by A.R. Wise
* * *
“Look at them,” said one of the guards tasked with escorting the exiled wagon to the far reaches of the Steel Plains, out among the ruins of the Dead Age. “Pissing themselves.” He rattled the iron bars with the pommel of his sword.
Tarik was among the prisoners chained within the wagon, his hands pulled behind his back by the shackles that wound in and out of the bars, connecting all of the prisoners to one another and keeping them seated on the benches that lined the sides. He was one of the smallest men there, and knew he would be a target of the others as soon as they were dropped off. He was feverishly trying to think of a way to prevent becoming a victim of the thieves, drunkards, rapists, and vagrants who populated the prison wagons.
He looked around at the variety of solemn faces, and saw a couple that seemed out of place. One was a woman, which in itself was a rarity since women weren’t normally exiled by the Courts. It was always easy to find a job for a woman, and the Courts loved to get free labor from prisoners. Tarik guessed that this woman’s age had doomed her. She was pretty, but her grey hair and wrinkles gave away her years, not that the prisoners would let that keep them from abusing her once they were dropped off in the plains. It was clear that she had a strong will, staring down anyone who locked eyes with her, but that wouldn’t be enough to save her.
The other oddity in the wagon was a man who looked even younger than Tarik, with a sculpted form and bright blue eyes. His lightly tanned skin and pristine complexion revealed his profession. Tarik guessed he was a thegn, a slave of one of the wealthy residents of New Carrington, raised in luxury and expected to do nothing but serve his master in whatever perverse ways desired. The thegns rarely left their master’s estate, and knew little about how the real world worked.
Tarik could see the fear in the young man’s teary eyes.
“They know what’s coming,” said one of the guards lounging against Tarik’s wagon. “Might as well of been a death sentence.” He banged his gauntlet against the wooden portion of the wagon, taunting the prisoners within. “Isn’t that right, cattle?”
“To the slaughter,” said one of the other men. They were all First-Swords, low born and forced to take the jobs that the higher ranks never wanted. Many of them had faced the Courts themselves at some point in their lives, and lacked any skills other than brute strength to earn them a different job. The ugly, brutish Sword laughed at the exiled and let out a long, “Moo,” to mock them.
“Gandry First-Sword,” said the only female prisoner in the wagon, her voice loud and commanding. “Bite your tongue. You’re shaming your family.”
Tarik snickered and tried to look behind him to see how the guard reacted to the prisoner’s reproach.
All of the guards except for Gandry laughed. The Swords taunted their brother, asking him if he was going to let an exile talk to him like that. Tarik could hear the guard’s boots clopping in the mud as he approached the wagon.
Gandry gripped the bar beside Tarik’s head and then stepped up onto one of the spokes of the wheel to raise himself as he said, “Lady Joyce, you’d better keep your mouth shut. That’s the rules. Prisoners keep their mouths shut or they get taught a lesson. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us, and I’d bet these fellows here’d love to dip their quills in your well.”
“How dare you,” said Joyce. “Remember who you’re speaking to.”
“There’re no Prophets in the plains, darling.” Gandry laughed and then jumped down, splashing in the mud. “I don’t need a Prophet to know your fate.”
Tarik looked over at the woman across from him with new curiosity. He never expected to find a Prophet in a prisoner’s wagon. The others in the wagon looked at her as well, studying the woman who’d enjoyed such a high post before today, and wondering what she’d done to earn exile.
The Prophets were highly regarded in New Carrington, and well paid for their services. Most of them lived at the compounds of the families that employed them, enjoying the best food and service the world had to offer. When a family ended their arrangement with a Prophet, it was only a matter of days before the released woman found new employment.
One of the other prisoners in the wagon was just as curious as Tarik, and asked, “You’re a Prophet? What in blazes did you do to get sent to the plains?”
“Shut up in there,” yelled Gandry.
“If I don’t, what’re you going to do?” asked the obstinate prisoner. “You going to let these men dip their quills in me?” He laughed, and some of the other prisoners joined him.
Gandry drew his sword and went to stand behind the joking prisoner. He gripped one of the bars, like he’d done beside Tarik a moment earlier, and then hoisted himself up. His sword went between two of the bars and pierced the laughing prisoner through the back, spearing him and causing him to shudder. His laughter turned to a pained yell as the point of the Sword’s blade sprouted from his chest. The wound was fatal, but not merciful, leaving the prisoner to quake and stare down at the blade as he choked. His white tunic bloomed crimson as the dying man watched.
“Anyone else have something to say?” asked Gandry. “No? You sure? Not a word? No more jokes? All right then. Let’s keep it that way.” He retrieved his blade, causing his victim to jerk backward and then slump as far forward as the chains would allow. The man hung there, bleeding and gasping, dying slowly.
Joyce the Prophet whispered in disdain, “Monster.” Luckily, Gandry didn’t hear her.
The dying prisoner’s breathing continued, eventually turning into a death rattle as mucus seeped from his open mouth. His body would convulse from time to time, and one of the men sitting beside him threw up, adding to the muck on the floor of the wagon.
Gandry and the other guards were called away from the wagons by their captain, and Tarik took the opportunity to ask, “Is he dead?”
One of the people sitting across from Gandry’s victim said, “Looks like it. He hasn’t moved in a while.”
“Are they going to take him out of here?” asked Tarik, glancing over at the corpse.
“They’re going to have to,” said a gruff man near the front of the wagon.
“Why?” asked someone else. “What’s it matter to them?”
“Because he might turn,” said Tarik. “They need to burn him.”
“Like I said, what’s it matter to them? They don’t care if he turns. We’re as good as dead to them anyhow. Don’t you know where we’re headed?”
“Yeah, out to the plains,” said Tarik, uncertain what the prisoner was alluding to.
“Right,” said the middle-aged man with a knowing grin. He bore the scars of a tough life, and one of his blue eyes was permanently squinting. “And then they’ll just drop us off with some food and wish us well. Because that’s the way it’s done.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Tarik.
“We’re all going to be on the business end of a sword before the day’s through,” said the grizzled prisoner. He winked at Tarik, but the severe scars on his face twisted the gesture to make it look menacing. “Trust me.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the man who’d previously vomited, a couple seats down from where Tarik was seated.
“Don’t I?” asked the scarred man. “I used to be a First-Sword, and I went on my fair share of runs out alongside a wagon full of exiles. If you think those guards are going to let us go and give us our gear, then you’re a few apples short of a pie. In my day, we’d take the wagons out to the Robber’s Spine, camp, and then run the exiled through before washing the wagon out and heading back.” The prisoner nodded towards the dead man and said, “Take a good look. That’ll be you by tomorrow.”
“What?” asked the fair-haired young man that Tarik assumed was a thegn. “Are you serious?”
“Or keep blubbering like that and you can get it over with right now,” said the former Sword.
Tarik heard heavy boots slopping through the mud behind him. He saw the prisoners across f
rom him hang their heads and knew that one of the guards was approaching.
“What’s the problem?” asked Gandry, loud and obnoxious as he slammed his fist against the wagon. “Who else wants to get this over with early? Huh? That’s what I thought. Keep your damn mouths shut. We’re going to be heading out soon. We’re just waiting on some baker that wants to tag along out to the crossroads.”