Chapter 68

Cameron

The Red Scythe - Army Size: 387

Fira (May) 15, 611 Imperial Era

The first reinforcements from Kronfeldt had arrived: water carriers sloshing their loads, wagons creaking under heaps of grain, dirt-smeared diggers, and an inevitable swarm of camp followers trailing behind. I’d never seen such numbers gathered for a mere raid on a small farm, but the Masters, in their meticulous caution, would leave no thread unsecured, not when the prize was so juicy.

We camped just southwest of Port Havensreach, that busy southern gateway of the Azure Reach Duchies; our hideout, a sprawling cave hunched against the sea cliffs, doubled as a smugglers’ port, damp with the scent of salt, secrecy, and rot. But we were stalled, our progress shackled by the lack of Binding Collars—those infernal devices without which our endeavor could not proceed. Illegal in the Azure Reach, their very existence a crime, these collars were impossible to produce without the hand of the Divine Forger located deep within the Gold Forge of Fort Inperius.

The Binding Collars themselves were works of perverse art—crafted of gleaming silver, inscribed with runes of binding that tied the wearer's will to that of their master, or “guide” as the Empire’s twisted euphemisms went. By the Emperor’s decree, the tethered were to obey their guide in most things, while the Master was bound by the so-called Divine Path to treat their ward with something approaching decency. No torture, no ravishing, no petty cruelties—only a contract of servitude masquerading as harmony. In the words of the Emperor, it was all so clean, so righteous. A relationship of mutual benefit, or so they claimed.

The Eldrin, with their sanctimonious airs, saw themselves as the holy guardians of this world—the only beings capable of taming the barbarous humans who, in the first Holy War, had drowned the land in blood and sin. Through their greed and cruelty, they had driven countless species out of the Corelands, the sacred birthplace of the first incarnations. But from their sins was born their demise, as their mingling with the ancient native races gave rise to the Eldrin themselves. It was the Eldrin’s power that had turned the tide, for they alone could enslave the humans as thoroughly as they had once enslaved others.

Humans—numerous as locusts—had built their sprawling cities, churning out industries that would devour the world. And yet, for all their ingenuity, their armies and military might crumbled under the sheer arcane might of Eldrin archmages. Their classes, once symbols of pride and the source of their rapid proliferation, were twisted against them by the Masters and their diving Bindings. They became tools of the Holy Emperor’s vision, forced into service under the pretense of divine harmony, to create his cities and wage war on their own kind.

And now, here we waited, preparing to lead—or rather, harvest—another human farm. Bringing the lost humans back into the care of their Masters. Thornhill, the Thief had called it, another victim soon to be shattered beneath the Eldrin’s heel.

As a human myself, under such guidance, I could hardly endure the thought of yet another free settlement of my kind succumbing to the yoke of the Eldrins—my captors, my jailers.

Somehow I’ll return to you, Ashe. We’ll sail away from these cursed lands where no one can capture us.

The decision to raid any such place was not arbitrary. No, it was calculated, sanctioned by the Marshall and the Inquisitors, bound by sets of rules, those crusading zealots who scoured the land for any sign of unclaimed Chattel. Where humans gathered, so too did industry flourish—warlike, fecund, insatiable in their desire to control land and bodies. The Eldrin called it a sign, an omen of their sinful nature. Yet all the races of the Veiled Realms sought the same thing. The difference? The humans were simply better at it—that is until the Eldrin came into being and harnessed their powers.

I was in the Master’s tent with First Marshall Hadrelian and his brother, Master Drudus, as they pried information from the Thief—the human refuse willing to sell out his own people.

The Thief, Super Nine, was like me. Not because he was a human, or what a sorry excuse of a human being, if you could call him. He was a modern human - from America. He came from my time era. His village, or former village, was full of people like me. And here I was, helping translate the words of his traitorous mouth to the Masters.

“Fiddy people. At least,” Super said with a smirk. He signed the sign for 10 with his fingers spread out, flashing them five times.

“Is he saying five or ten people?” Drudus asked of me.

“At least over ten people,” I said honestly, trying to speak the truth to my Masters but not revealing the full extent.

“Fifty I believe,” Hadrelian pressed a knowing smile to his lips as he guessed correctly from Super’s attempt at sign language.

“Fifty free Chattel… it’s a true farm then… the mandate is plain in this honored brother. We must send word for a legion and an Inquisitor for this reaping.” Drudus said.

Hadrelian sighed, “Ask him how many Holders are in this… Thornhill, Tethered.”

“How many Holders does Thornhill have?” I asked Super in plain English.

“Holders? Ya mean like… this?” Super reached into his palms for a class card: “Thief."

“A Thief class… he will gain us many Honor Points with the Inquisitors,” Drudus said, eyes wide open.

“Yes… like that.” Hadrelian said nodding to Super’s display of his class.

“Oh, damn… there’s gotta be at least ten, yeah? There’s Bianca, all those dungeon motherfuckers, Herman, yeah be round ten, sir.” Super flashed the sign of ten.

“Ten Holders? It must be a true farm sent by the void, then…” Drudus mused, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

“Yo, Chinaman. Translate this for me, cuz.” Super turned his wicked grin toward me. “They got some fire classes at Thornhill. Queen B got a rock monster that can build whatever you want. Then there’s this annoying fucker named Cade; he’s like a spear warrior or whatever. Strong as hell. He’ll make a great slave. You make sure they capture that pig, right? Oh, and this little rat fuck named Cass—prolly has a sweet class. Best not to let that little fuck run away. Tell ‘em that.”

I swallowed hard, translating to the Masters in a near whisper, the words burning like stomach acid as they escaped my lips. “They have some classes, like a warrior there.”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The brothers exchanged glances, their eyes alight with greed.

“This information is not to leave this tent, Drudus,” Hadrelian said quietly.

“B-but brother…”

“A true farm with at least ten Holders will allow us to advance at least 3 floors. One step closer to achieving our goals, Drudus. I won’t allow an Inquisitor to steal our prize.”

“But the Divine Path, brother,” Drudus ground out, his jaw clenched tight.

“I am as fervent as you, Drudus, yet we have lingered in these forsaken reaches for far too long, subsisting on mere scraps. We shall bring this farm under the Emperor’s grace. From what we understand from this tattooed Tethered, they are recent arrivals. No more than two months. It shall be a facile harvest.” Hadrelian spoke with calming authority, waving away his hands dismissively.

“What shall we do with Varon’s Tethered?” Drudus asked, looking at me with apprehension.

“Take control of him and hand me control of this one here,” Hadrelian nodded his chin towards Super. “Have Varon take his pick from one of my Tethered.”

“Varon will not be pleased. He is most fond of the Ranger.”

“He will have him back at the end of this campaign, along with my reassurances. We will bring him along with us when we reach the 10th floor.” Hadrelian smiled wanly.

So that’s how it was. I was simply a trading card in their collection they swap about. Drudus was a Master class, a class that allowed him to bind and unbind the Tethered, or the Chattel. With a drawn card, Drudus bound my collar to himself and then the Thief to Hadrelian.

An instinctive command wove through the Tethered and their Masters, a bond as deep as marrow that compelled silence about any gathered knowledge. I was forbidden to anyone, including myself unless their threat hung over the Master’s life like a drawn blade. Another tethered dictate: always speak the truth to the Master and fulfill his wishes to the best of my ability.

And so, Drudus bade me report on the camp's situation while he and the others humored Super, that oddity who seemed to fascinate them.

More soldiers meant more camp followers and more camp followers inevitably meant more latrines. The majority of the beastkin, conscripted by the Eldrin in this forsaken corner of the realm, were doing little more than digging ditches and scouring the woods or sea for food.

The new arrivals from Kronfeldt busied themselves unpacking supplies, preparing for the long march ahead. According to Zenon, the Eldrin scout, it would take eleven, perhaps twelve days, to reach Thornhill. And until the smugglers at Port Havensreach delivered our shipment of Binding Collars, this camp was at a dead halt.

So, the idle men dug latrines, foraged what they could, and ran drills, sharpening their blades as though eager for the blood they weren’t yet permitted to spill.

After gathering an inventory report from the quartermaster and tallying the soldiers' numbers, I returned to Hadrelian’s tent to deliver my findings. That’s when I noticed a boarman lingering near the tent, pretending to busy himself, though his ears were clearly tuned to the voices inside.

A spy, perhaps—maybe for the mercenary companies?

“You there,” I called in Lokan, addressing the boarman. His fur was a muddy brown, his beard long and scraggly, with stubby, almost comical tusks. His reaction was immediate—nervous. When I caught up to him, he stammered.

“Oh… I was just here to report to Master Hadrelian about the latrines situation,” he said in Lokan, his strange accent twisting the words. “Do we really… have to do it out in the open? Can’t we make an outhouse?”

There was something oddly calming about his voice, and the suspicion I had held about him began to dissolve into absurdity.

“I didn’t know your kind cared where you shat.”

He wrinkled his snout. “Preferably not where we eat or… right next to another person in the open.”

His manner wasn’t right—too dignified, too fastidious—for a boarman. I hated generalizing, but I had only met boars who had the uncouth sense to work for slavers and they were usually blunt, unceremonious creatures. This one had an air of propriety, like nobility.

.

“Take it up with your commanding officer. You shouldn’t be near this area,” I said, dismissing him with a wave.

As I stepped closer, his eyes widened. Had he never seen a human before? Perhaps not one like me. Most of the Chattel in these lands were European or Mediterranean in appearance, and my almond-shaped eyes, jet-black hair, and complexion likely confused him.

“Will do. Apologies.” He bowed with an exaggerated flourish, an odd gesture for a boarman.

Usually, I would report such suspicious figures to my Master, though reluctantly—after all, their safety hinged upon my vigilance. Yet, standing there, a haze enveloped me, and I soon found myself forgetting the very face and name of that figure as if he had never existed at all.

In my daze, I struggled to recall what I was supposed to do.

Right. I had to report back to the Marshall.

Hadrelian and Drudus reclined in fine mahogany chairs, each cradling a glass of wine poured by their Chattel servants, one attending to each of them. They watched with amusement as Super entertained them, though it wasn’t truly freestyle. He was reciting Eminem’s Rap God, but his version sounded like a corny, offbeat elementary school talent show act.

After finishing my report and delivering the tallies to the Masters, I bade them goodbye to retire to my tent, but not long before I talked alone with the Thief.

While the two Masters poured over the ledgers, I moved closer to the Thief, who was lounging on a pile of pillows, gnawing on a roast duck leg, one I hunted earlier, and guzzling wine straight from an uncorked bottle. He chewed loudly with his mouth open, his legs splayed wide as if he had already claimed the Marshall’s tent as his own.

It appears being a snitch came with its perks. They were rewarding him for his loose tongue, and he was relishing every moment of his ill-gotten gains.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, trying to mask the disgust etched on my face.

“Chill, cuz. We’re in the same boat,” Super burped, flashing a wicked grin as he tapped his silver collar like it was a prized necklace. “I’ve got some scores to settle back there. Figured if I tell ‘em what they wanna hear, they’ll let me have a few rounds with some of those honeys back in the ‘Hill.”

“They don’t believe in that,” I said through clenched teeth, the urge to slap him burning through me, but the invisible chains held my hands stubbornly at my sides.

“Forreal?” Super feigned devastation. “Nah, man, that ain’t right. They might not do it to us, but nothing’s stopping us from doing it to each other. Gotta have some little slave babies somehow, feel me? I tried last night, and they didn’t stop me. You know those girls they got at the farm?”

“You tried last night?” My blood boiled, but I felt helpless as the words slipped out.

“Yeah, those girls they captured recently. Had that fine-ass blonde chicken last night. They didn’t stop me or anything. Figured they wanted us slaves to, like, make like bunnies, you know? Like farm animals. Why would they stop us from having a bit of fun?”

Super grinned, but when he saw my face, his expression faltered. “Oh, shit… you didn’t know? You never had a taste, cuz?”

No. Deep down, I knew. There was a reason they called us Chattel, traded us like livestock, kept us in cramped quarters, and let the farms fester. Still, I clung to the hope that we were human. But this... thing before me wasn’t.

“Man, can’t believe you’ve never had a taste. Earth girls are different. You gotta get all the consent forms and shit. The natives here, though? They just lay back and take it,” Super cackled, his laughter like that of a hyena. “Can’t wait to get to Thornhill, man. Can. Not. Wait.”

Just when I thought my disgust had peaked, he started rubbing his engorgement through his designer sweats. I turned away, fury flooding through me. Never in my life had I thought about killing another person, but in that moment, I made a promise to myself: If I ever broke free from these chains, I would put an arrow through that guy’s head.