Sawain watched the rising sun over the Grosgur Fells from his lofty perch, wishing desperately that he could wander those green hills freely. Despite the beauty of spring around him, the Thrallborn felt trapped.

His bare feet dangled from the edge of the barn’s hayloft as he gazed out over the sheep pasture. It was spring, so the little flowers were in full bloom amongst the grass, giving the green carpet a spattering of indigo. The marble farmhouse to the left of the pasture glowed in the early morning light. Its unusual glass windows reflected the first rays back into Sawain’s captive eyes. The iron gate that ran along the perimeter of the house was high and tipped with barbed prongs. This artifact of war stood in stark contrast to the rest of the luxurious plantation. So did the guard barracks and the eight-foot stone wall that encircled the entire farm. The walls were patrolled by six of the master’s soldiers at all times. All twenty of them were local upstart heroes and proficient in sword or bow.

Mistveil Farm looked more like a fortress prison than a peaceful farm to the captive-born eyes of Sawain. He stood up from his perch and stretched his long, muscular arms. He may have been half-elf, but he was blessed with the same large, muscular build of his human father. His face and hair were from his mother. His medium-length blonde locks fell in waves over his pointed ears. His emerald eyes brimmed with uncultivated intelligence and ambition. A thin blonde beard covered his chin and lower jaw. He was sixteen and he still could not get his beard to grow out like the other young men, to his shame.

He allowed himself a half smile as he remembered that today was, in fact, his birthday. At least, as far as he could tell, it was. The truth was that he never really knew his actual birthday. It was not a thrall’s place to know, he just had to guess. He raised a hand to block the sun’s blinding rays. He spoke aloud, as if he addressed the blazing star he faced.

“Sixteen. In my mother’s culture, I would still be just an infant, not even close to childhood and in my father’s culture, I am now old enough to wield a sword and become a shieldling. Just one more reason to favor men over the elves. Unfortunately for me, my father’s world is one of war that means glory and honor for the strong… and slavery for the weak.”

He sighed as he stretched his limbs as he leaned forward, gazing over the hills at a convoy of covered carts approaching from the Anvilheim road.

“Happy birthday, Sawain,” He muttered to himself “One year closer to death.”

Death was another thing that bothered Sawain about his father’s world. The lives of men were so short-lived compared to that of the elves. That was not always the case. It was not for his mother.

Sawain could not allow himself to dwell on the past now. Being a thrall, his mind had to stay focused on the present. Presently, the sun was fully visible in the sky. The master would be down for breakfast soon and Sawain was on milking duty. He had to hurry to get the milk to the house before breakfast or he would be disciplined. He shuddered at the thought as he mentally felt the all too familiar sting of the whip across his back.
He leapt from the loft to the pasture below. He landed on the balls of his feet and immediately bent down in a squat to absorb the shock of the landing. In the same deft movement, he tucked into a roll from his right shoulder to disperse the shockwave of energy and sprung from the ground back to his feet.

He popped up in front of an old billy-goat who did not even twitch from the theatrics put on by the half-elf. Sawain wrinkled his nose at the old goat.

“I’d like to see you do that, Torval.”

The aged buck bleated plaintively as if in response before stooping down to pick at a tempting clump of grass. Sawain dismissed him with a wave. He chuckled to himself when he thought of the old goat’s name in relation to his master. He turned to go into the barn where the nannies were still resting in their stalls. He pulled a stool and wooden bucket up to one of the stalls and opened the door. The nanny inside bleated groggily, looking over her shoulder as Sawain took a seat behind her. He placed the bucket under her and started talking softly to her while he milked.

“Morning, Tess. Looking forward to another day of freedom out in the open highlands? Yeah, me neither. Wouldn’t it be nice though? You know what? It’s my birthday today and I still haven’t made my wish. How about we make one together? Maybe it’ll come true this year. I know it’s all kind of silly, but it’s worth a try, right?”

He stopped milking, closed his eyes and placed his hands together.

“Oh gods of the heavens, hear my prayer. Grant me this day a birthday wish. Grant me this day my freedom so that I may pursue a life of adventure under your wide domain.”

He opened his eyes again and looked around him. He was sitting on a worn wooden bench, surrounded by old wooden stalls, in an old wooden barn that smelled like goats and old hay. He sighed to himself.

“Well, Tess, looks like our wish wasn’t granted this year. Sorry, old girl. Maybe next year.”
Sawain finished up the milking and hurried to get his haul back to the house. He made his way quickly, but carefully, to the house as the bucket of milk sloshed dangerously at his side. The gate guard at the house, an ugly man with a scabby beard, saw him coming and opened the way for him.

“Best hurry up, boy, the master’s waiting,”

Sawain didn’t say a word or make eye contact with him as he passed, so he did not see him stick his boot out to kick Sawain’s foot. The thrall had too much momentum already, so when his equilibrium was disturbed, he did not have the time or power to recover it before the milk bucket threw him off farther and sent him crashing to the dirt. He quickly found himself covered in mud and milk. The guard shook with laughter as he kicked Sawain in the ribs.

“Clumsy dog! Get up! Thralls don’t get to take naps in the mud like a swine! No, they’re not good enough!”

Sawain struggled to his feet in the slick mud, furious. He turned on the guard, anger flaring up in his emerald eyes. The guard glared back, incredulous that a thrall would look at him. He snarled at Sawain as he drew his sword.

“Insolent whelp! How dare you show defiance to a superior?”

Sawain flared up, “You are no superior! You are just trash that my master brought in out of the kindness of his heart. You’re the filth, not me!”

The guard’s demeanor changed to one of rage as he brandished his blade above his head, “You’ll pay for that, cur!”

The guard lashed out at Sawain with the flat of his blade. Sawain closed his eyes hard and waited for the blow. Instead, he felt himself propelled to the left, falling to the dirt again, and heard the loud thwack of metal on flesh and bone. He opened his eyes, shocked that he did not take the blow. He looked up to see his rescuer. Simir, the resident Thrall-father stood face to face with the guard. Blood trickled from the gash on his brow into his dark gray beard. His hazel eyes gleamed fearlessly as he stared down the guard.

“There’s no need to punish the boy. It is not your place, guardsman.”

The guard spit in Simir’s face and kicked hard at his thigh. The impact brought the older man to his knees.

“Don’t tell me my place, thrall! It is still above you, and I will punish whoever needs punishing!”

The guard swung hard, striking Simir in the side of the face with the hilt of his sword. The Thrall-father did not make a sound as he took the thrashing. Dissatisfied, the guard swung again, striking Simir in the face. Blood trickled from his busted lip and spattered the sack cloth tunic he wore as garb. This sight caused a rage to kindle inside of Sawain. He scrambled to his feet.

“Coward! Leave him alone!”

The guard turned his attention to Sawain.

“You want some more discipline, boy? I’ll beat him ‘til he can barely move, then I’ll do the same for you!”

“Enough!” a loud booming voice like the thunder of a war-horn reverberated from the front door of the house.

An older man with a long gray and black beard and fierce blue eyes was standing on the landing. He wore an outfit of bearskin and a wolf-fur cape. He had to step around the puddle of mud to avoid getting it on his hide boots. He surveyed the scene before him with an unsettling calm. He turned his grim face to the guard.

“What is the meaning of this, Hodrik?”

“Lord Torval, this thrall tripped and spilt milk all over me and the yard! I was simply disciplining him, then this other unruly thrall got in my way.”

“That’s a lie,” Sawain blurted out. “He tripped me when I was coming through the gate! He’s the one who deserves to be disciplined! And Simir–”

The noble man shot an authoritative glare that stopped the rest of Sawain’s protesting.

“You’ll speak when I ask it of you. As for you, Hodrik, I am in charge of discipline, not you. If I see you even look at one of my thralls crossly again, I will release you. Sawain, kneel down. Simir, see to your stripes, then make your way to the orchard to help the pickers.”

Sawain’s inner rage kindled hotter, but unleashing it on his master would ensure death. Death did not sound so bad, especially since death is all that awaited him anymore, since his last foiled escape attempt left him a marked thrall. He decided to wait.
The least I can do is take him with me when I die.

He knelt before Torval. The old man loosed the leather belt from around his waist and doubled it over.

“Ten lashes for wasting milk, ten lashes for being insubordinate.”

That was his father’s way of saying It could be worse, but I love you.
Love, ha, Sawain thought to himself as his tunic was pulled off him. He looked beyond Torval and saw the mistress of the farm, Lady Vera, scowling venomously at him from the doorway.

“Twenty lashes, Torval? Are you trying to spoil the little wretch? You’re being too soft.”

Sawain’s stomach dropped. The lady Vera hated him simply for existing. She had tried many times to have him sold or killed, but Torval would not have it. Sawain surmised that he would rather torment his son himself. Torval hesitated. Sawain knew that meant he would give into his wife’s challenge to his partiality. The master was easy for his wife to control in all other matters.

“Very well, Lady Vera. Thirty lashes, for speaking out of line to me.”

He raised his belt arm high above his head. Sawain resolved to show no pain or weakness, only fierce defiance. Torval’s makeshift lash came down hard on his left shoulder. It stung intensely as it raked across his bare flesh. He did not wince. The lash came down hard again on the same spot, raising a welt. The pain was growing, but Sawain held to his resolution. Blow after blow fell across his shoulders until the welts became lacerations. Blood trickled down his back and arms. The pain was overwhelming, but still he clung to his self-rule. He simply focused on the number of lashes, allowing them to feed his fury, dulling the pain. Twenty seven. Twenty eight. Twenty nine. Thirty. When Torval was finished, he tossed Sawain his dirty tunic.

“Go and milk the goats again. When you’re done with that, see to the work in the orchard.”

Torval turned and limped back to the doorway. Lady Vera slid to the side, looking pleased at Sawain’s thrashing. Once Torval had disappeared into the house, she shot Sawain one last glare that said, You had it easy this time. He knew it, too. If she had been behind the lash, he would have suffered double.

Sawain redressed himself, grabbed the milk bucket, and pulled himself to his feet. The coarse cloth of his tunic dug into his open wounds, reminding him constantly of the injustices he had to endure. He turned to make his way to the barn and noticed Simir straggling just beyond the fence. The ugly guard who caused the entire scene sneered at Sawain as he walked past.

“Daddy won’t always be around to protect you, cur. Oh, that’s right, he can’t be your daddy, thrall-born. You have no inheritance. Nothing but the grave.”

Sawain’s anger flared again as he gripped the handle of the bucket firmly. He did not slow his pace nor did he acknowledge the guard. He would not give him the satisfaction. Tears of rage and despair ran down his cheeks as he made his way across the grounds. Hodrik was right. His father was the master of a wealthy plantation, yet his only inheritance was a bed of hay in the thrall-house. Simir walked alongside him silently until they were out of the guard’s earshot.

“Don’t let that goat-lover’s words get to you, Sawain. He only wants you to lash out so that he has an excuse to murder you. As for what he said about your father, don’t forget that the master has always shown favor to you.”

Sawain snorted, “Favor? What favor? He beats me less than the other thralls? Was he showing me favor when he allowed the law of the land to prevent me from being born free? Did he show me favor when he let my mother die?”

Simir scowled, “You have gotten away with more than your fair share. Any other thrall who stood up to a guard and argued with the master would have been beaten until they couldn’t stand. You just got off lightly. Also, your mother died of an illness that has no cure. Your father tried to save her. I’ve told you this before.”

Sawain waved off Simir’s rebuke, although he knew the old man was right. He refused to believe there was any goodness in a man who would keep his own son as a thrall. He silently broke away from Simir and headed towards the barn, not looking back at Simir.

“Sawain, wait–”

It troubled his conscience to just storm away from his mentor, but he would not have his pride wounded further today.

He stomped into the barn and panic shot from his skull, down his spine and into his legs, making them weak. Tessie’s stall door was wide open and the old nanny was nowhere in sight.

“Tess? Tess, where are you?” he inquired in a low, shaky voice. Losing livestock was a crime for which the punishment was too painful to think about. The punishment was not just physical. A beating that severe could kill him, or worse, he could be sold to another, more cruel master. Lady Vera would finally have the excuse she was looking for his entire life. He tried to push these thoughts from his mind as he searched the barn for Tess. He soon came to a place where the boards were loose and it looked as if an animal had squeezed through. He was afraid that Tess was too smart to just wander into the grazing meadow. He got down on his hands and knees to go the same route she took.
She had come out to the orchard and was helping herself to the low hanging apples on one of the trees. Simir held her by the scruff, shaking his head at Sawain.

“Lose something, grumpy?”

Never had he been happier to scale the hill to the apple trees. He opened his mouth to rebuke her, but it just hung open as his tongue swelled in his throat. From the hill, he could see over the nearby outer wall. At the foot of the wall, on the inside, two armored forms lay still on the ground with arrows protruding from them. The other guards were nowhere to be found. Simir followed his stare and saw the same gruesome scene.

“We’re under attack. Quickly, son. Get in the tree and stay hidden. I’ll warn the master!”

Sawain quickly shimmied up the branches of the old apple tree as Simir broke off into a headlong run for the farm house. He climbed to the leafiest spot he could find and peered out from his cover. He watched in horror as a host of creatures more numerous than he could count popped up from the high growing grasslands outside of the farm. Their yelping laughter chilled his blood as the first dozen or so rushed the wall on all fours. The first wave threw themselves at the wall, resulting in impalement, as should have been expected. The second wave bounded off their dead comrades and cleared the pikes, scaling the remainder of the wall easily. He heard Simir’s voice ring out over the farmland.

“Attack! We’re under attack! Guards! Master Torval! Sound the alarm! We’re under attack!”

The guard at the gate dropped his spear and ran into the house once he made out what Simir was yelling. Heads of half-dressed men wearily poked out of the barracks doors. When they realized the danger, they withdrew into the barracks.

Sawain could see some of the figures better as they dropped to the other side of the wall and made a headlong dash at the gate. They may have been humanoid in shape, but they were covered in a golden brown fur tinged with dull green. They had long, sharp claws on the ends of their fingers and their heads and faces were of hyenas. He had heard of these creatures before from traveling merchants. They were gnolls, and their reputation for being ruthless marauders preceded them.

All Sawain could do was hide in the tree and pray that the gnolls didn’t like apples. He watched in silent terror as his mentor was quickly overtaken and pinned by one of the monsters. His shouts of alarm fell silent under the gnoll’s cudgel. The cries of battle soon rang out as the guards poured out to confront the gnoll threat.

The ones that had made for the gate had already reached their goal and were heaving at the portcullis wheel. As soon as it was high enough, the rest of the gnoll army poured into the farm, met by a volley of arrows that dropped six or seven of them on the spot. The fallen were quickly overrun by their kindred. The gnolls outnumbered the guards and broke their ranged line within seconds.

The farm defenders dropped their bows and drew their swords. They clashed bravely with the onslaught of invaders, but were soon surrounded. They continued to slash and hack at any gnoll that got close enough, but soon their defenses were penetrated by spear and claw. One by one, they fell.

A blast of thunder rolled over the farm as a bolt of intense fire washed over the horde from the farmhouse gate. Master Torval had arrived on the scene. Sawain could not see him well, but he knew it was him. He wore a gleaming silver breastplate and matching helmet. He wielded a war axe in one hand and a small glowing red gem in the other.
The horde turned on him and rushed the gate of the house. He met them with another jet of roaring flame that shot out from the crystal, dropping five of the assailants in a smoldering heap. Before he could recharge the gem, the gnolls had reached the gate. They used a familiar tactic to breach this defense. The first wave tried to get over the fence in a single bound, but most ended up skewed on the barbs at the top. Their sacrifice allowed the remaining forces to clear the deadly fence and pour into the inner yard.

Torval fought with all his strength, hacking off heads and limbs with his legendary axe and blasting rows of would-be murderers that tried to get across the fence. For all his brutal fervor, he alone was not enough to stop the waves of hyena-like raiders. Maybe in his younger days, he could have succeeded, but today, on his own doorstep, he fell beneath a tide of fur and fangs.

A few more minutes passed and the sounds of slaughter died away. From his vantage point, Sawain saw three gnolls dragging the badly wounded form of Lord Torval from the mob. The other gnolls gathered round him and blocked off Sawain’s view of his father. He felt his stomach drop as the gnolls fell on him in a yelping, riotous frenzy.

A large gnoll emerged from the mass carrying Torval’s head. He took one of the pilfered spears from another gnoll and shoved the decapitated head upon it. He turned and waved the crude effigy before the raiders. A chorus of barks and laughter filled the air. Sawain noticed the headless body of his father laying on the ground. Its hand still clutched the gem. One of the gnolls on looting duty tried to pry it from the dead hand. When it did, the crystal exploded, taking the looter, the corpse, and four other gnolls with it. This simply triggered another violent fit of laughter from the other gnolls.

Sawain felt sickness rising into his throat and he had to muster every ounce of will to keep from vomiting. He was now alone in this life and all he could do about it was sit helplessly in an apple tree while the gnolls pillaged and razed the rest of his world to the ground.