73rd of Summer, 508 AV
Stepping out of the wagon, wrists pinned tied tightly behind his back, Jalen blinked in the blinding sunlight. Hours lying on his side in the dim interior of the wagon had left him tired, sore, and as angry as he’d ever ben. And as terrified. Someone gave him a rough shove and he stumbled forward into formation behind another similarly bound man. Jalen’s glare at is offender was met with a grim smile. “I wouldn’t look so defiant if I were you. People don’t want uppity slaves… and if they don’t buy you, you’re of no use to us.” The message was clear in the man’s eyes as he chuckled and tapped the hilt of the knife on his belt. Jalen swallowed, finally taking in his surroundings.
To either side of the road, fields of tall plants spread out for acres. The sun blazed down on workers in poor clothing tending the crops. Watching them, overseers armed with whips—among other more deadly weapons—paced the fields like predators looking for a meal. A pit began to form in Jalen’s stomach; the faces of the slaves were wrought with despair and apathy. A few even dared to break from their work and stare back at him. And on their faces, each bore the mark. A tattoo or branding of an animal of some sort.
Jalen dropped his eyes, panic rising in his chest as hands gripped his shoulders and began to drag him forward into a line of bound slaves. Resisting, Jalen drove his shoulder into the man who gripped him, knocking him to the ground. Another slaver rushed over, attempting to restrain him from behind. The man’s arms wrapped around him, pinning him. Jalen bucked, driving the back of his head into the man’s face. His aggressor released him, growling in pain. Blood trickled from his nose. Jalen spun wildly, looking for escape. The man with the knife had drawn it and was approaching slowly. “I won’t hesitate. Is it worth your life, boy?” Jalen paused, eyes glued to the gleaming edge of the blade, when a wooden cane snapped across his shoulders. The Chaktawe fell to his knees with a cry. Another blow knocked him face-first into the dirt. “Stop!” Jalen gritted his teeth, face pressed to the ground. Red welts formed across his back. “Don’t. Damage. The product.”
Turning, Jalen looked through the tears and dust. The man with the knife crouched and pulled Jalen roughly to his feet. Suddenly the blade was at Jalen’s throat, and the man’s face was inches away from Jalen’s. His breath was rank, and his bloodshot eyes burned into Jalen’s own. “You’re worth nothing to us dead. You’re worth even less if you won’t cooperate. Do you understand me?” Jalen nodded, slowly, wary of the metal on his skin. Tears stung his wide eyes. The man let the weapon linger a moment before dropping it and roughly pushing him into line. None of the other captives looked at him. Five slaves, now including Jalen, stood in a line on the road.
At its end stood a great plantation, walls as pure and white as alabaster stone. The cleanly clipped lawn and gardens were beautifully presented, and Jalen felt wholly out of place as he was marched towards it. From the house approached a man in brilliant finery. His ensemble was emerald green lined with gold, and he was tailed by a train of servants and guards, dressed equally richly. His opulent rings flashed as he halted a good distance away, nose curled in disgust.
“Foul, as usual Bredick,” the man drawled. Bredick, the slaver with the knife, stepped forward, bowing humbly.
“I promise you, Lord Lynint, they have strength of arm to match their odor.” The man seemed unconvinced, but braved the smell to inspect them. With an occasional tsk or nod of approval he walked down the line. He stopped at one man and went so far as to prod him, feeling his arms and chest. At his request, the slave bared his teeth.
“Not bad, Bredick. Not bad.” Bredick bowed again, smiling. He was a man who took pride in his stock. The Lynint continued, finally coming to a halt before Jalen. One sleek black eyebrow raised in interest. “One of the desert rats? Where did you find him?” Bredick stepped forward, resting a hand good naturedly on Jalen’s shoulder.
“Crossing the border into Cyphrus, my lord. He’s a lively one, but young and strong.” His hand squeezed a little too tightly, and Jalen understood. He lowered his eyes, which until then had been glaring obstinantly back at the young Dynasty member. The memory of the knife at his throat was still emblazoned in his mind.
“He doesn’t look like much.” Despite himself, Jalen stiffened. His small size had always been a point of consternation.
“Trust me, he’s stronger than he looks,” Bredick chuckled, glancing back at his compatriots.
“Is he. Well, I suppose he is still young. He’ll grow into his new role eventually.”
“You’ll take him then?”
“Yes. And the Drykas fellow too. I’ll see to it that the usual fee of five-hundred per head is delivered to you.”
“Now, sir,” Bredick said carefully. “You know as well as I that the Chaktawe is a rare find. I’d say he’s worth six-hundred, at least.” Lynint considered it, then shook his head.
“If he is as lively as you say, then I cannot risk that much money on the investment. If not for the rarity I would not consider the offer at all. Take the price you’re offered, Bredick, or nothing at all.” The slaver didn’t protest further, but he scowled at Jalen as he passed him over to the Dynasty’s overseers. Dismay overtook him as Jalen saw the glint of coin being counted out into the slaver’s open hand. The weight of his life in gold-rimmed mizas. The unbought slaves were loaded back into the wagon as Jalen and the Drykas slave were herded down the road towards their new home.
