everyone will call you Namlis, the Nameless One!
Many hid their real names so that the sorcerers would not gain power over them. Only the best friends knew the true name. But to lose a name forever is a terrible shame even for a slave.
Most people over fifty begin to think about death. They sew clothes in which they will go on a long journey to a better world. Old people try to correct the mistakes of their youth so that nothing drags them down. But Dorkhand, at eleven years old, knew more about death than many mortals. First, the death of my father. No one closer to Linder appeared for the boy. Then the death of two friends on the same day. But should he give up? Will he be able to forgive himself if he gives up, unable to fight? Dorhand left a small scratch on his arm as a sign of yet another revenge plan.
The boy did not yet know what blow Fate was preparing for him.
Chapter 4. Revenge of the Nameless One
When you’re fifteen, the world seems full of color and perspective. You can handle everything. If you stretch out your hand, you can even grab a star, and, if you wish, the Moon. And then everything changes and becomes gray, meaningless and boring. And so on two hundred times a day. Love at this age is first, but until the grave, friendship is forever, although the closest person may be the first person you meet. Black and white, no shades. In five years, the attitude towards the world will change dramatically. Parents talk about this: “When you grow up, you will understand everything yourself.” Or maybe they do not become wiser, but simply resign themselves to the injustices of the world, unable to fight them? This is the easiest way: pretend that you understand everything, and throw yourself into the river and float with the flow.
But now Dorkhand woke up with thoughts about Lina and fell asleep. Even in his dreams she appeared to him, beautiful and naked. On these nights, he woke up earlier than expected, sweating, with rapid breathing. One fine evening she honored him with a kiss. Lina was an adult. You can’t hide your feelings from her, they are in full view. Girls always get older before boys. Such is their mysterious nature.
But she kissed not only Dorkhand. Very often, approaching the door, when Latrich called the girl to him, Dorkhand heard rapid breathing and moans. He knew now what it meant, but he couldn’t fix it. Lina is a concubine. One of several. In Beelzuvik, the law has long prohibited this kind of relationship, but will such laws soon come to Sartoll? “One day I will become a king, and I will fix everything.” The young man clenched his fists and beat them against the stone wall in order to somehow take out his anger. He is only a slave, Nameless. And Lord Latrich is also a powerful sorcerer. As soon as he snaps his fingers, Lina will die. Dorhand is ready to do anything to prevent this from happening.
Latrich now conducted experiments every day. The slaves died one after another, and new ones were brought from the Slave Market of Lorraine in their place. Latrich never left the castle again.
– The King-beyond-the-Mountain is preparing a campaign. We must be prepared for that moment,” Dorkhand once heard a snippet of conversation.
One day Dorkhand saw that Lina was taken out of the experiment room. Her eyes were closed, and there was dried blood on her chest.
– No! – the guy shouted. – Not this! She couldn’t die!
Latrich looked at him:
– You’re next, Namlis. Tomorrow you will take part in my research.
Dorhand tore the ring off the finger of the dead Lina. Her body will be thrown into the abyss, but at least something should remain as a memory.
– Darling! For what? Creator, why do I need all these deaths? I loved her more than anything in the world! She is my moon and my sun. How should I live? I hate it! I will turn Latrich into dust!
The young man was crying. The guards indifferently pulled him away from the body. And then they threw her through the window into the abyss. Dorhand clenched his fists, but restrained himself from hitting the guards. It shouldn’t attract attention. He must focus on revenge against the black sorcerer. He must not leave Lina unavenged. And Tom. And Tema.
Now nothing could stop his intentions. Friends tried to avoid him like a leper, afraid of being infected by his bad luck and that they would be next. But this is good: no one stopped Dorkhand from preparing.
There was a clear flaw in the code Latrich had put on the ring. Is the lord really so stupid in runology? Dorhand made a few changes and was enveloped in a barely noticeable bluish orb.
– Did I really do this? Did he make a ring in one evening that Latrich couldn’t take a whole decade to do?
Then Dorkhand tore off the skin from his shoulder with a dagger in the place where the brand flickered. He brought the torch to the bleeding wound. Dying from blood poisoning at a crucial moment is a stupid idea. But remaining with a brand on your shoulder is doubly stupid. When the pain went away, he realized that he was finally free.
But no one is born with a mark. Why then do some become slaves and others their masters? Life is too fleeting to waste precious moments serving someone. Let everyone work for themselves.
In the morning, Dorkhand was led into a huge hall decorated with tapestries.
– Pray to the gods, Namlis! Latrich said. – Today is probably your last day.
Blue lightning flashed from the sorcerer’s hands. But they were reflected from the magical sphere that was created by the ring that Dorhand painted with runes last night.
– Ring of immortality! – Latrich shouted. – I managed! After so much work I did it! Bring it to me!
Dorhand shook his head.
– It’s mine.
– How dare you, nameless slave? Submit to me!
Latrich expected the usual effect of the brand. But Dorkhand unrolled the cloth with which he covered the wound so as not to become infected.
– I’m no longer your slave.
– How dare you! Namlis, obey! Otherwise…
– Otherwise what? Will you kill me? So I’m immortal now. Or will you kill Lina again?
– Namlis…
– My name is Dorkhand. I am Prince Sartoll. I am the rightful king of these lands.
– Grab him! And bring a ring! – the sorcerer shouted. The slaves, shining with their brands, ran towards the young man, but a bluish sphere stopped them, not allowing them to complete what they started. Dorhand picked up two swords that the attackers had dropped and cut off Latrich’s hands with them. The sorcerer screamed. Confusion was visible on the faces of the slaves. They clenched and unclenched their fists uncertainly, their bodies belonged to them again.
– True magic is dead, Latrich. You are not a real sorcerer. Without rings you are nothing. Pathetic parody of a person! Cauterize its stumps so that it does not die prematurely. Death would be too easy a payment for him.
Dorhand lowered the iron rod into the flame, heating it up.
– Slave! – Latrich shouted. – How dare you! Stop him! – but the slaves did not want to listen to him, deprived of the rings of power. And then Dorhand left a mark on the shoulder of the recent owner of the castle. The young man took the rings from his severed hands and put them on his finger.
– And which of us is the slave now? – Dorhand grinned. – Jump on one leg. Latrich carried out his order.
– I’ll kill you! One day I will kill you! Slave! – Latrich hissed like a snake in the desert of Lorraine.
– Take him to the slave barracks. By the way, from today you are all free people. And Silerin will be the Capital of the fight against slavery.
The slaves shouted in unison:
– Hooray! Long live Dorhand.
They