Beast of Zarall

  Beast of Zarall

  Earthome Book Two

  E.B. Rose

  Copyright © 2020 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 Kara and Kal-El

  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

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  Acknowledgement

  About The Author

  Books In This Series

  1

  KALLIS

  The slave trader hated The Mad Lion.

  The tavern was located in Swuglus East, a lower-class section of the city of Coldpost. The street stank of vomit and piss. The single-story building was old. And the regulars of the establishment -including the person whom he was going to meet- were the kinds of people he wouldn’t see out in the daylight.

  But none of these were the reason he felt antsy as he approached the place. It was the name that made him uncomfortable.

  A soft light was spilling out on the street from The Mad Lion’s front windows. Music and loud noises of the patrons reached further than the light. There was a bard singing a song inside, but the slave trader couldn’t make out the lyrics, as they were muffled by the drunk men trying to accompany them.

  A large man was slouching on a stool just outside the doors. His head fell on his chest as if he was asleep, but the slave trader doubted that. Swuglus East wasn’t the kind of place one could take a nap with both eyes closed. The bouncer of The Mad Lion was watching the street through narrowed eyes, wide awake and alert.

  The slave trader tugged at his heavy coat against the cold. Beyond the dark hills that overlooked the city, he could see the storm clouds swallowing the stars. He was hoping to strike a good deal with the supplier and get home before the storm hit. The idea of walking all the way to the other side of the city through rain and mud made him shiver.

  The bouncer did not stir as the slave trader climbed up the stairs to the porch and walked into The Mad Lion. The mixed smell of sweat, tobacco and oily food greeted him. He stood by the open doors, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dim light. Once again, he decided how much he didn’t like this tavern.

  The common room was filled with rows of tables, benches and stools, all occupied by eating, drinking, singing and gambling men. A stage the size of a bed was built on the corner where a bard played his lute and sang an obscene version of a popular folk song. The Mad Lion didn’t look all that different from an ordinary, lowlife tavern, with the only exception being the ugly, rebellious decor.

  Gold and black banners were hanging on every wall and column. There was an ornate piece of tapestry depicting a scene from the Lion of Zarall’s fight against the Bear of Vogros hanging behind the bartender. A round, wooden shield with House Zarall’s coat of arms hung proudly above it.

  Sarte ‘Lucky’ Hamgard, owner of The Mad Lion, was a veteran house guard who used to serve late King Leonis Zarall. The man’s blood ran golden and black. He was not shy to show his colours either, despite the fact that another King with different colours was sitting on the throne of Chinderia now.

  The slave trader could never understand the blind loyalty free men felt for each other. It was a good quality on a slave, but was not useful otherwise. He wondered if Lucky would still feel lucky enough to openly show Zarall colours if it wasn’t for the riots.

  Kastian Vogros might have been sitting on the throne, he might even have the support of all the noble families, but Vogrosses did not have a solid grip on the country yet. At least not in the Northern Chinderia where people had been louder and more reluctant to accept the change.

  The slave trader didn’t think the instability would last for long though. Zaralls were gone and there wasn’t anyone else well-connected enough to have a claim on the throne against Kastian Vogros. People could whine all they wanted; Kastian Vogros was still the head of the strongest family in Chinderia. His line still went all the way back to Merduth the Axe, founder of the country. And he still controlled the largest army of slaves and free men.

  Riots would go on until the common folk started to realise Leonis Zarall was not coming back from Farhome to feed their throats, so they would go back to worrying about how to feed their families. People like Lucky might continue to rant about how Kastian Vogros could not even defeat Leonis’s slave, but he would lose ears every day until one morning he’d wake up to find those Zarall banners burnt down, along with his piss hole of an establishment.

  It took the slave trader a couple of seconds to spot the man he was going to meet. He started towards the table at the back of the room. It was a time of uncertainty for most businesses, but not for his. Times like these were when slave business thrived most.

  Public disorder meant people going unaccounted for, which lead to emergence of fresh tattoos on the market. Kastian’s soldiers were busy securing Brinsescar and the main roads leading to it, so travelling on less used roads was not safe. Travellers disappeared and the slave trader was about to meet one of the men who was responsible for that.

  If he could strike a good deal tonight, he was going to double, maybe triple his capital.

  “Master Kallis,” the man sitting at the table said, gesturing at the slave trader to join him. He was a large man in his late thirties. The heavy leather armour he was carrying seemed old, but it showed no scars on it. Kallis wasn’t sure if it meant the man was good enough not to allow any blows to reach him, or if he simply avoided the fights. You couldn’t become the bandit king of the Kilrer region by avoiding fights, so Kallis assumed it was the former.

  “Master Vurkom,” he greeted the criminal with a deep bow. He took his coat off before lowering himself on the bench. A massive fireplace was burning hard in the middle of the room and people had blocked every touch of the night breeze from coming through the windows. Kallis was going to feel hot soon, and he didn’t want to sweat in front of the man; it would give him the wrong impression.

  Vurkom grabbed one of the serving girls by the arm and ordered two ales. Kallis didn’t even like ale, but he didn’t make any comment. He’d rather let the bandit think he was in control. For the same reason, he kept his silence until Vurkom decided to talk.

  “I understand you’re interested in my merchandise,” Vurkom said. He was sitting sideways with one elbow at the table, other hand on his knee, appearing to watch the bard across the room.

  Kallis sipped his ale before speaking.

  “With all due respect, Master Vurkom, I wouldn’
t call them merchandise.”

  Vurkom glanced at Kallis, his lips curved with amusement. “And what would you call them?”

  “Raw materials.” Kallis imitated Vurkom’s body language by facing towards the bard. He was vaguely aware that the bard switched to a song about a fierce lion and a fluffy bear. Enough of the lyrics were caught in his ear to know this was another song about the mighty Lion of Zarall. He pushed his dislike aside and prepared himself to make the speech he’d done to others before.

  “Go outside the city, Master Vurkom, and you will see trees everywhere. Anyone with an axe can fall a tree, but not all can make good furniture out of it. It takes time, process, talent, resources and connections to create merchandise out of fallen logs.”

  Vurkom took a sip from his drink and remained silent for a while. Kallis did not break the silence. “Let me guess,” the bandit said. “This is the part where you’ll start negotiating by saying how expensive it is to find a good inker with stable hands.”

  “Finding a tattoo artist who could forge a genuine slave tattoo is not the hardest part, Master Vurkom. At least not for me. Training is the most expensive and time-consuming part.”

  Vurkom’s brows furrowed closer. “I can train them,” he grunted. “Cut their tongues so they won’t speak and beat the shit out of them until they learn to do as they’re told.”

  Kallis tried not to screw up his face. “Mutilated slaves lose at least one sixth of their value, Master Vurkom. Not everybody prefers a mute slave. And training is not just about beating the shit out of them. If you’ve believed that the sky is blue all your life, it takes more than pain to convince you that the sky doesn’t exist anymore, regardless of its colour.”

  Kallis gave a brief pause to see if his words hit their target. Vurkom’s furrow disappeared and a vague grin appeared on the corner of his mouth. Kallis felt like the bandit leader already knew his next argument, but he made it anyway.

  “I have connections with trainers in slave farms who could turn freeborn men and women into good slaves, regardless of their ages. But time, Master Vurkom, time is my enemy. Every day they spend in those farms cost me money, not to mention they’ll be losing value by aging. It takes at least two years to turn a man into a good slave, if they’re older than twenty. Even then, some wills just don’t bend. It’s hardly worth the effort.”

  Kallis stopped speaking. Vurkom’s grin had spread into a smug smile. That wasn’t the intended effect of his speech. He waited until the bandit spilt what he had.

  “I’ve got kids,” Vurkom said leaning back in his chair.

  Kallis had to take a long sip to hide the smile on his face. He looked away, watching the room and hoping the bandit had missed the eager gleam in his eyes. “How old?”

  Vurkom pursed his lips. “A couple about this size,” he said, holding his hand at the height of the table. “Three more a bit older. That should reduce your costs, huh?”

  “Indeed.” Kallis licked his lips, finished the rest of his ale, and ordered some wine from one of the serving girls. He didn’t expect them to have Serpentblood, and was pleasantly surprized to find out they did. This business meeting had just proved worthy of a bottle of the most expensive wine.

  Moreover, Kallis had noticed Vurkom was holding something back and he had a good guess at what it was.

  “Too bad they’re not young enough for Wording.”

  Vurkom grinned. “One due next month. Could find more.”

  “Mother should have proper paperwork in place, of course.”

  “Which I’m sure you can handle, being a registered trader yourself.”

  “Finding a Union registered mage who’s authorized to do the Wording is going to be expensive.”

  “I bet you already know someone.” Vurkom leaned forward at the table. His mouth was still smiling, but his eyes were sharp and cold as steel. “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? I already know you have all the permits and the connections I need. I could swing my dick and hit another slave trader in this city. Why do you think I’m meeting you? You wanna do business, or not?

  “As they say, Master Vurkom,” Kallis said. “Children are the future of this country.”

  They started negotiating before their wines were served. It wasn’t the fastest service Kallis ever had, but they were lucky to be served at all. The serving girl who was bringing their bottle of Serpentblood nearly dropped it halfway to their table. If it wasn’t for the quick reflexes of a patron sitting nearby, Kallis’s expensive liquid gold would be washing the mud and sawdust off the tavern’s floors.

  But even the clumsiness of the serving girl could not spoil Kallis’s mood. He was going to leave this meeting already feeling like a richer man.

  By the time the slave trader poured their glasses, they had already agreed on the rough terms. Details were to be discussed next morning at Kallis’s office. Vurkom accompanied him for another glass of wine, then left. Five brutes, armed to the teeth, who had been blended in other tables, stood up and left with the bandit leader.

  The bard started another repetition of The Lion and The Bear. Kallis made an annoyed sound from the back of his throat, which turned into a cough. He rolled his eyes at the patrons joining in with the chorus. He didn’t understand the passionate admiration these people felt for a non-compliant, broken slave.

  It wasn’t the slave himself that people cheered for, it was the idea of a worthless piece of property making fun of the strongest man in the country. They found it amusing. It was amusing. But also disturbing for a man who made his living from selling slaves.

  Kallis picked up the bottle of Serpentblood. There was still enough left for two more glasses. He decided to finish his bottle before heading back home.

  He was just starting to notice the persistent itch on his throat when the stranger sat down at his table.

  The slave trader furrowed his brows; a cold, hostile expression masking his face. He didn’t conceal his annoyance at the intrusion of his privacy and he glared at the man.

  The stranger was wearing an expensive shirt and vest, though it displayed a considerable amount of road dust and crease. A short sword hung on a plain belt around his hips. His blonde hair was cropped short. He had a young face with sharp features. An arrogant grin was formed around the side of his mouth. Something about the way the man held himself unnerved Kallis.

  The song finished and the patrons cheered for another repetition. The bard, enjoying the ecstasy of a powerful crowd, climbed up on a table and started his tune again. Kallis straightened up and stared at his uninvited guest.

  “I don’t remember…” the slave trader started, but a violent contraction in his throat choked the rest of his words. He coughed on his hand, cleared his throat and tried again. “I don’t remember… inviting…” He coughed, glaring his frustration at the man. Hoping to wash away the itch from his throat, he took a large sip from his wine.

  That’s when he saw the little green vial between the stranger’s gloved fingers.

  The man was looking at Kallis, his head tilted slightly, turning and twisting the vial in his hands. His arrogant grin widened when he saw the understanding bloom in Kallis’s face.

  The slave trader gawked at his glass of wine. He knocked it down, the red wine spreading on the table like blood. The sound disappeared under the bard’s tune and the voices of the patrons. Kallis steadied himself to stand up.

  A hand clamped on Kallis’s shoulder and pushed him back down. A second man sat next to him on the bench, with his back against the table and his eyes scanning the tavern crowd. He was as young as the first man, though his features displayed foreign origins. Kallis had introduced enough foreign-born merchandise into slavery to recognize the long and narrow facial characteristics of Kaldorians.

  Unlike the first man, the Kaldorian carried leather armour and a wider variety of weapons on him; a short bow, daggers, and throwing knives. Kallis made another attempt to get up, but the Kaldorian’s hand remained firmly on his shoulder and kept him from
standing up.

  “You’d rather be sitting,” the blonde young man said, his voice calm and confident. “Take five steps and you’ll drop dead.” He shook the little vial at Kallis. “This is the only antidote you can find within five steps.”

  Kallis’s eyes grew large at the statement. “What do… Who are…?”

  A surprised shout turned a few heads to the back of the room. Kallis saw Lucky Hamgard rushing amongst the tables, pushing the patrons aside. He knelt down, briefly disappearing among the curious crowd, and straightened back up, carrying the serving girl who’d served Kallis’s table in his arms. The crowd had already turned their faces back to the bard while Hamgard carried the girl to the back of the bar.

  As Kallis watched the concerned tavern workers crowd around the serving girl, he noticed a third man. He instantly knew this man was with the other two occupying Kallis’s table. He was larger and older than those two. Kallis could see the bulging outlines of a heavy breastplate hidden under the man’s baggy tunic. A long sword and a short sword hung both sides of his hips, and the hilt of a larger, two-handed sword peeked over his wide shoulders.

  The man stood several feet from them, casually leaning against the wall. With a beer mug in his hand, he appeared to be watching the bard, yet he didn’t avert his gaze when the slave trader noticed him.

  The first young man took the bottle of Serpentblood with his gloved hand. He filled Vurkom’s glass, and took it to his lips. Kallis blinked, confused. He did not understand, and then he did. He looked at the bottle, at the man’s gloved hands, the unmoving body of the serving girl with the tavern’s workers gathered around. Lastly, he looked at his own hands, noticing the faint discoloration on his fingers.

  “The bottle,” he said and coughed again.

  The blonde man smiled and took another sip of wine. “There’s no reason to spoil a good wine like this.”

  “What…?” Kallis breathed between his coughs.

  The blonde man put the glass aside, indicating he was ready for business now. “You are hard to track down, Master Kallis. Or would you prefer Master Gladwiel?”