Slave Brand | Prologue

            The throne room was stained red with blood. King Hulrich Tevarian stood firm, studying the seven corpses that lay at his feet, two of which were his own royal guards. His composure was strong and determined, his stomach a pit of despair. From above in their balconies, the hounds of the court watched the scene in gawked silence. Shocked at the sudden and abrupt display of violence they had just witnessed, not one said a word. Five would-be assassins had strolled in, bowed to the King, and then simply drawn their weapons. On the first day of each month, citizens were allowed to approach the throne and beg a small mercy of him. The act was generally frowned upon and seldom used, but it was a technicality that had never been disallowed. As soon as the five drew their short swords, the royal guardsmen of the room had sprung into a defensive formation. The five had fought well, they were well-trained killers, but none had pierced the formation and made it to their target. King Hulrich himself was a tall, black wolf with broad shoulders and a strong face. He stood with his back straight, jaw firm and two guards at his side, glaring his seething hatred at the assassin’s mangled corpses.

            “Why?” He muttered, low enough that none save his two closest guards could hear. The two wolves were loyal and obedient, they offered no comment. The King’s head snapped up as the throne room doors suddenly crashed inwards, four royal guards, including the Captain of the regiment Erikas Menson, marching in with their weapons drawn, a chained prisoner being led between them. They halted just before the bodies, one of the guards driving the butt of his spear into the back of the prisoner’s legs, sending him crashing to the floor. Three of the guards remained at attention as Captain Erikas walked carefully over the bodies to his King, expression fierce. The King looked past the Captain, trying to make out who exactly the prisoner was. It was a red Timberwolf, but there were many of those in the palace, and the city of Aleya itself. The figure hung his head forwards, obscuring his identity and frustrating both Hulrich and the staring court.

            “Your Majesty, are you wounded?” The Captain asked, bowing quickly before standing up straight, his spear held steadfast and at the ready.

            “I am fine, Captain.” The King replied sternly. “I’m more concerned over how this has been allowed to happen. Blood spilled so callously on my floors, two dead guards…this is wrong.” He said, a low growl in his throat accompanying the words. The court had all eyes looking down on the prisoner, every member trying to guess whom it could be. “Tell me that mongrel on his knees is the one responsible?” The King added, pointing at the kneeling wolf. Captain Erikas nodded slightly, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat.

            “High Lord Aldrich Varden, former Prince of War, arrested for High Treason.” He announced dramatically, causing a gasp to rise out of the court. They instantly began the chatter, bickering back and forth about why one of the King’s most trusted advisors could want him dead. Hulrich’s formidable stature cracked for a moment, his face falling with surprise. He quickly regained his composure however, and while most were too distracted by the excitement to catch the lapse of character, the Captain saw how much the revelation had hit him. Aldrich had fought tooth and claw alongside the King eighteen years ago, and there were few in the Empire that Hulrich considered a better friend.

            “Erikas.” The King said in a low voice, quiet enough so that only the Captain could hear his words. He dropped the title of Captain, now speaking from wolf to fox. “You’d better have solid evidence of this.” He muttered. Erikas merely nodded.

            “Hulrich!” Aldrich cried, clambering to his feet. The King’s steely gaze left Erikas and looked to his old friend. “It…it is lies, whatever he says. Surely you must believe me!” He added, his voice shaking. The King gave no response, looking back to his Captain.

            “Explain.” He said.

            “Well Sir, as the betrayers were entering your throne room, I was called by messenger to Lord Aldrich’s quarters. It was there that he stated the King would be dead inside the hour, and that my allegiance was now to him. I reaffirmed my oath to you, before two more of his assassins attacked me. I fought them off, before calling for my men and arresting the Lord. I sent another squad to the throne room to protect you, but the fighting was already done. They were too late, I am sorry.” He bowed his head reverently, and Hulrich caught shame in his eyes. Aldrich himself was too far away to hear exactly what Erikas was saying, but he could guess.

            “My King! They are lies, Erikas assaulted me. These men are his; he is trying to destroy me!” He cried, desperation in his voice. One of the royal guards swung the butt of his spear into the Timberwolf’s stomach, sending him crashing down with a grunt of pain. Hulrich turned his attention back to the Captain.

            “And…you were the only one in the room at the time?” He asked plainly. Erikas nodded.

            “Yes sir, but one of the assassins still lives. I am certain we could wretch the truth from him, given some time.” He replied. The King said nothing, stepping forwards and walking over to the kneeling Lord. He loomed over the wolf, who looked up fearfully and met his gaze.

            “Why?” The King growled.

            “It is a filthy—“

            “Why?” The King repeated more forcefully. The wolf stared, and Hulrich said nothing more. He had already made up his mind. He saw the briefest of tears well up in the Lord’s eyes, the figure shaking a little. He knew, he understood.

            “Hulrich.” He said meekly, his voice enough so that only the King and his nearest guards could hear. “You are my dearest friend, but the Empire…it must come first. I fear…” He swallowed. “I fear you have grown weak. We control only half a city, the Akkedisians grow stronger with each passing month. Our peace simply cannot last forever. The Empire cannot wither and die like this; I could not allow it to crumble into memory. I did what I knew to be right. I will not apologise for that.” He said, gritting his jaw and looking away. The King closed his eyes, breathing in, then out. He turned to a servant.

            “Bring me my sword.” He whispered evenly, the servant nodding and running off to fetch the monarch’s greatsword. Aldrich’s eyes grew wide.

            “You’re going to kill me here?” He demanded incredulously. “Like this? On my knees like a common mongrel? Do you have no honour anymore?” He spat, his fear replaced with anger. The royal guards adjusted themselves, tightening their grip on the spears, eyes keenly watching the wolf’s every move.

            “You deserve no more than that. You have betrayed your King and your Empire. I am committed to peace, Aldrich and I will not lead my people into bloodshed again. You act like a rabid beast, and I will put you down as such.” He said firmly, turning as a servant brought back the massive sword. He drew it from the scabbard with two paws, the shining metal reflecting off the room around him. Hefting the sword, Hulrich was reminded of the days when it fought alongside Aldrich, not against him.

            “Not in front of my son.” Aldrich muttered, his gaze going to where Alistair stood on the balcony, watching in horror. “Please Hulrich, the boy had no knowledge of my actions. He should not see me like this.” He said, looking back to the King. Hulrich paused, considering his words. He sighed, looking over to Erikas.

            “Captain, have your men take the Varden boy into custody.” He said softly, prompting a quick nod from the fox, who spun on his heel and strode out of the room purposefully.

            “Hulrich, I didn’t mean…you must believe me, Alistair had no idea! I couldn’t involve him in this. He is innocent damn you!” Aldrich growled, his jaw trembling again as he teetered on the borderline of desolation and rage.

            “The pup’s fate remains to be seen. You have disgraced the reputation and honour of your entire house Aldrich. Actions must have consequences, the court will understand that. I shall do my best to treat him justly, but you forfeited all rights of authority the moment you decided to turn against me.” Hulrich replied, nodding to the royal guards nearest the wolf. They stepped in and grasped him firmly by the shoulders, holding him upright, kneeling in front of the King.

            “Do not kill my son.” Aldrich begged, but Hulrich ignored him. He closed his eyes, thinking for a moment, before raising the sword. Aldrich shut his mouth, and all was quiet.

The King opened his eyes.

            “Lord Aldrich Varden, Prince of War. You are convicted of Treason in the highest regard. You are stripped of all titles, and condemned as an enemy in the eyes of the crown. I hereby sentence you to death.” Hulrich paused, before adding in a softer voice. “Damn you Aldrich. Allgod damn you.”

Then he brought down his blade.

            “His very being alive is a mar on the Empire’s strength of will.” Captain Erikas exclaimed, slamming his paw down on the advisor’s meeting table. It this room that the leaders of the Tevarian Empire would make decisions that affected the kingdom. None of the attendees made comment on the empty seat, left vacant by Aldrich’s betrayal. “He must be executed, I see no other way forwards.” Erikas added, leaning back in his seat and exhaling.

            “He is practically still a pup, hardly grown.” The King said, his brow furrowed and his shoulders heavy. He was feeling the responsibilities of his rule, and was still unsure how best to proceed. It had been only a day since Aldrich’s public execution, and the court was still chaotic and messy.

            “He is old enough.” Erikas argued. “Do not let your friendship with our former Prince of War cloud your judgement sire.”

            “May I interject here?” A timid, older voice said softly. Hulrich and Erikas looked down the table at the one who had spoken, an aging artic fox adorned in expensive clothing. Sanrivagh Leidal was Aleya’s head of merchantry, and a financial advisor to the crown. Hulrich nodded gently.

            “You may, Lord Leidal, I am…open to hearing suggestions.” He said, desperately hoping the fox had some other idea. He did not want to have to execute the young Timberwolf; twenty one seemed too few years to be labelled a traitor. It just felt wrong. Yet something had to be done.

            “I was good friends with the Varden house for many years.” He began. “I am shocked to hear of Aldrich’s crime, I thought him a better wolf than that. I know Alistair very well, and I knew his mother too before her passing. If you’ll allow some speculation…from what I know of the house, I do not believe that Alistair would have any knowledge of the treason.” He explained, speaking carefully and methodically. He paused at every few words, picking out the best one to use next. Sanrivagh was known for saying that negotiation was more about how one said something, not what they said.

            “I am sorry.” Erikas said abruptly, looking to the fox. “That is all very well, but none of us predicted that Aldrich would commit such a terrible atrocity. What is it you say that gives the impression the pup is innocent?” He asked firmly, his eyes boring intensely towards the older canine. Sanrivagh was used to that kind of intimidating gaze however, and shrugged it off.

            “Lord…Excuse me. Aldrich…was not fond of sharing his court actions within the family. Both Alistair and his mother confided in me at separate points that it was a constant point of frustration for them. He spoke of nothing, keeping it all beneath the fur. He was…also known to plan for contingencies, and should his plan go awry, Aldrich would not have wanted Alistair to be punished for his crimes.” He said. “He was a traitor, but still he loved his son.”

            “It matters not!” Erikas exclaimed loudly, slamming his paw down again. “There must be consequences to such an act! This is not some…minor infraction Lord Leidal; this is an attempt on the King’s life by his very own Prince of War. A message must be sent.” The fox snapped, spittle flying from his mouth as he barked the words out. Hulrich raised an open paw.

            “Please, calm yourself Captain.” He said softly, prompting a smouldering glance from the fox, before he quickly recomposed himself, smoothing down the ruffled fur at his neck. “Sanrivagh, I am…against my Captain’s judgement, inclined to believe what you say. I too knew Aldrich for many years, and I am sure enough that the boy had no knowledge of the crime.” He explained, earning another heated look from Erikas.

            “I am glad to hear it, Your Majesty.” Sanrivagh said with a slight bow, but the King stopped him from continuing.

            “Nonetheless. Captain Erikas is not completely in the wrong. A message must be sent, this cannot be overlooked. Aldrich’s actions, if successful, would have destabilised the entire Empire and led to war between us and the Akkedis Imperium. There must a penance.”

            “Perhaps Alistair could make a formal declaration, denouncing his father and the crimes?” Sanrivagh suggested, raising an eyebrow. Erikas scoffed at that.

            “My Lord, you are going soft. I thought you better at the court’s games than this. A formal apology? Surely you cannot be serious? Nothing would look less feeble and foolish in our enemies’ eyes, in fact, it may even be worse than doing nothing.” He said, laughing dismissively.

            “What of exile?” The King suggested, glancing between the two foxes. Sanrivagh sighed, shaking his head.

            “I’m afraid that would not do either, Your Majesty. We would be forced to banish him to the Akkedisian realm, and a young, naïve hound of royalty? Even former royalty, out there? He would be slaughtered within a week. We may as well execute him ourselves; it would be viewed as a cowardly way to avoid killing him.”

            “Damn this, and damn you Aldrich for forcing this upon me.” The King murmured, looking away from them all. The room went silent, each member thinking. The other two advisors had little connection to the current scenario, and so they withheld opinions, although they of course had them.

            “He must die.” The Captain said again, softly. “I know you do not wish it sire, but I see no other course of action before us.”

            “He is too young Erikas. I…I cannot condemn him to death, especially if I believe him innocent. My conscience will not allow it.” The King replied, shaking his head. He wracked his brains, pondering over every possible idea. Suddenly, the old arctic fox sat forwards again, clearing his throat to speak. Hulrich looked up hopefully.

            “I…have a possibility, sire.” He said, cautiously, still deciding on the minutia of his plan.

            “I’ll hear it, Lord Leidal. Speak freely, please.” The King granted, nodding.

            “I have…an association, with Walter Randor. He is a jackal of the city, a Slave Master. We’ve done business before, he and I. I am sure he could find some form of penance for the Varden boy to pay.” Sanrivagh explained carefully, trying to judge the King’s reactions as he spoke.

            “Slavery?” Erikas muttered. “Why not just leave him in the dungeons? Is that not an option we have considered?” He said. Sanrivagh shook his head.

            “The boy would surely perish in there, the darkness, the solitary…it would strangle him. A fate worse than death perhaps.” He said. Erikas rolled his eyes.   

            “And slavery is different to that how?” The King asked, looking up. “A slave’s is not a life to be coveted; they work hard and live poorly. I am not convinced, Sanrivagh.” He said.

            “Sire, with all respect, I am becoming even surer it is the only option. At least as a slave, the Varden pup would be exposed to the sky and air, he could work his houses debt away. He would grow stronger, not weaker. Then, when talk of Aldrich’s betrayal has died down amongst the court, the crown could purchase him back as a freed hound. He would have paid penance, and could perhaps even marry a lowborn wolf of the court. He is currently entrusted to Laris Yurintha, to be wed when she is of age, but that must obviously be called off.” The fox finished, letting out a breath of air. Captain Erikas scoffed again, but the King took a musing look to his face and leaned back in his chair. Erikas looked to him, astounded.

            “Your Majesty, surely you aren’t considering this as an option? It would be seen as ridiculous.” He stated.

            “Walter can use discretion. No one need know where the boy goes to. He would not be recognised as a slave.” Sanrivagh added. The King sighed deeply, he was tired of all this.

            “What else would you have me do Captain?” He asked the fox.

            “Execute him sire.” He paused, reading the displeased look on the King’s face. “But…failing that…I…do not know.” He admitted, looking away. The table grew quiet again, each of the furs thinking private thoughts.

            “It is not by any means, an ideal choice.” The King said gravely. “But we do not live in an ideal world. I believe that this is the only choice my conscience will allow me. I will pray to the Allgod for mercy and guidance on my choices.” Hulrich stood up from his seat, looking over to the old merchant fox, now speaking directly to him. “Sanrivagh, I will entrust the boy’s fate to you. We shall revisit this issue in a year’s time, and decide then what must be done next.” Sanrivagh bowed his head.

            “Thank you, Your Majesty.” He said simply.

            “You are all dismissed.” King Hulrich said with an air of finality, before turning and walking out of the room.

Chapter One: What You Deserve

            The whip cracked in the air, a high and young scream following it. None of the passing furs on the docks paid it any mind; after all, it was just a Slave Lord teaching his property a lesson. The boy on the ground was maybe seventeen years old, a mutt of some kind, and a relatively new addition to the group. Garrett hadn’t yet learned his name and he didn’t plan to, he’d already guessed the mutt wouldn’t last long with them. Turin would work him to death and then some. Turin was the Slave Lord wielding the whip, and he ran the group of slaves that Randor assigned to Victory’s Port. Garrett looked over briefly to the grey and brown mutt, writhing on the ground, bleeding from his back where the whip had struck him and whimpering. Don’t cry so much, it’ll only make him hit harder next time. Garrett thought, looking away from the violence. The boy had dropped a large crate, spilling supplies onto the street and causing a mess. Garrett knew that had the mistake been more private, the punishment would be less severe. More than anything, Turin hated to be shamed.

            “Disgraceful! Allgod damn you mongrel, I will not tolerate such carelessness!” Turin cried, cracking the whip again and causing the boy to scream out a second time. “Stop. Crying!” The jackal barked, snapping his cruel weapon a third time, to the tune of another piercing scream. Garrett shook his head, picking up the heavy crate in front of him and balancing it on his shoulders. He grunted under the weight, the muscles in his arms burning from the work. Averting his eyes, he carefully walked past the punishment, ignoring the pup’s sobbing and setting the crate into the wagon he’d been commanded to. He made space as several other slaves did the same, some crates taking two furs to lift. Garrett wore only fabric trousers, his feet bare, long ago calloused against the stone of the dock. They still hurt after a day’s work, but not nearly as they had all those years ago. Like all the other slaves, he was also shirtless, easily exposing the old Slave Brand on his back, scarred over but still visible.

            “I’m sorry!” The boy cried, cowering behind two soft paws. There’d been talk, and Garrett knew the mutt had been caught stealing food. Rather than turn him into the authorities, the hound that owned the shop had sold him to Slave Master Randor, who in turn assigned him to Turin’s group. A disgustingly selfish and illegal act, although of course none enforced it. Slaves did different work each week, but it was usually some form of menial, repetitive task. Pushing something here, pulling something there. Garrett had long gotten used to it. Rolling his sore, aching shoulders, the tall Akita walked past the punishment again, hefting another crate up on his shoulders.

            “Should we do something? Turin’s really laying into him.” An old bear murmured to Garrett, picking up his own crate. The Akita shook his head.

            “No, leave him. The boy is young, he’s better off dead anyway. With any luck Turin will go too far again.” Garrett muttered, turning from the bear and slowly walking over to the wagon they were stacking. His paws were hard and calloused like his feet, but the awkward way he carried the crate was a strain on his neck. He groaned as he placed the crate back down, sighing and heading back for yet another. As he went, he shook his head as he spied the bear approaching the Slave Lord.

            “Master…” He said timidly, eyes cast downwards. Turin spun on his heel; eyes alight with rage at the intrusion. He was sucking air in and blowing it out, furious.

            “What?” He snarled, his paws shaking as his eyes stared down the old fur. The mutt on the ground just kept whimpering, curled up in a ball on the ground, the fur on his back stained red and the flesh beneath it glowing from the shock.

            “Well, it’s just that…uh, well he’s only…only a pup really, only new. I don’t think he meant any harm…maybe just…could you…ah….do you think he’s…had enough?” He asked, eyes staring down at his feet, his voice meek and quiet. Garrett knew why he was doing this; the bear had a boy who would be about the same age now, one he hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Idiot. He thought, picking up another crate.

            “Oh?” Turin said, his face calming as his breathing returned to normal. A nasty smile crossed his muzzle. “You think I’m too hard on him?” He asked, stepping closer to the bear, whip still tightly gripped in his right paw. The bear was now visibly shaking, terrified.

            “Well, m-maybe not…I just thought…maybe…” He stammered, before stopping as Turin spoke.

            “I’ll tell you what, bear.” Turin spat out the word bear with disdain. The Tevarian Empire was a canine hierocracy, and ursine (And others) of the city were generally looked down upon. “I’ll stop punishing this one…in exchange for one on your hide. Otherwise, he gets two more.” Turin explained, his stained teeth flashing. His slaves were always the best in the city, but he was known for his harsh punishments and downright cruelty. Turin liked to play games. The bear seemed to think for a moment, looking up and glancing at Garrett, who quickly looked away, hurrying to the wagon. He had his own scars from beatings to carry, although it had been some time since he last made a mistake.

            “Well slave?” Turin asked loudly, causing the bear to flinch. He fidgeted for a moment, unsure. Then without a word, he stepped away, turning and going back to his crate, head hung low. The jackal scoffed. “That’s what I thought, filthy creature.” And then he whipped the boy again twice more.

            When the group was finished for the day, they all hurt. Garrett’s mouth was dry from the heat of the docks, and all his muscles ached and throbbed. He was doing his best to move as little as possible, keeping his arms still as the group marched back to their slave hall. Along with the brand on each of their backs, every slave had two heavy iron bands locked around their wrists. Normally they just hung there, a constant weight to remind them what they were; property. If a slave was particularly clumsy or rebellious however, the manacles could be used for all kinds of punishment. They could be dragged through the streets, hung up for a time, or just locked away somewhere. They left old marks around the seasoned slave’s wrists, and were only allowed off twice per year, when they were permitted to bathe themselves under strict supervision. Garrett stared at one of his now, the paw it was attached to clutching a small bowl of stew. The food wasn’t completely cold, and his stomach craved it. He’d eaten roughly half so far, and had paused to think for a minute. Thinking could make the food last longer, an old trick to extend the sensation of having food.

The bear who had tried to help the mutt sat in the corner of the hall, quietly eating his own stew. His name was Resh, and he hadn’t spoken since the event. He was ashamed, but the Akita didn’t blame him. A slave’s life was pain; it was pure foolishness to willingly bring more upon yourself. Garrett watched one of Turin’s men, a Slave Guard, sitting in the corner eating his own food. A heavy baton sat next to his seat, and he paid his attention mostly to his own bowl, which of course had been filled much fuller than the slaves’. He had instructions to watch them, but really only got involved if they were too rowdy. He’d also been told not to let the young new mutt eat, and would beat any who tried to feed him. Not that anyone would. Garrett took another small sip of his stew, reaching up to massage his neck. Everything hurt and he had to fight to keep his eyes open. He couldn’t wait for Eighth day, when they’d be allowed to finish work at noon instead of just before dusk. Each week, the slaves spent seven days toiling hard, waiting for the one where they only had half a day’s work. Most then spent it sleeping; there wasn’t much else to do in the downtime. While it was true that not all days were work, as most weeks had two or three days when the group wasn’t needed, the possibility of work was always looming. Slaves craved a safe routine; sometimes it was the only way to stay sane. You held onto Eighth Day, it was one of the rules.

            The guard in the corner stood up, stretching his arms and looking over the submissive furs of the room. He hefted his baton and began to walk through the mats. The slave hall was owned by Walter Randor, and was part of a larger encampment. Each ‘hall’ was little more than a barracks; each slave assigned a sleeping mat, where they also ate. The guard wandered past all the furs, going down to the exit and casually peering out. He obviously saw no sign of Turin, because he stepped outside and locked the door. Garrett knew he would, he always had a quick smoke when on duty. After all, where would any of them go? He could spare five minutes to get some air. Moving slowly, Garrett climbed to his feet, sighing as he heard his joints popping in protest. He wandered over on achy legs, sinking to a crouch next to the new mutt. He was some kind of wild dog, too lowborn to even have a kin name. He lay on his back, tearful eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, the fur around each wet. Garrett noticed that his mat beneath him was stained with rusty blood that had seeped from the wounds.

            “Hey.” He said in a hushed voice, nudging the mutt, who quickly looked over to the Akita’s face. “Sit up and eat this.” He added, glancing back to make certain the guard hadn’t returned.

            “I…I’m not allowed.” The mutt said, sitting up slowly, pain written across his face.

            “You have to eat something, or tomorrow will be worse. Quickly now.” Garrett said in a more forceful tone, raising the bowl to the mutt’s lips. The pup looked at him with wide eyes, distrustful after today.

            “Is it a trick?” He asked pathetically, eyes wet again. Garrett shook his head.

            “Eat.” He said, and the boy did. He wolfed the food down hungrily, licking out the bowl like everyone else and savouring the brief nourishment. Garrett watched with slight bemusement. “I’m sorry there wasn’t more, I needed some too.” He added.

            “That’s alright. Thank you.” The boy said, passing the bowl back into Garrett’s waiting paw.

            “And don’t blame Resh, he just wanted to help. That’s more than anyone else here.” Garrett said, motioning at the bear. The mutt nodded meekly, and the Akita stood back up, walking away.

            “My name is Misha.” The boy called out softly, but Garrett ignored him, falling back down on his own mat, exhausted. The guard returned to his post, none the wiser of the disobedience. It wasn’t much, their food didn’t provide adequate sustenance when it was a full meal, but hopefully the act of kindness would help keep the boy going. A part of Garrett’s mind scolded him for denying himself more food and helping the mutt. He’ll be dead within a month anyway, so what’s the point? He asked himself, stomach growling. We’ll all be dead eventually. He countered himself. You’re not. We’ve been here a long time, so has Resh, a lot of us have. He thought back, trying to resist the urge to feel like he’d made a mistake. He’s not like us. He deserves at least a little kindness before the end. He thought, barely believing it. And you? What do you deserve?

            Garrett ignored the admonishing voice in his head, lying flat on the hard mat. It was uncomfortable, providing little comfort against the stone floor, but he’d been forced to learn to love it over the years. Garrett was twenty six years old, and he’d been a slave for twelve of them.

            He was used to this life.