Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

The slaver had brought them here to teach them the consequences of rebellion. It was an age-old trick. Kill the usurper and keep the rest of the subjects in line. It was a trick Royce had used himself from time to time.

The slaver shifted from one foot to the other. Royce expected that he knew a trap when he walked into one, but he had offered the girl little mercy. He should expect none himself.

“So she dies as an example, the others fall in line.” Royce was stalling now and he couldn’t fathom why.

“Y-yes, Mi’lord.”

Royce nodded, scratching his gray-black beard with gnarled fingers.

“How much,” he asked after a long pause.

“Mi’lord?”

“How much did you pay for her? Surely she must have been quite a nuisance for you to waste perfectly good coin on executing her as an example. You could have done it with your own blade for free. But, then I don’t suppose you like getting your hands bloody. So I ask you again, how much did you pay?”

The slaver's eyes darted from Royce to the girl and back again. The trap was sprung, he knew. Now all that was left was to see how much of his leg he'd have to lose to get free.

“Twenty crowns, Mi’lord. And a pair of aurochs.”

Royce raised an eyebrow. “That's no small sum.”

“Well, sir, she is untouched,” the man blurted, then snapped his jaws shut as if he could cut the words off before they slipped out. He knew he had said too much.

“Ah.” It was a softly spoken syllable, almost a sigh. Royce looked from the slaver down to the girl. He knelt and with a gentle touch, flipped her shift down to hide the bruises. “So you were looking to sell her to a man, then. One with, shall we say, peculiar tastes. Surely you’d have gotten top crown for her once she was fully functional.”

“Not worth it,” Cerrin sneered. “She’s worth more to me minus her head.”

Royce stood, his hand dropping to his belt. It hovered there a moment, poised over the foot-long dagger that was sheathed there. Beads of sweat stood out across the slaver's brow. He licked his lips in a constant nervous motion, his eyes watching Royce's hand and the blade hilt for any movement.

“You’ve no right,” the Magistrate interrupted, stepping forward. Royce merely looked at him. The Magistrate withered under his glare. “Fine, do as you will.” He threw his hands up and stormed off the platform, his robes swirling around his ankles.

Slowly, Royce dropped his hand to his purse and tugged it free. He unthreaded the lace and shook some coins into his hand, dropping the first few back into the pouch and palming the larger, thicker gold coins that sparkled in the muted morning sun. Each bore an underscored numeral twenty on the face and the namesake crown of the king on the reverse.

“Twenty crowns and two aurochs. I should think that forty crowns should cover your expenses and your, ah, inconvenience.” Royce tossed the coins at the slaver's feet. They struck the platform and bounced with a dull ring, spinning for a moment before falling flat.

The slaver made no move to retrieve the coins. He stood there, still shifting from one foot to the other, his eyes flicking between Royce, the coins, and the girl. Royce tucked his purse back into his belt and tugged the loop from the hilt of his knife, laying his hand on the cap.

“You’ve made your sale, slaver. Take your payment, and go. Now.”

A sudden cry of derision burst from the crowd, breaking the tableau. Shouts went up from the commoners as they collectively realized they had been denied any more entertainment for the day. The slaver snatched up the coins and scampered off the platform, dodging and weaving through the crowd of hands that tried to pluck the coins from his grasp and the purse from his belt.

Royce took a knee beside the girl and put a rough hand under her chin. A shock went through his fingers, traveled up his arm, and down his spine, settling into the pit of his stomach like a writhing sickness. Whoever this girl was, she had power to spare.

They would have time to discover the nature of her power later. For now, they had to get off the platform and away from the commoners. Things were growing ugly, and quickly.

“Get up,” Royce grunted, unlocking her shackles from the block. “I own you now, so you're my responsibility.”

With some effort the girl got to her feet. The glance she shot Royce was wary and vengeful. He owned her now, this demon, full of rage and fire. Royce shook his head. What in the name of nine different hells had he thought he was doing? He had purchased the girl outright, so she belonged to him. Now all he needed to figure out was what he was going to do with her.

A rotten tomato slapped into Royce's heavy leather chest guard, spraying him with fermented juice and bits of pulp. Denied their prize, the crowd was rapidly taking on the mob mentality. Assaulting the Constable was an offense that could merit a death sentence itself, but the surging mass of people granted anonymity and they were angry.

Royce drew the long dagger from his belt and grabbed the girl by the arm, ignoring the second jolt that coursed through his thick frame. He all but dragged her from the platform into the torrid sea of flesh. He swept the blade back and forth, forcing the crowd to yield before them as they made a hasty retreat from the square.

“My cottage isn't far,” he grunted to the girl as they passed out of the throng and into the relative safety of the mostly empty street. “It will be quiet and safe. Then I can figure out what I'm going to do with you.”

He felt the girl tense. It wasn't hard for Royce to figure out why. The slaver had said she was untouched. His purchase of her must have made rape seem inevitable. She was, after all, a slave. She was his property, to do with as he pleased.

“Not that way, girl,” he said, guiding her down the side street that lead to his modest cottage. “I have other plans for you.”

Tiadaria stumbled, but the man's vice-like grip on her upper arm kept her upright and propelled her along the sparsely populated road. His touch caused her skin to tingle in a way she had never experienced and made the witchmetal collar burn around her neck. Every time he touched her, it felt as if her skin was on fire. She wanted to run, to get as far away from this village and its people as she could, to find her way back to the north where things were familiar. She would find a place as Klanjon; the expatriate of one clan sworn to serve another. She had heard that some of the clans actually revered their women and treated them with respect. That’s what she would do. She would make her way back to her homeland and claim vengeance on her father and the Folkledre of her former clan.

This man who had paid for her would have to sleep eventually, and when he did, she would disappear. Or better yet, cut his throat and be done with it. He may have purchased her from the repugnant little slaver, but he would never own her. She would fight until her dying breath to free herself from captivity and gain her revenge.

They turned down a long, empty dirt road and the man stopped his head-long flight. He released her arm and at once, the almost-painful burning tingle that danced over her skin vanished. The collar around her throat seemed to expand, letting air into lungs that ached, starved for breath. She stopped, her hand going to the her throat and the man turned to her, his storm-gray eyes ranging over her face before he motioned to a little cottage at the end of the dirt road.

“That's where we're going. Are you going to walk, or do I need to carry you?”

She sprung at him, wanting to grab him by the throat, but her chains made her slow and clumsy. He easily kicked her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling in the dirt on her back. He was suddenly beside her, his knee pressing into her throat and the tip of his long dagger digging painfully into the soft skin beneath her left breast.