Wolf Heart, Whelp Skin

[Thalrick]

Winter. Always cold, always unforgiving. Where grass became sheeted in snow, sometimes thick, sometimes thin. More often than not it would leave a man's boots caked in white, and equally often was it so deep that it tumbled down into a man's shoe, like a small avalanche that left the feet frozen and numb. The greatest thing Thalrick had ever been given were shin-high leather boots. They were worn in and smelt courtesy of the previous owner, but they were both tight and high enough to stop the snow ever rising above his ankle. He wished his wrists were just as blessed. The thick iron bars that bound them pinched his skin, and the cold air often made it stick to him like honey. Whenever he struggled or moved too suddenly, it would rip off pieces of skin and hair. They always chafed him too, leaving dark red and black bruising around the bone. Had Jon been more kind, he would have forged him shackles that fit comfortably. Had Jon been more kind, he might have let Thalrick free. ''Move ya bloody arse, boy, lest ya be wantin' a whipping.'' The plump slaver sneered from atop his courser. Traces of spit flew from his mouth and made their mark over the back of Thalrick's neck, though the winter air froze them in a matter of seconds. The boy of twelve was forced to walk several yards ahead – trudging strenuously through the snow – while his master prodded at him from atop his horse, threatening him whenever he slowed in pace. They had spent the night before in the Everstone Forest, taking up refuge in a long-abandoned farmhouse that had been nestled within the hills. It's slate roof had been on the verge of caving in, and any semblance of doors did not exist, yet still it served as a shelter, and allowed Jon to stoke a fire big enough to keep himself warm, while Thalrick spent the night on the damp, weed-covered floor. It was nothing he wasn't use to, and all the undergrowth that had risen through the floorboards had actually been comfortable. They had woken the next morn to what Jon believed to be other people, though it had just been the whining of his horse and the wind. Thalrick was whipped with hard leather as a parting gift from his dreams, and before he had the chance to even wake up, he was back outside, trudging through the snow. He was short and thin, but it felt like his feet were the size of a giants, weighing him down more with each step. Maybe the wind will freeze him over, and I can steal the key to these chains, and escape . . . Maybe I'll find a nice warm bed and a lady who'll take care of me like mother did. At the perimeter of Everstone Forest Jon ordered him to stop, half-way up a slope where the snow had covered thick roots and vines. The wind had been chillier here, for the grand limestone stalagmites of the forest were all but ceased, and they had become more exposed to the weather. His pale skin was littered from head to toe in goose-prickles, despite the layers of fur that covered it. At least Jon had done him the kindness of keeping him warm, even if it was just to keep his slave pup alive. He had not wasted coins on Thalrick's furs out of the kindness of his heart, the plump slaver was merely ensuring that his product would last through the winter. But you might not, if I get my hands around my neck while you sleep . . . ''Stop. . .'' he grunted when Thalrick did not hear him over the sounds of the howling winds, ''Stop I commanded!'' His leather whip lashed out amongst the winds, and moved so fast that even the gusts could not quell it. It came crashing down upon Thalrick's back, who felt it despite the thick furs. His shoulder bones burned for a moment, then started to sting. He could feel the hot blood running down his back, beneath his roughspun vest. I need to feel pain and blood, to remind me I am human, and not some mindless beast like he thinks. ''We're nearly there, boy. Almost. Day or two more and we'll be giving this beauty to a dear ol' friend o' mine. She'll be worth some pretty mizas, she will.'' he patted the coursers flank, and the horse whinnied. The steed had been stolen from a middle-aged woman, taken from her very own farm in some hills they had passed, nearly a fortnight back. Thalrick had been forced to distract her, posing as the captive he was (so it wasn't really posing) to gain the woman's attention. Meanwhile, Jon had somehow sneaked his fat person into the stables to steal the valuable horse. Ever since then he had been bragging of the coursers worth, and how it was once a knights, the husband of the woman. Thalrick didn't like Jon one bit, and he hated him for stealing peoples things more. I don't belong to you and neither does that horse, we should be free. Instead the poor thing has to carry your weight, and you prod along mine like I'm cattle. Damn you, you fat bastard. You'll get what's due. After nearly a minute of silence, standing exposed to the cold, Thalrick spoke. His lungs even felt froze over, and his speech was nothing beyond a hoarse whisper. ''Why have we stopped?'' He asked, though knew he shouldn't have. Jon sneered and spat. He hated being asked questions, he always reminded Thalrick that. Mayhap that was the reason he had so many scars over his back and arms. He did not dare turn around to face his master, but heard his fat legs carry him through the snow all the same. The heavy foot steps approached slowly but surely, and the next minute he felt a burning sensation through his skull as an open palm smacked the back of it. Thalrick would have lost balance, had Jon not held him up and hit him a second time. ''Shyke for brains, you have. I'll remind ya as much as I have to, boy, don't ridicule me with ya stupid petchin' questions. Next time it won't be a slap over the head, it'll be a wave of me dagger and the scream of ya mouth as your finger comes off. We've stopped because I bloody well need to piss, but I'm scared me cock will fall off.'' Jon did not say another word, and instead reached beneath his furs, undid his laces and revealed his shrivelled penis. A thick stream of yellow emerged from the tip, and poured over Thalrick's thigh until it was done half a minute later. It was warm, and disgusting, and made him want to vomit and cry and strangle the fat man all at once. Petch you, you fat bastard . . . How has my life come to this? If mother was here . . . But she wasn't. And if she had been, there was nothing she could have done to stop it. Her not being able to defend him had been what had put the boy here to begin with. That, and his father's gambling debts. When we next meet, I'll be free, and strong, and brave. . . And I'll kill you just like you did mother. . . But the fat man first. Another slap across the back of the head sent Thalrick stumbling, and he lost his balance amidst the snow, as his boot caught on a root hidden beneath it. His hands somehow found their way, and stopped him from falling face first. Jon grinned, his teeth yellow and crooked and broken. He was an ugly man, round of gut, with a face that looked like a poorly served bowl of stew. Everything seemed out of place. His nose was crooked and bent, his eyes were small and dark and beady, and his mouth was always pursed. He had only seen forty odd years, but his complexion said otherwise. Spots and moles and wrinkles covered his cheeks, and there was an eye-averting boil just above his lip, which had sprouted a head of hairs of its own. His chin was pointy with a crevice in the middle, and perpetual black-grey stubble covered his round cheeks, as well as his head. He was balding in the very centre of his scalp, and so had taken to shaving the rest of his shaggy hair so he did not look it. Not that being bald could've made him any less ugly. His round, balloon-shaped figure was clad in thick grey and brown wolf furs, with a worn grey cloak lined with fur over top. Beneath them he wore boiled leather, cloth breeches and thick leather boots trimmed at the top with sheepskin. A dirk hung from his shoddy leather belt, one that Thalrick had threatened to have enter him more than once. And that had not been the only thing Jon warned would enter him. ''Get up, boy, or I'll flop out me petchin' cock and do more than piss on ya leg. Always wanted to know how a boy feels, only ever stuck it in little girls and common whores. Maybe you'll be lucky, maybe I'll let you feel it. You'd like it, wouldn't ya?'' he approached Thalrick and kicked him in the ribs, then returned back to the horse, laughing. ''Get up, we're not bloody there yet.'' He called out as he struggled to pull himself back onto the saddle. You'll die soon enough. Soon enough. I'll see that you have no cock to piss with, before this is done. . .

[Thalrick]

It took the duo another three days to reach their destination, albeit the fact Jon had said two. Thalrick clung on to hope with every breath he took, the hope that his 'master' would trip on a root and break his legs, or stumble down a cliff and impale himself on some stalagmites. All of it was a tempting thought in the boys head, but none of it became reality. Instead, reality had been a gruesomely tiring trek up slopes, hills, through thick-canopied forests and out of them again, and back into more slopes and hills that were as pale as milk from the blanket of snow that now covered them. They had even stopped at The Caern, a monument for the dead, though Jon chose to disrespect them by pissing all over the very ground they had been buried beneath. If only they'd rise again, and rip that shrivelled little purple creature right out from under you. . . Thalrick had thought as he went about his business, before being commanded not to stare, lest he wanted it up his arse. The courser had become as tired as the boy before it over the length of the journey, but the plump slaver never grew wary. He had to do nothing but shout an occasional command and whip his pup, after all. On the first night out of Evergreen Forest, they had slept beneath an outcrop of trees, with a supper consisting of stale bread and a ration of cheese and wine. The second they found an old cave dug out of a hill, which, after some inspection on Thalrick's part, seemed safe enough to make camp. That night he was fed the little cheese that remained, whilst his so-called-master dined on pork and wine. The third night, they had been stranded in a snowy field as night fell, and so that was where they made camp, with a tiny fire to warm them. That night Thalrick had been whipped twice, punched two more, and spat on half a dozen, all because his stomach had growled while Jon tried to sleep. ''Rhysols cock, we're finally here.'' The slaver had laughed as they reached the crest of a hill, revealing a small farmhouse in the near distance. It was nearly identical to the abandoned one they had slept in nights before, all whitewashed stone and dark slate roof. A stable had been erected beside it, big enough to hold half a dozen horses at the most, and made of timber and thatch. It looked poorly made, but Jon had assured him it was stern enough to withstand any season. Plumes of blue-grey smoke rose from the chimney inside the farmhouse, dancing and snaking their way into the sky above. Jon laughed as they began their descent of the hill, rubbing his fat belly. ''Hans Snake-Eye, former member of the Ebonstryfe, devout follower of m'lord Rhysol and current informant of the Daggerhands, and a big petchin' informant at that. The man's the size of the house he bloody lives in, I'd wager. He'll give us a hefty price for such a beauty, enough to get me two more o' you, boy. Then you'll have some friends to play with!'' He laughed at his own ridicule, as if he was the best fool in Mizahar. Thalrick rolled his eyes, hoping that Jon could not see through the back of his head. He doubted he could however, his shaggy, unkempt mane of hair barely allowed him to see ahead as it was. It did not take them much longer to reach the farmhouse, which had been surrounded with a low fence made of crude wood. It looked more like defensive spikes than a fence, though Thalrick assumed that was what he had been getting at. An informant and devout follower Hans Snake-Eye might have been, but he was no carpenter or builder. ''Hans, you oaf. Get out here, got somethin' ya might fancy.'' Jon snickered from outside the fence, as he had told his pup that Hans did not like people on his land, lest he invited them himself. He did not want to anger the supposed 'giant man' by going any further. A minute or so of silence followed, until the door to the house swung open, revealing a gargantuan man in the frame. He was not lying, for once . . . Thalrick uttered at the sight of him. Hans was as tall as the door frame, thick and broad, with a dark complexion even if it had been winter. His hair was blonde and brown and grey, and his beard was a spade-shaped mess of curls of the same colour. Veins ran down his forearms like spider webs, thick and blue, running into each other like streams. He clutched a stone hammer in one hand and the top of the door frame in the other, his huge figure concealed by a ragged brown apron covered in soot and dirt. ''Jon?'' He asked confusedly. His voice was gruff, like how Thalrick expected a bear to sound, if they could speak. Jon laughed from atop his courser. ''Aye, Jon Lavick, Slaver, Lord of Whores, and Master Thief.'' He said the titles as if they were his birthright, and as if all of them actually meant something of worth. He was no master thief, just a petty horse thief who needed a slave to do the actual work for him. Thalrick could have thieved better if he were a freefolk, and the first thing he would have stole was the dirk at his masters hip, so he could poke a few holes in him and leave him bloody in the snow. Hans laughed a laugh that Thalrick also thought would've come from a bear, had they the ability to speak and laugh in common tongue. ''Rhysol be good, it's been some time ol' friend. You've gotten fatter.'' The man cackled. Jon went as red as a tomato, though hid any offence the man had caused with a joke of his own. ''And you've gotten short, now let me in, I've got words to speak with ya. One's ya might like, I think.'' He urged the horse forward as if to say he was coming in regardless, but the huge man did not argue, and simply waved a hand for his friend to join him. When Jon was done tying the coursers reins around a pillar inside the crudely-built stable, he looked to Thalrick with a scowl, pressing his sausage-like finger against the boys eye. ''Say a word inside this house, and I'll see to it that ya don't have a tongue to say any more, ever. This horse is enough to get us to Sunberth, where I'll be buying a few more of ya, one for pleasure and the other for service. If ya want to have some friendsies to keep ya company on these lonely journeys of ours, you best be keeping ya petchin' mouth shut, got it?'' He pushed his fingernail into Thalrick's closed eye, and the boy pulled back and nodded. I am going to yell, and then I am going to scream until your ears will burst. And then I'll pull the dirk from your hip and slit your fat goose neck with it. When you're choking on your own blood I'll piss in the wound, to make your dying a lil' bit warmer for you, he thought, but all he said was, ''Yes, master. I will not say a word.'' Jon made a noise with his mouth that sounded like a cow chewing it cud, then firmly nudged him out of the stable and towards the farmhouse door, which was still opened. Inside, the bear-like man had been preparing a stew over a fire. By the look of it, he had only just begun preparing it when they arrived. Could it be? A hot supper on such a cold night? Will he be generous enough? Will Jon allow him to be generous enough? Thalrick felt his stomach tighten at the thought of food, as he had not eaten since the night before. And that had been mouldy, tasteless cheese that he brought up only an hour after it had gone down. ''So, what're these words you wish to speak?'' Hans asked, stirring the stew methodically as it cooked over a small fire.

[Thalrick]

''A man who wastes no time, you ain't changed Hans Snake-Eye.'' Thalrick realised then where his name had been born. His left eye was a dull green, though his right was a gritty yellow, with the thin pupil of a snake, ''Me words involve the horse, the one I came on. Fine beast, mind ya, got it from a knight – a dead knight's wife to be honest – but a knight all the same. It served Syliras, so it'll serve you just as good. It carried my fat arse here without a trouble, as well as all me provisions and belongings.'' Jon seemed eager as he spoke, like the sale had already been made. Hans continued to stir his stew, never shifting his eyes from it. It had begun to create the gorgeous aroma that cooked chicken often did, mixed with peas and carrots and potatoes and herbs. Thalricks stomach growled loudly. ''Your boy is hungry.'' Hans said bluntly. Jon looked confused, he had ignored all he had just said. He shot Thalrick a glare as if his stomach's cravings had just ruined everything, a glare that suggested he would be flogged later. Whip me, slap me, beat me. . . It only makes me want to end you more. ''Aye, seems he is. I fed him though, he's a greedy one, always eatin', takin' all me bloody food, Rhysol damn him.'' He lied, then shot Thalrick another twisted glance. It was very much the opposite; he ate all the good food himself and left his slave pup with nothing but scraps. Lately, he'd begun to see the bones jut out of his skin where his ribs were. Thalrick doubted Jon could even feel his ribs through all his layers. ''It doesn't look so, he looks underfed. Mayhap you need to feed him more.'' Hans said bluntly again, though this time had turned around to size up the boy. Jon looked offended, as if the lie he had told had actually been a lie. Which it was. His angry stare burned the back of the bear-sized man's head. ''I don't have enough to feed him, lest I wanna bloody starve meself. The boy gets what he's given and he doesn't say a word about it, so I'd wager he's okay with it. Now, how about that horse?'' His tone slowly grew in both annoyance and volume, though Hans did not seem phased in the slightest. He was a very. . . drab man, all brawn with little brain, or maybe he just did not care what the plump slaver had to offer him, in the form of both lies and horses. Thalrick smiled at the thought, though only in his head. He dared not curve his lips before his masters anger. ''What about it? It's a knights horse, and a dead knight at that. There is no honor in taking a dead man's things from the clutches of his widow. Especially when winter has just begun, and horses are likely to die from frostbite, and cold. I need dry wood for my hearth more than I need another horse.'' His voice was plain, but there was a certain anger to it that could not be denied. He did not want the horse, that much was clear. Jon went red again, and his sausage fingers curled up into a thick pork steak of a fist. He had been seated upon a wooden chair, but was now standing, breathing so heavily that grey clouds of air wisped from his mouth with each one, even inside the house. I hope he attacks the big man, and gets himself killed. Maybe Hans will let me free. . . ''The horse is as good as any, if not better. It got us 'ere, from the other bloody side o' the evergreens, it's strong an' sturdy and obeys like a good beast should. I thought o' you when I took it, I did, and that be why I'm here now, before you.'' Jon spoke slowly and angrily, trying to maintain his composure. Thalrick prayed he would lose it. Hans turned back around, but he did not even so much as glance at the fat slaver. Instead he approached Thalrick with a clay bowl full of stew, and placed it in his hands. ''Eat, boy. You look starved.'' he said in his drab tone, and then his lips twisted into what Thalrick only assumed was a smile. Jon looked infuriated, but he let Thalrick sit, and he let Thalrick sip on the hot stew until his stomach became warm and content. The chicken was not as cooked as he would've liked, but he would not complain; it was better than rations. ''Th-thankyou, Hans Snake-Eye.'' Thalrick said quietly as he wiped his lips of the last mouthful. The yellow-eyed man took the bowl back from him, and placed it down upon his shoddy wooden table beside the pot. Jon opened his mouth to ensue his brewing rage, but Hans cut him off, all the while he continued to stir his stew. ''Lord of Whores, you told me earlier. Tell me, Jon, where are all these wenches that you lord over? I see only a boy who is underfed and worked to the bone. You claimed a master thief, too, did you not? Mmm. I ask you what you've stolen that makes you so.'' His tone was duller than ever, but so condescending that Jon nearly pulled his dirk out in rage. The fat man somehow managed to keep his cool, perhaps it was the winter winds that crept through the open window. ''I am a lord when I attend them in their brothels, and a thief of horses and cattle. Do not speak down to me like ya have honor, almighty informant, you're a thief and a crook just as wrong as me. You have no honor left, not a shred, and don't act like ya do, because it'd be a bloody lie. The boy is underfed on account o' not workin' hard enough, maybe if he put his heart into his duty I'd give him more rations, y'see. You once told me that your kind were always in need o' good horse, and that's why I came, not so you can lecture me and feed my property your bloody stew.'' By the end it, Jon was breathing so loudly that each one competed with the whistling winds in volume. He panted as if he were about to pass out from a heart attack, and his fists were clenched so tight that his sausage fingers were turning purple. Hans stood before him, still as stone. ''No, I have no honor. You speak true. But I have a moral compass, maybe a broken one, but I keep it all the same. Boys need to be fed, if you want them to survive. You don't expect a fortnights meat from starved sheep, so why expect years of service from a starved child,'' he paused for a moment, scooped out some stew and handed Jon a bowl, and Thalrick a second, ''any man is a lord when he enters a brothel, as long as his coin is many. I have been a lord many times myself, more than I can count on all fingers and toes. Maybe we are brothers then, lords of whores together.'' He stopped entirely for a minute, as he poured himself a bowl of stew, drank it down all at once, and then served himself another. Jon's mouth was open, revealing his ugly crooked teeth, but no words came out. The bear-sized man continued by saying, ''It's true my brothers are in need of good horses, but I doubt any would make it to Sunberth from my humble cottage in such weather, so it'd be a wasted cause. The snow will only get thicker, the wind colder and more fearsome. I'd be a fool to haggle the horse from you now.'' He sat then, blunt as a mace, slurping loudly from his bowl. Jon wiped a growing bead of sweat from atop his brow. ''Then what, Hans? I come 'ere for what, a bowl o' petchin' stew? To listen to ya mockery? You take me a fool, brother, I see it, clear as day.'' He stood up again, this time launching his half-emptied bowl at the wooden floor. It bounced across the squeaky boards, spilling chicken and potato and carrot across an old dusty rug. Hans took one more loud slurp from his own bowl, and then placed it calmly on the table beside him. He used the back of one hand to wipe the blonde and grey hair from his face, and for a second Thalrick thought he would react. But he remained as stern as a stone gargoyle. ''Do you come into my home to mock me, Jon Lavick? Rhysol burn you, you have soiled my home, when I have been generous enough to let you into it. We may have fought in the Ebonstryfe as comrades, but that life is behind us both. I'd take no regrets in skinning you alive.'' The words hissed from his mouth like a viper, and he stood up, towering over Jon by at least two feet. The threat was real; and for the first time since they'd arrived, Thalrick saw expression in the giant man: anger. Both of his boulder-like fists were clenched at his hips. ''I came here to make an offer, and ya've refused me, it seems. I got no more business here, so I'm takin' me boy and I'm goin'.'' Jon made for the door, scared for his life, but Hans took two strides and blocked it, his thick blonde and grey brows furrowed in anger. ''It is one thing to deny a man manners beneath his roof, but to scorn the good supper he has given you – Rhysol burn you, fat Jon.'' Kill him, Hans Snake-Eye, kill him and be done with it. Let me free, let me free of his wroth. . . The events that followed all blurred before him like a time-warped dream. He remembered Jon drawing his dirk, and lunging at the huge man. Hans had then thrown his former comrade across the room like a small pup, brandishing a wound at his hip. Jon had shouted profanities as the giant of a man came upon him again, and then it all diverged into a state of panic and chaos. Splintered wood flew across the room, and either man swore prayers to Rhysol as they beat at each other, hot stew spilling across the room as the pot swayed back and forth violently. Thalrick did not care to see the victor; he had no time. Now is my only chance, my only chance to be free again. He rushed for the door, and though his wrists were chained to one another, he opened it quick enough. His initial thoughts led him to the courser in the stable, but that would only take time, time he could have spent running. And so run he did. The wind had picked up, louder and stronger, screaming and clawing at his ears as he tried to push through it. It pounded at his side, trying to topple him over, trying to take his balance from beneath him. The snow made the run harder than he first thought, his feet getting lost in the milky white snow with every step that he took. He had to be as light as a feather, but the furs that covered him only made him heavier. I cannot remove them, or I'll freeze to a slow death, He remembered thinking as he pushed on, tripping and falling every few steps. Yet every time he fell, he pulled himself up quicker. He was wolf clothed as pup, with the will to survive. After what felt like an eternity of running, falling, running, and falling again, he managed to stumble into a forest, heavy-set with soldier pines that were covered in sheets of thick, crusty snow. The air was warmer here, the wind less violent. He pressed his body up beside the trunk of a tree and allowed himself to slide down, until his back side was nestled into the ridge at the bottom of the trunk. He was tired and worn, but he was alone, and had escaped the clutches of his cruel master. Still, for all his effort, he did not feel free. Something was amiss.

[Thalrick]

Thalrick sat against the tree for the most part of an hour before he even moved a limb. He let himself calm down, let his heart beat return to resting rate, and allowed himself to compose. He had broke free from his master, but that had not unlocked his chains for him. His wrists were chafed more than ever, and blood now ran down his forearms, from cuts that dug deep into them. I have my freedom, but not the keys to it. . . He had first considered trying to break the links upon a rock, but there were none in sight. His second thought had been to keep running, until he found someone who could grant him his freedom. But he did not trust anyone in these lands, for they were all as treacherous as Jon had been. Any one of them could have taken him for their own slave, and the cycle would repeat itself. No, he had to go back – he had to take the key from Jon's corpse, for surely it would have been him who lost the bout. Hans was too strong and too broad to lose to such a fat, worthless piece of shyke. Yes, I'll go back to the farm house, and I'll thank Hans for killing him, and I'll take the key and I'll run again, run until I find a place where people will treat me well, a place unlike this. Maybe I'll go to Syliras, I've heard it has knights, noble men, mayhap they will take me as one of their own, so I may restore some honor in my life. The gods know I've been stripped of all that I had. That was it, he had made up his mind. His only option was to return to the farm house, pluck the key from the slavers body, and leave. With the strength he had left, Thalrick clambered to his feet, and shook himself to remove the snow from his furs. He did not know which direction from which he had came, it all felt like a blur to him now. It had all happened so fast, Jon's temper had arose quicker than winter winds, as had Hans'. Both ill-tempered followers of Rhysol, is that what his influence does to a man? Out of the two, he had liked Hans more. The man had fed him, and spoke of Thalrick like he was actually a human. He did not wish him dead. He stumbled his way out of the forest, only then noticing a graze on either knee that had torn through his breeches. They did not bleed much, but they stung every time he bent them, and it made walking more effort than it had to be. Still, he soldiered on, each step drawing him closer and closer to the situation he had just fled from. The winds were back on him, as hard as ever, and balance soon seemed like a foreign thing. He was weak despite the warm stew in his stomach, and nearly every step brought him to one knee, and up again. I wasn't born to die here, not now, he thought as he stumbled into the snow, fur mitts nearly sliding off when he pushed himself to his feet. On and on he went, and the trip felt like far more than an eternity. He had not been running this time; only walking, panting, falling, standing, and walking all over again. He would not surrender, not when his freedom was at the tip of his fingers. He would have to remember to piss on Jon's corpse, when he found his way back. Shyke, the wind is so cold, so . . . cold . . . He fell there and then, dropping clumsily to the snow. He gasped as he plummeted down, feeling as if he had just been tossed into a freezing lake. The snow was cold, and deep. His weight pushed him into it, and so the pale frost had begun to encompass his face, rolling over his cheeks and hair. Only his eyes, nose and mouth were free of it, but soon they would fall victim to its icy talons. I'm going to die here, in the snow. I'll freeze over, and they'll find me, shackled and all, and know I died a worthless slave. . . His bounds hands were rested on his pelvis, and soon they would succumb to the snow, too. He looked up to the sky, hoping to find the sun; but all he saw were grey and white clouds, that covered the world above him like a veil. He closed his eyes, so that he may welcome death when it arrived. But when his vision faded to black, images flashed through his head, slow at first, and then all at once. They were distant and blurred, but he knew them well enough. Images of his father beating and strangling his mother to death, and then the faded memories of Rhao the slaver, and how his father had sold him to pay back his debts, killing his mother only because she spoke against it. He could hear their voices, speaking to him. They sounded distorted and twisted, but it was their voices , he knew. ''I'll give you my son, and our debt will be paid. He will make a fine subject, won't you Thal?'' His father had asked him almost happily, patting him on the head like he was some sort of dog. He was too young then to know what had been happening, and had agreed that he would've made a fine 'subject'. He regretted it now. ''This is Jon, your newest master. He's paying a good portion of gold mizas for you, so you best behave. Act up, Thalrick, and you will regret it. Do everything he commands, just as you've done with myself.'' Rhao had warned him before Jon had taken him, at the inn on the edge of the lake. ''I love you Thalrick, and so does your father. We won't let any harm come to you, not here, not now, not ever. We created you – and we love you, for whatever you'll become. I'll always be there for you.'' His mother had promised him, two nights before she had been murdered by her own husband. That was his fondest memory, but also the most tear-inducing. I cannot give in now, not now . . . I've come too far, and been here too long to just lie in the snow and die. There is still so much vengeance . . There is . . father . . The word lingered on his tongue just long enough for Thalrick to open his eyes, and heave himself out of the snow. It was as if a spark had caught a fire inside him, and set it alight in one bright blaze. He trod through the snow, stumbling still, but not as often. The snow that caked his furs and his boots and his hair soon thawed, leaving behind goose-prickles. But he did not feel them, he was too focused, too determined to care about anything but the key that awaited him in that farm house. And if Jon were still alive, he would kill him, and wrench it from his fat hands if he had too. I won't die, petch this cold, petch this winter, and shyke on Jon, the fat bastard. . He showed determination beyond a boy of twelve; though it was determination a boy of twelve should've not had to show. Boys were meant to be behind safe walls, eating at their families tables, doing chores for enough gold mizas to buy wooden swords to spar with their friends. Not trudging through the snow, half-frozen and half-dead, hoping to find the key to the shackles that bound their wrists and made them a slave. I won't die, no, I refuse . . . It felt like another eternity, but finally the farm house was in view. Only this time, there were no plumes of smoke. Grey-blue tendrils of smoke had been replaced by a red and orange blaze, which licked the sides of the building, spreading violently through courtesy of the wind. It was not ablaze entirely, the cold air had made sure of that; but Thalrick would not take his chances. If the building collapsed with Jon's corpse inside, there was a chance he would never be free of his chains, for the key would be lost. Damn it, damn it, damn it, he uttered as he began walking faster, down a hill, and then up another, until he was finally at the fence. The horse is gone. . . He noted the absence of the courser, meaning it either had fled when the fire started, or been taken by the victor of the fight. Thalrick edged slowly toward the door, burning his hand against the hot handle as he twisted it, then used his knee to push the heavy door open. Inside, the flames were worse, scaling the cupboards and the walls, setting flame to the ragged bone colored curtains that covered the windows. The chairs he had sat on hours earlier were smashed to pieces, as was the table. The cauldron was tipped on its side, leaving trails of stew across the floor. Fragmented shards of the clay bowls littered the room, and some had found their marks in the walls. What happened here? Where are the bodies? Thalrick thought, but then quickly turned as a raspy voice laughed from somewhere behind him.

[Thalrick]

Thalrick sat against the tree for the most part of an hour before he even moved a limb. He let himself calm down, let his heart beat return to resting rate, and allowed himself to compose. He had broke free from his master, but that had not unlocked his chains for him. His wrists were chafed more than ever, and blood now ran down his forearms, from cuts that dug deep into them. I have my freedom, but not the keys to it. . . He had first considered trying to break the links upon a rock, but there were none in sight. His second thought had been to keep running, until he found someone who could grant him his freedom. But he did not trust anyone in these lands, for they were all as treacherous as Jon had been. Any one of them could have taken him for their own slave, and the cycle would repeat itself. No, he had to go back – he had to take the key from Jon's corpse, for surely it would have been him who lost the bout. Hans was too strong and too broad to lose to such a fat, worthless piece of shyke. Yes, I'll go back to the farm house, and I'll thank Hans for killing him, and I'll take the key and I'll run again, run until I find a place where people will treat me well, a place unlike this. Maybe I'll go to Syliras, I've heard it has knights, noble men, mayhap they will take me as one of their own, so I may restore some honor in my life. The gods know I've been stripped of all that I had. That was it, he had made up his mind. His only option was to return to the farm house, pluck the key from the slavers body, and leave. With the strength he had left, Thalrick clambered to his feet, and shook himself to remove the snow from his furs. He did not know which direction from which he had came, it all felt like a blur to him now. It had all happened so fast, Jon's temper had arose quicker than winter winds, as had Hans'. Both ill-tempered followers of Rhysol, is that what his influence does to a man? Out of the two, he had liked Hans more. The man had fed him, and spoke of Thalrick like he was actually a human. He did not wish him dead. He stumbled his way out of the forest, only then noticing a graze on either knee that had torn through his breeches. They did not bleed much, but they stung every time he bent them, and it made walking more effort than it had to be. Still, he soldiered on, each step drawing him closer and closer to the situation he had just fled from. The winds were back on him, as hard as ever, and balance soon seemed like a foreign thing. He was weak despite the warm stew in his stomach, and nearly every step brought him to one knee, and up again. I wasn't born to die here, not now, he thought as he stumbled into the snow, fur mitts nearly sliding off when he pushed himself to his feet. On and on he went, and the trip felt like far more than an eternity. He had not been running this time; only walking, panting, falling, standing, and walking all over again. He would not surrender, not when his freedom was at the tip of his fingers. He would have to remember to piss on Jon's corpse, when he found his way back. Shyke, the wind is so cold, so . . . cold . . . He fell there and then, dropping clumsily to the snow. He gasped as he plummeted down, feeling as if he had just been tossed into a freezing lake. The snow was cold, and deep. His weight pushed him into it, and so the pale frost had begun to encompass his face, rolling over his cheeks and hair. Only his eyes, nose and mouth were free of it, but soon they would fall victim to its icy talons. I'm going to die here, in the snow. I'll freeze over, and they'll find me, shackled and all, and know I died a worthless slave. . . His bounds hands were rested on his pelvis, and soon they would succumb to the snow, too. He looked up to the sky, hoping to find the sun; but all he saw were grey and white clouds, that covered the world above him like a veil. He closed his eyes, so that he may welcome death when it arrived. But when his vision faded to black, images flashed through his head, slow at first, and then all at once. They were distant and blurred, but he knew them well enough. Images of his father beating and strangling his mother to death, and then the faded memories of Rhao the slaver, and how his father had sold him to pay back his debts, killing his mother only because she spoke against it. He could hear their voices, speaking to him. They sounded distorted and twisted, but it was their voices , he knew. ''I'll give you my son, and our debt will be paid. He will make a fine subject, won't you Thal?'' His father had asked him almost happily, patting him on the head like he was some sort of dog. He was too young then to know what had been happening, and had agreed that he would've made a fine 'subject'. He regretted it now. ''This is Jon, your newest master. He's paying a good portion of gold mizas for you, so you best behave. Act up, Thalrick, and you will regret it. Do everything he commands, just as you've done with myself.'' Rhao had warned him before Jon had taken him, at the inn on the edge of the lake. ''I love you Thalrick, and so does your father. We won't let any harm come to you, not here, not now, not ever. We created you – and we love you, for whatever you'll become. I'll always be there for you.'' His mother had promised him, two nights before she had been murdered by her own husband. That was his fondest memory, but also the most tear-inducing. I cannot give in now, not now . . . I've come too far, and been here too long to just lie in the snow and die. There is still so much vengeance . . There is . . father . . The word lingered on his tongue just long enough for Thalrick to open his eyes, and heave himself out of the snow. It was as if a spark had caught a fire inside him, and set it alight in one bright blaze. He trod through the snow, stumbling still, but not as often. The snow that caked his furs and his boots and his hair soon thawed, leaving behind goose-prickles. But he did not feel them, he was too focused, too determined to care about anything but the key that awaited him in that farm house. And if Jon were still alive, he would kill him, and wrench it from his fat hands if he had too. I won't die, petch this cold, petch this winter, and shyke on Jon, the fat bastard. . He showed determination beyond a boy of twelve; though it was determination a boy of twelve should've not had to show. Boys were meant to be behind safe walls, eating at their families tables, doing chores for enough gold mizas to buy wooden swords to spar with their friends. Not trudging through the snow, half-frozen and half-dead, hoping to find the key to the shackles that bound their wrists and made them a slave. I won't die, no, I refuse . . . It felt like another eternity, but finally the farm house was in view. Only this time, there were no plumes of smoke. Grey-blue tendrils of smoke had been replaced by a red and orange blaze, which licked the sides of the building, spreading violently through courtesy of the wind. It was not ablaze entirely, the cold air had made sure of that; but Thalrick would not take his chances. If the building collapsed with Jon's corpse inside, there was a chance he would never be free of his chains, for the key would be lost. Damn it, damn it, damn it, he uttered as he began walking faster, down a hill, and then up another, until he was finally at the fence. The horse is gone. . . He noted the absence of the courser, meaning it either had fled when the fire started, or been taken by the victor of the fight. Thalrick edged slowly toward the door, burning his hand against the hot handle as he twisted it, then used his knee to push the heavy door open. Inside, the flames were worse, scaling the cupboards and the walls, setting flame to the ragged bone colored curtains that covered the windows. The chairs he had sat on hours earlier were smashed to pieces, as was the table. The cauldron was tipped on its side, leaving trails of stew across the floor. Fragmented shards of the clay bowls littered the room, and some had found their marks in the walls. What happened here? Where are the bodies? Thalrick thought, but then quickly turned as a raspy voice laughed from somewhere behind him.

[Thalrick]

''Glad to see ya alive and kickin', boy.'' Jon cackled from behind him. Goose-prickles rose as quickly as they ever had, and he felt his fat fingers grip Thalrick's shoulder. It was a gentle squeeze, but the thrust that followed had nearly knocked him unconscious. Then another, and another, and another. He could feel blood oozing from the back of his scalp, and the small crimson river opened more each time Jon hit him. After a dozen, the fat man dragged his pup strenuously from the burning building by the scruff of his neck, and tossed him into the snow just outside the fence. Thalrick was dazed, but not enough to overlook the great gash in Jon's forehead, and the tear in his furs. Blood also ran down his sleeve and over his hand, but he did not know if whose it was. The man was tired, his face purple like a beetroot, his nose bloodied and bent more than usual. ''Try to escape, aye?'' He asked as if he did not know, slowly pacing toward the broken boy. His leather boot crashed hard into Thalrick's rib, and he winced in pain, but did not scream. He could show no fear, not an ounce of it. Jon turned back to the burning house, and laughed wickedly. He seemed to enjoy the heat of the flames, for they burned hot even through the winter winds. ''See it, boy,'' he thrust a finger toward the house, all fire and smoke, ''this is all my doin', my work. Inside that blaze burns the revered Hans Snake-Eye, slit from ear to ear with a big ol' grin. He was a good fellow once, strong n' brave n' fearsome. Devoted to m'lord Rhysol just as much as me, and now he burns for it. The petchin' fool should 'ave just bought the bloody horse, now it's ran off somewhere and neither of us have it, and he don't got his life.'' He paused for a moment, and turned to Thalrick lazily. ''You best not do that ever again either, boy. Or I'll see ya life light flicks out quicker than he. It was hard to kill him, he was not only big n' strong, but he was an ol' friend from a life long gone. You, you're just a bloody slave, disposable and replaceable. There'll be no replacin' Hans.'' The fat man bent down and yanked at Thalrick's chains to pull him to his feet. The blows to his head still made him dizzy, but he somehow found his balance. Jon spat on his face, and he grimaced as the saliva rolled down his forehead, over his eye, and dripped off the bridge of his nose. ''That's for desertin' me, and breakin' ya code.'' he said angrily. There was no real code amongst slaves, only the unspoken one that said they would not abandon their true masters. All of them would, though, at the moment the opportunity arose. ''I'm, I'm sorry, master.'' Thalrick said grimly, a tear rolling down his cheek where the saliva had just been. I was so damn close. . . so damn close. Damn it all, how did he kill such a beast of a man? Hans was stronger, and taller, and sterner. He should have defeated Jon without effort. . . He wanted to pose the question, but feared any more of a beating would have sent him into a coma. Instead, Thalrick held his tongue, and allowed the slaver to angrily shove him away from the burning building. Each shove nearly caused him to fall, as the world still swirled about in front of him. Jon had lost both his whip and dagger, whip to the flames – and dagger to the thick skin that covered Hans Snake-Eyes black heart. ''We're backtrackin', west, to find the bloody horse. Then we head for Sunberth, to The Tent City. We'll find a buyer there, winter cold be petched, there's always buyers in that place. They'd buy ya cock if ya presented it to them, I'd wager all my mizas on it.'' Jon cackled sarcastically, then reached into his furs and pulled out a small leather pouch. When he swayed it about, the mizas inside it jingled brightly. The slaver seemed proud of himself, smiling a toothy grin that revealed a lack of three teeth. Three teeth he had possessed that same morning. It seemed Hans did not go down easily. That's not his . . . It's . . . Hans' coin pouch. It seems he sold the horse without ever giving it away, the petchin' bastard. . . .

[Orin Fenix]

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