Scott Kirkman Books

Barquark’s eyelids grew heavy and his head began to droop. When sleep swallowed him more deeply, his legs buckled and pain lanced through his wrists and shoulders as the straps binding him to the whipping posts drew tight. Shocked fully awake, he stood as tall as possible, even rising onto his toes to try and relieve the agonizing ache in his arms and shoulders.

He glanced at the night sky and tried to determine the time. The first and second moons were already high and the third was just breaking above the rooftops of the eastern horizon. Perhaps three hours before midnight, Barquark thought.

Word of the fight had proceeded him back to his master’s compound. The troll had been seized and tied to the whipping posts just after returning. Barquark had expected to see Mr. Dwell, the discipline master, appear behind him at any moment, the multi-corded lash swinging at the end of his long and burly arm. Sweat had begun to run in heavy drops from Barquark’s face and back as he anticipated the blinding pain of the lash, but master Dwell had not appeared. So, baking hot afternoon had turned to sultry evening and now the dead of night, and Barquark still waited.

This was just like Slate, Barquark decided: immediate containment of the situation, in this case Barquark, then gather as much information as possible. Barquark knew that Slate would have his people all over the city, prying fact from rumor, and figuring the implications, if any, to Slate and his dealings. By now, Slate probably knew more about what had happened than the imperial inquisitors. Once satisfied he had learned everything possible, he would come to hear Barquark’s version.

Barquark dozed off a few more times, jerking the straps painfully on his wrists, before Slate finally arrived. As usual, he was flanked by Barns and Bracknal. All three men wore kilts with light cloaks over their shoulders to ward against the chill which had risen with the third moon. Barquark caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned to see master Dwell take up position at his back. With a lazy, but menacing, motion, he gently slapped the lash cords into his palm. The soft clapping sound seemed to echo in the silent yard and drew out beads of sweat all over Barquark’s body, despite the chill.

Slate drew to within an arm’s reach of Barquark, the harsh lines of his boney face stark in the torch light.

“Do you know why Master Dwell has not yet stripped the flesh from your back?”

Rhetorical question, Barquark knew, but still he shook his head. Reflexively, he started to slurp back drool that wasn’t there, his mouth too dry.

Slate continued to stare at Barquark, his intense eyes shining despite the poor light, as if they had their own light source. “Because I’m curious. Because I know you know what I think about my slaves risking their own lives. Your life is my property. Today, you not only risked a valuable piece of my property, you performed a free show for the masses. Do you know what people pay to see you fight?”

Slate shook his head and sighed. “But you do know. You know and understand all of this. Still, you jumped into a street fight, hopelessly outnumbered, and I want to know why.” He paused again. “And if you tell me it was to save the get of the man who conquered your lands and enslaved your people, Master Dwell will start on you right now.”

Barquark swallowed heavily and glanced at his master before returning his eyes to the dirt. Master Dwell’s rhythmic slapping continued. Barquark had no reason not to tell Slate the whole truth. It was just that he didn’t completely understand himself.

“Well?” State said.

Barquark took a deep breath. “The guard captain. In the street today, before the attack, I recognized him.” Barquark paused. “He saved my live. In the war, after Incalas fell.”

Barquark went on to briefly describe the events of his near crucifixion.

Bracknal snorted and shook his head. “Shendant. Bloody typical.”

Slate turned, fixing his man with a stare. “You knew Captain Shendant?”

“Aye, Sir. Back in the day. Early in the war. This sounds just like him. Goody, goody, always strictly by the book. He was forever busting us down for minor infractions.”

Now it was Barns who snorted. “Minor infractions? You were stealing supplies and selling them on the black market.”

Bracknal shrugged. “Nothing important. It was just high spirits, like a prank.”

Barns continued shaking his head, a slight chuckle rumbling his deep bass voice. “Right, harmless. Good steel and medical supplies. Nothing important. And when Shendant confronted you, you tired to kill him. Instead, you ended up on your back out cold.”

“He got lucky.”

“And after all that, he only busted down your rank and kept you too busy to make any more mischief. Any other officer would have hanged your sorry hide.” Barns turned to Slate. “He was a good man, a good officer. The kind of man who leads from the front. His men, the good ones, that is, loved him for it.”

“I see,” said Slate. He turned back to Barquark. “But Shendant was already dead when you barreled in. What did you think you were accomplishing?”

Barquark closed his eyes and shook his head. “Master, it is difficult for me to understand myself, let alone put into words.” He opened his eyes but kept them focused on his feet. “Acting only on his honor, his sense of duty, he saved my life and treated me with some measure of kindness when it would have been so much easier for him to simply look the other way. Today, I watched him give his life, not just to save that little girl, but for his duty. His honor was more important to him than his own life. I felt that if I could protect the girl, I was fulfilling his duty, protecting his honor, and to him, this would be the greatest repayment of my dept.” Barquark glance up to meet Slate’s eyes. “Can you understand this, Master?”

Slate narrowed his eyes and stared at Barquark for a few long, slow breaths. Dwell’s lash continued it’s methodical slap, slap, the only break in the silence.

“Yes,” Slate said. “I can understand.” He paused and took deep breath. “You continue to surprise me, Barquark.” He took a step back and raised a hand to master Dwell. “Master Dwell, cut him down and see to it that he gets plenty of water and something to eat.” Turning his gaze back to Barquark, he said, “I’ve spared you the lash tonight, but I trust there will be no repeat street performances.”

A near giddy sense of relief was waring with Barquark’s profound thirst, hunger, and fatigue. The mixture of sensations was making his mind spin, so he almost didn’t hear Slate. After a moment, he said, “No master.”

“Good. Better get yourself what rest you can tonight. I’m off to speak with the training master. When he gets done with you tomorrow, you may find yourself longing for the lash.” He grinned coldly, then turned and walked away, Barns and Bracknal trailing a step behind.

Slate sat at his desk. The morning sun streaming through the open window was already hot on his back. He was trying to focus on the latest account figures, but his mind kept wandering back to the previous days events. The attack on the princess was no direct concern of his. He cared little for the girl’s life or any of those killed. Truth be told, the whole business was likely to benefit him. News had spread like wild fire, and Barquark’s fame had already grown beyond just those who followed pit action. Slate knew he would be able to charge a significant premium for the troll’s next fight.

What distracted him like an itch he couldn’t scratch, were the many unanswered questions. Nothing about the attack made any sense. The assassin crew were professionals. That was certain, but not one of them alive or dead could be identified. This meant that they must have been brought from a great distance. The biggest mystery was: why? Why kill the youngest of the Pharaoh’s five children?

Slate could easily imagine the princess Trialla, a cunning and vicious young woman of nineteen years, plotting to kill her elder brother of two years, the crown prince Phetro. But would she kill all of her siblings in some kind of purge? It seemed unlikely.

The attack was clearly not an attempted kidnapping. All the witnesses concurred with the troll; the first volley of cross bow bolts had been intended for the princess. Only the quick and brave action of the captain had saved her life.

Could this have been some kind of orchestrated attempt to kill all five heirs, or perhaps the entire imperial family, in one simultaneous strike? The other attacks called off somehow after the failure? This made some sense based solely on motives. Still, the scale of such a plan, and the unlikelihood of success, made it shear madness.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Slate looked up. “Come.”

His secretary, Valmorh, poked his round, bald head past the barely opened door. “You have visitors, Master Slate, from the imperial household: Master Bleekhas and a young woman, along with two guardsman.

“Guardsman?” Slate said. Bleekhas was a buyer, a kind of quartermaster for the imperial house. He came regularly to purchase supplies, usually slaves, but he never brought guards into the office. “Who is the woman?”

“Master Bleekhas introduced her as Miss Trindle, governess to the young princess.”

“Trindle.” Slate’s curiosity was now peaked. “Very well, show them in. But the guards stay outside. Send for Mr. Barns and Mr. Bracknal. They can keep the guards company while we talk here.”

“Yes, Master Slate.”

Bleekhas came through the door first. He was a man of late middle years, his thinning gray hair in contrast to the thick tufts of hair that were his eyebrows. His narrow face came to a point with a large hooked nose. His eyes were dark and never stopped moving. Slate knew him as a shrewd negotiator. One couldn’t rise to be principal buyer for the Pharaoh’s estate otherwise. Still, Slate never knew him to be unfair.

Bleekhas wore a simple full length kilt, belted at the waist. The young woman followed him. She was thin with dark hair, attractive, but not beautiful. Her dark, almond shaped eyes were bright with intelligence. Slate had heard how she’d charged into the fight, and he couldn’t reconcile that image with this wisp of a girl.
Slate rose from his desk, fixing Bleekhas with a broad smile. “Master Beekhas. A pleasure to see you again.”
Bleekhas smiled and bowed slightly. “The pleasure is mine, Master Slate. Allow me to introduce Miss Trindle. She is governess to the Princess Sirah.”

Slate turned to Miss Trindle. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Trindle. May I first say that I was shocked and appalled to hear about the terrible events of yesterday.”

Miss Trindle nodded. “You are kind to say so, Sir. It was a cowardly act.”

“Indeed. Despicable.” Slate paused. “And how do you fair? And the young Princess? I hope she was not overly traumatized?”

“She does as well as can be expected. She is strong beyond her years.”

“That is good news as least.”

Bleekhas said, “Ah, the resilience of youth.”

Slate said, “Miss Trindle, the city is also buzzing about your heroic actions during the attack. Many say the princess has you to thank, at least in part, for her life.”

Miss Trindle shook her head. “I did nothing. Captain Shendant and the guard are the heroes. Their sacrifice saved the princess’ life.”

“Indeed,” Slate said, “a terrible loss.”

Miss Trindle said, “Still, without the intervention of the troll, Mr. Barquark, the killers would have prevailed.”

Slate nodded slowly. “So I’ve been told.” He paused, shaking his head and staring at nothing, lost in thought. “Unbelievable.”

An uncomfortable silence lingered as the others waited for Slate to elaborate. Finally, Bleekhas said, “Well, shall we move on to business?”

Slate snapped his attention back to his guests, gaze fixing on Bleekhas. “Of course, Master Bleekhas. My apologies. What brings you here this morning?”

Bleekhas removed a rolled parchment from his satchel and handed it to Slate. “This should be self explanatory.”

Slate unrolled the document and began to read. “Ah, transfer of property contract…for a single slave.” He glanced up at Bleekhas, a look of shrewd suspicion crossing his face for an instant. “You came down here in person for a single slave?” His sharp eyes shifted to Miss Trindle for a moment before continuing to read. After another long moment, his head came up sharply, a hint of genuine surprise on his cold features. “This is for the troll. The Pharaoh wants to purchase Barquark?

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 5

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!