Gutterblood 1 - Introductions

The column of wagons wended their way through the darkness quietly. There was little conversation from the grim-faced handlers as they guided their teams, and the passengers huddled fearfully against each other, hardly daring to move lest the chains that bound them rattled and drew the wrath of their captors. Alongside rode men with swords facing out, and others with whips facing in. No one spoke or moved unnecessarily, and silence seemed to follow the column hungrily. The wagon wheels and axles had been greased heavily to avoid squeaking, and even the horses hooves had been muffled with burlap sacking. The ones who led the column knew what a reception they might receive if they were found.
Slavery was not technically illegal in the borderlands, but murder was, and the warriors of the column had killed many in taking these slaves. Their only chance for escape was speed and quiet. The master of the column rode just behind the point, a dark and sullen man with a heavy paunch from indulgence. He hated these trips, not because of any personal distaste for the suffering of others, but rather for the discomfort they invariably brought. However, he had learned long ago not to trust others with such tasks after he had led a similar slaving column for another man, and had seen how many opportunities there were for graft. Perhaps it was surprising in a man who was a slaver by trade, but Abden Carter absolutely detested cheaters.
Pierce Farrell rode in silence next to Carter. Known as ‘Left-hand Pierce’ to the men who worked for him, he was in charge of all of the fighting aspects of the column. He was severely competent at his work, enjoyed the feeling of power he got from seeing those around him humbled, and hated everyone he had ever met. He continued to work for Carter because the work allowed him to bring down those who might otherwise be powerful, but he planned on someday killing his nominal boss, and spent a great deal of time thinking about it. However, the sullen, brooding silence he rode in at this point was firmly focused on another target, one that ran easily along in the point position, with its head swinging from side to side to watch everything around it.
‘Templeton,’ as he was called, was a rare sight in the predominantly human borderlands. His sunken and blood-rimmed white eyes marked him as gutterblood, with a heritage descended from the lost fae of the centerlands. Gutterbloods, despite the intelligence of some of the varieties, had been treated as property and shock troops for hundreds of years, ever since the fae had disappeared. Very few were allowed to leave the military forces, and Carter, at least, considered it quite a coup to have gotten one through his contacts. Pierce, however, was not as pleased. Because of their very rarity, little was known about them in the common populace. And sure, the thing ate less, slept less, and fought harder than any four humans would have. It never yelled in anger like so many of the warriors, (a blustery sort, given to arrogance and loud boasts) because it never spoke, or seemed to get angry at all. And yes, the terror it inspired in the villagers and light mercenary forces they had encountered was worth far more than the mere money they had paid for it. But Pierce had had a chance to see it fight alone against a mercenary squad, and it had shocked him to the core. The thing was faster, stronger, and more ruthless than anything he had ever seen. He considered himself a master of the blade, but he had a shaking suspicion that he would not last long against it. And after the fight was over, and the mercenaries were dead, it crouched down and dipped its ragged reddish-brown hat into their blood. Figuring out what colored the unpleasant-smelling beret was bad enough, but the thing had looked at him while replacing the cap on its head, and it had seemed to be … evaluating him. Only the fact that it had never failed to follow an order immediately and efficiently kept him from asking Carter to destroy it. Besides, he knew Carter saw it as an investment, and Carter disliked not getting full price from any investment. At least so far it had followed orders, he thought, and shuddered.
Behind him watchful eyes saw the shudder, and instantly surmised what caused it. Tendry Alis had been taken as a slave several long years before, and was kept by Carter as a wagon drover after informing on an escape attempt by some of Carter’s other slaves. As far as Tendry was concerned, it was doomed to fail anyway, and besides; he hadn’t been invited. He was one with an eye for the main chance, and so he had stayed as close to Carter as possible. Being a slave for a slave trader was bad, but being sold to a hard labor camp like the Ten Months Mine was worse. It was named for the average life-span of a laborer, after all.
He hoped to get a chance on one of the raids to escape, but Carter kept his slaves in line very carefully. Tendry was chained to his seat while driving, and there was a guard around at all times. But Tendry waited, and hoped. This trip his hopes were riding on the gutterblood. He was hoping the half-fae would go berserk and create a diversion. To this end he had stolen a hunk of meat from one of the storage wagons. Half-fae were supposed to go crazy for raw meat, and he would throw it in front of Pierce at the best moment he could find.
The slaves taken so far by the column were varied. Some were chosen for their huskiness; to work in the fields or the labor camps, some for beauty; for the pleasure of those who bought them, some for servility- to work in houses. But two of the wagons contained only children. There were always those who were willing to make an investment in a slave for what they might become, rather than what they were. And the opportunity to mold them was a powerful lure. The knowledge that many of the young slaves were bought for perverse pleasure was an unspoken knowledge amongst the slavers, most of them simply didn’t care. Carter himself looked down on those he suspected of harboring such desires, and preferred to sell his young slaves to other types, but if there ware no other buyers he didn’t linger over the sale, nor did he fail to spend what he made off the deal.
In an environment where discipline was enforced with a whip, most of the children were quickly reduced to huddled quiet shapes that took no actions unless instructed. However, one of the recent captures harbored a silent hatred that kept him awake long after the others fell into fitful sleep. Treyvas Cerridwyn’s father had been a mercenary for 15 years, finally retiring to the borderlands after Treyvas’ mother had died of a fever. Donner Cerridwyn had kept in shape afterwards, and practiced his already proficient skills daily to keep busy. He was the local sheriff for their village, and was given a small stipend for the service.
When the slavers had come, both a 15-foot wall and an organized militia under Donner’s leadership met them. Normally the defenses of the town would have deterred even the heavily armed slavers as being too difficult, but in this case Carter had a trump card to play, and he played it with a vengeance. He had brought the column by the front of the village as if going by, and then a figure had streaked out from behind a wagon and cleared the wall in a single prodigious bound. While the villagers and militia were still staring in shocked amazement, Donner had leaped off the wall and engaged the fearsome gutterblood. Treyvas had seen the whole fight, and its gruesome end. Donner made a good show of it, blocking several attacks, and even wounding the thing’s arm once as it swung, but it was just too quick for him in the end. It had parried a hasty thrust with the short, oddly shaped ax it carried, and immediately flashed in and plunged a clawed hand into Donner’s chest. It dropped the ax and grabbed Donner’s sword arm, and then it had just stared at him from inches away as his mouth worked and the life faded from his eyes. Then, supporting his limp body only with the claws in his rib cage, it had pulled off its cap and soaked it in his blood. When the thing had gone to open the gate, no one dared to try and stop it. The militia had been slaughtered by the slaver’s warriors despite the fact that the gutterblood had thereafter stood in silence just outside the gate, slowly consuming Donner Cerridwyn’s still-wet heart. The people were made slaves or killed at Carter’s whim. For the death of his father, Treyvas planned to kill the thing.
Templeton rode at the head of the column, watching the sides of the road for ambush, and what he thought remained unknown.