Chalice of Shadows

Chapter 1

Flames hissed through dry wood to bite at the naked male slave chained to a stake. Muscles bulging, he strained against his bindings, howling, and then his flesh began to melt.

Shackled off to one side in a line with other slaves, Morgan tried not to hear his screams, tried not to imagine his agony. The screams turned to shrieks until the fire hid his head and his flame-whitened eyes. The sickly smell of burning flesh stuck in her throat, and she held her breath to stop her stomach heaving. Greasy smoke spiraled, violating a clear blue summer sky with a message of death.

He had earned death, but not in that form, tossed on a fire like kitchen waste. When he had strangled a guard with his chains, he’d challenged the rest of the warriors to cut him down with their blades and let him die as a soldier, a slave witness reported. They refused to stain their blades with the blood of a slave, instead netting him with a stout rope trap like an animal.

The fire popped with explosions of fat globules, and a shudder began within Morgan, one that rattled her chains. She tried to stop, afraid to earn any attention when the free people had a killing frenzy in full flow. There they stood, the privileged of High fort, their status bands all prominent on their wrists, gathered in a semi-circle around the crisping remains, chattering and laughing as if a life lost was entertainment. Those folk disgusted her so much that she didn’t now mind being sold away from her home fort. Any place must be better than this.

Morgan didn’t remember offending anyone; knew to be careful, having been a slave from early childhood. As long as she could get far away from these cruel people, perhaps a change was a good thing. If having a soul like the free folk meant liking the pain of others, then she didn’t want one, or the Harvester’s Golden Afterlife. She preferred to think of death as a ceasing to exist, although maybe slaves went to the Wild Hunt, the same as Outcasts.

The crowds began to mill around the avenues of trading booths on the outskirts of the fort, eager for more to fill their empty lives. Silver Band wearers paused to watch a juggler while those wearing the Bronze Band wristlets went on to slake their greed on exotic dishes from other forts. No individual from the Gold Band ruler class had bothered to watch the execution of an animal, apparently considering sideshows mere fodder for the lesser castes.

A Black Band Outcast stepped out of a tent to look around as if he owned the sky. Dressed in dark leather as a protection against the elements, he stood out from the fort folk in their wool and linen clothing. His lack of expression and penetrating stare marked him as a death monger for hire.

Near the stand of a fire-eater performing his act, people stepped aside to let the Outcast pass through their ranks, sensing the approach of a predator. Morgan stood on tiptoe to see this unusual sight, accidentally pulling on the chains linking her to other unfortunates.

Be still, girl. A ragged man with one ear missing yanked her into line next to him. Do you want to give these fort people more sport?

There’s an Outcast . . .

Another hard yank on her chain stopped her words. The swirl of people parted again for a Harvester’s priest clad in a traditional, saffron yellow flowing robe. The dignitary glided forward, looking more like he had wheels instead of legs under his wide skirts. At least the big hairy creature wasn’t near this one like it usually was. Her heart sank at the sight of the uncaring religious zealot who would decide her fate. Slaves didn’t have souls.

Those madmen protect their own. They don’t champion slaves. The mutilated man hawked and spat in the direction of the Outcast now standing in shadows. Quiet sobbing started on her other side as a pretty woman in scanty clothing began another bout of despair.

Hush up, Lanara. The one-eared man leaned around Morgan to glare. You’ll have an easy life if you please your new master. We’ll be beasts of burden.

The sobbing turned into a shuddering tremble, felt through the shackles. With the wisdom of virtually eighteen summers behind her, Morgan knew he meant Lanara would be a pleasure slave.

Stick-thin with tangled hair that she rinsed with the juice of a root to give it a dull brown color, Morgan wasn’t at risk from the desires of men. Sometimes, one would raise her head, and then he would see the angry disfigurement of either side of her neck. Men preferred their lust-meat untainted.

Time was, a quavering voice came from behind, when we’d have been made Outcasts, too. A man could die a clean death, or win the chance of coming under the Outcast mantle of inclusion.

An image of a group of Outcasts marching flooded into Morgan’s mind. Under a sky of green, they strode in fighting triads between huge rectangular blocks of stone with windows. Why had someone carved a mountain away from a cave complex, squared off the sides and put holes in the walls? Why lose the safety of living within the ground? Why so many Outcasts in one place when they never traveled together? Questions bounced off the inside of her skull, but she got a sense of safety from the Outcasts, despite the gray mists that curled in her memory.

A guard tethered a leash around Lanara’s neck to lead their chain from a holding pen to a sales pen near a raised platform the priest had just mounted. This gave the crowd of buyers a better chance to appraise stock before the sale of individual slaves. The first in another line was unshackled, prodded into an area in front of the Harvester’s henchman and seated buyers.

Lot number one, a prime male. The priest looked over his podium at buyers. Trained to stock-keeping, he’s good for any heavy labor.

Bidding commenced, and the slave changed masters for a pig and two chickens. Another took his place. The lines continued to diminish despite haggles over a price as afternoon wore into evening. Torches now added a smoky light. Lanara went in exchange for a stallion to an old man with a sour expression, except when he looked at the pretty slave.

Rough hands released Morgan to propel her into the selling arena. She kept her eyes down.

Lot number fifty. The priest intoned. An immature female. She’s used to rough work and is good at cleaning.

That slave is diseased, an outraged voice from the audience objected.

The priest aimed his staff of power in Morgan’s direction. A sphere of blue light enclosed her, and she emptied her mind, used to evading thought probes. Best they think her simple rather than different.

Scarring won’t stop her working hard. She is free from disease. The priest lowered his staff, looking around at the audience.

One sack of turnips, a buyer with a thin face offered. Ripples of laughter tagged on the heels of his bid.

She’s quiet and obedient, the priest countered.

I’ll trade a half-mutant male and a sack of turnips, a large man with a huge gray beard called. Number sixty in line and well-used to mucking out stables.

Why get rid of a worker for an untried female? The thin-faced man caused another ripple of laughter.

Because I’m sick of looking at him, and I’ve a mind to increase my stock in female slaves.

Silence fell like a blanket of snow in spring, killing the shoots of promise. Number sixty joined her in the arena, a tall boy of maybe fifteen summers, with dark hair and violet eyes that shot daggers.

Something about the way he stood with his feet apart and his broad shoulders squared sent shafts of fear and recognition through Morgan; so familiar looking, and yet she couldn’t name him. He was too young to be from the before time; maybe one of his kin? But she couldn’t remember being free.

The boy’s black brows drew together. What are you staring at, bitch?

The hissed comment shocked her. Malevolence wound through him like poison.

Any other bids?

No one raised a hand. The priest beckoned to the owners. King Daved of High fort will take ownership of the boy and a sack of turnips in exchange for the girl to King Sigurd of Grimes fort. More laughter rippled through the throng.

Morgan exchanged one last look with the boy before guards led both of them away in opposite directions. She knelt in front of her new master, her eyes fixed on the legs of his chair, awaiting his commands, hoping he didn’t intend to breed a slave race. The thought sent waves of revulsion through her.

My King, she looks a bad bargain for a lad who worked hard, commented a warrior with fair hair turning to gray.

Quiet, Thor. The ruler beckoned, and two soldiers came forward holding a red-faced youth with long blond hair. Your opinions are better directed to your own concerns.

The boy, who looked about sixteen summers, knelt at her side. Thor took half a pace forward, his face pale and a family resemblance clear.

The king held up a warning hand. I don’t want to learn that the son of a member of my party has been caught stealing.

I didn’t, the boy said, his chin jutting out in defiance.

My son isn’t a thief. Thor moved around to stand behind the youth.

Your son wasn’t quick enough to trade away his prize. A shifting in the luxuriant beard warned of the king’s displeasure. I want him on the road to Grimes fort by first light before his accusers demand an open court. Since he is your responsibility, you will ride escort, and you can take this slave with you. I don’t imagine High fort will take too long to find out why we traded Mordred. I’d like my new slave well gone before they start to claim foul play.

But . . .

No arguments. Take two mounts and a pack animal with some of our other bartered goods. Make sure you put a goodly distance between you and High fort before anyone finds out these two are gone.

Come on, Tristan. Thor attached shackles to Morgan’s wrists. You heard our orders.

Morgan trailed behind the pair on the end of her chain, feeling small. Neither of her traveling companions spoke as they passed through torch-lit avenues. A quiet voice, deep inside her, whispered of injustice and false witness. Once past the palisade gate and heading to the flickering torchlight of the Grimes’ temporary compound the argument started.

I didn’t steal, Tristan said, turning to his father, his eyes narrowed.

Who accused you?

A priest, but I didn’t take the knife. I don’t know how it came to be in my pack.

Damn it, boy. Don’t you realize King Sigurd can make you a slave?

I didn’t take it.

A priest says you did. Do you think I’m stupid? Thor’s fists balled until the knuckles whitened. You haven’t a case to argue.

The boy’s shoulders slumped, but his chin stayed jutted in defiance. Morgan felt sorry for him.

Priests lie. The words left her mouth before she had considered the consequences. Both of them turned to stare at her.

See? She knows. Tristan looked at his father.

Thor reeled in the chain to bring her closer. Did I ask an opinion from a slave?

Father, listen to her. Perhaps she is a slave unfairly accused of sin.

Tristan, she’s judged. Every slave will tell the same story. Thor yanked down on the chain to bring Morgan to her knees. Speak the truth, for I’ll surely find an answer with the help of the Grimes’ priest. What was your sin?

Morgan gave him the truth as she remembered the event. I was with an old woman who hurt me. Soldiers came and killed her. I tried to run away, but they caught me and made me a slave.

What were you doing with this person that made soldiers kill her? Thor forced her to look him in the eyes

She didn’t flinch. At six summers old, I don’t remember.

An injustice, right there, Tristan objected.

Thor’s face developed hard lines. Girl, your own case doesn’t give you the right to call priests liars.

Ten years of watching others caught in the same trap does. Morgan stood her ground. Most of those judged guilty were at fault, but some of the judgments were what those in high positions wanted. People became slaves for no better reason than they angered someone important. I saw a man accused of murder and him working with horses when the killing happened.

Why didn’t you speak out? Tristan grabbed her arm, his pale eyes boring into hers.

Because the voice of a slave is a hissing in the wind.

Maybe we have a hope of arguing the charges once we get to Grimes. Thor relaxed his grip on her chains and started forward once more.

The camp of circled wagons and tents loomed ahead. Sentries snapped a salute at Thor, allowing them to proceed. Marched to the inevitable slave wagon in the center of the compound, Morgan started to step up until Thor’s hand pulled her under the light of a torch. He brushed her hair from her neck.

I thought you had cut yourself to escape men’s attention, but these scars are from deep wounds. He slapped her hands away. You’re a suicide attempt. Stars, what have we traded for?

I didn’t cut myself. The old woman hurt me. She knew the puckered mess had purple lumps from severed veins. A polished cup or a still pool showed enough to keep her away from a looking-glass. She took the scarf she normally wore from her pocket and wound it to hide the mess.

A nice excuse. You’ll be staying with us this night.

*

Sore from sleeping on the ground in a drafty tent, Morgan trailed through a thick dawn mist behind Tristan to the corral where Thor had two bay geldings saddled and a gray mare loaded with equipment. The mare snorted, sidestepping with her ears flattened.

Damn it; we’re going to miss Mordred. Thor danced out of range from an ill-tempered kick. He had a way with animals.

You’ve got a part of the pack sticking into her. Morgan stepped into the pen with Tristan now dragging at the end of her chain. The mare’s distress echoed in her mind. She placed a hand on the quivering shoulder before Thor could stop her.

Here. See? She pointed to the handle of a cooking pan that had protruded from a gap in the canvas.

Step back, very slowly. He edged nearer the mare.

She won’t hurt me. She wants the pain gone. The gray nuzzled her.

Thor shifted the load and re-secured the handle so that it couldn’t emerge again. He grabbed Morgan’s arm tight to march her out to the pen.

Don’t disobey me again. A tic at the corner of his mouth started. I don’t like punishing girls, so I’ll not whip you, but challenge me again, and I’ll turn you over my knee for the paddling of your life.

Morgan lowered her eyes, not wanting to goad an angry man.

Tristan, if I charge you to hold slave-stock secure, and I find she’s out of your control again, you’ll be next over my knee.

The lad colored, looking down. A snicker sounded from a passing Bronze Band worker carrying a stack of wood for the morning cook fires.

Birdsong started as Thor finished with the harnesses. Tristan held Morgan on a short rein, his face mutinous. When Thor mounted, Tristan walked her to his father with a crushing grip on the arm Thor had already bruised.

Boost her up in front of me. Thor held out a hand to Morgan. Since she isn’t scared of horses, we’ll try for speed.

Manhandled and now sitting sideways at a height from the ground, Morgan clutched at the hard arm around her waist.

Swing your leg over to ride astride. You’ll get fewer bruises, Thor advised.

Morgan obeyed, aware too late that her straight shift dress rode up.

Nice legs, Tristan remarked.

Keep your thoughts out of your groin. Sire a child on her and you’ll get another slave.

That’s not fair. Tristan vaulted onto the back of the other bay. A child isn’t responsible for a parent’s sin.

I don’t make the rules. I just try to live by them. Thor spurred his mount to a steady walk. Don’t create a painful problem to blight your life.

Embarrassed and humiliated, Morgan wished she had been born an animal. At least horses got care and good treatment. A bird was better, though. To fly free made up for the short life.

They rode out into a swirling gray morning mist. Once Thor discovered she had a sound seat, he picked up the pace over the rolling moorland.

There is a river up ahead, Thor called back to Tristan. We’ll get there by mid-morning and stop for water.

Morgan began to enjoy the sensations of riding. She’d always wondered what it felt like, and now she knew. Fresh morning scents of wet grass and pollen thrilled her senses compared to the stuffy confines of a slave wagon she had the misfortune to clean out on occasion for High fort. The sun rose higher with each passing league. A river glinted in the distance with aspen and willow curved over sunlit water. Morgan ached for the water, but a dark spot in the sky caught her attention. The circle grew larger, shearing the gray fog of her memories. Danger, but she couldn’t put a face to her terror.

There is a thing in the sky. Words slithered through rigid lips.

Thor looked up and around with his hand shading his eyes. No saurian in sight. I can’t even see a bird or a cloud.

They stopped to water the horses. Copying the men, Morgan washed the trail dust from her face. Every instinct warned her to run, but Thor had her chain wound around his fist. He handed the length to Tristan.

Take the girl with you for the next stretch, Thor ordered. She’s a natural rider, so we can spare the horses.

Hoisted up in front of Tristan, her fear swelled. The object quartered above the ground near to them. Do you see that black disk? She pointed at the thing.

Hush up with your tales. You’ve caused me enough grief.

The disk grew as it approached and held position directly ahead of them. A green light lanced down to form a circle. Thor headed for the light.

No! Turn aside! She kicked back at Tristan’s feet, dislodging him from the stirrups. Thor rode into the beam. The bay gelding screamed, held immobile while a platform of light solidified beneath its hooves, and then it floated up, twisting in turbulence. Gobbets of flesh ripped from the pair, flying off horse and rider until all that remained was a tunnel of blood and gore ascending. Morgan threw herself to one side, unseating both of them to tumble down a steep ravine. Tristan’s roar of loss choked off in that painful descent.

Winded, she came to rest against a boulder. Tristan rolled a few lengths beyond her, but she was up and running, snatching her chain away, clawing at him to get up.

My father . . . he vanished in a cloud of blood.

Share his fate, or come with me. The green light moved closer. Morgan didn’t have time to care for him or question how much he had seen of the death when he hadn’t seen the disk. She ran for water, safe water. Pounding steps behind her told of his decision. They needed to hide their body heat, but she didn’t know why. She plunged into the wetness seconds before his entry. Up to their necks, she looked around for cover. On a collapsed bank river reeds grew thickly. She pointed. The reeds are hollow. Cut two so we can breathe underwater.

In white-faced shock, he did as she commanded, handing them to her. She held them steady. Cut the tops off. Take one and duck under the surface.

Underwater, Morgan held him down for an age. She waited the time a person could take to drown several times over before she relaxed her grip on his shoulder. They emerged to a clear sky.

Harvesters. Tristan’s face had a gray tone of horror. He just disappeared.

Your father didn’t sin. She needed him to listen. A rare memory slotted into place. They are not gods. They are the enemy.

He climbed the bank in silence, trembling to curl into a ball of misery, bereft of his father, his faith, and his world.

Nicely done, little girl, a male voice said.

A pair of violet eyes locked onto hers from the cover of underbrush. The man emerged, a tall figure with a hint of flames in his dark, shoulder-length hair. His hand, coming up in a salute, bore the Black Band of an Outcast.

Chapter 2

Heart racing, Morgan hovered on the brink of flight. Forts hired Outcasts to track down runaways, but he couldn’t have followed them, and she wasn’t a runaway when they departed. What did he want? And what had he witnessed?

She took a deep breath. You saw what the sky thing did?

Brethren see through rock, don’t you know?

Harsh sobbing erupted from Tristan, now lying on the bank, lost in his personal grief and terror.

Why didn’t you help us? Not trusting his motives, she edged into deeper water, ready to dive. Soft river weeds under her feet tempted her to enter their kingdom. On land, she’d never stand a chance of evading the Outcast, but in water, she swam better than any other she knew, despite not getting many opportunities.

Wasn’t in time. He shrugged and moved away from the concealing bushes. His broad shoulders and slim hips betrayed him as a seasoned warrior. My fey sense tells me one of you is important. Tis’ enough to take both.

Morgan didn’t stir. Some Outcasts could see through the gray veil of time into the future; it was said. Was he one of those, or did he expect a reward for turning them in at High fort? One kick into deep water would carry her beyond the reach of even a strong swimmer, given the force of the current.

The Outcast knelt by Tristan. Sorry lad, this is going to hurt but what I do will put you under our mantle of protection. He flattened the grief-stricken boy, and a scream of pain sounded. Now you’re mine. Stop blubbing and give me your wrist. An unequal struggle followed, ending with the Outcast straddling Tristan with his knee on the boy’s left arm. He attached a thin disk to Tristan’s silver band: it clicked open, sparking. Impossible as the bands never came off. One moment later, a new band was in its place, supplied by the Outcast and as black as the one he wore. Tristan now also sported an intricate earring from one bloody ear.

You’re safe now. No one tracks Brethren. He looked over at Morgan. Come with me, or don’t. I won’t wait.

The Outcast hauled Tristan upright and headed into a wooded glade leading downhill. Morgan sloshed out of the water to follow, unsure of him but needing the safety he might offer. The sky circle with a death light terrified her. She didn’t want to be around if it returned.

At the bottom of an incline, a cave mouth yawned. The gray mare stood in a torch-lit cave surrounded by three more Outcasts busy unloading her.

Good catch, Bors, a dark-haired Brethren announced, viewing the new arrivals.

"Not a perfect snatch. The boy lost someone important. Wolf and Anton, do you want to get him gloriously drunk?

A dark-haired Outcast and his shorter companion led Tristan deeper into the caverns.

Did we lose the prize? a blond Brethren asked.

No Flax. I have her, right here. He grabbed Morgan’s upper arm, hauling her into their sight.

Panicked, she drew on her other talents to send a compelling urge to the men of a need to pass water.

Would you like to remove that suggestion from my mind or would you prefer to scrub the ground after I’ve pissed on it? Bors’ mouth stretched into a lazy smile failing to reach his eyes.

She’s not a sister. The blond man left off unloading the gray mare to move closer.

No, she isn’t. I think we need to find out what she is. Bors whirled Morgan around to face him, trapping both her arms behind her back. Easy, girl. Don’t fight us unless you have a death wish. One more attempt at turning our minds will earn you a swift ending.

Trembling in his hands, Morgan kept her mind in check. Shock that they had guessed her method of defense held her frozen. Her conception of Outcasts being potential saviors abruptly revised. Her knee-jerk reaction, aimed at his groin, deflected against his hard thigh.

Bors turned his hip toward her to prevent another attempt. "Now