Fire Born

  FIRE BORN

  FIRE BORN

  L.E. DAVEY

  To Alby, for protecting me from velociraptors.

  Copyright © L. E. Davey 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-0-473-51760-1

  Published by L. E. Davey

  Alexandra, Central Otago, New Zealand

  PART ONE

  FIRE BORN

  CHAPTER ONE

  The morning began with a sprinkle of sunlight upon the crimson sandy dunes; it was a beautiful sight to behold. The citizens set out in the early morning, and some felt excitement for the event that would soon occur. However, those who sought such delights were heathens, for nobody with a heart would dare to admire the execution of a man who'd committed no crime. The Ministry had ordered such a thing to be done, simply because a slave had refused to say yes to the man who held his chain.

  That was no excuse to kill a man, especially one who fathered a young boy of only eight. Stuart Harding was a brave child who possessed great talent with a bow and arrow. Of course, there wasn't much use for such a skill, for Stuart was to be a slave. And in the mind of others, slaves were only suitable for two things: sexual intimacies and hard labour work. It was prickling to think of the untimely death of slaves who dared to stand up and shout. Mr Harding, the father of young Stuart, was a good man. He certainly didn't deserve to be hanged.

  Three weeks ago, their home had been raided, and Stuart’s father was taken away. Chen Neill, the baker that Stuart lived with was a kind woman and an old friend of his father. Stuart adored her, not just for taking him in, but he was also incredibly grateful for the sweets she baked for him as they were utterly delicious. His father was missed, but at the age of eight, Stuart didn't understand much of the word execution. His brother, Edmund, followed it well enough. As they were all brothers and sisters on Haast; no slave was alone.

  The air was sticky, but it always was, for the island on which they lived was nothing but heat and sand. Residing next to the vast ocean was a relief, but swimming was much frowned upon, for the dangers that lived beneath were unknown. And the slave Masters hated nothing more than the unknown, for it was a dangerous thing indeed. To Stuart, his father was unrecognisable. His brown skin was even darker from the mud that covered him from head to toe, the black curls upon his head were matted furiously. The man looked positively savage.

  Stuart's father was tossed down onto the wooden planks, which slammed against his nose. His son winced from the loud crack that echoed throughout the gallows. The man looked much older than he was a few mere weeks ago. This stranger wasn't his father. Stuart was sure of that, for he'd never seen the man look so defeated before in his whole life. Even though the boy understood little of what was to occur, the sight of Mr Harding broke his young feeble little heart.

  More people gathered as citizens were forced out of their homes to watch this latest execution. For children and adults alike, it was a gruesome thing to gaze upon. But it couldn't be helped, for in the face of the law, no man or woman could rebel without the swinging sword or the deadly rope. Haast was a cruel place to live and the fatal heat scorched one's skin; the oppression of slavery was just as horrid.

  Murmurs of sympathy began to whisper throughout the gallows, for the citizens knew this man. He was honourable right until the end. Stuart watched grimly as they placed the old rope around his father's neck.

  The executioner, on the other hand, watched Mr Harding callously, enjoying the sense of fear that quickly consumed him. The man gasped, looking out at the crowd, to his son, his precious child who held no understanding of what was to occur.

  "Argent Harding, you stand accused of thievery, adultery and murder. The Ministry, has demanded, as it has for all others before you, a hanging. In this process, we shall pray that you move on, silently and swiftly. For this is your sentence, and justice is what we demand." Quickly, to those words, the wood beneath Mr Harding’s feet was dropped. And fall he did.

  Chen reached forward, clasping at the young, bewildered Stuart, pushing his sweet face into her cotton dress, for this was a sight no innocent child should have to witness – especially not the murder of their own father. She clutched his hand. "Don't look, sweetheart," Chen whispered, "it's nothing you should see."

  Stuart wept into the hip of the baker who lived under the same roof as them. He knew not what had occurred, but one thing was for sure, his father wouldn't be returning any time soon.

  Mr Harding choked and gagged as he swung from side to side, his hands reaching up to clasp at the rope that sentenced his death. He floundered like a fish out of water, but soon his movement ceased to exist, much like him. Stuart let out a little cry of despair as he attached himself to Chen.

  The executioner laughed mirthfully as the body was cut loose and dropped onto the red crimson ground below. There was nothing that could be done, for the man was dead, and that's all there was to it.

  "Come on," muttered Chen, low enough that nobody else could hear, her mouth close to Stuart's little ear. "We'll head home now," she told him grimly. For much had been lost, and nothing could be gained from something tragic as this.

  The air seemed colder, but Chen refused to acknowledge it, for the sensation was one she always felt when another passed on into a realm that wasn't theirs. She clutched at Stuart’s trembling hand and dragged the poor boy away from his father, a sight nobody but the cruel man who cut his rope delighted in.

  "His death shall be remembered," she said. "At least in that you can be proud, for your father stood up for what was right and just. I can't say the same for the Ministry."

  Stuart glanced up at her from beneath his long black locks; grey eyes peered at her curiously.

  "Chen," he said rather feebly. "Why did Papa have to die? Did he do something wrong? Papa never does anything wrong." The child's eyes were earnest, and he certainly believed the words that were slipping from his tongue. That made it all the more tragic, for he was partially right. Of course, no man was perfect, but Stuart’s father carried much honour, and so did he.

  Chen frowned, her pale skin lightening a shade. "Stu, the slavers carry a lot of power. And they don't like disobedience."

  "Oh," Stuart murmured, as if he understood the woman and the words she spoke. But in truth, Stuart was all the more confused. All he knew was that his father wouldn't return; no, he was long gone.

  They trudged through the sandy street. Chen said nothing more to the poor boy, for he was already traumatised enough as it was. The people they passed whispered at the sight of young Stuart, the son of Argent Harding.

  The boy kept his head bowed, listening to not a single word that was spoken. The gruesome sight of his father consistently flashed before his own eyes. "You'll be fine, I'll make us some cookies when we get home," said Chen, with a slight smile.

  "Cookies?" Stuart looked up. His grey eyes glistened with excitement, or as much as a child could feel after watching their father's death. Nonetheless, Stuart loved chocolate biscuits, for, in his mind, there was nothing better. "Chocolate cookies?"

  "Hmm, yes, I suppose I can make chocolate ones."

  Stuart smiled at the thought of it. "Could they have smiles on them?"

  "I can do that," Chen said, "but they'll have to be pink. It's the only colour I have, I'm af
raid."

  "That's alright," Stuart said. "As long as they're chocolate. I don't mind."

  Chen smiled at the young boy, reaching down to ruffle the untidy mop of black curls that sat upon his head. He was a rather adorable child, stubborn but kind. Stuart had yet to feel the weight of the world upon his shoulders, as all slaves did later on in life. Slavery was a vile practice, but there wasn't much that could be said against it, for the slave Masters held much power, and nobody wished to be burned alive, hung or beheaded.

  Chen chucked at that. "And chocolate they shall be," she said with certainty.

  Stuart rushed towards their home, for in times like these, comfort was all the child could afford. The old house was carved into the side of the Vasnor Cliffs; it was small but warm. They needed nothing more from their home, as it was a peaceful place to live. For sure, they couldn't afford the luxury that the rich possessed, but the sight of the bright blue ocean from the windows was enough to instil harmony within the soul. Chen couldn't bear to lose her home and the child, for they'd already suffered enough.

  "Go upstairs, lovely, you need a wash. I can smell the mud on you from a mile away,” she said. “Be careful not to use hot water. We won't have any more until Tuesday. Stuart, don't look at me like that! You need a bath, on with you now – and I'll make those cookies!" Chen rolled her eyes in utter exasperation at the boy, for he was such a stubborn child.

  Stuart jumped up the old white clay-like stairs, leaping from one to the other. The dust brushed against his feet, as Chen had yet to clean the house. "One, two, three and four!" And then he was gone.

  Chen shook her head as she bustled around in the kitchen. "Mischief, that boy is."

  "He's always been trouble," her husband said. "How did he take it?" The man looked much like Chen herself, for they were cousins. They both had the same crimson red eyes and mousy brown hair. In the eyes of most slave Masters, they carried little beauty.

  They weren't in love, and Chen doubted they ever would be. But their family had forced them to wed; after all, keeping the bloodlines pure was a high price to pay. Their lives would've been much different had their boat been spared from the pirate attack that changed their course. Perhaps it was for the worst, but even then, Chen wouldn't have had Argent and little Stuart in her life. And she'd never wish for such a thing.

  Caelan sighed, leaning against the old wooden table that stood in the middle of their run down-home. He might not intimately love his wife, but he did care for her as a brother loved his sister. And seeing her express such emotions as these was agonising. The loss of Argent weighed down upon her as if it were clumps of metal. Comforting her wouldn't get him anywhere, for the last time he'd attempted such a thing, she felt the need to hit him in the face with a pan. Where she inherited her viciousness, he'd never know.

  He watched her diligently as she cracked one egg after the other. "Chen, are you well?" Caelan asked. He knew well enough that the bond between his cousin and the deceased Argent was once strong.

  Chen frowned, brushing a loose brown curl behind her ear, staring down into the biscuit mixture. "I'll be fine," she said. "It's Stuart we should be worried about."

  Caelan drummed his fingers nervously on the bench, his fingernails scratching against the old wood. He did worry for the child, as he certainly didn't deserve to see his father murdered.

  But there wasn't much either of them could do about it. The child was fatherless, just as he could claim no mother. As for his female parent, she was a mystery.

  "He'll be fine, we will make sure of it," Caelan said, determined to make such a statement.

  "Freya will be good to him," Chen said. "They've always gotten along well."

  Caelan smiled despite himself; their wilful daughter adored Stuart. And he carried similar emotions for her.

  Freya was born a mere ten years ago to the loving couple, and she was undoubtedly a force of nature. Her relationship with Stuart was joyous, as, in their minds, they were brother and sister. Freya, in appearance, took after her mother and father, with hair resembling that of the earth and eyes that glowed like the sun. She wasn't tall like her father; in fact, she was almost the same height as little Stuart, but this was much appreciated, for the boy despised being small. That couldn't be helped, though, for he was only a child of eight.

  "They're a little too close," grumbled Caelan. "She should've chosen a more feminine friend."

  Chen rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous! They don't have those kinds of feelings for one another. Stu is only eight!"

  "He won't be eight forever," Caelan replied.

  This was very true. Although the two children were quite close, they didn't carry emotions for each other of romance or pure intimacy. Love could be intoxicating, leaving nothing behind but a craving to feel more – but Stuart was much too young to even begin expressing these sorts of feelings. Still, his love for Freya would remain, even if the bonds were only that of friendship. Love doesn't die, and it never would. Whether it was in the hands of a brother, mother, or friend, it lives on.

  Caelan frowned, as he glanced across the table at his wife. "They'll be trouble." He demanded that it was true, but even so, he wouldn't dare separate the two of them. Freya's tantrums could be quite ferocious at times, and Stuart's stubbornness was worse than their daughter’s. And that was truly something indeed.

  "I don't think so. Stuart is a sweetheart, and he has such a kind soul," said Chen, beating more flour into the mixture. "They won't fall in love; he thinks of her as a sister."

  "Right now he does," Caelan said.

  Chen frowned. "Look, I know you love that little boy. I've seen it in your eyes, and he needs us now more than ever. You will do right by him."

  "Of course I love the kid", Caelan told her, for they both adored the child they had raised with Argent. Chen was the only mother Stuart knew. "But there's more to it than that. I worry deeply about the relationship he has with Freya!"

  Chen sighed and reached over to clasp his hand into her own. The silence seemed to reign over them both as the death of their old friend threatened to consume them. She groaned, heading for the alcohol cabinet.

  They didn't have much in there. Only a few old bottles of beer, as they were slaves, and could only afford the cheap beverages. By the time these bottles were sold to slaves, they could hardly be classified as a drink.

  Chen placed a bottle on the table, pouring a small amount in two mugs. "I think we both need it. Wishing for Argent isn't going to bring him back from the dead."

  "Maybe it should," Caelan said. "I certainly don't know how to raise two children, let alone one!"

  "Is that why you're so upset?" asked Chen. "It'll be fine. We've been faced with worse."

  "Chen," hissed Caelan. "Argent is dead!"

  She frowned in dismay, for the man was once her friend too, the best of the best.

  "I know," Chen whispered, taking a sip of her stale beer. "I lost him too."

  Her fingers clenched against the frail old mug; her rage only seemed to simmer. "Lan!" Chen cried out furiously. "I loved him."

  "And so did I!" Caelan said. For a moment, all that seemed to exist was bittersweet silence. They both missed the man who had been with them since the beginning of all things. But Argent was long gone, and all they carried were the remains of him in the features of his son.

  "We have to protect the boy," said Caelan, knowing that they both viewed him to be family.

  "It'd be a mercy to send him away," Chen said.

  Her cousin looked to Chen in surprise, but all he received in return was a grim frown.

  "We're slaves, Chen. We can't afford to send him away; they're both safe here with us."

  "No!" She felt the familiar sting of water in her eyes, wishing to shed such tears of devastation as it shook her shoulders.

  Her hands trembled around the mug, her teeth chattering together. "We don't have the luxury to wait around and watch them be placed in chains," she said. "It's only a matter of time before the M
inistry comes for us."

  "We haven't done anything wrong!"

  "And neither did Argent," Chen said. They both knew it to be accurate, as they, too, had tried to rebel. The golden chains that oppressed them were only now beginning to tighten. "They're not safe here," she told him. "Unlike us, they won't become slaves until they reach the age of sixteen. We have time!"

  "But not the money,” Caelan argued, “and even if we did send Freya and Stuart away, where would they go?"

  "My parents would look after them," said Chen. "You know they would. They might have given up on me after everything, but they're not cruel. The children would be well cared for."

  Slavery was no life for a child, or an adult, for that matter; it wasn't ideal for anyone. But it was the life fate had dealt for Caelan and Chen Neill. Their daughter had yet to face the chains of slavery. It was by law that no child should suffer such a fate – perhaps that was the only good thing on Haast. But despite that, at the age of sixteen and beyond, children were forced into the same lives as their parents before them. The world was a cruel place, and Stuart and Freya deserved none of it.