Unlike the other slaves who couldn’t contain their misery or fear, there was no expression in Lucivar’s gold eyes, no psychic scent of emotions for the guards to play with as they put the sobbing man into the old, one-man boat. No longer seaworthy, the boat showed gaping holes in its rotten wood, holes that only added to its value now.

The condemned man was small and half-starved. It still took six guards to put him into the boat. Five guards held the man’s head, arms, and legs. The last guard smeared bacon grease on the man’s genitals before sliding a wooden cover into place. It fit snugly over the boat, with holes cut out for the head and hands. Once the man’s hands were tied to iron rings on the outside of the boat, the cover was locked into place so that no one but the guards could remove it.

One guard studied the imprisoned man and shook his head in mock dismay. Turning to the others, he said, “He should have a last meal before being put to sea.”

The guards laughed. The man cried for help.

One by one, the guards carefully shoved food into the man’s mouth before herding the other slaves to the stables where they were quartered.

“You’ll be entertained tonight, boys,” a guard yelled, laughing. “Remember it the next time you decide to leave Lady Zuultah’s service.”

Lucivar looked over his shoulder, then looked away.

Drawn by the smell of food, the rats slipped into the gaping holes in the boat.

The man in the boat screamed.

Clouds scudded across the moon, gray shrouds hiding its light. The man in the boat didn’t move. His knees were open sores, bloody from kicking the top of the boat in his effort to keep the rats away. His vocal cords were destroyed from screaming.

Lucivar knelt behind the boat, moving carefully to muffle the sound of the chains.

“I didn’t tell them, Yasi,” the man said hoarsely. “They tried to make me tell, but I didn’t. I had that much honor left.”

Lucivar held a cup to the man’s lips. “Drink this,” he said, his voice a deep murmur, a part of the night.

“No,” the man moaned. “No.” He began to cry, a harsh, guttural sound pulled from his ruined throat.

“Hush, now. Hush. It will help.” Supporting the man’s head, Lucivar eased the cup between the swollen lips. After two swallows, Lucivar put the cup aside and stroked the man’s head with gentle fingertips. “It will help,” he crooned.

“I’m a Warlord of the Blood.” When Lucivar offered the cup again, the man took another sip. As his voice got stronger, the words began to slur. “You’re a Warlord Prince. Why do they do this to us, Yasi?”

“Because they have no honor. Because they don’t remember what it means to be Blood. The High Priestess of Hayll’s influence is a plague that has been spreading across the Realm for centuries, slowly consuming every Territory it touches.”