The Slave
As I’m sure you are aware, the Sorcerers’ Order did not reveal themselves publicly until the Churmanian War in 355. However, an investigation of historical records reveals an interesting trail; a series of unsolved cases, unexplained phenomena, and fantastical rumours dating all the way back to the Dark Days. With so many records destroyed or lost during that period, it is impossible to say when the Order was truly founded, but I believe it may not be too far-fetched to think that the group has existed since long before that time. The question of why they chose to remain in total secrecy all those centuries - not to mention how they managed it - is another matter entirely.
- Cassidy Vallian, historian, in a letter to Nathaniel Encross, political advisor to the Astellan Royalty, 380 AT
37 AT
“Through here, if it pleases the good sir…”
The girl’s eyes snapped open as the grinding clank of metal cut through her sleep like a hot knife. Through the bars, she saw the guardsmen getting groggedly to their feet, and there was a collective rustling from the darkness as the children around her shifted in frightened anticipation. Footsteps echoed through the cold chamber, and the shadows of two people stretched across the stone floor; one short and wide, the other long and indistinct. From her cell, the girl could not see the newcomers, but she knew that it was Fat Man accompanied by a buyer. Mentally, she steeled herself once more.
“I want to see them up close.” The man’s voice - which could only belong to the buyer - was surprisingly gentle, and carried an air of authority; nothing like the other men who had come before. “Bring them out so I can see their faces.”
“Of course, it shall be as the good sir wishes,” came Fat Man’s rasping voice, and there was a flurry of activity and metallic clinking as the guards began opening up the cells. One by one, the ragged children crept out with timid obedience, forming into two lines under the guards’ directions. The girl stepped into place without resistance, but refused to bow her head. If one thing were to remain her own, it would be what was left of her pride.
She looked towards the prison’s entrance, finally laying eyes on the stranger. He made a striking silhouette against the weakly flickering torches; tall, and shrouded in a brown cloak so dark it was nearly black. His face was concealed by the hood’s shadow. Fat Man stood next to him, gesturing down the line of slaves and speaking rapidly to the stranger in a sickly sweet voice. He was a vile man, in his signature crumpled red-and-green clothes, with a grotesquely large belly, oily black hair, and a face that seemed to have melted. The girl dragged her eyes away before he could notice the hatred twisting her face.
Instead, she glanced around at the other children. Many were crying, or barely holding it back. Some gazed strangely around with empty eyes. Others simply stared at the floor, expressionless.
Yet, the girl felt no pity for them. Why should she, when she herself had been thrust into this situation with them, and refused to give in, as they had? The boys and girls surrounding her were cowards, and had been broken. But she had vowed long ago that no matter what, she would not allow the same to happen to her.
The strange cloaked man began to move down the line, bending down to examine each child closely. The girl stared straight ahead at the rust-spattered bars across from her, ignoring the soft whimpers that seemed to come from each child in turn as the man moved from one to the next. Eventually, he stepped into view, and the girl tensed, mustering all of her strength. I will not give in. She kept her gaze fixed, resolute, as the man reached out. As his fingers touched her chin, a sharp jolt shot through her body. It took every ounce of willpower not to flinch away, but even so, she could not stop her eyes from bulging.
“Oh…?”
Unable to stop herself, her gaze was drawn upwards to the man’s shadowed face, the slightly curved mouth that had just spoken softly, and the fearsome blue eyes that stared into her own, unwavering. This time, she could not prevent a shudder. The man’s eyes were not cold, but there was something inhuman about them; as if a powerful beast was hidden beneath, out of sight.
She saw his eyes flicker downwards, and she knew they were tracing the vivid scar that twisted the left side of her face, stretching from her nose to the base of her ear. Angrily, she forced her gaze back down and bared her teeth in a snarl. Snorting, the man released her chin and moved on to the boy beside her. Staring down at the floor, the girl’s mind was abuzz with a strange tangle of anger, fear, and curiosity. It was not just his voice; something about the man was unlike any adult that she had met before.
There she stood, trying not to shiver in the cold - or for any other reason - while the strange man continued down the line, until he began to walk back, apparently satisfied. She could not stop the feeling of apprehension as his footsteps came closer, closer… and came to a stop right in front of her.
“How much for the girl?” he asked Fat Man, sounding bored. A chill ran through her body, and she stared intensely at the stone under her feet as Fat Man waddled up and began enthusiastically discussing the price. Her price. Gritting her teeth, she looked up to see the strange man reaching inside his cloak to retrieve a purse. The small bag clinked gently as he counted glimmering coins into Fat Man’s palm. The girl saw Fat Man’s tiny eyes narrow fractionally as his gaze slid from the gold to the purse, and finally to the strange man’s cloak. His mouth twitched, and she knew that he would not let this man leave the city with any of his remaining money.
“There,” said the strange man in that soft voice, replacing the purse inside his cloak and nodding to Fat Man. “A pleasure.”
Fat Man bowed - as low as he could, with his size - and chuckled. “The pleasure is all ours, good sir,” he crooned. “May you enjoy your purchase, good sir.”
The strange man turned to the girl and grabbed her arm firmly. “Come along,” he ordered, and started dragging her towards the exit. Half in a stupor, she let herself be led out of the prison, barely managing not to stumble; past Fat Man, pocketing the gold carefully and eyeing her as they went by; past the other children, some watching with faintly relieved expressions, others already turning to go back into their cells; through the iron gate and up the dimly lit staircase; through the open trapdoor and across the small storage room; and finally out into fresh air. She stumbled out onto cracked cobblestones, squinting her eyes against the light. The strange man stopped and released her arm, and the door was slammed shut and bolted behind them.
They stood in a tiny alleyway, overshadowed by lopsided, crumbling buildings two stories high. There was nobody else in sight. The girl could not tell what time of day it was; a smoky haze hung over the rooftops, deafening the light that seeped through from the thin patch of sky between the buildings, bathing the alley in a paltry yellow glow. Brief snippets of noise occasionally floated from the surrounding houses, and the sound of bustling city streets could be heard, very faintly, in the distance; but apart from that, it was quiet. The girl breathed in deeply, tasting spoiled food, alcohol, and raw sewage. It was a comfortless scene, but she welcomed it after weeks of captivity in that damp prison. The cold air filled her lungs, and she felt more free than she had in months.
Then she remembered that her new owner was likely about to be mugged by Fat Man’s henchmen; she herself would no doubt be taken to another slave prison, ready to be sold again. Her momentary optimism was squashed, and her breath faltered. Just then, her new owner stepped in front of her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You may call me Andel,” he said gently, kneeling down to speak. “Do you have a name, child?”
She looked up at his face; there was no scorn there, but neither was there much warmth. With better light, she saw that he looked older than his voice suggested. There were creases across his face, but his hair was still dark, and long, tied back underneath his hood. His chin was covered with short hair, and he wore an odd, spotty blue stone on his forehead. It was not an unkind face, she decided. Hesitantly, a memory arose, the memory of a smiling man - her father? - and was quickly suppressed.
Reluctantly, she shook her head. Her owner studied her for a few moments, frowning slightly, and his eyes took on a thoughtful look. “Jeanna,” he murmured finally. “Yes, Jeanna will do.”
He stood up and turned to go, his cloak billowing slightly. “Come along then, Jeanna. We have a long way to travel, but we can make it by nightfall if we hurry.”
As soon as his back was turned, the thought of escape flashed into her mind. She could turn and run, right now, and find her own way through these cobbled lanes. But after a momentary pause, she hurried after her owner. The man still scared her, but she decided that for now, she would trust him. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar sense of being treated like a person, honestly and openly; and the fact that he was apparently leaving her the choice of whether or not to follow him at all. Or perhaps it was simply because she was safer with him in these dark, narrow streets. Fat Man would not have forgotten them, after all.
She followed her owner around one corner, then another, glancing over her shoulder every so often. There was no noticeable change in scenery, and the oppressive atmosphere of the dirty alleyways fed the growing sense of foreboding within her. Her owner walked on confidently, seemingly unworried. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, hanging on to the small hopeful feeling that maybe, just maybe, this man would not be terrible to her.
Pouncing forwards, she grabbed on to his cloak and looked up at him urgently. “Careful,” she whispered furiously, her heart thumping loudly. She had not spoken in some time, and her voice was croaky. “Fat Man… bad men… take your gold.”
“Oh?” her owner said with a wry grin, looking down at her. “How very brave of you.” His stride did not falter, nor did he look even the slightest bit dismayed. The girl stared up at him, wondering if he had understood. “But don’t worry yourself, Jeanna,” he continued, “that won’t be a problem. In fact, I was quite hoping that this opportunity would present itself.”
She gaped at him, thinking he must be mad, but he carried on talking. “You see, my colleagues and I try to keep a low profile as much as possible, which means I can’t go around causing a ruckus. However, if someone were to pick a fight with me first…”
As he spoke, two brawny men rounded a corner into the lane ahead of them, one carrying a wooden club and the other fingering a long knife. Heavy footsteps sounded from behind, and the girl glanced over her shoulder to see two more leering thugs cutting off their escape. Panic threatened to seize her, and she nearly let go of her owner’s cloak to crouch down in a sobbing ball. But no; she had chosen her path, and she would not be broken. Gritting her teeth, she tightened her grip.
Her owner slowed to a halt and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his face still wearing a wide smile. “This will be a bit violent, I’m afraid,” he said matter-of-factly, “so feel free to close your eyes until it’s over. However, I think it may be best for you to watch.”
The girl stared wide-eyed as their assailants swaggered down the alley towards them, flaunting their weapons threateningly. Surely one man could not stand against four. Her owner had not even produced a weapon. She took a shaking breath, and prepared for the worst.
Her owner raised his free arm casually out in front of him. “Sorry sir,” sneered the club-toting thug, “but me an’ my boys are gonna need you to–”
He was cut off by a wrenching, splintering sound, and the man with the knife jerked, and then folded silently and crumpled to the ground, his weapon freezing in mid-air as it fell from his grasp, before spinning around and flying straight at Club Man to bury itself in his throat as he turned to stare at his falling comrade. Barely a second had passed, but time seemed to move in slow motion as Club Man’s blood painted a crimson arc in front of the girl’s eyes. She watched, transfixed, as the thug toppled oh so slowly backwards, framed by his glittering blood.
She felt her owner shift as he turned to look at the two men behind them, and she looked backwards in time to see one man’s head simply fly from his shoulders with a soft ripping sound and a spray of red, the body collapsing mid-stride as the head spun away in the other direction. The other man yelped in shock, but before he could move he was thrown to the side and slammed into the wall with a grunt, pinned up against it as if held by some invisible bonds, and suddenly a brick shot from the opposite wall with impossible speed to slam into his face with a crunching thud, followed by another, and another. Unable to tear her eyes away, the girl watched as the man was released, flopping down lifelessly on top of the bloodied bricks, bits of wet stuff splattering out of his shattered head and onto the cobbles.
And just like that, a terrible silence filled the blood-soaked alley. Stunned, the girl dragged her eyes up to stare at her owner, who looked as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. He sighed, lowering his arm. “I can’t go all out when fighting in the city, sadly. But that was a decent show, was it not?” He released her shoulder and glanced down at her. “Well, shall we get going? We have a lot of ground to cover, after all.” And then he set off down the lane, stepping over Club Man’s body as if it were nothing but a rock, his cloak slipping from her weakened grasp.
Dazed, the girl lurched after him, her short legs stumbling over the bodies and splashing through the growing pool of Club Man’s blood. She had seen death before, of course - quickly, she shook her head to disperse the memories that threatened to well up - but never anything like this. She looked at her owner’s back in disbelief. This man possessed the power to kill four men in the blink of an eye, without a weapon. And yet, she did not feel so afraid of him anymore. He had protected her, after all.
“I must say, I’m impressed, Jeanna,” said her owner - Andel - as they neared the end of the lane. “This whole time, you haven’t shed a single tear. Yes, I do believe you have what it takes to become quite powerful indeed.”
The girl’s mind whirled suddenly, and she looked up at him. “Me?”
He smiled. “If you come with me, I will teach you to do the things you saw just now, and more. You could be one of the strongest people in the world.” He held out a hand. “What do you say?”
He could teach her. She could do the things that he could. She would never have to fear another person ever again. One of the strongest people in the world. Could it be true?
Jeanna took his hand.
14 years later
A lurch in the road made Maxim Homwell grunt. His mood was sour; even with the expensive silk cushion he had brought for the journey, he was being thrown about in the back of this carriage like a sack of vegetables, with nothing but crates for company. Not that he was too keen on seeing anybody’s face right now. His underlings were proving themselves to be quite incompetent on this trip, and his temper was running short. They were already an entire day behind schedule, and barely two-thirds of the way to Paylton. Upon arrival, Homwell’s first course of action would be to hire new staff.
Well, at least the canvas roof of this carriage offered refuge from the midday sun. He glanced around at the crates surrounding him. Most of them contained quality wood and ores, as well as various other materials for construction and crafting, which would fetch a high price in Paylton. There were also a handful of smaller, more innocuous boxes holding a variety of contraband; those would bring in the most profit. He may have built a legitimate trading company for himself, but his roots in the underworld still spread far and wide. The wheels went over another bump, and he cursed. All this money, and these shoddy carriages are the best my guys could come up with, he thought disgustedly. His company was in serious need of reform, he decided.
Confused voices from outside pulled him from his thoughts, and a few seconds later the carriage slowed to a halt. Getting to his feet, he flicked the canvas open irritably. “What’s this about, driver?” he demanded loudly, and the reedy man in the driver’s seat jumped.
“A-a-ah well you see, M-Master Homwell, sir,” the man stammered from under his wide straw hat, “the carriages ahead all stopped, and–”
“Forgive me, Master Homwell,” interrupted a strong voice from below, and Homwell looked down to see one of the convoy guards - a young man with a pleasant face and dark hair - walking up to the carriage with his helmet under one arm. “A… strange young woman is standing in the middle of the road, refusing to move. Says she wants to speak with you, sir. Mentioned you by name–”
Homwell cut him off angrily. “You stopped the caravan for this? No law-abiding person comes to speak with a merchant in the middle of the forest, man! Get the wench off the road so the caravan can be on its damned way!”
The guard’s eyebrows twitched. “Sir, the guards are alert for possible danger, but there are no signs of any attackers…”
It was true; the woods here weren’t thick enough to conceal a band of armed men, and the flat terrain offered few hiding places. As far as ambush locations went, this was an unlikely spot. “And sir,” the guard continued carefully, “she’s barely more than a girl. I think–”
His mouth snapped shut as an exasperated growl leapt from Homwell like an enraged beast. “I’m not paying you mercs to think! I’ll have no more delays today, man. Get that girl off the bloody road, I don’t care how you do it! If she really wants to see me, then she can come and visit me in Paylton!”
“As you say, sir,” the guard said curtly, bowing low before turning to head back to the head of the column, fitting his helmet back on and motioning to the other guards in view as he went. The carriage driver, forgotten, pulled his hat down as if to hide from his employer’s simmering rage.
“Premium mercs, my bollocks,” Homwell grumbled to himself, peering after the man to make sure his orders were carried out. With bandits maintaining a notable presence in the kingdom, he had thought it prudent to hire one of the most expensive mercenary groups available; but so far he was unimpressed. Well, as long as they can hold their own if it comes to a fight, he thought. His carriage was near the back of the convoy, but there was a very slight bend in the road; so although he could not see the woman who was supposedly blocking the way, he watched as the young guard passed out of sight beyond the lead carriage, gesturing sharply.
A few seconds later, a round silver object came sailing into view, followed by a trail of dark liquid; with a shock, Homwell realised it was the guard’s helmet, with the head still inside. A heartbeat later, there was a sudden flash of light, and a strange cracking sound, and all of a sudden the front carriage was engulfed by fire. The screaming of humans and horses alike began, and Homwell saw two more guards fall to the ground, thrashing madly, consumed by flame.
“Bloody hell!” he roared, heaving his weight out of the carriage. “ATTACK! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” Dropping heavily onto the road, he reached for the throwing knives stashed inside his coat.
The shout was unnecessary; guards all along the column were already unsheathing blades and nocking bows. As some peered into the trees on either side, the rest rushed up the road towards the action. More screams sounded from ahead, and Homwell’s mouth fell open. He was seeing the impossible. One of his carriages was flying through the air high above, as if tossed by a giant. Its two horses were still with it, their limbs kicking wildly, and Homwell almost laughed at the sight as his mind struggled to accept what he was looking at.
And then the carriage smashed down onto the one he had just vacated, crushing the driver who still sat there, slack-jawed, and knocking Homwell to the ground in a shower of splinters. He lay in the dirt, momentarily too stunned to move, as the chaos unfolded before his eyes.
There was another flash of light from ahead and a whoomph as another carriage burst into flames. The driver - an elderly man - was trying to stagger away into the forest, but suddenly one of the trees was ripped from the ground, spinning so that it lay horizontally, then sweeping through the air to catch the man full in the chest. The tree continued its flight, carrying the shrieking man with it as it crashed into the burning carriage with incredible speed, knocking it clean off the road in an explosion of wood and embers. As the flaming wreck vanished from sight, Homwell finally saw the young woman; she strode down the road, arms raised, clad neck to toe in functional clothes of dark brown, the hood of her short cloak thrown back to reveal cropped sandy hair and green eyes. Three guards charged at her; two went down with swords lodged in their chests, and the third man’s head twisted around so fast that it spun off his neck altogether. Two men drew their bows, and fired; the air rippled, and their arrows shattered into pieces. A billowing wave of dust and burning fragments of wood enveloped the archers, and they were sent flying.
The next carriage in line simply collapsed into a pile of broken wood as if squashed flat, the cargo inside bursting out like guts. Homwell stared as piercing bright light seemed to arc from the woman’s outstretched hands, like reddish lightning, whipping jerkily across the road to catch several men in a flash and a hissing crack. The men yelled as they burst into flame, the fire licking through the gaps in their armour, and they dropped to the ground, writhing.
It was pure madness. The horses were panicking, pulling the carriages every which way. Everyone was running now, drivers and guards alike fleeing in terror, and one by one they died as the young woman advanced in a whirlwind of destruction. Heads were torn off; weapons sped through the air to skewer flesh; bodies were crushed under trees and carriages; the strange red lightning leapt from the woman’s hands in horrible tendrils and ignited those it struck like grotesque torches. Carriages burned, and were tossed off the road like rotten leftovers; only a few lucky horses escaped the carnage. The air was thick with smoke and screams. Onwards the woman walked, over the charred and mutilated bodies of the dead, and she laughed.
Blood was running down Homwell’s face, and his mind was clouded by shock; enough that he fooled himself into thinking he had a chance of fighting back. Regardless, escape was obviously impossible. He would lie here, pretending to be dead, until the woman got a bit closer, and then… carefully, he inched his left arm inside his coat until he was touching the handles of his knives.
Suddenly, the last of the screams was cut off, and the only sounds left were the crackling of fire and the faint whinnying of horses. The woman was no longer laughing. He watched her approach, looking from side to side. Now that he could see her more clearly, he realised the guard had been right; she was little more than a girl. Her face would be pretty, if not for the ugly scar running from the bridge of her nose all the way to the base of her left ear; and there was some sort of large gemstone on her forehead. She stepped past an armoured body lying on the roadside, and poked it with one foot. Shrugging, she set it ablaze with a flick of her hand. Homwell forced himself to be still. Just a little bit closer.
She was walking straight towards him. He tensed, then suddenly uncoiled like a spring, sending a knife flashing straight at the girl’s chest, followed closely by another. Both knives froze halfway to their destination, and she did not even break her stride. The next thing he knew, he was flipped onto his back by some unseen force, his limbs stretched out to the side, and then he was screaming as his own knives drove themselves through his splayed palms, nailing them to the ground. He heaved and flailed like a giant fish, howling, but the knives would not budge; and for the first time in his life, Maxim Homwell knew true despair.
Through his tears, he became aware of the girl standing behind his head, leaning over him. Her face was twisted into a satisfied grin, and her wild eyes sparkled with an unusual brightness. “You’re one day late, Mister Homwell,” she said cheerfully over his sobbing. Her voice was low, and husky. “Do you remember me?”
Homwell moaned, unable to formulate a cohesive thought. The girl was insane. This was insane. It must be a dream. Another shriek was torn from him as his third knife, unused, floated out of his coat pocket and stabbed down into his leg. “I asked you a question,” the girl said, and this time she was decidedly less cheerful. She knelt down and grabbed his head roughly with both hands, pulling it back so he had no choice but to stare into her face. Her fingers were hot to the touch. “I said, do you remember me?”
And suddenly, looking up into that marred face, he did. A memory came to him; the memory of a little girl, who had no scar when he first laid hands on her. The girl who never showed him the respect that the other brats did, and had paid for it. The scarred little girl whose unusual buyer had left four dead men in his wake. “Y-you…” he managed, in a whimpering voice. She apparently saw the recognition in his eyes, because she smiled coldly and released him. He sagged back in despair.
“Good,” she said softly, raising one arm. “Well, I have a name now. Jeanna. It’s nice, isn’t it?” A bloodied sword floated into view and into her open hand. She stroked the flat of the blade with one finger, and it began to glow threateningly.
“Ah, I had so much fun today,” she sighed contentedly. “Wasn’t this fun?” She lowered the sword towards his face, and he felt the heat radiating from it. The blood on the metal was sizzling. Panic welled up inside him, and a pitiful wail escaped his lips. The girl’s eyes shone dangerously. “And now, I can finally pay you back after all this time. Don’t worry; there’s nobody to hear us out here, so we can make as much noise as we want.” The glowing blade came closer, and sweat stung Homwell’s eyes as he made one final hopeless attempt to wriggle away.
Jeanna giggled, the sword came down, and Homwell started screaming.
The vanishing of Maxim Homwell’s trade caravan became just one of many unsolved disappearances in the region, and was quickly forgotten. Most assumed it to be the work of bandits, or perhaps something to do with the unusual stretch of scorched forest on the South Paylton Road; but no remains were ever found.
