Hammerhold Tales: Thrallborn

This book is dedicated to Iris.

Thank you for being my inspiration and true love.

HAMMERHOLD TALES:

THRALLBORN

Logan Petty

Illustrated by Iris Griffin

Copyrigh
t©
2014

Chapter One

The first light of morning began to glow along the edges of the sparsely wooded, grassy hills of Grosgur Fells, giving the horizon the appearance of red-hot iron. The shadows of night fled as the sun peeked over the hills. Its appearance caused the sleepy sheep in the farmyard to stir. A thin morning mist had settled in the valley that the farm occupied. It was this daily mist that gave the farm it’s name: Mistveil Farm. The rooster perked up and let loose a triumphant clarion call that announced to everyone that the new day was here.

Sawain watched the entire event unfold from his lofty height. His bare feet dangled from the edge of the barn’s hayloft as he gazed out over the sheep pasture. It was spring, so the little flowers were in full bloom amongst the grass, giving the green carpet a spattering of indigo. The sheep stirring beneath his feet looked like giant balls of cotton or living clouds. He could not decide which. The farmhouse to the left of the pasture glowed in the early morning light. Its glass windows reflected the first rays back into Sawain’s eyes.

The house was not quite a reflection of typical Grosgur Fells architecture. It was a two-story long house made of white stone. The master called it “Marble”. There were no such stones in this region, at least not the parts of it Sawain had actually seen. Windows were also a luxury not common to most of Hammerhold. Only the wealthiest could afford them. The iron gate that ran along the perimeter of the house was high and tipped with barbed prongs. This artifact of war stood in stark contrast to the rest of the luxurious plantation. So did the guard barracks and the eight foot stone wall that encircled the entire farm.

The wall and barracks were made from the gray stone common to the quarries of Grosgur Fells. They were of simple design, with little flash or flare. The wall was a solid, six foot thick barricade that opened via iron portcullis at one point. Along the outer perimeter of the wall, an array of pikes had been set deep in the ground so that their pointed tips protruded at various angles, making a headlong charge on the wall a very bad idea. The walls were patrolled by six of the master’s soldiers at all times. All twenty of them were local upstart heroes and proficient in sword or bow.

Mistveil Farm looked more like a fortress prison than a peaceful farm to the captive-born eyes of Sawain. He stood up from his perch and stretched his long, muscular arms. He may have been half-elf, but he was blessed with the same large, muscular build of his human father. His face and hair were from his mother. His medium-length wavy blonde hair fell over his pointed ears. His emerald eyes brimmed with uncultivated intelligence and ambition. A thin blonde beard covered his chin and lower jaw. He was sixteen and he still could not get his beard to grow out like the other young men, to his shame.

He allowed himself a half smile as he remembered that today was, in fact, his birthday. At least, as far as he could tell, it was. The truth was that he never really knew his actual birthday. It was not a thrall's place to know, but his strongest memories of his mother were of a celebration of his birth around this time when he was very young, so he made this day his birthday every year. Sixteen. In his mother’s culture, he would still be just an infant, not even close to childhood. In his father’s culture, he would now be old enough to wield a sword and become a shieldling. This was one more reason to favor the world of men over the world of elves. Unfortunately for him, his father’s world was one of war that meant glory and honor for the strong and slavery and servitude for the weak.

“Happy birthday, Sawain,” He muttered to himself “One year closer to death.”

Death was another thing that bothered Sawain about his father’s world. The lives of men were so short-lived compared to that of the elves. That was not always the case. It was not for his mother.

Sawain could not allow himself to dwell on the past now. Being a thrall, his mind had to stay focused on the present. Presently, the sun was fully visible in the sky. The master would be down for breakfast soon and Sawain was on milking duty. He had to hurry to get the milk to the house before breakfast or he would be disciplined. He shuddered at the thought as he mentally felt the all too familiar sting of the whip across his back.

He leapt from the loft to the pasture below. He landed on the balls of his feet and immediately bent down in a squat to absorb the shock of the landing. In the same deft movement, he tucked into a roll from his right shoulder to disperse the shockwave of energy and sprung from the roll back to his feet.

He popped up in front of an old billy-goat who did not even twitch from the theatrics put on by the half-elf. Sawain wrinkled his nose at the old goat.

“
I’d like to see you do that, Torval.”

The old goat bleated plaintively as if in response before stooping down to pick at a tempting clump of grass. Sawain dismissed him with a wave. He chuckled to himself when he thought of the old goat's name in relation to his old-goat master. He turned to go into the barn where the nannies were still resting in their stalls. He pulled a stool and wooden bucket up to one of the stalls and opened the door. The nanny inside bleated groggily, looking over her shoulder as Sawain took a seat behind her. He placed the bucket under her and started talking softly to her while he milked.

“Morning, Tess. Looking forward to another day of freedom out in the open highlands? Yeah, me neither. Wouldn’t it be nice though? You know what? It’s my birthday today and I still haven’t made my wish. How about we make a birthday wish together? Maybe it’ll come true this year. I know it’s all kind of silly, but it’s worth a try, right?”

He stopped milking, closed his eyes and placed his hands together.

“Oh gods of the heavens, hear my prayer. Grant me this day a birthday wish. Grant me this day my freedom so that I may pursue a life of adventure under your wide domain.”

He opened his eyes again and looked around him. He was sitting on a worn wooden bench, surrounded by old wooden stalls, in an old wooden barn that smelled like goats and old hay. He sighed to himself.

“Well, Tess, looks like our wish wasn’t granted this year. Sorry, old girl. Maybe next year.”

Sawain finished up the milking and hurried to get the milk back to the house. He was in such a hurry that he kicked the stall closed without latching it. He made his way quickly, but carefully, to the house as the bucket of milk sloshed dangerously at his side. The gate guard at the house, an ugly man with a scabby beard, saw him coming and opened the gate for him.

“Best hurry up, boy, the master’s waiting,” Sawain didn’t say a word or make eye contact with him as he passed, so he did not see him stick his foot out to kick Sawain’s foot out from under him. Sawain had too much momentum already, so when his equilibrium was disturbed, he did not have the time or power to recover it before the milk bucket threw him off farther and sent him crashing to the dirt. He quickly found himself covered in mud and milk. The guard was shaking with laughter as he kicked Sawain in the ribs.

“
Clumsy dog! Get up! Thralls don’t get to take naps in the mud like a swine! No, they’re not good enough!”

Sawain struggled to his feet in the now slick mud, furious. He turned on the guard, anger flaring up in his emerald eyes. The guard glared back, incredulous that a thrall would look at him. He snarled at Sawain as he drew his sword.

“Insolent whelp! How dare you show defiance to a superior?”

Sawain flared up, “You are no superior! You are just trash that my master brought in out of the kindness of his heart. You’re the filth, not me!”

The guard’s demeanor changed to one of rage as he brandished his blade above his head, “You’ll pay for that, cur!”

The guard lashed out at Sawain with the flat of his blade. Sawain closed his eyes hard and waited for the blow. Instead, he felt himself propelled to the left, falling to the dirt again, and heard the loud thwack of metal on flesh and bone. He opened his eyes, shocked that he did not take the blow. He looked up to see his rescuer. Simir, the resident Thrall-father stood face to face with the guard. Blood trickled from the gash under his eye into his dark gray beard. His hazel eyes gleamed fearlessly as he stared down the guard.

“There's no need to punish the boy. It is not your place, guardsman.”

The guard spit in Simir's face and kicked hard at his thigh. The impact brought the older man to his knees.

“Don't tell me my place, thrall! My place is still above you, and I will punish whoever needs punishing!”

The guard swung hard, striking Simir in the side of the face with the hilt of his sword. The Thrall-father did not make a sound as he took the thrashing. Dissatisfied, the guard swung again, striking Simir in the face. Blood trickled from his busted lip and spattered the sack cloth tunic he wore as garb. This sight caused a rage to kindle inside of Sawain. He scrambled to his feet.

“Coward! Leave him alone!”

The guard turned his attention to Sawain.

“You want some more discipline, boy? I'll beat him til he can barely move, then I'll do the same for you!”

“
Enough!” a loud booming voice like the thunder of a war-horn reverberated from the front door of the house.

An older man with a long gray and black beard and fierce blue eyes was standing on the landing. He wore an outfit of bearskin and a wolf-fur cape. He had to step around the puddle of mud to avoid getting it on his hide boots. He surveyed the scene before him with an unsettling calm. He turned his grim face to the guard.

“What is the meaning of this, Hodrik?”

“
Lord Torval, this thrall tripped and spilt milk all over me and the yard! I was simply disciplining him, then this other unruly thrall got in my way.”

“
That’s a lie,” Sawain blurted out. “He tripped me when I was coming through the gate! He’s the one who deserves to be disciplined! And Simir--”

The noble man shot an authoritative glare that stopped the rest of Sawain’s protesting.

“You’ll speak when I ask it of you, thrall. As for you, Hodrik, I am in charge of discipline, not you. If I see you even look at one of my thralls crossly again, I will release you. Sawain, kneel down. Simir, see to your stripes, then make your way to the orchard to help the pickers.”

Sawain's inner rage kindled hotter, but unleashing it on his master would ensure death. Death did not sound so bad, especially since death is all that awaited him anymore, since his last foiled escape attempt left him a marked thrall. He decided to wait.

The least I can do is take him with me when I die.

He knelt before Torval. The old man loosed the leather belt from around his waist and doubled it over.

“Ten lashes for wasting milk, ten lashes for being insubordinate.”

That was his father's way of saying
It could be worse, but I love you.

Love, ha,
Sawain thought to himself as his tunic was pulled off of him. He looked beyond Torval and saw the mistress of the farm, Lady Vera, scowling venomously at him from the doorway.

“
Twenty lashes, Torval? Are you trying to spoil the little wretch? You're being too soft.”

Sawain's stomach dropped. The lady Vera hated him simply for existing. She had tried many times to have him sold or killed, but Torval would not have it. Sawain surmised that he would rather torment him himself. Torval hesitated. Sawain knew that meant he would give into his wife's challenge to his partiality. Torval was easy for his wife to control in all other matters.

“Very well, Lady Vera. Thirty lashes, for speaking out of line to me.”

He raised his belted arm high above his head. Sawain resolved to show no pain or weakness, only fierce defiance. Torval's makeshift lash came down hard on his left shoulder. It stung intensely as it raked across his bare flesh. He did not wince. The lash came down hard again on the same spot, raising a welt. The pain was growing, but Sawain held to his resolution. Blow after blow fell across his shoulders until the welts became lacerations. Blood trickled down his back and arms. The pain was overwhelming, but still he clung to his self-rule. He simply focused on the number of lashes, allowing them to feed his fury, dulling the pain.

Twenty seven. Twenty eight. Twenty nine. Thirty.

When Torval was finished, he tossed Sawain his dirty tunic.

“Go and milk the goats again. When you're done with that, see to the work in the orchard.”

Torval turned and limped back to the doorway. Lady Vera slid to the side, looking pleased at Sawain's thrashing. Once Torval had disappeared into the house, she shot Sawain one last glare that said,
You had it easy this time.
He knew it, too. If she was behind the lash, he would have suffered double.

Sawain redressed himself, grabbed the milk bucket, and pulled himself to his feet. The coarse cloth of his tunic dug into his open wounds, reminding him constantly of the injustices he had to endure. He turned to make his way to the barn and noticed Simir straggling just beyond the fence. The ugly guard who caused the entire scene sneered at Sawain as he walked past.

“Daddy won’t always be around to protect you, cur. Oh, that’s right, he can’t be your daddy, thrall-born. You have no inheritance. Nothing but the grave.”

Sawain’s anger flared again as he gripped the handle of the bucket firmly. He did not slow his pace or act like he acknowledged the guard. He would not give him the satisfaction. Tears of rage and despair ran down his cheeks as he made his way across the grounds. Hodrik was right. His father was the master of a wealthy plantation, yet his only inheritance was a bed of hay in the thrall-house. Simir walked alongside him silently until they were out of the guard's earshot.