Chapter Three

Wish me luck not gonna run, the final countdown has begun

A low, excited buzz carried through the vast meeting hall that lay on the ground floor of the palace. Today one of the men gathered there would be taking home a prize far greater than any title the Master of the Realm could ever bestow upon them, the winning bidder would be taking home the son of one of their own, a new slave for one of the richest households in town.

The last three days had passed in a blur for Alistair, Lord Archibald keeping him close by at all times, determined to make the most of his last few days with his boy. Sore and aching, Alistair found himself being hauled from his bed and forced into his old clothes. Guards waited for him, lingering at the open door, shackles clasped in hands. The boy being sold meant only one thing to them, one of the royal guards would be selected to take his place in the Master’s bed at night.

“Time to go boy.” The leader of the guard stepped forward, dragging the boy closer to him. “You ain’t gonna like this, but the Lord’s orders must be obeyed, you know the rules as well as we do.” Alistair nodded, eyes fixed on his wrists as the shackles were locked tightly, so tight that even the tiniest movement made the young man wince in pain.

Casting one last lingering look around the room, Alistair turned away, meekly following after the guards that would lead him to his destiny, a destiny that still held so much promise, despite his current situation. All the young man could do was wait, silently hoping that his new master would be as forgiving as the last. No matter what Archibald had threatened, and even what he had done, the Master of the Realm was never twisted enough to hurt or damage Alistair so badly that the boy wished himself dead; a suicidal boy was of no use to anyone.

“Keep up; you don’t want to keep them waiting now do you?” The guards surrounding him laughed mockingly, yanking him forwards and causing the boy to trip and stumble along the silent, echoing hall.

Face burning red from embarrassment, Alistair lifted his eyes long enough to see the daunting, solid oak door looming over him. Behind that door lay his future, however uncertain that future was he did not know. All he wanted to was remain here, in this palace, with the Master, no one bothered him here, they may talk about him behind his back, but not one of them said a word to his face, none of them had the guts to start a fight or an argument with the Master’s pet.

The doors creaked open slowly, Archibald standing beyond it, arms held open in greeting to the lords. Hearing the footsteps behind him, the slight man turned beaming with pride as his gaze landed on Alistair.

“Here he is gentlemen, the prize you are all vying for.” Standing back a touch, Archibald motioned for the guards to bring the boy to the front of the staged area that lay in front of the vast head table in the hall.

Once more Alistair stumbled as he was shoved forward, wincing as the Master’s hand found solid contact with the back of his head, a hissed insult slung at him carelessly by the guard gripping his arm tightly. The hall erupted with laughter as the boy’s face found solid contact with the edge of the stage, blood dripping from a large gash that split his forehead.

“No major damage gentlemen, nothing that will not heal in a day or so.” Archibald forced a laugh, determined not to let anything drive down the high price he knew his boy would fetch. “The clumsiness is a part of his charm.”

A quiet, uneasy titter rippled through the men, did any of them truly want to buy a slave who was liable to make more mess than he cleaned? He would be a liability if he caused too much trouble, but then, the fall seemed forced, maybe he was not as clumsy as the Master made him out to be.

“What say we open the bidding? Who cares to start?” Lord Archibald’s voice muted the babble immediately, each of the men looking from one to the other, waiting, silently daring one another to go first.

“One hundred coins.”

“One twenty.”

“One fifty.”

“One seventy five.”

As the number went up and up Geoffrey Archibald smirked proudly, one hand ruffling his boy’s hair, this was it, the number of coins being offered was slowly climbing towards the number he had in mind for Alistair, but were getting nowhere the average price of a slave out on the market. That was the idea, keep his price low, entice the buyers in and sell him cheap, make him feel even worse when he learns the other slaves at where ever he ends up were brought for three times the price he was.

Somewhere near the far back of the room, someone banged hard on the wall, a short, scraggy man pulling himself on to the chair and shouting over the noise.

“Three hundred coins.”

“SOLD! To the man on the chair.” Three hundred was as high as Archibald was willing to allow the bidding to go, bashing his gavel against the table top in front of him. “Come forward my god man; let us see who has won my boy.”  

Grinning smugly, the man jumped down from his chair, pushing frantically through the gathered men. Not one of them congratulated him, instead all either turned away or scowled at him. Most had been willing to pay at least a thousand for such a well conditioned specimen, but to be cut off at only three hundred? Who was this man? And what power did he have to win such a high profile auction?

The man’s grin broke as he was helped on to the stage, handing the heavy bag of coins to the waiting guard and taking the scroll of parchment that listed ownership over the boy. Looking down at the scroll, he looked up briefly, his dark, near black, eyes dancing around the room, taking in every single look of scorn the other men cast at him.

“Gathered lords, may I present you to, from the land of Tynwhear across the River Tynha, The High Lord, Gaspar Ishmalna.” The man’s name sent a shiver through the gathering, Lord Ishmalna was a feared and harsh war lord, known throughout the world for showing no mercy to anyone, man or woman, if they crossed him, they felt his wrath. “Congratulations your lordship. I do hope the boy lives up to whatever expectations you have in him.”

“He will most certainly live up to my expectations if he is aware of what is good for him.” Ishmalna sniggered to himself, his hand slowly stroking the whip that hung, looped around his belt, the boy would be kneeling and swearing his allegiance before this day was out. “Although I do fear that you have been too soft in your treatment of the boy, he appears in too good shape to have been subject to the real life of a slave.”

“He has indeed been fortunate, but his talents lie far beyond the realm of household chores, as I am sure you will be well aware of before the sun has risen tomorrow morning.”  The men exchanged a knowing glance, a brief, if albeit unnoticeable, smile passing between them.

“Thank you. I will have someone look into his areas of talent when the need arises.” Both men shook hands briskly, well aware of the craned necks and keen ears of those in the room. The lords of Twyllham, Lord Archibald’s lands, knew that what they were seeing, a truce between two great, warring Lords, was perhaps a once in a lifetime experience, although they could not help but reason that something extremely untoward was going on between them.

“I can find nothing other to say than congratulations, Alistair is an excellent purchase.” With one final, smirking, glance, Archibald turned his back on the boy, determined never to set eyes on him again if he could help it. “I wish you a good return journey your lordship, and please, if the boy proves any trouble, do not hesitate to return him for further training.”

“I am certain your man Dalton would be only too happy to have the boy returned to him for further attention.” The response was mumbled, but audible to those seated in the front row, all very much enjoying the free entertainment that had unknowingly been laid on. “Time to leave boy, and do keep up, we do not have much time in which to make our journey home.”

As Lord Ishmalna took the length of chain that joined Alistair’s hands, the boy turned and cast one last pleading look at Archibald, silently begging him not to let him go. What had he done to deserve being sold to the most sadistic man in the world?  A sharp slap, hard enough to make his head spin, dragged him back to earth with a heavy thud as Ishmalna tugged sharply on the chain, near dragging Alistair after him.

The journey was a large one, difficult in places, but still, Lord Ishmalna was insistent that they did not stop, at least not until they were safely beyond the borders of his lands, and even then, the rest was merely hours, and not the days Alistair needed.

His feet ached, and were no doubt bleeding inside his thin, broken boots. His wrists chafed and cut wide open from the shackles that he was being lead by. Not that his lord and master cared for the boy’s wellbeing. Ishmalna was in perfect health, high on his horse, all but dragging the young man along behind him. The lash of the whip stung as it cracked across his barely clothed back, tearing a long, straight rip down the centre of his ragged shirt. 

“Faster. We have almost reached my palace.” Another stroke of the whip rained down on the weary boy, causing him to yelp suddenly, the first sound he had made since their trip had begun. “Silence.” A third lash, harder this time, urged him to quicken his pace, almost biting his tongue in half as he stifled his anguished cry. “If you would increase your pace boy we will be home within the hour.”

Obediently Alistair picked up his pace as much as he could muster, wincing with every step he took. The pain had now turned agonising, each step sending shooting pains from his feet up his legs. He didn’t want to obey this man, but the fear of the whip never left him, and on the journey, worst punishment than that had been threatened on their return, punishments he had never so much as heard of before in his life.

Less than an hour down the track, Ishmalna drew the horse to a sharp halt, not caring that the action sent Alistair crashing into the rock hard ground. Towering above them, flags fluttering delicately in the gentle spring breeze, was the palace of Tynwhear. Ahead of them lay the gates to the town, heavily guarded as was to be expected.

“Get up boy. We still have the palace to reach before you earn your reprieve.” Without warning the Lord clicked the horse onwards, smirking a shade as Alistair was drawn harder against the road. “Do at least attempt to lift your useless, lazy backside up off of the ground.”

Standing without the help of his hands proved to be a huge struggle for Alistair, but an amusement to Ishmalna, who simply watched his boy struggling to get to his feet, laughing darkly and lashing his whip close to the boy’s face.

It took all of Alistair’s self control not to flinch as the thong lashed downwards, just millimetres from his cheek and ear, the crop making a shrill whistling sound as it did so. Sitting on his horse, Ishmalna couldn’t help but look a little disheartened when the boy finally managed to haul himself to his feet; secretly he had been hoping the struggle would last a fair while as entertainment on their journey had been sparse.

Waiting until Alistair was perfectly steady and balanced, the lord yanked hard on the chain he was leading the boy with, his aim to bring the exhausted lad back to his knees in the dust and dirt. Alistair, however, had sensed that something of this sort was about to happen, and held firm, somehow, despite his weary state, managed to remain standing, a small, if unimportant, rebellion against his new master.

Angered by the boy’s resolve, Ishmalna clicked the horse onwards once more, snapping the riding crop against the beast’s flanks to urge it on at a faster pace, a look of grim determination on his face. The lord was intent on them making it into the safety of the castle before nightfall, which was fast approaching, regardless of the state the horse and Alistair arrived in, both could be dealt with later on, but right now getting to the shelter and security of his lavish palace was all that was important.

“Halt.” A voice, unfamiliar to the lord, rang clear across the open fields that surrounded them. “You are not permitted to pass through these lands without first paying a toll.” A man, tall and broad, strode out from the bushes that lined the trail, both hands clutching a pair of twin swords, equally drawn and ready for whatever fights the travellers put up.

“And if we cannot pay?” Ishmalna sat up straighter on his steed, hands tightening around the reins. He would not let an outlaw come between him and his home, even if he did have to abandon his boy to the mercy of the forest dwellers.

“I’m sure you have things on value besides coins.” The man’s eyes hungrily took in the sight of Alistair, who cleverly kept his eyes fixed on the dirt ground at his feet. “Who’s the boy? Not seen him in these parts before.” The outlaw clearly knew the lord’s limits, and how far he could push the man.

“The boy is a new purchase for the palace; he is not a prize to pay my way to my own town.” The reply from the lord was nothing more than a grunt; he knew he would end up leaving the boy in some form or another, either as payment, or as collateral to ensure payment at a later date.

“Are you sure of that, your lordship?” The outlaw bowed mockingly, a sarcastic smirk lighting his facial features in a twisted manner. “After all, it is either you leaving the boy, or me taking a couple of hostages.”

The choice, Alistair knew, would be an easy one for Lord Ishmalna to make; the lord would obviously value his own life and safety over that of a slave boy. Sure enough, the lord nodded slowly, holding out Alistair’s chains to the rough looking man. “I will send someone out for him at first light. Your payment will be with my man.”

“Hanwhitter?” The outlaw frowned a touch, absentmindedly rubbing his forearm as he took the chain from Ishmalna. The man had had plenty of run-ins with the Lord’s master of arms in the past, and he certainly would not be looking forward to coming face to face with the man again, whatever the circumstance would be. “Is there no one else you can possibly send?”

“It will be Hanwhitter, or no one. I fear money will be more valuable than the boy. He cost less than the bounty on your head.” Alistair’s face fell as his lord spoke, less than the bounty on an outlaw! That was outrageous. Everyone knew that a good price for a slave is more than the highest bounty in the land. Why had Ishmalna paid so low? And why had Archibald accepted such a low offer? It was insulting to the boy.

“Less than my bounty? He must be useless.” The outlaw laughed a deep, booming laugh that resonated on the breeze. “Tell you what, leave the runt with me, and we’ll call it even, no more toll for you, your lordship.” 

Ishmalna stroked his chin in thought, eyes narrowed sharply as he carefully watched the outlaw standing before him. “No tolls? Would that be a permanent agreement?” If the outlaw was willing to trade a useless boy in return for no tolls, the Lord may well be willing to do the deal with him.

“For as long as you are High Lord of Tynwhear your passage down this road will be free.” The outlaw held his hand out tentatively, knowing that if this deal were to go wrong, he would find his head on the chopping block, literally.

“I do believe we have a deal.” Ishmalna shook the man’s hand firmly, not caring to look at the boy he had brought and then apparently given up on in less than two days. What use did the High Lord have for a boy who was good at nothing but sex? Honestly, did the Master of the Realm think he was a complete idiot? Mind, the outlaw had just given up on over one thousand coins in return for a boy worth no more than three hundred. Some people were simply born stupid.

“My lord. Please... am I truly worth so little to you that you would abandon me so quickly?” Alistair whined quietly, eyes wide and begging with the man who was casting him aside so readily. “I’ll do anything you wish of me. Don’t leave me here. Please.” The boy was terrified, his body shaking with fear at the thought of being left alone with this man.

“It is too late. Your disobedience has already proved to be your downfall, I am finished with you boy.” Turning his back one last time, Ishmalna spurred the horse onwards; the hooves thundering against the dry, cracked ground, leaving Alistair alone save for the outlaw, the man who now controlled his life.

“Get a move on then runt, we gotta get you back to the hut and find some use for you.” The outlaw, who had yet to even introduce himself to the scared young man, unlocked the shackles, reattaching them a shade tighter and adjusting the chain to form some form of lead which would allow him to direct the boy far easier. “Follow.”

Alistair nodded a touch, stumbling along behind the man who he would now be serving, however long this would last. “Ex... excuse me, my lord... what should I call you? I don’t know your name.”

“You can call me Sir, or Master, or Lord. My name is not important to someone like you.” Impatient the man tugged harder on the chain, his pace increasing dramatically as they moved across the open fields. “But I have no doubt that you will find out what you wish to know in time.”

“Yes, of course, Sir.” The boy nodded once again, struggling to keep up with the fast speed the man was walking at. The fields were horribly exposed, and the young man would hate to find himself caught up in some form of conflict out here, there would be nowhere to run, and most certainly nowhere to hide.

On the far horizon a small hut swam in to view, shrouded in the twilight haze. Even from the distance they were at Alistair could see how small the building was, and they appeared to be heading directly for it. All he could do was hope that this was not their final destination, and was merely a resting point for the night.  

Unfortunately the boy’s prayers were unanswered. After the lengthy trek across the fields, the outlaw shoved the ramshackle door wide open, dragging the boy inside the one, cramped room that lay inside.

“There isn’t much room, so, you’ll be on the floor, and the bed is mine.” Without any further words, the man bolted the chain to a large iron ring set into the floor, ensuring the boy stood no chance of escape, before flopping on to the bed. “I will deal with you properly in the morning.”

Dawn the following day was shockingly early, and his rude awakening, an icy cold blast of water in his face, left Alistair feeling as though he had most definitely not had enough sleep. Every movement he had made during the night, no matter how tiny it had been, had made the shackles rub against the still open wounds on his wrist, tearing deeper and deeper in to the flesh.

“Wake up. Get up. You have chores to be done.” The outlaw’s voice was loud, especially in the quiet of the morning, and Alistair winced gently at the tone as he rolled over and struggled to his feet. “Breakfast. Mine is bacon and eggs, you get yesterday’s bread. Get to it.” The man unlocked the chains, all but dragging the boy to the small corner of the hut that served as a kitchen.

“Yes sir, as you wish.” Not wanting to rock the boat so soon, Alistair set about his given task, the fear of the whip, and whatever other implements of torture and punishment that this unknown man may have hidden away, the only driving force in his obedient nature. He had felt the kiss of the whip too many times already in passing months, and had no desire to feel it again anytime soon.

“And be quick about it. We have a lot to get done today and I don’t want you holding me up anymore than is necessary.” The man snapped, sitting himself down at the small dining table that took up the space in the centre of the room. This man clearly did not entertain anyone, at any time given the state of the room, and the smell, it was worse than anything Alistair had smelt in his life, even during his time in the dungeons back in Twyllham. He guessed it would become his job to keep this dump in a suitable condition for living.

“Here sir, your breakfast.” It had only honestly taken the boy a matter of minutes to prepare the food his new master had asked for, although he doubted his speed would impress the man, who appeared jumpy, constantly glancing to the door as though he were expecting someone.

“Thank you runt. Cos you’re my property now, I need to know your name.” The man ate rapidly, as though he hadn’t eaten properly in a very long while, never taking his eyes off the boy, who stood across the table from him, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly.

“Alistair, Alistair Wolf.” He mumbled quietly, lifting his gaze to make brief eye contact with the other man. He didn’t like sharing his name, and had found comfort in the fact that Ishmalna had never asked him for it.

“Alistair? That’s a poncy name, from now on your Wolf.” The bandit scarfed down the last scraps of his breakfast, shoving the empty plate across the table in the Alistair’s direction. “Clean that up, and then we’ll be off, I’ve got people to see today.”

“Yes Sir.” The boy scooped the plate up from the table, dropping it gently in to the bowl of washing up water that appeared stagnant, but was the only source of water in the hut. Cleaning it up the best he could, Alistair left it on the side to drip dry. “Finished sir.”

“Let’s go then. There’s a lot get sorted today and you will only slow me down if I don’t have you properly seen to.” Resolute in not praising the boy until he did something that was truly worth it, the man swept from the room, leaving Alistair with no choice but to follow. “Keep up Wolf; I don’t have the time to be making sure you can look after yourself.”

After what felt like hours they eventually reached their destination, a small, unnamed village several miles from the hut. The market square was empty, deserted, but the gentle hum of conversation could be heard on the light spring breeze. Pausing for a second, the outlaw listened hard, eventually moving off in the direction of the village forge, in need of a favour from the blacksmith.

Bashing his large hand twice against the door, he let himself in, wasting no time in waiting to be invited. “Bromarsh. I got a job for you.”

“Waddya want DeJewlit? I have got other customers to see to y’know.” A thin, scrawny man rose from his hunched position beside the roaring furnace, scowling at the outlaw’s intrusion. “And you better pay me this time. I can’t afford to work for nothing.” Catching sight of the boy hovering behind DeJewlit, Bromarsh’s expression softened a touch, his head cocked to the side as he tried to see the boy clearer in the dim light of the room. “How sweet, you brought me a toy to sweeten your proposition.”

“Hardly. The boy’s mine. I need him sorting.” The rogue snarled, stepped in front of Alistair so as to obscure him from the blacksmith’s view. Throwing the chain to the other man, who caught it neatly; he turned his back on them both. “One hour, cuffs, coffles, the lot. And design me something that will look smart on that chest of his. Can’t let him forget who he belongs to now, can we?”

“Wait! Sir, what? You can’t leave me here!” Alistair practically shouted his disapproval, yanking hard on the chains that now bound him to the blacksmith, even if it was merely for an hour or so.

“I can, and I am. Deal with it.” Gritting his teeth, DeJewlit turned sharply to face his slave boy, cuffing him hard around the back of the head. “Your duty is to do as I tell you, without question. You will pay for your disobedience later on.” Turning to the blacksmith, he nodded briskly. “Measuring and fitting only. If he is difficult he will be punished for it on my own time.”

“Yeah, yeah. No touching, no fun, just work.” The disgruntled blacksmith dragged the boy closer, leering at him lewdly. “Let’s get you nice and ready for your master then boy. Can’t have him disappointed.”

Under his breath, Alistair mumbled something inaudible and completely unimportant, making the blacksmith shake his head in disgust as he attached the chain to his work bench and drew out his tape measure.

“Hands and wrists kid.” Without waiting for him to comply, the smith grabbed the boy’s wrists, measuring each wrist carefully, and then deducting a centimetre or two from each measurement. “Ankles.” Again, there was no haste in the measurements being taken, and the centimetres taken away from the final count.

Flipping the notebook on to the counter top, Bellson tugged on the chain, leading Alistair to the far corner of the spacey room, padlocking the end of the leash to a bolt fixed into the wall, before taking one final measurement, around the boy’s neck.

“So now what? You just leave me here to waste away?” A surge of anger rushed through the young man’s body, irritated at the way he was being pushed around, and allowing it, so frequently. “I am a human being still you know?”

The blacksmith turned on his heels sharply, eyes blazing with anger, a white hot iron rod burning in his hand, pointed directly at Alistair’s neck. “Silence. I do as I’m told, the same as you should be doing. Now hold still. I’ve got to fit this coffle.”

The sight of the steaming iron rod terrified Alistair, and he froze, his mouth opening and closing like a shell shocked fish. “O... o... okay...” He held out his wrists, assuming that was where the first set of irons would be fitted.

“Not there, drop them.” Bellson pushed the boy’s hands aside, lifting a pre-made coffle from the bench underneath his work surface and weighing it careful in his hands. It felt about the right weight, and it certainly looked the right size. Drawing out the measure again, the smith carefully rechecked his measurements against both the boy’s neck, and the article in his hands. Confirming they were perfectly matched to what he needed, Bellson tossed the rod back in to the fire to heat and fastened the coffle around Alistair’s throat. “What do you think lad? Perfect fit isn’t it?”

“Hardly. It’s too damned tight, can’t you make it any looser?” Alistair tugged at the collar, knowing it had yet to be properly fixed around his neck, ignoring the blacksmith’s slapping hands. “It bloody hurts.”

“Wait until it’s sealed, then you’ll know how much this beauty was intended to hurt.” Once more Bellson drew the iron rod from the fire, quickly and skilfully pressing it against the join on the collar, sealing it permanently in place, ignoring Alistair’s yelps and squeals as the metal tightened around his neck, pinching the flesh and immediately rubbing, cutting into the skin.  

Watching the boy whimper brought a dark, twisted smile to the haggard face of the blacksmith as he set about moulding the wrist and ankle irons into shape. Today was most certainly turning out far more interesting than he had anticipated, and it was far from over. Twisting the length of iron into shape, he laughed gently to himself, imaging the pain the young man would be in before the day was out. DeJewlit, the outlaw, had left a specific set of instructions to be followed to the letter, and he, himself would be returning at sundown to oversee the final task of the day.

Bellson’s thoughts were interrupted by a tap at his door, the local artist letting himself in with a scroll of parchment tucked into the pocket of his jacket. “I... er... I got a commission from DeJewlit, he paid up front, coins, said I have to give it to you, that you’ll know what it’s about.” The man didn’t even acknowledge the yelping and struggling boy in the shadows of the room. Plenty of people brought their slaves to Bellson to be fitted with irons and branded; after all, he was the best blacksmith for miles around.

The man barely turned from his work for more than a second, glancing swiftly over the parchment and nodding. “Leave it over there, and if you see DeJewlit, tell him one hour before sundown should be fine for him to come back.” The artist nodded in return, setting the sheet down and closing the door quietly behind him as he left. “Time for round two lad. These won’t hurt you as bad, but they’ll still hurt.”

The blacksmith took up the wrist irons and moved back towards Alistair, laughing in a twisted manner as the scared boy backed away, trapping himself in the corner of the room. “No escape kid. You’re going to get these fitted whether you want them on or not. If you don’t have them then you’ll only get a beating when DeJewlit gets you back to where ever you’re staying tonight.” Pinned in the corner, metal cooling and pinching at his neck, Alistair knew he stood no chance of escape from this predicament, but remained resolute, unwilling to back down or make this easy for the smith.

“Leave me alone. I’ll take the beating, I can handle it.” For the first time since arriving, Alistair looked the man square in the eyes, nostrils flared, eyes brimming with anger. No one had a right to treat him like this, ever. At least at the palace of the Master of the Realm he was treated in an almost human manner.

“Not from DeJewlit you can’t. There’s not one person in the known world who can withstand a beating from him.” Bellson laughed in a sick fashion, using the moment of distraction to clap the wrist irons on the boy, drawing the rod from the fire to seal the shackles. “You’ll want to hold still for this, moving only makes the pain worse.” His skilled hand immediately sealed the irons shut; from now on the blacksmith is the only person who could possibly undo them. It gave him a supreme sense of power and control knowing he held the key to freeing at least seventy percent of the slaves in the surrounding towns, villages, and cities.

“Fuck!” Alistair cursed loudly, hands trembling as the pain of the rapidly cooling metal bit deeply in to the already open wounds in his wrists. He slumped back against the wall, knees trembling, threatening to give out as he realised that he was trapped, bound to the outlaw DeJewlit until the man saw fit to release him, if that day ever came.

“At least you didn’t move this time. You’ll want to sit down on the floor before I fix up your ankles.” It wasn’t in Bellson’s nature to be kind to people in this situation, but something about the boy, how he appeared so determined that he would get free of the state of affairs he found himself in. Placing one hand gently on the boy’s shoulder and forcing him to the ground with very little effort, Bellson cast the iron rod back in to the fire, determined to keep it white hot and ready to seal the next set of irons around the boy’s ankles.

“It’s going to hurt again isn’t it?” Alistair voice could hardly be heard by now, the pain of the previous set of irons, and the neck coffle really wearing him down. He hated being in pain and in this instance there was nothing he could do to free himself of the torment.  

“Of course it’s going to hurt. And when your master gets back there will be even more pain, but by tomorrow morning you won’t feel a thing, at least, not if you don’t irritate the areas I’ve dealt with today.” As he spoke the blacksmith rested the heavy irons, sealing them as quickly as he could, all but holding the young man down to stop him from bucking and writhing in pain. “Calm down, it will only get worse the more you move.”

Leaving the boy in the corner, the blacksmith wandered to the table, gazing slowly over the design the artist had left for him, looking at it for several minutes before turning away, searching through his piles of scrap metal, trying to find a piece thin enough to mould into the shape required for the brand.

He worked on in silence for several hours, looking up only to track the progress of the sun across the sky, finishing with just enough time to clean down his work surfaces before DeJewlit return to oversee the final stage of preparations, and collect Alistair.

“You better come in. I’ve got the brand heating as we speak.” Bellson stepped aside, allowing the outlaw to enter his workshop, both of them casting a fleeting glance across at the boy cowering in the corner, glaring at them both angrily. The mention of the word ‘brand’ made him prick his ears up sharply. Surely they wouldn’t brand him? Slaves were only branded if they tried to escape; it made them harder to sell if they bore a brand.

“And it’s exactly what I commissioned? No changes?” Giano DeJewlit was rather fussy when it came to marking his property, any deviations from his plans ultimately ended badly for the person who had changed it. The outlaw dragged the brand from the fire swiftly, carefully inspecting the white hot pattern, nodding with approval. “Very well done. That will look perfect burnt in to his torso.”

“Would you like me to restrain the boy? Put his new additions to some use?” Bellson did not bother in waiting for an answer, already hauling the boy to his feet and slamming him on his back against the table. The irons had been melded on to his wrists and ankles for purposes such as this, and Alistair found himself chained to the table top, a white hot brand looming ominously over his chest.

Chapter Two:

Time drags by real slow.

 Alistair stood before the large oak door, fidgeting in his clothes, not used to the finery and decadence of the articles he had been awarded for this meeting. Beyond the door lay the biggest gathering of ambassadors that had ever taken place in the history, all waiting to meet with Lord Geoffrey Archibald to hear his trade law reformations, not one of them aware that they were about to find themselves face to face with the mysterious, elusive young lover of the Master of the Realm.

“Stop fidgeting around boy. Are you incapable of behaving yourself?” Lord Archibald shot an irritated glare across at the young man, slapping the boy’s hands away from his shirt buttons. “Stop fussing over your clothing. You look perfectly suitable.”

“Only suitable? Don’t you want me to look perfect for your guests?” Alistair mumbled sulkily, nothing he did ever seemed to be good enough for this man; even the fact that he had surrendered his freedom went unappreciated.

“You cannot look too appealing to them. I am only allowing you to be seen because it is time they saw you.” The Lord’s hand settled in the small of his boy’s back, shoving him forward a touch as the guards drew the large doors open. “After you my boy.”

A touch confused by his master’s words, Alistair stumbled into the vast room, following the guard’s lead to Lord Archibald’s lengthy table. Pausing for a second, it took a while for him to realise that the room in front of the table was packed with men, wealthy, old men, all of whom were closely watching his every move with raised eyebrows.

“Who is that?”

“What is he doing at the Master’s table?”

Whispers reverberated around the room, everyone asking the same questions, brows furrowed in confusion. It was most unlike Lord Archibald to allow someone outside of the nobility to join their meeting, what was he planning? Something was very wrong with this.

“Take your seat Alistair, they won’t bite.” Archibald pushed past the frozen figure of the boy, taking his seat at the centre of the table, looking expectantly at the boy, who obediently took the seat to the Lord’s right hand side.

“My gathered friends welcome. Before we start, allow me to introduce my newest addition to our little gathering. For the foreseeable future, Alistair will be sitting in on our meetings, acting as secretary.” At the lord’s words, a gentle titter of laughter rippled through the crowd. Everyone knew the additional job that came with the position of secretary.

“Hush, hush. Leave the boy to his work.” Another laugh echoed in the young man’s ears, his face burning deep red with humiliation, they all knew the truth in his being there, even if they were avoiding saying it aloud.

 Somewhere near the centre of the room, a man rose to his feet, hand raised over his head in an attempt to attract the attention of his peers. “Excuse me, my lord, can I ask? Where did you come across your boy?”

“I happened across him in my dungeon, he was rather free with his words regarding his father’s less than honest business practices.” A harsh, mocking laugh tumbled from Lord Archibald’s lips as he roughly stroked Alistair’s dark hair, hugging the boy tightly in to his boy in a very ostentatious show of possession and ownership. “Isn’t that right my dear boy?”

“Yes my lord.” The young man mumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on the varnished table top in front of him, unable to bring himself to look at the men seated before them. “I was a weak, loose lipped fool.” He prattled off the words, insult, that had been hurled at him almost nonstop in the weeks following his release from the dungeons.

Alistair’s freedom from the cells lead not to the true freedom he had craved, he was freed from incarceration only to be held on the higher levels of the palace under house arrest. For the first few days things had not been as bad as he had imagined house arrest to be, mostly left alone by everyone in the palace, guards, servants and the lord included.

The peace he enjoyed only lasted three days before a messenger brought bad news, something which clearly angered and upset Lord Archibald. The lord’s seemingly peaceful mood snapped, and the beating Alistair had received left the boy sore for days afterwards, bruises throbbing, blood pouring from open, gaping wounds. The beating wasn’t so bad, fists and belts he could handle, his father had beaten him enough growing up, what hurt the most, what really, truly hurt him, was Archibald forcing him to bed, forcing the young man to share his bed, abide by his every wish, whim and need.

Every night since, when the candles had been put out, Alistair was summoned to Lord Archibald’s bed chamber, forced to perform acts of a deviant and sexual nature, activities no sane man would willingly take part in. His participation was forced, unwilling, but the only reason he was being kept alive. Naturally he knew the whole nation was talking, muttered whispers, especially after his father’s arrest, he was the only person in the realm who had reason to want his father locked away, and everyone knew it.

If Alistair had been free to walk the streets, he would find himself the subject of many a whispered conversation, many rumours, and on the receiving end of many, many harsh, accusing stares. In truth, his being locked away in the palace, whatever the conditions may have been, was a protection in disguise. Archibald obviously had reason to want the boy safe, and alive, otherwise he would have been fed to the wolves long ago.

A sharp slap around the head ripped Alistair from his thoughts, dragging him back to reality. “I... I’m sorry my lord...”

“As you should be, pay attention boy.” Another ripple of laughter flooded the room, each and every man craning his neck to take a look at the humiliated young man sat before them. “And do at least attempt to keep up; your notes are still at the first point of the meeting. You have nine to catch up on.”

The boy mumbled something incoherent under his breath, ducking away from the open palm that swooped at his face, guessing he would be paying for his insolence later, when he was left alone with Archibald. He couldn’t have been more wrong. A hand balled into a fist in his hair, his head dragged backwards.

“You are going to learn to obey me boy, even if I do have to hand you over to Dalton for more punishment time. Do you understand me?” Alistair nodded, eyes brimming with fearful tears as memories of his last session with Dalton flashed through his mind.

“I’ll obey. I promise.” Alistair winced at the meekness in his voice, closing his eye in pure embarrassment as the lord patted him on the head, the way an owner would pet his puppy when it peed in the right spot. That was all he was to Archibald, a pet, something to play with and keep him amused until something or someone better came along.

“Is he not the cutest little pet?” One of the man seated in the front row laughed in a twisted manor, standing up to move closer. “Will you be loaning him out to take on duties in other households?”

“In time he will be available to hire for a moderate sum, yes, but the boy still requires training, a great amount of training.” Archibald laughed, patting his boy’s head once again, enjoying the humiliation he was putting Alistair through. “Poor little boy. He will never be the same again after Dalton is through with him.”

“Dalton? Are you sure that is a wise move? The man will destroy the boy.” Another man spoke up, determined to have a piece of the boy before the Master of the Realm’s lieutenant got his hands on him. “I will pay highly for the boy, as he is.”

One by one, each and every man in the room began chiming in, each offering more than the last to win possession of the boy. Raising his hand, Archibald called the meeting to order, without so much as uttering a single word.

“Order! Order!” He banged his large, heavy hand down against the solid table top, the thudding echoing around the cavernous room. “It would appear you all desire a part of my boy. This is most interesting.” Standing, Archibald paced back and forth slowly, stroking his chin in thought. “We shall have an auction. The possession of my boy will be awarded to the man who bids the highest value of coins.”

A satisfied babble rumbled through the room, each man mentally calculating how much he could afford to spend on a new boy for their household, or more, how much their wives would allow them to spend on new staff.

Still seated at the table, Alistair chewed on his lip, fighting back the tears of foreboding that he could feel brimming in his eyes. An auction meant leaving the security he had learned to appreciate inside the palace, leaving to be thrust into an unknown home, an unknown territory, and serving an unfamiliar master. He could only hope and pray that no one would offer enough coins for him, and Archibald would refuse the sale.

“Three days lords and ladies, in three days this fine specimen will be awarded to he or she who is willing to pay the highest amount of coins.” With one last broad gesture with his hand, Archibald swept from the room, the doors remaining open behind him as the guards waited on Alistair’s departure.

Not wanting to linger with the lords for too long, Alistair had leapt to his feet in seconds, darting to the door after his master. “My lord, wait, please.” He called out, anxious to confirm that he would not be sold. “You were joking, weren’t you? About selling me?”

Archibald stalled, turning sharply to take in the sorry sight of his boy. “Of course I was not joking. The Master of the Realm never jokes with his subjects. You will be sold to the highest bidder in three days time, whether you approve, agree or not.”

“But... but...” Alistair trailed off, finding himself with no point to make in disapproval of the plan, instead mumbling quietly, eyes cast downwards. “Have I displeased you in some way my lord?” He knew that wasn’t the case, if he had displeased the Master, he would be back in the dungeons, writhing in pain under Dalton’s expert hand.

“Of course not you silly boy. I have always intended to have you sold on to another Master, it just seems the lords think you ready sooner than I had anticipated.” Laughing a touch patronisingly, Archibald ruffled the boy’s hair, leading the way back to his lavish chambers. “Wait for me in here. I will return shortly.”

Alistair obediently sat on the narrow bed that was his, pulling the curtain across to hide himself in the alcove. He was really to be sold? Given away to one of those lecherous men that had so easily turned their backs on his family and allowed his father to be arrested and executed, when in reality some of them were probably as guilty, if not more so, than Ambassador Wolf had been.

Chapter One.

Break me down.

The cold metal of the shackles bit into the delicate flesh of his ankle, the pain from the raw, bleeding grazes the only occupying force in his mind. How had he come to be stuck here, locked away like some common criminal? Didn’t these people know who he was?

The gentle creak of the heavy, iron door’s metal hinges grated in his ears, a sound Alistair Wolf had learned quickly to associate with pain, serious pain. The silence was broken by the deep, echoing sound of footsteps, heavy, weighted footsteps that filled the cavernous dungeon.

“Who’s there? What do you want from me?” The same questions, it was always the same questions. Not getting any response from whoever was there, Alistair stamped his foot impatiently, yelping in pain as the leg iron tore at the open wounds once again.

A short, harsh laugh reverberated off the walls, the sound disorientating to the imprisoned young man.  “Have you not learned not to do that yet kid?” There it was that taunting, mocking voice, the voice that haunted his dreams, that there was no escape from even in the waking world.

“Tell me who you are. Can I at least know that?” The imprisoned boy whined a touch, a hint of neediness in his words now. Almost three weeks of isolation, uncertainty and fear had worn away the hard edge this somewhat hard hearted young man had once bore.

The laugh sung through the room again, torches springing to life at various points around the dungeon, Alistair’s captor striding closer to his prey. “But there’s no fun in life if you know everything. I though you knew that.”

His breath became laboured; panic well and truly setting in now. The lighting of the torches meant only one of two things; pain, or torture. While Alistair knew they were both one and the same thing, his captors, whoever they may be, had other ideas. To them, pain was something the young man should be proud of feeling, after all, if you could feel pain, you were still alive, but torture, torture was something completely different, especially to the one with the power.

Outside the door, Lord Archibald froze, was he really readying himself to propose business with a criminal, the lowest of the low? Stamping his feet several times in an attempt to warm his frozen toes, Geoffrey Graham Archibald III nodded to his guard, the vast, heavy dungeon doors crashing open, the rows upon rows of vacant cells stretching out before the them as lord and guards moved swiftly, his lordship’s nose curled in disgust at the wafting smell of stale urine, faeces and vomit that filled each and every prison cell.

Did his proud, wealthy nation honestly keep their prisoners in such conditions? Archibald’s brow furrowed in thought, he had most definitely seen men kept in worse conditions, but was he prepared to admit that these dungeons, the ones that lurked beneath his own castle home, were possibly rated amongst the worst he had visited in recent months? Not that he cared for those who ended up down here; their criminal inclinations were no fault, nor responsibility of his.

“Where is this boy you insist I speak with?” The lord took care to keep his voice flat, bored and disinterested, despite finding his insides tangling with anticipation at the apparent value of the information this prisoner, nay, hostage was professing to hold.

“This way my Lord, in the largest of our cells.” The guard bowed his head low, his arm outspread, directing the attention of his superior to the heavy iron door set into the wall at the end of the narrow, dank hallway. “Dalton is with him as we speak.”

“And the boy still has a tongue? I am amazed.” Archibald laughed shortly, seemingly amused at his own joke, which went either unnoticed, or ignored by his guard. “Show me to him. Let the child have his moment of glory in my eyes.”

Dalton paced the shackled, chained figure of Alistair Wolf, striding in a slow, steady circle around his prisoner. In his oversized hands he held his weapon of choice, the Cat O’Nine Tails, gently lashing the braids against his mammoth palm.  With every stroke, every tiny, barely audible crack of the whip, Alistair flinched, feeling the sting curling across his back despite the weapon being nowhere near his being.

“Scared are we kid? Just wait. The Cat’s nothing compared to what his Lordship’s got in mind for you later.” The jailor’s lip, split down the middle with a long, thin scar, a war wound following a bar fight several years previous, curled into a twisted, sick grin, his eyes almost bugging from their sockets as he took in the lithe, almost starved, form of the boy before him.

Pausing, Dalton stopped directly behind Alistair, stroking the braids of the Cat up and down his spine tauntingly; almost deliberately delaying what his victim knew was coming. Drawing back his arm slowly, letting the boy feel the tip of each and every thong leave his bare flesh, the man swung, the force greater than anything the young man on the receiving end of the blow had ever felt before in his life, screams filling every corner of the cell, and far beyond the iron door that held him there.

Lash after lash rained down on the boy’s unprotected back, flesh and old, semi-healed wounds being ripped open by the leather braids, blood gushing, pooling under his feet in a sick, scarlet puddle. Drawing a deep breath, Alistair fixed his eyes on the wall ahead of him, fighting the urge to vomit rising in his throat and stomach. Where was the Lord, or King, or whatever that pompous git called himself? He had sent word that he would be down over an hour ago now, and it couldn’t take that long to descend a staircase or two.

On the other side of the heavy, thick iron door, Lord Archibald smirked darkly at the melodic sounds of his prisoner’s screams; at least one person in this castle was doing their job correctly. The one perk of Archibald’s otherwise dull, boring days, was hearing Dalton’s reports of the latest confessions and the methods used to extract them.

“Let us get this over with Bellson. Open the door.” With a lazy flick of his hand, Archibald signalled the guard and the key hanging on his belt. Obediently the man slid the key in to the lock, turning it as slowly and quietly as was possible.

Flinging the door open, Bellson the guard strode in to the room, closely followed by his Lord and Master. “Introducing, his Lordship and Master of the Realm, Lord Geoffrey Archibald.” Sweeping his hands sideways as Archibald pushed into prominence, the guard bowed low, his head almost touching his knees.

“My lord.” Dalton near dropped the whip, bowing low and wiping the light sheen of sweat from his brow. “What brings you to my humble dungeons?”

“The boy. It would appear he has important information that he is only willing to divulge to my good self. Now leave us Dalton. We shall speak this evening.” Striding on into the room, Lord Archibald all but ignored his second in command, who hurried from the room along with the guard. “And lock the door behind you. I thought to bring my own key to the chambers.”

“Yes my lord, as you wish my lord.” Both men backed from the room, still bowing low as they pulled the door closed behind them.

Hearing the heavy clunk of the key turning in the lock, Alistair let out the breath he had been holding, unaware of just how loud the sound was. Turning his gaze from the wall, the prisoner took a second to take in the appearance of the leather clad lord standing before him.

At the same time as Alistair moved his eyes to take in the vision of his captor, Archibald took two steps sideways, stopping directly in front of the young man. “Such a beautiful young man, a shame to see him in such a state.” One black gloved hand rose, a finger tracing a gentle line down Alistair’s chest, from his breast bone to his navel before trailing away, following as Archibald circled the boy, stopping behind him.

“I know why you’re here, my lord.” The young captive spat the last two words with some form of contempt, “but until you let me out of this hell hole, I’m not telling you anything.”

“Interesting words for one in your... predicament...” The Master of the Realm spoke in a low, husky voice, his breath tickling the back of his captive’s neck. “There are so many things I could still have done to you. Dalton is more than willing to comply with my demands.” Once again the gloved finger was tracing small, almost unnoticeable patterns on Alistair’s stomach. “But then again, there is so much I could yet do to you.”

“Like I said, let me go, and I’ll tell you where the diamond is.” A snarl, quiet and gentle, but a snarl none the less, Alistair was determined not to let this man, who had so much power, undeserved power, but power none the less, intimidate him.

“It would appear we have reached a stalemate in this instance. Perhaps there is something I can do to change your mind.” The hand ventured lower, expertly untying the knots on the young man breeches, his lips lowering to place a kiss at the nape of his victim’s neck, massaging the taught flesh with his tongue.

As hard as he tried, Alistair could not stifle the soft moan that slipped past his lips at the kiss. This was wrong, he knew it was, but it wasn’t like he could help it, he was being molested, abused, but he was enjoying it, his body was responding to the gentle touches, the intense kisses being laden upon him by the Master of the Realm.

The lord’s hand worked fast, his prey’s trousers soon gathered around the boy’s ankles, stroking Alistair’s hardening erection roughly, lips still pressed to the base of the lad’s neck, softly murmuring his approval at the reaction he was getting. “Good boy, smart boy. You know what is good for you.”

His stroking kept its rhythm, drawing the young man closer and closer to the edge of release, stopping only at the last second.  Disappointment surged through Alistair’s body, the young man thrusting his hips forward to try and reach the source of the pleasure again, a frustrated groan tumbling from his berry red lips.

“Not yet dear boy. The ultimate pleasure must first be earned.” Archibald’s voice, hypnotic and mesmerising, whispered in the young man’s ear, teeth gently knowing at his earlobe, breath tickling the delicate flesh. “Now tell me, where can the diamond be found?”

Alistair shook his head as softly as he could, voice contrived and panting. “No diamond... person... the Scarlett Diamond... she’s a girl...”  The second the final word left the tip of his tongue, he thrust forwards as strongly as he could, only to find the Lord’s hand removed from where it was. “Please... don’t stop... I... I need it...”

It wasn’t that Lord Archibald had intended to leave the boy unsatisfied, but the revelation about the diamond, the most sort after treasure in the known world, was not a precious stone,  but instead was a girl, well, that just served to make the search one thousand times easier. “All in good time my boy. All in good time.”