Broken Soul (The Scholar's Legacy Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: The Nameless Man

  Chapter 2: The Shady Man

  Chapter 3: The Sandwich Man

  Chapter 4: The Musical Man

  Chapter 5: The Savage Man

  Chapter 6: No Man's Land

  Chapter 7: The Inhuman

  Chapter 8: The Medicine Man

  Chapter 9: The Conflicted Man

  Chapter 10: The 400-Year-Old Man

  Chapter 11: The Legendary Man

  Chapter 12: The Half-Man

  Chapter 13: The Literary Man

  Chapter 14: The Wandering Man

  Chapter 15: The Raging Demon

  Chapter 16: The Neglectful Man

  Chapter 17: The Wild Man

  Chapter 18: The Regretful Man

  Chapter 19: The Nostalgic Man

  Chapter 20: The Dead Man

  Chapter 21: The King of Men

  Chapter 22: The Scholar

  About the Author

  Broken Soul

  The Scholar’s Legacy - Book I

  Joshua Buller

  Copyright (C) 2016 Joshua Buller

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2016 by Creativia

  Published 2016 by Creativia

  Cover art by Koraljka

  Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Chapter 1: The Nameless Man

  As I sit to write this, I look back on the long and colorful life I've lived and remember countless strange and fantastic things that I've survived through and how they've all affected me and made me into the woman I am today. None, however, have affected me as deeply as the story of the Scholar and the time that I spent with him after he saved my life.

  My name is Micasa, and sadly, I can't tell you the precise circumstances under which I was born. My first real memory was of the labor yards, where I often worked the fields from sun up to sun down. It was tireless, thankless work, and the greatest rewards I got for my efforts were lukewarm soup, half a roll of bread of questionable freshness, and the shackles around my wrists tightened slightly less when I went to sleep every night in that dingy shack they called a boarding house.

  My education was all but nonexistent, save for fear of the master's anger and the overseer's lash. I taught myself how to talk from the stories the other slaves told each other at night while the rest of the manor slept. Most of the stories revolved around the demons that supposedly ruled the world, indiscriminately killing people and forcing them to live their lives in constant fear of their wrath.

  None of the slaves had ever seen one of these monsters, but the master had more than once threatened to leave disobedient slaves out for whatever bandits or demons came across them. From the somber way the older slaves took the threat, I could only assume there was some merit to the stories.

  Despite my ownership, I considered myself fortunate. The labor camp was relatively safe, far from the larger cities and villages where demon attacks and marauder raids were said to be a regular occurrence. There were plenty of guards who lived there too, protecting the estate from anything that might threaten our little corner of the world. They made it clear, though, that if we made any escape attempt, they would hunt us down quickly and punish us gladly.

  So we stayed, and we worked, and Hawke Morau – the Master of our household – always made sure we were fed and watered and in relatively good health. Of course, it was he who made all the profit from our toil and lived in the lap of luxury; we were simply assets to be guarded or, if necessary, replaced.

  This was the life I knew for the first three years I can remember. It was a nonstop blur of strenuous labor, cracking whips, battering fists and vulgar swearing. The only kindness I was afforded was the rare gesture from the few slaves that took pity on a girl so young as myself. It was sometime around my fourth year of memory that my world was turned upside down by the man whose story I now write.

  It was a fairly nondescript day to begin with, as every day tended to be. I was up before the sun had crested the horizon, the sky a blackened bruise fading to blue. It was the best time to tend to the garden, before the heat of the day made the chore even more miserable. We grew a variety of vegetables and fruits, some to help feed the compound and the rest to be taken off to market when the traders came around. I had learned long ago that the slightest damage to any of the stock would immediately lose me twice that amount in rations, so as always I absorbed myself in my work.

  I scarcely noticed the figure that was slowly moving in my direction, assuming it to be another slave working his or her way towards where I was picking some apples. It was only after the figure stopped at the foot of the ladder I was using that I turned my attention toward them. When I saw what it was, I immediately dropped the bushel I had been balancing with so much care.

  What stared back was human in shape, to be generous; I doubt that any man or woman could ever have such a gaunt and featureless face, regardless of malnutrition or disease. Its skin was so tight and sallow; it was more akin to a walking skeleton covered haphazardly in aged leather than an actual person. It wore no clothing, but likewise lacked any means of determining gender. It gazed hollowly at me with sockets devoid of eyes, toothless maw hanging slightly agape.

  Before I even knew it, I had leaped from my perch and was halfway back to the compound before the ladder had a chance to hit the ground. Stories of ghouls were some of the favorites the slaves told at night; they were said to be soulless husks that demons often kept around as pets or servants to torture their unfortunate victims. I had no intention of experiencing whatever foul deeds it had been sent to do to me, even if it meant punishment from the overseer.

  And punishment was exactly what I was met with. Even though the overseer saw quite clearly that there was, in fact, a ghoul in the fields and summarily hurried the slaves in to prevent any damage coming to Master Morau's property, I was still beaten and denied my meals for the day for the apples I had spilled in my fright. Still, it was better than having my soul sucked out by some monster, and I considered myself lucky nonetheless.

  All the workers were sent about the manor to tidy up as we waited for the ghoul to hopefully wander off so that we could get back to the fields before long. However, the creature seemed to have taken a liking to the area. It shuffled across the garden one direction, neared the boundaries of it, then turned and wandered back toward the other end. As I watched it out a window I was cleaning, I half-mused that it appeared to be looking for something.

  The ghoul had still not left by sundown, and that meant an entire day's worth of harvesting had been lost. Master Morau was nearly beside himself with rage, but like the others, he too had heard of what powers these ghouls supposedly possessed. He wasn't about to let his overseers risk themselves trying to drive it off, lest he have to figure out a way to replace them – they were not so expendable as us slaves.

  With that likely in mind, he came up with a different idea. The next day, when Master Morau saw that the ghoul had not shambled off yet, he sent one of us to make an attempt at getting rid of the monster.

  This particular slave was quite the oddity amongst our stable. He had been here for years, according to the older servants, but never once spoke a word to anyone, even Ma
ster Morau. The Master often called him “oaf,” but as far as the slaves knew, the man had no name and no past. The oldest slaves said he had been brought in years ago, as quiet and timid then as he was now.

  The mute's face was layered with thick stubble that refused to grow to a beard proper. His blonde hair was often dirty and unkempt, and he only made the most minimal effort at keeping himself clean. For whatever reason, Master Morau was slightly more lenient on this matter to him than to the rest of us slaves, who would savor the lash for any deviation from our hygiene.

  The worst part was his eyes. Blue as ice, they were, and just as cold. He wasn't blind, but he never seemed to truly see anything. Whenever they landed on me, I could feel a chill creep up my spine.

  The nameless man worked almost tirelessly, oftentimes doing jobs well through the night while the other slaves slept, but there was an odd, rather mechanical quality to his actions. Even when reprimanded in the middle of a job, he would continue to work until his task was completed, immediately thereafter setting out for his next job. He was in a way the perfect slave: he slept little, ate less, and worked constantly.

  So it was a mystery to all of the slaves why Master Morau would send what was thought to be his most useful asset out to possibly be killed or worse. I heard the overseers say that, according to the Master, it was a “best to take care of a monster with a monster.” Why Master Morau considered the nameless man a monster, I couldn't fathom. Still, there were chores to be done, and us slaves had no time to watch and see how the events played out as we got back to our duties.

  My curiosity from earlier turned to fear when a great scream came from outside only a short time later. I went to a window with the pretense of cleaning it to take a peek. The nameless man lay out near some of the crops, curled into a ball and clutching his chest. There was no sign of the ghoul to be found.

  Overseers had rushed outside to see what had become of him. They stood there, shouting at him to move. Eventually, they resorted to their lashes, but even those failed to move the nameless man from where he had fallen. Finally, they heaved him to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him off.

  The nameless man wasn't seen for the rest of the day, but Master Morau was in a more pleasant mood than usual with the removal of the ghoul. He gave all us slaves an extra ration and let us retire to our bunks early that night, on the condition of making up for the lost time from the last two days. There was a clear undertone that we would regret not meeting those expectations.

  The slave's quarters were located outside the main manor, a ramshackle old wooden building lined with dozens of cots. It was left unlocked at all times, and since nothing of much value was kept there, the quarters were usually left unguarded. Instead, we were made to wear manacles around our wrists and ankles through the night. As such, it was no wonder nobody ever seriously considered making an attempt to escape.

  The nameless man had been taken back to his own bunk. He lay shivering under his blankets and layered with a film of sweat. Occasionally he would murmur nonsense, and more than once cried out in agony. My fellow slaves whispered amongst themselves that he had been cursed by the ghoul and pulled their rickety cots as far as they could from him to avoid possibly being affected too. In spite of his whimpering, the slaves were too tired to be kept awake and were soon asleep with the aid of smelly moth-eaten blankets pulled over their heads.

  The boarding room always grew stifling with so many bodies crammed inside. As poorly insulated as the room was, the air quickly thickened to a soup of sweat and exhaustion. It felt more cramped than usual that night, with everyone's bunks crammed close to get away from the nameless man. I found myself unable to get to sleep so early in the night. I needed to get some fresh air and stretch, if just for a little bit.

  Fortunately for me, I had learned a couple years back how to undo my cumbersome shackles. It was a trick I first discovered when I was cleaning an armoire that had been permanently locked since Master Morau broke a key in it. He had to replace all the expensive clothing that was stuck inside, much to his displeasure, but the armoire itself was more expensive than the garments combined, and he refused to have it damaged to recover them.

  Still, the slaves always made sure to keep it as spotless as the rest of the house, so it was on one random day when I was maybe five years old that I ended up tending to it. I found myself drawn to the lock, the broken key still visible inside, and for some strange reason I was compelled to poke at it with one of my hairpins. After just a minute or two, I managed to figure out just how the lock worked, the right way to twist the pin, and suddenly the wardrobe popped open, the broken key sliding right out of the lock.

  Master Morau came to investigate the loud bang the doors made as they swung open. Rather than praising me as I was hoping he might, I received a round of lashes and scolding, for he was sure I had broken the door in my clumsiness. The only reward I got was an end to the beatings once he discovered that the armoire was actually still intact.

  That was the earliest memory I have of my affinity with locks. After that I constantly found myself drawn to anything that had a lock or was particularly stuck, and always found that, with a little effort and my hairpin, I could manage to get the object in question open. It took a bit more effort to learn how to lock those things again, but once I was confident enough in doing both, I naturally tried it on my shackles one night. Sure enough, I was able to slide them right off. By covering up my legs with my shoddy covers, I made sure the overseers never saw I was unchained when they came to wake us in the morning, giving me time to snap them back on before I left to have them taken off properly.

  With all the other slaves fuller than usual and taking advantage of the extra rest, I had no trouble discreetly unsnapping my shackles and slinking past the huddled sleeping pallets, stepping outside to enjoy the brisk summer night. I was greeted by a vast tapestry of stars that painted the ink black sky. It was a sight that never failed to take my breath away. I was half tempted to wake the others so they could see this incredible sight with me, but the fear of giving up my secret gift was a bit more than I was willing to part with.

  So imagine my surprise when I heard the squeak of the rusty hinges and the muffled jingling of manacles as someone else stepped out of the unlocked boarding house. I had been sitting against the side of the quarters and instinctively huddled as close to the rotted wood paneling as I could, hoping the bright stars I was just admiring wouldn't betray my location. I watched as the lone person stepped out awkwardly, trying to manage their binds, and began peering through the darkness, and I knew that it was me they sought.

  “Micasa?”

  The man's voice that called out my name was one I couldn't recognize from the stable of fellow slaves. It was a bit hoarse, as if he hadn't had any water in a long while, and creaked not unlike the old hinges on the door he had just stepped through. I ventured creeping a bit closer to identify this man. Of course, I'm sure you could guess by now who it was I saw when he stepped a bit further out of the shadow and into the light of the rising moon.

  Yes, it was none other than the nameless man, his pale blonde mop of hair matted against his brow with sweat and his face a mask of pain. His eyes glinted with a liveliness I had never seen in him before, curiosity mingling with the anguish he bore. I was so intrigued by his unexpected appearance that I didn't even think twice as I stepped out from the shadows.

  “What are you doing out here, nameless man?” I said, in the foolish way a child always speaks their mind. He started at my approach but let out a haggard sigh of relief when he saw it was me.

  “I thought I heard someone come out here, and saw you were gone,” he said, clearing his throat a couple times. I suspect he realized when I spoke how much harsher his voice sounded.

  “I thought it would be a good night to look at the stars,” I said. “I don't get to do so very often.”

  “Oh…for a moment I thought maybe they had taken you away.” The nameless man let out a chuckle that turned i
nto a stifled gasp of pain.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No, but I'll manage.” He slowly lowered himself to the ground, doing his best to muffle his chains, and leaned his back against the shack.

  “Nameless man, why can you talk now?” I asked, confused why he could not only speak but more so why he decided to come out and talk to me. He looked at me for a few moments, his eyes narrowing as he bit his lip, before he finally shrugged.

  “I wish I could tell you,” he replied in a defeated tone. “I'm more confused than anyone about this. I can vaguely remember the times when I was working in the manor, and out in the gardens, but those memories are all fuzzy. Almost like it wasn't me living them.”

  “But of course you were. You're you,” I said giggling. His words made absolutely no sense to me.

  “I don't even know who I am, though. I have no memories beyond a few hazy years here, and that's it. I can't even remember my own name. What I do know is that when I was sent to chase that ghoul off, I walked up to it and felt an irresistible pull to it, something I can't really place. I touched it, and the thing just disintegrated in a bright flash of light. All of a sudden I was gripped by this horrible tearing pain.” His breathing was still heavy, and I could see how badly his hands shook. Regardless, he continued.

  “At the same time, I suddenly found I could speak again, and the experiences I've had from that moment to now seem so vivid compared to whatever I was feeling before. I have no idea what's going on, and it scares me.”

  I had seen grown-ups be afraid before. Usually it was under the threat of Master Morau's rebuke and the overseer's lash, but to hear one say they were afraid because of things like memories and feelings was something I couldn't quite understand at the time.

  “How'd you get your shackles off, Micasa?” he asked unexpectedly. I told him about my gift of unlocking things, and it was only after I told him that I questioned whether or not I should have. I was always cautious about safeguarding my secret, and here I told him without as much as a second thought.