A Story of Stars - Moment of Calm
#2 of A Story of Stars
I apologize for taking so long to post this chapter, my target day for "A Story of Stars" is actually Sunday. I was however best man for a wedding on Saturday and ended up helping the groom with various activities all week, then ended up going to an after wedding barbeque on Sunday so it was a fairly busy week. Anyway, here it is~ I should have the next chapter up Sunday and plan on writing my first erotic short story sometime this week.
Suggestions and feedback are also always welcomed. If you enjoyed the chapter, or even if you didn't, I'd appreciate even the shortest comment. Thank you kindly~
743 Oath Age: Month of the Spires 4th
The caravan traveled slowly along the Reaching Roads, the paths made treacherously slick by mud from the previous turn of heavy rains. Even now the sky was a morbid gray, shadowed by ominous clouds and a hard fall that bit coldly down to the bone despite the searstones attempting to warm each wagon. It was, Azrael realized, conveniently appropriate weather.
Sighing from his place among the row of jointly chained slaves, he glanced out of the thin wagon window nearest him. For leagues all he could see was rollings fields peppered lightly with shrubbery and trees. Flatland mostly, not unlike the plains of Haven's Run. Yes, that would make sense. Given their pitiful rate of travel and the amount of time elapsed the caravan would be traveling the plains, or at least near enough to them, thus explaining the scenery.
A bulky, muscular human stood from around the child-sized searstone at the wagon's center and shuffled towards a crate. "Meals," he said simply, his voice gruff.
Maggot infested meat and hard, stale bread was thrown at them along with tin cylinders filled with their water rations. Immediately his fellow slaves rushed forward, but he merely picked up a cylinder and downed it in a single pass while waiting for the others to finish and settle back against the wall they were bound to. Azrael watched as the hulking man shook his head with disgust and sat back down near the searstone while rubbing his hands.
After a brief pause the man began speaking to an armed companion in a low whisper, laughing occasionally. Idly Azrael wondered about the topic of their conversation, the events currently unfolding in their lives, the worries and troubles each held. It was a foolish pastime of his, this musing on the lives of others, the twists and turns that brought them before his gaze. Still, it was at least a way to pass the time.
Hardly a mark had passed however when the wagon suddenly jerked to a stop. Shouts rang out and the sound of voices piercing through the rain reached even them. The four caravan guards within their wagon glanced at each other, but only one of them stood up and slid open the door before vanishing into the thick torrent.
The other slaves looked at each other nervously, some even daring to whisper among themselves. Azrael remained silent, watching the other three guardsmen with minimal interest. The moments passed painfully slow, each marked by the heavy patter of rainfall on the roof of the wagon. Eventually the guard returned, his tunic soaked and his iron splints dripping cold rainwater. With an expression of utter annoyance he glanced quickly through the slaves, hard eyes moving between them one by one.
The bulky man that fed them watched passively for a few marks before following his gaze to the slaves. "What's the word, bluk?"
"Damn headmaster's gone insane, is what," the man replied with a thick accent. "Wants us combing these damned bluks for a potential sale, but none of 'em is even ready for show. Most of them probably fit only fer dying, maybe breeding."
"What's the callings?"
"Intelligent, healthy, strong-armed."
The heavy man gave the slaves a sidelong glance and laughed. "Insane is right, damn bluk."
"Well, they're paying triple for da inconvenience and fer some hush, so the headmaster's not gonna pass." His eyes fell on Azrael and narrowed slightly. "How 'bout that lodeci?"
The hefty man glanced at Azrael. "They want a lodeci?"
The guardsman shrugged. "Just bring him."
Azrael watched as the bulky man unchained him from the others then rebound his hands to a heavy bar of iron from which a lengthy chain hung. With a flourish the man tossed the chain to his waiting companion, who tugged on it.
He followed the human obediently, not evening bothering to look back at the other slaves or the guardsmen. The human leading him began muttering the moment they stepped into the freezing rains, but he relished the sensation of icy water coursing between his pointed ears, running down his back with invigorating coldness and drenching his wolf-tail. Eventually they came to the front of the caravan, some seven or so slave wagons, several guardsmen wagons, and the headmaster's own wagon. Further down the muddy road, barely visible, was a black carriage tethered to massive stallions.
Azrael was led to a row of slaves and commanded to remain silent. The headmaster stood a little away, trailed by two heavily armed guards, and was speaking quietly to an old man whose body showed traces of a retired warrior, both in scars and lingering muscle. He seemed unaware that his expensive coat and hat was being ruined by the rain and mud.
The old man began moving from one side of the row, examining each slave carefully. At times he would speak softly before moving on. Some of the slaves cried, others appeared to be begging, a few only stared back dully. Azrael waited for his turn with indifference, only casually glancing down into the eyes of the man as he finally came to stand before him.
"You carry lodeci?" the man asked in a soft, but confident voice.
The headmaster, a short human with a bulging belly and hair that seemed greasy even in the rain, grinned. "We sell anything we get our hands on, even aefths or oranti."
"Hm." The old man stared into his own stone-gray eyes while Azrael regarded him. He was lightly tanned and carried himself proudly. A sharp face accented by long silver hair neatly tied back into a ponytail gave him an aura of importance. The scars strewn throughout his face and hands only added to his appearance rather than took away from it and the muscular frame enhanced the visage of vibrant health.
"Something wrong with your eyes, lad?" the man asked curiously. "A disease?"
Azrael smiled. "They are as they were meant to be." The truth, but the man would not know why. "My vision is as sharp as any lodeci however, if this is what you mean."
The old man smiled back and nodded, then pointed at a wispy marking on his bare shoulder. Two zeroes intertwined beneath a feather and curved blade that crossed each other. "And this is?"
"A remnant from my past, of little importance."
"You will tell me?"
"No."
"Even at the risk of punishment? Death?"
"Yes."
The headmaster looked at him with rage, his hand raising to call the guardsmen, but the old man's smile only widened while he waved down the fat headmaster. "You appear to be of good health and sharp mind. This sets you out of place with the other slaves, lodeci, and that has me interested. What is your name?"
"Azrael," he replied simply.
The man nodded. "Then, Azrael-" In a flash of rainwater and dim light shimmering on steel he brandished a short blade and cleaved at Azrael's throat.
Training, instinct, and experience all pumped through his veins for the merest instant, informing him of countless defensive maneuvers, possible methods of killing the man, windows of opportunity and likely reactions from those around him, and so much more. Yet he did nothing, swallowed the sensations, buried them deep, and merely watched as the blade only drew a thin red line across his throat.
"Damned bluk, what are you doing to my property?" the fat little headmaster spat, glaring at the old man. His armed guards had already drawn their blades and were tensely awaiting orders.
Ignoring the headmaster, the old man sheathed his blade pulled his coat around the hilt. His eyes held respect. "Do not think to fool me, Azrael. Your body tensed for an endless heartbeat. It knew how to react without the need of some cumbersome mind slowing it down. What is even more impressive however is that this same cumbersome mind still managed to retain control, an ability even the most seasoned of warriors are hard pressed to learn."
Azrael watched the man with slightly widened eyes, impressed that he would notice such subtle details.
"You are worthy," the old man continued. "I am known as Lord Orland Cecil, a minor noble of Avura. I seek a loyal butler and guardsman for my estate. As a slave purchasing your flesh is easy enough, but I am in the belief that loyalty must be earned. Thus I offer you as our estate's only servant collective pay over a term of seven years after which you will be freed and given your accumulated sum. After the term is served you may decide if we are deserving of your loyalty and may remain if you so choose. Is this acceptable?"
Taken aback, Azrael stared at Orland while the rain poured down heavily. Quietly, humbled, he nodded, knowing that such an offer was far greater than any slave would ever receive. "I am at your service, Lord Cecil."
Orland snapped his fingers. A man dressed in a long flowing coat walked up to the headmaster and set a heavy crate at his feet, then opened it. Orland nodded to him. "One hundred kantle and fifty half pieces, as promised."
The headmaster grinned broadly, thanked him for his patronage, and quickly ordered his men to take the crate to his wagon. One of the guards unbound his arms and removed the chains from his feet, then herded the other slaves back to the wagons through the cold rain. Orland merely walked back to his own carriage without a word.
He followed his new master, seating himself beside the aged man as the driver held open the door. In the silence of the unending rain the carriage slowly took off through the muddy roads towards the east, parting from the caravan which continued north.
It took them most of the day to reach the city-state of Avura during which the rains continued to fall. Even through the darkness however Avura stood with grandeur. Walls lit by massive illume stones rose high into the sky, topped at regular intervals by watchspires that soared even higher, their array of warding and enchantments standing as vigilant as the acolyte mages walking the walls with blocky bolters in hand. The dark shades of mottled gray and black continued well beyond the city walls, through the thick ghettos that plagued the outer rims near what Lord Cecil pointed out as the Black Bazaar, and continued all the way to the dark citadel within Avura's heart that served as home to the ruling high lord.
"This," Orland said softly as he watched Azrael. "Is your new home."
Time passed slowly in this city of shades. The skies continued their morbid display, matching well with the city's dark pathways and filthy buildings. The rains continued for nearly the entire two turns he had spent in Avura, pausing only to ensure them that the bright sun did indeed still exist before again bathing them in false night. Azrael was however content. He had been put to work almost immediately and had quickly come to enjoy the mundane choirs of Orland's humble manor. Some tasks had been a challenge to learn, such as preparing meals, but Orland ensured him that he was learning at an outstanding pace.
Each afternoon he would spar with the master in his private training hall, fighting with a variety of weapons. Azrael won each and every time, to Orland's surprise, but Azrael only commented that he had been a proficient soldier in his previous life and left it at that. By the end of two turns Azrael had comfortably adjusted to the routines of the household and felt confident in his ability to fulfill his role as the manor's butler, though the particulars of his requirement still nagged at his mind from time to time. Why had Orland sought a slave, especially one with such qualities? It seemed like too much effort, especially when hiring experienced servants or, if that was what he truly needed, guards, would have been far easier.
But it was not for him to question, so he did not. Eventually came a day when Azrael noticed that Master Orland was nervous, a first for a man that seemed to be forged out of steel. Keeping his silence, he continued his choirs until he was finally called by his master. Joining him in a small resting room, Azrael watched as two humans entered, one a young woman while the other was a man. Master Orland swept up the woman in his arms while the man sat at the bar, lifted up a glass, and poured himself a glass of brandy.
Orland turned to him. "Azrael, I would like you to meet the only other occupant of this manor, my daughter Lanara Cecil."
Flattening his ears and lowering his tail, he bowed. Strands of his long ebon hair fall around his face. "A pleasure."
She eyed him nervously and not without a little fear. "The lodeci are nothing at all like I imagined...and so very tall..." She blushed as she said this, then waved her hands. "No offense meant, of course."
"Of course," he replied, giving her a soft smile. He was tall even for a lodeci, standing nearly a head taller than most humans. It, along with his wolf-like features, gave him an intimidating and fierce appearance.
"And this is Rowran, an old friend of mine." Master Orland gestured at the young man nursing his drink.
Azrael stared into his emerald eyes, regarding the man. The stench of vyr drifted strongly from him, marking him as a powerful mage. One that would hardly need a bolter to mold soulfire, yet still one hung from a strap across his back, elaborately carved out of wood and steel. He wore a long black coat with high collars left open to reveal a similarly dark tunic and pair of slacks worn over heavy boots. His hair was a wild mess of short golden locks, framing a face that betrayed a deeper level of wisdom than his youth signified.
Rowran fingered an earring dangling from his left ear, adorned with a small dark stone. "This is your solution, old man? A lodeci runt?"
"Your manners, Rowran," Orland cautioned. "He is merely a butler and personal aid for Lanara."
Rowran snorted as he drunk from the glass. Lanara glared at him, then strode across the thick crimson carpet and snatched the cup out of his hand before turning to her father. "Thank you, father. I am sure mister Azrael will make life a little easier here, especially with such a large manor to ourselves."
"That was the intent," Orland said, smiling.
Azrael glanced between the three, keenly aware that there was something between them he was not privy to.
Rowran glanced at him, then stood and shrugged. "You should stop being such a stubborn bluk and let Khamja help, old man."
Orland gave him a sharp look. "Rowran..."
"Right, right. As hush as we are stupid, right? Shit." He shoved his hands into his pockets and moved towards the door. "Hit me up at Drowy's later for a drink, old man."
Lanara watched him go, then mumbled something quietly and moved upstairs with her belongings. Azrael simply folded his hands behind his back patiently while Orland exhaled slowly, poured two overflowing cups of brandy, and handed one to Azrael. He raised the glass and drunk for show; alcohol, among other things, had no affect on his body. A pity, he had thought more than once.
"Sorry you had to see that, but truth be told that was the better version of how I predicted this would go." Orlan sat down on a smooth leather couch, rested his feet on a crystalline tea table, and gestured for Azrael to take a seat opposite for him. "I will spare you the details. Like you, my lodeci friend, I wish to leave my past behind, a past Rowran is unfortunately a part of. Seems almost impossible however..."
"I sense that this may have to do with why I was purchased, Master Orland?" he asked, glancing at his cup.
"In a way," Orland replied. "You will soon learn as you live in Avura that the high lord only controls a portion of the city. With his attention on the growing tension between the other city-states and all this talk of war, other, usually more subtle, factions are getting bolder and reaching for more control of the city. I do not know where you hail from from, Azrael, but that is how life is here and anyone born and raised in Avura accepts that. I simply do not want myself or my daughter to be a part of it."
Azrael nodded. He understood perfectly, had spent a thousand lifetime's worth serving similar powers. "And here I was of the mind that fortune was simply smiling on me."
Orland's brow furrowed as his lips parted, but he raised a hand and silenced his master. "I jest, Master Orland. You fear for your daughter, yes? You know that you can not always keep eyes on her and this worries you."
"Yes..." Orland replied hesitantly.
Azrael nodded. "Then I shall do my best to ensure her safety. You have my word."
Scratching the back of his head uneasily, Orland nodded and laughed nervously. "This is of course only a precaution. Nothing is more important to me than my daughter. If I have to accept a few bribes or recall slightly different numbers to ensure I walk the line safely, then so be it. Your seven years will likely be spent quietly and uneventually, with the worst perhaps being the annoyances of serving such a fiery young lady."
"Let us hope so, Master Orland," he said, raising his glass. Quiet and uneventful was exactly what he ached for.