put on the cattle across his chest. The scalding and burning made him shiver and threatened to make him pass out. Pushing off of Karn, he made himself to stand when Master Ilios appeared at the fence line. The Master’s face was twisted with fury as he took in the scene.
“Confine him to the barracks,” he ordered Karn as he shoved his son towards the main house. “Then we will talk.”
“Yes, sir,” Karn answered quietly, taking Thran by the shoulders.
He was in a complete daze as he shuffled towards the barracks. Everyone was watching him, everyone was whispering about what he had done and the certainty of his death. Karn opened the door for him and the warmth of the large chamber made him gag. The lead helped him down on his cot and lay down. For a long moment, the man just looked at him, shaking his head.
“What were you thinking, boy?” he asked finally, rubbing his eyes.
“He killed her, Karn. What right does he have-“
“Every right, Thran! He had every right as the Master, don’t you understand that by now! You are such a fool. What point does it have? I told you that Master Ilios was fair, as long as you did your work. He will kill you for what you’ve done, Thran. Worse, he’s going to make me do it.”
Thran watched dimly as the man walked from the barracks. He knew it was true, everything that Karn had said. But it did not need to be so. Rilia did not have to die for the cruel whim of that damned elf - master or not. Closing his eyes, his whole body buzzed with pain but he did not care. He could only see her in her final moments, so totally tormented that it must have been so much more easy to just give in than it had to put up with Torthas’ brutality all of those years.
The following days and weeks were blurry. Karn had returned hours later, exhausted and not willing to say much except to say that Thran would be given up in the spring sacrifices to the war. He had to stay within the confines of the barracks and he was forbidden to speak to anyone with the exception of Karn. Thran did not care, either way. He was happy that Karn did not have to kill him, but he wondered how quickly he would die on the battlefield. On his last night at the plantation, Karn told him that he would be going to sea - as would all of the slaves from the region. The Northern Phodien Fleet needed fighters and crew. Any slaves put up for the spring sacrifice were going straight to the fleet. Thran had never seen the sea, let alone set foot on a ship. Karn would take him as far as Gaetelynn and from there he would be taken with the other slaves of the area to Interlachen, the Mirantinquen capital.
Karn had mumbled something as he applied more salve to Thran’s wound, that he doubted that he was ever going to heal. Thran had begun getting the fever and his arm was sore all of the time. In the morning, Karn retrieved him from the barracks and he sat down in the same cart that he had arrived in. He had no one to say goodbye too, not that anyone of them cared. He kept his eyes on the floorboards of the cart the length of the fields, not wanting to look upon the rolling fields of crop and animals. The two day ride to Gaetelynn was quiet and instead of the south side of the city, Karn took them to the northern end. Nearly two hundred male slaves were corralled, most young, good working stock. Thran looked dully at them as he jumped off the back of the cart. Karn glanced at him while Master Ilios had left to speak to the officer in charge.
“Thran,” the lead said in a lowered voice, his face turned away so as not to cause attention. “You should know that Torthas is entering the services as well. Master Ilios finally has tired of his son’s appetites. I overheard Ilios saying that Torthas will be an officer somewhere in the fleet.”
He looked across the tangle of bodies and nodded, his face hard and his eyes narrow against the sunlight. Exhaling at the possibilities, he licked at his lips. “You tended to her?”
“Yes. I tended to her.”
“Thank you.”
Maser Ilios waved at the officer that stood at the gate and Thran was pulled to the other side of the heavy fencing. His left arm throbbed and he felt hot and cold and shivered. He turned and watched as the cart rolled out of sight. Leaning against metal of the fence, he closed his eyes and rested with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He felt himself fall into the dust of the ground and no one bothered to pick him up. He did not move until they were shoved from the massive pen and forced to walk. There was laughter at his condition and scoffs that anyone not strong enough to make the walk to Interlachen would be left for dead, or killed while trying to die. Thran shuffled his way through the days that stretched into weeks. He was given minimal food and water. He was not attended to and his arm hung to his side. He spoke to no one and no one attempted to speak to him, let alone look at him.
So many died in their tracks along the march - many were too ill and many were too frightened by the fear of battle to move and thus were killed by the guards. Thran’s mind was in fragments, knowing that he must walk to survive, although survival was not what he wanted or cared for. He saw Rilia walking beside him so many times, he thought that perhaps he was dead and this was punishment in his afterlife was to walk without end. Finally, there were cries of relief when the huge city came into view. Thran burned with fever by the time he reached the end of the journey. He collapsed when they stopped and lay in the dirt for a long time. At some point, he felt himself being lifted by the shoulders and feet and moved under a cover. He slept for days on the ground and someone had covered him with a blanket.
A cool breeze swept across his face and Thran woke to the sound of fabric snapping in the wind. His eyes did not want to open at first and he had to fight to clear his vison. He lay on a hard, narrow cot with a thin blanket covering him. Heavy canvas drapes were stretched across to provide shade to shade a small field. He watched as the canvas swayed above him and felt as if his mind was gone. He could hear voices and speech all around him, but he could not bring himself to look across at the rows of cots from the ill and wounded of the march. He only wanted to look at the edge of the canvas and the small flashes of blue sky beyond.
“There you are, lad,” a gravely voice replied from a distance. “Lithan - the boy in the corner if you please.”
A young man’s face with sharp green eyes appeared over him. He placed a hand on Thran’s forehead and cheek. “Fever’s gone,” he called over his shoulder.
The young man’s dark brown hair was closely clipped to his scalp and his face was clean shaven. He was tall, just as Thran was, but was bulkier, with a lean fighter’s frame. He was dressed in what looked like a simple uniform - white linen shirt, black dyed breeches, high, hard leather boots and the familiar slave band on left arm. A middle-aged man appeared next to the younger man who appeared to wear the same uniform. He had a wide face and large brown eyes. His hair was salt and pepper gray and also clipped close to the scalp. His face was warm and his smile genuine, reminding Thran much of Rilia the first time he had seen her.
“What’s your name, boy?” the elder asked as he pulled the blanket back and pulled at the bandages on his chest.
“Thran,” he answered quietly.
“Formal name?” the man asked, his eyes hard as he studied the band.
Thran shook his head and bit his lip. “I - I don’t know what you mean.”
He smiled again and looked into Thran’s face. “It’s all right. Not many of us have actual formal names. Let’s see, where is the region that you were from… Around Gaetelynn?”
“I think I was close to the village of Nutte,” Thran said, keeping his voice quiet and respectful.
The younger man grinned and chuckled. “How about Pynute, father?”
Thran’s brow pinched at the word father. It was illegal for slaves to have family and address each other as such the young man had done. The elder patted him on his right shoulder, soothing him.
“Pynute. For one so strong I think the name would be both fitting and ominous,” the elder replied. Seeing Thran’s confusion, he looked him in the eye and continued. “It is a Salacean word - Pynute means ‘killing arm’. It drives them crazy when we choose words of their enemy for our names.
“I am Sergeant in Arms Dovran Tounstra and that over there is Sergeant Lithan Jerican. Oh, if you’re wondering, Tounstra means ‘healer man’ and Jerican is simply ‘soldier’.”
Thran smiled at him, liking his easy manner. Lithan had wandered off and was checking another man. “He called you ‘father’.”
“He may not be my blood, but he’s mine. Good boy, Lithan is. Been watching out for him since he was eleven. Ah, let’s see, that would make some nine years now, nearly ten. I guess he figures he owes me somehow. To tell the truth, I don’t mind being his father,” Dovran replied as he wiped at the brand gently. Clearing his throat, he leaned back. “Whatever they put on your wound went rancid and poisoned your blood, Thran. What was it, the same dung they put on the cattle?”
Thran felt the tips of his ears turn red under the man’s gaze. Nodding, he bit the inside of his cheek. “I think Karn was just trying to help.”
He softened and patted him again on the shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Lithan - place Thran on the list for the Avaria, will you please? I think Thran may belong with us.”
Lithan went to a ledger and wrote on the heavy parchment. Thran was amazed further by the action. These men were not ordinary slaves. They were educated and clean and officers in the Mirantinquen army. From all the stories that he had heard about being in the army, slaves were treated worse than on the plantations and in the cities. These men were far different from what he had pictured on the march. He envisioned starvation and then forced death by enemy blades. These men were warriors and leaders of men. They were not impotent against their situation.
“Thank you, sir,” he whispered as Dovran handed him a small cup of fragrant liquid.
“Drink this down. It’ll help you rest,” the elder replied warmly. “Call me Dovran, please. I believe that you and I will make for good friends, Thran. Get some rest now and we’ll talk some more later.”
For the first time he felt like the man’s words were genuine and meant to be kind, not just words to be said and not felt. They would be great friends, this Thran knew for sure. Pulling the blanket up, he watched as Dovran and Lithan walked towards the other side of the makeshift hospital. He felt safe with them, a feeling that he had only with Rilia. The thought of her made him feel pensive and sad. He had tried to banish his final sight of her laying dead and so badly broken from his mind. He tried to keep a hold of the face that he had seen that very first time close to him. She was already becoming a fuzzy mangle of thoughts and moments that was too hard to focus on and control and every time he thought of her, it was that last moment covered in her gore and pain. Looking back at the canvas cover and how it pulled taunt and released in the breeze, he steeled himself against his memory of her and promised that he would not accept himself as normal. He would fight in his life; push, shove, kill just to survive. He wanted to be as Dovran and Lithan, able to survive and make themselves more than what was expected.
Sixteen. Thran had been paired a dozen times, producing six children that had already been sold away. He had grown into one of his master’s best stock - tall and strong of body, good constitution, little to no illness and intelligent. He was good with the animals and in the fields and could work independently without fear of him running. He took little to discipline. After the incident with Rilia, Thran had found himself totally impotent against his surroundings. His situation may have been better with Master Ilios, but the brutality of his former master was no different than the quiet mistreatment of the women and girls that was undertaken by the master’s son, Torthas. Thran watched the elf continue to use his status to prey on the servitude of Rilia and the others.
The spring calves were a month old and Thran had been busy branding them. Master Ilios had sold most of the heard the fall before, making a huge profit that everyone had benefited from through the winter months. Karn had put him in charge of birthing and raising twenty calves. It was a task that he had not minded, being able to taste a bit of freedom from the barracks for a full two weeks. Of course, it meant sleeping in the barn once again, but since he had it all to himself, he did not mind the solitude.
As he tied down another calf, he glanced back at the main house as Rilia and another younger girl carried service trays from the servants’ porch to the cook building. Though only a few years older than he, she appeared to have white hair and her face was deeply lined with wrinkles and scars. She barely looked at him anymore, becoming more of a ghost of herself as the months passed by. There was even talk that madness had touched her mind. Thran could remember her softness, her kind eyes and hands on him from those long ago years.
Taking the iron from the fire, he bent and pressed the brand into the calf’s hind leg then quickly dipped his fingers in a thick salve and spread it over the wound. Releasing the leather strap, he smacked the calf on its rear and turned back to the fire to stoke it. Rilia was standing alone, her face drawn and pale. He watched her as he worked, his eyes hardening as he watched Torthas walk up behind her and push her towards the barracks. It was no different than his treatment to any of the others, and certainly no different than any other time, but Thran hated to have stand aside and do nothing. He tried to stamp down the anger as he could not help but to watch. Even as Rilia walked the elf taunted her, pushed and hit her. It was a brutal cycle that was played out over again on a daily basis and Master Ilios cared nothing about his son’s behavior.
Turning away, Thran went back to the calves and took another by the neck to guide it to the fire. Strapping it down, he stoked the fire once more, ensuring the brand was hot enough. Between the bleating of the calf, he heard Rilia screaming and his mind clouded with hate for the elf. Pressing the brand into the calf’s hind leg, he smeared on the salve and let it go. Shoving the brand back into the fire, he wiped the sweat from his brow and tucked his hair back behind his ears. Everything was silent and his heart stilled. Taking in a deep breath, he saw Torthas stop at the side of the barracks to remove a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe at his face. Slowly, the elf’s mouth broke in a smile as he walked towards the main house, making sure that Thran saw him and the gore that covered his shirt. At the sight of Rilia’s blood, he went wild and jumped over the fencing and ran at full sprint at the elf.
An inhuman cry fell from his mouth as Thran grabbed Torthas by the front of the shirt and threw him to the ground. As fast and as hard as he could, he hit the elf over and over in the face and body before Karn and the others got to him. He felt blood on his knuckles and the crunch of bone and it sent him into a frenzied state. Three men yanked him back and away from the elf. His mind sped back to Rilia and he fought and struggled until he was free and ran back to the barracks to find the door of the single chamber cracked open. Peeking inside, he saw her on the bed, her body bloody and her right hand still cuffed to the wall. She had struggled against his brutality and had paid the price for her insolence against Torthas.
Gently, he unlatched the cuff and placed her arms at her sides. Wrapping her in the single blanket of the bed, he lifted her body and held it tight against him. Walking out of the chamber, he saw that most of the other slaves had gathered and were watching him with horrified faces. The men had dragged Torthas to his feet and the elf was walking towards him with a club in his hand. Karn was right behind the elf, the man’s face full of a mix of concern and disdain. Looking down at Rilia’s lifeless face, Thran felt his whole body shaking with anger. Karn rounded the elf and slipped his hands under the girl’s body.
“Let go, boy,” he whispered, looking directly into Thran’s eyes. “Let her go now.”
“I know what I’ve done,” Thran said in a firm tone, “and I have no regret. Tend to her, will you?”
Karn nodded as he let the body go. Balling his hands into tight fists, Thran stood to his full height with his face hard and his eyes distant. Torthas seethed as he slammed the club into Thran’s shoulder. He bit into his tongue so that he would not cry out in fury. The elf brought down the club again, this time against his ribs. As he slumped forward, Torthas struck him across the face, sending him into the dirt.
Torthas laughed as he wiped the blood from his mouth. “Take him back to the barn. Tie him down with the calves’ strap.”
The men hesitated for only moments before they grabbed him and dragged him towards the barn. He heard Torthas order the others to resume their work and the sound of Karn shouting made him slump further in the men’s grasp. He decided at that moment that he was not going to give the elf the satisfaction that Rilia had given him - he was not going to give in to the pain, no matter what was done to him. All he could see was her bloodied face and broken body. Her beautiful dark hair that had grown so long and silky had been matted against her face and head. He felt his body being thrown down and he winced, but stifled a grunt. He would remain silent, no matter what was done to him.
Torthas leaned low, his black eyes were hard and threatening, but Thran just looked at him, no emotion on his face. “If you’re little bitch would’ve just listened to me, she’d be alive now,” the elf taunted, his words snaking out of his mouth that was stretched in an evil twist.
A tear slid down his cheek, but Thran showed nothing of the anger that boiled under his skin. The elf’s face was bruised and bloodied from his attack. He favored his right side and Thran knew that he had caused damage to his ribs and possibly even his innards. As the elf beat upon him, he allowed his mind to wander away, to green fields and tall trees with blue skies and puffy white clouds. Rilia was there, her hair being carried wildly on the wind all around her face and she was smiling at him. He whispered her name and it broke on his mouth as the elf’s rage intensified and the blows grew all the more harsh. Returning to himself for only moments, he saw that Torthas was all the more enraged by his lack of reaction. The elf had fallen back, looking around wildly. Through his swollen eyes, he saw Karn standing to the side of the fence; the man’s face a tangle of emotion. He shook his head just as he had when he had put Thran onto the whipping pole. Swallowing, he knew he had to remain conscious or Torthas would win. He could not live with that - not after killing Rilia who had meant no harm to anyone.
“No!” Karn called out with his hand outstretched towards the elf.
“Shut your mouth or you’ll have the same,” Torthas warned through clenched teeth. Thran caught the sight of the hot brand as it came close, just above his left shoulder. Torthas tore open his shirt and glared down at him. “This will remind you that you are nothing more than a slave, you bastard.”
The elf pressed the brand down onto Thran’s chest and he sucked his breath in against the pain. He wanted to scream, he wanted to grab the Master’s son and choke the life from him, he wanted to run. Instead, he bared his teeth and swallowed the pain and anger and rage that filled his soul at that moment. When the brand was lifted away, he looked deep into the elf’s eyes. Torthas backed away from him, dropping the iron from sheer exhaustion. Voices were calling out and Thran tried to remain focused on the elf, tried to block everything out. Karn was suddenly behind him, lifting him and smearing the salve that he put on the cattle across his chest. The scalding and burning made him shiver and threatened to make him pass out. Pushing off of Karn, he made himself to stand when Master Ilios appeared at the fence line. The Master’s face was twisted with fury as he took in the scene.
“Confine him to the barracks,” he ordered Karn as he shoved his son towards the main house. “Then we will talk.”
“Yes, sir,” Karn answered quietly, taking Thran by the shoulders.
He was in a complete daze as he shuffled towards the barracks. Everyone was watching him, everyone was whispering about what he had done and the certainty of his death. Karn opened the door for him and the warmth of the large chamber made him gag. The lead helped him down on his cot and lay down. For a long moment, the man just looked at him, shaking his head.
“What were you thinking, boy?” he asked finally, rubbing his eyes.
“He killed her, Karn. What right does he have-“
“Every right, Thran! He had every right as the Master, don’t you understand that by now! You are such a fool. What point does it have? I told you that Master Ilios was fair, as long as you did your work. He will kill you for what you’ve done, Thran. Worse, he’s going to make me do it.”
Thran watched dimly as the man walked from the barracks. He knew it was true, everything that Karn had said. But it did not need to be so. Rilia did not have to die for the cruel whim of that damned elf - master or not. Closing his eyes, his whole body buzzed with pain but he did not care. He could only see her in her final moments, so totally tormented that it must have been so much more easy to just give in than it had to put up with Torthas’ brutality all of those years.
The following days and weeks were blurry. Karn had returned hours later, exhausted and not willing to say much except to say that Thran would be given up in the spring sacrifices to the war. He had to stay within the confines of the barracks and he was forbidden to speak to anyone with the exception of Karn. Thran did not care, either way. He was happy that Karn did not have to kill him, but he wondered how quickly he would die on the battlefield. On his last night at the plantation, Karn told him that he would be going to sea - as would all of the slaves from the region. The Northern Phodien Fleet needed fighters and crew. Any slaves put up for the spring sacrifice were going straight to the fleet. Thran had never seen the sea, let alone set foot on a ship. Karn would take him as far as Gaetelynn and from there he would be taken with the other slaves of the area to Interlachen, the Mirantinquen capital.
Karn had mumbled something as he applied more salve to Thran’s wound, that he doubted that he was ever going to heal. Thran had begun getting the fever and his arm was sore all of the time. In the morning, Karn retrieved him from the barracks and he sat down in the same cart that he had arrived in. He had no one to say goodbye too, not that anyone of them cared. He kept his eyes on the floorboards of the cart the length of the fields, not wanting to look upon the rolling fields of crop and animals. The two day ride to Gaetelynn was quiet and instead of the south side of the city, Karn took them to the northern end. Nearly two hundred male slaves were corralled, most young, good working stock. Thran looked dully at them as he jumped off the back of the cart. Karn glanced at him while Master Ilios had left to speak to the officer in charge.
“Thran,” the lead said in a lowered voice, his face turned away so as not to cause attention. “You should know that Torthas is entering the services as well. Master Ilios finally has tired of his son’s appetites. I overheard Ilios saying that Torthas will be an officer somewhere in the fleet.”
He looked across the tangle of bodies and nodded, his face hard and his eyes narrow against the sunlight. Exhaling at the possibilities, he licked at his lips. “You tended to her?”
“Yes. I tended to her.”
“Thank you.”
Maser Ilios waved at the officer that stood at the gate and Thran was pulled to the other side of the heavy fencing. His left arm throbbed and he felt hot and cold and shivered. He turned and watched as the cart rolled out of sight. Leaning against metal of the fence, he closed his eyes and rested with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He felt himself fall into the dust of the ground and no one bothered to pick him up. He did not move until they were shoved from the massive pen and forced to walk. There was laughter at his condition and scoffs that anyone not strong enough to make the walk to Interlachen would be left for dead, or killed while trying to die. Thran shuffled his way through the days that stretched into weeks. He was given minimal food and water. He was not attended to and his arm hung to his side. He spoke to no one and no one attempted to speak to him, let alone look at him.
So many died in their tracks along the march - many were too ill and many were too frightened by the fear of battle to move and thus were killed by the guards. Thran’s mind was in fragments, knowing that he must walk to survive, although survival was not what he wanted or cared for. He saw Rilia walking beside him so many times, he thought that perhaps he was dead and this was punishment in his afterlife was to walk without end. Finally, there were cries of relief when the huge city came into view. Thran burned with fever by the time he reached the end of the journey. He collapsed when they stopped and lay in the dirt for a long time. At some point, he felt himself being lifted by the shoulders and feet and moved under a cover. He slept for days on the ground and someone had covered him with a blanket.
A cool breeze swept across his face and Thran woke to the sound of fabric snapping in the wind. His eyes did not want to open at first and he had to fight to clear his vison. He lay on a hard, narrow cot with a thin blanket covering him. Heavy canvas drapes were stretched across to provide shade to shade a small field. He watched as the canvas swayed above him and felt as if his mind was gone. He could hear voices and speech all around him, but he could not bring himself to look across at the rows of cots from the ill and wounded of the march. He only wanted to look at the edge of the canvas and the small flashes of blue sky beyond.
“There you are, lad,” a gravely voice replied from a distance. “Lithan - the boy in the corner if you please.”
A young man’s face with sharp green eyes appeared over him. He placed a hand on Thran’s forehead and cheek. “Fever’s gone,” he called over his shoulder.
The young man’s dark brown hair was closely clipped to his scalp and his face was clean shaven. He was tall, just as Thran was, but was bulkier, with a lean fighter’s frame. He was dressed in what looked like a simple uniform - white linen shirt, black dyed breeches, high, hard leather boots and the familiar slave band on left arm. A middle-aged man appeared next to the younger man who appeared to wear the same uniform. He had a wide face and large brown eyes. His hair was salt and pepper gray and also clipped close to the scalp. His face was warm and his smile genuine, reminding Thran much of Rilia the first time he had seen her.
“What’s your name, boy?” the elder asked as he pulled the blanket back and pulled at the bandages on his chest.
“Thran,” he answered quietly.
“Formal name?” the man asked, his eyes hard as he studied the band.
Thran shook his head and bit his lip. “I - I don’t know what you mean.”
He smiled again and looked into Thran’s face. “It’s all right. Not many of us have actual formal names. Let’s see, where is the region that you were from… Around Gaetelynn?”
“I think I was close to the village of Nutte,” Thran said, keeping his voice quiet and respectful.
The younger man grinned and chuckled. “How about Pynute, father?”
Thran’s brow pinched at the word father. It was illegal for slaves to have family and address each other as such the young man had done. The elder patted him on his right shoulder, soothing him.
“Pynute. For one so strong I think the name would be both fitting and ominous,” the elder replied. Seeing Thran’s confusion, he looked him in the eye and continued. “It is a Salacean word - Pynute means ‘killing arm’. It drives them crazy when we choose words of their enemy for our names.
“I am Sergeant in Arms Dovran Tounstra and that over there is Sergeant Lithan Jerican. Oh, if you’re wondering, Tounstra means ‘healer man’ and Jerican is simply ‘soldier’.”
Thran smiled at him, liking his easy manner. Lithan had wandered off and was checking another man. “He called you ‘father’.”
“He may not be my blood, but he’s mine. Good boy, Lithan is. Been watching out for him since he was eleven. Ah, let’s see, that would make some nine years now, nearly ten. I guess he figures he owes me somehow. To tell the truth, I don’t mind being his father,” Dovran replied as he wiped at the brand gently. Clearing his throat, he leaned back. “Whatever they put on your wound went rancid and poisoned your blood, Thran. What was it, the same dung they put on the cattle?”
Thran felt the tips of his ears turn red under the man’s gaze. Nodding, he bit the inside of his cheek. “I think Karn was just trying to help.”
He softened and patted him again on the shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Lithan - place Thran on the list for the Avaria, will you please? I think Thran may belong with us.”
Lithan went to a ledger and wrote on the heavy parchment. Thran was amazed further by the action. These men were not ordinary slaves. They were educated and clean and officers in the Mirantinquen army. From all the stories that he had heard about being in the army, slaves were treated worse than on the plantations and in the cities. These men were far different from what he had pictured on the march. He envisioned starvation and then forced death by enemy blades. These men were warriors and leaders of men. They were not impotent against their situation.
“Thank you, sir,” he whispered as Dovran handed him a small cup of fragrant liquid.
“Drink this down. It’ll help you rest,” the elder replied warmly. “Call me Dovran, please. I believe that you and I will make for good friends, Thran. Get some rest now and we’ll talk some more later.”
For the first time he felt like the man’s words were genuine and meant to be kind, not just words to be said and not felt. They would be great friends, this Thran knew for sure. Pulling the blanket up, he watched as Dovran and Lithan walked towards the other side of the makeshift hospital. He felt safe with them, a feeling that he had only with Rilia. The thought of her made him feel pensive and sad. He had tried to banish his final sight of her laying dead and so badly broken from his mind. He tried to keep a hold of the face that he had seen that very first time close to him. She was already becoming a fuzzy mangle of thoughts and moments that was too hard to focus on and control and every time he thought of her, it was that last moment covered in her gore and pain. Looking back at the canvas cover and how it pulled taunt and released in the breeze, he steeled himself against his memory of her and promised that he would not accept himself as normal. He would fight in his life; push, shove, kill just to survive. He wanted to be as Dovran and Lithan, able to survive and make themselves more than what was expected.