A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands

Book 1: Chapter 17: Discipline & Punishment

When the ever-creeping ice drifts further to the south it is often called the ‘Time of Trials’ by the people of the North. The greater cold would force these fearsome tribes to become more bellicose, raiding their neighbors in a bid to maintain their power and prosperity. When a tribe succeeds in a raid the barbarians would sell their broken enemies into bondage, if they fail their ‘excess’ children are sold in their stead.

- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 A.C

A shockingly cold splash hit across my bruised and battered body, waking me from exhausted slumber. My eyes were heavy and refused to open until a slap stung across my left cheek. A large iron collar was fitted around my neck, and through lidded eyes, I saw Degei the Overseer looking down his nose at me like I was some sort of irritant. Two tall guards carrying cudgels flanked him, adding to his aura of authority. Sighing, the weedy man explained my new situation.

“You are the most troublesome bilge-rat of an outlander. That Nord you killed was a good worker, and it will reflect poorly on our quotas. Good slaves are hard to replace!” Degei punctuated by slapping me lightly like an owner disciplining a dog, “Still he was a bit of a troublemaker, but I digress. A survivor of the winnowing, I knew you would give me a net full of troubles, but on your first day!” he cried, exasperated. He took my silence for acknowledgment and continued in his educated voice, “This is a witchbound slave collar. You cause trouble, you will feel pain. You become lazy, you will feel greater pain. You escape, you will feel agony until our Waveriders collect you. You cause violence to a free man, you die.”

With this, he tilted my head and forced a red liquid down my throat from a thin glass vial. The taste was somewhere between old socks and rotten cheese, with a surprisingly sweet undertone of cherry. I half gagged down the foul concoction. My Health, which had been hovering around fourteen, rose by twenty points as I felt a different, yet somehow familiar, warmth diffuse through my body. I realized I was being force-fed a healing potion. If this world was a game, then it really was the work of a truly sick creator. Degei raised the rest of the vial to my lips and I unconsciously moved my face away from it.

He slapped me again before explaining slowly in a voice as cold and uncaring as a winter day, “These are valuable. Spill a single drop and I will have you beaten to within an inch of your life.” He pronounced each syllable with the finality of a prophet’s last words. My eyes grew wide in fear and I forced myself to acquiesce, nodding now in understanding. The taste was of course horrible, and I almost coughed and gagged, but this time I welcomed the warmth that straightened my limbs and healed broken muscles and bones. But it did nothing for my splintered soul.

“Good little bilge-rat,” he remarked, patting me across the cheek in some form of twisted affection. A smile almost unconsciously formed across my face, such was my reaction to any show of positive emotion in this new world, however distorted. Something was definitely wrong with me, and I fought down the burgeoning feeling of gratitude. The rebellious part of myself, that part that had always hated the skewed system, refused to give in to the seeds of a pernicious, newly forming Stockholm Syndrome. While looking down to avoid meeting his eyes, wishing to hide the glimmer of rebellion they held, I quickly looked over my Status and character sheet.

STATUS

SKILLS & PROFICIENCIES

Power Strike (lvl.2) Endure (lvl.2) Stealth (lvl.1) Rest (lvl.1) Backstab (lvl.2) Dodge (lvl.2) Polearms (lvl.2) Dual Wield (lvl.1)

Critical Hit Mastery (lvl.2)

Mining (lvl.1)

Unarmed Combat (lvl.3)

SPELLS & MAGIC

Ruse (lvl.1) Identify (lvl.2) Silent Casting (lvl.1)

GIFTS

The healing potions had raised my Health to just over half, though my Stamina was still perilously low, and I could feel tiredness weighing my limbs. I had the Mana for a healing spell, but something in my gut told me that it would not be wise to cast a healing spell in front of Degei, Silent Casting skill or not. The Overseer checked over my naked form, nodding at the requisite level of violence my torturers used. His guard flanked him, solid and silent like two stone sentinels.

Patting my head like a good broken dog, he turned around and indicated to follow as his guards left the cell, both of them giving me looks that promised violence on a whim.

I lifted a manacled hand to shield myself from the light of two almost smokeless torches. Degei gave me a satisfied smile, like an owner that had trained a pet to do a new trick, and pointed off down the ways to a group of slaves huddled on the packed earth eating their evening repast.

“Go, outlander. Eat your meal. Tomorrow you will be working double shift, no triple shift!” his eyes lighting up with glee before continuing, “Enjoy your new home and be a good boy!”

Still shackled at the hands and hobbled, I slowly made my way to the gathering, my escort following me halfway. Eyes downcast, the slaves would occasionally steal hesitant glances in my direction, before surreptitiously continuing with their meals. A small youth, however, held my eyes for longer than the others. A conflict of warring emotions played about his features as he surveyed me, before snorting and continuing to gobble down his meal.

I made my way to a small trestle table stacked half full with crude chipped earthenware bowls and rough wooden spoons. A cauldron filled with a thick gruel-like paste, overseen by a world-weary old crone of a woman, gave the impression of a witch boiling up a new concoction. Nonetheless, my stomach rumbled and the cauldron’s contents gave off a most inviting smell. Grabbing a bowl and spoon, I shuffled forward and gave the old woman a greeting.

“Good day to you madam,” I said in a neutral, polite voice. I was met with a cackle, which only solidified my original impression of her.

“Not a madam. Just little old Aditi,” she somehow managed to utter between cackles, “you’re the lad they speak of who survived the winnowing and did that giant Harun in for looking at you funny, they say. Here give me your bowl if you be wanting feeding. Give you a little extra for cutting the thread of one of the little masters.”

I handed her my bowl, a little hesitant, timidly asking, “Why am I even still alive?”

Grunting now, “They can’t kill you boy. Least, not directly anyways by their own hands. You sure ain’t made any friends though, that young pup was probably someone’s get. Still, you survived the trial on the sands. In their reckoning, you are now a blooded warrior and member of their tribe,” she cackled before continuing, “A lifetime in the mine will break you. Seen it too many times before. The masters be a practical lot, you’ll be paying the blood price one way or another,” she punctuated her explanation by dolloping two ladles of slop into my bowl, before spitting a huge wad of phlegm into the fire.

“Thank you for the food,” I humbly replied, the words sticking a little in my throat at the simple display of common human kindness. I went to sit alone in a quiet corner.

Sitting cross-legged, I made sure to eat slowly. I had experienced extreme hunger once before already. This would give my digestion a chance to adjust to the new food. My mind wandered as I ate, considering the potential bacteria and other biological dangers just existing in this new world posed. But between my magic, the recent potion, and my relatively high Constitution, I had yet to feel any of the ill effects from this world’s smaller denizens.

Before I knew it, and despite trying to eat slowly, I had finished my crude yet filling meal. A dozen meters or so away, a thin streamlet flowed across a crack in the rock before running down into a grate, similar to what I had seen when I entered the compound. I bent down to wash my earthenware bowl and wooden spoon with my hands, before noticing a slightly familiar face, dark eyes looking intently at me.

“Did you really kill Harun?” the young boy said in a voice with quiet childish determination.

Blinking a few times at the sudden question, I looked up at him quizzically, surprise etched into the lines of my face.

“Harun the Iron, they say you killed him because you're a murderer. That they put the slave mark on you for killing one of your own, a kinslayer. They say you killed him because you think that even here in pens you are still a master,” the boy went on like a judge reading out a sentence, already convinced of his own justice.

So surprised was I by how irresponsible rumor had twisted the truth, I could offer no solid defense to his words. The boy noticed the dawning understanding in my eye and mistook it for acceptance of his words. This made his chin quiver slightly with repressed emotion as he continued relentlessly.

“My name is Gunne son of Gudlaug and I will have my vengeance,” he said looking me in the eyes, fists clenched in anger.

An apology that was rising as an automatic reflex reaction was suddenly stymied by his pronouncement of revenge. This whole world had offered enough suffering and pain for three lifetimes, and the only kindness I had received so far was from some sort of cooking witch who hated our masters more than she hated me. What should have been guilt was replaced by anger and scorn.

“He died like a sow in heat being plowed by horse,” I spat out, making sure to thread disdain through my words. Though somewhat random, the collection of insults felt right and inventive in this context. “I am Gilgamesh and you’ll die as he did, sniveling and crying for the comfort of your mother. You are nothing but an N…P…C…” I made sure to stress the last deliberately and slowly, laced with what icy threat I could muster, though I doubted he understood the meaning.

Slowly rising, I was glad to notice that his eyes had widened a little in fear. Standing, I looked at him, seeing now nothing but a scared boy who had dared challenge a killer. He almost fell back then as he turned to run, some of the other slaves casting a few glances in our direction and whispering among themselves. A seed of darkness had been planted within me then. It had felt satisfying to have sown fear and not been subjected to it. Empowering even, to hold power over someone weaker than myself. For a moment it had washed away the memories of the torment that I had suffered.

Looking around at the other slaves, I made sure to hold their eyes just long enough to show strength, but not long enough to provoke a challenge. I returned to finish my chore. Once done, I moved slowly back towards Adita and handed her my now clean utensils, to which she gave me a short nod of appreciation. The others sensing that there would be no similar entertainment this night followed suit before slowly drifting off towards a crude flat-roofed building. It resembled the sort of stable for housing a large number of animals. A single wooden entrance and crude shutters were the only decoration on its front facade. Following a herd instinct, I made my way to the tail end and accompanied them inside. It was dark inside with the lack of lighting, but I could still perceive crude wooden pallets at certain intervals on a hard-packed earthen floor. Some of the slaves had already claimed their spots, but I hazarded a rough guess that there was at least one free space today.

I settled down on a simple crude pallet a little ways from the corner. Remembering that I had enough Mana for healing, I took the time to cast Heal silently amid the flatulence, snores, and myriad noises that humans make in a packed space in close proximity to one another. Grinning to myself, I noticed that the strength of my spell had increased significantly and was now healing me for just over a third of my total Health.

Health90/105 Stamina22/41 Mana1/11

This reaffirmed my decision to focus my points instead of trying to be a jack-of-all-trades. While I began to plan for my near future, exhaustion stole upon me and I fell into a deep and troubled sleep. At least tonight I would hopefully know some measure of peace.