The Rise of Aredor Page 2

  On the third day at Lynwood, Celyn gave Corin permission to ride out into the forest while he spent the day going over supply lists with Darrin. The job sounded unutterably dull to Corin, so he jumped at the chance of exploring the forest by himself. After promising he would not stray too far from the known paths, he rode through the front gates of the keep and into the forest.

  After a time, he turned off the Lynwood Track and onto a well-worn path he knew would take him to the river. By lunchtime, he had reached the banks of the Darkan River. He ate and spent an afternoon exploring by the wide, flowing water.

  All too soon the patterns of the sun through the leaves began to change, signaling the move of afternoon to evening. He gathered up his bag with a reluctant sigh. It wouldn’t take long to ride back to Lynwood, but he needed to hurry if he didn’t want to miss the evening meal. The crack of a snapping branch sent the bag tumbling from his grasp. Loud rustling spread towards him and he glanced nervously around the forest. He grabbed the bag and slung it over the saddle as calmly as possible. He didn’t think it was one of the soldiers from Lynwood, but if it was he didn’t want them thinking he was scared.

  He had one foot in the stirrup when the bushes parted and four strangers stepped into the clearing. They seemed equally surprised to see him. Before he knew what was happening, they had dragged him away from the horse and held him tight.

  “Who…who are you?” he managed to say.

  Their leader gave a low laugh. “Only poor, dishonest tradesmen trying to find a profit in this blasted north land. And I think you’ll add a nice bonus to our trip.”

  Corin struggled, but the men were too strong for him.

  “You can’t take me! My father…”

  “I don’t care who your father is, just as long as you fetch a fair price,” the man cut him off.

  One of his men fingered the soft cloth of his tunic. “But, sir, look at how he’s dressed. We could get a ransom out of him.”

  “No, I don’t want to stay here any longer. Besides, they’d pay the ransom then come after us and kill us for kidnapping him. You underestimate these northerners, and I’d rather keep my head if it’s all the same to you!” the leader snapped. “Tie him up and take him to the boat. If he starts talking, just gag him. Get rid of that horse and cover the tracks so we don’t leave any traces.”

  Corin’s hands were tied tightly behind him, and one of the slavers shoved him roughly, forcibly marching him down river to where a small boat waited. The rest of the men joined them soon after, and the boat was cast off. The slavers plied the oars expertly and sent the boat flying down the river. As the sun finally set, they turned down a side stream.

  Two nightmarish days later, they boarded a ship anchored in a hidden bay by the Grey Cliffs. Corin was imprisoned in the hold and left to ponder his fate. He was still reeling from the abrupt abduction and told himself that he would have been missed almost immediately and that his father would be looking for him. But that couldn’t stop the sheer panic he felt at his helplessness.

  After three weeks at sea, the slave ship docked at a bustling port town in Calorin. Corin had been forced to exchange his fine clothes for the rougher garments of a slave. During the long voyage, he had hardly spoken a word, his frantic hope slipping away with each passing day. He was led up on the deck along with other unfortunate prisoners, blinking in the bright sunlight. The crew of the ship herded the slaves down the gangplank and into the busy town’s marketplace.

  Despite his predicament, Corin looked around in open curiosity at the dark skinned natives and their strange flowing language. The marketplace was filled with bright spinning colors as people went about their daily business of buying and selling. The prisoners were given hardly a glance; the slave ship they’d arrived on was not the only one in port. After two days watching countless men and women and children sold at the auction block, Corin found he was not to be sold in the market; the slaver had something else in mind for him and a select handful of other prisoners.

  When the business in the city was completed, the slavers headed east toward their next destination—the castles of several Calorin lords who paid enough to give the slavers a comfortable life. Corin’s fear grew the further they traveled from the coast and the only way he knew home. In desperation, he tried to run from his captors one night but was caught again and punished as harshly as the slaver dared. The pain from the blows jarred him from his shock. He curled against the ground, choking back thick sobs of pain and rage against his helplessness.

  * * *

  “None of the others were suitable enough for your lordship,” the slaver whined.

  Lord Balkor looked Corin up and down scornfully. “A ragged northern brat? What am I supposed to do with him?”

  “Why, a boy like this, he’ll be quite a diversion. With a little training, he’d make a fine servant, take care of your worship-fullness’s guests just fine.” The slaver reminded Corin of a dog watching for a treat.

  The Calorin lord’s features were hard and unmoving as he tapped his chin, not breaking his stare. Corin dipped his head towards the floor, resisting the urge to squirm under that gaze.

  “I have enough house slaves right now, but I’ll take him. Maybe as a stable boy, do you think?” he asked.

  The slaver nodded with an enthusiastic smile. “Yes, lord. He’d make a fine impression in your livery. I’m sure you won’t regret it!” He took the money handed him by Lord Balkor, who then dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

  Corin hadn’t understood any of the exchange other than a few words he’d picked up during the last weeks. But he saw the money change hands and realized with a sick feeling that he had just been sold as a horse was sold in the market. The slaver scurried off and Corin watched him go with a strange regret. The man might have just sold him but he was the last familiar thing that linked him to home.

  “You! What’s your name?” Lord Balkor surprised him by addressing him in the Northern tongue but then waved Corin off as he made to reply. “No, I don’t care. It’s probably something completely unpronounceable. Just know this, you belong to me now.” With that, he strode off, leaving Corin with another servant.

  “You…come…” the servant said in halting Rhyddan. Corin nodded his understanding and trailed after the servant. He was left with a woman who took him to the slave quarters and showed him where he would stay.

  That night, Corin lay huddled on the rough bed. The past few weeks had seemed like a bad dream from which he would awaken sooner or later. But the events of the day had struck home the bitter reality. He was in a strange country, his family knew nothing of his whereabouts, and he was a slave. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest as if to squeeze out the dull ache of homesickness and fright. Softly, he began to cry.

  * * *

  Corin wiped sweat from his face and rested a moment. He stared out to where the wide, flat plains stretched on over the horizon. He missed acutely the green, rolling hills and forests of his home. Lord Balkor had changed his mind about his newest slave and Corin was sent to work in the fields. The overseer turned in Corin’s direction, and he hurriedly bent and continued working.

  The months had dragged by since he first arrived. He learned quickly to keep his mouth shut and his eyes down. No one cared that he had never worked before, least of all the overseers. A young boy about his own age had befriended him and had begun teaching him the Calorin language. It was slow work at first; they made do with gestures and simple words until Corin began learning more. He would practice as they worked side by side in the fields while Hosni laughed at his accent. Hosni also gave him a new name, Hamíd. A new name, a new life, Corin thought.

  After the first night when he had not been restrained in any way, he had wild plans of escaping back home, but he soon realized how impossible that would be. He had no idea where he was and wouldn’t be able to make it back to the coast without being caught. So he worked, harder than he ever had in his entire life, and tried not to think about his fam
ily and home.

  * * *

  Corin was awake before dawn. He heard the sounds of the other slaves rising and making ready to spend another day in the fields. He lay still for a few more minutes. Today, he was fifteen. Three long years had passed since he first came there.

  Frightened, Corin realized that he had become resigned to this new life. Only a faint spark of his former spirit remained. Clenching his jaw, he silently resolved to find a way back home. He was no longer helpless. He was taller now and stronger and could speak the Calorin language fluently. Maybe he could make it.

  You may never go back, a silent voice told him. He forced the thought away; he would find a way.

  Footsteps pounded outside and Hosni skidded to a halt beside his cot.

  “Tamir is looking for you,” he said.

  Corin bolted upright. “Why?”

  Hosni shrugged. “It can’t be good though.”

  Corin pulled on his shoes. Tamir was the sadistic overseer who went out of his way to make everyone’s life more miserable. Corin went as slow as he dared outside to where Tamir waited.

  “You.” He pointed at Corin. “You’re to help Fikri in the forge from now on. Get to it!”

  “Yes, sir,” Corin mumbled, making his way to the smithy by the stables, not sure if he minded being taken from the fields. Inside, the blacksmith had begun to light his fires. He turned and sized Corin up as he came in.

  “So, you’re the one they sent?” he said. Corin nodded silently. “You’ll have to do, I suppose,” the blacksmith grumbled.

  He kept Corin busier than ever before: fetching wood, keeping the fires hot, and leading horses to and from the stables. In his spare time, Fikri began to teach him how to work the metal and shape it into horseshoes or weapon blades, or how to repair chain mail shirts.

  His close proximity to the main house brought him into more frequent contact with Lord Balkor. Each time he saw the lord, fresh anger would flare up in Corin’s heart. The slavers might have been the ones that brought him to Calorin, but Balkor was the one who had commissioned them to find new slaves and was the one keeping him captive. Lord Balkor sensed it and had him soundly beaten for his “rebellious nature.”

  The night of the punishment, Corin lay on his bunk, fighting back tears. But the pain radiating from the cuts on his back was no match for the shame of the mark now branded into the palm of his right hand. It showed the world that he was nothing more than a slave. Corin took a strip of cloth and wound it about his hand, hiding the crossed hammer and whip. I will not break, he vowed silently.

  But his promise became harder and harder to keep as the years passed. Lord Balkor became angry at the cool defiance shining in Corin’s blue eyes. He would devise punishments in an attempt to break Corin’s spirit, but Corin refused to become intimidated, taking the beatings without a sound. Fikri looked out for Corin as best he could, keeping him out of Lord Balkor’s way as much as possible.

  He withdrew from all but a few of his fellow slaves, different enough to be considered something of an outcast by a few, most others reticent to associate with him especially as he kept gaining Lord Balkor’s attention. The only comfort he ever found was in the quiet of the stables, surrounded by the horses that reminded him of home.

  But as the years passed, Corin’s memories of Aredor faded until only vague pictures of his family were left. They will have all changed so much. Do they remember me? I wonder, he thought. One day, I will escape this place and I will return.

  Chapter 3

  Hamíd placed the shoe over the gelding’s hind foot and hammered it into place. Hosni handed him a file, and he smoothed the edge of the hoof. He slowly lowered the gelding’s hoof down and straightened up, trying not to grimace. It didn’t work.

  “How’s your back?” Hosni asked.

  Hamíd leaned against the horse’s back and sighed. It was no good trying to lie.

  “Horrible. I feel like I’m going to be sick. You shouldn’t be here, Hosni. You need to get back to work.”

  “You shouldn’t even be working,” Hosni muttered.

  Hamíd turned to rest the hammer on the anvil, biting back another wince. He had been beaten again recently and a dampness that was not sweat trickled down his back. He knew from Hosni’s worried frown that the blood was streaking his shirt.

  “You need to rest, Hamíd,” Hosni said.

  Hamíd gave a bitter laugh. “Try telling the high and mighty Lord Balkor that. See how far you get.” He gave the gelding a pat as the groom led it away. “Here he comes now, and I don’t think it’s to inquire about my health.” He and Hosni stood, bowing their heads as Balkor halted outside the smithy.

  “You.” He jabbed a finger at Hamíd. “Get over here now!”

  Hosni sent Hamíd an encouraging look as he made his way over to the irate lord.

  “Yes, my lord?” Hamíd managed a deep enough bow, biting his cheek as his cuts shifted. It would do him no favors to let his pain show.

  Balkor gestured to the man standing by him. “This is the Lord Rishdah. His horse needs looking after. See to it now!”

  “Yes, sir.” Hamíd bowed again.

  “This way, young man.” Lord Rishdah beckoned him over, leading Hamíd back across the courtyard to where several men stood holding horses.

  Two were dressed as guards in the livery of the Lord Rishdah, a red phoenix emblazoned on the front of their black tunics. Bright mail shirts peeked out from under their tunics. One carried a scimitar while the other carried two blades across his back, the twin handles sticking up above his shoulders. The guards’ companion was dressed more richly than they and carried himself with an easy confidence that suggested he was Lord Rishdah’s son.

  “Emeth, bring the stallion!” Lord Rishdah called.

  The guard with the double swords took the reins from the son and led the horse over. The stallion was limping badly on his right front foot and, as it came closer, Hamíd saw the ragged edge of the hoof and small cuts littering its leg.

  “His shoe was loose and he went and tore it off. Fell and cut his leg up a bit too,” Emeth explained.

  Hamíd spared a brief nod as he went up to the horse to better examine it. He ran a hand down its leg and the stallion shied away. Hamíd caught at its bridle and stroked its forehead in reassurance.

  “Hey now, easy, boy. You’re in no shape to be dancing around like that,” he murmured in his own tongue. The stallion snorted, gradually settling down as he continued to talk gently to it.

  “He likes you. He usually doesn’t settle down that easy.”

  Hamíd jerked his head up in surprise. Emeth had spoken Rhyddan, the northern tongue. He saw now that Emeth was fair skinned like him with wavy black hair and sparkling green eyes.

  “You are far from home.” Hamíd broke free from his initial shock.

  “I could say the same for you.” Questions were evident in Emeth’s words.

  Hamíd risked a glance at Balkor. The anger in the lord’s face promised punishment later. Hamíd turned back to the horse and reverted to Calorin, “If you’ll bring him to the forge, sir, I’ll take care of him there.”

  Once the stallion was settled in the cross ties, Hamíd went to work. He trimmed the ragged edge from the hoof and then measured a shoe and shaped it to size. As he finished putting in the last nail and straightened up, a new wave of dizziness swept over him. He swayed and grabbed at the anvil to steady himself. Emeth instinctively reached out to help him, but Hamíd pushed his hand away.

  “Don’t!”

  “Why?” Emeth frowned.

  “He’s watching.”

  Emeth followed Hamíd’s glance back to where Balkor stood with a faint smirk. In contrast, Lord Rishdah had pinned him with a look Hamíd couldn’t quite explain, like a battle between anger and sympathy. He turned away and fresh blood soaked into his shirt. As nausea threatened again, he focused on remaining conscious. Fikri would be done in the armory soon and then he’d be able to rest.

  Emeth grabbed hi
s arm and had him sitting down before Hamíd realized what was happening. The lords had turned away to the cool shelter of the castle.

  “Here, drink this,” Emeth commanded and held his waterskin to Hamíd’s lips. He took a few slow sips. It was warm but the world stopped reeling as it slid down his throat. He pushed it away and tried to get up, but Emeth pressed him back down.

  “You’re in no condition to be working! What did he do to you?”

  Hamíd didn’t know why Emeth cared. “Twenty-five lashes. I got blamed after his son ruined another horse. Let me up! I need to finish with those cuts, and if he sees me like this, I’ll get worse.”

  Emeth pinned him back down.

  “Lord Rishdah will keep him occupied for a while. Just sit and tell me what to do for the cuts on Rais’s leg.”

  Emeth had just finished wrapping a light bandage around the stallion’s foreleg and was helping Hamíd to his feet when Lord Rishdah joined them.

  “Finished?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Emeth replied.

  “Good. Take the stallion. And you’re coming with us.” He pointed at Hamíd.

  “What?” Hamíd stared in surprise.

  “I struck a deal with Lord Balkor. You belong with me now.”

  Emeth led Hamíd over to where the others still stood accompanied by Lord Rishdah.

  “Come, we leave now,” Rishdah said. “Nicar, take the stallion. Ismail, you ride with me, and, Emeth, take him up behind you.”

  Nicar, the second guard, mounted his horse and took the stallion’s reins from Emeth. Hamíd looked around for Hosni. He stood by the forge, watching them prepare to leave. He caught Hamíd’s gaze and gave him a small smile. Hamíd raised a hand in a poor farewell, then Emeth pulled Hamíd up behind him, and they spurred through the gates.

  The stallion was moving slowly, and they had to match its pace, forcing the miles to creep by as they left the farmlands behind and entered the grassy plains of Calorin.