Spellbound

3. The Centrepiece

The auction for the freshly captured Tevinter slaves would unravel in the stronghold's vestibule. The slaves were positioned on the steps leading to the gallery, looking out over the entrance hall below and hidden from curious eyes by a dusty, thick curtain. One by one, they got called to the rounded railing at the platform on top and joined an enthusiastic trader for his dirty business. The crowd clapped and cheered at every new person, and the numbers announced to determine the worth of the slaves' lives wracked shivers down Lavellan's spine.

The Tal-Vashoth hadn't let go of him. His broad chest and bulging arms trapped Lavellan to a body nearly too hot for him to bear. He tasted his sweat on his lips as he wound himself in that bruising grip, but there was no escape. Step by step, he got carried closer to his doom. The anxious victims to the front and back were petrified with their fear and all help they could offer would be in vain against the massive guards.

Lavellan's strained ears picked up on the noise outside. He heard male and female voices blabbering over each other in a mixture of languages, but most had a Tevene accent. Those who used different languages did it for prestige, and their haughty laughs as they used broken Elvish towards the slave in the current offer ignited fury in Lavellan's veins. He wanted to see these people with his own eyes, wanted to make them suffer from the vengeance of those they had insulted.

Lavellan was no hero. He wouldn't fool himself into conjuring a slave uprising to bring about a revolution. In his hostile heart, he prayed all the slaves sold today found a way to murder their frivolous new masters in the same way Lavellan would murder his as soon as they left this room. Patience was his promise to succeed. If he waited until fewer guards surrounded him, he should be able to take out a lonely mage.

With his brows drawn together in a bloodthirsty line, Lavellan hung in his captor's grip. He collected his wits, thought of methods to fight mages and their optional guards and slaves. As soon as he had defeated his abusers, he would run as fast as the wind to the safety of his clan.

Another step on the staircase. Lavellan could look at the second floor now where the slave handler dictated his inhumane play. He had a wand the size of an arm that he used to point out aspects about the slaves he thought interesting to rake the price into absurd heights. His voice echoed through the ecstatic hall full of overheated bodies, who fed off the agony of the disheartened slaves.

Another number called in Tevene, another person sold. The man stumbled away with his features ashen as the guards dragged him to meet his new owner. The terror in his eyes contrasted with the greedy glint that illuminated the slave trader's face.

Lavellan gritted his teeth, ready to snap at that man as soon as he was within reach. He deserved no less for his merciless savagery.

This time, when the Tal-Vashoth handling Lavellan rose another step, Lavellan spotted a familiar head of loose, red hair joining the auctioneer. Eulalia had her fingers grasped into her dirty green dress and her lips pressed tightly to each other.

Roars lit up in the crowd. Male voices yelled at the seller to allow a peek at her legs and females giggled at the raunchy suggestion.

Lavellan's blood boiled at the treatment and he wrung himself around until the Tal-Vashoth grunted at him in a warning. Lavellan's blows got him nowhere.

The handler turned to Eulalia to ask her something but interrupted himself. Startled by the sudden silence in the bustling hall, Lavellan glanced up from his quarrel.

A thin trail of blood trickled from Eulalia's lips. She kept them grit desperately, her face so pale it seemed ghostly blue.

From one moment to the next, she gagged up a pool of blood. She collapsed to her knees, more and more blood coming from her mouth like a never-ending river splattering under her head.