Page 26 of War Mage

“Take off her clothes,” suggests the lighthouse keeper, coming back over, potion in hand.

“What?” I ask gruffly, his words throwing me for a second.

“Her clothes,” he repeats like I’m a fool, though he hands me the potion. “They are wet and lowering her body temperature. Get her out of them and she’ll warm quicker.”

His words make sense, but my honor stays my hands. To remove her clothing while she’s unconscious . . .

The lighthouse keeper notices my hesitation and cocks his head curiously. “Are you so worried about the modesty of all your slaves? What a curious slaver you are.”

He’s right. My story will fall apart if I can’t treat Adara like the property we are pretending she is. “I just don’t want someone who hasn’t paid for it to see the merchandise,” I reply pointedly, looking at the lighthouse keeper.

He raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture, though he looks annoyed. “I have to rewind the clockwork of the tower anyway,” he says, moving to leave. “And send a message to the magistrate that there have been castaways, as is the law. Blankets are in that basket. You can wrap yourselves in them after you remove your clothes. Then you should get some rest. You both look like you’re on your way to the Nether.”

The lighthouse keeper leaves and I get to work, removing the mage’s manacles and shucking the clothes off of Adara. I’m cold and methodical about it, not lingering and looking, trying to honor her modesty as much as possible. Only when I have her wrapped in a blanket and lying by the fire do I pop the cork on the potion vial, trickling a little in her mouth. I wait for a few tense seconds for it to slide down her throat. She’s so unconscious that she doesn’t have a swallow reflex, so I gently stroke her throat, coaxing the liquid down. Relief fills me when, in a moment or two, the wound on her head begins to close, showing that the potion is taking effect. I methodically trickle in a little more, still massaging her throat, until the potion vial is empty. The wound on her head is completely closed, though a bump remains, and I am confident that she is no longer dying. Finally leaving her alone by the warmth of the fire, I tend to myself, divesting myself of my wet Terrian-style clothing and wrapping myself in a blanket as well. I don’t need the blanket as much, as orcs are hotter-blooded than humans, and more hardy besides, but it still is comforting after my fight with the ocean.

Adara seems to be improving, no longer ashen with bluish-purple lips. Her skin has taken on a more golden hue and her breathing is even, the fire, potion, and blankets doing their work. I hang our clothes around the fireplace to dry and hunker down next to Adara, my back against the wall. I’m exhausted, more so than I ever have been, even after the long battles I have fought in the past. But something about this lighthouse keeper puts me on edge. I don’t trust him enough to sleep, so I force myself to keep my eyes open, warily glancing around the cozy room.

After a while the lighthouse keeper returns from his task. He glances at me and Adara. He nods in her direction.

“She’s looking improved. So are you.”

“My thanks,” I reply, trying to sound friendly and trusting. “For the shelter you are providing us.”

“It’s my job,” he returns before sitting at the rough-hewn table in one corner. “I also sent word of you to the magistrate while I was with my clockwork, so city guards will be coming to interrogate you as soon as the storm passes. What’s your name, friend?”

“Vargan,” I reply, giving him my false identity. “Of the Master Caste. And you are?”

“Dristan Shadeswick, at your service,” he replies. “My family have been Stormfury Landing’s lighthouse keepers for five generations. Master Caste, eh? I suppose that means that you live in Terria?”

“After I was banished from my homeland, Terria took me in,” I lie. “Became my new fatherland. They placed me in the Master Caste, as was befitting my status as master of an impressive slave stable.” The words are bile in my mouth. To pretend to be an Honorless is an offense to everything I believe in. Even as a clanless orphan, I always had freedom and believed others should have the same. Orik has never had a slave trade, even under the worst of rulers, and looks down heavily on countries like Terria and Turin that do. The Honorless slavers are the most shamed and reviled of our culture, even more than cowards, deserters, and traitors. The brand and banishment they are given is to force them to live with their shame. But I have been briefed on the backstory of the orc I am impersonating and I can spin a tale about it with the best of them.

Dristan nods. “You are lucky to have found a new home, then. Not so lucky losing your wares in the storm though.”

“Once I receive the slave price for this one,” I say, gesturing to Adara, “I can return to Terria and rebuild. Grazrath has promised a king’s ransom for one such as her.”

“What makes her so special?” queries the lighthouse keeper.

“She is a powerful air mage. I’m told that for blood-drinkers the experience of her blood is exquisite.”

“Should you not replace her iron manacles then?” he points out. “In case she wakes?”

“Good idea,” I say, trying to sound agreeable, like we are on the same side. “Though after the knock to her head, she probably will sleep for a while more.”

I move to replace the manacles on Adara’s wrists and notice that the lighthouse keeper relaxes a fraction when the metal cuffs click closed.

“She is quite pretty,” the vampire remarks. “Bump on her head aside.”

“She is flawless,” I agree, though my suspicion deepens. “As is required by Lord Grazrath.”

“A worthy gift for our king, then,” remarks Dristan. “I’ve heard that he likes to gather the choicest morsels for himself.”

“That’s my contracted duty with him,” I confirm. “Do you have a blood slave of your own?”

The vampire shakes his head. “I am not important enough to warrant such an honor yet. I have a goat that I use for my regular feedings and I get to sample the public slaves once a week, as do other common folk. Once we win the war with Adrik and Orik, though, we have all been promised an exclusive bloodbag for our use.”

“Bloodbag?” I ask, though the term seems self-explanatory.

He chuckles lightly. “Forgive me. It is what we vampires call the sentients on which we feed. Not a flattering name, I’ll admit.”

---