Calvinus

The Kingdom of the Isles

Act 2. Rebellion

Chapter Eleven

Bran & Karl

THE FIRST thing Bran noticed when he stepped off the boat was the smell. The lower Trettien dock was built out as a series of jetties onto the inner sea, and beyond these were a row of wooden buildings, the famous tannery of House Trettien.

The whole place reeked like a sewer. The stench of human and animal faeces and urine mingled with the odour of rotting flesh, and the slaves who were wandering around smelled unwashed, the tang of sweat nuancing the malodorous air.

"You have to be kidding," Karl said, walking down the gangplank behind Bran. He might have said more but he clamped his hand over his mouth and nose as though to preserve the last vestiges of semi clean air.

Hadn't Karl ever been here before then? Bran had supposed he would have been everywhere on Trettien island, but now that he thought about it, that seemed unlikely. This island had two docks, far apart from one another. Karl would have left from the upper dock, upwind of the tannery, and the nobility lived in the estate facing the outer sea, beyond the orchards and the woodlands where bark and wood were harvested. It was evident now that Karl had never even set foot on this dock before. He was as much a stranger here as Bran was.

Except for one small detail. This was still Trettien island, and those were Trettien slaves carrying skins or hauling water or standing in what looked like wine presses, but smelled like latrines. Every slave bore the Trettien sigil tattooed in black on their chest – a scorpion biting their left nipple in the black ink of slavery.

As an indentured slave, Bran knew that he and Karl would not be receiving the tattoo, but soon enough they would both have the sigil drawn on instead, using the indelible dyes that were also used on animal skins. It would not be a tattoo, but the mark would be on his skin until the skin wore away, and after that it would be renewed and touched up until the day he left this island. If he ever left this island.

"You are never going home," that was what Karl had said. Bran had not responded, indeed he had said nothing on the whole long walk down the mountain after the auction. That had not stopped Karl's taunting, however. Although he may be indentured for the year too, and was walking the same walk of shame, and although even some miserable commoners watched them and laughed as they passed, and some kids had followed them shouting taunts and abuse, Karl had seemed to let it all wash over him, as though he were not manacled and walking naked at all.

The only time Karl had even seemed to notice the commoners was when one girl had stood right in their way as they walked the dirt path to the western dock, and with her hands on her hips she had glared at Karl.

"Out of the way, girl," the drover said from behind the boys, unfurling his whip. The threat was clear and menacing. Don't hold up the slaves, because insolent commoners can feel the bite of a whip as surely as the property can.

She stepped aside at that, but as the boys walked past her, they could all hear what she said to Karl.

"You should have joined your Kawabata friend."

Karl's pace had faltered at that moment and he had looked at her angrily, his face clouding. Bran could almost feel the heat of his anger as the boy born to high privilege fought his natural instinct to lash out at the audacity of this commoner. The urge to lash out was subjugated to the realisation that her status was now higher than his, and that she could say what she liked. Karl knew as well as anyone that if he responded it would be he who felt the whip on his back.

Somehow Karl kept his peace, although the needling of Bran had stopped then for a while at least. Bran did not recognise the girl, but he thought he would like to meet her again one day, just to congratulate her on shutting Karl Trettien up for a while.

Sadly it had not lasted, and the first confirmation that the boys were truly to be treated unequally had occurred when Karl's shackles had been removed when they had reached the western dock, but Bran's had been left firmly in place. All the while Karl had been at it again, telling Bran over and over how his house was going to use and humiliate him.

"It was all planned you know. You were always going to be auctioned to us."

That was too much for Bran, and as the boy boarded the boat he had turned on Karl angrily.

"Not if I had won," he replied.

"You were never going to win. You never had a chance."

"If you had both died on the Chain Walk, I would have won," Bran retorted.

"Wasn't going to happen."

"And what if Nino hadn't climbed it with you?"

"In that case I was supposed to push you off the cliff," Karl said, his face breaking into a gleeful smile.

"Yeah, right, and then we would have both fallen."

"Maybe, maybe not. That was why I liked the Chain Walk better. Better Nino die than me, and it means that I even saved your miserable life… for a little while.

You should be grateful to me, shit face."

"You are sick," Bran spat, his voice loud enough that he earned a cuff around the head from one of the sailors who had been loading them onto the boat at that moment.

"Enough of that, slave," he growled and Bran rubbed his head. That had been painful. Karl had just sniggered and gone quiet for a while, although still managed a few more digs on the journey across the inner sea to Trettien island.

Now they were here at the tannery, the stinking little rocky port at the tip of Trettien island, and at last Karl seemed discomforted. Not surprising, Bran thought, because the stench was worse than anything he had ever known. At last Karl had realised his own indenture might not be as comfortable as the rose scented life of luxury he had formerly enjoyed on the fresh outer shore.

Still, however bad it was for Karl, it was worse for Bran, he thought as he was led off the boat and into a small wooden building behind the tannery. Both boys were sat down on a stone bench as an elderly slave came in and began to draw the house emblem on their chests with indelible dyes. That was not unexpected, although Bran smarted for having Trettien's totem marked on his chest, even though he knew it would come off one day. It would need regular touching up over the year and traditionally it was touched up a last time just before the boy was set free, so that they had the humiliating totem just that little bit longer to remind them of their servitude.

"You are never going home," Karl had said, and Bran thought maybe there was more to the words than bluster. Karl did not know what Bran knew, but what he said had made a terrible sense to him. Aramat had abandoned him.

When it came down to it, Karl's family had been there for him, whereas Bran's? He did not see them as his family any more. Were they even related by blood? Certainly there were no other ties of kinship that seemed to bind him to them.

Why had his house allowed this to happen? Surely they knew that House Trettien would want him, and how they would treat him. They did not need to hear Karl's needling to know how the Trettiens would use him to settle old scores.

Bethan had been so stupid last year. Stupid and vengeful, and of course House Trettien would not let the death of their failed champion be unavenged, but surely that was all the more reason not to allow him to be bought by that house. That was all the more reason to avoid sending any Aramat boy there ever again.

Did anyone else know of his parents' terrible secret? Did all the house elders know? Did none of them see him as a true son of Aramat?

He thought probably they did not. Maybe they all thought he was the boy he always thought he had been, but if that were so then the only reason he could have been abandoned to House Trettien would be because they blamed him for Stijn's death.

How much did they know about the events last summer? Apparently enough to know that Stijn's death was a very convenient accident to protect the secret. If they blamed him for that death then it was no wonder they abandoned him to House Trettien. No wonder he was the repayment of a debt. But if that were so…

"You like that mark, Brannie? It really suits you, you know. I don't think you are ever going to not have that mark on you again. Just one little slip up… just one thing wrong and we might go a touch too far with the whip. No one would blame us.

What do you think of that Brannie?"

Bran looked at Karl, feeling his loathing mould his expression. If he were back on top of the cliff where they had been yesterday, Bran would have pushed him off. If only he had a second chance, he would see Karl dead. Still he did not speak though.

The fact was that Karl was right. No one would blame House Trettien if they took their revenge with his life. Technically it would be a sleight, but none worse than the one already endured by them.

Had he won the race for Aramat then Trettien would be forced to continue to bend the knee to their house, but now the houses were on an equal footing, and war was definitely a possibility. The only way to ensure that this was avoided was to allow the blood guilt to be avenged. Bran knew that he was just the expendable pawn in the calculations of the house elders. He wondered how loudly his own father had objected to the plan, and concluded probably not at all. It was his own daughter who had caused the blood guilt in the first place, and then, what was he to his father anyway?

He cursed his stupid sister and the spineless leaders of his own house. He cursed them and looked ahead to the coming year with a great deal of fear. House Trettien would certainly seek to humiliate and hurt him as much as possible, but would they kill him in vengeance?

He thought probably not. Again in the calculation of the house elders, the sacrifice was itself an olive branch, and House Trettien might seek to grasp that olive branch with both hands. They might seek to return the slave to House Aramat at the end of the year, probably marked and scarred but alive.

Probably.

One thing was for sure, though. If he gave them any good reason there would be people in House Trettien who would take his life in an instant, so he would have to play his part well.

"That looks good on you," said a man who had come in to watch the end of the marking. His mouth twisted into a smile that spoke more of malice than pleasure, and Bran felt his heart beat hard in his chest, as the man went on, "Now we just have to do your other modifications, Brannie."

Wil

Wil was pushed roughly forward down the gangplank and on to the docks of Kawabata. Of all the estates to be sold to, this was surely the worst, he thought. He knew the terrible reputation for the way the house kept slaves. However, despite the roughness with which he was being dealt with, an overseer of slaves, naked himself so also a slave, met him and gave him a small smile.

"Welcome to Kawabata. I am 892 but you may call me Welles. Your designation will be 1047."

"I am Wil," Wil replied.

"Not anymore. You will be 1047 unless your master gives you a name, and even if he does, it will not be that name."

Wil pouted and thought to himself that no one could take his name. He was Wil Lapin… except of course he was not anymore. Wil. Just Wil. But he was still Wil and not 1047, despite anything anyone said to the contrary. Something of his thoughts must have crossed into his expression, because Welles tutted and shook his head.

"Surliness will earn punishment, and if you keep that attitude you will bear the marks of many whippings. Listen to me 1047, because I am going to give you a break. You were once a noble, and that may give you some benefit. You can read and write yes?"

Wil nodded, but the overseer wanted more.

"Yes, sir¹," he replied, using the formal words a slave gives a superior. He had heard it many times but this was the first time he had ever used the words himself. The words almost stuck in his throat, but he managed to say them, and then immediately looked at his feet, feeling ashamed.

¹ Translation note: In the language of the Kingdom of the Isles, the word for sir implies lordship or mastership. It could equally be translated as 'yes, lord', but would not sound so antiquated to them. 'Yes master' would also be right, but the address can be used to anyone who is superior, even if they are not the speaker's actual master. The word used here is also only used by slaves. If a commoner wanted to show respect they would use a different word that also translate as 'sir' but would not carry the implication that they were a slave.

"Good, that is better. Now remember, I am only sir to you when there are no free people present. At other times you may say "yes Welles."

"Yes sir," Wil repeated, the words not coming any more easily.

"Now, reading and writing are a useful skill. It is very rare to have literate slaves, and even most commoners cannot string together more than a few words. I am therefore going to assign you to the clerk's office. You will be required to keep accounts, write letters and carry out any other general duties required. You can do this?"

Wil nodded and immediately received a swat around the ear. "Yes sir," he said, glowering.

"Make no mistake, 1047, this assignment is a good one. You will work hard at all times and you will be polite, obedient and courteous. Your literacy is a rare skill but not unique. If you do not do this job well, then I will find someone who can, and you will be re-assigned. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Wil replied. He knew he should say thank you, but he did not feel thankful, and had never yet said thank you to a slave in his life. He decided not to start now. The silence grew longer and then Welles huffed and pushed him towards a stone building, little more than a hovel.

"Get on with you then. The office is in there, and 872 will take you to be marked and will instruct you in your duties. I will come back at sundown to show you to your sleeping accommodation."

And with that, Wil was sent off to do his first day's work as a slave.

872 looked up at Wil and frowned as he entered the cramped wooden building that served as an office. He was a slave in his twenties, skinnier and paler than most slaves, but not old like the Lapin scribes had been whom Wil had seen wandering the lower chambers of the Lapin palace.

Wil told him what Welles had said and 872's frown deepened.

"Like I have time to be baby sitting a noob. Fuck it, are you even house trained yet?"

Wil glared back at 872. He was painfully aware of his new status, but he was not used to being spoken to that way by a slave. He put his hands on his hips and tried to stare the older slave down, but 872 held his glare.

"You are not exactly ancient yourself," Wil shot back at last, to break the growing and uncomfortable silence.

"Scribing is a young man's game. If your eyes go, then you are done for."

"My father had scribes twice your age…"

"You ain't got no father now, noob. Get used to it."

"Just because…"

"Don't start with yer stupid noob talk. Face it, you fucked up. Speaking of which, have you been fucked yet?"

Wil blushed, smarted, dropped his eyes.

"Not yet eh? Won't be long coming. Pretty boy like you. I'd do you myself here and now 'cept gotta get you marked up, eh? and then we are gonna be hellish behind. Come on, follow me."

And with that 872 led Wil out, and started calling for the tattooist who would come and needle Kawabata's hated sigil into his chest, marking him for the rest of his life as a Kawabata slave.

As he sat still, a few minutes later, wincing as the needles bit and dye was slapped onto the marks, Wil truly came face to face with the enormity of what was happening. He truly was going to be a slave forever. That mark on his chest made him a life slave, and at the same time debarred him from entering the temple or holy ground ever again. It was the totem of Kawabata, but the black ink marked in his flesh was just as clearly a visible representation of the curse of Horjock.

When it was done, 872 led him back to the office and cleared a space beside him on the cramped single table.

"Let's see how good your arithmetic is," he said, and set Wil to totalling items from an inventory list and then calculating storage areas required for them.

Wil worked from that moment until sundown, with no break to eat. Eating, he was told, was done after sundown when no reading or writing could be done. By the end of the first day, Wil had learned, in addition to the calculations he had started with, to cut his own stylus, mix his own ink and had been set to work on copying out long lists of equipment from a letter into a bound journal. The work was tedious, his hand ached by the end of it, and his eyes were sore. He was hungry and tired when he was finally shown to a draughty lean-to shelter that was home to twelve slaves, himself included. He was allowed to eat some thin maize paste like soup and then he and everyone else curled up as best they could in the cramped space to try to sleep.

Wil lay awake a long time. The accommodation was cold, cramped and noisy. Several slaves were snoring heavily, and there was a stink of unwashed bodies, sweat and urine. Wil found tears coming unbidden to his eyes as he thought about his future. A future of tedium, humiliation, discomfort and hunger.

How had this happened? How could he have been so so stupid as to take that short cut into the swamp.

Late in the night he awoke with a start. He had not realised he had fallen asleep, but he realised he must have done so, because now a burly slave was holding him, and a hand was… oh gods, there was a hand on his… and it was getting hard.

Wil wriggled and pulled away, pushing the slaves's hand off him. The man made a grab for him, and Wil rolled away, falling into two more sleeping figures who moaned and complained.

"Come on lad, it's not so bad when it's all you can get," the slave said, his voice rough but edged with amusement.

"Fuck off," Wil retorted.

"Was what I was tryin, lad. Come back and I'll fuck you off."

Wil did not reply, and the night hid the deep burning red of his face as he tucked himself in tight between the bodies of two sleeping teens.

"Suit yourself. You will get used to it sooner or later, noob," the man said, and lay down. Wil could hardly make him out in the dark, but the man's breathing became heavier in time and then he gasped and whispered, "Oh yes… oh yes," before falling silent and then, soon after beginning to snore.

Cai

Cai cried all the way to Neped, but when they reached the dock he stepped off the boat, his eyes still puffy but dry now, all the tears done.

A woman met him at the gangplank and lifted his chin with a finger so that their eyes met. Cai looked into her face.

She had big sad brown eyes, but her face was kind.

"You are Cai?" she asked, and Cai nodded and then swallowed, found his voice.

"Yes mistress," he replied, using the formal greeting a slave uses to a superior. The woman nodded, satisfied with his answer.

"You will do. Ajax will have you marked, and then you will come meet my son. You will be his personal slave. He lost a brother yesterday, and you lost a family. Perhaps you can help him with his loss."

"Yes mistress," Cai said again.

Half an hour later, with his chest stinging where his new tattoo had been applied, Cai was led in to meet Alex for the first time.

Alex looked like a younger version of Rin, and was of an age with himself. Cai saw at once he had been crying, his eyes were still red rimmed and puffy, but he pretended otherwise as he inspected his new slave.

Cai dropped his head but looked up through his eyelashes at the boy who was to be his master and companion. Alex's expression was clouded, but then, all at once, it changed, and he smiled.

"Come on, let's go and build a den," and with that he ran out towards the trees and Cai ran after him.

***

Thrice failed noble son bring forth the one who wins,
Revealing the rightful kingdom's king;
Gods laud your house with praise and honour,
As was never known before this time and will never be known again;
For as long as the Kingdom of the Isles endures, all will speak his name.

Prophecy from the Oracle of Neped

Chapter Twelve

Bran

"NOW for your other modifications, Brannie," said a man who had come in to watch the end of the marking. "We thought you would appreciate being a pony boy."

Bran had looked around alarmed, but before he could do anything else a bit was pushed into his mouth and a strap passed around the back of his head, and a buckle was fastened. The bit hurt, part of his lip pushed painfully against his teeth and at once he started to drool. Bran lifted his still manacled hands to tug at the bit, to try to make it more comfortable.

"Now, now, we can't have that!" the man said, and a slave pulled his hands down again. "And anyway, we have not finished."

Another slave was approaching with a long pointed metal implement, like a giant needle. Bran started to struggle, but he was held tight now. He tried to cry out, but he could not make any intelligible sound through the bit. He shied his head away as the point came closer, but someone grabbed his head, held it still. Eyes wide, he watched as the implement was pushed up towards his nose and then he felt the needle stab through his septum. He shrieked wordlessly into the bit as blood spattered down his face, and then a large ring was pushed through the hole.

"Now then, that was not so hard was it? We will do your ears next, so hold still, and then just your nipples after that… oh and your penis. Did I forget your penis? Easy to forget that tiny little thing. Hmm we will have to take that silly bit of skin off first thought. Can't have that hiding your nice new ring, can we?"

***

When the piercing was all done there was still one final humiliation. A slave rubbed Bran's penis until it stiffened. Bran blushed, looked at the slave, tried to will his body not to respond, but it did soon enough, and once stiff the slave began to wind a strip of wet leather around his penis. The old Trettien overseer watched it being applied and then began to explain.

"This leather will contract when it dries and will help keep you permanently stiff. It is infused with guaro root which also will keep you artificially stiff, although the root does have an unfortunate side effect: it prevents you actually orgasming. Between that and the binding, and the ring we are going to put around your balls, you are going to spend the rest of the year horny, stiff and unable to cum."

"Mostly you are going to be fetching and carrying in the tannery, or treading shit and pee into the leather in one of those tanks you saw. Still, when we need you for anything, Karl is going to be in charge of fetching you, washing you down, tacking you up and driving you. We thought you would like to give pony rides to all the local children."

Bran looked at Karl, who was smirking. He was not surprised by the treatment, of course. Stijn had been tacked up by Bethan and forced to pull her around wherever she wanted. She had even driven him in the capital on feast days, so that his humiliation was observed by all the other houses and the commoners alike. Bran supposed the same was in store for him, but still, did Karl have to be his stable hand? Once again he wished he had just pushed the Trettien boy from the cliff.

"Karl is in charge of you. You do everything he says, or you get whipped. Do you understand?" the overseer asked.

Bran looked at Karl wide eyed.

Karl was still grinning, sitting back on the stone bench, watching Bran's discomfort.

"Do you understand?"

Bran tried to say yes, but the sound was just a whimper around his bit. It seemed to satisfy the man though, who nodded and left.

Karl undid Bran's bit, grasped the chain to his wrist manacles, and pulled him towards the door of the shed.

"Come on Brannie," he said laughingly, "time to start earning your keep! You can have a few minutes without your bit before I tack you up, but don't say anything or it is going straight back in."

As they exited, Bran glanced down at his reflection in a bucket of water sitting just outside. The rings in his nose and ears shocked him, but remembering the resolve he made when the slave finished marking him, Bran steeled himself for the future and allowed Karl to lead him into his first day of slavery.

Wil

"Do all slaves eat this muck?" Wil asked, stirring the thin yellow/grey gruel with his finger before licking it off. Ten days had passed and had eaten enough meals by now to know that it was always the same unappetising watery corn meal goo served in rough hewn wooden bowls. Slaves ate the food with their hands, of course. The bowls were considered sufficient luxury.

"What were you expecting? wild boar? cinnamon loaf ? perhaps a decanter of wine to wash it down?" 872 mocked.

"No… it's just…"

872 shook his head and sighed.

"Shut up, eat up and be grateful," he said.

Wil did shut up for a while, as he used his fingers to scoop the unappetising paste to his mouth, swallowing it down ravenously. He was hungry when he finished it, just not as hungry when he had started. There was never enough food, and he felt hungrier with each passing day.

At last he set the empty bowl down, licking his fingers clean.

"The thing is," he said, thoughtfully, and then seeing 872's face darkening, he spoke quickly to say what he wanted to say before he was shouted down again.

"The thing is, if slaves are eating corn meal, and that is all those figures we were adding up," he said, referring to the rows of figures he had been working on all day before they had finally been allowed to fetch a bowl of food from the communal bucket, "then who is eating all the other stuff ?"

"Which other stuff?"

"There is as much wheat coming in as corn meal."

"So they feed it to the sheep," 872 said with a bored shrug of his shoulders.

"You don't feed sheep wheat. They get corn meal too. And see, if the sheep are getting corn meal as well as all the slaves then that is a lot of wheat.

Kawabata imports as much wheat as…"

"You think way more than is good for you. You should just write the numbers and forget them. So the nobles like their bread, that is all."

"But they can't eat that much…"

"You are from a noble house, don't you know how much goes to waste?" 872 scratched his head, but Wil noticed a change in him. He was listening now – perhaps just the tiniest bit curious. "Anyway they could be stashing it away."

"If they are storing it their granaries must be huge."

"So?"

"And why? why store so much grain?"

"You tell me," the slave replied.

"I don't know, but if you have that much grain then there must be people. There are no commoners on Kawabata island right?"

A change seemed to come over 872's face, like a cloud blocking out the sun.

His eyes briefly widened, and then he frowned and shook his head.

"I'll tell you what. Next time you see a Kawabata noble, you go up to him and ask him. Ask him why they are storing all the grain, and then when they are done whipping you, and if they didn't cut your tongue out for speaking out of turn, you can tell me the answer. Until then, keep your speculations to yourself because I don't care, right?"

Wil opened his mouth to speak but 872 growled and the boy remained quiet.

Still, he had not been wrong about the curiosity from 872, so what had caused the change like that? It was well known that the Trettien nobles used only slaves, so why had his fellow slave gone all weird at the mention of commoners? So what if there were some? Or was it really the case that some slaves got bread and not corn meal goo?

If that were so, he wanted to be one of those slaves. He wondered what he would need to do to become one. Time enough to think on that tomorrow though because now he was shattered and ready to sleep. He crawled into the tiny nook behind a beam of the slave shed he had found, small enough that it kept him safe from unwanted nocturnal approaches, and quickly fell asleep.

Cai

"So do you have to run the race next year?" Cai asked Alex as they crept into the kitchen.

"What part of 'no speaking' didn't you understand?" Alex asked in a furious whisper as he looked through a doorway to check the coast was clear and then beckoned Cai after him.

"I told you, cook has a nap every day at this time and just leaves the meat roasting. There is no one around."

"And if you are wrong, we are both in for a spanking!" Cai hissed.

"Gods of the sea, you have to be the worst slave ever at obeying orders."

Cai giggled, because Alex had said that several times a day for nearly a month now, but didn't seem to mind. Sure, when anyone was around Cai would do everything he was told, and at those times Alex would usually send him fetching and carrying just to make a point, but when they were swimming and Alex told him to get out of the water, Cai would refuse and splash his friend and master. When there was wood to carry, Cai would pick up half of it, and leave half for Alex. When they played the stones game, Alex might tell him he had to lose, but he won as often as not, and Alex did not seem to mind. It did not stop him complaining about his useless lazy slave though.

Now they were up to mischief again. There were chickens roasting in the kitchen and the gorgeous smell of roasting meet had been wafting out into the school room where Alex had been studying all morning. At last the temptation had proven too great, and knowing when the cook would take a break, he had found Cai.

The two boys sneaked into the kitchen, although Cai hung back as Alex crossed to the spit and started to help himself to a chicken leg.

"You don't think they won't notice that?"

"So what? they can never prove it was us. They will probably think one of the dogs got in here," Alex answered, grinning as he tore a second leg from the chicken to Cai who caught it and looked at it uncertainly.

His stomach growled, and the slave boy threw caution to the wind. He was a privileged slave, no doubt, but still he mostly only got to eat the bland food the other slaves ate, so moments like these were to be savoured, and he quickly tore into the succulent meat, feeling the fatty juices fill his mouth. It tasted so very good, and he polished it off quickly, which was good, because a moment after he had done so he felt an arm on his bare shoulder.

Cai started and felt his heart skip a beat as he looked around and up into the face of the cook.

"Little thieves!" the cook shouted, cuffing Cai hard across the head. He staggered away and then, taking his lead from Alex, he ran from the room, the cook roaring disapproval behind them.

Once outside Alex gave him a rueful grin.

"Sorry, I guess we are going to get a spanking after all."

Too right, thought Cai, and he knew his would be followed up by a caning from the master of slaves, but he did not regret it. The chicken had tasted that good.

Chapter Thirteen

Bran & Karl

"IS HE a virgin still?" Joris asked and Karl patted Bran's sweat slick head, nodding and smirking. He had been pulling a cart of goods through Trettien city, and Karl was meant to be helping, or at least not hindering. In fact, whenever no one was around, Karl would hop onto the cart and allow Bran to pull him around. Bran might have said something about that if his mouth had not been full of the pony bit he was required to wear almost all of the time.

Now he had brought the goods, finished leathers stacked in neat bundles, right into the centre of the Trettien township and he had a few minutes to rest in the hot sunshine. The freeman overseer of the town slaves was suddenly called away to a warehouse at the town's edge. The overseer left Karl to supervise the slaves as they emptied the wagon. Karl, however, was not supervising so much as talking with some of his friends.

They had come over as soon as the cart had arrived in the town, laughing and jeering at both Karl and Bran. Both boys were naked in public, both boys had recently lost in the Great Race, but even though Karl looked embarrassed, he covered it quickly with brashness, insulting the boys back, and laughing off their threats to have him whipped for insolence.

There was no doubt that they could make good on the threat. Karl may be one of them, but for this year he was still a slave, and his insolent talk could easily earn him punishment. Still, the boys took it all well enough because they had a better target for their scorn: Bran himself.

"Been a slave for how many weeks, and he is still a virgin?" Joris laughed.

"For now he is. Dad says the slaves are not allowed to have him. Says he has something special in mind."

Bran blushed under the raucous laughter that followed that revelation. Not that it was new to him. He knew full well that there was something planned, because Karl had told him every day since he found out. Every day Karl had promised that after that, he was going to fuck him personally every day for the rest of the year. Bran knew he could do it too, because more than once now Karl had jacked off right in front of him, right into his face as he kneeled in front of him, and the boy had managed to spurt cum onto his face.

As for Bran, he had not had an orgasm since he had come here, but he wanted one all the time, and especially right now, as the boys discussed his virginity. He could feel his constant drug induced hard on straining against the leather bindings. He tried not to let on how much it hurt, the pain of his burgeoning boyhood desperate for attention. He tried not to let on because more than once Karl had given him the attention and proved that the poultice that was regularly applied did exactly what it was supposed to, making any touch of his cock excruciatingly painful, and orgasm quite impossible. He was left desperate for a release he could not achieve.

"What about you, Karl? How many times have you been fucked?"

Karl frowned, but held up his fingers, forming the shape of a zero. The question was impertinent perhaps, but Karl was a slave.

Anyone could fuck him, and anyone could speak to him how they liked. Bran tried not to smile at his obvious discomfort.

"What's the matter? Too butt ugly even for the slaves to take you?"

The boys laughed, and again Bran concentrated on not showing his own amusement. He did not know how it worked on Trettien, but he doubted a common slave would be allowed to fuck Karl on his home island. Their status may be equal for a year, but Karl would still be restored to the nobility in a year, and Bran did not think that Karl, nor any of the other Trettiens, were of a temperament to allow such an act to go unpunished.

On the other hand, these boys could probably take him right here and now, and he would have to take it, and Karl knew that as well as Bran did. Perhaps that was why he acted as he did.

"You want to fuck a slave, Joris?" he asked, "Look, that one over there is cute."

Bran indicated a boy slave of nine or ten years helping stack the pile of finished leathers beside a female slave who could easily have been his mother. The boys all turned to look at him, and the boy, feeling their gaze, turned to look at them, his eyes growing wide.

"Yeah, he is, but I would rather fuck you." Joris said, a sly smile on his face.

"No you wouldn't. You know I am too ugly. Look at him though. I bet he is still a virgin too, and so cute."

Joris chewed his lip but shook his head.

"You are scared, aren't you. Too scared to fuck a little boy," Karl said and then noticing the woman scowling dangerously, he added, "or are you scared of his mam?"

"Shut up, Karl. Not all of us have to fuck ourselves to sleep."

"Because you are not up to it. You are probably impotent."

"Boy, you really want my cock in your arse, yes?" Joris said, his voice dangerously low.

"Fuck, no, I want your cock in his arse. Come on, it will be fun."

"Fine, I will fuck the boy but you have to do his mam."

At those words the female slave howled in rage and started running at the boys.

Meanwhile, the boy began to wail loudly in alarm. All hell broke loose as Joris and two other boys grabbed her and dragged her to the back of the cart Bran was in. As they held her down there was a murmuring from the other slaves.

"Fuck, what have you started, Karl?" Joris asked as they fought the woman into submission. "Gods, she is a fighter."

For all their efforts, the boys were having trouble manhandling the woman into submission, and it was at that point that Karl unhitched Bran.

"Brannie, fetch the kid," Karl said as he crossed to where the woman was now finally on her back in the cart, a boy holding each leg open. As she spat and hissed, Karl went up to her and unceremoniously pushed his hardened cock inside her. He stood at the tailgate of the cart, thrusting into her as she screamed in rage, and it did not take him long to reach his climax and shoot his load into her.

Bran saw the boy watching his mother being raped in obvious alarm. He seemed undecided whether to go to her aid or to turn tail and run, and Bran felt a similar indecision as to whether to follow Karl's orders or to help the slave boy escape.

He looked again at Karl raping the boy's mother. Gods, this was a terrible situation to be in, he thought. Here he was, a slave himself, under orders to do something that just seemed wrong to him. Yes he knew slaves were just property, and such things could happen, but on his own island it would surely only be as a punishment. Here was Karl saving his own skin by harming two innocent slaves, and the other slaves present looked to be in an ugly mood too. Yet to refuse his order would be to invite punishment himself.

He wished the boy had turned and fled, but the stupid kid didn't seize his chance and the moment was growing uncomfortably long. If he waited any longer he would be seen to be disobedient, and so Bran made his decision. He lunged forward, grabbed the kid and brought him, kicking and screaming, to the cart.

Karl was finishing up, withdrawing from the mother, and two of the boys dragged her away so that the boy could be thrown over the back of the cart.

"Hold him, Brannie," Karl ordered, and Bran did. He felt a terrible pang of guilt though as he held the screaming boy over the back of the cart, and watched as Joris lifted his tunic, and started fucking the boy. The slave let out a terrible scream as he was penetrated, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that this was indeed his first time. Bran tried to comfort himself by telling himself that it would not be the boy's last. He tried to assuage his guilt by telling himself he was only following orders, and most of all he tried to fight down that ugly thought that was in his head, that he wished it was him fucking the kid. His engorged stiff cock demanded attention, but he told himself it was not true. He did not want to be the one fucking this boy.

Joris shouted his pleasure and orgasmed inside the boy's butt, and then withdrew and allowed the boy to run away and curl up in a corner snivelling. As Bran was hitched up and started pulling the cart away under the angry eyes of the assembled slaves, he knew he was lying to himself about not wanting the boy, and the other slaves had not been fooled. He saw the hatred in their eyes, and it was directed as much to him as it was to Karl or the other boys.

Chapter Fourteen

Wil

"NOT like that, dammit," Wil yelled.

872 swatted him across the head and the boy flinched, knocking a bottle of ink with his hand, sending the blue-black liquid spattering across his page of figures.

"Look what you made me do," Wil said, turning outraged to the other slave. "I will have to do it all again now."

"You had to do it all again anyway. Can't you see you put the figures in the wrong column? Idiot!"

"Well how was I supposed to know?" Wil countered. "You are supposed to teach me but you didn't show me…"

"Shut up, noob. You know how many slaves would give their right leg to have this job? And you just stroll into it 'coz you know it all 'coz you are a pampered noble son who was too stupid to take a casual stroll up a mountain path without getting yourself stuck up a tree. Your lot think they know it all but they know nothing."

Wil looked at 872 feeling a rush of feelings: anger, embarrassment, humiliation, but back to anger again. He stood up, hands on his hips, staring 872 down in indignation.

"Fuck off. What do you know about it? What can you possibly know about it? You are just a stupid slave. You were born a stupid slave. You have no idea about anything, so why don't you stop acting like a turd and start showing me how to be a stupid fucking slave just like you."

872's face darkened and he shook his head.

"Oh, well if you say so. I will show you right now how to be a stupid fucking slave," and with that he walked across the room, batting the ruined parchment out of the way and grabbing Wil by the hair. Wil tried to dodge out of the way but the room was too small and 872 was bigger and stronger. In a moment, he was dragged across the table by his hair, and then 872 was holding him down.

"Help! Help me!" Wil started to shout, before 872's hand was clamped over his mouth. Wil tried to bite it, and 872 cursed, before using his other hand to pull Wil's head up by his hair again and bring it crashing into the table.

"Shut the fuck up, you stupid prick," he growled and pushed Wil's head to the table. Wil didn't shut up though, and called out for help again. 872 made an exasperated noise and then pushing the struggling boy further across the table, he lined up his cock against Wil's boy hole.

"Don't do it. Fuck you. Don't do it. I don't want it. Great Horjock, God of Fire, if you do this…" Wil yelled.

"The God of Fire won't help you, limpdick. You are a slave now, remember? He is not your god now," and with those words 872 entered Wil. Wil shrieked in a sudden rush of pain as his sphincter gave way under the pressure from the young, but very large man cock that had penetrated him.

Wil howled and writhed, thrashing around at 872, but he was firmly held down, and any blows he landed were ineffectual. 872 started to thrust, rocking the boy's body as he was fucked for the very first time.

In truth it did not take 872 long to unload. He was young and horny and had not had sex with anyone but himself for too long. It did not take long before he was gasping his pleasure as he pumped hot seed into Wil's virgin bum.

It did not take long, but to Wil it felt like an eternity, as he felt like his butt was being ripped open. Amidst the terrible pain and the feeling of hot blood lubricating 872's large cock, he felt a deeper terrible humiliation. He was being fucked, and he was not so young that he did not know what that was. He was being fucked by a gods cursed slave! He was outraged, terrified, totally humiliated, and more so as he heard the other slave pleasuring himself on him, and felt 872's teeth bite his neck, making him squeal like a pig.

Then, only as 872 relaxed and held him, his orgasm ending, did Wil realise that they were not alone. His screams for help had brought someone. The door was open, and there in the doorway stood Welles.

Wil turned his head and coughed out a protest.

"He fucked me! This slave fucked me!," he shouted angrily, outraged.

"I saw. Now get out, 872, because it is my turn. When I am done, you can send in your friends."

Wil looked at Welles wide eyed and shook his head. "No, no you can't… please!" he whined.

Welles looked at the blood dripping from 872's cock as he stood up and nodded. "You may be right. So, I guess you will just have to learn to suck cock."

"No! I won't! He should be punished… he… he raped me!"

"Oh crap, 1047, you are so naive. Slaves can't be raped. Only people can be raped. The cursed of Horjock are property, and at most you can be damaged, but that is allowed for purposes of punishment. So now, do we have to damage you some more? or will you suck cock like a good little boy whore."

Welles pushed Wil to his knees and then pushed his cock into the boy's mouth. Wil looked up as the overseer of slaves began to thrust in his mouth, and then he felt the wave of anger break over him again. Wil bit down as hard as he could.

Welles' scream of pain would become a legend, but really was nothing compared to Wil's screams as every male slave in the area was allowed to fuck him for the rest of the night.

It took him weeks to fully recover, but as soon as he was able to stand he was taken out to the fields.

"We will see if you have learned humility after a year in the fields," Welles had said as he was led away.

Chapter Fifteen

Bran

"TODAY, Brannie, we put all your training to use. How do you feel about that, slave? Ready to lose your virginity?"

Bran felt his face colouring, and he suppressed the urge to glare at the overseer of the slaves. That would only earn punishment, he knew. He felt a terrible fear inside though as he realised that today was indeed the day. He had known this was coming. He had known that it was only a matter of time, and that of course all his lessons and the hours of practice and training had been leading to this.

The lessons had been a welcome relief from his time in the tannery and pulling carts or carriages for Trettien children. Instead he had spent a full month in training, and the training itself, although arduous and often humiliating, had not been as bad as life under Karl.

That had been the best part. He had not seen Karl for a month.

He still recalled the moment that Karl had been reassigned. They had returned to the tannery after delivering the finished leathers but a few hours later Karl's own father had arrived in a furious mood and called both him and Karl to a site office for a dressing down.

"You had one job, Karl. Supervise the slaves as they unload the wares. One job and what did you do?"

Bran had watched on in horror but also some amusement as Karl tried to excuse his behaviour, tried to explain that he had been put up to the rape of the boy and his mother by Joris and the others, but his father would have none of it.

"Karl, get this into your dense skull: you are a slave. For one whole year you are nothing but a fucking useless slave. You don't go challenging your betters, you don't even talk to them unless to say 'yes sir', do you get it? Do you?

"Now because of your stupidity we had to put down a slave insurrection. That woman you raped had to be executed, and the rest of those slaves had to be whipped back into submission. Do you understand how expensive your actions were?

"It is one thing to cost me money when you are a young arrogant noble, but you are not that now and won't be until the year is over. Until then you are a slave, and you are lucky beyond knowing that I don't flail your hide from your miserable back.

"In any case, I think it is time you went back to work at the tannery, and no more supervision of slaves for you. You can spend the next month treading out leathers in the piss vats."

Karl's face had been a picture at that revelation, and Bran had snorted a small laugh. He had not meant to, but it slipped out. He tried to cover it with a fit of coughing but Karl's father had not been fooled.

"And you, it is time we trained you to become the little whore you are going to be."

That had sullied Bran's mood, and that was why, for all his delight at Karl's punishment, and at being away from his tormentor for a month since, there had not been a moment when Bran could truly forget what the training he was having was for.

"You are going to learn how to dance, and to take cock, and pretend you like it," Karl's father had explained to him as he had stood there in shock, and Karl, still smarting from his dressing down, had still managed to find a sly smile for him. "We are going to make a perfect submissive whore of you, and when you are ready I know exactly where and when you are going to lose your virginity."

Since then he had gone through a range of butt plugs, been taught to suck cock using prosthetic aids, been taught to dance and practiced over and over again, each day going to his cell with aching limbs and sore butt and sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. He had been taught to make it look like he enjoyed what he was doing, had learned to suppress his gag reflex and had even been fed cold cum to become used to the taste.

He had learned to suppress his fear, and to control his emotions. He had learned how to kneel submissively, and to stand provocatively. He had been taught by a range of the best whores in the kingdom. Through it all, not one live cock had been put in his mouth, nor had he been penetrated by anyone in any way. He was, he knew, to keep his virginity, but only until the day he was called to service.

That day was today.

So now Bran felt full of trepidation as he was led out of his cell and taken through his duties one last time, rehearsing and rehearsing throughout the day until at last he was told that it was time to bathe. He washed and scrubbed himself clean as he had been taught, and then applied the oils and ointments, making his skin look slick with it, and ensuring he smelled at his best.

When he was ready he was taken to the Trettien long hall, and allowed in through the slave's entrance to take up his position, ready to dance.

He could hear feasting and merriment, but then there was a clap and the music began, and the curtain was pulled away. Bran began to dance.

It was good he had been trained so well, because as he started to move in time with the music, he saw the guests for the first time, and only just stopped himself from faltering. Instead he kept dancing as he was taught although his eyes went wide when he saw his father sitting there along with other Aramat nobles.

His father was looking back, his face a mask. He must have recognised Bran, and of course this collar made from his house colours gave him away too. They must all have recognised him, but no one stood up, no one made a move to stop the proceedings, but instead they just watched as Bran danced, and danced, and danced.

After a while the music became quieter and Bran followed the pattern of a more seductive dance he had been taught, flaunting his body for the men to see. It was at this point that Stijn's father stood up and addressed the Aramat men.

"Today we seal our new truce. Today we begin a new day of co-operation between our houses, and we seal it together with a gift." The man was looking directly at Bran's father now. "Let us show that the past is in the past, and put behind us that which we lost. Your house took my son, but our house is magnanimous, and we only take the virginity of your son. But, not just me. We do this together to demonstrate our unity. You too will fuck this slave."

There was a murmur among the Aramat delegation, and Bran saw what was happening here. This was an embassy, seeking to heal the rift between these two houses. An embassy and he was the canvas on which they would write their agreement.

Bran's father looked towards him, stony faced, and Bran wanted to turn tail and run away. Again only the month of careful training kept him dancing his seductive dance instead.

At last his father nodded and stood to join Stijn's father. He looked stony faced still, but there was something the Trettiens did not know, and perhaps the other Aramats also were unaware of. When Bran looked at his father, he knew now that this was not truly his flesh and blood, and his father knew it too. This sacred shared act was a sham, and his father may dislike it but Bran did not think the man bore him any true love, so it would not hurt him as his hosts and owners had thought it would.

It may not have hurt his father, but it hurt Bran to move his body for the man he had always called father. His father, for his part, forced Bran to his knees, and pulled out his cock, and the boy followed his training, teasing it with his cheeks, looking for permission to remove his bit and take the member in his mouth.

His father began to rub Bran's face with his cock, and Bran allowed it to happen, exploring the man's buttocks with his fingers, exploring the body of the man he called father.

For a moment he thought he would be allowed to just give his father a blowjob, but that was not going to be enough for this truce. Instead, the man who had raised him lay on his back and indicated to Bran to climb onto him. Bran had been taught what to do, and sat astride his father, lining up his butt hole over the stiff cock that pointed straight upwards.

He swallowed, and concentrated as he allowed himself to be slowly impaled on the shaft, the first live cock ever to enter him being his father's. Then he followed his training and began to ride the man in rhythmic rolling movements, making it look like he was enjoying himself, making all the sounds of pleasure behind his bit that he had been taught to make.

Not all of the pleasure was feigned either. His permanently stiff cock ached and seemed to demand release, the boy's own sexual pleasure reaching a peak that demanded climax. It felt good but also terrible because the climax was denied him, and so he was in an excruciating endless tormenting moment that demanded that he rub his own stiffy against his father's stomach, and yet nothing would give the release he craved.

It did not take his father long to ejaculate into him and he heard the man's pleasure as his pulsing cock shot his load inside him, heard the muttering and roar of approval from the watchers.

After that he turned to Stijn's father, who dropped his pants, picked him up and hugged him. Again Bran had learned the position and gasped and held the man tight as the cock penetrated him. His legs wrapped around the man, holding on in tight embrace. Bran felt the man's cock slide into his prepared butt, uncomfortable but not overly painful. He moaned as his own cock throbbed inside its permanent bindings and felt his body rock as the man fucked him.

The man found his prostate, and Bran gasped as the fucking continued. He had felt that before, had learned about the special spot, but the trainers had been careful not to allow him to much pleasure from it. Now, however, he felt unfeigned pleasure from the stimulation, even though his cock hurt and he knew a biting deep humiliation to be whored out in front of his own house nobility. If ever there was a sign he was never to be allowed back into the ranks of the Aramat nobility, then this was it. How could they accept a common whore as one of them?

And that was what he was, he knew, when Stijn's father ejaculated inside him, with a shout of pleasure. He knew he was nothing but a whore, and worse, his cock that would never orgasm from external stimulation now released itself in the most powerful orgasm imaginable, throbbing and pulsing and bouncing under the stimulation of his prostate. It was not a true orgasm, being extremely painful, excruciatingly so, but at last it was some measure of release.

Bran felt tears running down his eyes as Stijn's father withdrew. The man almost dropped him, as though he was no longer important, which, of course, he wasn't. He fell to the floor but quickly came back to a kneeling position, head bowed, waiting for the dismissal.

"We are not done, yet, Brannie," the Trettien man said. "First, all these other nobles are going to fuck you. Every man here is better than you will ever be, and will prove it. After that we will dismiss you, but even the slaves are going to fuck you then.

Anyone who wants to from now on. You are going to be the house whore for the rest of the year, and everyone who fucks you will know they are twice the man you will ever be."

And every Trettien man present did just that, until Bran's training broke down and he was left sobbing and ashamed, and totally humiliated in front of his father.

Only then did Stijn's father slap his butt.

"Leave us," he ordered, and Bran hurried from the room, searching out his tiny cell where he could finally remove his bit and then lay in a corner, sobbing, exhausted, longing for a deep sleep that would not come. It would not be allowed to come either, because that was where the first of the slaves found him, and took him out onto a balcony and, in full view of anyone who cared to look, fucked him too.

Chapter Sixteen

Wil

WIL tied off the top of the sack he had just filled with fruit and wearily swung it onto his back. He gritted his teeth as the sack caught and chaffed against the welts from his most recent whipping. It was heavy, and the day was hot but he still staggered forward to take the sack to the waiting cart. There was no let up for a field slave and he had to make the daily quota if he wanted to avoid yet another whipping.

He had lost weight, but he had put on muscle. Wil's house had not prepared their boys as thoroughly as other houses did for the great race, and so he had not been as strong as them when he had been enslaved, but now he probably was stronger than any of them, after his regimen of dawn till dusk backbreaking field labour.

Wil hefted the sack onto the cart just as another older slave dumped his own sack there. The cart was full so Wil went to the front and pulled on the handles to start the cart moving down the dusty farm track.

He did not speak, because talking was forbidden to slaves, and there were overseers who might stop them to punish them. In any case they did not need to speak, because one look by the older slave conveyed his message and Wil gave a small nod of his head to show that he understood.

The other slave returned to his work and Wil hauled the cart down the track alone, pulling it with sore and calloused hands. Wil groaned at the constant ache in his back, his legs, his arms. All he wanted was to slip into the small straw covered cell that he called home these days and to fall asleep.

Not yet though. There were several more hours of work to complete yet, and he was still several cart loads short of his quota too.

The cart rounded a corner, dropping briefly below a crest of a hill, and as it did so, several people stepped out from a bush, one of them raising a hand.

They were clothed, although poorly. Commoners then, but not slaves. There was a man holding up his hand in plain commoner's clothes, and with him a teen and a younger girl.

Wil stopped warily and looked over his shoulder. It did not bode well as a slave to be noticed by a free man – not any free man. These people may not own him, but that did not mean they could not do him harm. Damaging a slave would draw the wrath of his owners, but only for the financial loss. It was not as if he could raise a case against them in a court of law.

The spot was well chosen though. The cart was out of sight of the field overseer, and not quite in view of the farm. It was a tiny blindspot on the route, and until another slave cart came this way it was a private space. A dangerous place to be.

"Peace, Wil," the man said and Wil blinked to hear his name used. No one called him Wil anymore. If they called him anything it was 1047 or slave. Still he did not reply. Safer to keep his mouth shut. Less chance of a whipping.

"We just want a quick chat, Wil," the man went on, "because we have been watching you. We know how you felt about being betrayed by your house. Imagine that: they did not even bother to buy you back. They just let you go, forced to be a common field slave."

Wil felt all the old resentments bubbling inside him. Yes that was exactly how he had felt, but how had they known that? Why were they saying this to him? Of course he should have had no expectation that his house would buy him back. Why would they? If he had been enslaved for a year then he would have been set free at the end of that time and his house would have a vested interest in keeping him safe. That was not what happened. In his case he had been stuck up that stupid tree, watching Rin kick away his last hours of life, and then watching the spores burst from his body. He had stayed there terrified, until he had been found by slaves sent by the administrators the following morning. Why would his house want him? What greater disgrace could there be than a champion who could not or would not even finish the race? Why would they buy him back? He was not one of them anymore. He was always and forever just a slave.

Still he said nothing, waiting for the man to say whatever he was going to say.

"Things are changing Wil. You don't know it yet, but one day soon you will see it and know it. You need to decide then whether you are still a noble prick, or whether you are more than that."

Wil frowned just a little at being called a noble prick. Once he would have been angered by such a description and a commoner who said such a thing would be punished, but since he was enslaved he had come to think of the nobility differently.

When he had been demoted to manual work Wil had been angry, recalcitrant.

He had argued back, even refused to do some tasks. His first whipping had come quickly and he had screamed and begged for mercy and after that he had mucked out the cells like any other slave, and not refused an order again, but his attitude had not improved. It had only taken a few weeks before the chief administrator had put him to general fieldwork. After that the whippings had come frequently as he slowly built up his strength for the work.

Every lash across his skin had ripped away any vestige of pride in what he had been, or any small scrap of loyalty he might have felt. Wil had not taken to slavery well, and he blamed his own house as much as he blamed House Trettien for his treatment now. The anger bubbled up inside him, and although he did not speak, it must have shown in his face, because the commoner in front of him was looking at him and nodding now.

"It is as I thought, Wil. When the time comes, you will know it. When the time comes, you have something we need. You have something that can help us, and help you." As the man spoke, Wil felt his curiosity win over his caution.

"What have I got? I haven't got anything left," he said bitterly, angrily.

"Ah but you do. You have something very important. You have something that no man can ever take from you. You have knowledge."

"Knowledge of what?"

"Of the Yateveo, of the swamp, maybe even something else."

Wil shuddered and a darkness crossed his face. He remembered Rin's screams of terror, and the way he had been cocooned as his body was consumed, before the spores of the plant had burst forth from him. He wanted nothing to do with the Yateveo plant ever again. In any case slaves had been sent to burn the island on which the plant lay. It was gone, and he said as much.

"The mature plant is gone, yes, but the spores will have taken root in the swamp. It has been many months now since the race, and the plant grows quickly."

"So what?" Wil asked. "You don't need me. Just go and collect the damned things yourself."

"It is not so simple, Wil. The plants were thought extinct, and we cannot identify them. We need you to take us to where The Neped boy died and to help identify the plant. It is no easy task."

Wil shrugged and frowned. He should just walk on, he knew. This was dangerous talk but it was also stupid.

What use were those plants even if you found them? He asked as much.

"You don't know your history, boy, but that is no surprise. The yataveo once covered all these islands, and made them uninhabitable.

They were tenacious. You can burn them but the spores keep seeding, and they make for a very successful line of defence. You see you can only breach the defence they make by burning them down, and if you set fire to them you warn people that you are coming."

Wil looked at the man, he seemed earnest in what he said, but there was something more, something he had not said yet. In any case this all sounded like an extremely dangerous venture just to gather some plant samples.

The man looked at Wil and the silence grew between them. The girl stirred, looked around as if concerned about how long this was taking.

"What else?" Wil asked at last.

The man smiled and his eyes seemed to light up.

"See, Caris? I told you he was the right one," the man replied and the girl nodded, looking nervous, but not hostile.

"Tell me, because I have to go or I am going to get a whipping," Wil muttered.

"Yes, yes, of course," the man said, "There is a rumour that you saw more in the swam than yataveo, yes?"

"I saw crocodiles…" Wil said, carefully, but the man waved him to silence. "You said the time is short, don't waste it with prevarication, boy. You saw something else in the swamp, and we need you to take us to it."

"I didn't see anything," Wil muttered, not sure why he was being coy about the temple and the old priest. He had told no one about those things, but he didn't feel that he should let on now.

"You climbed the stairway to Dead Man's Drop, no?"

"Oh, that. Well… okay," Wil replied and the man looked at him curiously.

"We need you to take us there."

Wil frowned. "Why?"

"Because, if we are going to invade the temple, that is the way we have to go. Now go on with you, but be ready."

The man slapped Wil's bare buttock and the boy blushed and smarted at the dismissal, but he started forward all the same. He did not say he would take them there, and he did not think he wanted to. What had been suggested was treasonous, and the ravings of a madman.

As he carried his load back down the farm track he thought about the conversation. The man wanted to collect farm specimens and invade the temple? The ideas just seemed outlandish, and he was sure nothing would come of it. He supposed he should tell an overseer of the conversation, but that thought did not appeal. He would probably earn a whipping or worse just for talking to the man, and what would happen? If the man had any sense at all then he would be long gone from here, and Wil wasn't really sure that he would mind even if the man had meant what he said.

The temple of Horjock was sacred to the free people of the island, but slaves were not allowed in the presence of the god. The temple, perhaps more than anything, represented his new status, and how much he had lost. Wil had no love for Horjock. Not anymore, and maybe not ever. He had always feared the God of Fire, but never had he felt much devotion.

Part of him thought that if they seriously wanted to invade the temple then that was not such a bad thing. Part of him wanted to help.

Chapter Seventeen

Alex & Cai

ALEX wolfed down the last of his food and started to fidget. His parents were still talking about the usual boring grown up stuff, and he was itching to get out into the late afternoon sunshine and to play with Cai.

The seasons had turned from hot to wet and then to cool and now it was back to summer. Soon it would be time for the Great Race again, but not for Alex, not this year at least. He had a cousin who would run this year for Neped, and although he had argued that he should be allowed to run himself, to avenge Rin's memory, he had been secretly pleased when his demand had been flatly refused.

"When you are older you may be chosen," was all his father had said and he had seen the worry in his Mother's eyes. He knew she did not want to lose another son to the race, but Neped was not a large house, and it was likely his time would come.

They would travel to watch the race, of course, and Alex had already stated that he intended to take his slave with him. His mother had smiled and nodded indulgently. She liked Cai, he knew, even though she was careful not to show it openly.

Cai liked Alex too. Liked him like a brother, and perhaps more than that. They were best friends, as close as he had ever been with Rin. Closer even. They often spoke about how things used to be for Cai, when he was a Morrigan noble. He was supposed to forget all that now, but still he would speak wistfully of the cherry orchards of Morrigan, or the games he would play, or of his little brother and sisters, all much younger than him.

For his part, Alex would tell Cai all about Rin, and they spent time pilfering fruit from their own fruit orchards, although Neped had no cherries. They searched out secret places in the Neped homestead in the wet season, climbed trees when it had been dry, stolen more food from the kitchens than they could recall, built dens, swum streams, discovered caves and rock pools and sailed boats on the inner sea.

Cai was a slave, Alex's family's property, but he was much more than that to Alex. He was a best friend, someone who he could talk to about anything, and often did late into the night, when he allowed Cai to sleep in his room, which was most nights.

And right now Cai was outside sitting on the fountain edge, his feet dangling in the water as he waited for Alex to finish.

He did not eat with the family, of course. That was not done. Slaves had their own food eaten in their own canteen area, although Alex would often save scraps of the better food he ate for his friend. He often wished Cai could sit at table with them, but his mother's indulgence that had spared Cai from many a beating did not stretch that far, so instead Alex swung his feet restlessly as he waited for his parents to finish and dismiss him.

They were talking about some situation that had taken place on one of the other islands.

Slaves had become restless there and there had been executions. Such a waste of good stock, his father had opined, and his mother had spoken about the harsh treatment there. It was the same old same old, Alex thought. He could remember a number of meal times now when there had been similar conversations. Some islands, it seemed, had many more slaves than others, and it was those islands where there always seemed to be trouble.

"Do you think they have a handle on it?" his mother asked, and Alex looked at his father.

"Not really. Things have been unsettled there since they raped some seven or eight year old in front of his mother for no reason. They ended up executing all the slaves present, but word still got around. The executions just made things worse, and things haven't been right since. That was months ago, but it has been a festering sore."

At mention of the rape his mother had looked at Alex, and now she nodded towards the door.

"Off you go Alex, have fun, be back at sunset, and no climbing."

Alex grinned and jumped down from his seat, running out to meet Cai.

There was some part of him that wanted to stay and listen more. Not that he cared much about the grown up talk, but simply because he knew he was being dismissed because there was something they did not want him to hear. He wondered about the executions. He imagined what would happen if someone wanted to execute Cai. Alex could never allow that.

Cai was his friend now, and he may only be a slave, but he was a special slave.

Neped did not execute many slaves though. They did not have that many to spare, in any case. He wondered where the executions had happened, and then he wondered if any other boys who had been nobles like Cai had ever been executed.

That set him thinking about the race again. This year he was not racing, but what about next year? If he ran, would he be the one to finally bring honour to Neped? Would he end up failing to complete like Cai, and spend his life on another island as the slave of another house? What would happen to Cai then?

Alex shivered and pushed the thought away. That was all a long way in the future, and there was no point worrying about it now. He went up to the fountain where Cai was dangling his feet and splashing around.

"Hey, Cai, come on, I will race you to the top of the oak tree."

Later, the race over, Cai was hanging lazily by his knees from a branch of the tree. The sight of his best friend hanging stretched out, almost like he was being crucified, brought back to Alex's mind all the thoughts of the slave unrest his parents had talked about. Adults often forget they were once children themselves, and that children never see themselves as 'children', but as human beings with the same thoughts, feelings and worries any human has. So for the next hour, as the sun slowly set on the horizon, Alex and his best friend engaged in, to them, as serious and earnest discussion of the great events of their little world as any ever held between the most renown philosophers and noblest of kings.

Chapter Eighteen

Caris

THE outer sea was not rough, but the swell was strong, and as the small boat approached Kawabata island, Caris could see the shore break sweeping against the rocks. She looked nervously at her older brother, but he did not look back, his eyes set firmly on the small cave entrance in the fault in the cliff face.

They all knew this was a risky endeavour, but it was the only way. You could not land a boat on Kawabata island on the inner coast line, because all the beaches and harbours were watched, fortified and controlled.

No, the only way to land on the island without being seen was to sail directly for the sea cliff at low tide, and straight into the cave. It had to be done in darkness, too, or the boat could easily be seen.

So here they were, approaching the cliff, knowing that the smallest miscalculation would sweep the boat straight into the steep rock wall, to be pounded to match wood by the swell.

Nikki was an experienced sailor, but like everyone else, most of his experience had been gained on the inner sea. People went fishing in the outer sea of course, but to do that you just sailed out into the deeps and came back if the weather was set to turn. All the harbours faced the inner sea because that provided them so much more shelter. So what he was attempting now was not something he could have practiced.

Caris held her breath as the swell picked up the back of the boat and they surfed in the last few metres, straight into the cave mouth, and all at once there was the hiss of shingle and the crack of rock against the boat hull as they ran aground, exactly as they intended.

Caris jumped out and pulled hard on the painter, fighting the pull of the retreating wave, and Nikki quickly joined her. They pulled the boat up onto the damp sand and rock of the cave, and then Caris laughed nervously.

"See, I knew you could do it," she said to her brother. She could hardly see him in the darkness of the cave, but heard his panting.

"I didn't," he confessed, and then they started to unload the boat, grabbing a tinderbox from the waxed bundled they had brought and striking a light.

Once the light was lit, Caris looked up, and shivered. Rising from the centre of the cave was a massive chimney cut into the rock, a blowhole that worked up through the fissure. This was why they had come here, of course, and why she had been chosen. The climb was narrow. Too narrow for an adult, it had to be a child who made this dangerous climb, and she was scared that even she would be too big for it.

Time to find out, she thought, and began the ascent, allowing Nikki to lift her to the cave ceiling and then using her body to lever herself into the tight gap.

The climb was long and hard, and more than once she thought she would get stuck, wedged into the tiny space. She sobbed quietly to herself, forcing her panic to subside, and somehow worming her way past the obstructions. It took a very long time before she finally emerged on the cliff, scrabbling her way out of a sink hole, surprising some grazing sheep.

She had done it! She was here, on Kawabata island, unobserved.

She had memorised the route she needed from here. They had been able to scout it out before, under the guise of delivering or collecting trade goods. She had spent time on the island, and although she did not know it well, she was familiar enough with where she needed to go now.

Caris picked her way through the pastures until she found the farm track, and then quickly followed that down towards the slave sheds. Beyond the sheds there was a guardhouse, light flickering from its windows and the sounds of laughter within. She watched carefully to ensure that the intelligence they had was correct, and satisfied herself that all the guards were indeed inside.

They would run occasional patrols, of course, but the slave guards were complacent at night. The slaves were soundly locked up in their sheds, and there was nothing else that they needed to worry about. There was no history of attacks since the slave revolt of twenty years ago, and even that revolt had been little more than a few disgruntled slaves preferring to die on the points of the guards' swords than from the endless exhaustion and drudgery of their fieldwork.

As long as the slaves were quiet in their sheds there was no need for the guards to do anything, so mostly they just chatted and played games of chance through the night.

Well that was going to change tonight, Caris thought. She went past the first shed, and on to the second. This was the one she wanted. She checked the door but it was locked, bolted and chained, exactly as she had expected. There was no way through that door.

Caris reached for her tinderbox again. It was inside her tunic, one of only two things she had brought with her. It was all she would need she hoped. Still, as she began to strike a light over her kindling, Caris felt a terrible sense of trepidation. What she was about to do carried enormous risks, and she was not at all sure that it would work. If it failed this would be a major setback, bringing their cause to a crashing halt. If she failed, people would die – and she might be one of them.

She was almost paralysed by the fear as the small flames began to lick around the kindling. She was tempted to snuff the fire out again and to run away. Inaction was so much easier than action. If she did nothing they could think again, and try again. If she acted then soon enough they would have succeeded or failed.

Caris shivered, but still she reached into her tunic and pulled out the other thing she had brought with her. A simple clay vessel filled with oil and with a waxed wick. Her fingers trembled as she lit the wick and she was shaking all over as she pulled back her arm and threw the flask at the thatch of the roof of the shed.

The flask landed there and for a moment she thought the flame had gone out. That would be a relief, she thought. If the flame went out her plan would have failed but she could escape this place with head held high because she had done what she came to do, and who could blame her if the flame had failed?

She did not have long to think this because moments later there was a woosh as a finger of flame found the oil that was leaking from the flask, and moments later she could see the flame in the thatch.

Caris quickly retreated into the dark, and hoped that someone would notice the flame soon. The night was lit by the flickering orange light and soon she could smell the smoke in the air. Not long after that there were noises coming from the shed, shouts of alarm and screams too.

Caris looked towards the guard house, and hoped that they were not making too much noise in there. It seemed to take an age before finally the door to the guard house opened and a figure stood framed in the light, looking out towards the slave sheds.

Moments later, all hell broke loose and guards were streaming out into the night, shouting at one another as they ran towards the slave shed.

The slaves may only be slaves, but they were property like anything else owned by the Kawabata nobles, and a guard who let all the property die in a fire under his watch would probably end up as a replacement, so they quickly set to work unchaining the door as other guards ran for water and tools to tear down the roof.

As soon as the door was opened the slaves came tumbling out, coughing and choking, screaming and shouting in terror.

The guards started to lead them into the courtyard of the farm. Caris knew that they were not too afraid about escapees. They were on a small island under Kawabata control, and a naked escaped slave was not going to find any way off it to safety, so escapees would be hunted down quickly. Caris was counting on that confidence as she identified one of the figures stumbling towards the courtyard.

She waited. Just a little longer, she told herself. A little longer and the time would be perfect.

As the slaves moved into the courtyard under the watchful eye of just two guards, others continued to fight the fire. Just two guards, that was the moment the slaves had been waiting for. As she had known they would, several of the largest slaves suddenly ran for the guards. There was a shout of panic, and then they were all rolling to the ground.

There was a cry of pain, and another, and more shouting, more screaming. Some slaves surged forward, whether to see more, or to help, Caris did not know. Some of the guards fighting the fire saw what was happening and abandoned that work, running back towards the courtyard.

Now was her chance.

With her heart in her mouth, Caris ran towards the courtyard too. She was much closer to it than the other guards, and she quickly found Wil. She had kept note of where he sat, uncertainly watching the commotion in the courtyard. She grabbed his hand and he looked at her, recognition dawning on his face. She tugged at him.

"Come on," she screamed. "Follow me."

For a few seconds it looked like he would ignore her, but as she tugged on his wrist he seemed to make a decision, and started to follow.

Caris ran back up the hill, Wil following. There was a shout from below and she looked back and cursed as she saw a guard start to run after them. Her heart was in her mouth but as she squirmed through a hedgerow, tugging Wil after her, she saw that he had stopped running, his form only just visible against the orange glow behind him. He obviously felt it would be easier to capture the escapees in the morning.

Caris had no intention of being here in the morning though, and she led Wil to the blow hole.

"We have to go down there?" he asked uncertainly.

"Trust me," she replied, and led the way down.

It was too late for Wil not to trust her in any case. He was an escapee now, and everyone knew the punishment for a runaway slave. If he turned back now he would be branded in the morning with the curse of Horjock. Painful as that might be, the worst of such brands was that everyone knew the curse of Horjock went with you beyond the grave and into the next life. If he did not follow her down now he would die a slave and be reborn a slave. It was no surprise then, when she heard Wil clambering down the blow hole above her.

He nearly fell several times, and when he did finally drop to the cave floor, Caris saw that he was covered in scrapes and scratches, but for all that he actually managed a grin when he saw Nikki with the boat.

The grin maybe became a little more strained as they fought their way out of the cave, but returned when the boat managed to make its way safely away from the rocky shoreline.

"So then," Wil asked at length, "What's the plan?"

Chapter Nineteen

Karl

"KARL? Get in here and look at what you have done," a voice barked. Karl stopped talking to the wagon driver who had been loading up skins and headed towards the office building. He had not been inside the office for months, banished from being allowed in any administrative buildings as part of his long punishment, but any thought that the misdemeanour with the slaves had been forgiven was quickly dispelled by one look at his father's face as he entered the building.

"Stand over there, by the window, slave, where I don't have to smell you."

Karl stood where he was told and watched his father and uncles gathered around a parchment on the table there. One of his uncles said something that he did not catch, and then all eyes turned on him.

"It is quite a mess you have made," his father said at last. "Quite a mess."

"But I haven't done anything wrong," Karl complained. "I have been here treading in vats of piss for months. They only just let me work on the accounts a month ago. The accounts are in order father. I didn't do anything wrong. Not since…"

His father held up his hand to silence him.

"Not since you raped a boy in front of his mother. I know."

"And that was months ago…"

"And ever since," his father said, his voice quiet but with a hard edge to it. "Ever since, we have had insurrection and disorder. That was the spark that lit the flames, and you were the stupid worthless piece of shit that provided the spark."

"Father…"

"Don't 'father' me," his father said, his voice raised now. "I am ashamed of you. You lost the Great Race when it was yours for the taking, you failed because you were too weak willed to keep running, and then we look after you anyway, even though you don't deserve it – we give you an easy ride for your year of slavery, and you cause all this."

He waved his hand at the paper, and Karl looked at the table, stung by the words but confused too. He wanted to protest, but he knew better than to argue with his father when he was in this kind of temper.

"Last night," his uncle Thijs started to explain, "insurgents landed on the island and set fire to the southern dock. Slaves were released, and the dock and storehouses were destroyed. We have been fighting since dawn, and most of the slaves are dead, although some fled with the insurgents in a fleet of fishing boats – perhaps half of all the boats on the islands – taken to the outer sea."

Karl's mouth fell open. The southern dock and storehouses were destroyed? Much of the product of his months of work would have been there. How long had he laboured in this stink pit for nothing if the storehouses were gone?

"How many slaves did we lose?" Karl asked.

"Other than the ones in the tannery? All of them," Thijs said. Then he looked hard at Karl again and banged a fist on the table. "All of them. Every last one. One quarter of all the slaves in the whole kingdom, all dead or run away, and all because of you!"

Wil

"So let me get this straight," Wil said, sitting on a rocky beach on the western shore of the Capitol island, beneath the cliffs there, and eating cooked fish that Nikki had prepared. "You are telling me that you have been coming back and forth to Kawabata for months, planning to break me out, even though if anyone had caught you there they would have stripped you and added you to the farm slaves?"

"That is right," Caris said, licking fish oil from her fingers.

"And then you nearly killed everyone by setting fire to the slave shed, all just to break me out?"

"Now you are just getting stuck on your own self importance. We set fire to that shed to get you out, yes, but that was not the only reason."

Wil reflected on that for a moment.

"So, what was the point of all that?"

"We told you already that things were moving, and to be ready for when the time was right…"

"Yes," Wil interrupted, "but what does that mean? What time?"

"The Great Race. The time is almost here for the Great Race."

Wil looked around, momentarily flustered by that answer. He knew, of course, that the days were longer and hotter again. He recognised the time of year, but he had not really considered that the race day must almost be here. The last year seemed to have flown by and dragged on in equal measure. Day after day of grinding effort and drudgery had seemed to drag at his very being but looking back, it felt like very little time since he had lost the race because he had hidden up a tree hiding from crocodiles.

So the race was almost here? He wondered who would be running this year. Not that it mattered, he supposed. There was a more important question, though.

"What does the Great Race have to do with it? Why does that make a difference?"

"For lots of reasons," Caris replied. "Lots of reasons but mostly because already many nobles have gone to the Capitol island. That means that the slaves on the other islands are lightly guarded, and it also means all the nobles – all the really important ones – are all in one place."

Wil looked at Caris, and he felt like a fog was lifting and he was starting to see something more clearly for the first time. The race was that close? If the nobles were gathering already then it had to be happening in the next day or two. He looked up at the cliff face behind him.

"Don't worry, they are all in the palace on the other side of the island," Nikki said from where he was unbundling a pack from the boat. He threw something at Wil. "There, put that on."

Wil looked at the simple commoner's tunic, and then slowly picked it up. He felt his face flush, although he did not really understand why. He had been naked for nearly a year now, and had come to accept his nudity. Now, presented with clothes, it felt wrong, somehow, to be putting them on.

"Come on, we don't have all day!" Nikki said, and Wil pulled on the commoner's tunic. It was simple, but it was not black. The very act of putting on clothing that was not black was a terrible criminal act. He knew the law and so did they, and he felt like Horjock was watching him in anger as he broke all the laws and taboos of his people.

The tunic was on and no fireball fell from the sky and consumed him. Wil breathed again, only now realising he had been holding his breath. Caris looked at him and giggled, and he glared back at her, but slowly the glare became a grin.

"You already ran away. Wearing clothing isn't going to make it any worse," she said and he smiled tightly back, although he still felt a knot of fear. If things went bad now, his future looked bleak indeed.

So, then, he told himself, things had better not go bad.

Karl

Karl walked behind the men along the path to the north dock. He was still naked, still a slave for a couple more days yet, but they all knew his year of humiliation would soon be up. Still he felt the humiliation as deeply as the first day, because despite the fact they needed him now, they still could not, or would not allow him to walk with them. Instead he had to stay several paces behind, out of ear shot, like any other slave.

He did not need to hear the discussion now, though. Thijs had explained what he needed to know. The tannery had been shut down, and the few remaining slaves had been locked up.

Meanwhile the Trettien nobles were gathering their ships at the north dock, and were preparing to send out a fleet to track down and kill the escaped slaves and the insurgents along with them.

The outer sea was wide, the distant far shores little more than a myth. There was space for a fleet to hide, but nowhere for them to be safe. If they travelled far from the Kingdom then they would all die, and if they remained close to shore then the Trettien's would wreak their vengeance on them, and those who did not die at sea would wish that they had.

It was important that some slaves be retrieved for the sake of the example, but none would survive for long.

With every noble engaged, however, there was a problem. The great games were coming and Trettien's champion must be accompanied to the Capitol. Lucas was to run this year, and, he had been told with a sneer, so was Brannie for house Aramat so he had to be taken to the capitol too.

That, then, was Karl's job. He was allowed to supervise Brannie once again, and he would oversee the Aramat champion pulling the cart that would carry the Trettien champion to the palace on Capitol Island. He was to ensure that they got their safely – or relatively safely in Brannie's case.

He had wondered what house Aramat were doing nominating Brannie to run again.

They must know he would not be in good shape to win. Well yes, he might be fit from all the hard labour he had endured, but on the other hand, Karl wondered, grinning to himself, if Bran could even still walk straight, after finding his new vocation as a boy whore.

A boy whore running for Aramat? They must want to lose. But, of course, the head of the house's own son, Finn, was the only other candidate of age to run this year, so it looked like they had chosen to sacrifice the race this year to give Finn a better chance next.

Karl envied Lucas his position. He did not know who the other houses were fielding, but he knew that had Aramat fielded someone broken and hobbled like Brannie when he had run, that would have changed the race dynamic strongly in Trettien's favour. Lucas could bring the glory to the house that he had failed to achieve. That thought hurt him, even as he relished being accepted back into the ranks of the nobility of what would soon be the royal house of the Kingdom.

A royal house without slaves though. That would need to be rectified. They could buy some from other houses, but they would need to go into the free towns and gather new slaves too. At least the insurrection would provide the excuse for that. Anyone thought to be related to anyone involved in the insurrection could be enslaved.

Still that was a lot of new slaves to train up. This was set to be an interesting year, he thought.

What had the insurgents been thinking though? Slave uprisings happened from time to time, but they were usually put down quickly enough. This time, however, there had been support from people from the free towns. Why? It made no sense, because there was nowhere for them to go. Even supposing they could overthrow a whole island, they could not survive the counter insurgency that would always follow. They would all die as traitors at Dead Man's Drop, and what would they gain?

There was something missing. Something he did not understand, but he sensed that his father and uncles did not understand it either. They talked and planned and spoke of what they would do to the traitors, but their best guess as to the motivation for the attack was that it was another house stirring up trouble to further their own interests. That made sense, had a kind of plausibility to it, but even Karl could see the problem with it. How could any house persuade the commoners to do something that would get them killed or enslaved themselves, just to make another house stronger.

Maybe it was part of the answer, but there had to be something more. There had to be some reason why this had happened, and why it happened now.

Bran

Bran stood still as he was harnessed to the cart at the harbour. He was used to this now, having spent the year pulling the cart around the island of Trettien. All the Trettien children knew Brannie well enough, as did the slaves and commoners there. Not so on the Capitol Island, where he had been only a couple of times, so now there would be more commoners looking at him as he struggled to pull the cart loaded with its kingdom tribute to the palace ahead of the Great Race in a couple of days time, or was it even sooner than that?

Not long now, he thought. Just another couple of days and he would be set free. But set free to what?

His house had abandoned him to House Trettien, and although he was leaner and fitter than he had been a year ago, there were ways in which he was quite unready to run the race again. He had not been allowed to swim all year, and he had no information at all on who was running. He was not even sure if he was truly nominated to run for his house or not. Would it be him? or would Finn be running? There had been no message, no information, just hints from Karl, who had been infuriating in his lack of further information.

Until he was set free, just before the race began, he would not know for sure.

So how could he win if he was running?

But how could he win, in any case? Horjock had cursed him. He knew that, and he had carried that knowledge all year. Horjock had cursed him because he was not a true son of Aramat at all. And yet no one knew that. No one outside of his own family. Or at least he didn't think anyone knew.

So yes, he might be asked to run the race but he doubted he could win it. He doubted Horjock would let him win it and he even doubted that anyone really cared. He was just the Aramat tribute, the expendable one who kept Finn safe until he was old enough to win the race on his own merits.

What had Aramat done for him? They used him and abandoned him. His parents had made no attempt to help him. Why would they? They had never loved him. The house spent no money on him, and instead had forged a new peace with Trettien by abandoning him to his humiliation, and his father even participating in it. He knew, in truth, that his house did not even want him to win the race this year. If they raced him it was just so he could spend another year of slavery in House Trettien. He wondered what they hoped to gain from that.

He remembered Karl's taunts when he had first been indentured. "You are never going to be free again."

Was that the idle boast of a clueless boy, or a prediction based in knowledge of some scheme? Bran did not know, but he had seen enough of the Trettien nobles to suspect the latter. There was also the treaty to think about. Whatever treaty Aramat had forged with Trettien, it had clearly been an important one. Bran knew his father held no love for him, and could see it in the man's face as he had emptied his seed inside him. To his father, Bran saw that he was expendable as a slave. Perhaps that was all he had ever been. Perhaps his father knew he had really been born a slave and never thought of him as anything else. He supposed that must be what he was. He must be some slave born on Aramat who had been chosen to replace the dead true Bran just to fill some gap.

His father did not care about him, but still no one else knew that. To the watching Trettiens he had been a man prepared to fuck his own son to seal a treaty. Perhaps to the other Aramat nobles too. Even if the events of that night had not been shared further, the whole kingdom must surely know that he, Bran Aramat, had become a Trettien whore boy. What did that say of his father, that he would allow people to think that he would let that happen to his own son?

What exactly was the treaty Aramat had signed with Trettien? Surely there must be more to it than recompense for Stijn's death.

Just a couple more days to go, Bran told himself, but if he was made to run the race again, Bran had decided what he would do. He would run through the gorge and climb Dead Man's Drop. He knew the dangers, and knew he would probably die that way but that was better than spending another year a Trettien slave. That was far better than a lifetime of slavery. He hoped he would be brave enough to go through with his plan, and perhaps… just perhaps Horjock would honour his bravery and give him victory despite everything else. If nothing else, it would tell him if his supposition was right. If he had been born a slave then Horjock would strike him down rather than let him win the race. If he died in Dead Man's Drop, he would at least die knowing who he was. At least, he thought, if he died he would deny Aramat their victory and Trettien their slave. That thought was unexpectedly uplifting, and Bran realised that he held no love for either house any more.

The harness was fastened now and a flick of Karl's whip chased all such thoughts from his mind as he began his slow progress pulling the cart of tribute along the road from the harbour to the palace.

Chapter Twenty

Cian Aramat

CIAN Aramat stepped off the gangplank of his boat and onto the dockside. It was the day before the Great Race. He looked towards the palace and then the mountain beyond that dominated this island. Already slaves were unloading the boat of its cargo, and another slave came up to him, an Aquila slave who bowed low and then offered to take him to the palace.

Cian nodded and followed the slave, but his eyes were searching out who else was at the dock. He could see boats from all the great houses, although curiously only a single Trettien vessel. Had Bran been on that vessel? Not that it mattered. The better question was where were the other Trettien boats? There was time enough yet, of course, but they would need all their nobles here by tomorrow in the event that their champion won. Why had so few arrived yet?

There were rumours of course, and he would ask about those soon enough in the palace. There had been rumours of fighting on Trettien island, and that seemed to have been going on for a long time now. It had made him wonder about the necessity for some of his choices over the last year, but he was not going to live in regret.

Cian looked beyond the palace and towards the mountain beyond. He could not see the temple from here, of course, the temple plain being below the rim of the great rock edifice of the mountainside, known as The Wall. He could see the sheer dark sides of The Wall though. A steep foothill that became an almost sheer and forbidding black cliff beyond, it was too steep to climb, although an elaborate pulley system manned by an army of slaves would be used to lift nobles quickly to the temple plateau tomorrow. Even so, it took time, and the lifting platform could only take two or three people at once. Cian would normally prefer to walk up the mountain, but with Bran competing, he would be expected to ride The Wall's lift.

"Cian, welcome," a familiar voice rang out and Bran's father turned to face the King of Isles, Octavius Aquila. Cian nodded his head deferentially, but Octavius strode over, seized his arm and held it.

"Come inside, my friend, we have much to discuss."

And so Bran's father followed the head of House Aquila, and King of the Isles for at least one more day, into the palace.

Wil

Later that night Wil woke up with a cry, and sat up. He was sweating, his heart was pounding. He had been dreaming a jumble of confused dreams about slaves rebelling, of fighting, of an escape… and then he had pulled on a tunic and Horjock, in his anger, had sent a huge fireball that had engulfed him in flame.

He looked around wildly, and saw that Nikki and Caris were already up, and they had been joined by others. There were men here, all commoners, but they had weapons and they were clearly preparing to use them. Other men were pushing boats into the water, and helping their comrades into them.

"Bad dream?" Caris asked him, and Wil looked at her silently. She looked back and shrugged. "Never mind. Come on, we are sailing around the island now. Tonight is the night."

Wil did not need to ask what that meant. He got up, realised he was still shaking, and walked unsteadily to a boat. The activity hardly calmed his fears. Tonight was the night? The attack was happening now? What if it all went wrong? What terrible future awaited them if the attack failed? Had his dream been an omen? Or was it just his fear talking.

The ground beneath his feet shuddered ever so slightly. A tiny tremor, not unusual. The kind of tremor that you would feel several times each year. He would have thought nothing of it but for where his thoughts had just been leading him. Now he wondered if that too was an omen.

Wordlessly he climbed onto a boat and watched the inky dark land drop away as they sailed out into the inner sea and eastwards towards the Capitol dock on the other side of the island.

An hour later the men had eschewed the dock itself and grounded all along the beach. From there they were swarming up the black glass sands towards the town and the grounds of the palace itself. Wil's boat was one of the last to land, and he saw the dark wave moving like a swarm of insects, quickly, quietly, bringing death in its wake.

By the time they landed on the beach the first cries of battle had sounded, and then all hell broke loose as the Capitol of the Kingdom of the Isles woke up to find itself under attack by a huge mass of people, commoners and slaves, all swarming towards the palace. Wil ran to follow the mob, even though he had no weapon, and even though there was little he could do if he had one. He had to see. He had to know what was happening.

He looked skywards, towards the mountain, but Horjock sent no fireballs, and the only fires he saw were the ones lit by the attackers as they surged forward.

Nikki and his father headed for the slave quarter, no doubt to free yet more slaves, and Wil followed them.

Bran

Bran awoke in the night smelling smoke. He sat up in the stable, and looked out through the narrow window of his locked cell. He saw flames and then heard shouts. People were running, but not towards the flames to fight the fire as you would expect. He saw dark figures silhouetted against the amber glow. There were more shouts and then the crash of metal on metal, a grunt, a scream.

He watched in growing fascination and horror as more figures ran, some chasing others. One raised a blade above his head and when it fell Bran saw who screamed this time, as a man fell to the ground, writhing.

The cell door rattled and Bran turned in alarm to face it. He felt all the blood drain from his face as he wondered if someone had come to kill him. He backed up into a corner of the cell.

The door flew open and a man and a boy a few years older than him were looking back at him.

"Join us," the boy said, but the man was already shaking his head, raising his blade.

"Not this one. This one is an indentured noble boy. Look at his collar."

The boy looked and his eyes widened a little. Bran backed further up against the wall. They were going to kill him.

"What's going on?" he asked. The question felt stupid, but as long as he was talking, they were not killing him.

"The rebellion. Your lot are done," the boy said, his voice dripping with vehemence made stronger by the realisation of his mistake.

"There is no time for this, Nikki, take Wil and get out now. I will deal with him."

The boy started to turn towards another shadow in the doorway.

"No, wait," Bran said, holding up his hands as though he could show somehow that he meant no harm – as if, he thought, he could do any harm in this position anyway? He looked at the boy directly. "I want to join you."

"Liar!" the man snarled. "Typical Aramat scum. You would do anything to save your skin."

"No, it's true. Please! I want to help you. I hate the houses. I hate Aramat. I am not even one of them. Not really!"

Bran had never admitted before that he was not a true son of Aramat, but he knew that right now he had just seconds to convince this man not to kill him. He tried to make his story sound convincing, but he thought the man perhaps had his measure after all. He would say anything to stay alive, wouldn't he?

That might be true but there was also a year of simmering resentment at the abandonment by his house, and the knowledge that they did not really see him as one of them, that they had been content to sacrifice him as a whore. His own father had fucked him. There was also his utter hatred of Karl and all of House Trettien, and he had no reason to care for any other house either.

Was he just speaking from his terror, was he lying? How many times had he lain in a cell at night and considered thrusting a knife through Karl Trettien's heart?

"You wear an Aramat collar. You are the failed brat from last year's race, no?" the man snarled, and the boy, Nikki, watched on wide eyed. Now a third figure came into view. A familiar figure although he was leaner and a little taller than when Bran had last seen him, being led naked down the mountain. Wil, the boy from House Lapin who had been made a Kawabata slave. Bran's eyes flickered in recognition and Wil looked back impassively.

"Yes… I ran for Aramat," Bran answered the man, "but I am not one of them. I never was. I was just raised to run the race."

"What nonsense is this? Nikki, Wil, get out or stay and watch, this is not going to be pleasant."

Bran cowered back in the corner. He shivered and looked at the other boy whose eyes were wide and staring. Nikki was going nowhere. The man advanced into the room and raised a sword above his head. Bran uselessly raised his hands to protect himself, and closed his eyes.

"My real name isn't Bran Aramat. I am not an Aramat, I am not one of them… please…"

Bran kept his eyes shut, but the fall of the blade did not come. He cowered in his corner trembling, and when he finally opened his eyes, Wil had a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Tal," Wil said, his voice barely a whisper and Bran supposed he had already whispered the word once. A whispered word and the man had frozen ready to strike, and now was lowering his sword and looking at Wil, his face screwed up in confusion.

"What did you say?"

"I had a message for this moment. I did not see it until now. I did not understand it. I thought maybe I missed it… thought it referred to me… on the day I was broken out from the slave shed… but…" Wil began to explain. "But here we are on the night of fire and death and there is the one who denies who he is. The word is Tal… I don't know what it means, but I had to say it. I had to say it right now."

"You don't know what it means?"

Wil shrugged. "The man spoke in riddles. I thought he was mad. I thought he was wrong.

When I was made a slave, I did not think he could have spoken truly because he said I would be under Horjock's curse for one year only… but today… today I am free, one year on, very nearly.

He spoke true, and he gave me this word to speak at the right moment. The moment is now, but I don't understand it."

"The High Priest of The Lower Temple gave you this word?"

"The temple in the swamp. I didn't think anyone knew about it."

"Few enough remember, but yes, if he gave you that word, then Tal… is him," said the man pointing at Bran. "And to think I nearly killed him."

Bran looked from one to the other, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"If he is Tal, then he needs to go to the temple. Wil, Nikki, you must take him there. We can send other slaves with you to keep you safe."

"The temple of Horjock?" Bran asked, finding his voice, although it was shaky. "Where you listening to nothing? The Lower Temple. The Temple of D'lan. Wil was to go there – that was always the plan – but now, now he must take you too.

"Now get up. Follow us. If you are lying about who you are, you will wish very much that I had killed you quickly."

Bran followed Wil, the man and boy out of the cell and found many other slaves being led outside too. There were other men there, and one pointed to Bran's collar.

"He is with us," was the only reply.

And then Bran saw Karl being pulled from the loft he slept in, dragged by his hair, screaming, kicking and cursing.

"What about this one?" one of the men asked. "Kill him."

"No, wait," Bran said, not sure why he had spoken. What did he care if they killed Karl? One Trettien fewer made the world a little better.

"You are not telling me he is not a Trettien, are you boy?"

Bran looked at Karl and shook his head slowly.

"He is a Trettien alright… but I want to be the one to kill him."

The man looked for a moment into Bran's eyes, as though trying to read his soul. Bran, for his part, thought of all the ways he had wanted to hurt Karl for so long. He looked at the struggling Trettien boy with undisguised hatred, and that seemed to convince the men.

With a laugh, one man smashed a club of wood against the boy's head with a sickening crack. Karl crumpled to the ground, and then was hefted up and thrown into the very same cart that Bran had brought here earlier that day.

"He is your problem now. You take him with you, and if he causes a problem, we hold you responsible. Understood?"

***

There was a shout of triumph coming from the palace gateway and then a surge of people. Outside the palace wall a group of big and burly ex-slaves mingled with commoners as they had been battering away at the gates with a battering ram improvised from a tree trunk, and now there had been a great splintering crash as the ram finally penetrated the gateway.

At once the rebel army had surged into the gap, although the first ones through were felled by a volley of arrows. Wil could hardly make out what was happening, watching from his position across the market square from the palace. All he could really make out was the great mass of people, many of them naked, although many of the slaves had buckled on bits of armour they had stripped from the Aquila guards who had fallen before them, so they were a weird assortment of semi naked figures with a bracer here or a buckler there. Some had swords, some spears but most just had bits of wood or pots or anything else that came to hand as makeshift cudgels and weapons.

It was a disorganised and poorly equipped force for an assault on the palace, but the weight of numbers was clearly enough as the one thing Wil could see was the way the people surged through the gates, and then the arrows stopped flying, and screams came from deeper and deeper in the palace, until at last there was just cheering.

Directly in front of Wil, a slave disarmed an Aquila guard and brought him crashing to his knees in front of Caris' father. The man brought his sword down with a mighty sweep and cleaved the man's skull.

Wil hardly had time to flinch, before it was over and then the men were pressing forward again, and guard after guard met the same fate.

Soon enough news filtered back out into the market square.

"We have won! The king is dead!"

And a short while after that the body of the King of the Isles was being dragged out into the market square itself where someone used a sword to cut his head from his corpse and push it onto the end of a spear. The severed head was raised up for all to see and there was a great cheer.

The rebellion had succeeded. The king was dead!

Wil turned to Bran, his face breaking into a grin, his hand pumping the air. "We did it. The king is dead! The republic is born."

Bran looked on, his face a picture of an internal conflict, and Wil frowned. He had supposed that Bran would feel the same as him, but it was clear that the boy did not. At least not entirely, and now he considered it, he could see why. Both boys had been screwed by the system, but Wil doubly so. He had been a noble and made a slave, and then he had been demoted for no reason, fucked repeatedly until he could take no more and sent out to work in the fields where he could be punished just for speaking or for collapsing from exhaustion. He had suffered more whippings than he could remember, and had long since lost count of how many men had emptied their cum into his butt.

He had supposed Bran had suffered much the same, but of course Bran still wore his collar made from his house colours. He may have had a bad year but it was over and he was about to go back to being a noble.

Except for the prophecy. Except that he had denied he even was a noble. Wil had assumed that Bran was one of them, but now he was not so sure.

"It is a good thing. The end of slavery. We are all going to be equal now," Wil shouted to Bran over the roar of the crowd. It was hard to hear anything, and Bran's reply was lost in the noise, but he smiled and nodded. There was a tear in his eye though, and Wil did not know if it was joy or sadness.

Caris' father was fighting his way over to them, his hands bloodied, and his face showing a nasty gash below his ear with dark blood congealing on it. He fetched Nikki who was standing nearby and brought him over to where Wil stood with Bran.

"Nikki, I want you to take these three out of the town," he said, indicating Wil, Bran and the unconscious and bound form of Karl slumped over a hand cart that they had used to drag him here. "You will find Caris on the coast road with a few others. You are to take it to the swamp. Wil will guide you. He knows where to go."

"What about you?" the boy asked, looking at his father with obvious concern in his eyes. "My place is here. We are close now, so close. The palace is fallen but we must form ourselves up into a proper army, and consolidate the gains. Aquila has fallen, and many nobles died with them, but the other houses, weak as they may be, will try to counter attack. We must be ready for them."

"I want to stay here with you. I can fight," Nikki complained, and Wil found himself nodding. If this was where the fight was to be, then this was where he wanted to be too.

"No, do as I say. We need you in the temple. There are others with Caris, and the temple too must fall. If we have the priests at our back then the houses will use them against us. If we leave it any longer then they will be reinforced and we will never defeat them. The temple is a stronghold, and there is a prophecy too. The temple is the key – we need to take it and quickly, while we have the surprise, and that is why we need Wil. You must take the ancient stairway – the one that leads into the heart of the temple itself."

"The stairway is broken…" Wil objected but the man waved his objection away. "Just lead them to The Lower Temple, Wil," the man replied. "And make sure Tal is with you. Tal must go with you to the temple. That is vitally important. If Tal is not there, Horjock will not fall."

"…"

"There is no time to argue. Take them to The Lower Temple, and then all will become clear," he shouted before turning away and heading back towards the palace where more and more bodies of the men of House Aquila were being stripped of weapons and armour and piled up in the market square.

Chapter Twenty One

Bran

IT was still dark but the coming dawn had turned the sky an inky blue-grey, and the clouds had turned pink. Bran dragged the cart that still held the unconscious Karl. Well, no longer unconscious. He was groaning and had thrown up, and then seemed to fall asleep again. Bran was tempted to let go of the cart and pull him out and wake him up. He was done with carting Karl Trettien around. He had just witnessed a s slave rebellion, and what looked like the slaughter of many of the nobles from the great houses. The world had changed, so why did he still act like he was Trettien livestock?

Every time he thought about it, however, he wanted to push the thought away.

Terrible as his life had been this last year, he could not push away the terrible sense of unease at what he had seen. The noble houses attacked by commoners and slaves? How many had died? What about his relatives in House Aquila? How many of them had been killed?

And what of the repercussions? There had been euphoria among the slaves and commoners, and he could see it still in Wil's eyes and the faces of his other travelling companions, but could such a rebellion stand against the anger of the noble houses now? The slaves had numbers, but the noble houses had weapons, armour and provisions. How could these people hope to win? What did the temple have to do with it, and what was his part in this? Why had the man who had nearly killed him look at him almost reverently after Wil had called him Tal?

They had met up with Caris and the others, and their band was now fourteen strong, including himself and Karl. The others were a ragtag mix of fishermen, and commoner boys and young men from the Capitol Island itself and a few slaves, including Wil. They seemed wary of him, and especially of Karl, and walked quickly, making it all Bran could do to keep up. Eventually though, Nikki and Caris dropped back and Nikki set a hand to the cart to help Bran pull it.

Bran looked at him gratefully and Nikki nodded. "Why did you save him?" Caris asked, looking at Karl.

"Like I said, I want to be…"

"Yes, yes, you want to kill him," she finished for him and looked in his direction, and in the half light he could see a crooked smile, like she was amused by the answer, or perhaps because she just did not believe it. Bran thought about protesting, but instead chose just to change the subject.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked. Caris' smile became a frown, but when she did not answer, he persisted. "Why risk your lives for a bunch of slaves?"

Wil seemed to hear that. He turned his head from where he was walking further ahead, and then he slowed his pace, allowing Bran to catch him up. Caris, meanwhile was silent for a while, but eventually she looked at him, and gave a long sigh.

"Last year, you remember the Great Race?" she asked, at last. Bran gave a half laugh, barely a snort, as he thought back to it.

"I would hardly forget it," he said.

"There was one boy there I hated more than any of you. Don't get me wrong," she added quickly, looking at Bran and then at Wil. "I hated all of you. But Nino Kawabata was the worst. I wanted him to lose. I wanted him to lose badly."

"Sure, and he did lose. Karl there killed him," Bran said, and then thought that was perhaps the wrong thing to say. He did not want her thinking that Karl's actions had done her any favours, although she quickly laid that fear to rest.

"Yes, but more is the pity he did not fall and die too. Still, when news came that he fell… I was pleased. We were pleased. Me, my little brother, Taran, and my cousin, Lewis." Bran noticed that Caris caught her breath when she said that name.

"The place where he fell, it is on the south of the island, and can only be easily reached from the sea. The racers were already on the mountain, of course, and it was a festival day, so no one was at sea. My uncle's boat was there in the harbour, and… well we had this idea. We wanted to go find the body. We were going to be there first, before anyone else got to it.

"So we took the boat, and we sailed around the island. We landed on the south side, and then hiked to the spot where the cliff falls to the sea. It is further from the sea than you think. It took us a long time, but still we were there before sundown. You know they send the slaves out to retrieve the bodies and the losers at sundown?"

Wil snorted and Bran looked at him. Well, yes, of course Wil knew. Bran remembered how he had been brought back to the temple in ignominy.

"When we finally found the body… it was not like I expected," Caris went on. "I thought I would look at him and be glad. I told myself I was happy he had died, but… he was all broken. It was… ugly. His head was mashed and he had soiled himself. Those house colours he was wearing… we were going to take them as a trophy, and leave him naked like a slave. Only when I saw them… when I smelled him… I couldn't go near him."

Everyone was silent for a while as they walked on. Bran imagined what Nino looked like, dead in a mess of piss and shit. He shivered.

"I went back to the boat. Taran came too, but Lewis… he said he was going to do what he came for. When we looked back, he was peeing on Nino's body. And then we saw people coming. Not slaves at all, but two Kawabata nobles coming from the cliff. They must have climbed down from the path.

"I shouted to Lewis and then we all ran. And then I heard a scream, and I looked back and one of the Nobles had Lewis and was holding him. He was still holding Nino's soiled house colours, and kicking and screaming.

"I wanted to go back and help, but what could I do? Taran and I ran on to the boat and we pushed out to sea.

The nobles didn't try to chase us further, but when we looked back they had already stripped Lewis. They had made him a slave."

Bran listened to the tale with a mixture of sadness and revulsion. It had been a stupid thing to do, of course, but he knew what it meant to be made a slave now. The silence grew for a while, and Bran saw Caris rubbing her eyes, and in the pre-dawn light he thought he could see the glistening tracks of tears. When she finally spoke again her voice wobbled.

"My cousin was made a slave on Kawabata Island and it was my fault. I was the one who suggested it. And the worst thing was… when my uncle found out, he cried like a baby, but he didn't hit me. I wanted him to punish me, but he didn't. He just held me and cried because he said it was like Lewis had died – he would never see him again.

"It was after that that the People of the Sea first contacted my uncle."

"People of the Sea?" Bran asked.

"The dispossessed, the cursed of Horjock. All those who hate the God of Fire. They have always been here, but their numbers have been growing. The noble houses have been taking more and more slaves. Every time a commoner is stripped naked and taken into service it sends a message. So many people have lost someone to slavery. You have no idea about the constant fear of it. It is not just the nobles either. Sometimes gangs of drunks attack a woman in the dark and leave her naked, and you know what happens? She is found naked and in the morning she is sold. Even boys sometimes suffer that.

"You wonder why commoners will fight for slaves? Because those slaves are our cousins, our brothers and sisters, our parents… they are us."

Bran chewed this over for a while. It was Wil who broke the silence.

"Lewis was a slave on Kawabata… were you looking for him when you set me free?" Caris did not answer, so eventually Nikki did so for her.

"We have been to Kawabata Island many times this last year. We cannot find Lewis. We are certain he is not a slave in the fields, so we think he must be in household service. We were never able to spy on the households themselves. That would have been suicide."

Wil nodded, apparently satisfied and Bran looked at him. He was thinner than he had been before, but still the same old Wil Lapin, although not a Lapin anymore. Bran wondered whether any of the great houses meant anything anymore. He also wondered if he cared.

"Now then, it's time we got this faker walking," Nikki said and suddenly hauled Karl from the cart, dumping him on the road with a howl. "I know you have been awake the whole time, so now you can walk."

"I am not walking anywhere," Karl retorted, but Nikki lifted him by his collar and then pushed him forward.

"You walk or I put a knife through your gut. I don't care which," he growled.

Karl's face looked like thunder but he started to walk and Bran gladly left the hated cart behind.

Chapter Twenty Two

BRAN watched Wil carefully as the former Lapin champion turned slave picked his way through the swamp for the second time in his life. He had not been there the first time, but it was hard to imagine that Wil was any more scared then than now. Bran knew the story – everyone did. When Wil had been stripped and humiliated, disowned by his house and made a life slave, the High Priestess herself had told everyone the story of how he had hid himself in a tree in fear of his life, and she had also told how slaves had gone into the swamp and died.

House Lapin had been doubly shamed for sending slaves to help their champion in contravention of the Great Law, and also in that the death of a slave had still not been enough for the pathetic Lapin coward to complete the race on time.

So yes, Wil had seen what the crocodiles could do, and in the grey dawn light he paused and peered long and hard at every grey shadow, no doubt fearing death would come running towards them all. That was not a comforting thought to Bran, as he watched the boy ahead of him. What did comfort him was the thought that if death came from the front, Wil stood between it and him.

It also helped that Karl was conscious now, and that they did not have to carry him. If death came from behind, then Bran would gladly sacrifice Karl, and he would have more energy now to run. It helped, but it did not help much because Karl was recalcitrant and still groggy from the blow to his head, and that was a bad combination that was slowing them all down. Bran regretted saving him already, despite his potential usefulness as crocodile fodder. Karl kept up a constant stream of complaints that Bran answered in shorter and shorter sentences, single words, or lately with a stony silence.

"I am not going any further," Karl said suddenly, and sat down, almost falling over as he did so.

"Fine," Bran growled and he pulled at some vines, uprooting them as they were tough and resisted breaking. He wound these around the trunk of a tree, and then leaned over and started to drag Karl towards the tree.

"What are you doing?" Karl demanded, kicking his feet and resisting, but in his sitting position, Bran was still able to drag him.

"Well if we are leaving you here," Bran replied with a snarl, "then we are going to make sure you can't escape the crocodiles."

"You wouldn't," Karl hissed, but Bran just pulled on the rope and forced Karl's arms behind him, trying to fasten him to the tree. Wil came over to help.

"You can't leave me here to die!" Karl said, trying to struggle free but now Wil came over and with his help, they were beginning to wind the vines around his arms.

"We can't leave you here to run off, raise the alarm and get us all killed either," Bran replied logically enough.

"Fuck it, Brannie! Don't you fucking well leave me here," Karl snarled. "Then get on your feet and start walking."

"I am tired!" Karl whined.

"We are all tired, but if you want to be dead instead, just stay right there. I don't care anymore."

"You never did."

"Right, and that's why I didn't leave you to burn."

"That's why you can't leave me to die either."

"Watch me."

Karl did watch as Bran made the vine rope fast to the tree. The others had already started off deeper into the swamp, and Wil went with them leaving Bran and Karl behind, clearly not caring whether Karl lived or died. Finally Bran saw that Karl believed him, and knew that he really would follow through.

"Fuck it, just let me go, I will come."

"No more complaining?"

"You want miracles?"

"Okay, but no more stopping then, or I swear you will be crocodile poop tomorrow."

Bran untied Karl and the boy reluctantly got up and then the boys ran – or at least walked in a quick fashion – to catch up with the others.

***

Wil was crouching down on the water's edge, pointing at something. The swamp here was more like a series of hummock like islands interspersed with water, and they were wading through stretch after stretch, everyone very wary of the hidden dangers. Bran followed Wil's fingers expecting to see a crocodile, but instead he saw just a line of vegetation. He could make out nothing but green vines, bushes and mossy tree stumps, until all at once he saw what the boy was pointing out.

Lying in the shallows beside the vegetation there was indeed a crocodile, or what was left of one, enmeshed in what looked like a cage of vines, just its head and upper body protruding, its jaw half open, glistening red with blood, and spewing from the mouth were hundreds of bubble like spores, slipping into the water like frog spawn.

As he watched he saw the older boy with them, Nikki, scoop some of the spores out of the water and into a flask. He sealed the lid and stowed the flask before looking around carefully.

There did not appear to be any more crocodiles here, perhaps scared off by the death of this one, but now Nikki was wading into the swamp and then swimming the short distance to the island where the crocodile killing plant grew.

"The yateveo is sated, we won't need to feed it after all," he said, looking at Karl meaningfully. "We should be able to pass it if we are careful. It is said that they can feed multiple times, but are less likely to if they ate recently."

"That," Wil said, his face white, "is hardly reassuring."

"You know the risks. If we go this way, we should be safe. If we take the other route we must contend with crocodiles. The ledge beyond this island will keep us safe from them."

Wil stepped into the water, still muttering and then swam across. Bran pushed Karl. "Come on," he said.

"You want me to go near that?" Karl asked.

"You want me to throw you to it?" Bran countered.

"You couldn't."

"My mother said I could do anything I set my mind to," Bran replied, managing a cheery smile that he did not feel. He did not feel it because he too was terrified of that monster on the island, but also because he had lied. His mother never said any such thing to him. That was something he had heard from Quintus' mother. Not for the first time he wished that he had been born in house Aquila.

One thought kept him going. They were going to the temple, and soon, very soon, he would see Quintus again.

Yes the circumstances would be strained. Being part of a slave rebellion was not exactly how he had intended to see his cousin again, and it would take some explaining for Quintus to come around to it, although Bran was sure he would do so. Quintus would see that the way the slaves were being treated was wrong, the whole system unjust. He would lend his support to … well whatever this was. This new republic, this brave new world.

In any case it would be good to see him again.

***

No one dared speak as they crept past where the yateveo plant lay. Caris led the way, treading lightly but shaking with fear. Bran reflected that true bravery is found in those moments when you act despite your terror, and felt a new measure of respect for the girl.

They all attempted to give the plant a wide berth but it was clear that some of its tendrils lay stretched out in all directions, and twice they had to carefully creep past them. Bran was convinced he saw one stir, but avoided the temptation to run. Running would certainly draw the plant into action, so instead he held his breath and trod lightly past it, all the while in a panic that he would be snatched up by the man-eater.

In the event none of them were, and they reached the safety of the rock ledge beyond the plant, and then continued along the path.

Presently the pathway turned a corner, and Bran gasped as he caught his first sight of the temple that lay down here. Even Karl seemed stunned by the site, and let out a low whistle of appreciation.

They walked towards the temple, and saw that it was not deserted. Standing there, watching them come was a man.

"So you have returned," the man said to Wil as he approached.

"I have," Wil replied. "And it is like you said. I found Tal, and I am free too, just like you said I would be."

"You have been a slave for a year today," the old man replied, "but you remain a slave."

"No, we have won. The king is dead, and all the slaves are free."

The old man looked up the mountain and Wil followed his gaze. It was Bran who said what he supposed they were both thinking.

"We are not free as long as that temple endures," he said. "We are all Horjock's slaves, yes?"

Now the man looked at Bran, and it was as though his eyes were boring into his soul.

Bran gasped, almost feeling like the man had seized him from the inside. It was a physical thing, and Bran felt his heart race with a kind of panic at the power of that stare.

"Tal," was the only word the old man said.

"Tal? Wil called me that too. Is Tal my true name?" he asked. Karl snorted and Bran turned to glare at him.

"Is Tal my true name?" Karl mimicked. "Stop with the mystery shit. You are Bran Aramat, the most miserable traitor your house ever produced. Your father is going to be so ashamed to hear how you spoke lies and treason to save your miserable whore's butt. I wonder what he will do to you when he catches you. I mean… other than fuck you… again."

Bran felt a cold fury inside as he heard Karl's words, and he clenched his fists. With great effort he ignored the Trettien boy.

"Tal, that is the name of one who is pure of heart, the sword who will strike through the heart of Horjock. That may be you, boy. It may be, but prophecy is such a tricky thing. Such a tricky thing."

Bran bit his lip and saw Wil was frowning too. "We have to get to the temple. We have to strike quickly. Will you help us?" Wil asked the man.

"Do you have to?" the man asked by way of reply.

"Yes," Wil answered, and Nikki repeated the word more forcefully.

"Yes, we must strike quickly. We cannot allow the noble houses to counter attack or all will be lost. That was what my father sent us to do. Once the temple falls, slavery will be at an end. All men will be equal."

"Not many of you to attack a temple," the old man replied.

"We are enough," Nikki replied but Bran was not sure. They were enough to defeat the priests, yes, but what about the champions? Wouldn't they fight too? Most of them would be full grown men by now, and there must be very many of them there.

Bran hoped they would not fight, because he would not and could not fight Quintus. "I want your word that the champions won't be harmed," Bran said. Nikki looked at him, anger crossing his face. He started to splutter an angry objection, but the man, or priest, or whoever he was, immediately held up his hand.

"Do not worry, boy. There is a way into the temple, and I shall lead you, and I promise that we will harm no champion by taking that route."

"You promise?" Bran asked.

"I need not say so twice. Now follow me."

Chapter Twenty Three

Cai

CAI shivered as he climbed the mountain road. It was early in the morning and still cool, especially at this height, but the climb was hard work, and the sun was bright and strong, so despite his nakedness, it was not the cold that made him shiver. Rather it was that he recognised this place, and had walked this way a year ago. The memory was a lifetime away, and yet as vivid as yesterday. He recognised the spot where had stopped to puke, and there was a familiar rock shape, there a familiar view of the temple mountain.

He knew where he was going, of course. Alex had explained it all, and then declared that Cai was coming too.

They had landed at the western harbour on the Capitol Island last night and spent the night in an inn there. The western settlement was far less crowded than the eastern one that held the Capitol, and that suited the Neped nobles. Alex's father had set off early, well before first light, for the Capitol, so that he and the other Neped nobles would be there for the start of the Great Race. They would then ride the terrifying lift to the summit in time to see the winners reach there, but Alex was not a Neped lord yet. He was not of age, so he had to make his own way to the summit if he wanted to watch the race winner, and that meant setting out before first light up the mountain.

So when his father had left, Alex had taken Cai, and a few provisions that Cai had carried but they had already finished, and made his way up the mountain path. The western settlement was closer to the mountain path, so they would arrive well ahead of the racers, which was important as the law forbade aiding any of them.

So it was that Cai walked behind Alex as they picked their way along the paths, finding the fork of the ways and then taking the Pilgrim's Path to the summit. Perhaps Alex did not notice how the return to this path one year on affected his slave, but he was very quiet himself. That was not surprising, Cai thought to himself, as Alex's own brother had died in this race a year ago too. Not that either of them intended going anywhere near the swamp where he had died. It was not on the route, and only would be visible from Dead Man's Drop, and they did not need to go there.

They made good time, in part perhaps because they were climbing so early and were high up before the heat of the sun started to sap their strength. They would reach the temple long before any racers, and maybe before many of the nobles would have made the lifted ascent.

Who would win this year? Cai wondered. Which great house would rule for the coming year? Not Morrigan, he knew, because they would have no-one to race. Could this be Neped's year though? That was an exciting thought, and Cai realised he now truly saw himself as Neped. He wanted Alex's house to win, although he doubted the chances of it. Still, if Horjock were a just god, that would be how it would go.

Wil

WIL reached the point he had been at last year, where the steps cut into the mountain fell away, destroyed by the scar that had become Dead Man's Drop.

"From here we have to make our way to the fork of the ways," he announced to the others, and turned to climb the goat path that would lead that way, but before he could go, the old man spoke.

"Nay lad, that is not the way. We must stay on the path to the summit. Only that way can we enter the temple unchallenged."

"And how are we supposed to do that? The path has caved in. There is no way across. "You are a Lapin, but you don't speak like it. You think that the only way to move ahead is to go forwards?"

Wil looked at the man angrily. He was no Lapin anymore. Once he had been, but for the last year he had been a slave, and it was Kawabata's sigil marked into his chest, not Lapin's. Still the rebuke hurt for its implication that he was not thinking as one from his house should think.

But what would his father have said? That a frontal assault is not the only way to win? That networks and trade, contracts and agreements mattered more than who won a crown? Such things applied to government, but not to climbing a path up a mountainside.

Except maybe they did apply. Maybe that was the point. Just as a ship could cross the sea against the wind if it sailed at oblique angles, so too perhaps you could climb this path upwards, if you looked – where? Down maybe?

Wil looked down and saw something. A ledge and on it a bush, nestling in the scar of Dead Man's Drop. He had seen it before, he supposed, and it looked like nothing. Like nothing more than all the other bushes and outcrops on this mountainside, but now he was looking for something else, so he looked more carefully, thoughtfully. Why was that bush growing there?

The scar of Dead Man's Drop was not so very old. The rockfall might have happened thirty, forty, fifty years ago – maybe a little more, but not much more. The rocks were covered in lichen, but the cracks were jagged still, not worn down by the weather.

Was that long enough for soil to build up on a narrow ledge and then shrubbery to grow?

Perhaps, but it was not likely. Nowhere else were there bushes on the scar itself. All the other shrubbery was growing from where the land had fallen away. This bush was in the scar itself. It should not be there.

He pointed to the bush and the man nodded.

"That is the way we must go," and set off at once, picking his way carefully down the slope into the notch. "Take care! If you slip here there is nothing to stop your fall between here, the crocodiles and the bones of the brave and foolish."

Wil followed, and then Nikki and his sister. After that came some of the others. He mulled over the words. The bones of the brave and foolish? Was that a description of them? Would their bones soon rest at the bottom of this cliff ? Wil shivered. Nikki, his sister and Wil made to follow the old man, but before they could, a shout from Karl interrupted them.

Bran

"I am not going down there," Karl declared. "I am not stupid. When we get stuck down there we are all going to die!"

"Suit yourself," Bran replied. "But the alternatives are that I push you off, or we leave you tied up here to starve."

"I can't climb, I can hardly walk straight," Karl complained.

That was true enough, and although Bran considered pushing Karl onwards, to do so did seem little different to just pushing him off the cliff. What was more, if he fell, there was a risk he would take others with him, and there was also the distinct possibility that it would be Karl pushing him off the cliff, given half a chance. Bran knew full well that the boy was capable of it. Eventually he opted to tie the boy to a tree close to the edge, assisted by Wil once more as Karl was no more willing to be tied up than last time.

"I will come back for you," Bran said, turning back to address Karl as Wil and the others began following the old man down the cliff face. Bran said this because it seemed the right thing to say. He said it, but he was not sure if he would. Not really, and certainly not if they all fell to their deaths.

"Don't you fucking well leave me, Brannie!" Karl snarled and then repeated more loudly. "Don't you fucking well leave me!"

But Bran did leave him, climbing down the mountain side to join the others, picking his way very carefully as he went.

"You are all going to die! You hear that? Come back! Come back! don't leave me here!" Bran smiled a grim smile. He supposed if he did die then knowing, in his last seconds, that Karl would die of thirst and exposure on the mountain side too would be some grim consolation.

Wil

Wil stopped on a ledge, half way to the bush below and looked back. The others were following him, and as he paused for breath, most of them moved past, continuing the tricky descent. The old man paused too and seemed to be waiting for something.

"There is something troubling you?" the old man asked. Wil shook his head. It was a lie, but what had been occupying his mind was not really relevant to this moment.

"Tell me," the man said.

Wil sighed and looked around before beginning.

"When I was on Kawabata and I was keeping books, there were large shipments of grain. Kawabata is importing more grain than it should need, by a significant amount."

The priest stopped and looked at Wil for a long time, his expression unreadable. At last he simply nodded.

"Ah," he said. Nothing more but he spoke the word as though releasing air from an animal bladder. He seemed visibly deflated from it.

"Do you know why they are doing that?" Wil asked, his face creasing with the nagging sense of unease that he felt.

"What do you think, boy? Why do they take so much grain?"

Wil frowned but started to speak at once. He had mulled over this for some time, so he had his theories.

"It is not for animals or the slaves. We ate corn meal only. Grain is more costly and you use it for wheat bread. Maybe a few higher up slaves get that bread but that does not explain it.

So maybe they store it, only that does not make much sense. Why store so much? And where are the grain stores? I suppose they could be storing it for some reason, but more likely they are eating it or trading it on."

"Trading it on?"

"You know – buy the grain when it is cheap and abundant, store it until there is a shortage and then sell it six months later for a profit."

"Spoken like a true Lapin," the priest said, "but not like a noble of Kawabata. They do not think that way. Tell me, did you see any sign of them selling on at a profit?"

"I was not there for long enough, but nothing else makes sense," Wil said, crossing his arms.

"And you discounted that they eat it?"

"There was too much. I mean, Kawabata cannot have more than a hundred people in the whole house, can they?"

"Again, you speak like a Lapin. Only one house is bigger now than it was fifty years ago. They say House Lapin breed like rabbits. It is a bit of a joke with them you see? But no, there are not nearly one hundred nobles in House Kawabata. The fever, and the cataclysm, and so much more has seen their number decimated, as has happened in five other houses. There are no more than fifty left in the whole of House Kawabata, not counting infants.

"They are dying. All the houses are dying, indeed they are dead already. They just do not know it yet."

Wil took this in, but one unfamiliar word struck him. Unfamiliar, or had he heard it mentioned before, albeit in hushed tones by adults thinking the children were asleep in bed?

"The cataclysm?" he asked, and he could see a shadow of a smile on the priest's face, like a teacher whose student had just given the right answer, or perhaps had just asked the right question.

"Do you know why it is that no one over twelve runs the Great Race?" the man asked.

"Do you ever just answer a question?"

"Would you think so hard if I did?"

Wil frowned again and then shook his head, in answer to both questions. "There are things that you are not told. Things the commoners do not know, although they have their legends. Things the slaves never know either. But on your majority – on the day you are welcomed into the ranks of the nobility, and assuming you make it that far," he said, looking pointedly at Wil in a way that made the once noble boy squirm, "you learn many things. You learn, and the knowledge changes you. You learn and you become one of them – truly one of them at last."

"And the cataclysm…"

"Is one of many secrets, yes."

"So why are you telling me about it?" Wil asked. "If it is such a secret, how do you know it, and why tell me when I am not a noble anymore?"

"I am not telling you," the old man said, "I am telling Tal."

Wil paused, thoughtful. He could see Bran stood nearby, having caught up a while ago. He was listening quietly, clearly interested. He glared at Bran and then looked away. Who was Bran that people seemed to set so much store in him? So many secrets. He returned to the one that had troubled him for the longest.

"And so the grain… is that one of the secrets?"

The man gave a grim laugh, although it seemed to lack genuine mirth.

"Well there is a secret, yes. A secret that every Kawabata noble no doubt knows. I doubt that the other houses know it though."

"That they are a bunch of fat bastards who eat ten times more grain than anyone else?"

"Could it be," the man asked after a short pause, "that there is anyone else on the island?"

"You just said there were only fifty…"

"Fifty nobles, yes."

"Kawabata has no free commoners on the island," Wil said, saying what everyone knew, but he remembered something then. He had asked that very question of 872. Was there anyone else on the island?

He remembered 872's face as he had asked the question. A change had seemed to come over him, like a cloud blocking out the sun. His eyes had briefly widened, and then he had frowned and shaken his head.

He had been hiding something. He knew something. The answer to that question… was not ‘no'.

Wil looked at the old man who looked back at him and nodded.

"But why?" he asked, but at that moment there was a shout from the people who had gone ahead.

Bran

"It's a tunnel?" Bran said, awe and fear in his voice. Behind the bush there was a hole in the ground, barely large enough to crawl into. How was the old man going to manage that? It was dark, but air flowed from it and as he move closer he could hear gulls crying, their voices carried along the length of the tunnel.

"Where does it lead to?"

The old man pointed upwards and Bran squinted up the side of the cliff, all the way to the summit of the hot mountain.

"Who built it?"

"The tunnel has always been here.

There are hollows and voids in the mountain, and this was one of them. It was such a void that caused this part of the cliff to collapse."

"And it goes conveniently up to there?"

"Well, some parts were remodelled, when this entrance was reinforced. You will see."

And see they did. They squeezed through the narrow opening but almost at once the void opened into a cavern. There was grey light seeping in from above and a little from the opening, but barely enough to see anything. Nevertheless Bran could just make out wooden boards and rope.

"Take the rope, it guides the path," the old man said, "and again watch your step."

The tunnel climbed up through the cavern and then the sides pressed in again so that Bran banged his head and then his elbows, and increasingly walked at a squat. Yelps from others told him they too had found the sides pressing in on them.

It was not a long climb though before they came out into open air again, close to the stair way. The old man lost no time in setting off upwards once more.

It was stifling hot in the chamber, and Bran breathed quickly in short breaths. The air seemed to burn and choke him. It smelled heavily of brimstone, and he was worried that it was becoming unbreathable.

His body was bathed in sweat.

"The… temple…" said the priest, his words coming in gasps that showed he was suffering the same effects, "is built over… this hollow. It… looks flat… from the plain, but… there is a hot crater… beneath…. It is the forge… of Horjock…

"We are… climbing his forge… now… Do not stop, for that… is death. But no-one… will expect… death from this… quarter."

Bran's feet were burning, and he thought his lungs were on fire. He could well believe this was Horjock's forge, and he looked around in the near darkness, fearful that he would see Horjock's fiery hand reach out to snuff out his life.

No one else was talking, but he thought maybe someone was crying in the darkness. Bran pretended he had not heard the sound, and climbed wearily and painfully upwards.

The priest was right. No one would expect an attack from here, because an attack from here was suicidal! Bran shuddered in the dark, and tried to hold in a whimper of terror as he soldiered on.

Only slowly did he realise that as they climbed higher the air was becoming less stifling. His feet were blistered and sore, but he thought the rock hewn steps were less hot now, and he thought perhaps he could even feel a breath of cool air as they painfully made their way towards the grey light above.

***

When at last they emerged from Horjock's fiery heart, they fell on the temple quickly. So quickly that the fighting was in full swing and nearing its end before Bran even emerged from the tunnel.

Just as they had done in the city before, they set fires and then used the confusion and panic as flames spread through temple corridors to kill anyone who would stand in their way. Priests fleeing the flames in confusion fell unprepared on the swords of the attackers.

There was little resistance. There were few enough priests in the temple, and they were unarmed but for a few ceremonial knives that some had found. There were a few temple guards but they were all dead within the first minutes of fighting, succumbing to the surprise of being attacked from within as the temple started to burn.

By the time Bran entered the temple from the chambers that lay below it, a few priests and the High Priestess were being led out into the temple square, hands raised in surrender.

"We have to stop the fire before it spreads," Bran said in alarm. "What about the race victors? Quintus is in there, and Rixon. You can't burn it down. Please, you have to save them! They are my friends. You promised they would not be harmed."

"Tal… Bran," said the old man, his voice quiet and sad, "I promised we would not harm them, yes. Come with me. You have something to see."

Bran followed the old man to a huge pair of doors.

"This is the inner sanctum of the temple," he said and then pushed hard on the giant doors. "Your friends are in there."

Chapter Twenty Four

Bran – present

"THIS is the inner sanctum of the temple," he said and then pushed hard on the doors. "Your friends are in there."

The doors were huge and massively heavy, but they sat on well oiled hinges and moved slowly under the man's weight. As they opened, Bran saw into the inner sanctum for the first time, and what he saw there made him stop, stare in horror, in terror, in anger. He did not want to look. He did not want to see anymore. He closed his eyes, dropped to his knees.

No. No, it could not be.

Quintus – A Year Ago

"This way," the High priestess instructed, on the day a year earlier when Quintus walked into the temple. She led the boy towards a second set of doors leading to the inner sanctum of the temple, the altar of Horjock. Quintus followed, and stammered out a question he had been wanting to ask, but that had not seemed appropriate until now when they were, more or less, in private.

"When will I meet the other champions? When can I see Rixon?"

"They are waiting for you beyond that door," the priestess said, her voice not unkind, but guarded, as though something were being left unspoken. Quintus frowned, but nodded, quickened his pace. He wanted to see Rixon again. He needed the reassurance of his old friend.

Quintus walked through the second doorway, still flanked by the two priests, and as he did so, he stopped in shock. He blinked in the murky light, unsure of what he was looking at, or perhaps he just did not want to be sure. There, against the wall was a mummified body, but the head was not mummified. Instead it had been embalmed to preserve it. There, looking at him with terrified false eyes made of glass, and a mouth open in an eternal scream, was Rixon's mummified body, and beside him another boy and another, in a long line that stretched around the edge of the circular temple chamber. The only other thing in the whole chamber was the altar, a stone dais in the very centre of the room, and on the altar were four silver rings from which hung four silver chains and shackles.

"What is…" Quintus asked in terror, as his mind filled in the answer to his unformed question. The priests held him now by the arms, expecting Quintus to struggle, to make a run for it. Quintus obliged, even though he did not know where he could run too. He struggled and kicked out, but the priests expected that and easily manhandled the ten year old boy to the altar, where the High Priestess began to remove his victor's robes, and then, to his acute embarrassment, also removed his house coloured shorts, leaving him as naked as the slaves he had just stripped.

"Let me go! Let me go," Quintus screamed, but the priests did not let him go. Instead they fastened his arms and then his legs into the chain restraints, fastening him face down across the altar, before pulling them taught.

"You know, do you not, that you are given to Horjock? That the Champion of the Isles is his servant for life?"

Quintus knew that but he was in no conversational mood. He struggled against the restraints.

"Let me go!" he repeated, his voice now holding a plaintive note.

"You knew you would be his servant for life. You just did not know that your life would not last beyond nightfall tonight. You are greatly honoured, boy, for only the greatest champions of our people are given in sacrifice to the great god, Horjock. Only the greatest and best of us will go to him as slaves.

"I am not a slave!" Quintus screamed angrily, again shaking his restraints violently. "You are all slaves. Every one of the seven champions is a slave from the moment they are chosen, and indeed that is ordained for them since the beginning of time. All that the race does is allow you to choose your master.

"Today you have gained the right to serve the greatest master of them all. You will be greater than any priest. You will be a personal attendant of Horjock for all eternity. You are greatly blessed, so calm yourself and accept your fate."

"I don't want to die!" Quintus squealed, sobbing now. "Please, please don't let me die."

"Calm yourself boy." said a priest, holding his head. "The ceremony begins soon, and it would be a shame to be forced to gag you. Those who are gagged in their last moments will serve Horjock gagged in the afterlife. Be brave now, and it will go better for you."

They left him then, and Quintus sobbed, still struggling against his restraints until his arms and ankles were chaffed and raw, but there was no escaping the altar. Eventually he stopped struggling, and just wept.

Had his father known of this? Was that why he had looked the way he did?

The answer to that came soon enough when the house elders of House Aquila walked quietly into the room, his father among them. Quintus saw his father and tried to say something, to beg to be released, to tell his father that this must not happen, but he could say nothing with the gag in.

He could not see all the elders now as they arrayed themselves around the altar, but he did see them all removing their clothes, although each kept an armband on, their house colours prominent so that they were not completely naked. Not naked like he was. Not naked like a slave.

And then the priests and High Priestess entered, and as if on an unspoken order, the King of the Isles, Octavius, came up behind Quintus' open legs, and Quintus felt something push against his butt. Surely that could not be…

Octavius thrust his hips forward and his penis penetrated the boy's virgin butt hole.

Quintus screamed in pain and terror as his sphincter tore open and the King of the Isles began to fuck him.

"I, Octavius, King of the Isles, give my seed to your servant, oh Horjock. Save us from your fire of destruction. Keep us safe this year. Take our sacrifice and be pleased oh greatest of gods, Horjock the god of flame." The king intoned the words and all around the house elders and priests muttered their agreement, and Quintus' body rocked under the onslaught as he was fucked by his king in front of the men he had always looked up to and respected.

The king suddenly gasped and thrust once more, harder than before, holding his body forward as he moaned, releasing his seed inside Quintus' virgin boy hole. Quintus sobbed as he took the man's load inside him, unable to resist and unsure why his own small and hairless cock was itself stiff under the onslaught.

The king withdrew his cock from Quintus' bloodied hole, but his ordeal was not done yet. Now his father stepped forward and repeated the rape. Quintus felt his father's hands on his hips. Hands he had known all his life, but now holding him in a way he had never imagined. He sobbed, ashamed and angry, as his father penetrated him and repeated the rape.

"I, Gaius, father of The Champion of the Isles, give my seed to your servant, Oh Horjock. Spare us from the fires of destruction. Keep us safe this year. Take our sacrifice and be pleased, oh greatest of gods, Horjock, the obsidian god."

Quintus sobbed as his father fucked him, and felt a wave of nausea and disgust as his father's seed was pumped inside him in an orgasm that he could tell his father enjoyed, despite the sadness that had been in his voice as he intoned the words.

Each elder in turn fucked him after that, and each time the pain became worse, soreness giving way to heavy bleeding as his hole was ravaged again and again.

When they were all done, the priests stepped forward and the high priestess picked up a ceremonial dagger. They unfastened the shocked and ravaged boy and turned him over on the altar, refastening him face up.

Quintus looked around in shock at the circle of men, each of whom had just fucked him. He knew time was short, but now the pain in his butt was so great, the humiliation so deep, that he no longer feared death as he had done earlier. He was resigned now, and just looked at the high priestess as though to say, get it over with.

The high priestess did not take long to do just that. The knife flashed and and an incision appeared from his navel to his upper chest. Blood gouted from the wound, and around his chest it seemed to bubble and froth, and at the same time Quintus felt breathless, like he could not breathe at all.

As he watched in terror, the priests each put a hand to his rib cage, one on each side, and they pulled. Quintus screamed, and felt blood froth from his mouth. The pain was incredible, unbearable, and all he could see now was the High Priestess, reaching a hand into the gap between his ribs, and then pulling and tugging at something. He saw her pull his still beating heart free from his chest, and then with tears in his eyes, he saw her take her knife, severing the arteries. There was a brief spray of blood but then the heart came free, still beating in the woman's hands. Quintus blinked and looked in shock at his heart, separated from his body, and for a few brief shocked moments he saw it beat still as it died in her hands.

Before the last heart beat the blood pressure in his brain dropped to nothing and the world turned fuzzy and then black, and Quintus Aquila knew no more.

Bran – Present

Bran's eyes were misted with tears, but even so he could not unsee what he had seen. As he had entered the inner sanctum he had seen a row of mummified corpses around the chamber, each with just a head protruding. The closest one, he saw, was his cousin, his best friend, Quintus.

"Curse you Horjock!" he screamed. "Curse you! Curse you and all who worship you. I hate you. I hate you!"

At last he pulled himself to his feet, and went to the nearest corpse, wrenching it from the wall. It gave way with the sound of cloth ripping. Now he went to another and another, pulling the bodies to the floor, and at last he went to Quintus, smelling the chemicals that preserved his body as he pulled and tugged until the cloth binding that held the boy's body to a stake gave way and the corpse fell to the floor. Bran fell on top of him, buried his head in the boy's hair and sobbed bitterly.

He did not know how long he cried but eventually he sat back against the pillar that had held his cousin this last year. He sat back and looked into the eyes of the old priest, who was still standing there, looking on, his expression sad.

Bran felt cold inside. It was as though an icy hand had reached inside him and squeezed out all warmth from his body. Quintus was dead, lying across his legs, as he sat here in the temple of the boy's killers.

"You knew?" he said, at last. The man nodded sadly and Bran closed his eyes. He wanted to shout, to scream. He wanted to hurt the old man for not telling him. He wanted to hurt those who did this to his friend.

"This killing must end," the priest said, and Bran knew it was so, but what did it matter now? Quintus, Rixon… both were dead. What more did he have in this world? Nothing. It was already too late.

"Curse Horjock," Bran said, and the vehemence of his words was deeper, and truer than ever. "Curse Horjock. Curse him…"

No hand of fire reached out to strike him for his sacrilege, but Bran would not have cared in any case. He would never worship Horjock again. If he could kill the god, he would. Curse Horjock, who had taken the life of his cousin and best friend in all the world. Curse him.

NEXT PART