A/N: This story takes place in about year 441 H.E. or so. It's after the
Immortal's War, but before Keladry is even born. I s'pose it would make
Daine 17 or 18. The Copper Isles are still firmly in the hands of the
Luarin, and Kyprioth has a few years until he'll be able to try his great
trick. I thought of, and have been writing this since before Trickster's
Choice came out, but Tammy published before I did. ;P You'll catch a few
Gladiator references in here, because I was inspired by Gladiator, and also
because I watched the documentary on it to get some of my research. All of
what is referred to as "Ancient Islander" is not Tammy's Ancient Islander.
Again, this comes of having started writing it before Tammy published. All
of my Ancient Islander is Greek in origin, words used for the actual
Gladiators of ages past. That's enough rambling from me for now, though.
Rian Thompson had always dreamed of the clash of swords, whistles of arrows, and glory of battle. It had been so for as long as he could remember. He would sit, hours upon end, listening to the bards as they described epic wars and fights from ages past, as well as stories of current heroes.
Rian fantasized of enlisting into the army, or perhaps joining the Riders when he was old enough. He wanted adventure in his life, a life of travel. Wanted to see Tortall, perhaps even fight beside someone like the Lioness, or Lord Raoul, the Giant-killer.
But it was not to be – At least while he remained a Thompson, for one large obstacle stood between him and glory. Rian's father, Jasyn. From the time he was old enough to understand such things, Jasyn had drilled it into Rian's head that there was no excuse for killing.
"Let th' soldiers an' nobl's protec' yew, son. We've no business fightin' – We're farmers. 'Tis better tah 'ave dirt on yer 'ands th'n blood. Washes off easier."
The first time Jasyn had seen Rian playing at sword fighting with sticks he had tanned him. Thoroughly. So thoroughly, in fact, that Rian had been unable to sleep for the pain in his back and rump. But he continued playing at soldiering, until his father had finally issued him an ultimatum.
"Son, if I see yew, hear o' yew, or ev'n suspec' yew o' tryin' tah learn tah soldier again, I will disown yew. I will toss yew ou' wit' notin' but th' clothes on yer back, and tha' will be th' end o' it. Yew will be dead tah this family."
So Rian had ended his dreams of being a glory and taken up a plow instead. As he grew, and grew, and grew, his muscles developed, strong and sinewy, his hands calloused till they were tough as any swordsman's, and his shoulders broadened and filled out.
But none of this did any good the day the Raiders came.
They hit shortly after dawn, though it might as well have been midday. Farmers rose early. Rian was out in the fields, plowing, when he heard the call of the horn he had dreamed of. But unlike the bard's stories this was no battlefield with armies and generals. It was a farming town with unarmed civilians and a ragged group of men riding down on them with swords. And the horn call was much too real.
Rian raced into the village to find it aflame. Dead littered the streets of his home which had held laughing children moments ago. Men were trying to organize a defense, though they were really not matches for the Raiders. Arrows sprouted out of those that resisted.
And Rian was forced to watch it all, untrained, defenseless. In the end all of the prisoners were rounded up and held while the Raiders looked them over. Rian couldn't understand why they hadn't run with their loot, or killed them all. This wasn't normal Raider behavior.
But it became all too clear soon enough. The Raiders were looking for the largest and strongest boys and men to bring with them, as well as the most beautiful young girls. They were to be enslaved, then.
All Rian could do was thank the gods that Lily, his younger sister, was still too small to be taken. He already knew his fate. At six feet and five inches, with muscles only a plowman could develop, Rian was taken, hands bound behind him, slave collar around his neck, from his screaming, sobbing mother, wailing younger sister, and tight faced father.
Taken to a ship, where he sailed for three weeks. Away from Tortall, away from his home, away from his quiet farm, the only thing he longed for now. Taken to a strange island country with people that oiled their hair into ringlets and women that hid themselves in veils.
As he stepped out of the underbelly of the boat, Rian winced in the bright sun, much stronger than he was used to.
A cruelly smiling face met his sight as the man tugged on his collar to make Rian move faster. "Welcome to the Copper Isles, Laddybuck. I'm sure you'll enjoy your stay."
Rian Thompson had always dreamed of the clash of swords, whistles of arrows, and glory of battle. It had been so for as long as he could remember. He would sit, hours upon end, listening to the bards as they described epic wars and fights from ages past, as well as stories of current heroes.
Rian fantasized of enlisting into the army, or perhaps joining the Riders when he was old enough. He wanted adventure in his life, a life of travel. Wanted to see Tortall, perhaps even fight beside someone like the Lioness, or Lord Raoul, the Giant-killer.
But it was not to be – At least while he remained a Thompson, for one large obstacle stood between him and glory. Rian's father, Jasyn. From the time he was old enough to understand such things, Jasyn had drilled it into Rian's head that there was no excuse for killing.
"Let th' soldiers an' nobl's protec' yew, son. We've no business fightin' – We're farmers. 'Tis better tah 'ave dirt on yer 'ands th'n blood. Washes off easier."
The first time Jasyn had seen Rian playing at sword fighting with sticks he had tanned him. Thoroughly. So thoroughly, in fact, that Rian had been unable to sleep for the pain in his back and rump. But he continued playing at soldiering, until his father had finally issued him an ultimatum.
"Son, if I see yew, hear o' yew, or ev'n suspec' yew o' tryin' tah learn tah soldier again, I will disown yew. I will toss yew ou' wit' notin' but th' clothes on yer back, and tha' will be th' end o' it. Yew will be dead tah this family."
So Rian had ended his dreams of being a glory and taken up a plow instead. As he grew, and grew, and grew, his muscles developed, strong and sinewy, his hands calloused till they were tough as any swordsman's, and his shoulders broadened and filled out.
But none of this did any good the day the Raiders came.
They hit shortly after dawn, though it might as well have been midday. Farmers rose early. Rian was out in the fields, plowing, when he heard the call of the horn he had dreamed of. But unlike the bard's stories this was no battlefield with armies and generals. It was a farming town with unarmed civilians and a ragged group of men riding down on them with swords. And the horn call was much too real.
Rian raced into the village to find it aflame. Dead littered the streets of his home which had held laughing children moments ago. Men were trying to organize a defense, though they were really not matches for the Raiders. Arrows sprouted out of those that resisted.
And Rian was forced to watch it all, untrained, defenseless. In the end all of the prisoners were rounded up and held while the Raiders looked them over. Rian couldn't understand why they hadn't run with their loot, or killed them all. This wasn't normal Raider behavior.
But it became all too clear soon enough. The Raiders were looking for the largest and strongest boys and men to bring with them, as well as the most beautiful young girls. They were to be enslaved, then.
All Rian could do was thank the gods that Lily, his younger sister, was still too small to be taken. He already knew his fate. At six feet and five inches, with muscles only a plowman could develop, Rian was taken, hands bound behind him, slave collar around his neck, from his screaming, sobbing mother, wailing younger sister, and tight faced father.
Taken to a ship, where he sailed for three weeks. Away from Tortall, away from his home, away from his quiet farm, the only thing he longed for now. Taken to a strange island country with people that oiled their hair into ringlets and women that hid themselves in veils.
As he stepped out of the underbelly of the boat, Rian winced in the bright sun, much stronger than he was used to.
A cruelly smiling face met his sight as the man tugged on his collar to make Rian move faster. "Welcome to the Copper Isles, Laddybuck. I'm sure you'll enjoy your stay."