Broken Soul E-Book

Joshua Buller

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

After being a slave for longer than she can remember, Micasa escapes with the help of her new friend, Hawke Morau. She learns that Hawke's soul has been broken into fragments, each of which holds a different power from his past.

After the two set on a quest to recover the pieces of Hawke's soul, Micasa learns of the mysterious essence that infuses all life, and grants its wielder powers that stretch far beyond the mortal realm.

Soon, Micasa finds out that there is a lot more to the world they live in - and to Hawke - than she ever realized.

Leseprobe

Broken Soul

The Scholar’s Legacy - Book I

Joshua Buller

Copyright (C) 2016 Joshua Buller

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Koraljka

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Chapter 1: The Nameless Man

As I sit to write this, I look back on the long and colorful life I've lived and remember countless strange and fantastic things that I've survived through and how they've all affected me and made me into the woman I am today. None, however, have affected me as deeply as the story of the Scholar and the time that I spent with him after he saved my life.

My name is Micasa, and sadly, I can't tell you the precise circumstances under which I was born. My first real memory was of the labor yards, where I often worked the fields from sun up to sun down. It was tireless, thankless work, and the greatest rewards I got for my efforts were lukewarm soup, half a roll of bread of questionable freshness, and the shackles around my wrists tightened slightly less when I went to sleep every night in that dingy shack they called a boarding house.

My education was all but nonexistent, save for fear of the master's anger and the overseer's lash. I taught myself how to talk from the stories the other slaves told each other at night while the rest of the manor slept. Most of the stories revolved around the demons that supposedly ruled the world, indiscriminately killing people and forcing them to live their lives in constant fear of their wrath.

None of the slaves had ever seen one of these monsters, but the master had more than once threatened to leave disobedient slaves out for whatever bandits or demons came across them. From the somber way the older slaves took the threat, I could only assume there was some merit to the stories.

Despite my ownership, I considered myself fortunate. The labor camp was relatively safe, far from the larger cities and villages where demon attacks and marauder raids were said to be a regular occurrence. There were plenty of guards who lived there too, protecting the estate from anything that might threaten our little corner of the world. They made it clear, though, that if we made any escape attempt, they would hunt us down quickly and punish us gladly.

So we stayed, and we worked, and Hawke Morau – the Master of our household – always made sure we were fed and watered and in relatively good health. Of course, it was he who made all the profit from our toil and lived in the lap of luxury; we were simply assets to be guarded or, if necessary, replaced.

This was the life I knew for the first three years I can remember. It was a nonstop blur of strenuous labor, cracking whips, battering fists and vulgar swearing. The only kindness I was afforded was the rare gesture from the few slaves that took pity on a girl so young as myself. It was sometime around my fourth year of memory that my world was turned upside down by the man whose story I now write.

It was a fairly nondescript day to begin with, as every day tended to be. I was up before the sun had crested the horizon, the sky a blackened bruise fading to blue. It was the best time to tend to the garden, before the heat of the day made the chore even more miserable. We grew a variety of vegetables and fruits, some to help feed the compound and the rest to be taken off to market when the traders came around. I had learned long ago that the slightest damage to any of the stock would immediately lose me twice that amount in rations, so as always I absorbed myself in my work.

I scarcely noticed the figure that was slowly moving in my direction, assuming it to be another slave working his or her way towards where I was picking some apples. It was only after the figure stopped at the foot of the ladder I was using that I turned my attention toward them. When I saw what it was, I immediately dropped the bushel I had been balancing with so much care.

What stared back was human in shape, to be generous; I doubt that any man or woman could ever have such a gaunt and featureless face, regardless of malnutrition or disease. Its skin was so tight and sallow; it was more akin to a walking skeleton covered haphazardly in aged leather than an actual person. It wore no clothing, but likewise lacked any means of determining gender. It gazed hollowly at me with sockets devoid of eyes, toothless maw hanging slightly agape.

Before I even knew it, I had leaped from my perch and was halfway back to the compound before the ladder had a chance to hit the ground. Stories of ghouls were some of the favorites the slaves told at night; they were said to be soulless husks that demons often kept around as pets or servants to torture their unfortunate victims. I had no intention of experiencing whatever foul deeds it had been sent to do to me, even if it meant punishment from the overseer.

And punishment was exactly what I was met with. Even though the overseer saw quite clearly that there was, in fact, a ghoul in the fields and summarily hurried the slaves in to prevent any damage coming to Master Morau's property, I was still beaten and denied my meals for the day for the apples I had spilled in my fright. Still, it was better than having my soul sucked out by some monster, and I considered myself lucky nonetheless.

All the workers were sent about the manor to tidy up as we waited for the ghoul to hopefully wander off so that we could get back to the fields before long. However, the creature seemed to have taken a liking to the area. It shuffled across the garden one direction, neared the boundaries of it, then turned and wandered back toward the other end. As I watched it out a window I was cleaning, I half-mused that it appeared to be looking for something.

The ghoul had still not left by sundown, and that meant an entire day's worth of harvesting had been lost. Master Morau was nearly beside himself with rage, but like the others, he too had heard of what powers these ghouls supposedly possessed. He wasn't about to let his overseers risk themselves trying to drive it off, lest he have to figure out a way to replace them – they were not so expendable as us slaves.

With that likely in mind, he came up with a different idea. The next day, when Master Morau saw that the ghoul had not shambled off yet, he sent one of us to make an attempt at getting rid of the monster.

This particular slave was quite the oddity amongst our stable. He had been here for years, according to the older servants, but never once spoke a word to anyone, even Master Morau. The Master often called him “oaf,” but as far as the slaves knew, the man had no name and no past. The oldest slaves said he had been brought in years ago, as quiet and timid then as he was now.

The mute's face was layered with thick stubble that refused to grow to a beard proper. His blonde hair was often dirty and unkempt, and he only made the most minimal effort at keeping himself clean. For whatever reason, Master Morau was slightly more lenient on this matter to him than to the rest of us slaves, who would savor the lash for any deviation from our hygiene.

The worst part was his eyes. Blue as ice, they were, and just as cold. He wasn't blind, but he never seemed to truly see anything. Whenever they landed on me, I could feel a chill creep up my spine.

The nameless man worked almost tirelessly, oftentimes doing jobs well through the night while the other slaves slept, but there was an odd, rather mechanical quality to his actions. Even when reprimanded in the middle of a job, he would continue to work until his task was completed, immediately thereafter setting out for his next job. He was in a way the perfect slave: he slept little, ate less, and worked constantly.

So it was a mystery to all of the slaves why Master Morau would send what was thought to be his most useful asset out to possibly be killed or worse. I heard the overseers say that, according to the Master, it was a “best to take care of a monster with a monster.” Why Master Morau considered the nameless man a monster, I couldn't fathom. Still, there were chores to be done, and us slaves had no time to watch and see how the events played out as we got back to our duties.

My curiosity from earlier turned to fear when a great scream came from outside only a short time later. I went to a window with the pretense of cleaning it to take a peek. The nameless man lay out near some of the crops, curled into a ball and clutching his chest. There was no sign of the ghoul to be found.

Overseers had rushed outside to see what had become of him. They stood there, shouting at him to move. Eventually, they resorted to their lashes, but even those failed to move the nameless man from where he had fallen. Finally, they heaved him to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him off.

The nameless man wasn't seen for the rest of the day, but Master Morau was in a more pleasant mood than usual with the removal of the ghoul. He gave all us slaves an extra ration and let us retire to our bunks early that night, on the condition of making up for the lost time from the last two days. There was a clear undertone that we would regret not meeting those expectations.

The slave's quarters were located outside the main manor, a ramshackle old wooden building lined with dozens of cots. It was left unlocked at all times, and since nothing of much value was kept there, the quarters were usually left unguarded. Instead, we were made to wear manacles around our wrists and ankles through the night. As such, it was no wonder nobody ever seriously considered making an attempt to escape.

The nameless man had been taken back to his own bunk. He lay shivering under his blankets and layered with a film of sweat. Occasionally he would murmur nonsense, and more than once cried out in agony. My fellow slaves whispered amongst themselves that he had been cursed by the ghoul and pulled their rickety cots as far as they could from him to avoid possibly being affected too. In spite of his whimpering, the slaves were too tired to be kept awake and were soon asleep with the aid of smelly moth-eaten blankets pulled over their heads.

The boarding room always grew stifling with so many bodies crammed inside. As poorly insulated as the room was, the air quickly thickened to a soup of sweat and exhaustion. It felt more cramped than usual that night, with everyone's bunks crammed close to get away from the nameless man. I found myself unable to get to sleep so early in the night. I needed to get some fresh air and stretch, if just for a little bit.

Fortunately for me, I had learned a couple years back how to undo my cumbersome shackles. It was a trick I first discovered when I was cleaning an armoire that had been permanently locked since Master Morau broke a key in it. He had to replace all the expensive clothing that was stuck inside, much to his displeasure, but the armoire itself was more expensive than the garments combined, and he refused to have it damaged to recover them.

Still, the slaves always made sure to keep it as spotless as the rest of the house, so it was on one random day when I was maybe five years old that I ended up tending to it. I found myself drawn to the lock, the broken key still visible inside, and for some strange reason I was compelled to poke at it with one of my hairpins. After just a minute or two, I managed to figure out just how the lock worked, the right way to twist the pin, and suddenly the wardrobe popped open, the broken key sliding right out of the lock.

Master Morau came to investigate the loud bang the doors made as they swung open. Rather than praising me as I was hoping he might, I received a round of lashes and scolding, for he was sure I had broken the door in my clumsiness. The only reward I got was an end to the beatings once he discovered that the armoire was actually still intact.

That was the earliest memory I have of my affinity with locks. After that I constantly found myself drawn to anything that had a lock or was particularly stuck, and always found that, with a little effort and my hairpin, I could manage to get the object in question open. It took a bit more effort to learn how to lock those things again, but once I was confident enough in doing both, I naturally tried it on my shackles one night. Sure enough, I was able to slide them right off. By covering up my legs with my shoddy covers, I made sure the overseers never saw I was unchained when they came to wake us in the morning, giving me time to snap them back on before I left to have them taken off properly.

With all the other slaves fuller than usual and taking advantage of the extra rest, I had no trouble discreetly unsnapping my shackles and slinking past the huddled sleeping pallets, stepping outside to enjoy the brisk summer night. I was greeted by a vast tapestry of stars that painted the ink black sky. It was a sight that never failed to take my breath away. I was half tempted to wake the others so they could see this incredible sight with me, but the fear of giving up my secret gift was a bit more than I was willing to part with.

So imagine my surprise when I heard the squeak of the rusty hinges and the muffled jingling of manacles as someone else stepped out of the unlocked boarding house. I had been sitting against the side of the quarters and instinctively huddled as close to the rotted wood paneling as I could, hoping the bright stars I was just admiring wouldn't betray my location. I watched as the lone person stepped out awkwardly, trying to manage their binds, and began peering through the darkness, and I knew that it was me they sought.

“Micasa?”

The man's voice that called out my name was one I couldn't recognize from the stable of fellow slaves. It was a bit hoarse, as if he hadn't had any water in a long while, and creaked not unlike the old hinges on the door he had just stepped through. I ventured creeping a bit closer to identify this man. Of course, I'm sure you could guess by now who it was I saw when he stepped a bit further out of the shadow and into the light of the rising moon.

Yes, it was none other than the nameless man, his pale blonde mop of hair matted against his brow with sweat and his face a mask of pain. His eyes glinted with a liveliness I had never seen in him before, curiosity mingling with the anguish he bore. I was so intrigued by his unexpected appearance that I didn't even think twice as I stepped out from the shadows.

“What are you doing out here, nameless man?” I said, in the foolish way a child always speaks their mind. He started at my approach but let out a haggard sigh of relief when he saw it was me.

“I thought I heard someone come out here, and saw you were gone,” he said, clearing his throat a couple times. I suspect he realized when I spoke how much harsher his voice sounded.

“I thought it would be a good night to look at the stars,” I said. “I don't get to do so very often.”

“Oh…for a moment I thought maybe they had taken you away.” The nameless man let out a chuckle that turned into a stifled gasp of pain.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No, but I'll manage.” He slowly lowered himself to the ground, doing his best to muffle his chains, and leaned his back against the shack.

“Nameless man, why can you talk now?” I asked, confused why he could not only speak but more so why he decided to come out and talk to me. He looked at me for a few moments, his eyes narrowing as he bit his lip, before he finally shrugged.

“I wish I could tell you,” he replied in a defeated tone. “I'm more confused than anyone about this. I can vaguely remember the times when I was working in the manor, and out in the gardens, but those memories are all fuzzy. Almost like it wasn't me living them.”

“But of course you were. You're you,” I said giggling. His words made absolutely no sense to me.

“I don't even know who I am, though. I have no memories beyond a few hazy years here, and that's it. I can't even remember my own name. What I do know is that when I was sent to chase that ghoul off, I walked up to it and felt an irresistible pull to it, something I can't really place. I touched it, and the thing just disintegrated in a bright flash of light. All of a sudden I was gripped by this horrible tearing pain.” His breathing was still heavy, and I could see how badly his hands shook. Regardless, he continued.

“At the same time, I suddenly found I could speak again, and the experiences I've had from that moment to now seem so vivid compared to whatever I was feeling before. I have no idea what's going on, and it scares me.”

I had seen grown-ups be afraid before. Usually it was under the threat of Master Morau's rebuke and the overseer's lash, but to hear one say they were afraid because of things like memories and feelings was something I couldn't quite understand at the time.

“How'd you get your shackles off, Micasa?” he asked unexpectedly. I told him about my gift of unlocking things, and it was only after I told him that I questioned whether or not I should have. I was always cautious about safeguarding my secret, and here I told him without as much as a second thought.

Perhaps it was because, regardless of how I had felt when he looked at me, he had never actually done anything to show he was untrustworthy. He was unlike some of the other slaves who would steal and lie at any given moment to make life easier, even at the expense of another slave.

“Could you undo my shackles too, then?” he asked, stretching his legs out towards me. Once again, I didn't hesitate for an instant to put my trust in him and reached towards the manacles. His were a bit harder than expected, as they appeared to have never been removed and the mechanisms were slightly rusted from disuse. Still, it took only a few extra moments of playing with it before they snapped open, a bit louder than I had hoped. Thankfully, there was no sound of interrupted slumber from the slave quarters.

The nameless man stood and stretched his legs, bending them back one after the other in a way that moments ago would've been impossible. A sudden pang took him and he doubled over, but he held a hand out to stop me when I approached with concern. When he caught his breath again, he sat back down and looked to the sky. The way he stared, it looked like he was taking it all in for the first time ever.

“Magnificent,” was all he muttered, drinking in the sight for a long while without moving. For that moment, his pain had been left forgotten. I looked up too, enjoying it as I always did. Still, I couldn't help notice how far the moon had travelled during our time out here, and I knew I needed to get some sleep before the next day's chores were upon me.

“We should get to bed or we'll be punished tomorrow for being so sleepy,” I told him, turning to head back. I was stopped when his hand rested on my shoulder and held me back. It was surprisingly strong, the hand of someone who had been working hard for many years, and it scared me just a bit; it was almost like the hand of the lord of the manor. Still, unlike the harsh blows I suffered at the latter's hand, this was a gentle gesture that the nameless man was showing me. I turned to see his face full of anxiety again.

“Micasa, your gift,” he started, looking terribly unsure of what his next words should be. “Could you use it to get into the manor?”

I had more than once, I admit, fiddled with the intricate and expensive locks that closed off the manor, even at the risk of being flayed if I had broken them. They were tricky, but I had managed to undo them and lock them again without anyone being the wiser. I told the nameless man this, once again wondering why it was I could trust him so readily.

“Micasa, I need to get into the manor and see Master Morau,” he asked as he clutched at his sides and winced. I knelt beside him.

“Why, are you hurting too much?” I asked. “We can go get an overseer; maybe they have some medicine for it.” I knew as well as any slave that the Master never wasted medicines on us, but I figured it was worth a try.

“No, it's not that,” he said, his grip tightening ever so little. He must have seen on my face how much his hold scared me because he let go before explaining. “Remember that pull I told you I felt when I was near the ghoul? I still feel it, pulling me towards the manor. I know it has something to do with Master Morau, but I won't be able to get in there myself. Please, it can't wait. I don't want to get you in trouble, but I just need the door unlocked so I can get in. I need to know what this feeling is. Please.”

That was the first time I ever knew what it felt like to pity someone. Us slaves had it rough, without a doubt, but I had never seen someone so distraught as the nameless man was at that moment. I knew the overseers would be furious if they saw us sneaking around, but it seemed harmless enough to open a door for him so he could see the Lord.

So with a small nod, I led him by the hand across the field towards the manor. There were no clouds to obscure the moon that night, but it was waning fortunately and cast little light. We kept low to the greenery, slipping from bush to bush. We slowed as we approached the building – the overseers kept their patrol close, in case they needed to beat a hasty retreat from a sudden attack.

The side door was less guarded than the back or front, with only one burly figure standing maybe thirty feet from the door and looking out over the gardens. We snuck around the long way, moving as slow as we could to avoid him catching us from his peripheral, and made our way to the corner of the building. By creeping along the wall, we were able to pass right behind him, though each inch moved felt like a mile, knowing that any sudden sound would instantly draw his attention.

Getting to the door was hardly a victory, for now, the guard was only a stone's throw behind us, and all he had to do to see us was to turn around. Still, we had come this far, and I just needed to get the nameless man through the door. I took my customary hairpin and set to work.

It was a much more harrowing job than usual. Even though I knew just how to undo the lock, doing so without making a single sound was a different matter altogether. The first couple times I messed with it, I made only a little noise, but with the bustle of the day, it was usually easy for me to slip away if I thought I'd be caught after making a blunder. Now, the only other noise I had to work with was the occasional cricket chirp, and I couldn't count on that to cover my tracks if I made a critical mistake. Ever so carefully, I moved a lock pin here, a spring there, and finally I began to feel the handle resist less as I gently tugged it down.

As I slid the final pin into place, the lock popped loudly.

My heart skipped a beat as I looked over my shoulder to confirm my fears, seeing the guard turn sharply and give out a cry of surprise. The nameless man grabbed me around the waist and threw the now unlocked door open with his free hand. It crashed into the wall as he pushed it in, undoubtedly alerting any overseers who hadn't heard the first one's shout, but the damage had already been done.

The nameless man hauled me bodily into the manor, no doubt worried that I would have received the full brunt of the backlash if he had left me alone. Together we flew down the corridors, towards the staircase that led up to Master Morau's chambers. A guard had come through the front door and was standing at the foot of the stairs; but without slowing down, the nameless man put both his arms around me to protect me and charged full bodied into the overseer as he swung down with his supple baton. I heard it crack against my guardian's back, but he didn't slow down in the slightest as he collided with his attacker, knocking the guard backwards several feet. The nameless man hoisted me up in both arms and flew up the stairs before the guard could recover, but our ascent was a short one as we met with the point of a sword staring straight at us.

Master Morau stood on the top step, awakened by the commotion we had made in our endeavors. He was still wearing his night gown and was glaring at us with a mixture of confusion and anger as he realized the two intruders he now brandished his blade at.

I was well acquainted with this sword. It normally hung over the mantle in the Master's room, a brilliant blade made of polished silver (kept in that state by us slaves) with numerous precious gems inlaid in the hilt. The sheath he now held in his free hand was similarly valuable, made of high-quality wood with a gold lacquer and studded with gemstones. I had never seen the Master so much as hold the weapon before, but at that moment I half-wished that I hadn't done quite such a good job keeping it in perfect shape.

“What in blazes is going on here?” said Master Morau, his eyes narrowing in suspicion at the two of us. The nameless man had frozen a few steps from the top of the flight. I heard more footsteps now climbing the stairs and saw that three of the guards blocked our escape. One was the man we had just bowled over, still rubbing his sore back.

“I needed to see you, Hawke,” the nameless man said. I cringed at his casual address of the Master, having been taught long ago that doing so was a very dangerous thing to do. Sure enough, our owner bristled with indignation, but also looked rather befuddled; he was likely as confused as I had been at being addressed by a slave who had been considered mute up to this point.

“Why have you decided to barge in here in the middle of the night seeking my audience, boy?” demanded Master Morau in the most commanding tone he could muster. The nameless man didn't seem to be listening, though. Those piercing eyes of his had glazed over, completely fixated on the Master's face.

“What is this feeling…” the nameless man murmured. “You have…something of mine…”

He took one hand off me and began to stretch it towards Master Morau, whose eyes grew wild with fright.

“You stay back!” he suddenly commanded, backing away. “I am Hawke Morau, the great Scholar! I was a slayer of demons and one of the Old Kings! You keep your filthy hands off of me!”

The Lord continued to shirk away, but the nameless man advanced just as readily. He seemed hypnotized, completely consumed by whatever feeling he had mentioned to me before. Master Morau commanded his overseers to attack, and they stepped forward in unison and lashed out with their discipline rods. The nameless man barely even flinched at their blows.

Master Morau eventually backed himself into a wall, holding his sword out at arm's length. I could see how he shook uncontrollably, unable to hold back his fear. “Stop!” he cried, “I am Hawke Morau, I am!”

I couldn't understand why he kept insisting on his name, but regardless, his pleas fell on deaf ears. As the nameless man's outstretched hand floated closer and closer to our owner's face, the Master made a wild stab at him.

The sword was heading straight for me; but without batting an eye, the nameless man grabbed the blade and stopped it, the sharp edge cutting deep and drawing blood. Still, he didn't wince, and I started to wonder if the nameless man even understood what was going on. He pulled the sword aside, letting go of it to reach again for Master Morau's face.

Our master was now paralyzed, unable to speak or move, as the nameless man's hand, cut and bloodied, hovered just in front of his face now. There was a tense moment where the nameless man stopped, and I thought that, for the briefest instant, a smile crossed his face. Then he leaned forward and grabbed Master Morau's face.

The Lord screamed, and there came a brilliant flash of light from the breast of his gown. I closed my eyes tight, unsure of what was happening, and could hear the guards shouting behind me. The light subsided quickly, and I felt the nameless man's chest heaving heavily as his breaths came in ragged gasps. I chanced opening my eyes and saw his own were nearly popping out of his head. They looked around crazily, as if he had just woken from a nightmare, but my attention was pulled away from him as I heard a terrible sound come from where Master Morau had been laying.

He was grabbing at his head and rocking back and forth on his back, alternating between quiet sobs and moans of anguish. “Who…where…why?” were the only words I could make out him saying, small blurbs of sentences between his sobs and moans.

“What have you done to the Master, you– you–!” I saw one of the overseers rush forward and swing his rod with all his weight behind it.

Everything that happened next all occurred in the blink of an eye. The nameless man turned with fluid grace and caught the rod, pulled it from the overseer's grasp, and struck the attacker with a single powerful blow on the neck using his own weapon. The overseer keeled over like a rag doll and went tumbling down the stairs. The other two scrambled aside, their mouths agape in shock. One of them lost their footing and went tumbling down after his comrade, adding to the pile the first overseer had started.

The nameless man looked at me, still coddled in one of his arms. “I trust you can stand on your own, Micasa?”

His tone had changed again. Confidence, control, and concern laced his words, things that men broken as slaves rarely spoke with. I nodded, and he set me on my feet gently, but my legs were a little shaky with fear and uncertainty. I had no idea what was going on, but after seeing the nameless man so easily beat down those who had been so terrifying to me my whole life, I felt safest doing what he told me to do at the moment.

He reached down and took the sword and sheath that Master Morau had dropped on the ground, brandishing the former at the last remaining guard who was still standing on the stairway, knees buckling.

“Stand aside, peon,” the nameless man commanded. “Tend to your wounded, and know that if you come after us, I'll finish what I started here. Come, Micasa.” He sheathed the weapon and started down the steps.

I couldn't imagine just walking out of the manor, but there was a thrill I had never felt welling up in me before. Was I really going to just leave, right past the Master and those fearsome overseers, and never see them again? Never again hear their horrible words or feel the sting of the lash? It was something I had never even dreamed of, yet the nameless man stood at the bottom of the step and looked at me expectantly. The remaining guard didn't lift a single finger to try and impede my progress, shrinking back as I passed by him and followed my savior straight out the front door. The other guards would surely hear of what happened soon, and yet seeing how terribly powerful the nameless man looked as he walked tall and proud, sword in hand, I couldn't help myself; I smiled.

We marched straight through the gardens, the nameless man slowing down only a bit as he looked to the sky again, muttering under his breath as he pondered the stars and moon, before speaking to me again.

“This way, Micasa. Stay close. It's probably going to be a bit of a walk, and it could very well be dangerous.”

A part of me wanted to say goodbye to the other slaves, perhaps ask them if they wanted to come along, but I also feared that if I didn't go with the nameless man right now that he wouldn't wait for me. I made a promise to myself right then that one day I'd come back and bring them with me, so we could see the world together. It was a promise I would never get to fulfill.

“Um, thanks for saving me, nameless man,” was the only thing I could think to say under the circumstances as we walked off the compound and into the wild, untamed lands I had only seen from a distance before. The sun was starting to peek up, tingeing the sky a pretty aquamarine color, and I felt my heart flutter at the way its rays played off the trees and tall grasses. It was like the world was coming to life before me for the first time.

The nameless man turned to me and looked into my eyes for a second, a slightly confused look on his face. Then his face broke into a small but warm smile. “Sorry, in all this confusion I guess I've yet to properly introduce myself,” he said.

“My name is Hawke Morau.”

Chapter 2: The Shady Man

The day that followed our escape from the manor was a strange blur to someone like me who had never set foot outside the compound in the short life I had lived up until then. We had brought no provisions with us and had no money to speak of, but the nameless man who claimed to have the same name as our old Master managed to procure some fruits and bread for us to eat. I didn't know how he had acquired it, but we had traveled within range of a small food cart that had set up shop along the road. I half-suspected that he took advantage of the 'five finger discount,' as the other slaves called it when they pilfered food from the pantries back in the estate.

After our meager meal, we napped under a large tree, since both of us had skipped on sleeping the night before. I couldn't shake the feeling that any moment the overseers would be bearing down upon us, reprimanding us for sleeping midday and dragging us back to the compound, but the man who now called himself Hawke had assured me that he was a light sleeper and would make sure no one came to take me away.

It was an incredible feeling, getting to sleep in the shade of that great tree in the middle of the day. Though I only dozed for a few hours, it was some of the most refreshing rest I can ever recall having.

A bit past midday we woke and continued our travels, sticking to the hills and fields just off the main path. Eventually, a horse-drawn cart came rumbling down the road, slowing at the driver's command when he approached us. The man who led the horses was a kind looking farmer with a big straw hat and overalls, clothing that I had only seen on overseers before. I instinctively flinched at even his mildest of movements.

I had never seen the overseers with such sympathetic looks on their faces, though. When he saw me in my ragged work clothes, Hawke said some things about me being an orphan from a demon attack and that my only remaining family was in Changirah. Since it was on the way to where the farmer was making his delivery, he didn't think twice about letting us hop on the back between some crates and milk canisters.

Hawke quietly whispered to me as the cart noisily started down the path again, telling me that a victim of a demon attack was more likely to be helped than an escaped slave. I didn't understand exactly why that would be, but I kept quiet nonetheless. Anything that kept me from going back was a good thing as far as I was concerned.

We made it to the city before the sun began to creep out of sight. I was completely awestruck at the sight of the great walls and the sturdy doors that protected it. I had never been taken on any trips outside of the compound, and seeing the city guards in their shining protective armor and their weapons that made the overseers' rods look like toys was almost more than my racing heart could take. I had no idea what was in store for us on the other side of that giant gateway, but I felt completely safe at the side of this Hawke I was with, a strange thing to think when comparing him to the other Hawke Morau I had grown up with.

We hopped off near a bustling marketplace, waving the old man on as his cart trundled off. Oh, the number of exciting things for sale! I could barely keep myself from running away from Hawke to get a look at everything, but he must have noticed how my face lit up, because he gave a slight chuckle and led us right down the main avenue past the vendors. Most of them scowled at us when we passed by, though looking back I can hardly blame them. We did have all the glamour of two penniless vagabonds who had just crawled out from some filthy gutter.

Hawke's stride quickened as the sound of a particularly loud merchant came within earshot of us. I couldn't quite make out what he was trying to sell, but it wasn't his wares that Hawke was interested in. As he marched up to the stand, the merchant – a small, bald man with large watery eyes and a thin, upturned nose – turned to him and flashed a smile composed mainly of jagged yellow teeth.

“Ah, my good sir, you are looking in need of some new clothings!” The weaselly man spoke hurriedly with the occasional brief pause. He eyeballed the two of us like the other vendors had, but though I could see some disappointment in his swollen gaze, he quickly donned his greasy smile again.

“Yes, yes, why else would you come here but if you had money! Come, we shall get those rags off and suit you until you are suited, yes?” It almost seemed like he would forget what he was saying mid-sentence, remember again, and hurry to say it in case he forgot once more. He clasped his hands together, nodding feverishly as he began to turn towards a rack covered in strange, brightly colored robes.

“Fern, don't treat me like one of your hustle jobs,” said Hawke, looking a little annoyed. The man started at the name 'Fern,' turning with a look like he had been caught doing something terrible.

“That name, it does not fit me, no? I am, ah, Banca, yes! No? Kazul? Bill?” he continued to list names as he nervously scratched his cheek, as if hoping to find one that pleased Hawke, but the once nameless man continued to simply stare at him.

“Fern, it's me, Hawke,” he said in exasperation. The sniveling man named Fern squinted hard, almost like he was seeing this customer for the first time, then suddenly clapped his hand to his mouth.

“Impossible!” he muttered. “Yet the face, and the tone, and the nose! Yes, the nose, that is where the truth lies!” He leaned in close to take a good look, I suspect, at Hawke's nose.

“Enough of this,” Hawke snapped at him. “Let's go to the back and talk business.”

Hawke walked around behind the stall, beckoning me to follow as he went. Fern looked around nervously for several moments before he followed a good distance behind me.

The space between the market stalls and the buildings that stood behind them was like a small, secluded alleyway. With all the tents and the shouts of the merchants trying to attract customers, it seemed the ideal place to have a conversation where no one would be privy to eavesdropping.

“I suppose I should apologize for appearing without notice and so, er, disheveled,” Hawke apologized, scratching his head.

“No no no!” argued Fern as he scratched his cheek again. “Not disheveled! How can you be disheveled, when I know not the word? You are seemed messed up a bit, though! And where has seen the Chief?”

“I'm still trying to piece that together myself.” Hawke gave a small sigh. “But all things in due time, Fern. First, I need some things, as you can plainly see.” He made a motion towards the sad towels he called clothing.

“Oh, I'd love to just give, Chief,” said Fern, his voice dripping with what I assume he thought was pity, “but the family has fallen on hard times. With you gone, our best items also went! Best items gone means best fences gone! Hard times arrived, and now–”

“–Now you're selling cheap knockoffs in a bazaar full of people much smarter than you,” Hawke finished for him.

“Yes,” Fern agreed without a hint of indignation. “The family might be familiar with Chief, but we have little to spare, even for who as you still might be.”

“Calm down, Fern, I didn't come for a handout. Here,” he handed a long bundle of dirty rags to the sniveling man, “This should fetch a fair price for your trouble.”

Fern unwrapped the parcel and nearly dropped it on his unwashed bare feet. It was the sword that Hawke had taken with him from the manor, which he had concealed in a strip from his own threadbare robe before we started our ride to Changirah. He had made sure to clean it when we had rested prior, so the silver blade shone with a beautiful luster, even in the dingy light that broke through the tent canopies. The gems in the hilt and on the sheath were dazzling as ever, and I had thought they must have been heavier than I remembered, for Fern's hands shook as he held it.

“This – this is real?” he could hardly get the words out of his mouth, which concerned me. He already seemed to suffer from that problem just speaking normally.

“Every inch of it. Got it from a lord who lives just down the way. I was an unwilling guest of his for several years, and I considered this, shall we say, fair payment for the duties I performed.” Hawke leaned in and placed an arm around Fern.

“So, here's the deal: You give me what I need from whatever stores you guys have left – and I'm sure you still have enough left to meet my simple demands – and in return, I give you this sword, and I'll do what I can to send more like it your way in the future. It'll be just like old times. Sound fair?”

“Oh, this is the best, Chief, the best!” Fern jumped up and down as he hugged the ornate blade and sheath tightly. “With news of Hawke Morau's return to the family, we will be back in business before I know it! Oh, and the girl,” he turned a cheery eye towards me, “is she for sale too? We were talking before about expanding to the servants' market, no?”

Hawke struck a fierce backhanded blow across Fern's ugly mug, leaving a terrible welt where he made contact. It did little to improve his twisted features. He almost dropped his prize, but even the odd little merchant was smart enough to know that it was more valuable than his discomfort at that moment. The glare Hawke gave Fern made him wince more than the strike did.

“She was just freed from her bonds, and you dare to speak of putting her back in them? Watch your tongue, Fern, or you'll be looking for a new one.” Fern tried to stammer something akin to an apology, but Hawke waved it away. “Next time, think before you speak for a change. Now, about what I need…”

I couldn't help but feel a little bad for the spindly man. He had no idea where I came from, so I didn't see how it was fair to hit him for something he didn't know. Still, seeing someone stand up for me so boldly was something I was still rather unaccustomed to. Hawke couldn't see how I beamed at him as he spoke to Fern, reeling off a list of odds and ends that he wanted.

He spoke so quickly I couldn't make out half of what he was asking for, and for a moment I wondered how Fern would possibly remember the demands made to him. He had already proven to be more than a little dimwitted. However, after only being told once, Fern nodded furiously, his eyes darting around as I suspected he was using every ounce of his brainpower to recall what he had just been told, and without another word, he bundled up his new treasure and scurried off at incredible pace.

“We'll stick around here and pretend to run to the stall while he's off procuring what I want,” Hawke said as he turned back to me. “Stay put for a moment.”

Hawke walked around to the front of the tent, leaving me alone. I badly wanted to explore the marketplace and see all the knick-knacks and such that I had only gotten a glimpse of, but a life of servitude had also taught me well the dangers of wandering in strange places. He returned after only a moment, holding a bundle of robes.

“It'd be better for us to not look like we just crawled out of a privy,” he said, handing me the smaller of the two robes. “Sorry, it probably won't fit terribly well, but it was the smallest size I could find.”

The robe was indeed a couple sizes bigger than what I normally wore, but it cinched up well enough that it made little difference. It was a vibrant orange color, and while Hawke commented on how gaudy the clothing was (as he put on a robe of bright blue with a slight grimace), I was ecstatic to put on something that shimmered the way that cloth did. It was almost like getting to wear something straight from Master Morau's old cabinet.

Thinking of the manor we had just come from the other day reminded me of a question I had meant to ask Hawke. He led me around to the inside of the tent, where he flung himself into a folding chair Fern had been using and kicked his feet up on the baubles that sat on the counter. Several of them were sent clattering to the ground, yet not a single market-goer spared any of them more than the briefest glances.

I sat down beside the chair cross-legged and watched the crowd meander by as I worked up the nerve to ask him.

“Hawke, why do you use the same name as Master Morau?”

I turned to look up at him, and he gave a great sigh, his eyes sliding out of focus as he fell into deep thought.

“Mmm, I wish there was a quick and easy way to explain that,” he said as his gaze wandered aimlessly around the market. “I'm still trying to piece together everything that's happened that led me to where we are now. I guess the easiest way to put it for the time is that the Master Morau you knew was an impostor pretending to be me.”

“But he's been Hawke Morau for as long as I can remember,” I said. “You just started calling yourself that today.” Hawke raised an eyebrow at me, but he let out a low chuckle and gave me one of his soft smiles.

“I suppose that it would be confusing to you, then,” he agreed. “Come to think of it, I was just the nameless man to everyone there up until yesterday. It would seem strange that anyone would want to pretend to be me, wouldn't it?” He leaned his cheek against a calloused hand.

“Still, I was Hawke Morau long before that fake was even born. Like I said, it's all a little complicated to explain right now.” He tousled my hair a bit with his free hand. “Once Fern comes back and we have a little time to rest and recover a bit more, I'll try to explain it better. Hopefully, by then I'll have a better idea of how to put it.”

We didn't speak again until Fern's return. He was carrying a small knapsack that he held onto tightly, but that didn't stop it from clinking musically the few times it bounced. I also noticed he had a bundle similar to the one holding the sword he had left with, though the tough hide that hid its contents and the belts that secured it made it clear it wasn't the same one. He was out of breath and sweating quite a bit, but he seemed pleased to see us tending to his booth.

“Ahaha, feel free to rest your toesies on what you wish, Chief,” said Fern as he glanced sideways at Hawke's makeshift footrest. “Rubbish, they are, now that you're back! I see you picked out the two finest robes I had on stock. Fine choice, fine choice! You have good taste, and without your tongue even–”

“Just give me the loot please, Fern,” Hawke interrupted as he held out his hand. Fern winced at the gesture, hastily shoving the bag and bundle he had brought with him at my companion. Hawke snatched both up in one arm and flicked the knapsack open with his free hand. He spent a few moments rummaging through the contents, nodding every so often before finally closing it again and giving the now jittering Fern a tiny smirk.

“See, Fern? I knew it wouldn't be too hard for you to fulfill such a paltry request. The family has my thanks. I'll let you get back to your business. Micasa and I have our own to attend to.”

The squirrely man had a confused look on his face, as though Hawke had just spouted gibberish at him. Nonetheless, he got enough of it that he knew his patron was satisfied and nodded enthusiastically as he scratched nervously at his cheek once more. It was only then that I happened to see the spot that Fern constantly scratched had a strange mark: a single black line drawn straight down just below his left eye. I wanted to ask about it, but before I could, Hawke led me to the back of the tent again.

“Here, Micasa, it isn't much better than what you have right now, but then again anything is a step up from the dregs Fern is pawning here.”

From the knapsack Fern had given him, Hawke unearthed a robe of a deep plum color, with a sash to tie it off at the waist. I had been quite enjoying the orange robe he had already given me, but this was also the first time I had ever had more than one change of clothes in my life, and the idea of getting choices on what to wear was too tempting. I changed quickly while Hawke was standing watch at the entrance to the alley, making sure to fold my orange robe as neatly as I had the old Master Morau's clothes and set it gingerly on the bag where it wouldn't get dirty.

My new robe wasn't quite my size either, but fit better than the other one did and was made from a much softer material that felt blissful against my skin. I imagined that this was what lords and the wealthy must feel like all the time. It was exhilarating to think I got to experience the same.

“Heh, that's a big step up from those rags we came here in,” said Hawke when I showed him my new robe. While I had been changing, Hawke had slipped on a pair of plain glasses with silver rims.

“I didn't know you had trouble seeing,” I said. He pressed the glasses up the bridge of his nose with a finger and looked away.

“Yes, well, it's just a slight astigmatism. It's no big deal… oh, don't cinch up your new robe too tightly just yet. We're both still rather scruffy from the trip here, and it'd be a shame to dirty your new clothes right after getting them. Come on, I need a hot meal and a hotter bath.”

Considering how much Hawke had been complaining about the bright blue clothing he was wearing, I had expected him to change first as well, but instead, he took me by the hand and started leading me gently through the bazaar. I had instinctively flinched when he took hold, but it was nothing like when the overseers had apprehended me so they could drag me off to be punished. His touch was strong, undoubtedly, but also kind, and he didn't force me along so much as he did coax me to follow him. I felt bad for flinching, but if he had noticed he made no sign of it.