The Fracture of Shackles

By Charles Richard Burgundy

When forced in a war that isn't his, how can an enslaved nobleman combine honour and survival?

Captured by pirates at sea, Valirian, a young nobleman from the kingdom of Vinmara, is sold into slavery to the empire of Koresh, his people's sworn enemy. He comes into the service of Alexar, a powerful and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles R. Burgundy
• Release date: Feb 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9782959137013

Book preview

Chapter 1

Salt, Blood, and a Whip

A maritime breeze carried the odour of the sea to a prison cell, filling the dark room with its salty smell. On the dirt floor sat a young man, immobile, his eyes aimless as they stared at the humid wall covered in mould. It was unclear what time of day it was, despite the weak rays of light that found their way into the small room, just as unclear as his fate would be.

There, he waited for many long minutes, hours even, his skin pale and his eyes bloodshot, the repetitive sound of the water dripping from the ceiling to the floor as loud as a drum. It had prevented him from sleeping that night, or so he had almost convinced himself. The dirt on his visage did very little to hide his morbid paleness, yet neither did it hide the elegance of his traits. His thin nose gave his oval face an air of refinement, and his chin, cleanly shaved, showed his youth—unlikely had he passed his twentieth year. More striking, however, were his green eyes, the colour of summer leaves, which, alongside his hair of a light brown, easily gave away the blood of Vinmaran nobility flowing in his veins.

In his dire situation, the young man showed an abnormally calm demeanour, yet it was one of resignation rather than confidence—the resignation of a young man who had ignored the warnings of his mentors and would soon pay the price, dearly so.

The cold darkness of his room left him indifferent. The stench of the rotting cell did not bother him, as his heavy heart raced at the thought of what would soon happen to him. His ship had been attacked by pirates from the Bloodoath Confederacy, a loose union of islands in the inner sea who regularly preyed on Vinmaran and Tilversian merchant ships. Unlike many of the other prisoners, whose complaints—or, rather, their echo—he regularly heard through the long corridor that connected his cell to theirs, the young man was no merchant. Rather, he was a mere foolish young man, one who had dreamt of travelling the world in quest of glory and honour, of escaping the tranquil life that awaited him at his small domain in the countryside of Vinmara.

How shameful it was for him, the son of a Vinmaran officer, to be captured all so easily! His father had given his life on the battlefield; his entire existence he had spent bravely defending his homeland from their mortal enemies, the Koreshians, yet the dishonour caused to his father’s name was perhaps the least of the young man’s worries. How he missed his, or his mentor’s, guidance in those times! Even their wisdom would not save him from the grim fate he was promised now.

Distantly, in the corridor, some pirates were gathering the prisoners for one of the many auctions that happened daily in the Bloodoath Islands. They saw innocent souls turned into mere objects, subject to the will of the highest bidder—and so his life as a noble of Vinmara would end, the grimness of slavery all too real to him now. The men eventually opened his cell, too, and forcefully took him across many streets from the prison to a large market. The sound of the whip cadenced the march of the many unfortunates that shared the young man’s fate, as bystanders watched with curiosity, sometimes eyeing a prisoner or two.

He felt his heart sink as his hands were tied to a post. Defeated, he watched groups of slaves, similar in size to his, being brought to the large stall. Together, they certainly numbered way above a hundred, a grim spectacle the young man could not bear to witness. He closed his eyes, he who had sworn to take the seas to end this horrible trade. Those were men and women he had made an oath to protect.

Lost in his thoughts, as if his mind was absent from his body, he did not listen to the shouts of the auctioneers as they sold quantities of slaves that seemed unbelievable to him. As the large crowd beneath slowly dissipated, he only assumed his night would be another one spent in the darkness and humidity of his cell. Yet a banner appeared in the distance, from the corner of a street, heading to the marketplace: a golden lion sitting atop a black mountain, a golden sun rising from behind the horizon, on a field of scarlet red. A glorious symbol for the powerful empire of Koresh. It once filled him with anger, yet now it made him shiver.

Fearing that his more remarkable features would betray his origins, he looked down, hoping the dirt that covered his face would darken his hair. The Koreshian soldiers numbered in the thirties, perhaps, but too fearful, he refused to study them any longer, only briefly looking to the right as he saw one of the men, who wore a red tunic and carried a whip in his hand, climb the stairs to the stall. Doubtlessly one of the slave masters of Koresh, the man closely inspected some of the more promising slaves, sometimes hitting those he thought weak with his whip, as if to test their strength. Unashamedly running his hand on the bodies of the few women present there, he spared them no cruelty.

The young man, his heart pounding in his chest as the slave master dangerously neared him, glanced at the group of Koreshians. He caught a glimpse of a tall man on a chair that the soldiers had installed. It was as though the tall man’s sight was focused on him, as though his gaze attempted to pierce through the young man’s weak façade and discover his true identity.

What do we have here? Is he even a man? asked the slave master. He can barely carry the weight of his own body! As the man lashed his whip in the air, startling many of the slaves around him, the young man did not react. He stood there, his head down, his fists clenched around the pole to which he was tied.

Look up! said the slave master as he began to inspect him. Look up, I said! He forcefully pushed the young man’s chin upwards so as to study his visage, making the Vinmaran close his eyes. O-ho! You want to taste the whip, don’t you? He snapped his whip in the air once more, and the young man crisped his jaw, bracing for his incoming punishment.

Cease, Darius. The words came from a powerful voice further behind the slave master.

Slowly opening his eyes, the young noble saw the tall man standing up from his chair. His hair, black as charcoal, was cut short as he stood a head above his soldiers. His powerful and muscular body gave him the appearance of a giant, yet his jaw and chin were cleanly shaved, and his brown eyes showed a frightening calm—one that could certainly turn into a bloodthirsty fury once he was in battle.

Although he had never met him before, the young man recognised the warrior from the many tales he had heard throughout the years. He was Alexar, a Koreshian general, despised and feared by the Vinmarans.

With slow steps, the tall warrior approached him, and Darius stepped aside, straightening his back. The slave master’s grin vanished, replaced by a stern expression. Gently, Alexar grabbed the young man’s chin and pushed it upwards, studying his face with great care for many long seconds.

Hiding your eyes will do very little to hide the blood in your veins, young man, he said. Shortly after, he turned to the slave trader, whose slight frown betrayed his lack of understanding. We will buy this one, and for the usual price.

His tone visibly dissuaded the merchant from negotiating any further. He simply nodded at the command and undid the young man’s binds.

Finish your task here, Darius, Alexar said. He brought the young man to his seat, from where he continued to observe the slave master. Tell me, why did a young Vinmaran noble venture so far from home?

The young man looked down, clenching his fists, giving Alexar a slight frown. Yet his lack of frustration surprised the young noble; it seemed he had not expected an answer, rather asking the question to himself first and foremost.

Bring him some fresh water, Alexar commanded to one of the soldiers standing there, who executed the order without question.

The flask at his lips, the young man briefly hesitated, but his dry throat urged him to satiate his thirst, the fresh liquid a delight to his mouth. A long minute after, he returned the empty flask to the soldier.

What is your name? asked the Koreshian general. Again, as the young man hesitated, the Koreshian showed great patience.

Valirian, he said.

Alexar nodded, and his attention shifted to Darius. The slave master, busy negotiating with the grim merchant, soon returned to his general, some thirty slaves behind him, to whom he shouted orders, his words marked by the cracking of his whip.

Don’t complain too loudly! shouted Darius. Or I’ll send you straight to the Kennels like the dogs you are. A grin appeared on his face, and he eyed the young man as the group, surrounded by Koreshian soldiers, passed close to the general’s seat.

Alexar gave his men a simple gesture, and Valirian was guided to the Koreshian ship and brought to the cells in the hold of the large vessel, where he and the numerous other slaves were forced into small cages. Barely able to hold a man, most cages were stuffed with two, sometimes three, and soon the moans of those that had suffered under Darius’s whip filled the compartment with a never-ending low sound.

That night, Valirian found no rest, and to his headache soon was added a fever. Days passed, perhaps even a week, for time seemed impossible to measure in the dark room, and the stench of death had begun to fill the hold as the soldiers finally brought the slaves outside.

The ship had reached one of the coastal cities in the western parts of Koresh. As if looking for him specifically, Alexar inspected the slaves exiting the vessel, whispering a few words to Darius as he seemed to finally catch a glimpse of the young man. Valirian was no fool; the attention of such a dangerous and powerful man meant no good for him, and he feared the worst as the slave master brought him out of the line and studied him, yet he was sent back with the other slaves.

Their journey, he knew, was far from over, as they would now head to the city of Koresh, capital of the empire. Yet many days separated them from their destination. For the first time since his capture, Valirian dared hope. Perhaps he could escape, steal a horse, and ride to the kingdom of his people. The trip to Koresh was long; the soldiers were bound to let their guard down. All he needed was a plan. His occasion was there, or rather, he merely needed to wait for it, for the correct opportunity, and so he dreamt—and hoped.

Yet as each day drew him dangerously closer to Koresh, he failed to establish a plan, unable to find an occasion. The slaves were closely watched by the soldiers. The horses, even more closely. And since he had neither food nor a map, the travel would be perilous, if not suicidal. Yet he owed himself to try.

Night fell on the small camp, and the young man observed. The slaves were grouped in the centre of the camp, and on rainy days, the Koreshian soldiers would set a large tent for the slaves to find refuge under; after all, should their new acquisitions fall ill and die, they would have no use for them. However, on otherwise clear days, they found the tent an unnecessary waste of their time. They judged the fence—a sort of palisade that was slightly shorter than a man and, as such, easy to transport—and the guards patrolling around it to be enough to keep the slaves from escaping.

The sky that day had been clear, as blue as it could ever be, yet at twilight a strong wind began to blow over the land. As per usual, the slaves had been gathered in the centre of the camp, yet without a tent, and the wind blew more and more powerfully. A storm was gathering. However, the soldiers seemed to be hoping that dawn would arrive before rain, saving them some time.

Valirian hoped otherwise. The plan was simple. Once he had climbed out of the palisade, he would run towards a small river they had crossed earlier that day, traverse it, and cover his tracks that way. Once he was out of reach, freeing his hands from the thick rope would be a matter of patience.

Time passed, and Valirian forced himself to stay awake. He ignored how advanced the night was, yet he could not give up. Were he to abandon, would he get another chance? The first raindrop landed on his skin, and he smiled. Perhaps Fortune favoured him, after all. He heard a whispered curse from a soldier nearby. It seemed it had fallen upon them to set the tent, and rapidly so. Rain soon began to pour, the few droplets suddenly turning into a storm.

Keep quiet! said a soldier. We’ll set the tent, but if any of you complains too loudly, you’ll all sleep outside!

Valirian hurried; he could not let his one chance escape him. From the dozen men that normally kept watch on the slaves, four had left to set the tent. There would be no better occasion. He crawled to the palisade, merely a few steps away from him, at a place where he thought the gap between the Koreshian soldiers to be the largest. He took a deep breath. His shivering body urged him to act quickly, and so he stood up, though he kept himself hidden behind the palisade. His body froze as he glanced at one of the guards nearby. Yet the man seemed unaware of him for the time.

A strong gust of wind blew. Helped by the pouring rain, it extinguished the soldier’s torch—a miracle! Using the pointy tip of the palisade as a hook, Valirian hoisted himself up until he was able to bring his torso above the palisade. He winced; the point was not sharp enough to pierce through his skin, yet the sensation was far from pleasant. He was sure to be seen by the guards, anytime now, but perhaps the wind had bought him enough time.

He brought his first leg up, over the palisade, then the second, and attempted to drop carefully on the other side. A low thump as he hit the ground, sounding like thunder to him, made his heart race.

There was no time for hesitation. He ran. Behind, the Koreshian soldiers shouted. He had been seen, but perhaps he still had a chance to make it out. Some heavy footsteps behind made him clench his teeth. He could not fail now!

Others are trying to escape! shouted a sergeant.

Others had tried to mimic him! There was no time to stop and look back, however, and he kept running forwards, searching the ground for obstacles as he sprinted for what felt like an eternity. No man seemed to have followed him. How come not a single soldier had come after him? Daring to turn around, he confirmed what he thought. As no one was behind, the guards were certainly busy with probably more than a handful of slaves trying to escape, too.

There was no time to waste, still, and so he continued to run, wishing those brave enough to attempt the same to be just as successful. Soon, the entire camp was awake, yet Valirian had left it behind for many crucial seconds when the situation seemed to return to normal. Though he kept on running, he soon realised his own weakness. His vision blurred, his temples were beating as loudly as drums, and his entire body shivered in spite of the sweat and fever.

He pushed on until he reached the river. He needed to traverse it. All he had done mattered not if the Koreshians followed his footsteps all too easily the next day. He winced as his feet touched the cold stream, thankful that the water only reached up to his knees, and a mere few seconds after, he had gotten to the other side. He would need to leave as few tracks as possible, and so he took slow steps, making sure to leave no obvious footprints for the Koreshians to follow.

Though the storm had calmed, the pouring rain making room for a much gentler one, his body had reached its limit—or rather, it had gone way past it. He collapsed, incapable of carrying on, and dragged his body to a bush with much difficulty. It would, or so he hoped, grant him enough cover.

Chapter 2

Beneath the Grey Mountain

A pale sun awoke Valirian, and the long shadow of the small bush he had hidden under indicated that hardly more than an hour had passed since dawn. However, never had he suffered a comparable headache, and his frail body shivered in spite of his burning fever. He knew not for how long he had run the previous night, yet as he attempted to get up, his legs struggled to keep him standing for more than a few seconds. Blood rushed to his head, and his temples were beating once more, like two loud drums in his ears, and he coughed. Would he even survive the night? The beating in his ears became louder as he collapsed onto the ground, and he cursed silently as he realised his own weakness. Another miracle needed to happen, soon, or else he would collapse before even reaching any safe haven.

Any food, any form of shelter—that was what he needed. What foolishness had overcome him to dream of becoming a renowned hero? Never did he stand a chance. All too weak to even save his own life, how could he save those of others? Now only captivity and death offered themselves as his options, and which would be better, if he even had the choice?

The drums seemed to become louder. His temples felt on the edge of exploding. Suddenly, his heart froze. Those were the sounds of hooves, he realised too late. A few cavaliers galloped not too far from his hiding spot. Perhaps, if he had been followed, the few leaves of the bush had kept him hidden from his captors’ sight at night, but he doubted they would during the day, yet he lacked any better option.

He crawled beneath the branches of the small shrub, the perfume of its leaves frustratingly pleasant as he curled in hopes of keeping himself warm. The sound of the galloping horses drew nearer, and he struggled to calm his breathing. His heart was pounding, his teeth clenched. What punishment awaited him, a runaway slave, if not death? The harrowing tales of Koreshian cruelty, perhaps mere stories to frighten children and motivate men to fight, returned to his mind.

Nearby, he heard a man drop from his horse. He was alone, for the other horses seemed to still be galloping further in the distance. A strong hand seized his arm and dragged him from beneath the branches as a soldier in armour inspected him. Tall, and covered in grey steel plates, he was one of the grey giants, the elite soldiers of Koresh.

My General! he called. The horses stopped in their course to head to the soldier. Alexar, followed by Darius and another soldier, dropped from their mounts, studying the young man.

Boys always need so much disciplining . . . said the slave master, his whip in hand as he approached Valirian.

The young man protected his eyes the best he could, wincing at the first hit, the lash leaving a burning sensation on his back. Soon, it flailed the skin of his legs three times.

Enough, said Alexar as the fifth once again struck the young man’s back, and Darius stopped immediately. A dead slave is worthless to me. I expect you to send him to the Kennels, and I hope for him to survive. He will not if you punish him further.

The mention of the Kennels lit something in Darius’s eyes. He grinned as he glanced at the young man, and he climbed back onto his horse.

Cover him with a cloth, and bring him back to the camp with the others, said Alexar to one of the soldiers. Koresh is merely a day away.

The general’s last words made Valirian freeze in place, as if he only now grasped what awaited him at the end of this journey. Too weak, and exhausted by his escapade, he did not resist as one of the grey giants mounted him onto his horse.

The small group rejoined the camp. To his surprise, the other slaves seemed to have expected his reappearance, as if none had truly believed they could escape. Certainly, by their slightly dwindled numbers, some had tried, but he doubted their success.

He barely had the time to eat the meagre food he was given before the same soldier forced him onto the saddle once more, yet Valirian lacked the will to protest or fight. A strange acceptance began to settle as they rode north for many long hours. Eventually, behind the short hills appeared a mountain, further north, and to the east of it, a large city had grown in its shadow. Seemingly built in the same grey stone as the mountain, Koresh had an air of perfect stillness as it sat on the mountain’s flank. Never had Valirian seen such an impressive city. The sight of it made him shiver, as before him was the heart of the Koreshian Empire. Further north, on a hill taller than the others, stood a large fortress. Few were the Vinmarans, he knew, who had laid their eyes upon Koresh and returned to tell the tale.

The group reached the gates, yet as the general and a handful of men entered the city, Darius led the slaves, or rather a large portion of them, to the west, following a road between the slums on the left-hand side and the tall walls to the right, heading to the large mountain. Two long hours after, a camp appeared from behind a small hill. With parts of it hidden in a ravine nearby, its size was dreadfully impressive, with certainly no less than a few thousand men there.

Welcome to the Kennels, you dogs, said Darius. Enjoy your stay, but don’t worry, I won’t be too far away. He marked his last words by cracking his whip in the air as a slight chuckle escaped him. The man then shouted some orders at a few Koreshian soldiers.

The small group was brought to their new homes, or so the slave master called them, dark cells carved into the mountainside or in the caves of the ravine, barely large enough to fit a small bed and a bucket. The bed—or rather the planks of wood onto which, sometimes, some had been fortunate enough to stack hay—were hardly the norm, for some cages left no option to their occupants but to lie down on the hard, rocky, and irregular ground. Such was Valirian’s misfortune, trapped in a cave at the bottom of the ravine. To his relief, much like during his harrowing travel on the Koreshian vessel, he shared not his small cage with another, yet with that slight positive did not come peaceful nights of sleep, for the complaints of those stricken with severe illnesses echoed between the rocks and kept him awake.

As days passed, Valirian realised his frail appearance made him a prey to the damned souls left to mine in the shadow of the mountain until their days’ end. Many of them were of Vinmaran birth, too, yet they hid not their disgust and hatred for the young man. In spite of their common misfortune, in spite of the same blood in their veins, often would they show their hostility. Those men, behaving no better than wild beasts, were even worse than the Koreshians themselves, for the guards, at least, in spite of their cruelty, showed a semblance of order, of respect for their peers. Such was the true cruelty of the Kennels, where only under the oversight of the guards did he feel safe.

Valirian, like the other slaves, was condemned to spend his days in the mine, working there for long hours. Sometimes, days would pass without him ever seeing the sun, for the slaves would be sent to work before dawn and returned to their cells late in the evening, mining a large portion of the coal necessary to keep the Koreshian war machine functional. His only moment of tranquillity would come soon after nightfall, when he would slip past the guards’ sight and find his way outside of the ravine, where, at the base of the stone wall that surrounded the Kennels, he would lie down in the thin layer of snow he would sometimes find—the last snows of the second month. Beneath the stars, the only source of light finding its way to him, he would stay there for many long minutes, unbothered by the cold in spite of his thin clothing.

One evening, he thought Fortune had smiled upon him, for the layer of snow appeared thicker, enough for him to hold a small ball in his hands, with which he played for a few minutes, polishing it with his calloused palms. He sighed with a joyless smile as he broke the snowball, cleaning his soot-covered visage with the flawless white powder, shivering slightly at the cold touch, and drying himself with the cloth of his tunic.

The little boy’s cleaning himself! mocked a voice from behind.

Startled, Valirian jumped on his feet and turned around.

How does it feel, huh? Born a noble, and now you’re shit like the rest of us, said a short and strong man, his disfigured face betraying a grin that lacked many teeth. Beside him stood another slave of similar appearance, albeit visibly older and slightly taller.

The men’s faces were not so unfamiliar to Valirian. Though he avoided the other slaves the best he could, to escape their taunts and mockeries, those two had already caused him trouble before. In spite of their tough appearance, never would they dare do anything had the guards been anywhere closer.

Your pretty face makes me angry, said the older of the two. Let’s fix that, aye? He clenched his fists and bit his tongue. The two thugs would not let Valirian escape without a fight, yet an idea traversed his mind—perhaps his best chance of escaping as unscathed as possible.

You wanna fight? Come on, I’m waiting! he shouted, his words followed by a loud battle cry, as ferocious as he could make it.

Though his voice betrayed his lack of confidence and his inexperience, the noise he made seemed to anger the two men. They both charged at him, and Valirian attempted a wild punch on the short man, hoping to swiftly neutralise him, yet his strike was answered by the sudden assault of the older one, who bit the young man’s arm as he attempted to defend himself.

A strong hit on his left cheek made his vision blur. He felt his legs being swept off the ground, and he fell on his back. He realised his imminent defeat; he was overpowered. He protected his head with his arms, hoping it would save him from being knocked out. One of the slaves tried to move his arms out of the way in an attempt to strangle him. The other kicked him in the ribs. With his knee, he retaliated against the one above him, hitting him in the guts.

Suddenly, the kicking stopped. Three more men joined in on the brawl, distracting his two aggressors. His plan had worked. His breath still heavy and irregular, he struggled to get onto his knees. A lost kick hit him in the shoulder, making him wince—a handful of others were joining in. There would soon be a dozen slaves in the brawl.

Come, quick! whispered a man.

Valirian had barely recovered from the brutal hits. He frowned, standing up with difficulty as the man pulled on his arm, trying to get him up.

The guards will soon come! the man said, taking a rapid glance around him as he faked punching the young man in the stomach.

Only then able to see his saviour—a man whose visage was marked by age, his traits rough, his messy hair of a greyish white—Valirian nodded. He hesitated no more, and under the cover of the night, he followed the old man to the ravine, where