Magebound by Katica Locke

I've never seen such a pathetic slave market, and I've been to some real ass-end of the universe places. It's just a rotting wooden platform in a field of mud and yellow grass, with us slaves corralled off to one side. There are six of us, down from the eight that had left Ventia a week ago. The old man had died at sea, and the girl was bought up before we'd even stepped off the ship, by a whorehouse, I think. The woman who bought her looked like a madam; I saw too much ankle and bosom at either end of her dress for her to have been a Lady. She spent some time looking at the teenage boy with us, but finally left without him. Erion was probably asking too much. The girl kicked one of the slavers as she left, so I think she'll be okay. I hope so. I'd rather be worked to death in the fields than suffer her fate any day.

I stand silently with the others; the boy, two broken looking men in their late thirties, a big, brooding fellow a few years older than me and a sour woman not quite old enough to be my mother, as we wait for the inevitable. All of us have our hair sheared down to the scalp. It marks us as slaves and keeps the crawlies off our heads. It's better than branding, which I've heard still happens on some planets. We're under tight security; our hands bound loosely in front of us and a single sleeping slaver sitting guard outside the corral. The fact that no one, not even the kid, has tried to make a run for it just shows how dismal Traxen is; even if we did escape, there isn't anywhere to go.

The auctioneer is a fat man with a big nose, one of those fat, red noses that looks like it hurts all the time, not like mine, which is just too large for my face. He must drink a lot. I would, if I had a nose like that. He's over in the shade of a canvas tent, talking with Erion, the slave trader in charge of our ragged asses. They seem to be waiting for the slave owners and potential slave owners to gather, but I think the dozen or so men sitting impatiently on the overturned wooden crates in front of the platform is all the crowd we're going to draw.

I scan the faces of the men as we all wait, and then I take a good look at their shoes. Most of the time, you can tell an off-worlder by his shoes. Not always, but both times I was dragged through a world gate, it was by men wearing strange shoes. I lean my bound wrists on the weathered fence rail and bite the inside of my lower lip. I don't want to be taken off Ashael again. I was born here; this planet is my home. It might not be much, compared to more advanced worlds, but I'd rather till their land with just a mule and a plow than stitch their strange, weightless shoes together, or wash out the bilges on their space freighters. I don't think I have to worry about it, this time. Traxen is a long way from Greater Kormunae. Erion steps out into the sun and heads our direction.

They start with the kid, of course, the auctioneer lying through his teeth to try and push the bidding up. Strong as an ox, my foot. He sells for more than I had guessed, to a weary looking farmer in a battered straw hat. Scratch that -- they're all weary looking farmers in battered straw hats. This one has a drooping mustache and a knife tucked into his belt. I watch the farmer lead his new slave down the road. I'm pretty good at judging what kind of master a man will be by the way he leads his slave. Mean ones jerk on the rope. Nice ones leave some slack. Horrible ones make you run along behind their wagons. This guy leaves slack, so maybe the kid'll be okay. I don't have time to worry about it, though -- I'm up next.

"Great Maele, would you look at this fine young man!" I slouch and look down at my bare feet, caked in thick, black mud. "At twenty-five years, he's in the prime of his life..." Who're they kidding? I'm six months shy of twenty-one, but hardly look over eighteen. That's what happens when you never get enough to eat.

"...an educated man, learned in reading and writing..." Educated, ha! I can write my name and read a little. I guess for a slave, that is educated. "...but strong and hard-working. He can plow, sow, reap, slaughter, woodwork, millwork, stonework..." Yeah, but I'm not very good at any of them. "If his master hadn't taken ill and died, this man would not be standing before you today." If I hadn't beaten my master with a rake and run away, and then been dumb enough to get caught by Erion, I wouldn't be standing here. I'd probably be dead, considering he was trying to pour lamp oil on me and light me on fire when I took off. Said I looked at his daughter funny. Well, she was pretty funny looking, this long-necked goose of a girl with buggy green eyes, but I never looked at her like he meant.

"This is a once in a lifetime opportunity," the auctioneer continues. "Now, who'll give me a half-coin for this fine specimen?" I roll my eyes. I'm worth at least three coins, but none of the farmers seem to realize it. Maybe I look like I eat a lot. One of them, a lean man with a scar across his left cheek, finally raises his hand, making a bid. His clothes are mostly leather, worn slick and shiny, and he's got spurs and a rope, so I'm guessing a rancher, probably from a fair distance, since this isn't exactly cattle country. I hate cows.

"If I let this fellow go for less than a coin, it would be highway robbery," the auctioneer says, stepping closer to me. He reaches up toward my face and I open my mouth before has a chance to touch me, showing the crowd my teeth. I know the drill, and I hate being touched. "Look at those fine teeth!" He turns me around and lifts my shirt, showing them my back. "Not an ounce of fat on him." There's a muttering in the crowd and I scowl down at my feet. I'd like to see one of them live my life and look better. It's not like I asked to be beaten, and whipped, and cut, and burned.

The auctioneer steps away from me and I turn around. The few gathered farmers have moved to one side of the market. I guess it wasn't me they were muttering about. A horse and rider has come right up to the platform. My heart begins to pound in my chest as I take a second look. It's a unicorn, a black unicorn, with a hooded and cloaked rider, his face hidden in shadow. He raises a hand and points at me, and I can feel the color drain from my face, because it's not a hand, it's a claw, like a hawk's, or a dragon's, slim, black, curved and gleaming. I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry.

Read more of Magebound - Chapter One