Prelinsa’s eyes sluggishly opened to find her hands tied behind her back, as she lay on a cold, metal floor. She blinked a few times, taking in her surroundings. She was in a small, windowless room with dim, green-yellow lights, which flickered in a sickly manner. One side of the room had a double door in it. There were several other people laying on the floor in the same predicament. The bouncing of the room and the rumble of an engine told Prelinsa that she was inside some kind of vehicle.
There was no knowing how much time had passed since she was knocked out. She rolled over, looking around desperately for her mother and sniffing for her scent, but there was no sign. Her memory flashed back to the horrible head injury, and her mother’s last words. Feelings of sadness and helplessness quickly mixed in with anger. Anger at the slavers for taking away her mother, yes. But also anger and frustration at herself for being so weak – such a useless burden. If it weren’t for her, perhaps Marianne would still be alive.
Mom… you saved me in your last moments. I promise I’ll survive, for both of us. I’ll get out of here, somehow.
There was a sudden jolt in the room, and the vibrations stopped. Prelinsa heard a lock turning, and the doors were pulled open.
“Get up!” A voice shouted.
Prelinsa was roughly pulled to her feet by a slaver and escorted out of the room. Looking around, she could see it was still dark outside. The aurora was much dimmer than earlier, and some more stars were visible as a result. Her foxy eyes quickly adjusted to the lower light level. The air smelled salty. In the distance were some docks, and beyond them was a huge body of water that stretched all the way to the horizon, the aurora and crescent moon reflected in its surface. It was the ocean – Prelinsa’s first time ever seeing it in person. The waves crashed against the land, making a soothing sound that betrayed the current situation. Off to the right side was a huge ship, bigger than the entire Commune, its looming silhouette dotted with lights shining through the windows. Prelinsa shivered, not sure what to make of it.
The slaver forcefully guided her, along with other victims, towards the ship. Some of them cried as they were walked over, which earned them even rougher treatment. As they approached the ship, Prelinsa remained silent. A hatch opened, and they were led inside. The passageway they were led through was bleak, metallic, and crammed with lots of pipework on the walls and ceiling. It smelled of oil and rust, and each footstep reverberated through the air. Mechanical noises could be heard faintly from elsewhere. For Prelinsa, who was used to living in a more open environment, it felt extremely uncomfortable.
They walked down some stairs, deeper into the bowels of the ship, and arrived at a heavily armored looking door. A slaver opened it, and immediately Prelinsa was met with a blast of putrid, stagnant, humid air. It smelled revolting – of musty seawater, blood, body odor, and bodily waste. Her body retched as she twitched and fell to her knees, throwing up blood and the contents of her stomach onto the floor, coughing repeatedly and horribly.
“You dirty bitch!” One of the slavers yelled, and Prelinsa suddenly found herself knocked forward into her own ejecta, a horrible stinging pain across her back.
“Hey, hey! Try not to damage the merchandise!” Another shouted. A third pulled Prelinsa back to her feet. Prelinsa winced, still coughing and wheezing, her head reeling from the awful smell, the pain, and the shortness of breath. She tried to force herself to stay calm – it never made things better to get agitated. The slavers moved the captives past the doorway, and into a dirty room with many prison cells lining its walls. There were no windows to be seen – only dim, yellow-white fluorescent tubes provided any light. Prelinsa’s bonds were untied, and she was pushed into one of the cells. The slaver pressed some buttons on a panel, and the door slid shut with a loud slam. Some mechanical noises clicked, as the lock engaged.
As the slavers’ footsteps left, Prelinsa pulled her dirtied jacket off, using the sleeve to wipe the excess vomit from her mouth. She then held a cleaner part of the jacket over her nose and mouth, trying to take deeper breaths. But it was hard, as her lungs and throat itched and felt horrible, and the smell made her eyes water. The back of the jacket was quite ripped up and bloodied. Her back still throbbed and stung terribly, but she couldn’t see the extent of the damage.
“Are you alright?” A voice asked softly.
Prelinsa whirled around to see an elf sitting on a cot in the cell with her. She studied her new cellmate briefly. The elf had short, pale green hair and amber eyes, and looked about the same age as Prelinsa, though with elves, you never really knew how old they were. She wore blue and white priestess robes that looked like they would’ve been fairly nice at some point in the past, but were now dirty and ripped up.
“No,” Prelinsa replied weakly, her voice muffled under the jacket.
The elf nodded slowly.
“You’re wounded. Please, let me tend to you.”
Prelinsa eyed the elf, somewhat distrustfully. A healthy distrust around strangers was normal in the slums. Also, a lot of the elves she’d met were weirdly competitive and liked to pick fights for no good reason. She wasn’t just being prejudiced. Honest.
“…It won’t be good to keep the wounds open in this environment. They could get infected,” the elf added, a bit more insistently. “Please.”
Begrudgingly, Prelinsa nodded. The elf had a point. There didn’t seem to be any ill intent here, either.
“Fine.”
She turned around, allowing the elf to take a look. The elf approached, pulling up Prelinsa’s shirt and studying the wounds.
“Please try to relax. This will be easier if you’re calm.”
Prelinsa didn’t take a deep breath, but she did try to reduce the tension in her muscles. As she did, she looked around the cell to try and distract herself. The walls and floor were metal. There were two cots hanging from the walls, and even a proper toilet in the corner – something Prelinsa hadn’t seen for quite some time. As she looked around, she heard some kind of incomprehensible muttering from the elf, followed by a warm and tingly sensation on her wounds. Slowly, the pain receded, replaced by a sort of tickling sensation. The elf muttered something else, and the terrible feeling from all that coughing began to subside. The air still smelled disgusting, but it was more manageable now that Prelinsa didn’t feel like pulling her lungs out.
“What… what did you do?” Prelinsa asked in surprise, feeling some semblance of clarity coming back to her. She craned her neck over, but wasn’t really able to see what was going on.
“Healing magic. I can’t do much, but I sped up your body’s natural processes to close the wounds quickly,” the elf said, lowering Prelinsa’s shirt again. “I also reduced some of the inflammation in your nose, throat, and lungs. It won’t last very long, but for now it will at least feel less painful.”
“You’re a mage,” Prelinsa said, turning around.
“I am,” the elf confirmed.
“How did you end up here? I thought mages were strong.”
The elf shook her head.
“Most of us aren’t. Besides, I’m still a trainee. Closing some wounds is the most I can do.”
“Well. Thanks, um…”
“Rona. My name is Rona.”
Prelinsa smiled, a bit weakly.
“Thanks, Rona. I’m Prelinsa.”
She tried futilely again to crane her neck over to look at her back. “It itches a lot.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
“It itches because it’s healing faster than you’re used to. Please try not to pick at it.”
“I won’t,” Prelinsa agreed, though the sensation was quite uncomfortable.
----------------------------------------
Days passed. It wasn’t long before Prelinsa lost track of how long she’d been on the ship. Though with Rona for company, it could’ve been much worse. She learned that the elf was a trainee priestess of the Pantheon of Karn, who’d gotten captured by the slavers while doing missionary work in the slums. She was 71 years old, which in elf years was still quite young, and she apparently had an older sister who was living in the East Realm. Rona’s magic couldn’t be used too often, which meant it couldn’t help entirely with Prelinsa’s bloody coughing fits and irritated lungs, but just having someone there was a comfort in itself. Prelinsa had told Rona about her life in the slums and her mother’s death, and Rona had empathized strongly, offering a prayer to the gods in hopes that Marianne’s soul might find peace.
The only other contact with people was when the slavers occasionally brought meals. They seldom spoke, they just chucked the food into the cell through a small hatch and then left. The food was awful as expected, with hard, stale bread and slightly metallic-tasting water. Though it wasn’t the worst that she had ever eaten. The slave cell, for that matter, wasn’t without its perks over the slums. At least it was warm, protected from the elements, and had a reliable – if infrequent – source of food. Still, Prelinsa was getting dizzier by the day from the bad air, blood loss, and a lack of proper nutrition and hydration. She wondered if she might just die before even being sold into slavery.
As she sat there, she heard a commotion outside. Someone was shouting, but the thick walls made it impossible to make out what was being said, even for her good ears. Prelinsa sat up, and continued to listen. Her cellmate had also noticed that something was up.
Then, there was a terrible crashing noise, which came from the direction of the entrance to the hold. Prelinsa jumped from the sound.
“It’s just as predicted, sir! Slave trafficking,” the voice of a man exclaimed, with strong disgust.
“Rescue the victims! Prioritize those who need medical treatment!” another ordered.
Prelinsa’s eyes widened. Were they all being rescued? By who? And why?
“Here! There’s a sick child over here!” Rona called out. Prelinsa tried to speak, but felt a sharp pain in her throat, and winced. So instead, she tugged on the elf’s sleeve and mouthed, Thank you. Rona smiled faintly and nodded, before closing her eyes and putting her hands together in prayer.
People donning black uniforms and strange masks entered Prelinsa’s field of view through the cell bars, spreading out to check on the cells. Two of them, a man and a woman, stopped in front of Prelinsa. Their expressions couldn’t be seen beneath the masks, but both of them had matching black hair.
“Hold on a bit longer, kid. We’re getting you out of here,” the man said, examining the lock on the cell door. He put his hands together, and an aura of fire surrounded them, enveloping the lock. The lock glowed red hot as the metal around it melted. Then, it fell to the floor with a thud. The woman promptly gripped the door’s bars and forced the door to slide open, gears and motors in the wall sparking and shrieking in protest. She offered them a hand. Prelinsa took it, finally managing to speak.
“Who are you?” She croaked, as she unsteadily rose to her feet.
“I am Sorrel of House Silvermoon,” the woman said.
“And I am Dock of House Silvermoon,” the man echoed.
“Silvermoon,” Prelinsa repeated. So these must be Phoenix Warriors. The governing body of the North Realm, and the Silvermoon Empire. She had a lot of questions, mostly about why the Silvermoons hadn’t done anything about the slavers until now. Maybe Marianne wouldn’t have died then. But the tension from being locked up was also quickly leaving her body, and all she felt now was a rapid onset of fatigue. The questions would have to wait.