by J J Moriarty
Hyzou quickly fell behind. He was not built to be a soldier, and it was starting to show. The slavers, they’d stare at him as he trained, a grin on their faces. They stared the way a panther looks at a limping deer.
But the worst part of every day came when Hyzou went back to the cellar, when he was chained again to his large pole. When night came, and exhaustion forced him to sleep. They’d come then, tinted in orange, all the memories he wanted to forget. Hyzou would wake up screaming. Hear screams echoing off the walls of the cellar until he realised it was his own voice and stopped. He’d wake covered in scrapes, fingernails red with blood, and realise that he was doing it to himself while he slept.
A week after the Colossus was revealed to them, Hyzou was against the tall wall again, standing with the other slaves. The master was preparing for another speech. The morning sun had just arisen over Lamybla.
“I’ve been training bitch tit slaves like you for years now. Today is always my favourite day. I’ve watched you swing a wooden khopesh around like a toddler learning to walk for a week. You are all imbeciles. But I stood and watched, knowing that today was coming. And all the great days afterwards”, the master said.
Hyzou itched at a scab on his thigh.
“Today is the first day of hand-to-hand combat. You’ll take those wooden khopesh, and turn them on your fellow slaves. There’s nothing quite like wood and blood to cheer up a tired old master”, the master said.
Everyone waited. For something.
“You may eat, then get your khopesh, and line up back here”, the master said.
Hyzou had been waiting for that call all morning. He was so very hungry. The rations were so very paltry.
Hyzou sprinted towards the pot by the side of the yard and stopped just by them. He was first in line.
There was one pot for water, one for porridge. Every morning this week he had been at the back of the queue, and the larger portions were always gone. This morning he would be best fed of all the slaves.
A shoulder sent him flying, and his grin went with it. Hyzou looked up from his new seat in the wet sand; up at a tall slave with long curly hair. The slave was grinning at him.
“Hey! That was my place!” Hyzou screamed.
Hyzou got up to charge at the slave who had taken it. The slave extended his hand and pushed Hyzou full in the chest, sent him crashing back to the ground again. Hyzou got up, but this time the slave punched him square in the jaw. Hyzou fell once more.
“Stay down, screamer”, the slave said.
Just behind the tall slave was another, who began kicking wet sand at Hyzou. Some of it got in Hyzou’s mouth, some in his eyes. Spluttering, Hyzou got up and looked back at the line that had formed. Everyone was already queuing for their food.
As he walked back, his head hung in a dejected stance, he looked for a sympathetic face. Someone he could plead with to let him into the line. All he got were glares and cold shoulders. He went and took his place at the end of the line, the last of all the slaves, and tried not to cry as he worried whether there would be food left for him.
There wasn’t, not enough to give him a bowl. A ball of cold and hardened porridge was all that was left for him. Not enough for a mouthful.
Though it was made in part from bitter vetch, when he swallowed it, it still tasted finer than any meat to Hyzou. He put the bowl down in the pile with the others by the pot and walked to the weapons shed. He tried to ignore the termites that had made his stomach their home.
The shed was long and windowless. There were piles and piles of wooden weapons here: khopesh, spears, shields, axes. Hyzou took up one of the wooden khopesh then left the shed behind. He chose the khopesh as his weapon because that was what most of the other slaves fought with.
He returned to the wall. Most of the other slaves had already lined up. The tall slave was there; he stared at Hyzou with an unsettling grin upon his face.
Once he’d lined up, Hyzou’s eyes were drawn to a slaver who was slouching over to a group of his comrades throwing dice. The slaver had left several slices of mango on the bench behind him. Hyzou’s stomach roared its approval when he imagined taking just one of those slices and chewing the fruit between his teeth.
His attention was pulled back into the moment by the master’s loud voice.
“Bitch tits, all of you”, the master screamed, pointing at two opposite ends of the yard. “Some of you queue here, some of you queue there. On my word. Now!’
Hyzou wandered over to the side of the mango slices. He put them from his mind, unsure of the reaction if he asked for some. He focused on what was happening before him.
The queue on either side was long. The strongest of the slaves rushed to the front of the line.
“You two. Out front”, the master bellowed.
The master had picked two slaves to stand in the middle of the yard. The tall slave that had pushed Hyzou out of the line earlier was one, and the master picked another, much smaller, slave to face him.
Hyzou’s mind kept returning to the mango.
“Fight”, the master shouted.
The two slaves sprinted at each other. Both clumsily swung their wooden blades. One connected, and the smaller of the two was left sprawling in the sand staring up at the rain. The tall slave shouted aloud and beat his chest.
“What’s your name?” The master asked of the slave.
“Yash!” The tall slave screamed. He beat his chest some more.
The master pointed into the group of bodies, at one of the slaves.
“You fight Yash”, he shouted.
A shaking figure emerged and formed a fighting stance. Yash charged, punched his foe and brought his wooden khopesh down in a stinging blow. The opponent cried in alarm and held his hand to his nose, blood spattered over his face.
“You! Fight Yash!” The master said.
Another slave jumped into the centre of the yard. The crowd had formed a circle. The slavers cheered, as Yash won another fight. This time with unnecessary brutality, Yash snapped the wrist of the slave, half his size, who tried to tackle him.
Hyzou turned away in disgust at the spectacle.
Why the fuck not? Hyzou thought.
His feet responded to the thought. He found himself walking over to the benches at the side of the yard. There they lay; slices of mango, so beautiful and endearing. The greatest meal he would ever taste. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing whether anyone was watching him. None were.
Hyzou reached down and grabbed a slice of the fruit. He hardly needed to chew, but he did anyway, feeling the juices run over his tongue like an orgasm. He swallowed and started on the next one.
“Hey, boy!” A shout came.
Hyzou leaped, his heart went wild with the fright.
“Hey!” The voice said.
It was a slaver.
“Come over here”, the slaver said.
Hyzou ignored him and stuffed the rest of the slices into his mouth.
“Boy!” The master bellowed this time.
Hyzou turned to face the master. He was too satisfied from the food to feel any fear. The master walked over to him. All the slaves had stopped their game and were now looking at him.
“What’s your name, boy?” The master said.
Hyzou swallowed his mouthful of mango.
“Hyzou of Nuyin”, Hyzou said in Lamyblan.
“What are you doing here?” The master asked.
“What do you mean, sir?” Hyzou asked.
“Why are you being trained? What were you in your former life?” The master asked.
“I was the son of a Nobleman in Piquea”, Hyzou said.
Everyone heard it. Hyzou knew that it was a risk, as there were actual sons of Piquean Noblemen in the yard today. He knew their faces, and they probably knew his. They could put paid to the claim within seconds.
The master turned to his slavers.
“Show Hyzou of Nuyin what we do to thieves in Lamybla”, the master said.
Hyzou pani
cked. The slavers were coming towards him. He ran. Towards the gates.
A slingshot twanged and Hyzou felt a sharp pain connect with his leg. He tripped and went sprawling on the sand.
He saw the net come over him and felt as the twine tightened around him. Disoriented, Hyzou tried to regain his bearings. They were dragging him along the ground. Hyzou kicked, but it did no good, the twine was too strong. He was dragged across the sand, then up a small set of steps. The slavers let him bump against each step. Each time, it sent a jolt of pain through his hungry body.
He was tipped out of the net.
He was in front of a tall wooden pole. Hyzou knew exactly what it was.
He screamed.
It did no good. He was lifted to his feet. His hands were placed in two tiny nooses provided by a rope. The rope was tightened, until he was pulled close to the pole, unable to move, his face pressed against the wood.
“Please, please, please”, Hyzou said.
He knew his back was bare to the world. He couldn’t see anything, just the cracked wall before him.
A slaver entered his eyeline. In Piquean, he spoke.
“You are Piquean. I’m Lamyblan. It’s my duty to teach barbarians the law, and how to behave in the civilised world”, The slaver said.
Then he opened out a long rope in front of Hyzou’s eyes. Hyzou began to scream. Sobs racked his body as he begged for mercy. The slaver stepped behind Hyzou. Behind him Hyzou heard the rope crack in the air. The slaver had taken a practice swing.
Abe appeared at Hyzou’s shoulder. The sorcerer’s face was blank, his eyes were distant.
“Quiet, child. Be quiet”, Abe said.
His voice was soft, like water being poured into a bowl. He took something from his pocket. It was a rag.
“Hold this in your mouth”, Abe said.
“Please. Have mercy”, Hyzou said.
Hyzou was crying now. He would do anything.
“You’re a slave”, Abe said.
Then the sorcerer left Hyzou’s field of vision.
The pain came before the noise. He felt it as a line of fire that ran along his back and infected every pore of his body. It was a pain worse than anything he had felt before. The burns after the sack of Piquea, breaking his collarbone as a child, even the blows he had taken while being transported. Nothing compared to this. It was a pain so bad he didn’t even realise that he was screaming with every breath he could muster.
Crack.
The second blow was worse than the first. Tears of pain rolled from his eyes.
Crack.
The scream died in his throat, it was too sore to scream.
Crack.
Hyzou realised everyone behind him was laughing.
Crack.
Hyzou heaved, the rag escaping his mouth.
Crack
The slaver had begun to sing between blows.
Crack
“There was a young slave, and he liked to feel the-”
Crack
“He was a barbarian, and he couldn’t speak for-”
Crack
“He’d never had food, his parents fed him-”
Crack
“He never wore clothes, he was naked as the-”
Crack
“He couldn’t read or write, he was stupid as the-”
Crack
“He couldn’t stand and fight, he was cowardly and-”
Crack
“He tried to find a girl, but no girl would go for-”
Crack
“So he went home and cried, and prayed to a-”
Crack
“The gods took pity, so they sent him some-”
Crack
“The help came at dawn, they were soldiers bold and-”
Crack
“They came from Lamybla, the city of the-”
Crack
“They brought him back to teach him, how a man should-”
Crack
“But the slave he didn’t listen, he just had to go and-”
Crack
“Because he’s still an evil little-”
Crack
“He stole a slice of mango, but didn’t know how to-”
Crack
“He stuck it up his hole, because that’s what they did in-”
Crack
“So the slavers had to teach him, they had to teach him well-”
Crack
“How men behave in the land of the-”
Crack
“But I don’t think it will work, don’t think he’ll behave-”
Crack
“Cause he’s savage as shit”
Crack
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
The blows came now without any song. They came fast. Then they stopped.
The pain didn’t stop with them. The criss-cross of agony that was Hyzou’s back just got worse. Hands grabbed Hyzou’s arms and untied him from the pole. Hyzou screamed with all his voice, the waves of fiery pain were too much to cope with.
Hyzou realised that his legs were too weak to carry his body. He gave way, wondering how hard the collision with the ground would hurt. Could anything hurt as badly as this?
Hyzou didn’t hit the ground. Hyzou was being held. Held at the neck and the legs to avoid the scars. The hands holding him were gentle. They seemed to care.
Hyzou opened his eyes and looked. His gaze fell onto the greying face of Abe, who was looking down at him with concern.
“You pushed it too far. He’s halfway to death”, Abe said.
“It was only fifty lashes”, a voice said.
Hyzou zoned out, letting the pain wash over his consciousness. It blurred his vision, it dulled his hearing.
“Hey. Are you ok?”
It was Abe.
“Kill me”, Hyzou whispered.
“You mustn’t talk like that”, Abe said.
It was only then that Hyzou realised that he wasn’t outside.
“You’re on the second floor of the cellar”, Abe said. “You’re not upside down either. You’re just lying on your front.”
“Kill me”, Hyzou said.
“Why do you say that?” Abe asked.
“It hurts”, Hyzou said.
And it did.
“The pain will pass”, Abe said.
“It won’t”, Hyzou said.
Abe placed his fingers upon Hyzou’s back. Hyzou screamed, as the pain seemed to treble.
“That’s a powder. I’m sorry, I must put it on all your scars”, Abe said.
Hyzou couldn’t even muster the concentration to speak.
Abe continued running his fingers through Hyzou’s back. Hyzou screamed with each touch. He felt like he was being whipped all over again.
“I’m going to keep speaking to you. I’m not sure if you can hear most of this. But please listen to me. Concentrating on my voice will help with the pain”, Abe said. “You’re on the second floor of the cellar. If you could look up you would notice that it looks completely different to how it looked this morning when you woke up. The poles have been put away.”
Hyzou screamed with the agony.
“Listen to me Hyzou of Nuyin. Pay attention to the voice. Try and control your screaming. Own your envy, Hyzou of Nuyin.”
Hyzou didn’t know what the Servant of Qi was talking about. He didn’t care, because he was right. Focussing on the old sorcerer’s voice meant he could think about anything but the agony he felt.
“All the slaves have been moved to the first floor. This always happens on the first morning of hand-to-hand training. The second floor gets turned into a surgery for those who are injured. Injuries always happen, although never as badly as yours”,
Hyzou wailed.
“I know it’s bad. I know. I’m sorry there’s nothing I can do. This powder will help though. You’ll be left with some ugly scars, but the pain won’t get any worse than it is now”, Abe said.
“Ki
ll me”, Hyzou screamed.
“Don’t talk like that. I am going to return to the yard. I’d tell you to stay here, but you’re too weak to move. You might even be too weak to live, let’s hope you make it through the night”, Abe said.
Hyzou just sobbed.
“If you want some hope, you’ll be several weeks before you return to the yard. Weeks to just recover down here. I hope you make it through the night”,
Hyzou heard Abe leave, his voice no longer there to distract him. Instead Hyzou strained his ears and listened to Abe’s steps as they walked the stairs up to the yard. They died out too.
Hyzou was left alone in the dark, suffering his only company.
CHAPTER 7
He made it through the night. Alone in the dark cellar, Hyzou fell in and out of nightmares until the morning came, and he was given a cup of water. With fitful bursts of feverish sleep, Hyzou made it through the next night too. Being so seriously wounded was like a half-state, somewhere between life and death, and it carried with it an exhaustion beyond regular tiredness. This was the kind of exhaustion of a body that knows death is near, and that being awake takes up precious energy. With this kind of exhaustion, sleep became a compulsion, something impossible to ward off.
Hyzou didn’t sleep for long. Whenever his nightmares got particularly troublesome, Hyzou’s sleeping body would flinch. This sent shockwaves of agony through his figure. He always awoke from these instances in a blind panic, unsure of where he was, or why he was hurting so badly. Always, he awoke with one thought.
Make it stop.
His own bowl of gruel was delivered every morning here on the second floor. It was the third morning before he could stomach anything, but when that time came around he devoured everything that was put before him.
Once he started eating, Hyzou found that energy wasn’t a problem. Sure, he wasn’t getting enough sleep because of the pain, but that was offset by the fact that he just lay on his stomach all day. The problem was with getting up, and then lying down once he was done standing. Lying on his front, Hyzou had to push himself up with his hands to stand up. This meant the flexing of his shoulder blades, something impossible to do without triggering a supernatural agony.
Eventually though, with enough days, he got there too.
He’d stagger around the room. Weak, but walking. He was never alone in the cellar, the casualties from the yard were endless. There were broken jaws and noses, dead legs, dazed brains, and slaves who looked like they had been beaten in every part of their body. The wounded were given their time to recover, then brought back to training.