2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Silvyr

Silvyr would have cursed if his pride was not too strong.

Grabbing him by the elbows, Brokil yanked Silvyr to his feet and he forced down a gasp as shots of electricity shot through his shoulder. Ascal's glare could have burned down cities, but the chief paid her no mind as he strode to Salthu, the rest of his troop watching Silvyr intently. They probably assumed he would try to run. They were smart, because he knew that the first chance he got, he would. It didn't matter where he went. Anywhere would be better than with them where countless things could happen to him. There was a small town nearby and Silvyr was sure he could make it there and find refuge until Father sent reinforcements.

"Salthu, collect our own. We move out," Brokil told her. She said nothing but gave him a curt nod, turning on her heel and releasing a whistle so loud that Silvyr would have covered his ears if his hands were free. Brokil turned back to Silvyr, that wicked grin still on his face as he approached him. "You, boy, are with me."

"I'm in your chains, you can at the very least use my name," Silvyr said, trying to glare, but found himself feeling quite small the closer Brokil stepped to him. Never in his life had he felt this helpless. Not even when he was on the tail end of Father berating him for his failed ventures, somehow this terrible man overshadowed Father.

"I don't think I will, boy," Brokil said with an edge of teasing and Silvyr narrowed his brows, setting his lips in a firm line. Around them, the circle of orcs dispersed, though the men holding Ascal hadn't let her go yet. "I could find another name for you. Something delicate and soft. Like a flower."

Silvyr continued to glare, tightening his fingers into fists as an angry heat flowed through him. This damned man was taunting him and clearly he enjoyed it. Silvyr refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how those words affected him. ‘Boy' and ‘Flower' were utterly disrespectful and downright cruel. The disrespect would not be forgotten and Silvyr would find a way to make him pay for it.

"My name is Silvyr," he repeated, stomping his foot to prove his point.

Crossing his arms over his wide chest, the chief just stared at him, his lips twitching as though trying to contain his amusement.

Unable to look at that smug man any longer, Silvyr turned to look at the forest around them. It was smarter for him to make a plan instead of arguing with a man who had no sense about him. When he ran from them, he would need to find his way back here. There would be no time to rest once he got away because knowing these fiends, they wouldn't stop looking for him, and Silvyr couldn't give them a chance to find him. He would not die by their hands.

With sudden force, Brokil grabbed Silvyr's arm, fingers digging into him until Silvyr was sure there would be a bruise on each point of pressure. He fought back a hiss, stopping himself from yanking his arm away from the brute. A part of him knew that if he tried that, the man would simply laugh at his feeble attempt. There just wasn't a way to get that powerful hand off of him. If he were smart, Silvyr would have carried a dagger on him the way Father always instructed, but Silvyr always hated the idea of it. Now he could see how much of a fool he was, cuffed and defenseless at the mercy of these people, with no promise of returning home.

"Walk, Little Flower," Brokil commanded, pulling Silvyr with him toward the tree line. Silvyr bristled at the name.

With little choice, Silvyr walked with him, taking two steps to keep up with each long stride Brokil took. They passed through the trees, a small portion of his troop following them. From what Silvyr could tell, the rest stayed behind with the caravan, probably to keep anyone from following. In a sort of stupid, sad way, Silvyr was thankful for that. It meant fewer people would see his humiliation, and fewer people who would see how little power he actually had. Ascal witnessing the disrespect bruised his ego enough, he didn't need the rest of them gossiping and whispering about Silvyr's fate.

They would probably assume that was the last time they'd see Silvyr alive.

The trees closed in around them, thicker and thicker the further they got. Branches and twigs caught in Silvyr's hair and he found himself tripping over roots and small pieces of brush, momentarily thankful for the hand holding him upright. Around them, the crunching leaves signaled the arrival of the rest of the troop falling in line with Brokil, Salthu positioning herself at Brokil's side. She paid no mind to Silvyr beyond a brief glance and the faintest edges of a snarl on her lips.

"The caravan is off. They are due to arrive in Athowen within two weeks," Salthu said, staring at Brokil as they walked.

Two weeks. If Silvyr didn't get away from them quickly, there was no telling how long it would take Father to send someone for him. If Father sent someone for him.

Brokil shoved Silvyr away and he fought not to stumble over more overgrown roots, cursing under his breath before he landed in the hands of another orc man.

"Good," Brokil said as he walked ahead. "We may be waiting some time for their answer. We should reach Amesisle by the time the king gets his message."

If that damn orc looked at him, he would see the fiery glare that Silvyr was aiming at the back of his head. The nerve of that man to treat him like this. If he wanted to get in the good graces of Father, treating him this way was not the way to go about it.

Silvyr struggled to walk faster, his new escort holding his arm so tight, Silvyr was sure he would have more bruises. The insult would not be forgotten. But right now, Silvyr needed to hear what Brokil and Salthu were saying. The more he knew, the better off he would be when he decided to run. But the man beside him was committed to walking as slow as possible. Why couldn't that damned chief have given him over to someone willing to walk at least as fast as Silvyr?

"Do you still plan to have the brat as your ward?" Salthu asked, her voice beginning to fade from earshot.

Swallowing hard, Silvyr considered how awful that would be, being Brokil's ward. The cruelty of that man would surely break him, and Silvyr couldn't let that happen. Being stuck with him was inconceivable. Being under his control was humiliating enough. Under his predatory gaze, Silvyr didn't know how long he'd last.

Silvyr turned his head to look around the woods, and though he was utterly surrounded by other orcs—all warriors like the Chief—the shadows passing through the trees seemed few in number. Suddenly, he was quite thankful that he was paired with the slowest of men. Keeping at the back of the pack would make his break that much easier.

Through the leaves, the sky had begun to fade from vibrant blue into a light lavender as the sun lowered itself to the horizon. Sunset. It was as good a time as any to run.

Looking back and forth, Silvyr smiled when he realized the shadows of moving orcs had moved far ahead of them.

"What are you smiling for?" the orc asked him, yanking him harshly. Again, his shoulder protested the sudden movement, but he wouldn't let this man know he had been hurt.

Silvyr huffed, turning his head up to look at the orc. He had a wide scar across his face, stretching from temple to chin and over the eye he likely lost from the injury. Selfishly, cruelly, he thanked the gods for his turn of fate.

"This is why I smile," Silvyr mumbled, hanging his head to play the part of broken captive. When the orc leaned down to hear him, Silvyr spun on his heel, bringing his knee up to slam directly between the orc's legs. A cheap shot, but he wasn't above them right now.

With a howl, the orc dropped to his knees, letting go of Silvyr's arm as he clutched himself and toppled over.

Silvyr ran.

Ignoring the brambles and branches that whipped across his face, Silvyr pushed himself as fast as his legs would carry him. Without the burden of being dragged, he moved swiftly and gracefully, leaping over roots and bounding through the thick trees. Even with his arms locked behind his back, Silvyr was free.

He would make it to another town. He would find someone who would remove these damned shackles and send a messenger to Father. Once he did that, he would go home and Father would admire him for his ability to get away from those brutes while also preventing any bloodshed of his caravan. Maybe for once, Father would be proud of Silvyr's ingenuity.

Silvyr decided he would leave out that he had to strike a man in the crotch to escape. He would let Father believe whatever fantasies he desired, so long as he finally saw Silvyr's value.

Darkness enclosed the forest as the sun dipped below the horizon. The chill of night made Silvyr's lungs tight, but he pushed on, refusing to stop for anything. The last time he had run this long or this far had been when he trained with Ascal many months ago, and that nearly killed him. He prayed he would find the road soon, or at the very least, somewhere to hide until he knew he was safe.

He could have cried when he burst through the tree line and onto the road, but he knew he wasn't safe yet. He needed to find a place to hide, otherwise he would be a sitting duck out in the open like this.

Silvyr threw himself underneath the brush, wriggling until he was sure he was hidden from view, but kept his eyes firmly on the road, searching for any sign that he was being followed. There was no way they wouldn't track him, he knew that. He only hoped that he was hidden well enough that they would pass right over him. In the meantime, he needed to catch his breath and force his racing heart to slow.

He tried to think, to calm himself. He wondered what he'd find when he returned home, what else he'd discover the Amesisle orcs had done to try and sway Father in their favor. Surely kidnapping wasn't their first choice? If it was…

Silvyr couldn't stop the shudder coursing through him. This whole thing was completely ridiculous. Silvyr would have never imagined he would be forced into the brush, hiding with his hands tied and face covered in scratches and muck. It was unheard of, completely brazen, and without a doubt, an act of desperation.

He took a deep breath, pausing when the familiar sound of wooden wheels on packed dirt met his ears. His heart skipped a beat. Part of him hoped it was Ascal returning to him, because she had to know that Silvyr would have gotten away. She had to know he would try.

Perhaps now he would be safe.

Slowly, carefully, Silvyr pushed himself forward just enough to look down either side of the road, searching for the wagon. Once it came into view, while it wasn't who Silvyr wanted to see, it was a sight that nearly brought him to tears. Just a human man steering a cart with two steeds, followed by several other carts. If Silvyr had to guess, they were traders. Which meant they might bring him safely to the next township.

Hope flaring in his chest, Silvyr pushed himself out of the brush and awkwardly picked himself off the ground. He ran into the road, making no effort to hide himself now, and the man steering the cart raised a hand to signal the others to stop.

This wasn't what he was trained to do. Ascal had told him how to get away and find safety should the need arise, yet with his heart hammering hard and the promise of freedom right in front of him, he couldn't remember any of it. Besides, why wouldn't they at least bring Silvyr to safety?

"You there!" Silvyr said, approaching confidently as the man slipped from his steering bench. "I'm Silvyr Quilen, son of High King Keryth. I need you to bring me to the next town on your route."

The stranger eyed him as his chest rose and fell, gaze falling to the manacles with curiosity. "Yeah, prince my ass," he said before Silvyr could explain more. "But you are very pretty, and you'll make a good addition to our wares."

He brought his fingers to his lips and released a powerful whistle just as the words sank into Silvyr's mind.

Our wares.

Slave traders.

As more of these men came into view, Silvyr knew he couldn't wait to see what their intentions were. It didn't matter that the practice had been banned for centuries, clearly these men didn't care, and Silvyr was not going to wait around to argue the point.

Spinning unsteadily on his heel, Silvyr pushed himself forward, needing nothing else but to get away. The gods only knew what would happen if they caught up with him and took him for their nefarious purposes.

The men gave chase, their feet slamming hard into the dirt. Silvyr barely made it to the tree line before letting out a shout as hands came down on him, grabbing at his silks and yanking him backward into the dirt.

"Get your filthy hands off of me!" Silvyr commanded, desperately thrashing to get free. A single hand covered his mouth to stop his screaming, so Silvyr did the only thing he could think of. He snapped his teeth over the fleshy pad of the man's hand and bit.

Hard.

The man released him with a curse and Silvyr tried to scream through the iron in his mouth only to be silenced by a fist slamming into his face. Slicing pain radiated where his lip split, and Silvyr sputtered as a hard boot connected with his side, forcing the rest of the air out of his lungs. Pulling himself into a ball, Silvyr tried to protect himself from the new onslaught of kicks and punches, each strike bringing a choking sob past his lips.

Mercifully, the punishment stopped as quickly as it had started and Silvyr was grabbed a final time and thrown over one of their shoulders. Despite his efforts, his vision blurred. His entire being, everything he felt and was, became nothing but pain. Every inch of his battered body would be bruised and torn from this, of that he had no doubt.

He tried to tell himself his tears were from the pain and nothing more. Certainly not because hope to return home had slipped through his fingers, and certainly not because whatever future he now had would be worse than whatever those damned orcs had planned for him.

The creaking of metal bars forced Silvyr to lift his head, just in time to see the cage he was being thrown into. With no care, the man tossed Silvyr into the cage, and with the manacles still firmly attached, Silvyr could only skid across the metal grate, scraping his already broken body. The turning of the lock sealed him in and after only moments of silence, a sheet enclosed him in darkness and the cart lurched forward.

Lifting himself to his knees, Silvyr pressed his face into his own shoulder, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes. Gods, he was a fool. Turning to the bars, he hoped for a fleeting moment that the orcs would burst through the tree line to fight off these monsters and take Silvyr away from them. Being in the possession of the orcs didn't seem so bad when compared to being held captive by slave traders.

At least with the orcs, there was a chance Silvyr could return home.

Silvyr nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder, spinning around and slamming against the cage, heart racing.

"Oh," he breathed when he saw the woman beside him. He hadn't noticed her, or her child, when he was thrown in, too focused on his own pain and the looming darkness. But the sight of them nearly brought a new round of tears to his eyes, knowing that they would share his fate.

"You're hurt," the woman whispered, bringing her hand back toward herself.

As his eyes adjusted, Silvyr could see she wore a simple gown of grays and light blues, torn and stained from travel, and her hair was tied in a loose knot atop her head. What got Silvyr's attention the most though was the way she looked at him. Like she could feel what he felt. Like she understood the pain coursing through every inch of him.

"I'll be okay," Silvyr lied, trying to adjust himself to sit comfortably. The damned manacles prevented that from happening, but he managed to cross his legs beneath himself. The metal grate below him still scraped and pressed against him, but he tried to ignore it.

The woman nodded, but the smile on her face told him that she didn't believe him. "I'm Mallory," she told him, then motioned to the child. "This is my son, Caden."

"I'm Silvyr," he said, not bothering to try to explain who he really was. She wouldn't believe him anyways. It was easier to lie than argue the point, and what would she even be able to do if she did believe him? She was trapped just like he was. "Do you know where they're taking us?"

Mallory shook her head. "They won't tell me. I just know we're the only ones. They sold the rest in the last village," she said and Silvyr's heart sank deep into his belly.

Part of him felt immense guilt for the fates of those that were sold off, yet another part was glad that Mallory and Caden were spared from that fate so far. He needed to find a way to get out of their chains. He needed to find a way to bring Mallory with him and get her somewhere safe where she and Caden could thrive. He needed to make sure she lived, even if it killed him.

"I'll get us out of here," Silvyr said with a confidence that he didn't quite believe in, but he spoke it as though trying to convince not only Mallory, but also himself.

Mallory's smile was gentle, almost pitying, but there was a warmth behind her golden eyes that made the pity easier to swallow.

"I don't mean to be rude or dark, but how do you plan on getting us out when you're shackled?" she asked him.

It was a fair question, and one Silvyr didn't consider. He had no key or lock picking tools. There was little to no chance that the slave traders had a skeleton key to remove them without the help of a smithy. Even if they did, getting it off them would be a feat that Silvyr had no chance of performing. Not when he was indeed shackled and already injured.

Pressing his lips together, Silvyr stared into his lap. There had to be a way out. No plan was perfect. His escape from the orcs was evidence of that, even if it led him directly into the hands of slave traders.

"There has to be a way," Silvyr mumbled. But no matter how hard he wracked his brain or tried to focus on the manacles, the bars, the cage, nothing came to mind.

"You wear expensive silks," Mallory stated and Silvyr glanced up at her.

"Something tells me that my money won't stop them." Silvyr took a long breath. Could he bribe slave traders to let him go? Would they even believe he had the funds to do so?

Or would putting money in a slaver's pocket make him just as bad as they were?

"It won't," Mallory confirmed for him, scooting to sit closer to him. Caden still sat in her lap, quiet and calm, but his wide eyes remained on Silvyr the entire time. "There were other nobles. They just sold for a higher price."

"A higher price," Silvyr repeated under his breath. He let his head fall back against the bars. "I thought the slave trade was banned."

Mallory let out a bitter laugh that felt like a slap in the face more painful than any hit he'd already taken. "The other noble said the same thing," she told him. "Illegal, yes, but there are no punishments harsh enough to stop them from doing as they please."

"The fines—"

"Are nothing. They make enough to pay the fines and then some. Then they return to their ‘work' the same day," Mallory said and Silvyr swallowed the hard lump in his throat.

Again, Silvyr fell silent. Only the sound of hooves and the muffled talk of the slave traders could be heard around them. He had no idea where they were going, other than it was the opposite direction from Athowen. That is if they hadn't changed course.

Either way, he was getting further from home.