The Pariah

by Anthony Ryan

  “Oi!” I shouted, paining my not-yet-healed throat to cut through the drone of his humming. “This fucker’s dead! You hear me? You can’t leave us in here with a dead man!”

  This brought a trickle of laughter from our escort, riding closer now that the road had narrowed in the wetlands. “Least you’ll have plenty to eat now!” one called back. He was the oldest and therefore most haggard of the group, his craggy face marked by the blossomed veins and sallowness that told of too much drink. For the most part, the soldiers regarded Toria and I with indifference save for a contemptuous glance or two, but this one was fond of assailing us with attempts at wit, usually at night after the brandy bottle had been passed around. He gave a cackle of amusement and started to voice another barb. Whatever gem he had been about to offer would forever remain unknown, for his mouth abruptly clamped shut when the chainsman brought the cart to a halt.

  The soldiers quickly trotted their mounts to the verge, putting a good distance between themselves and the cart. They had done the same before Raith’s demise, bespeaking a habituation to the chainsman’s ways or perhaps dire experience of what might occur if they interfered with them.

  The cart swayed and creaked as he climbed down, moving to the rear to work a heavy key in the brick-sized lock that secured the door to this cage. As the door swung open I saw little expression on the chainsman’s face beyond the slight frown of a man engaged in an oft-repeated chore. To my surprise, I found the most disconcerting thing about him now was not his face but the fact that all vestige of song had disappeared. Not even the faintest hum came from his lips as he leaned into the cart and took firm hold of Toria’s manacles.

  I expected some growled warning, or at least a glare, but the chainsman removed the manacles with a quick turn of the key and a few deft flicks of his wrists. Stepping back with the manacles in hand, he gestured for Toria to climb out, which she did with some difficulty, teeth gritted at the effort of shifting a body unused to movement. Her feet had barely touched the ground before the Caerith’s hand fell on her shoulder, forcing her to her knees. I lost sight of them as he crouched and heard the rattle of chains being looped through the spokes of a wheel.

  Straightening, the chainsman leaned into the cart to remove my manacles. His expression changed as he went about the task, shifting from mostly blank caution to clear if muted amusement. I saw his lips curl as he met my eye, hands working with automatic precision to free my wrists. My confidence slipped several notches as I read his expression as that of a man entertained by his own joke.

  Stepping back, he inclined his shaggy head in invitation. I had tried to work my leg and arm muscles during my days of captivity, flexing them whenever our captor’s attention was elsewhere, but it still hurt a good deal to clamber free of the cage, as did the feel of frozen earth on my rag-bound feet.

  Not yet, I cautioned myself, hunching over as various aches assailed me while I cast brief glances at the surrounding country. It was all the same, however, just grass and fog with nary a tree or hill in sight. At least this made my choice of route easier. Wait until he tries to put the chain back on. Sit nice and quiet, like a defeated captive, then a swift butt to the nose and I’m away.

  I couldn’t stop my gaze settling on Toria, just for an instant. She sat on the cold ground, arms and legs arranged so that it seemed she embraced the cartwheel, staring at me with hard resignation. I took some comfort from that look, the shared knowledge that only one of us would be escaping the cage, for I saw no accusation in her gaze. Still, the flare of guilt at leaving her behind was strong, and unexpected.

  “Here.”

  I started at the sound of the chainsman’s voice. It had an odd inflection, the accent lilting and unfamiliar. The shock of hearing him speak Albermainish prevented me from catching the key he tossed me. It evaded my fumbling hands and fell to the rutted road, forcing me to strain my protesting back to retrieve it. Looking up I saw the Caerith pointing a steady finger at the Sleeping Boar’s corpse. “You do not want to share with him,” the chainsman said in his oddly accented voice, the words spoken with the precision of one employing a language they hadn’t been born to. “Then you drag him out.”

  Having girded myself for violence, this sudden absence of chains or constraining hands left me in a state of baffled indecision. The chainsman stood regarding me with his fire-streaked, faintly amused face cocked at an inquisitive angle. He was a good six paces away, a decent gap for a lad well used to dodging lunging men.

  “Yes,” he said, the curve of his lips broadening into a full smile, “you can run.” He gestured to the surrounding marsh. “I will not follow. Nor will they.” He jerked his head at the mounted guards. I noted how their lack of amusement contrasted sharply with his and they made no move to trot their horses closer. I knew these were the kind of men for whom cruelty was recreation, but their demeanour was fearful rather than eager. They sat still in their saddles, regarding this unfolding drama with the wary but unwavering gaze of men unable to look away from an ugly spectacle.

  They expect me to die here, I realised, shifting my attention back to the chainsman. He continued to smile, making no effort to come closer. “The swamp is closest in that direction,” he said, pointing over my shoulder. “You will reach it after a mile fighting through wet ground. There you will wander the edges of the swamp and slowly freeze. After a time, you will try to return to the road but you will not reach it. The cold will kill you first, unless you choose to drown yourself. Or perhaps not.” His mouth twitched as he contained a laugh. “Perhaps you will be found by a kindly fisherman out checking his lines. Perhaps this generous soul will drag you aboard his boat and take you to his nice warm cottage.”

  The laugh escaped him then, a shrill giggle that brought to mind a half-strangled cat. When the laugh faded, he lowered a hand to Toria’s head, her features bunching in fearful disgust as he played gentle fingers through the matted spikes of her hair. The memory of what his hands had done to Raith no doubt burned as bright in her mind as it did in mine.

  “But know,” the chainsman went on, “that if you do run, she dies. I will not kill her. But I will not feed her and she will get no water. It is five days to the Pit Mines.” The angle of his head grew a little more acute, eyebrows raising in a genuinely curious arch. “Do you think she will survive that long?”

  His humour had evaporated now, replaced by an intense focus, his eyes boring into me in a manner that recalled Deckin whenever he fell to pondering his next scheme. The outcome of this test was of great interest to him. Also, the grim familiarity with which the guards regarded this drama told me I was not the first to be so tested. How many bodies littered the marsh flanking this road? How many other desperate fools fled rather than stay to save a companion they barely knew?

  There’s always a chance, I reminded myself as my eyes inevitably slipped back to Toria. She refused to look at me, head lowered and eyes closed, sparing me the sight of her fear. The fact that this kindness, if kindness it was, left the choice entirely in my own hands sent a brief spasm of resentment through me. But for her I wouldn’t have lingered. But for her I would have risked the chilly, near-certain doom of the marsh and the swamp. I would make my own way. I would swim the fucking swamp if I had to and the Scourge take kindly fishermen.

  Swallowing a groan, I took a firmer grip on the key the chainsman had tossed to me and moved on wavering legs towards the cart. Hauling the Sleeping Boar’s increasingly odorous corpse from the cart to the road was not easy in my reduced state, requiring long minutes of effort with no assistance from the chainsman or his onlooking escort.

  “Put it in the marsh,” he instructed when the body finally fell free of the cart, birthing another gust of stinking gas as it connected with the hard ground. “This is the king’s highway and should not be besmirched with outlaw remains.”

  I did as he bid, the effort causing me to stumble into a knee-deep bog from which I had to squelch my way free before completing the business of dragging the Sl
eeping Boar’s reeking bulk into the grass. I was destined to never discover his name or what crimes had consigned him to the cart. But whoever he had been, and whatever his misdeeds, I couldn’t imagine he deserved to die alongside strangers and be cast on to the side of the road like so much refuse. I had seen dead dogs receive more respect.

  My exhaustion was such that I had to crawl back to the cart, hauling myself into the cage with hands I couldn’t feel. I fell at the first attempt, drawing another shrill giggle from the chainsman. Now his test had produced a result he seemed more given to amusement, finding a great deal in my wasted state.

  Leaning close as I dragged myself level with the cart bed, he put his lips close to my ear, whispering in his overly precise intonations: “They almost always choose to run. Even those with kin chained to the wheel. The outlaw’s fear of chains usually wins out. But you stayed.”

  I felt his hand on my neck as he leaned closer, finding his touch icier than the midwinter air. “This does not redeem you,” he told me. “You will find tests aplenty in the Pits, boy. I doubt they will redeem you either. We both know you did not stay for her. You were just too smart to run.” He spoke in little more than a whisper, although it felt like a shout when he added, “Hostler wants to know if you are still an ingrate. I think I will tell him you most certainly are.”

  He shoved me the rest of the way into the cart, pushing Toria in then fixing our manacles in place with swift efficiency and slamming the door closed. I matched stares with him through the bars for an instant, his red and white face impassive now but for the mutual understanding that would in time seal both our fates. I had known bad men before, the vicious, the sadistic, the greedy, but a truly evil soul was, so far, beyond my experience. Now I beheld one and knew what I beheld.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I had been hearing tales of the Pit Mines all my life, for outlaws often fear them more than they fear the rope. A century or so ago one of King Tomas’s more pragmatic forebears found himself presented with twin dilemmas. A rich seam of iron ore had been discovered on the eastern fringe of the Shavine Marches. Digging such a prize commodity from the earth required shafts of previously unseen depth and many days of dangerous labour certain to rouse the local churls to outright revolt should they be pressed to the task. However, thanks to yet another round of dynastic feuding and accompanying battle, this clever-minded king came into possession of several hundred captives who could be safely condemned as rebels. Killing such a number all at once would forever see his legacy besmirched by the title of butcher, an appellation that troubles some kings more than others. His genius lay in finding a solution to both problems by marrying one to another: the rebels would mine the ore. Over the succeeding years, as the rebels died off, fresh recruits to what soon became known as the Pit Mines were sought out from every duchy in the kingdom. Typically, inmates of the Pits consisted of malcontents and outlaws who lacked sufficient reputation to make their execution a worthy example. Toria and I were therefore perfect candidates.

  I hadn’t known what to expect upon arriving at the Pit Mines, but the sight of a bland wooden stockade barely twenty feet high was unexpected. It snaked across an undulating, treeless landscape for several hundred paces in either direction, terminating in the south at a stone castle of modest dimensions and grim appearance. The chainsman brought the cart to a halt in front of the tower guarding the castle’s outer bailey, dismounting to unlock the cage and undo our chains. The guards who had escorted us throughout the journey all trotted their horses into the castle without a word or a glance at the chainsman, who didn’t deign to take note of their departure.

  The small flare of opportunity I felt as I followed Toria from the cage proved short-lived when I took note of the dozen or more soldiers standing close by, most bearing halberds but a couple holding crossbows. A stocky man in sergeant’s livery came forward, offering the chainsman the briefest glance of acknowledgement before turning an unimpressed gaze on his cargo.

  “Just two?” he asked, voice clipped and impatient. Like the guards on the road he didn’t meet the Caerith’s eye and stood well clear of his reach.

  “I started with four.” The chainsman’s bulky shoulders moved in a shrug. “Winter brings a poor harvest and the new duke of the Marches is keen on hangings at present.”

  The sergeant was plainly keen to conclude this business but an appraising glance at Toria and I gave him pause. “Can’t give you full price for these,” he stated, a grimace to his blunt features. “They won’t last a week the state they’re in.”

  “You are wrong,” the chainsman replied. He said nothing else, his gaze lingering on the sergeant until the fellow consented to meet his eye. I could tell the sergeant was a man well used to authority and the violence inherent in his role here, but he exhibited much the same response to the chainsman as the guards on the road. Still, either through pride or stupidity he wouldn’t allow himself to be cowed, jaw clenching and brow darkening as he asked, “How so?”

  The chainsman took no obvious offence at having his word questioned, instead pointing a finger at me and replying in a mild tone, “This one will last years and eventually attempt to escape. You should watch him closely. This one—” his finger shifted to Toria “—is not so… significant. But she is stronger than she seems.” His hand shifted away from us, extending an open palm to the sergeant. “In either case, their labour here will produce profit for your lord and therefore I require payment in full.”

  I saw a small war play out on the sergeant’s face – muscles twitched and creases deepened as he fought the instinct to escalate this disagreement. Hatred and fear battled each other until the latter, usually the strongest in my experience, won out and the sergeant reached for the purse on his belt.

  Upon receiving his forty sheks the chainsman turned back to his cart, then hesitated, turning to me. I wasn’t aware of staring at him in a particularly challenging manner. The days since his test on the road had seen me receive even less food than before, leaving little room in my head for more than hunger. However, he must have discerned something in my bearing for he stepped closer, the flame-like marks on his forehead narrowing as he frowned. But for my exhaustion and general lethargy, I might then have recognised his expression as the fear that arises from having made a very serious misjudgement, but that realisation came later. In that moment I could only return his scrutiny with dull-eyed indifference, my mind fixed on the possibility that these new captors might consent to feed me.

  “A moment,” the chainsman said to the sergeant, hefting his own purse. “I will buy this one back—”

  “Can’t,” the sergeant interrupted with curt but obvious satisfaction. He held up a tally stick sliced with two fresh notches. “Already marked my stick, see? His lordship’s a terror for checking the sticks every day.”

  I saw the chainsman crouch a little, the red marks on his face seeming to take on a deeper hue. “I will pay double,” he said, loosening the ties on the purse.

  This caused the sergeant to pause, but even the prospect of extra coin wasn’t sufficient to deny him the pleasure of frustrating the chainsman. Fear usually wins out over hatred, it’s true, but one always breeds more of the other.

  “Too late,” the sergeant told him with evident relish. “Now,” he went on, casting a meaningful glance at the soldiers nearby, “I believe it’s time you took your heathen Caerith arse elsewhere. You know my lads don’t like it when you linger.”

  A faint hiss escaped the chainsman’s lips as he cast a final, frustrated glare in my direction. He said something then, a short phrase in the same tongue he had exchanged with Raith: “Eornlisch dien tira.”

  Despite my preoccupation with imminent starvation and the cold that gripped all reaches of my body, and the fact that I had no way of parsing his meaning, these words contrived to send an additional chill through me. Also, the mystery of what he had said in the aftermath of his test added an edge to my fear. Hostler wants to know if you are still an ingrate.
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br />   I found myself instinctively shying away from the implication contained in those words, much as I retreated from the evil I had seen in the chainsman’s gaze when he closed the cage. I had no inkling of how he had learned Hostler’s fate, or the term with which he liked to denigrate me, and some primal sense warned me against pondering the strangeness of it all. I could only be sure of one thing: this man’s evil and his capacity for knowing things he couldn’t know were bound up together in the same ugly, flame-faced package. I wanted no more part of it and, when he finally consented to stalk back to his cart and climb aboard, I actually felt a swell of relief in the knowledge that I would soon be cast into the comparatively safe embrace of the Pit Mines.

  “Pay heed to me, boy!” the sergeant snapped, dragging my attention from the sight of the departing chainsman with a hard cuff to the top of my head. The sergeant stood back, looking over this pair of emaciated wretches with a caustic eye. “Forty sheks,” he muttered with a shake of his head before coughing and straightening a little to continue in the flat tone of the oft-spoken speech.

  “Know this and mark it well for it won’t be told to you again,” he began. “Under Crown law your person is now indentured for life in the service of Lord Eldurm Gulatte, warden by the king’s grace of Castle Loftlin and the Mines Royal, better known as the Pit Mines to scum like you. Lord Eldurm is renowned for his generous spirit and the largesse he shows to those in his charge, provided they obey the very wise rules set down by his esteemed ancestor one hundred years ago. First, work well and you will be fed. Second, cause trouble and you will be flogged. Third, cause trouble for a second time and you will be hanged. Fourth, make any attempt to flee your obligation to honest labour and you will be hanged. Other than that—” he gave an empty smile he had surely offered to countless unfortunates “—you filthy, lawless buggers are free to do what the fuck you like. Now isn’t that grand?”