Baron Markus stretched as he descended from his horse. He sighed in pain as the bones in his back clicked into proper alignment. He always disliked riding for an extended period. It was tiresome. He rolled his shoulders and ankles. After feeling all the good clicks he needed to feel, he took over a silver flask and sipped the dark whiskey that brought him a rare moment of pleasure. He sighed audibly as he glanced over his shoulder, towards his soldiers dragging the shackled convoy of fresh slaves through the opened portcullis of the Hunter Fortress.

  His Hunter Fortress.

  With its high walls, iron-wrought gate, and siege-worthy battlements, it was a suitable place of operations for the Bodyhunters. Markus would have had nothing less than the very best for his people. His tools to sharpen and hone.

  Leaning on his sword-cane, he made a slow scan of the courtyard that spread around him between the front gate and the keep which played as his home. Bodyhunters were hard at training, practising with edged weapons. Markus had done away with wooden swords and dulled arrows. Injuries were commonplace amongst the Bodyhunters. He saw it as a worthy process of strengthening their focus. The desire to avoid pain and at the same time welcome it is a tool he would not abandon. Yes, there had been deaths. But Markus reasoned that those who died from a sword slash or an arrow were weak to begin and had no place here to begin with.

  Slaves carried supplies back and forth, assisting Bodyhunters with their injuries or resharpening their weapons. They were silent and obedient, as they should be. And if they were not, then Markus would ensure that they would remain silent forever.

  Markus could still recall the last time a tongue-slicing had taken place in the courtyard. The little boy slave had been whinging too much and too loudly. Something about finding his sister or cousin or something… He certainly made plenty of noise when he was held down by his neck and his tongue was pulled out with a pair of tongs. He did not make much noise after that. Then he made no noise at all afterwards. Markus made it a point that tools used for torture had to be properly cleaned after each use. There is little point in killing slaves with infections before they could be sold or used effectively.

  He smiled as his men and women rounded up the new slaves into a huddled group and pushed them to the side of the main gate with pointed swords and spears.

  It was a worthy hunt. Since leaving Silverstreak with the quarry he had gathered, it had doubled in number along the journey. Ten villages lay between the mining town and the city. Unrest was rife in each and there were simply too many people in each village, a reminder of who was in charge had to be made. Rumours of these Royalist rebels had been sifting through the villages, stirring up trouble everywhere. Markus had to ensure no doubt could be left in the wake of his arrivals. The Barons ruled Dargania, and no one was to say otherwise on pain of slavery.

  There were some deaths along the way, much to his irritation.

  Two slaves from one village committed suicide during the same night they were taken. A recently married couple, according to his Bodyhunters. They had eaten some poison berries. They were left in a ditch after their bodies were found. If they wanted to rot together in death, who was Markus to deny them that?

  During another night, a lapse in the patrol duties led to five of the Silverstreak group attempting an escape. But Bodyhunters Darius, Hildur, and Thorn made swift work of it— taking back two of the fleeing, but the rest died to Hildur’s crossbow and her wonderful marksmanship. Markus despised sloppiness, so he had the soldier who failed his duty stripped naked, tied to a tree, and flogged to death, forcing the rest of the Fist to watch him die.

  The sounds of the screaming man made Markus feel warm inside. It cheered him to inspire such pain and fear in a fellow man. He wondered why that was the case as the flesh was torn from the man’s exposed legs. Why did he feel such emotions where others would feel compassion, pain, disgust, or horror? Markus spent a few seconds before coming to a realisation on it as the man pissed himself from the pain.

  He enjoyed the power that came from ordering it. The power to judge someone and have them entirely at your mercy. The idea that their pain came from a conscious decision he made, knowing fully well that he would not survive. Such power and superiority… It was more intoxicating than alcohol.

  After displaying that particular punishment, neither slave nor soldier dared step out of line again. A few tears were shed amongst the slaves, but he didn’t give a damn. They were slaves.

  Steer, his right-hand man, stepped beside him. “Sir.” He saluted.

  “Yes, Sergeant?” Markus asked languidly.

  “You wished to be reminded-”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Oh.” Markus's congenial face glowered for a moment. “Yes. It is upcoming.”

  “You still have a few days or so to enjoy before it happens, Sir.”

  “True. I do abhor those damned meetings…”

  Markus pinched the bridge of his thin nose as he readjusted his dark-tinted glasses. He had to wear them now to hide his peculiar eyes. In his campaigns of his style of peacekeeping, his eyes were the perfect tool to instil much-required fear and intimidation. But amongst the higher classes of Fennaposia and his equals— which there were few, in his judged opinion— the sunglasses helped hide the abnormality. It wouldn’t help in his social life. Few people trusted him. Many feared and hated him. And it was always clear that the other Barons did not like him, especially that conniving bitch, Francisca.

  But never mind that, her time will come as will the others. Soon, he and Malachi will have their chance to take the power left so neglected amongst the idling and squabbling Barons.

  That meeting. The Barons’ Council. Once a month of every year… Markus inwardly shuddered at the thought.

  The ceaseless consolidating of the powers between the seven of them.

  Himself, poor crippled Malachi, the bitch Francisca, paranoid Zult, war-mongering Fosto, the simpering half-breed Vilx with his obsession with the Marked and the mind-addled Secra and his ever-expanding desire for the Great Thicket. Markus shook his head. Why couldn’t they just focus on one task at a time? Together? So much more could have been achieved already if they had a united goal… or a united enemy…

  His eyes caught a few of the slaves amongst the rabble.

  There was Barnabas, doing his best to look as intimidating as possible despite the heavy chains on his wrists and ankles.

  An old hunter called Letti was helping an old man to stay on his feet, despite the obvious sign that he had twisted his ankles from the march.

  The Belle Dame, the mistress whore herself, was coddling her small group of sluts. Particularly one of those sluts.

  Nerisity. The girl who now caught his eye.

  She was standing with a group of all the children, holding their hands and soothing their quiet wails and tears. Markus raised an eyebrow. Despite the circumstances to which she and her kind were in, the little whore did not show fear. She showed a spark of defiance, no matter how small. Her glares, which she shot at all the soldiers and the Bodyhunters, landed on him. She turned away, wisely. If she had held her glare, he would have had no choice but to make an example of her. Cut out her blue eyes maybe. Have her whipped certainly, just to get the message across.

  She was a strange one. When he first saw her, it bothered him. It actually bothered him. It felt like that was not the first time he had actually seen her. He could not fathom the reason for it. But she just seemed familiar… Maybe he had seen her presenting herself to the louts of Fennaposia before going to Silverstreak to spread her wares and legs?

  No, he would have remembered that certainly.

  No… There was truly something familiar about her. If he had time, a crystal ball and the powers of a fortune teller, he could divine the answers as to why he felt he recognised her… But he did not. Bah, no matter. He had more pressing matters that he had control over.

  Regardless of what he thought of the little slut, there was great value in unspoilt property. Especially someone as delectable to the eye as a young Nightgirl. And on top of all of that, she had a very good use, which Markus suddenly came to realise with a slow sideways grin.

  Ever the perceptive one, Steer caught the odd expression. “Sir?” Markus rarely grinned with such mirth.

  “Hmm? Oh, apologies Steer. Lost in my thoughts again. Have the Silverstreakers put away with the rest of the rabble. Ensure that they are locked in a deep enough holding cell until they are ready for the processing.”

  “At once, m’lord.”

  “And spread the word amongst the men and women. I will not have any harm come to the new quarry. I want them in the best condition. Doctor Hacker will come here shortly to examine them daily. So if I find out anyone of them, especially that one,” Markus pointed at Nerisity with his cane as they were moved towards the keep, “are assaulted or mishandled in any way prior to their selling, the following punishment will be slow and merciless. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Steer saluted and began to walk to the soldiers.

  But he stopped midway and turned to the Baron with a look of curious confusion. “If I may, Sir?”

  “Yes, Steer?”

  “Why are you planning to keep those lot? The group from Silverstreak? And that girl? You said you were going to send off the others we just picked up soon, but not her nor any of them. So, why?”

  Markus smiled. “You ever go fishing, Steer?”

  Steer smiled faintly. “Sure, Sir. Me and my little girl out in the city’s bay or the northeast coast.”

  Markus nodded as he drummed his thin fingers on his sword cane’s eagle claw handle.

  “Good. Then you must know that in any attempt of fishing, one must always have good bait.”

  “Bait? You think… you really think that runaway slave's coming for the girl, don’t you?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why though, Sir? If I was Blade, I would be well away from any Bodyhunters. There’s too much risk. I mean, I don’t want to disagree with your plans, sir, but…”

  Markus looked at Steer with a pitying stare. “Steer, you’re a worldly man. Don’t lie to me that you - on a daily basis - didn’t think of laying out that Nightgirl on the grass during our journey?”

  Steer chortled to himself. “Yes, Sir. The thought did arise once in a while.”

  Markus's smile was thin and curved.

  “My point is, she has made a lover out of Blade. And I know people well enough that Blade will certainly come for her. Any sane man who would bed a nubile creature like her would crawl over broken glass for her. His two friends will surely come for the others, as most do-gooders would. And when they are all here, the Fist will do what a fist does best: tighten, squeeze, and crush.”

  Markus sighed to himself. “What a lovely evening we are having… Send for my bow and arrows. I’m going out to hunt. I need to kill something.”