The tale of Brenn (Part I)
The last vestiges of daylight painted the floor with small lines of luminescence as Brenn pulled aside the thin fabric that served as a door to the small, roughly hewn hut. Exhausted, Brenn lay down on a thin reed mat to contemplate his last few hours in peace.
The Master would be back from his journey to the nearby town of Bramble sometime this evening. When he returned, the first thing he’d see would be the scarred face of Duk, the overseer. Brenn could imagine how Duk would barely be able to contain that vicious grin of his while telling the Master what the young slave Brenn had done. The penalty for striking a member of the household was always death; a sentence Duk had never hesitated to take pleasure in carrying out. Brenn would die this evening, all because of that brat.
The Master’s youngest son, Jerome, took great pleasure in tormenting the slaves as they went about the business of the estate. Up until now, these torments had manifested as nothing more than spilt manure in the stables, or a broken cart wheel; offenses worthy of a beating for the accused slave, but nothing more. Today had been different. Today Jerome had almost killed no less than five people, and maybe a few more. Brenn had known exactly what he was doing when he had tackled Jerome.
Jerome had unfastened three of the tethers that held the main support beam in place for the construction of the new stables, and had been working on the fourth. The resulting collapse would have buried everyone securing the counterbalances inside under a ton of wood and iron. Yes, Brenn had known exactly what he was doing. He would have done it again if given the choice.
Going back over the days events in his head, Brenn remembered how the brat had laughed. A fearful laugh, but somehow filled with more menace and hatred then even Duk himself was capable of, as he shouted for the overseer and relayed a skewed version of the events.
All there was left for Brenn to do was to wait and pray for a swift death.
Night came slowly as Brenn grew more and more anxious. Unable to sleep, but somehow more tired than he had ever been, he stared at the barely visible cracks in the hut wall, running his dirty hands through filthy brown hair. He waited for the sound of footsteps. He listened for the slow and heavy pattern of footfalls that was the herald of Duk’s arrival. It was an old trick, learned at an early age. Brenn could even tell how much gale Duk had imbibed just by the sound of his footsteps.
The sound that Brenn heard in the deep of night wasn’t Duk coming to gather his latest prey. It was lighter, quicker. Footsteps that were precise and intended to produce as little sound as possible. One of the other slaves, maybe.
The curtain dividing the hut’s interior from the rest of the world lifted back, and a dimly realized figure stepped in. Not a slave, the figure was clothed in a heavy hooded cloak. As confused as he’d ever been, Brenn hastily closed his eyes and feigned sleep.
“You are the one known as Brenn?” The voice was melodious, but sharp. A keen voice, like the edge of a knife. Brenn shut his eyes as tight as he could, almost gripping the mat below him in an attempt to keep from shaking. Duk was the only one who ever came out to the slave’s huts. The presence of this woman was a mystery, and mysteries were dangerous; causing an almost instinctual fear in Brenn.
Brenn could feel the presence of the stranger as she came to stand over him. “Open your eyes!” she hissed, and nudged Brenn’s ribs with her boot tip. Forcing his eyes open, Brenn could just see a few strands of golden curls that had spilled out from under the cloak. She spoke again, “you are Brenn?” Brenn nodded in affirmation, still shaking slightly. The woman held out a gloved hand, as if to help Brenn up. “Come with me if you want to live.”
