The Forsaken Hero

The wagons rolled onward for several days, relying on the magic of the accompanying guards to sustain the cattle and slavers. The constant jostles and bumps were taxing, slowly wearing away at my muscles and joints. Each time I went to rest my head, the wagon pitched into a deep rut, jolting me against the grainy wood planks.

The days were cold, and the nights colder, but the slavers pressed on without thought for the cargo. The constant shivering was exhausting, and I often awoke to find tears streaming down my cheeks, weeping from the frozen ache of my fingers, toes, and tail. During the day, my thoughts were slow and lethargic, wandering through perpetual mires of sorrow and hopelessness. They didn’t give us nearly enough food to sustain ourselves, and vicious hunger cramps soon became a constant companion.

Surprisingly, it took an entire week for the first slaves to die. Light gray clouds rolled over the caravan one early evening, accompanied by a breezy chill. The first flurries fell shortly before dark, drifting into my cage and settling on my long, matted hair. By the time night fell, the ground was white, covered by a thin veil of snow. It covered the horses’ tracks and filled in the wagon ruts, erasing all signs of our passage.

I sneezed, huddling against a corner, as far from the windows as I could manage. Every gust of wind sent fresh flakes spinning through the wagon, which melted almost immediately, condensing on my body like dew. My extremities tingled with a frozen numbness, especially my tail, which throbbed no matter how tightly I hugged it to my chest.

The snowstorm rose and fell, at one minute a gentle, picturesque scene and the next a furious blizzard. The weather of Enusia was often erratic, but this was my first time wholly exposed to the unpredictable elements. My spells had always provided ample protection against magical cold and heat, much less the natural, relatively tame dangers of the natural world. Being forced into the harsh winter temperature without them brought my life to the brink, stretching me in such a way all I could think of was the bitter cold, and how death would be a mercy.

The other slaves packed together, sharing their body warmth. Everything was still, muffled by the drifting snowflakes. Even the rumble of the wheels and the soft whinnies of the horses was subdued, lost in the endless fields of white.

The storm broke around dawn. I lay slumped against the corner, knees tucked against my chest, sobbing until the soldiers knocked on the cage, peering in to see if I had made it. Fine droplets of ice coated my hair, clothes, and skin, but I was alive. Barely.

”She’s still breathing!” a soldier cried.

The captain sighed in relief, looking as though his heart had stopped for a moment. He ripped his cloak free of his back and tossed it through the barred windows.

”Don’t freeze,” he ordered.

I stared at the garment for a moment, noting the grim and ice clinging to its folds, before gingerly picking it up. It was sour with sweat and grime, but nothing worse than the clothes I was wearing. I glanced at the captain warily before carefully wrapping it around my shoulders, making sure my tail was tucked against my body. He nodded in approval and turned away, checking on the others.

They pulled four corpses from the other five wagons, leaving them in the snow-covered hills to rot. I couldn’t bring myself to look at their bodies as we rumbled by, convinced that might have just as easily been me.

The guards were more careful after that, stopping the wagons and circling up around magical fires whenever things got too cold. But besides that, we were left to freeze, and the only break in the monotonous suffering was when meals were served.

The wagons moved for three weeks, passing through the occasional village but otherwise alone in the foothills. The mountains drew near, rising a few inches higher into the horizon each morning when the thin sunlight pierced the clouds.

More slaves died, even those in the crowded wagons saturated with body heat. Any tracking us would have an easy time following the trail of corpses, but any hope of a rescue had long since died. No one was coming to save me.

Midway through the twentieth day of the journey, I sat in the corner, as had become my custom, resting my head on my knees, which were tightly tucked against my chest. An unfamiliar, long-forgotten scent drifted into the wagon, that of a city, and an excited ripple coursed through the nearby soldiers. They were exhausted and worn, both from the persistent cold and hard marching. Even the rejuvenating life magic had its limits and had begun to grow stale this long into the taxing journey.

I had no energy to get up and look, but I wouldn’t have bothered even if I had. The only thought left to me was the desperate yearning for someplace warm—be it a cage, warehouse, or even brothel. At this point, nothing else mattered.

At long last, the wagons slowed, halting before the shadow of the city wall. The subdued rush of the river drifted through the air, reducing the conversation between weary soldiers and city guards to mere mumbles. Within minutes, we were moving again, passing beneath the gates and into the city.

The shadow of a steeple crossed the wagon, seeming to pause over me for the briefest moment. Driven by a faint stirring in my heart, I lifted my head just high enough to make out the humble face of a church building. A middle-aged priest peered out the window, watching as the wagons rumbled by. His gaze passed over me, before flitting back and locking onto my face, eyes sparking with recognition. His face felt familiar, but the small burst of strength failed before I could recall anything, and I slumped back into the wagon, falling back into hopeless indifference.

Eventually, we reached a bridge and crossed over the island. The shops, bars, and brothels were gaudy and bright, and loud, raucous conversation filled the air. Again, the stark difference between the humble, residential districts on the banks of the river and the affluence of the island was startling, and I wondered once more how any lord could treat his own people so poorly. Perhaps, in a few minutes, I would know the answer.

The City Lord’s mansion felt completely unchanged, from the cruel, warehouse design to the surly guards outside. But unlike our own attempt, the wagons entered the inner courtyards with little fussing, circling around the mansion and coming to rest behind the mansion.

Servants poured out of the mansion, carrying fine chain leashes and surrounding the wagons. The soldiers, their escort mission completed, relaxed against the walls and garden benches, casting eager looks out at the wealthy districts beyond the mansion walls. Their eyes reflected the desire for a warm bath and a long night in the brothels.

Most of the servants passed by my cage, assuming it empty. But one long-haired woman, an elf judging by her ears, peered through the bars, locking onto my huddled form. Unlocking the wagon, she leaped through, taking short strides toward me and latching the chain to my collar.

”Come along,” she muttered, tugging at me. I got the feeling she took no more pleasure in this than I did, but her expression was hard and resolute.

Any resistance had been frozen out of me, but as I stumbled to my feet, my legs refused to cooperate. Weeks trapped in the wagon with nothing but shivering for exercise left me weak and emaciated. The elf glared at me for a moment, yanking roughly on the chain, before reluctantly throwing me over her shoulder and carrying me out of the cart. Many of the other slaves were in a similar state, and the courtyard rumbled with the servant’s irritated grunts.

We were taken to a side entrance that sloped into the ground on steep stairs leading to the basement. Thick stone walls corralled a large room, big enough to take up almost half of the entire floor. Dozens of cages rested against the walls, half filled with slaves. They looked up as we entered, eyes dull and hopeless, before dropping their gazes back to the ground. Despite their expressions, they appeared well-fed and dressed. The room lacked the characteristic odor of sweat and feces and appeared well-swept and tidy.

The center of the room was filled with all sorts of strange apparatus and tables, akin to the interrogation room of the Dusk Chambers. My breath caught in my throat as I noticed a young male slave tied to the wall, naked and spread eagle. Horrible cuts laced his entire body, and he was missing nearly half of his fingers. Dried blood streaked over his entire body, the stains flowing into a drain beneath his bound figure. His chest rose and fell unevenly, showing he was alive, but his eyes were blank and unfocused, drooping to slits but never fully closing.

The elf threw me into a cage and detached the leash before slamming the door shut. It was then I noticed a slave crest peaking between the folds of her robes, and the myriad of bruises covering her exposed arms and lower legs. Her eyes were no different than the other slaves, something common among every servant in the room.

One of the servant-slaves stood on a small box in front of the only staircase leading up. He was slightly better dressed than the rest and wearing a black ribbon tied about his muscled forearm. When he spoke, his voice was strong, filled with an energy missing from the other slave’s voices. A leader of some sort?

”Welcome to High Valley,” he said, eyes raking across the newcomers. ”You’ve come from all over and each has your own story, but none of that matters now. We live and die by Lord Byron’s will. The sooner you learn that the better, and certainly easier, your life will be. I am Maddox, the butler of the Lord’s slave assets. You will take my words as His, or suffer the consequences. Meals are served at sunrise and sunset, and chores are assigned at the beginning of each day. Failure to learn and follow the rules will result in punishment. This fellow,” he said, gesturing to the slave bound to the wall, ”forgot to bow when the Lord approached. Do not make the same mistake. Lord Byron will grace you with his presence tomorrow. Until then, rest well, for it might be the last you ever get.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than the light crystals in the walls began to fade, dimming over the next few minutes until the entire room was drenched in darkness. I curled up into a ball, moisture wetting my eyes. It was warm, so blessedly warm, but the comfort I yearned for felt hollow and lacking. I had crossed from a frozen hell into a warm one, but it was hell all the same.

The last Chapter of my life had finally begun.