Dark Gods: Taste Test



  Dark Gods : Taste Test

  By Julius Schenk

  Copyright 2013 julius schenk

  1: Slavery

 

  Hunger: it was the feeling that defined his current life, more than cold, boredom or even anger. It was hunger. He could feel it as a solid dull pain in his stomach that radiated through him. His normally strong body felt weak and traitorous. He sat on the hard wooden bench with his back against the freezing blue stones of the prison wall and wished for another bowl of watery gruel or heel of stale black bread. The food he’d been given in the debtor’s gaol was the food you feed people you hope would die. A few more weeks of this diet, in these elements and Seth knew that he would be obliging them. He focused on his anger and tried to let it build in him, like cupping hands around a fledgling fire, but it didn't shake off the cold of the dark night outside his cell; it didn't help protect against the cold wind that blew in through the bars — the bars that made one side of this cell into a giant viewing room. It didn't help get rid of the shame that he was in this place, and what would his father say if he knew about it?

  The pale sun shone down in the morning and Seth along with all the other unwashed and ragged debt slaves, did their best to move from the hard wooden benches along the back wall and get a place in the sun against the bars. The cage was built so that people walking past could easily look in and view the various chattels. Slavery wasn’t against the law, but this also wasn't slavery. He owed money, and he’d been sold into debt bondage until the ledger was clean. Should be about five years for the two silvers and few coppers they said he owed for a week’s room and board that he hadn’t paid.

  Seth made his way easily to the front of the cage; the other slaves got out of his way. Even in his hungry and half-starved condition, he still looked like what he was — a soldier, a tall Northern lad of nineteen name days, fresh from two years as a levy in the local lord’s militia. He was the same height as everyone else in his troop, which meant he was around a head taller than most Cravosi; had a hard body and determined look from two years of near constant training, riding and fighting in the line. Right now, he felt he couldn't do a single chin-up from a tree branch—but then, he hadn't had a decent meal of meat in weeks, and not only meat but a decent meal of anything in the last two days since they hauled him down into this cold, blue stone prison.

  Northerners had a unique view on life, in that they tended to live by the mottos that ‘scars are strength’ and ‘to avoid a battle just because you are outnumbered is the coward’s path.’ Seth was going to be sold onto someone else — and, honestly, if he were bought, then at least he’d have a timber roof over his head and some food in his stomach. So he stood up the front, like last morning, and did his best to look like a good and humble slave. He wasn't about to die of starvation inside this cage like the poor fucks alongside him. Inside, he was bursting with secret rage at the situation that sent him here, but it would be a mistake to show it. He’d seen many men tougher than him by far be beaten savagely by the guards for being trouble starters . . . and if he got himself a broken arm or leg, he’d just as well start digging his own grave.

  As people walked past the cage, Seth sorted them into two groups. One was comprised of potential buyers, being servants in livery and hands in pouches, well-dressed and respectable slaves shopping for their owners, or various tradesmen looking for cheap labourers to work to death. The other group was made up of mean-spirited petty bastards who had nothing better to do during the day than make life harder for those already on the bottom. They were the men with no jobs, but with freedom, who laughed and shouted things at the slaves, little piss pant kids who liked to throw stones, and the bored young lordlings and merchants’ sons, who mostly liked to leer at the underfed women in tattered clothing. Seth didn’t consider himself a violent person. Sure, he was a fighter, but he wasn’t the type to take pleasure in the suffering of others. But if he could get outside this cage with a cudgel, he’d make short work of some of these bastards with their proud sneering faces.

  As the market was closing and the sun was near to set, a man walked past the cages. Seth recognised him from the previous day. He had an extremely refined appearance, short black hair and a very serious expression on his face; he was clearly a steward for some important man. He was dressed head to foot in black and gold livery; his jacket had a golden eagle with a broken spear between its talons. He was walking very close to the cages, staring intently from person to person as he had done yesterday when he’d passed them all over.

  The slaver in charge of Seth was a large, overweight white lump of man, with not many teeth and a cruel sneer permanently set on his pudgy rat face.

  ‘Back again,’ the rat faced slaver said.

  The steward looked at the slaver for a moment and then, without saying a word, went back to peering at the faces of the different slaves. He cast his critical eye over a woman standing close to Seth. She had ragged blond hair streaked with dirt and a shift dress that had once had some sort of pattern on it. Now it was a dirt-streaked grey. She may have been half pretty once, but Seth could see she was barely holding herself up on those bars. The large purple black eye the guard had given her wasn’t helping. While the man stared at her, he spoke to the slaver. ‘How long has she been here?’

  ‘Not more than a few days I’d say,’ the slaver replied in a lazy fashion.

  ‘More like two weeks; she’s near death’s door,’ the steward said.

  ‘She’ll come right once your man feeds her up,’ the slaver said. ‘Or, if it’s men you’re after, you should look at that Northern lad two over. He’s strong, tall and quiet; haven’t heard boo from him since he came in. Might be simple, but that’s good in a slave.’

  Seth felt his face almost go red when that piece of shit said he was simple. It took all his strength of will not to shout back at him. The steward walked down the line a few steps, crisp leather boots treading into the mix of mud and piss from the cage. He looked Seth in the eyes for a moment and then looked at him from head to toe, sizing him up.

  Returning to examine Seth’s gaze once more, he spoke to the slaver. ‘He’s not simple. Are you simple, boy?’ the steward asked in a polite, questioning voice.

  ‘No sir, I’m not,’ he answered.

  ‘Smartly answered; plenty of life in him. He’ll do the job.’

  The steward then turned to the slaver. ‘I’ll take the lad here, and you’ll shave a few silvers off the price for the sorry bloody condition of him. He has the hungry look of an underfed dog at the kitchen door.’

 

 

 

 

  2: Freedom

 

  The slaver and the steward argued about the price back and forth, with Seth, the chattel in dispute finally being sold for the princely sum of two gold coins and three silvers—not a bad price for five years of someone’s life, he thought. A shiver ran through the length of him when the slaver stepped up onto his little wooden stool and poured a bucket of cold water over him, the closest Seth had to a bath in four days.

  His hands were thrust into some heavy metal cuffs that the steward had brought with him. Without as much as a ‘come along dog,’ the steward led the dripping but triumphant Seth through the crowd. Sure, he’d had just been sold; sure, his clothes were caked in dirt, filth and soaked with water; sure, he was being lead through the crowd like a dog on a cold metal leash. But he hadn’t died in that cage like so many others had; he’d played the game and he’d survived. He’d done what he needed to do for a week or two. He’d tend house for some rich man; he’d eat well and sleep well. Then, when the time was right, he’d run all the way home to the North. Fuck Cravoss and fuck the Cravosi. Stupid
city didn’t seem half as good now as it had three weeks ago.

  Long strides kept him up with the steward and for the most part the crowd moved out of the way for them. Once they had made their way out of the slave market, they walked up to a black carriage led by two white horses. The carriage was ornate to Seth’s eye and had a large golden eagle crest with a broken spear. The horses were beautiful animals, much leaner than the large Northern warhorses he was used to riding. The steward passed his chain to the driver and said, ‘Get up with him,’ before stepping inside the carriage.

  Seth clumsily got up into the seat next to the driver without the use of his hands; he was dripping water and muck all over the wooden seat. The driver was a very young lad with a little red cap.

  ‘You want some water?’ the boy said, offering him a flask.

  ‘Thanks,’ Seth said, raising it to his lips. He enjoyed the cool clean water as it soothed his still aching stomach.

  There was a tap from inside the carriage, and they set off. Seth had been so impressed when he’d first come to the great city of Cravoss just three weeks past. He and three friends from his troop had made the two-week ride from the Northern Duchy of Bloodcrest to the city. They had all finished their two years of service on the