CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

Conal

Shackled to the thick iron rings hammered into the granite walls in a dank prison was not the outcome Conal had in mind when he agreed to lead the latest raid on the market city. Once again he berated himself for ignoring his gut feeling.

“It’ll be easy,” Oscon had said. “A walk in the park. Get in, get out and by the time yer back here they won’t know what happened.”

“Why me?” Conal frowned at the bandit chief, a hulking lummox of a man, beetle browed with a sneer for a smile.

“’cause nobody’d expect you. Ya got that baby-face look like yer a choirboy.”

Conal’s first instinct was to ask him the real reason for this sudden elevation to lead a raid. Until then, he had been little more than a gopher or a lookout. It wasn’t until he overheard Oscon talking about moving on because they had pretty much skimmed all they could from the area towns and cities and the constabulary and soldier patrols were becoming too frequent that caused Conal to wonder why do another raid? When he heard Oscon talk about thinning his herd, he knew something wasn’t right.

But vanity overruled his misgivings, and when Oscon poked a thick finger at him and said, “Yer gonna lead this one,” Conal had squashed his reservations and stepped forward. His uneasiness was somewhat allayed when Oscon selected a few of the best men and women to go along.

The setup played out to perfection.

Once in the town, Conal had been recognized and immediately surrounded by four guards and four swords pointed much too closely at various parts of his body. When Conal frantically looked for help, there was none. The six men and women who had so assiduously listened to his plan and followed him into town had melted away like morning dew. Had Conal paid more attention to his followers, he might have noticed them disappearing one by one that by the time he was in the market center by the tax boxes, he was quite alone.

The ultimate insult was when he swore the voice calling out, “I know him. He’s a bandit,” belonged to his second in command, Jestyn.

And now here he sat amidst the overlapping stench of unwashed bodies and the layered decay of the dead, wondering why Oscon had decided he was no longer useful, and vowing that he would hunt him down if it was the last thing he ever did, which by the look of things might be a tad difficult.

His broodings were interrupted when he heard the far cell door grind open and a nobly dressed man, flanked by several guards eased his way through the cell, holding a handkerchief at his nose and mouth. Conal watched as the man occasionally stopped and pointed whereupon two guards would grab the prisoner, unshackle him or her before handcuffing them and leading them away.

When the man stopped in front of him, Conal flashed a loopy smile and received a pointed finger in return whereupon he was yanked up, unshackled and handcuffed, and led through the squalid mass of bodies, out through the door and recesses of the prison keep to finally emerge into the mid-morning outside and fresh air.

Conal inhaled a deep satisfying breath then glanced to his left and right at the other prisoners lined up on both sides of him. There were ten of them, six women and four men, all young and healthy, all handcuffed.

The sergeant of the guard stood imperiously before them. He was a toad of a man, all body and skinny legs wrapped in an ill-fitting uniform of the town’s constabulary: crimson jacket with gold buttons, straight tan cotton trousers tucked into calf-high boots, and a leather helmet capped with a bristle that looked like someone had lost a shoe brush.

Behind him the noble man stood, aloof bordering on ennui, the handkerchief still at his mouth. He wore a long-sleeved white silk shirt, covered by a white cream-colored vest of the finest calfskin. His ebony trousers were handcrafted from rabbit skin, and his boots a work of art in reptile skin. He eschewed a hat and his full-bodied blond hair fell about his shoulders, framing a handsome face with square jaw and dark brown eyes. Conal guessed him to be closing in on 40.

“In accordance with Kingdom Statute 43 dash 12,” the sergeant bellowed, reading from an unfurled parchment, “and with the honest and whole-hearted concurrence of the Burgomaster of Hemlyn, you have been redeemed by Lord Pharyl. Your death sentences have been commuted to a life of servitude until such time that you die or are provided your freedom according to the wishes of Lord Pharyl, Prince of the realm of Vandyr. You are henceforth to be branded so that all may know the depths to which you have fallen. Should you choose to escape, know that you are subject to the laws of exile and retribution. Anyone finding an escaped slave may kill him or her.”

Pharyl. Conal knew the name. The man ruled this part of the kingdom with an iron fist inside a velvet glove. He could be as cruel as he was generous. Conal felt a flash of relief, knowing he would stay alive if he played his cards right. Those poor fettered souls left behind in the prison were as good as dead.

Rolling up the parchment, the sergeant nodded to the guards who force-marched the newly anointed slaves to the center of town so that the entire populace could witness their debasement. Men, women, and curious children stood in a thick circle around the branding pit, the heat from the fire keeping them back while providing enough space for the guards to hold the victim down for the Branding Master who instructed the poor soul to stay as still as possible,. Moving while being branded caused a bad brand, requiring a second one. The normal location of a slave brand, concentric circles the size of a large coin, was on the cheek.

Despite the rising fear of having his face forever marred, Conal noticed there were four irons in the fire. He knew the reason. Some slaves had a different brand placed on the outside of the right shoulder – the death’s head, a skull with horns. These slaves were bound to protect the master with their lives. Two other branding irons consisted of a viper and a rose.

The viper brand was placed on the upper left arm. Vipers were the master’s enforcers, assassins, and muscle. They lived well and it was considered an honor to be a viper, for vipers could marry and the children of the marriage were considered freeborn.

The rose brand was placed on the right thigh. A rose slave was a pleasure slave. Conal prayed to whatever god or gods were out there that he would not be a rose slave, for he knew what happened to rose slaves. Sure, there were the few who had pleased their masters and allowed to live a life of privilege in the harem. But the majority of rose slaves, those whose beauty had faded, were sent to the farms to spend the rest of their lives in back-breaking labor.

The fourth iron? Conal frowned in puzzlement for only a moment until his attention was diverted by Lord Pharyl who causally strolled down the line to stand in front of the first person, an attractive blond woman about Conal’s age.

Staring at the woman for only a moment, Pharyl dipped a finger at her. “Rose.”

As the woman was dragged off to be branded, Pharyl side-stepped to the next slave, a tall strong teenager. “Death’s Head.”

Conal was seventh in line and his prayers increased in urgency and pleading as Pharyl continued down the line, announcing, “Rose.” “Death’s Head.” “Rose.” “Rose.”

Pharyl stopped to appraise Conal as though he were judging a good horse. Folding his arms, he scrutinized the young man, impressed that the slave didn’t avert his eyes or appear to grovel. Instead the young man stood firm, appearing to be unafraid.

“Either you’re a sheep who has no clue of what’s going to happen, or you’ve resigned yourself to fate. Which is it?”

“Fate, m’Lord.”

“You answer with a strong voice,” Pharyl said with a slow nod, noting the young man didn’t call him master as was required. “Men like you tend to be wild, like a stallion that needs to be broken. They’re too high-spirited. Are you high-spirited?”

Conal smiled at him. “It all depends upon the rider, m’Lord. A skilled rider knows his mount, knows how to direct and coax with just the right words. A gifted rider and mount are a team to be envied.”

A smile flitted across Pharyl’s lips. “You talk as one educated. Are you educated?”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

“Where was the failure then that you end up like this?” Pharyl looked down his nose at him.

Conal shrugged. “Bad crowd, bad choices. Not everyone who calls you friend is one.”

“Well spoken,” Pharyl acknowledged. “You’re too pretty to have your cheek branded, and you’re not big or strong enough to be a Death’s Head.”

Conal’s hopes took a nosedive, especially with the “too pretty” comment. What was it with these people and his looks? There were plenty of men who were better looking. Why couldn’t people see that he was smart, that he had a brain? Steeling himself for the inevitable and already dreaming of a way to escape, he was startled when Pharyl gently pushed a finger into his chest.

“Viper.”

Without thinking, Conal did a fist pump and exclaimed, “Yes,” causing Pharyl to smirk and flash a bemused glance at this curious fellow. He started to sidestep to the next one in line when he stopped at turned back to Conal.

“What is your name?”

“Conal, m’Lord.”

Pharyl nodded and continued, the next three all designated a “rose.” With the choices decided, Lord Pharyl stepped away to watch the branding, noting the demeanor of each slave. Amidst all the shifting and squirming and fear, only Conal seemed unaffected. In fact, the man seemed more than ready to get branded.

After the woman before Conal had the rose mark burned into her skin and went sniveling to the medicine tent, Conal marched up, sat down and pulled off his shirt, revealing a wiry and strong body, which elicited some whistles and catcalls, causing him to scowl. Bracing himself for the pain, he clenched his jaw, determined not to show weakness.

“Hold,” Lord Pharyl commanded as the Brand Master withdrew the glowing red-hot Viper iron. He pointed to another iron next to it. “Use that one.”

Suddenly fearing Lord Pharyl had changed his mind, Conal struggled to determine which iron held the rose brand. His anxiety elevated as his gaze narrowed on the Brand Master carefully retrieving the branding iron then approached him. The head was small like a rose, yet the design was wrong, and he frowned, twisting his head to glance up to Lord Pharyl.

“The cobra,” Lord Pharyl calmly answered. “Do not disappoint me.” He turned and walked away, the guard sergeant hustling up next to him, obsequiously nodding and agreeing with the lord’s softly spoken conversation.

The Cobra.

Conal’s fear morphed to confident elation as he watched the not so subtle change in the crowd. Some were immediately intimidated, others unsure, and still others scoffed that so inexperienced a man should be chosen as a Cobra. Yet they knew the reputation. The Cobra was a leader among assassins, the silent unseen killers. Still, a sense of relief spread through the crowd for they knew this man would be taken away from here, for he was known.

Conal flinched then strained to remain immobile as the hot iron burned his flesh, the smell of burnt skin and the pain on his arm causing tears to well up in his eyes. Yet he sat rooted like a statue, grimly enduring the suffering.

Finally, the Brand Master pulled the iron away and surveyed his work. “Looks good. A good image.” He dipped his head in admiration. “You sat very still. Go to the tent for them to bandage your arm.”

Conal was halfway to the tent when he heard the screech of the next victim, a woman given a rose brand. Inside the tent, three healers applied salve and bandages to the branded areas. All too soon, the ten slaves were again in line, no handcuffs this time. The crowds had drifted away, and few remained to witness their departure.

Lord Pharyl sat astride a magnificent dappled stallion at least 17 hands high. He waited as the slaves were loaded into carts, leaning forward when Conal made ready to grab the wagon rail and climb aboard.

“You, young Conal.”

Conal lowered his leg and turned to face his new master. “Yes, m’Lord.”

“Do you ride?”

“Yes, m’ Lord.”

Pharyl nodded and flicked two fingers at his travel steward, a tall lean man with close cropped hair and beard. A few moments later, a servant led a sorrel mount almost as tall as Lord Pharyl’s steed to stand next to the Lord and Master.

Pharyl narrowed his focus on Conal. “You will ride with me.”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

With practiced ease, Conal swung up into the saddle, took hold of the reigns and slipped his feet into the stirrups.

“We are ready, m’Lord,” the steward announced.

“Then let’s get started. I want to be in Denhelm by dinner time.”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

The steward bustled up to the first wagon and climbed aboard, ticking his head at the driver who flicked the reins causing the wagon to lurch forward. Soon, four wagons containing nine slaves and supplies surrounded by a dozen men at arms, their Lord and Master and the newest Cobra plodded out of the city. Conal rode next to Pharyl who remained silent until they were out of the earshot of the city walls.

“It’s a three-day ride to my castle,” Pharyl spoke. “We have plenty of time to get acquainted. You will tell me everything there is to know about you, and I will tell you what I expect of you.”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

“You may perhaps wonder why I chose you to be a Cobra when you have so little experience.”

“The thought did occur to me, m’Lord.”

“I have an eye for talent, and I believe you have the gifts I require. Do not worry, you will be trained as required for a Cobra. You perform well for me and I will consider giving you your freedom.”

Conal reverently tipped his head. “It will be an honor to serve you, m’Lord.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied with an indifferent nod. They loped along in silence for a bit. “Tell me, young Conal, what is the first thing you wish to do as a Cobra?”

Conal didn’t have to think about the answer. “Find a certain outlaw… and make him rue the day he was born.”

Pharyl chuckled. “All in good time, my young friend, all in good time.”