Chapter 7: Blood on the Road
Armored Dragon Calendar Year 413 – Claude, Age 8
[Claude POV]
The intelligence came three days before the slavers arrived.
Charles had established a network of informants along the main trade routes, merchants and travelers who knew to watch for the signs.
Caged wagons traveling at night. Groups of hard-eyed men with weapons they didn't bother to hide.
The particular kind of silence that surrounded people who traded in human misery.
Our network had grown carefully over the past year, spreading tendrils through the region like roots through fertile soil.
A coin to a stable boy here. A promise of protection to a traveling merchant there.
Small investments that paid enormous dividends when the right information came flowing back.
"Six of them," Charles reported, his scarred face grim in the lantern light. "Moving north along the forest road. They have prisoners. At least twelve, maybe more."
Charles was one of my first rescues.
A former slave who had been taken from his village as a teenager and spent years in chains before escaping.
I had found him half-dead on the roadside two winters ago, his body covered in whip scars and his spirit nearly broken.
He had been delirious when I first approached him, certain that the child standing over him was a hallucination.
I had nursed him back to health in a hidden shelter I had constructed for exactly this purpose.
When he was strong enough to talk, I had offered him something more valuable than food or medicine. I had offered him purpose.
"The markings on the wagons indicate the Cartwright operation," Charles continued, pointing to a rough map spread on the table between us.
"They specialize in children. Sell to the pleasure houses in the eastern cities."
The words were clinical, delivered without emotion.
Charles had learned to speak of these horrors without flinching, the same way I had learned to plan violence without hesitation. We had both been forged in fires that should have destroyed us.
He had proven invaluable.
A natural leader who commanded respect from the other freed slaves who had joined our growing organization.
Where I provided strategy and planning, Charles provided the human connection that turned a collection of survivors into a cohesive unit.
"How far?" I asked.
"Half a day's travel. They'll pass the eastern crossroads around midnight."
The eastern crossroads. Far enough from the village that no one would hear anything.
Close enough that I could make it there and back before dawn.
The terrain was favorable, dense forest on both sides of the road, with a natural chokepoint where the path narrowed between two rocky outcrops.
I had surveyed that location weeks ago, during one of my regular patrols.
Had memorized the sight lines and hiding spots. Had imagined exactly how an ambush might unfold.
"Gather the others," I said. "We move tonight."
I was nine years old.
The thought occurred to me sometimes, usually in moments like this one, when I was planning violence that would leave men dead.
Nine years old, organizing ambushes, leading a small army of freed slaves against the traders who had tormented them.
The knowledge in my head made age irrelevant.
I had died more times than I could count in those fragmented dreams. Had seen horrors that made slaver caravans seem almost mundane by comparison.
Had watched the world tear apart and everyone I cared about scatter.
If I was going to face what was coming, I needed practice.
Real practice, against real enemies who would kill me if they could. The slavers were convenient that way.
We set out as the sun began to sink behind the western hills, painting the sky in shades of amber and crimson.
My team was small but capable.
Charles leading four former slaves who had trained with me over the past year.
Mira, a woman who moved like smoke and could track anything that left traces on the ground.
Tobias, a burly ex-miner whose fists could break bones without weapons. And me, the child who had somehow become their leader.
I had never asked them to follow me. Had never claimed authority or demanded obedience.
But somehow, over the months of planning and training and successful raids, I had become the center around which the organization revolved.
Perhaps it was the knowledge I possessed, the impossible awareness that let me predict slaver movements and identify weaknesses in their operations.
Perhaps it was the skills that sometimes took control of my body, turning me into something far more dangerous than a nine-year-old should be.
Or perhaps they simply needed someone to believe in. I was the only option available.
The forest swallowed us, branches closing overhead like grasping fingers.
The last light of day filtered through the canopy in scattered beams, creating pools of gold amid the growing shadows.
I had mapped these paths obsessively, memorizing every trail and clearing.
In the darkness, that knowledge made the difference between speed and stumbling. I moved with confidence and my team followed without hesitation.
The journey took three hours.
We traveled in silence, communicating through hand signals I had developed for exactly this purpose.
Every member of the team knew their role, knew the plan, knew what to do if things went wrong.
We reached the crossroads an hour before midnight.
The ambush site was everything I had hoped.
The road narrowed between two rocky outcrops, forcing any wagons to slow as they navigated the gap. Dense undergrowth lined both sides, providing ample concealment for my team.
"Positions," I whispered, and my team faded into the undergrowth with practiced efficiency.
I found my own spot, a hollow between the roots of an ancient oak that gave me clear sight of the road while keeping me hidden from casual observation.
The tree's trunk was massive, thick enough that I could press my back against it and feel the rough bark through my clothes.
The sword at my hip was real steel now, forged by my own hands in my father's smithy.
Light enough for my size, sharp enough to cut through armor if I struck true.
I had worked on it for weeks, pouring everything I knew about metallurgy into its creation.
My father had watched me forge it with that strange expression he often wore now, a mixture of pride and unease, as though he wasn't quite sure what to make of his son anymore.
I hoped I wouldn't need the sword tonight.
The plan was simple. Wait for the caravan to reach the killing ground.
Strike fast and hard, targeting the guards before they could organize resistance. Free the prisoners.
Disappear before anyone could trace the attack back to Buena.
Simple plans were best. They left less room for things to go wrong.
The first hour passed in silence.
Insects hummed in the darkness. An owl called from somewhere deeper in the forest.
Normal sounds that spoke of nothing unusual.
I controlled my breathing, keeping it slow and steady, the way the knowledge inside me suggested.
Patience was a weapon too. The ability to wait, motionless and silent, while tension built toward inevitable violence.
Then I heard the wagon wheels.
The sound came from the south, a rhythmic creaking that echoed through the forest like a heartbeat.
Torchlight flickered between the trees, growing brighter as the caravan approached.
The slavers came around the bend with the confidence of men who feared nothing in these woods.
Six guards, as Charles had reported, surrounding two caged wagons.
They moved with the casual alertness of professionals, dangerous enough to handle ordinary threats, but not expecting anything serious in this peaceful region.
Their weapons were well-maintained. Their armor, while worn, covered the vital areas.
These weren't the desperate bandits who sometimes tried their luck on the trade routes.
These were trained fighters, veteran slavers who had been doing this work for years.
The prisoners huddled in the cages, their faces barely visible in the torchlight.
I could see their eyes, wide with fear and resignation. Could see the chains that bound their wrists, the bruises that marked their skin.
Children. Most of them were children.
The youngest couldn't have been more than five.
She sat in the corner of the cage, clutching something to her chest, a doll perhaps, or a scrap of cloth. Her eyes were empty, hollowed out by horrors no child should experience.
Cold settled in my chest.
I remembered other children in other cages, other roads, other nights filled with screaming. Memories that didn't belong to me but felt achingly real.
I gave the signal.
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ AUTHOR'S NOTE ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆
Want to read ahead? We have 10+ advance chapters available at eternal-lib com!
◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆ ◇ ◆