The four boys stood in a line, their backs straight as a rod, eyes trained forward. Arran stood at one end of the line, Ermic beside him while Gery and Sige stood on the other side of Ermic.

A man, built solid as a rock, paced back and forth in front of them.

“I am Symas, the stable-master” he said, looking at each of them in the eye, as if daring them to challenge his words. “I expect your submission” he paused then, swinging the switch in his hand around before resting the tip against Ermic’s cheek, “your utter submission” he added as he swatted at Ermic with his switch suddenly.

Ermic had been a slave for far longer than Arran. He had been a slave working in the fields towards the north before the family who owned him decided he was no longer needed. He knew how to act like a slave. No, he did not have to act anymore…he had long ago resigned himself to this fate.

He did not cry out. Crying out would only have given Symas an excuse to make an example out of him. He merely flinched as the switch welted him on the arm. A couple of years working in the fields, toiling away from morn to dusk would harden any man. His months of starvation in Randall’s caravan could only remove the muscle and fat on him, not his grit.

Symas grunted once before moving on to swat at Arran.

Arran had been a slave too, of a different kind. He knew how to take a beating. He knew how to bear through the pain. Only the ones above knew how many times he laid down, curled up, protecting his stomach and head with his arms as his inebriated father kicked and punched him.

He knew enough to not to show his pain and give any bully the satisfaction they desired.

Arran did not even flinch, as the switch left a red welt on his pale skin.

Symas eyed Arran, bringing the switch to Arran’s cheek.

“Think you are strong boy?” he questioned, a dangerous glint in his eyes, “Think you are tough eh?”

Arran looked straight ahead, a shred of fear creeping into his eyes. He knew what would come next.

“No”

Symas swung out with his free hand, backhanding Arran across the face. “ what boy? he sneered.

Arran crumpled under the blow, his frail frame buckling under the force, he fell onto his back. There was a gash across his cheek, dripping blood onto his rags.

Symas stood there, an eyebrow raised in expectation.

“No Sir”, Arran managed to growl back, pain tearing through the side of his face as his cheek moved.

“You belong to me” Symas uttered, a sense of finality in his voice, before turning back towards the others, “All of you” he growled.

“Lord Egon charged me with doing as I see fit. All he cares about, is that I provide him with race winning jockeys”, he looked back at Arran then, “and all I care about, if you fucking follow my every word I say”.

He knelt down to be eye level with Arran.

“Fucking. Every. Word” he stressed again before getting up.

“Each of you will be trained and tested. Those of you that pass and are deemed worthy shall find that it is in your own better interest” he said sarcastically, “those of you that don’t, will be shown how a slave is put to use” he paused then for dramatic effect, “first hand.” He smiled at his own sick joke, his grin twisting his already ugly features into an uglier version of them.

He pointed at a fence then, “See that fence?” he asked.

It was a huge meadow, cut off from the rest of the world by a white picket fence. There were a few boys, lankily built and seemingly frail, riding on horses while a few men, possibly the instructors under Symas, looked on.

The horses themselves weren't much to look at. They looked like just any other horse. The men shouted and called out to the boys, directing them as they rode around. They were not shy at using the switch to get their point across to the boys.

“The previous batch of slaves” Symas commented, to no one in particular. “Pile of shit is what they are right now…”, he added as an afterthought.

Breaking out of his reverie, he turned back to the four boys.

“Those horses are draft horses, not thoroughbreds. You wont be seeing those beauties anytime soon, not until I deem you worthy” he said, eyeing each of them. “You earn your keep here, so rid your pig heads of any other notion. I will work you to your bones. Your only salvation? your only reprieve?” he paused then, letting the sentence hang in the air, “is to qualify as an able jockey”.

He turned back then, “You will start tomorrow. Sleep early, you will need it.” he smirked, before leaving.

The boys stood there, having no clue what to do and afraid of incurring someone’s wrath by deciding on their own that they were free to go for the day. Another slave hurried towards them after a while, leading them towards the slave shacks.

Hello there!

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