THE DAMNED

In the grand slave halls, where prisons of marble and iron contained future servants, a boy sat among emaciated men and women. He did not know much commonspeak, so he stayed quiet. He did not remember fully, the events which brought him here. The child only remembered slipping on frosted rock, before plummeting far. It was then, when he regained consciousness, in this bazaar of the damned.

The people he saw all looked unfamiliar to him; a man, tall and pale, looked at the floor, deep in thought. A lady only slightly older than he, clad in blue tattoos on pinkish skin, slept in a corner. An old couple, begged for their lives in a foreign language, banged at the cell door, begging for their lives in a foreign language. After which, a guard in red and gold snapped at them, raising his shortsword between the bars. The two, frightened, stepped back.

Many questions ran in the boy’s mind.

Where was he? Why was he here? And why were all these people trapped?

He stood up, his legs still bound by chains, and walked to the bars. He looked to the left and saw a hallway of white, glossy material. Hands stuck out of the other cells, desperate for help. The pillars on the sides bore various candles and the occasional flag. The boy looked into the flag’s emblem and was fascinated by it. On a blood-red background, a golden fist gripped a spear, which had a plume’s feather on the other end.

The boy did not know what the feather meant, but the spear made him cautious. After all, his people were well-versed fighters. In this place of grandeur, would he need to fight his way out? He hoped not, for his combat skills were less-than-average; his skinny figure was quick, but not powerful.

The sound of a door opening echoed along the slave halls, causing the clamoring captives to grow silent. Through the doorway came two imposing figures; an elderly man in an elegant, white cloak, and a taller person shrouded by an old, grey mask. Strangely, it appeared to be unfinished, as it had nothing below the nose. Their words echoed along the complex, causing all to eavesdrop.

“We have the finest selection of slaves in all the Southern Lands. I’m sure you will find a… suitable candidate for--”

“Where do you find all these people?” The masked man interjected.

“Oh. They are usually vagrants, fodder of the masses, and those who are rejected, per se. Outcasts.”

The halls roared with wrathful screams, cursing the old man in hundreds of languages.

“SILENCE!” The old man stomped his foot, and a purple wave engulfed the screaming slaves, arcanic hands clamping their windpipes shut. They continued to thrash against the bars, the rattling echoing across the complex. Promptly, guards threatened the unruly prisoners with their weapons.


As the two walked down the hall and inspected the cells, the murmurs of slaves began to arise, like a silenced crowd.

The boy may have not been well-versed in commonspeak, but he did understand the question. As for the answer, he could only retrieve one word;

“Outcasts.”

He muttered the word to himself, getting attention from his cellmates.

“Would you look at that. He finally speaks. Has Lady Fear gripped your tongue, boy?” The pale man inquired. He looked into the child’s eyes, and a glint of emptiness was evident in his gaze.

The boy only nodded his head, hearing “Fear” and “boy”.

“Oy, you’re scarin’ ‘im! Perhaps, if you didn’t look into his bloody soul, then maybe, he wouldn’t be so petrified!” The older man chimed in, in a thick Gaelic accent.

“Well. It’s not like we should be sheltering him anymore...” The pinkish girl said, stirring awake.

 “...We’re all deep within slavemaster territory. Only a miracle could free us now.” She continued, her voice full of youthful sorrow.

Her statement caused a wave of somberness to wash over the captives, calming the cellmates to some degree.

And then, the footsteps heard in the halls came to a stop. The two men stood at the door of their cell.

“Perhaps, what you seek lies here.” The old man said.

The masked man’s eyes darted around the room, briefly examining each prisoner.

“The boy. And the girl. How much?” He asked, with a deep, intimidating voice.

“The boy is merely fifty notes. We know not of his origins, but he is of good health. But the girl...a thousand.”

“Why such a high cost, may I ask?” He turned to face the old man. He rubbed his fingertips against his thumb, giving off a slight snapping sound.

“Of course, when they come from the north…”

The girl looked at the old man with scornful eyes. Noticing this, the masked man procured a sack of notes from his free hand and gave it to the old man.

“Two thousand notes. Keep the change. Bring them to me.”


“Oh, of course! Guards…!” He called out, and two of them rushed to the cell.

As the door opened, the golden-red watchers grabbed the youthful prisoners, their swords at the ready for any resistance. Their cellmates did not intervene; they had no reason to do so.

The two were bound by links, on their ankles and now, their wrists. The key was handed to the masked man, and the two slavemasters shook hands.

“A pleasure doing business, Sir Asturg.” The old man said.

“Indeed.” Asturg replied, taking hold of the chains handed over by the guards.

The three walked out of the room in silence. The door at the other end of the hallway led to a courtyard of slaves, and their owners. The girl looked at the floor, ashamed, while the boy, ever curious, looked at his surroundings. The ground was a mixture of gravel and assorted pebbles; he assumed it would have been a beast’s stable once before. The walls, while they were made of the same white stone, were stained with what appeared to be blood, among other bodily fluids. The stench of the air reeked of body odor and animal remains; a smell which the boy knew all too well. Though, he was not sure whether it came from the slaves, or the slavemasters.

There were other emaciated men and women, bound to iron as he was. They were led by people in shiny, expensive outfits, in designs that caught his eye. The boy had never seen such regalia until then.

A tall, fat man in jeweled clothing gripped a shiny chain, which restrained a girl, younger than he, who was more wolf than human. She was down on her knees, looking back at the boy. Her emerald eyes suggested fear; the same, innocent anxiety that ran through his own mind. He wanted to approach her, but alas, the chains led him away.

They exited the courtyard, and into an even bleaker place; the outskirts of a city. The dulled colors of the outer city walls towered over them, like stalwart guards to a powerful king. The skies were as grey as the muck on their feet, clouds ominously lingering above them. The horizon seemed to be fogged out, making the landscape ever-gloomy. A dark, gold-lined carriage waited for them, with horses that looked like shadows. The boy grew ever-fearful but remained curious. The girl continued to look at her feet.

“Where...are we going?” The boy asked, gathering his courage to speak.

“My home.” The masked man replied.

The carriage doors opened themselves, and the man let them step in first. As the two went up the steps, the mud on their soles seemed to vanish. They were greeted by a well-decorated interior; blackened steel with hints of purple and gold adorned the carriage with intricate, almost regal, carvings. The dirt on their skin seemed to disappear as well, and their exhaustion seemed to dissipate like evaporating water as they sat on a smooth, velvety booth. The masked man followed suit, and as he sat adjacent to them, the doors shut quickly, but silently. The two captives looked at each other with uncertainty as the black horses moved forward.

The coach followed suit, and the three were finally in transit. Strangely, their carriage effortlessly glided over the terrain, making no bump nor shake. The two slaves looked at their new master, as he seemingly adjusted his mask from under a black cloth. The girl hoped that he was no pervert, while the boy hoped that he was no monster. They both wished that, at least, their new lives would be better off than their old ones. Even in shackles and rags, they hoped. After all, what are children to do?

Lifting the black cloth, the two were greeted with a new mask; a sneering visage, as mischevious as a court jester. Its eye-holes were no longer plain and round; they were accented with sharp angles, and exaggerated brows. The nose was long, and sharp enough to pierce thin armor. The mouth which finally appeared, gave a devilish grin, showing off rows of spiky teeth.

The girl was taken aback at the display.

“How did you--how many masks do you have…?” She inquired, looking at his booth for any spare facades.

“Oh, just one.” He replied, in a voice opposite to what they heard previously. It was, much like the mask’s, akin to a jester. High-pitched, and with an air of childishness.

“...I just make adjustments, is all.”

“Your voice…” The boy blurted out.

“Oh, right. I was acting awhile back. I hope you two don’t mind...I am quite the performer. I’m Surgat, by the way. Here, let me get rid of those chains…”

The masked man grabbed the key, and set it aside. The two looked at him, confused.

“Um…” The boy pointed at the tiny iron thing.

“Oh, no problem.” He said, raising his hands over the master-lock.

He moved his fingertips in a seemingly random order, his palms hovering over the little steel box. Suddenly, it clicked open. The chains and rings fell to the carriage floor, and the two were free of their bindings.

“You’re welcome, by the way. Always had a thing for these…they’re like little puzzles.” He grabbed the opened lock, and had it float between his palms.

“You’re a...telepath?” The girl asked.

“Telepath? Oh, it goes far deeper than that, my friend.”

“Friend?” The boy asked.

“Oh! My apologies.” Surgat said, storing the lock in his coat.

“I never got your names. Oh, wait! Don’t tell me.” He looked into the girl’s eyes, hand on his forehead.

“What are you--”

“Vilda. Suits you well, I guess. And you…” He looked into the boy’s eyes, and the boy looked back. The boy moved away, slightly intimidated.

Surgat focused once more. He did not receive anything. The masked man tried again. And again.

“Nothing.” He said in disbelief.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’? Surely, he has a name. Is that right?” Vilda looked at the boy, concerned.

The boy looked down, and shook his head. His expression sunk, and his lips frowned.

“No. In my home, we...earn our names. I did not earn mine.” He said, a tinge of sorrow in his voice.

“Well, then...who’s to say that? Since I, er...purchased you two, and your rights…” Surgat said, before pausing for a moment.

“...Perhaps,  I could name you.”

The boy looked back up, with an expression of surprise.

“Really? But...my parents are the ones who--”

“Forget ‘em. They won’t matter anymore. Trust me. Now, a name…”

As the masked man pondered, Vilda turned to the boy, and leaned closer to him.

“As much as I don’t trust this man, he’s right. We won’t see our old homes again. Not in this lifetime.” She whispered.

A smirk grew on the boy’s face, and she saw a glint of anger in his eyes. He straightened his posture, and whispered back;

“Good.”

“Libero!” Surgat exclaimed.

“What?” The two asked in unison.

“You know, his name! Libero. It’s from an old friend’s language. It means...free.”

“Free…” The boy repeated. A smile grew on his face.

“...Alright. Call me Libero.”

“I like it. I think it suits him well.” Vilda commented, nudging him on the shoulder. He grinned in reply.

“Okay, now that’s out of the way, I should tell you; this ride is gonna take a while. I live a long way from the slave halls.” Surgat chimed in.

“So…”

With a flick of his fingers, the booth’s backrests fell backwards, turning into two large mattresses. Suddenly, the three were on their backs, resting against the unusally soft velvet. The two captives were given a short adrenaline rush.

“I suggest, that we should get some shut-eye.” He said, raising his finger, causing the black cloth to gingerly lay on top of his mask.

“Can’t argue with that. At least we’re not sleeping on hay this time…” Vilda chuckled.

“I agree.” Libero said, nodding his head.

“That’s the spirit! Now, if you’ll excuse me…” The masked man laid on his side.

“...I’ll help myself to a dream or two.” He said, before closing his eyes.

Vilda yawned, stretching her arms before facing away from her fellow outcast. Rubbing her eyes, she grew ever so sleepy. After all, she was tired. Far too tired from going southbound, anyways…

“Good night, Libero.”

Libero faced away the same, and rested on his side.

“Good night, Vilda.” He replied, feeling proud. It was a phrase he had never used before.

Vilda wondered if it would be the last phrase he would use…


[end]