Chapter 8

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Wherein do secrets lie?

In new places and unusual people.

~

On the seventh day of travel, they left the forest behind. Rattling and shaking their way onto a stone path, the wagon train began to enter vast farmland interspersed with small copses of tall trees. The boy took notice of the change in geography and began to watch closely the fields of grain and pastures containing livestock.

It was a familiar sight, and this excited him. Farms he understood, he had experienced. The animals of this place did not frighten him, at least, no longer. If vicious tigers could be put down by a mere guard than surely humans existed as the apex predators. Was not this world similar to the fairy tales of old, those hazy recollections he could just barely grasp?

He might be a slave now but he would not remain so. He knew too much, was too determined to change.

The next few days passed in a blur, as more land was crossed in an endless parade of farmhouses and field hands. All were hard at work, and the further into the fields the wagons drove, the larger the harvests became. The guards walked at ease now, in good spirits and with careless attitudes. Even the slaves became more relaxed, the uncertainty of their future now less worrisome. Unknown to the boy, most of them were discussing how close they had been to the mining pits, and how terrible a life that might have been. A farm in the Berthralli Flatlands could be hard work, but was survivable.

Virtually all ignored the boy, having disregarded him as failing in the mind. He never spoke, and if he did his words made no sense. Perhaps he was deaf. So he was forgotten by both guards and fellow slaves and was all the happier for it.

At last, there appeared a rise in the distance, a backdrop of small mountains growing from the earth. Pressed into this miniature sierra lay an extensive plantation, it’s numerous buildings spread wide across the foothills of the range behind.

Apparent as their destination, the wagon drivers urged their kamora to pick up speed. The pace was still plodding slow, but at least they would reach home before nightfall. The guards gathered along the edges, having organized themselves a bit more formally. The armored man, who as far as the boy could tell wasn’t really in charge, maneuvered over near his cage.

The boy had been enjoying the soft sun, his complexion much darker than when the journey originally began. Now he sat up, wary at the close proximity. The man paced himself alongside the wagon, leading his mount by the reins. He looked at the boy, a blank expression covering his face.

He casually spoke, the words carrying that faint tonal shift the language of this world seemed to contain. Understanding none of it, the boy just stared. Laughing, the man shook his head and flipped up into his saddle. He nodded to the boy, then urged his kamora into that fast-shifting run that seemed to be their top speed. He quickly passed the rest of the wagons and took the lead, likely heading to report on the success of his mission in town.

“Now what was the point of that?” the boy wondered. A frown settled on his features, his eyes watching figures in the grain fields to either side of the road. Many of these individuals glanced up to watch the wagons pass but most kept their heads down. Those that didn’t watch all had the telltale signs of copper collars around their necks. Different echelons of slaves, perhaps? What did that mean for him?

He was young and strong, but didn’t even understand the simplest of commands. Would he be collared, forced to work in the fields until he dropped from exhaustion? Never. He would survive, for himself, for his lost memories, and for that little girl he felt he should know. She was alone now, in a world that didn’t belong to them. Would she forget her past as she grew older? Did she even remember anything to begin with?

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He worried for her. And for himself.

Gradually, the wagon train circled into a staging area in front of what seemed to be the warehouse and stable quarter. Here a large group of people began sorting and carrying off the various supplies and building materials most of the wagons carried.

His gaze was torn from these activities as a harsh voice rang out. A man dressed in finery was striding down the path leading to the main house, servants gathered around him. The armored man walked close beside. He was already motioning for the guards to do something, and they hurriedly followed to obey. All the slave cages were opened, each person being led out and formed in a line. Almost two hundred individuals of all ages and sex, with various conditions of clothing falling off their bodies.

Any movement beyond getting in line and standing still was quickly and severely reprimanded. Starting at one end, the well-dressed leader marched down the line, occasionally pausing in front of a slave. Each person received a simple one-word phrase noted down by the servants. They were then led off in different directions accordingly.

The sun seemed hotter now, its rays heating the land below. Sweat could be seen dripping down brows and chests, and a slight shuffle of feet by those trying to relieve the pressures of standing after riding in the cage for so long.

The boy didn’t mind the heat. He just watched and listen, making a game of guessing what each called out word meant. Perhaps he should have been more worried. But what would be the point? There was no anticipation on his face for a certain position. Even if he did understand the language, he had nothing to compare the plantation to. Except for perhaps his own world’s history. But he was young and had only just begun learning such topics in school. Besides the movies and books he had consumed, he truly had no frame of reference.

This was a farm. Working on a farm could be hard, but not impossible. Better this than becoming a city slave. He had never liked the city anyway.

The group passed in front. The leader paused, looking at him from head to toes. He frowned and spoke to the armored man who nodded in response. Rolling his eyes, the dark-haired man then barked a new word and quickly moved on.

“So,” the boy thought. “Something different for me then. I wonder what it could be?”

~~~~~~~

“You are now Jorin.”

The boy stared at Yahir without comprehension.

Yahir sighed. His position at Master Haarst’s plantation was contingent upon the slaves below him performing to satisfaction. Yet, he was given the scraps of the last import. Several slaves were damaged in some way, by either beast or man, and one couldn’t even speak the same language. How was he supposed to meet the required quota with this neglect? He sighed while rubbing the back of his neck.

“Look, it is a good name. My first mount was named Jorin by my father, and he gave many years of excellent service before his death. Hopefully, you shall do the same.”

The boy watched him with those clear blue eyes.

“Fine. Follow me now. See?” Yahir motioned for the boy to come with a snap of his fingers, and pointed down the line of stables. The boy followed, so at least he wasn’t slow in the mind. Yahir had been sent several such slaves before. They were only good for the most basic of tasks. More burden than a benefit. Perhaps thankfully, they never survived long. Accidents were all too common when dealing with large creatures, and any slave who "accidentally" damaged Master Haarst’s property was quickly put down.

He continued to lead the boy through the various sections that made up the livery district of the plantation. Widespread to allow for a variety of animals and beasts, the barns covered the largest tract of land within the immediate boundaries of Master Haarst’s property. Here, farmers could borrow whatever beast might best serve their goals. Whether it be bison for plowing, kamora for hauling, or yemti for harvesting, each creature had its purpose and all were stabled at the main estate.

After his short tour ended at the main yard, Yahir grabbed a bucket and spade leaning against a stall. He shoved them into the hands of the boy, who took them with a raised eyebrow.

“Jorin.” Yahir made sure to point at the boy when saying his name. “You will clean the bison’s stalls first.” He gestured towards the proper location. “Do so to the best of your ability. Ghon will help if you have questions. Try not to do something stupid.”

The boy still stared, unsure.

“GO!”

Yahir didn’t mean to yell, his frustration would do no good directed in such a manner. It worked regardless, as the young lad took off in the intended direction, tools swinging in both arms. Yahir just rubbed his head again, wondering what idiot had sent him such a problem, and knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. Not like the master needed to explain anything when giving a command, after all. Yahir was to put to the boy to work, feed and clothe him. So he would.

Shaking his head, he trudged back towards the main barn. Still had to deal with the wounded. Maybe they could be healed. Or maybe they would need to be put down. All in a day’s work for the head of Master Haarst’s stables.