Take the body and give me the rest

For my mum, who
got me reading Lord of The Rings and got me into fantasy.read me
Lord Of The Rings instead of something actually for children and
got me into fantasy.

Chapter 1

Hunger: it was
the feeling that defined his current life, more than cold, boredom
or even anger. It was hunger. He could feel it as a solid dull pain
in his stomach that radiated through him. His normally strong body
felt weak and traitorous. He sat on the hard wooden bench with his
back against the freezing blue stones of the prison wall and wished
for another bowl of watery gruel or heel of stale black bread. The
food he’d been given in the debtor’s gaol was the food you feed
people you hope would die. A few more weeks of this diet, in these
elements and Seth knew that he would be obliging them. He focused
on his anger and tried to let it build in him, like cupping hands
around a fledgling fire, but it didn't shake off the cold of the
dark night outside his cell; it didn't help protect against the
cold wind that blew in through the bars — the bars that made one
side of this cell into a giant viewing room. It didn't help get rid
of the shame that he was in this place, and what would his father
say if he knew about it?

The pale sun
shone down in the morning and Seth along with all the other
unwashed and ragged debt slaves, did their best to move from the
hard wooden benches along the back wall and get a place in the sun
against the bars. The cage was built so that people walking past
could easily look in and view the various chattels. Slavery wasn’t
against the law, but this also wasn't slavery. He owed money, and
he’d been sold into debt bondage until the ledger was clean. Should
be about five years for the two silvers and few coppers they said
he owed for a week’s room and board that he hadn’t paid.

Seth made his
way easily to the front of the cage; the other slaves got out of
his way. Even in his hungry and half-starved condition, he still
looked like what he was — a soldier, a tall Northern lad of
nineteen name days, fresh from two years as a levy in the local
lord’s militia. He was the same height as everyone else in his
troop, which meant he was around a head taller than most Cravosi;
had a hard body and determined look from two years of near constant
training, riding and fighting in the line. Right now, he felt he
couldn't do a single chin-up from a tree branch—but then, he hadn't
had a decent meal of meat in weeks, and not only meat but a decent
meal of anything in the last two days since they hauled him down
into this cold, blue stone prison.

Northerners had
a unique view on life, in that they tended to live by the mottos
that ‘scars are strength’ and ‘to avoid a battle just because you
are outnumbered is the coward’s path.’ Seth was going to be sold
onto someone else — and, honestly, if he were bought, then at least
he’d have a timber roof over his head and some food in his stomach.
So he stood up the front, like last morning, and did his best to
look like a good and humble slave. He wasn't about to die of
starvation inside this cage like the poor fucks alongside him.
Inside, he was bursting with secret rage at the situation that sent
him here, but it would be a mistake to show it. He’d seen many men
tougher than him by far be beaten savagely by the guards for being
trouble starters . . . and if he got himself a broken arm or leg,
he’d just as well start digging his own grave.

As people
walked past the cage, Seth sorted them into two groups. One was
comprised of potential buyers, being servants in livery and hands
in pouches, well-dressed and respectable slaves shopping for their
owners, or various tradesmen looking for cheap labourers to work to
death. The other group was made up of mean-spirited petty bastards
who had nothing better to do during the day than make life harder
for those already on the bottom. They were the men with no jobs,
but with freedom, who laughed and shouted things at the slaves,
little piss pant kids who liked to throw stones, and the bored
young lordlings and merchants’ sons, who mostly liked to leer at
the underfed women in tattered clothing. Seth didn’t consider
himself a violent person. Sure, he was a fighter, but he wasn’t the
type to take pleasure in the suffering of others. But if he could
get outside this cage with a cudgel, he’d make short work of some
of these bastards with their proud sneering faces.

As the market
was closing and the sun was near to set, a man walked past the
cages. Seth recognised him from the previous day. He had an
extremely refined appearance, short black hair and a very serious
expression on his face; he was clearly a steward for some important
man. He was dressed head to foot in black and gold livery; his
jacket had a golden eagle with a broken spear between its talons.
He was walking very close to the cages, staring intently from
person to person as he had done yesterday when he’d passed them all
over.

The slaver in
charge of Seth was a large, overweight white lump of man, with not
many teeth and a cruel sneer permanently set on his pudgy rat
face.

‘Back again,’
the rat faced slaver said.

The steward
looked at the slaver for a moment and then, without saying a word,
went back to peering at the faces of the different slaves. He cast
his critical eye over a woman standing close to Seth. She had
ragged blond hair streaked with dirt and a shift dress that had
once had some sort of pattern on it. Now it was a dirt-streaked
grey. She may have been half pretty once, but Seth could see she
was barely holding herself up on those bars. The large purple black
eye the guard had given her wasn’t helping. While the man stared at
her, he spoke to the slaver. ‘How long has she been here?’

‘Not more than
a few days I’d say,’ the slaver replied in a lazy fashion.

‘More like two
weeks; she’s near death’s door,’ the steward said.

‘She’ll come
right once your man feeds her up,’ the slaver said. ‘Or, if it’s
men you’re after, you should look at that Northern lad two over.
He’s strong, tall and quiet; haven’t heard boo from him since he
came in. Might be simple, but that’s good in a slave.’

Seth felt his
face almost go red when that piece of shit said he was simple. It
took all his strength of will not to shout back at him. The steward
walked down the line a few steps, crisp leather boots treading into
the mix of mud and piss from the cage. He looked Seth in the eyes
for a moment and then looked at him from head to toe, sizing him
up.

Returning to
examine Seth’s gaze once more, he spoke to the slaver. ‘He’s not
simple. Are you simple, boy?’ the steward asked in a polite,
questioning voice.

‘No sir, I’m
not,’ he answered.

‘Smartly
answered; plenty of life in him. He’ll do the job.’

The steward
then turned to the slaver. ‘I’ll take the lad here, and you’ll
shave a few silvers off the price for the sorry bloody condition of
him. He has the hungry look of an underfed dog at the kitchen
door.’

Chapter 2

The slaver and
the steward argued about the price back and forth, with Seth, the
chattel in dispute finally being sold for the princely sum of two
gold coins and three silvers—not a bad price for five years of
someone’s life, he thought. A shiver ran through the length of him
when the slaver stepped up onto his little wooden stool and poured
a bucket of cold water over him, the closest Seth had to a bath in
four days.

His hands were
thrust into some heavy metal cuffs that the steward had brought
with him. Without as much as a ‘come along dog,’ the steward led
the dripping but triumphant Seth through the crowd. Sure, he’d had
just been sold; sure, his clothes were caked in dirt, filth and
soaked with water; sure, he was being lead through the crowd like a
dog on a cold metal leash. But he hadn’t died in that cage like so
many others had; he’d played the game and he’d survived. He’d done
what he needed to do for a week or two. He’d tend house for some
rich man; he’d eat well and sleep well. Then, when the time was
right, he’d run all the way home to the North. Fuck Cravoss and
fuck the Cravosi. Stupid city didn’t seem half as good now as it
had three weeks ago.

Long strides kept him up with the steward and for the most
part the crowd moved out of the way for them. Once they had
made their way out of the slave market, they
walked up to a black carriage led by two white horses. The carriage
was ornate to Seth’s eye and had a large golden eagle crest with a
broken spear. The horses were beautiful animals, much leaner than
the large Northern warhorses he was used to riding. The steward
passed his chain to the driver and said, ‘Get up with him,’ before
stepping inside the carriage.

Seth clumsily
got up into the seat next to the driver without the use of his
hands; he was dripping water and muck all over the wooden seat. The
driver was a very young lad with a little red cap.

‘You want some
water?’ the boy said, offering him a flask.

‘Thanks,’ Seth said, raising it to his lips. He enjoyed the
cool clean water as it soothed
his still
aching stomach.

There was a tap
from inside the carriage, and they set off. Seth had been so
impressed when he’d first come to the great city of Cravoss just
three weeks past. He and three friends from his troop had made the
two-week ride from the Northern Duchy of Bloodcrest to the city.
They had all finished their two years of service on the Line, as it
was called, and had had a right to petition for a place in the city
guard or local militia.

The city was the biggest thing that Seth had ever seen. The
Duchy of Bloodcrest was essentially one large stone keep and a
hamlet of around a hundred families. Cravoss consisted of buildings
as far as you could see in all directions. It had a port with
hundreds of boats and a huge stone wall
bordering the edges of the main city to
protect it from without
.
It was a trading town, a major stop between the North and the rest
of the realm, like Pelloss across the sea. Everywhere you went in
Cravoss, there were clusters of
a market, a
store, a tavern and, of course, more people all packed in than Seth
thought there were in the whole North.

They had ridden back through much of the city but it being
such a large place, Seth had only seen a small corner of it. Off
one main street, they turned through some large black gates set in
red brick and into the yard of an expensive stone mansion. The
building was at least four stories tall and extremely vast;
it would have fit the Bloodcrest feasting hall
easily inside of it.

The steward
climbed out of the carriage and, taking Seth’s chain from the
driver lad, led him around the back of the building towards the
servants’ entrance.

‘Now, don’t
speak unless he speaks to you. You’ll have a short interview with
the master of the house, and then we’ll take you to the kitchen for
a feed and get cleaned up a bit.’

The steward led
him through a door and into an empty seeming house. They entered a
room that was blazing hot, with a fire roaring in the corner. Seth
could see someone at the far end sitting at a desk. The steward
walked with Seth to a point in the room where there was a metal
ring hammered into the floor. He looped Seth’s chain around it,
pulled a large metal lock from his pocket, and locked the chain to
it. Seth looked at him questioning.

‘Just for the
first interview; don’t worry,’ the steward said and turned, leaving
the room.

The room was
nothing like Seth had ever seen. He’d thought they’d had had some
nice furnishing in the Bloodcrest keep but this was something else.
The fire was bathing the room in an orange light and he could see
this was a study of some kind. On the other side of the room, at a
large, dark, wooden desk, a man with silver hair was hunched over,
writing quickly with a quill. The room was filled with shelves of
books, ornate tables, chairs and the fireplace was surrounded by
richly carved dark wood.

Seth heard a
chair being pulled out and saw the man stand up and regard him. He
was fairly tall by Cravosi standards and held himself with a
distinctly military bearing. His clothes were also of a fighting
cut, leather armour but tailored and printed with a golden eagle
crest. He had silver hair, but a strong expression framed by a
trimmed, short beard. At his hip, he had the Cravosi weapons of
choice: a long rapier-style sword on his left and long dagger on
his right. Using those was the way refined men killed each
other.