Katarina the Dragonslayer and the Foebreaker's Curse

Excerpt from 'Katarina the Dragonslayer and the Foebreaker's Curse'

In an untidy village in the Border Kingdom of Heinmark there lived a worm-farmer. Now, he was not the sort who dug up earthworms for the ends of fish hooks or who raised grubs for the keepers of pigeons. Nor did he raise poisonous angarra for sale to apothecaries and murderers. He was, in fact, a cultivator of giant silk worms, but not a very good one. Hendrik was his name, though only his wife ever called him that, and though his surname was Keltsen, he was most often called Sulk, though never to his face.

Hendrik, or Sulk, if you will, was a moody man of average height and outstanding girth, with a surly disposition. Some attributed his ways to his notable lack of success as a worm-farmer, and others to chronic indigestion, but in either case, Sulk was pleasant enough to be around if he was in a good mood. Such moods were rare indeed, and it was during one of these bouts of uncharacteristic good-naturedness that Sulk went down to the local slave market to acquire some help for the farm.

The slave market was really not much more than a moldy wooden platform of questionable workmanship where men of poor manners and poorer hygiene bought and sold those unfortunate enough to have been sold for debts, captured in raids, or who had been born into bondage. On this day, like most market days, the small square was crowded and noisy, thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, tobacco, and horses. 

Sulk pushed his way past some old men playing at dice and took a seat on one of the raised benches facing the platform. The gallery was what the local men called it, though it was hardly worth the name. He grinned at a serving maid from the nearby tavern. She smiled brightly but deep dislike simmered in her eyes as she minced her way back to fetch another tray of ale. 

A good number of slaves were bought and sold as the day drew on. The men nodded to one another as a particularly promising one was brought out.  “Only ten years old, this one, and look how big he already is! A good bargain at twelve gold marks, I tell you,” the old auctioneer cried out. The boy, however, had seen his tenth birthday come and go some five years earlier.

 The bidding ended at fourteen gold, and the boy was carted off by a kindly old farmer who’d never had a son. The next slave to be sold did not fare as well, being sold to the keeper of a small coal mine. He spat at his new master, and was swiftly put down with the sort of spiteful vigor for which the Men of the Borderlands were well-known. 

“Now, there’s some action at last, wouldn’t you say, Keltsen?” A skinny old man with more warts than teeth took a seat next to Sulk with a laugh. 

“I was hoping it’d last longer, Toomes. Hasn’t been a good fight here in months.” Sulk laughed and pointed to the cages, where some of the younger slaves jostled one another. “There’s bound to be some sport today, I’ll warrant!”

“I reckon you’re right, there, sonny,” Toomes said. “It ain’t much, but in a little town like this, a slave market’s the best entertainment a man can have without spending money.” 

By mid-afternoon Sulk’s good mood had eroded. “They’ve had a few good ones, but these slavers want too much money.”

“But you’re still got it fixed in your head to get yourself a slave, I take it?” Toomes grinned, and took a swig from a small bottle.

“Yessir, I’m determined. A man’s got too much to do in life to be bothered with drudgery, I say.” Sulk gulped down the last of a watery ale, and looked to see if the tavern maid was near.

“How much are ye looking to spend?” Toomes asked.

“Not a copper above seven marks,” Sulk replied. 

“You’re not going to get a boy, for that much, I’ll take my oath on that,” Toomes said. “But this one might suit you.” He pointed as the auctioneer began again.