Without Magic

By Tye Tivillus

Compared to living in the slums, life as a castle slave might seem pretty cushy, even if Bo has to learn to live with the terrifying weapon master, Alexander, serve the sneaky desert diplomats with their secret ulterior motives, and dodge the insane elderly castle mage with his ghostly steed. What lurks in the forgotten dungeons and abandoned secret passageways between the castle walls, however, is another matter entirely. With slaves going missing from their beds, Bo must discover his unique ability that sets him apart from the world of magic around him, and make unlikely alliances to save himself, and his new found friends from the demon in the dark.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tye Tivillus
• Release date: Jan 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465810526

Tye Tivillus

An emerging Australian author, based in Murarrie, QLD. Tye writes, and draws in what little spare time is left in between other tasks that make up day to day life.

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Without Magic

Tye Tivillus

Published by Tye Tivillus at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Tye Tivillus

Discover more work at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Titivillus

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Chapter 1: The Gutter

Coated in a second skin of perspiration, Bo slithered quickly through the crowded marketplace. The lithe teenager earned more than one distrustful glance as he brushed past burly strangers, and snaked his way hurriedly towards a dark, narrow alleyway, out of the crush. The air was thick with the acrid smoke rising from a number of food stalls, each sporting their own spitted animal carcass on slowly turning rotisseries. Hawkers clamoured for attention, and potential customers shoved and elbowed each other in the constant struggle for space.

Bo squatted a short distance into the alleyway, his breathing ragged and a vein anxiously throbbing in his neck as he strained to listen for pursuit. He sheltered the stolen bread in his lap, guiltily glancing around him to make sure he was alone. The dark skinned teen couldn't hear any angry cries or heavy pounding footsteps, but his muscles remained tense, as though he was on the edge of flight. Truth be told, he hadn't been chased, and no one had seen his crime, but this was Bo's first theft, and not only did he fear being caught, he felt his guilt was obvious to all who looked at him, like a vivid tattoo on his face. He half expected to be snatched up by the calloused hand of an angry stall owner the moment he stepped out of cover.

Just beyond the entrance to the alleyway the market carried on, oblivious to the boy's wrong doing. There were so many stalls and carts that they had spilled out from the main marketplace and into the cobbled streets beyond. Only those who had not come early enough, or didn't earn enough coin to bribe the guards were forced into the mucky streets of the lower city. There would be no protection from vandals and thieves for them, and many of them were forced to do their own guarding – usually with a large knife or whipstick.

The markets were usually busy, but once a month, when the slave traders auctioned off their wares, the marketplace became an ant nest of activity, with special spices and foreign goods from sea traders making their way into the large town. Most of Middlefortress did not like to remember that they dealt in human lives, although almost every house of the upper city had at least one slave. The Gutter, as the lower city was cheerfully nicknamed, thrived on the slave trade – it brought business to the badly cobbled streets, and unwanted children could always be sold for a tidy sum, perhaps enough to survive a winter.

Although the slave arena was one that was generally full of resigned misery, most of the denizens of The Gutter considered market time a good opportunity to gape and gawp at those less fortunate than themselves. Bo himself had just been to see the auction of this month's prized curiosities; a small group of strange children from the desert, with feline features, furry, pointed ears, and long sleek cat tails, that had been auctioned off, apparently having been found roaming wild in their natural habitat. They made strange mewling noises as they were sold, and there had been much speculation as to whether they were talking in a foreign tongue, or merely making noises like a dumb beast. Other than the occasional curiosity such as cat people, the slave market was always colourful, at the least, with constant trading well into the night. Many of the slaves were kept according to colouration, separating pure breeds of one nationality from the others, and from the 'mongrels'. It always reminded Bo of the stalls that sold geese, chicken, and quail, with the young separated from the older, egg-ready fowl, and the different breeds all clearly marked.

More importantly for Bo, however, it was a place (the only place in The Gutter) that was constantly attended by guards – so that if he ever found himself in danger, he could scamper over to the slave markets where violence and unrest were not tolerated. If asked, Bo would say he felt bad for the slaves, but in truth it was only in the way that everyone did – thanking the gods that it wasn't them, whenever they remembered there was the chance it might have been. Otherwise the monthly markets were a fact of life, and not even the most unpleasant aspect of The Gutter.

Bo's large hands tore away a small chunk of bread, and absent mindedly he began to crumble it between his fingers. It was stale, and that was being kind about it – to be more honest it was like a brick, and often people joked that they could build houses out of the stuff. Like as not, however, it was a common fare. The teen sighed and stood, more to relieve his now aching calf muscles, than to make ready to leave cover. Tomorrow he would be 16, and legally a man. It meant he would be free to drink, gamble, and indulge in other similarly dubious activities. Of course the people of the lower city were free to indulge in these things from whatever age it was that they were let to play on the streets. It was called The Gutter for a good reason – physically it circled the upper city, like a moat circles a castle, forming the lowest point of Middlefortress, and the first, expendable, line of defence should the city come under attack. More importantly, however, the bad elements of society always trickled down from the upper city into the squalid little streets. Most of the inhabitants were mean, miserly folk who had been taught to look out only for themselves, and gladly did so.

From somewhere just beyond the alleyway there was the shout Bo had been waiting for, crying 'thief, thief!' The thin teen froze, he knew that he wouldn't be hidden, standing just inside the entrance to the alleyway, and he shrank back into the shadows, swiftly moving the bread behind his back. A man's grizzled face ducked into view. It was someone that Bo vaguely recognised, but didn't know the name of. The man glanced at Bo, who appeared only as a silhouette in the dark.

'Hey you, step into the light, kid.' Quivering slightly, the teen did as he was told, although all his senses told him to flee – to try and climb the sheer brick walls around him. As soon as the man saw who he was talking to, his face softened in disappointment. 'Oh it's you. Well have you seen a little girl, this tall, red short hair and freckles? Little bitch stole my lunch. I'll have her fingers, you see if I don't.' Numbly Bo shook his head. With a sigh, the grizzled man continued his search. Clearly Bo had been recognised. He was well enough known around The Gutter for the fact that he had never been involved in any thieving activities in his youth, or at least he had never been caught at it. He was also a reliable messenger, and one of the only children that could read or write. This made some folk suspicious and other folk amused, but either way everyone who mattered in his small world seemed to know his face and the reputation that went with it.

Bo wasn't stupid, for all that he never stole – he'd been raised on the streets like everyone else, and his fingers were as fleet as any other child who lived to see his age. The only difference was that he had met up with a mage early on in life. There weren't many mages in The Gutter. Although magic, like literacy, could be taught to anyone, it was also like literacy in that those of the upper city wanted to keep it to themselves. Anyone who was trained as a mage - in anything more than the lowest ranks of the profession - were given jobs in the upper city in an attempt to keep them out of The Gutter, and to preserve the esoteric knowledge of the art. They weren't paid awfully well, and there were never many chances for promotion, but it was a decent enough way to live, and it kept a person from having to deal with the scum of the lower city. Any mages that came to rest in The Gutter were either too inept to be of any real use, fraudsters who were quickly caught and punished, bad sorts who had criminal dealings, or reclusive hermits who were there of their own, possibly dubious business.

The mage Bo had run into as a child was very old, and very stern. Although he lived in a hovel, barely a hole in the ground, he had insisted on manners, the like of which were only for those of a noble station. Everyone said he had fried his brain long ago with magics, and it was true enough that he never performed any magic while Bo had been there to see him. Never the less, Bo had taken a liking to the old man, because he was forever telling stories about his glory days, especially when Bo brought him food, or strong drink. Bo's family indulged their son, because they hoped the old man would teach him magic, and then they would be (as the lad's father said) swimming in gold, silver and jewels. The self professed mage had tried very hard to teach Bo, but after a while they both had to admit that the dark skinned boy had no natural talent, and indeed no talent at all. The old man had groused, saying that the boy had to be trying to be obtuse, to be so dismal a failure. Disgraced and dismayed, Bo had quickly given up, and instead listened to nothing but stories of chivalry and honour, filling his head with dreams of adventure and a wholesome, meaningful life outside The Gutter. As soon as he was old enough, he planned to set out on his journey, leaving his family behind, and hoping for a better future, and maybe a damsel in distress or two. It was something that he often dreamed about, that sometimes even managed to dispel the gloom of the lower city for a few precious minutes.

His family claimed their son's mind had been warped by the old man, because he would not steal, and he spoke of things such as loyalty to friends and family. To be fair to them, Bo's parents had more practical experience of the streets between them than any palace scholar had experience of hot dinners, and had a number of reasonable arguments for why Bo should not embrace chivalry quite so firmly. Without being able to betray his family and friends at a moments notice, and without expecting such betrayal, it was almost certain that Bo would never survive the harsh reality of the world he lived in (and more importantly that he would never earn the family any money). They suspected that the child they had put so much effort and money into feeding and keeping alive was lost to them, and would flee as soon as he was of an age where he could start paying back what he owed. Bo, however, had continued his talks with the old mage, learning more about the finer attributes of mankind, of philosophy, and a few precious letters (enough to read and write short notes of unreliable quality). Teaching Bo his letters though was a crime even more diabolical than teaching the boy manners, though, claimed Bo's father. It would give the boy high ideas about himself and his position in life, and encourage the boy to move away from home, where he had duties to his family to fulfil. More recently the teen had heard his parents discussing the possibility of killing the mage before the old coot could do any more damage to their son's potential earning power. The two had been deliberately loud to make sure he'd heard them, Bo was sure. It was this that had prompted Bo to commit his first real act of thievery.

A few of Bo's brothers and sisters appeared at the entrance to the alleyway. They were younger than him – the youngest four, who all seemed to work well as a gang, much to their parents delight. They were laughing fit to burst, with eyes that streamed tears.

'That watcha stole Bo? Here we thought ye'd actually snag sommat useful.' Bo grabbed his brother's head and shoved the loaf of bread into his flapping mouth,

'Why doncha shut yer big fat mouth Rob?' He grumbled. His pride had been stained – not only had he committed a crime, but it wasn't even one worth cowering over, and his siblings had seen it all. Despite his scorn, Rob took a bite out of the bread and gave it to the smallest of the bunch, before hurrying to catch up with his oldest brother.

'Imma sorry Bo. It's gotta be hard when yer like to a gradpa and yeh haven't even stole a crumb. There's some as say yer a worthless layabout but I tells em right about about it agin.' He smiled roguishly, showing off a number of missing teeth. Bo couldn't determine if it was because his brother was loosing baby teeth or because he'd been in too many fights already. It might have been both. Bo knew his family thought him a dolt, but he could spot the insincerity a mile off. He sighed, Rob wouldn't leave him be until he'd given his two cents worth.

'Ok waddya want. I baint some dumb ass to stand by while ye swipe the hair of my tail, so spit out whatever puke you got swillen around in that head of yours.' Rob put on a hurt expression, trying to soften his brother up.

'Don't go stonnin the messanger, like. Ma an da wanna see you, said it was something 'bout yer birthday tommorah.' Rob's countenance showed nothing but innocence. He was a good actor. Bo didn't know what he'd done now but he'd wager a pot of gold that it wasn't something good. He looked around at his other siblings. They were all at least a foot shorter than him and they were all wearing curiously blank expressions. One of his sisters piped up,

'Can we has yer bed when they flog yez te --' hurriedly she was kicked and let out squeak of pain. Turning on his heel Bo stalked down the street towards his house. Whatever was the matter, it would be best to have it over and done with.

The house was large but not any larger than the neighbours, or their neighbours; it was just the floor above a small shop that sold herbs and balms. As he passed the shop, the mistress there gave him a long silent look and turned away. Bo frowned – she had never been cold like that before, he'd even run errands for her at times. Leaving that as a mystery for later, the small teen climbed the rickety stairs to his home, and quietly opened the door. Despite his apparent nonchalance, Bo's neck prickled. Before he could say anything, a heavily armoured hand reached out of the door and dragged him inside. Bo's immediate thoughts were that he'd been caught stealing, and now he was going to have his hand chopped off and his parents forced to pay a fine. Panic bubbled up in his stomach and he tried to pull away from the grasp that held him so firmly, looking up fearfully into the eyes of some old, haggard guard.

'12 copper and 2 silver at the least!' he heard his father growl. Swallowing his fear, Bo turned to look at his parents as the rest of his siblings crept in, eager to see the show, even if it meant a beating later from their mother.

'Fer this skinny lad?' Asked the man, still holding Bo. He shook the teen by his bony shoulder as if to declare him fragile.

'Hah! if you'd see the way he eats yeh would know that wasnnae cos he's starvin-' the husband kicked his wife to silence her, and she realised her mistake. 'Not that he has ter eat so much, we just spoil 'im, right boy?' She addressed her question to Bo, but the guards weren't interested. Bo had gone numb as he quickly realised what was going on. They were selling him to slave traders.

'Wait, but tomorrow I'm 16! Yeh can't sell me, I'm right near the being a man.' His father strode over and slapped his son across the face.

'Shut up yeh ungrateful welp, I kin sell yeh all I want till the clock strikes midnight, as whats the law says, and you know et, so shut yer yap and make sure they find ye good enou ter pay the money me an yer ma put inter yeh.' Turning back to business and leaving his son in shocked dismay, the man quickly settled for 2 copper and 2 silver, which was more than double the going price for a boy of Bo's age and build. Bo tried to argue, saying that he would easily find a job and pay back the money his parents had spent on him over the years, but it was clear they had already decided he was unreliable. One of the guards clapped a hand over Bo's mouth to stifle the yelling, causing his younger siblings to giggle mischievously at the show. Seeing that he was getting nowhere, the teen quickly sank into a horrified stupor. His parents had often threatened to sell him, but he'd never thought them serious.

Bo struggled to snap out of his frozen horror; he only needed to escape until midnight, when he would be an adult and his father could not legitimately sell him. Moving quickly, he kicked back at his captor, sliding his foot down their shin to tread on the arch of their foot. It did next to nothing, with Bo being light and bare footed, while the guard was heavily armoured. The teen continued his escape attempt, wriggling and squirming out of the shirt that was clasped tightly in his captor's hand, but the other guard was at this time alerted, and together they subdued their charge.

'Well, he certainly has some kick to him!' grunted one of the men, in good humour as he tied Bo's hands behind his back with a length of leather cord. Bo was gasping for breath by the time he was hauled back to his feet, having been thumped in the stomach several times during the struggle. The deal was carried out quickly, as Bo's parents were keen to pocket the coin before the boy could break free from his bonds, and the slavers were keen to move their charge down to the cart they'd parked nearby, from which there was no escaping. The guards cheerfully clapped a meaty hand over the teen's mouth once again, and picked him up bodily to take him downstairs. It was difficult, because Bo struggled at every step of the way, catching at doorways with his feet and legs, and generally making a nuisance of himself. He caught a glance of the woman shopkeeper who worked below his house watching and shaking her head as he was dragged away.

He was thrown unceremoniously into the back of a cart, and the doors were slammed and locked before he could get to his feet. The guards were not well pleased with the performance, and he could hear them discussing whether they should go back and ask for some sort of a refund. Bo spat on the dusty floor of the cart. He hoped they took every coin in his family's possession for what had been done to him. He was barely able to believe that his parents had sold him the day before his birthday. All of his dreams of a better life, and of adventuring abroad were quickly shattered, as he sat in the small, dark, cramped cart feeling confused, and betrayed.

Chapter 2: A New Life

Bo spent a long time in the back of the cart. It was dim, and someone at some time had pissed on the floor, leaving it damp and smelly. Twice they stopped to take on new passengers. One or two of the other children were crying, mostly silently, while the rest huddled sullenly. Bo thought he recognised one or two faces from the market streets, but there were so many children around that soon one face melded into the next. Much like the regular people found in The Gutter, those around Bo were a mixture of many different races. Here was a white child, probably a native of the city, there was a child with skin and hair as black as coal, most likely from across the seas. Many, like Bo, were different shades in between white and black – mongrels, as they were called. Bo himself was darker than most when it came to skin tone, but it meant little where he lived.

One of the girls looked grimly cheerful. She caught and held Bo's green gaze with her own. Her hair was dark, and her skin was an olive brown. She had no special features to speak of. Still mute with anger, and horror, all Bo did was to stare at her until she finally spoke up.

'Don't glare at me, I'm not the one as took you.'

'Where are we going?' asked another boy shrilly. He was one of the ones who'd been quietly sobbing. The girl snapped an answer at him, clearly irritated by his lack of a backbone.

'We're going to the castle, in the upper city. Be glad it's not the slavers market, 'cos you wouldn't last long, blubbing like that.' When asked how she knew so much, the girl smiled smugly, explaining that she was already 17 and had sold herself into slavery. After that, no one wanted to speak to her. It was clear she was the only person who was there by choice. Everyone else who spoke identified themselves as being within the ages of 14 and 16. It was odd to see such a collection of older children, and odder still that they had been bought directly by the castle. Usually it bought slaves from the markets, like everyone else. The most common slaves purchased were young ones from the age of 5 to 8, when they could still be trained and moulded for the life of a slave. Any younger and it was a chore bringing them up, any older and it was likely that they would attempt to escape, and would never fully take to the position, becoming easily depressed and on occasion suicidal. Never-the-less, older slaves had their uses, Bo reminded himself with a shudder. They could be turned into eunuchs and prostitutes, or served as some instant muscle if there was need of low ranking guards, gladiators, or stable hands. Being bought by the crown, however, was a mystery; surely they wouldn't be after eunuchs, which were kept by the temples and houses of pleasure in most cases, while prostitutes were more usually bought by private wealthy folk. Bo didn't think many of the children in the cart would survive as entertainment brawlers, as they (like him) had almost zero muscle bulk. In all he could hardly imagine a reason for the castle to be quite so desperate that they would need to buy their slaves directly from the townsfolk.

After the last slave had been gathered, it took a total of two hours hunched in dark, close quarters with a group of strangers, to get to the castle. The cart rumbled over a lowered drawbridge, to the accompaniment of bellows from the guards. Bo had been half dozing, having drifted off staring at the wall from two inches away. After another half hour of stopping and starting, with the anxiety levels of the prisoners rising slowly, there was a crack of daylight let in from the doors. Most of the teens had to shield their eyes from the glare, after being cooped up in the dark, and one after another they were hauled out into a yard. Blinking sheepishly in the sunlight, they were met by a large burly looking man. He sported a monocle, and a long thin stick that he flexed between two hands, as though desperately wishing to whip someone with it. He had a marvellous moustache that he seemed to have taken great pride in, as it was firmly waxed into position, without even one stray hair sprouting from it, almost as if the entire thing had been drawn on.

Bo was trying to blink away the dots in his vision and stretch his aching shoulders. His hands were still firmly fixed behind his back, as were a number of other teens. They were ushered into a single group, labelled 'troublemakers'.

'Alright my little scumbuckets!' bellowed the man with the monocle, 'Doncha move unless ordered to, or my men will play target practice with yer bodies, and I tell you now that they don't need the practice.' A handful of guards grinned ghoulishly at one another, each holding a strung bow in one hand, and an arrow in the other with the sort of casual stance achieved only by those who are well practised in their discipline. 'Yer a part of the castle now, so we gotta getcher fitted out proper, like. Yeh'll be given slave collars, courtesy of the crown, and a set of clothes, watcha WILL wear fer two days and then change from the clean laundry bucket, 'cept in special cases. None of you lot have been taught what to do and what not ter do in front of royalty and the like, so none of yer will be allowed into the main castle, and you will be punished if we find you there. Can't have yer pissing in the corner and whatnot, it'd make the ladies die of fright ter see you common roachers.' Again the guards shared grins, until the man with the monocle turned to face them. They quickly wiped the smirks from their faces, once again 'all business'.

The monocled man, later introduced as 'Master Sir' to the new slaves, watched as small groups were taken to be stripped, washed, shaved, showered in anti-flea and lice powder, and then clothed in simple servant garb. Each part of the process was set up in an area that was off to the side of the castle's main courtyard, near a servant entrance. The ground felt rough and rocky to Bo's unshod feet, and he was mortified to see more than one idle servant or slave spectating with a group of friends as The Gutter children were initiated into service.

Bo and the other troublemakers were to go through the ordeal first, and they were escorted by a number of bowmen who seemed eager to test their skills on a moving target.

'I reckon the little un's gunna run first. Give yer a sliver if 'e does, and three ronzies on the little lady.' Shuddering with apprehension at the thought of what would happen should he run, Bo shuffled miserably towards the hoses. The gravel underfoot grated at his feet and the sun shone dimly overhead, hardly strong enough to warm his back. Reaching a hastily built wooden platform, two of the guards set about cutting the clothes from each new slave, and tossing them on a nearby bonfire. Bo remained stoically silent as the large powerful hand of a guard clapped down on his shoulder, holding him steady while his clothes were destroyed. The chill Autumn air quickly brought up goosebumps on Bo's exposed flesh and the teen slumped even more as he was led onto the wooden stage with three or four others. It was already wet underfoot, and dangerously slippery in places. The cart Bo and his group had come in on was the last of the day, and it was clear there had been quite a stream of incoming slaves that had gone before them. Bo turned to face the front as he was ordered, only to be blasted with high power water. One of the other smaller boys slipped and fell. He wasn't able to get up again without assistance. The water used to wash down the slaves was cold, causing Bo to gasp and receive a mouthful of the stuff. As Bo choked and spluttered, momentarily distracted from the terrible cold, he noticed that the water was being blasted from a hose, powered by a mage. To him this seemed an excessively wasteful use of magic, and it was something of a shock that the castle could spare a mage simply to wash down a couple of urchins.

Somehow there were a number of servant girls who had managed to get the job of roughly scrubbing all new initiatives, and they tittered and giggled no end to see all of the naked boys. One or two of the troublemakers were keeping up a false bravado that Bo envied. One even winked at the girls who were scrubbing him down, making them blush and titter even more. Bo would have liked to hide his dignity, as he did not wish to be quite so intimate with the many strangers who were gawping and gaping at the spectacle, but he, and the rest of the troublemakers, remained bound throughout the ordeal as a form of protection to those who had to deal with them. The teen tried not to look at the crowd that had formed, favouring keeping his eyes on his own two feet. Unlike many of those around him, Bo did not particularly like to have girls washing him down, and he wished more than ever that he had his hands free to do the job himself. The teen was sure this sort of thing was banned by the laws of chivalry, but there was little he could do or say to prevent it.

As soon as they were scrubbed red raw, the small group was shoved from the stage. As they exited, trying not to slip or fall with the forced march over the wet wood, a sackful of anti-flea powder was dumped on them haphazardly. The white, floury powder clung to the slave's wet bodies, stinging at their eyes and any exposed wounds. If the slave