Lion of Zarall

  Lion of Zarall

  Earthome Book One

  E.B. Rose

  Copyright © 2018 E.B. Rose

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To Jason, for always pushing me forward

  and

  To Alper, for teaching me how to imagine

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Acknowledgement

  About The Author

  Books In This Series

  1

  GLADWIEL

  “This is a carcass! I’m not paying for a corpse!”

  “You’ll make your profit. He’ll pull through.”

  “His recovery is going to cost me more than his worth!”

  “He’s a purebred!”

  The slave trader hesitated.

  He scratched his clean-shaved chin as he narrowed his eyes at the leader of the collectors. His instincts were telling him to turn and leave. He’d already bought the other six slaves from the man. Four of them were young enough to be properly trained. He would surely make good profit off them. That should have been enough.

  However, his greed got the better of him.

  Gladwiel’s glare bounced off of the collectors, searching for any trace of dishonesty. The other six slaves were all freeborn; the ink on their tattoos had barely dried. It was highly unlikely that a merry band of four thugs could ever get their hands on a genuine purebred.

  Ravon, the leader of the four, didn’t avert his eyes. He returned Gladwiel’s gaze with an unspoken challenge. See for yourself, his smug grin was saying. Afterall, one couldn’t fake a purebred.

  Gladwiel fidgeted with the fur collar of his brown vest, which was long enough to touch his heels. He was wearing a long, red robe and a brown sash around his waist. Thinking about the sash drew his attention to the leather purse he’d snuck inside.

  A purebred beast…

  He chewed inside his cheek as he imagined how heavy his purse would feel after he auctioned a purebred beast at the fight season.

  With a resigned sigh, he stepped closer to the dying man who laid between him and the collector. Gladwiel was right to call him a corpse. It was going to take Twelve’s miracle to save this man, assuming he was worth saving.

  The slave’s eyes were closed, though his eyelids trembled as if he was dreaming. His breathing was laboured. His face was bruised, like the rest of his naked body. Blood trailed down from a minor cut on his forehead. His skin was tanned from spending majority of his life training under the sun. It looked even darker because of the thick layer of mud and filth that coated him like a hardened cloth. He was tall and large, though maybe he seemed a little underfed. Still, it wasn’t a major problem; Gladwiel could always fatten him up. He still looked big enough anyway.

  The slave smelled like a mixture of urine, blood, and infection. After pausing to cover his nose with the loose sleeves of his robe, Gladwiel leaned forward to examine the purebred’s face better. His long, dirty blonde hair was curly, tangled, and grungy. His beard was bushy and messy. Under all that bruising and dirt, his face was good looking. Gladwiel held back an approving grin. Slaves who were nice to look at always found buyers quicker and easier.

  Gladwiel pushed the slave’s chin, tilting his head to the right. He leaned closer to get a better look at the tattoo on the left side of his neck.

  “Hasrey,” Gladwiel called out to his assistant. “Bring me a rag.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Hasrey dampened a piece of cloth in the sink and kneeled at the slave’s other side. He wiped the layer of dirt on the man’s neck, uncovering the details of a slave tattoo.

  The first thing Gladwiel noticed was the colour of the ink. It was faded grey. Old. Intricate lines circled around a dog-like animal. A beast. The three vertical lines below the dog’s feet made Gladwiel smile.

  Purebred.

  Before he started celebrating, Gladwiel reached out and brushed his fingers over the tattoo. The slave’s skin was too warm to his touch, indicating a fever. Gladwiel scraped his fingernail over the faded grey lines. The intricate circle was hard to imitate, and getting the right colour was even harder, but Gladwiel was in the business long enough to personally know a couple of good tattoo artists with steady hands and a rich selection of colours. He scratched the tattoo until he made sure it was the real deal.

  The slave was a genuine purebred beast.

  “Told you he was purebred,” Ravon said with triumph. “Would have left him in a ditch if he wasn’t.”

  “Where did you say you’ve got him from?” Gladwiel muttered.

  “You know our agreement…” Ravon started, shaking his head, at the same time Gladwiel added:

  “You know what, I don’t care.”

  As far as Gladwiel was concerned, Ravon was a respectable businessman who acquired his merchandise through perfectly lawful means.

  Gladwiel shifted to examine the rest of the purebred’s body. The layer of mud and blood didn’t reveal much of his torso, but there were no open wounds or excessive bleeding. He didn’t see any missing limbs or broken bones either. The only concerning injury seemed to be the one on his right leg.

  “Hasrey,” Gladwiel gestured before continuing.

  Hasrey used his knife to cut the bandages around the slave’s right thigh. As soon as the wound was revealed, Gladwiel was struck with the potent stench of rotting flesh and infection.

  His excitement over scoring a purebred was quickly replaced by frustration. He glared at Ravon, wanting to yell: Why in Twelve’s sake did you let this happen?

  The purebred’s thigh was bright red and swollen. Yellow puss leaked out of the deep cut. The wound wasn’t new. This could have been prevented with timely care and treatment.

  Hasrey proceeded by wiping around the wound with the wet cloth. As soon as he touched the injury, the slave’s eyes snapped open. He gasped and let out a moan. His hands moved to swat Hasrey’s off, as his breathing became frantic.

  Ravon took a piece of paper out of his pocket. He straightened the paper, squinted his eyes, and read carefully: “Padlociatius.”

  The purebred’s hands dropped on his sides. His whole body relaxed as if he’d just lost his consciousness, though Gladwiel knew he didn’t. His eyes were still wide open, fully aware of his surroundings. He’d simply lost control of his body.

  Their First Word paralysed the purebreds for nearly a minute; long enough for Hasrey to finish cleaning up the wound.

  Gladwiel scrutinized the infected cut, chewing his lips thoughtfully. He stood, stepped back from the slave. “It’s bad,” he announced. “I’m not even sure if he can be saved.”

  Ravon didn’t bat an eye. “Of course he can; he’s strong, and you’ve got resources.”

  “I’ll give you five Blues for him.”

  Ravon
scoffed. “Fifty.”

  The effects of the slave’s First Word ended and he started regaining control of his body. A pained moan escaped out of his lips. He grabbed the side of his thigh, careful not to touch the open wound. Raising his head, he looked around the small warehouse, taking in the cages and the canvass covered wagon hitched behind a couple of horses.

  “Ten Blues,” Gladwiel said, raising his voice to be heard over the purebred’s moan. Ravon laughed, shaking his head.

  The purebred’s intelligent eyes studied Gladwiel’s two hired goons, who’d already finished loading up the other six freeborn slaves into the wagon.

  “He’s Tribesman food if I end up having to chop that leg off,” Gladwiel insisted. “Ten Blues is a fair price for a corpse.”

  Ravon snorted. He pulled his knife out.

  Behind Gladwiel, his two workers brought their hands to their swords. Ravon’s three men returned the gesture.

  Ignoring them all, Ravon kneeled beside the slave, grabbed the bird’s nest that passed as hair, and pressed his knife against the man’s neck. “I’d rather slit his throat right now than giving him away for free.”

  The purebred’s hands grasped Ravon’s wrist in an attempt to push the knife away. The reaction disturbed Gladwiel at first. It almost seemed like defiance, though it was probably just fever and reflexes. Moreover, it indicated the slave’s will to survive, which pleased Gladwiel.

  Ravon’s knife trembled, as it inched closer to the slave’s neck. The purebred’s arms bulged.

  “Enough,” Gladwiel gave in. “I hate wastefulness. I’ll give you twenty Blues for him, and that’s my final offer.”

  Ravon yanked his arm free and pulled his knife back. “Deal,” he snorted, standing up. After putting his knife away, he rubbed the newly forming bruise on his wrist. “He’s all yours.”

  Gladwiel’s workers relaxed. Hasrey supervised as the two workers grabbed the purebred by his arms and pulled him up on his feet. He cried out in pain when he stood on his right leg. They didn’t give him any chance to balance himself on his left and pushed him forward to the wagon. He screamed again and struggled to break free.

  “His Words?” Gladwiel held out his hand. He narrowed his eyes at the purebred, who was growling and resisting maybe a tad too fiercely.

  Ravon placed the piece of paper on Gladwiel’s palm.

  The slave trader looked at the three words written on it. He read the first one out loud: “Padlociatius.”

  The purebred’s body went limp. His screams and growls died down. The two workers, surprised by his weight, almost dropped him. One grabbed him under his arms while the other took his ankles. They swung him inside the wagon.

  “Careful!” Hasrey scolded them. “He doesn’t need another injury!”

  Gladwiel stuck his hand inside his sash and took out his purse. He counted twenty Blues for the six freeborn slaves and another twenty for the purebred alone. At the end of the exchange, his purse felt disturbingly light, but he reminded himself of the auction value of a purebred beast.

  The slave had 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 inside the city was smaller than the one he’d met his suppliers outside.

  He had an office at the front of the building, decorated with velvet curtains, a large oak desk, and cushioned chairs and sofas for his customers. He kept one side of the office without furniture and used that space to line up his products for the customers to examine.

  Hasrey had a smaller office next door, which they also used as a record and storage room. The rest of the warehouse was where they kept and prepared the slaves for the auctions and for private sales.

  The main area housed three rows of full-size cages. Gladwiel allocated his slaves in the cages based on their kind; he would never put mellow house slaves together with beasts. Neither would he put flames together with any male slaves.

  He kept most of his beasts in individual cages, unless they were also purebred. He wouldn’t trust a freeborn beast to behave, but purebred beasts were highly trained and wonderfully obedient.

  Safest and most cherished slaves in all Chinderia.

  Gladwiel hurried past the lines of cages, his eyes firmly fixed on the door to the sick bay at the back. The naked slaves inside the cages reacted differently to his presence.

  The two purebreds he kept together - both old, house slaves, barely worth fifty Blues - stood up respectfully. They dropped their heads down and clasped their hands in front of them.

  A couple of young freeborn with fresh beast tattoos on their necks cursed loudly at Gladwiel. The slave trader memorized their faces to arrange some intensive obedience training for them.

  Other freeborn slaves who had already been through some training remained silent and retreated to the back of their cages.

  A couple of Gladwiel’s slave trainers were already busy training one of the newest females. She was a young and pretty flame; could make a good profit if they could fix her posture and add some sway on her walk. She was reciting the basic rules and the Acts of Defiance while one of the trainers tapped his stick on his palm, ready to correct her if she made a mistake.

  “I will not make eye contact,” the girl muttered, her eyes on the floor.

  “And the last one?” the trainer prompted.

  The girl opened and closed her mouth. She paled when she realized she didn’t know the answer. When the trainer struck her with the stick, she raised her arms to defend herself.

  “That right there!” the other trainer barked. “If your Owner decides to strike you, you will not raise your hands. Now keep them down.”

  When the first trainer brought his stick down again, she raised her arms instinctively and yelped.

  “And you will be quiet,” the second trainer yelled. “Get it right!”

  They were going to continue beating her until she managed to keep her arms down and remain quiet. Some learned it within minutes, others required many repetitions spread across weeks.

  Gladwiel would enjoy supervising the rest of the training any other day, but the errand boy Hasrey had sent sounded urgent. The boy had babbled a message about Hasrey needing to show him something in the sick bay.

  Gladwiel knew it would have to do with the new purebred. It had only been a couple of hours since they took him off the hands of the collectors and Hasrey had been overseeing his treatment.

  The purebred was dying.

  Or worse; he’d already died.

  Worry gnawed at Gladwiel’s stomach as the worst-case scenarios popped in his mind.

  When he walked into the sick bay and found the room evacuated save for Hasrey and the purebred, his anxiety peeked its highest. He knew there was at least one other sick slave who needed some rest, but Hasrey wouldn’t have kicked him out if he hadn’t had a solid reason.

  The physician was nowhere to be seen either.

  Gladwiel’s eyes scanned the room and settled on the purebred’s chest, which heaved up and down under the blanket. Okay, so he was still breathing.

  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 grunted, his eyes flicking between Hasrey and the slave.

  The purebred’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was irregular, but he was alive. Why was Hasrey looking at Gladwiel as if he’d just seen a demon crawling 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 flinched and shuddered uncontrollably. 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 not
icing the marks.

  The slave trader’s jaw went slack. Blood withdrew from his face and his tone 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. He studied the marks burned into the slave’s skin, left by a hot branding iron. Each brand displayed a different figure. A stallion, a rose, and a maiden made up the first row across his chest, just underneath his collarbones. They were carefully positioned, at equal distance from each other.

  The fourth brand was a bird; a sparrow, to be more specific. Represented the Golden Sparrow Tournament. It started the second row, below the first one, but the rest of that row was blank.

  Four brands for four tournaments won.

  There should have been a fifth, Gladwiel thought grimly. A bear…

  “I thought they could have been imitations, but the first few ones are older, and the sparrow is the newest…”

  “That’s him,” Gladwiel cut him off. He took in the slave’s clean, wet hair. 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. “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 the collectors. “I’ll make sure they’ll never conduct any 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 held it to Hasrey.