Also, Ravin had been sneaking food to him whenever she got a chance. And a couple of other soldiers had done the same, including Ryen, who was still in charge of his guards. Ryen especially seemed troubled with how Fen was being treated.
One time he’d said, loud enough that others could hear, “It’s those blasted foreign sorcerers who should be chained here, not you.” None of the soldiers who heard him spoke out against him, and he wasn’t disciplined. Fen wondered how many soldiers shared the same sentiment. He’d noticed that a lot of the soldiers who passed by looked sympathetic.
The blacksmith finished breaking the pin that held the chain secure and straightened up. Rouk gestured to one of the soldiers on guard. “Bring him,” he said, and stalked off.
Rouk led them to an open wagon that was waiting, two horses already hitched to it. All around them the camp was buzzing with activity as the army packed its gear and got ready to hit the road once again. Men rolled up tents and loaded wagons. They packed their rucksacks and buckled on armor. They worked quickly at their tasks, as if all of them were anxious to get away from Marad, and the memories associated with the place.
“Get in,” Rouk said. Fen was still weak, and the chain encumbered him enough that his first attempt failed, and he fell down. Rouk cursed and struck him across the shoulders with the free end of the chain. Fen winced but didn’t give Rouk the satisfaction of letting him know how much it hurt.
There was a ring bolt set into the floor of the wagon, and the blacksmith ran the chain through it, then stuck a pin through the links and pounded the ends flat so it wouldn’t come free. Fen wondered what he would be able to do to the chain if he could reach Stone power. Could he use his power to bend metal? Metal was made from stone, so it seemed likely. He imagined the look on Rouk’s face if he snapped his fingers, and the chain simply broke. That would put fear into him.
Not that there was any hope of that happening. His power was as far away as ever, locked away on the other side of the thick wall of ice. He had more frozen blisters on his hands from trying, and it was still just as hopeless as ever.
Two more soldiers approached, a manacled man between them, a Samkaran soldier by his uniform. The manacled man was tall and lanky, somewhere in his thirties, with a patchy beard that did little to hide his disappearing chin. “Get in the wagon,” one of the soldiers told him. The man did as he was told and was chained to the ring bolt. The soldiers walked away.
Without preamble, the other prisoner said, “Sure, I hated the guy. Who doesn’t hate their officers? But I didn’t want to kill him.”
“What?” Fen asked, drawn out of his own thoughts.
The man leaned toward Fen. “This is all a mistake. I wasn’t planning on killing him. I mean, I sort of thought about it, and how I’d do it, but I wasn’t really going to. I don’t know how it happened.” He looked perplexed.
“I don’t really know what you’re talking about,” Fen said.
“See these?” The man held up his manacles. “They say I killed my lieutenant during the fighting in the city.”
“But you didn’t?”
The man’s brows drew together. “That’s the thing. I did. At least, it was my hand holding the sword. But I didn’t mean to. It sort of got away from me. I couldn’t think straight, you know? I was just running around chopping down anyone I saw, and then there was the lieutenant and I remembered how much I hated him, and I chopped him down too.” He lowered his head. “Other people saw. That’s why I’m in here. But I didn’t really mean to. Something came over me, I guess.”
“I think there was a lot of that going on that night,” Fen said, thinking of the battle madness that had overcome the soldiers after the Fist’s brief speech.
The man looked at him. “Is that what you did? Did you kill someone you weren’t supposed to?”
“Not really. I tried, but I wasn’t able to.”
The lanky man rattled his chains, a lost look on his face. “I gotta find a way to explain this to them. I don’t want to die.”
“What do you think happened?” Fen asked him.
The man’s face hardened. “It was them Ankharan sorcerers, that’s what it was. They spelled me. They spelled all of us. I wish I’d chopped them down.” His hands were large and bony, and he flexed them as he spoke, as if imagining squeezing their necks. “They shouldn’t be here in our land. They should go back where they came from.”
Two more soldiers approached, another manacled man between them. They chained him in the back of the wagon as well. Fen eyed the newcomer. He was a small, wiry man, lean and hard looking. His nose looked like it had been broken a few times. There were scars on one cheek, and he was missing part of a finger. He saw Fen looking at him and scowled.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” Fen replied.
“You kill an officer too?” the lanky man asked.
The wiry man gave him a scathing look, his lips peeling back from his teeth. “I was running. Almost made it too.”
“You’re a deserter?” Fen asked, surprised. That explained why he wasn’t wearing a uniform.
“That’s what they’re calling me. I call myself a man of principle.”
“What does that mean?” the lanky man asked.
“It means I don’t kill women and children,” the wiry man snapped at him. “Or enemies what give themselves up.”
“You deserted because of the slaughter?” Fen asked him. He was surprised. The man looked like a common cutthroat, the kind the meaner streets of the city were full of.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” the wiry man growled, “like you’re better than me or something. I’ve done things, sure. Killed people too. But I ain’t no killer. Not like that. I joined up with the army to fight enemies, not kill people who can’t fight back.” He jerked on the chain holding him a few times experimentally, then gave up and slumped against the side of the wagon.
“For what it’s worth, I think refusing to kill innocents is honorable of you,” Fen said.
“Unless you got a key on you, it ain’t worth much,” the wiry man replied. “The hell kind of way is that to talk anyway? ‘Refusing to kill innocents.’ You sound like one of those nancies from the old ballads. Who are you?”
“Nobody,” Fen replied. “Not anymore.”
“I’m Chern,” the lanky man piped up, holding his hand out to shake.
“I don’t remember asking your name,” the wiry man said.
“It’s going to be a long ride. We might as well trade names,” Chern said, still holding his manacled hands out.
“I’m Fen.” Fen shook Chern’s hand.
“I want my own wagon,” the wiry man said.
“What do you think happened?” Fen asked him.
The wiry man’s face darkened further. “Magic. That’s what happened. The Fist sucked them people dry and cast some kind of spell on us. Everyone went crazy.”
“But not you.” The man shook his head. “Why not?” Fen asked, curious. He figured his power had shielded him from whatever the Fist did. He’d never thought that other people might have their own resistance.
“Maybe I’m too mean and stupid for it to work on me,” the wiry man said.
Awhile later horns began blowing. Officers shouted commands. The great mass of foot soldiers formed up, carrying their packs loaded with gear and weapons. The Fist and his officers moved out first, followed by the Ankharans’ carriage, and then the rest of the mounted soldiers. Fen saw Wolfpack squad mixed in with them. They were no longer right behind the Ankharans’ carriage, but at least they were still mounted and not prisoners. That helped him feel a little better. The last thing he wanted was for them to get into trouble because of him.
After the mounted soldiers, came the wagons laden with food, extra weapons, and supplies. Behind them came several covered wagons loaded with the wounded. When the last of those was on the road, the man driving the wagon carrying Fen and the other two prisoners snapped his whip, and with a lur
ch their wagon started moving. They bumped over the uneven ground of the abandoned camp, past dying fires and piles of refuse, and then onto the road leading to Samkara. In front of them were a half dozen other wagons also carrying prisoners. A squad of mounted soldiers wearing chain mail over leather armor flanked them, guarding the prisoners. Rouk sat his horse nearby, watching.
Fen looked out the back of the wagon at the mass of Maradi slaves as they stumbled onto the road, taking their place at the rear of the army. There were thousands of them, chained together, driven on by soldiers with whips and clubs. It made Fen feel sick to look at them. How would the people of Samkara react when they saw their victorious army returning with slaves? He wanted to believe that they would speak out against it, but the likelihood was that they would lower their eyes and look away as most of the soldiers did.
“And now we’re slavers,” the wiry man said, and spat over the side. “It’s a short road to the bottom from here.”
Hearing him, Fen felt somewhat better. Not everyone was okay with what was happening. Maybe some would make their voices heard.
But what good would that do anyway? The Fist wouldn’t hear them. He was too far lost in the Ankharans’ machinations. Fen raised his eyes to look at the ruined city of Marad. Outside the front gates stood a small crowd of children and elderly, watching as the able-bodied men and women of their city were stolen from them. Only the very old, the very young, the sick and the crippled still remained in Marad. Remnants of smoke still rose from the fields and orchards all around the city, which had been put to the torch on the Fist’s orders. Much of the city’s food stocks had probably been burned during the sack. How many of those left behind would starve? Would the city ever rebuild or was this the end for it?
Fen clenched his fists. He had to find a way to get through to the Fist. The man he knew had to be in there somewhere still. If only Fen could reach him, he would end this madness.
“What’s the Fist mean to do with all them slaves, you think?” Chern asked.
“What difference does it make to you? Once we hit Samkara they’ll chop your head off same time they chop ours off,” the wiry man said. “It won’t mean much to you then.”
“Ah, well, it was only a question.” Chern didn’t seem in the least bit bothered by the wiry man’s hostility. “It’s boring sitting here. Besides, you don’t know they’ll chop our heads off. It could be they’ll put us to work or let us sit in a cell for a few years. It’s important to stay positive.”
“I’m positive they’re going to chop our heads off. Let me know if your way keeps the axe from cutting through your neck.”
“What do you think, Fen?” Chern asked. “You think they’re going to all this trouble just to chop our heads off? I mean, if that’s the case, why not do it here and be done with it?”
“I don’t know,” Fen replied. “I know they mean to put me on trial. They want people to see.”
“A trial? Why do you get a trial?”
“Are you simple or what, Chern?” the wiry man cut in. “Fen here is a traitor. The Fist wants everyone to see what happens to traitors.”
“I’m not a traitor,” Fen said defensively.
The wiry man waved him off. “I don’t give two pig farts if you are or not. Once your head comes off, you won’t care either.”
“What’s your obsession with heads being chopped off?” Chern asked him. “Is that all you think about?”
“What else should I think about? Seems kind of a big event in a man’s life, his head leaving his shoulders.”
“It’s hard to stay positive when you keep talking about it is all.”
“You’re not going to bleat the whole way, are you?” the wiry man sneered. “If you are, maybe I’ll see if I can get them to speed up my execution and put me out of my misery.”
“He’s got a point,” Fen said to the wiry man. “Talking about it the whole time isn’t going to help. I’d rather make the best of what time I have left.”
The wiry man gave him a dark look. “You want us to join hands and sing then?”
Chern piped up. “I know a few songs.”
“If you start singing, by the name of every god living and dead, I’ll bust you myself,” the wiry man growled.
Nobody said anything for a few minutes after that until Chern said a little sadly, “I wish you had your own wagon too.”
╬ ╬ ╬
The army stopped at midday and the soldiers spilled out of their ranks and sat down to eat. The slaves had fallen behind quite a bit by then, and Fen suspected that letting them catch up was the main reason the army had stopped. It wasn’t to feed the prisoners. No food was brought to any of the wagons carrying prisoners. He wondered where Ravin was right then.
Wolfpack squad went riding by then, looking like they were heading out on patrol. They veered close to the wagon and called out to Fen. Rouk shouted at them to get away, and Noah responded by flashing him a rude gesture.
“Hey!” the wiry man called to one of the soldiers guarding them. He held up his chain. “How about letting me off this so I can piss?”
The soldier looked to Rouk, who rode over and said, “Your chain’s long enough. Go over the side. Or piss on yourself. It doesn’t matter to me.” He rode away.
“It was worth a try,” the wiry man said.
“You’ll try to get it out of the wagon, won’t you?” Chern said, a worried look on his face. “I don’t want to be sitting in it…” The wiry man didn’t bother to reply.
Half a bell later, the army started rolling again. Some clouds blew in, and it began to rain. Fen and the other two were soon soaked.
At sunset the army came to a halt in a wooded area of low hills. There was a decent-sized river nearby, and many of the soldiers went over to it to wash off the dust of the road. Cook fires were built, and soon the smell of cooking food wafted over them.
“I never thought much of army chow before,” Chern said, “but I sure think a lot of it now. I hope they bring us some food soon.”
“We’ll be last,” the wiry man replied. “If they feed us at all.”
“You think they won’t feed us?” Chern asked, a worried look on his face.
“Why feed a man you’re going to decapitate?”
Chern slumped back against the side of the wagon. “I never thought about it like that.”
“You never thought is what you mean.”
“I’m not sure I like you all that much,” Chern said. He sounded like a little boy. The wiry man grunted in reply.
It was dark before anyone approached the wagon, and then it was Cowley. One of the guards assigned to watch the prisoners stopped him. “You can’t be here,” he said.
Cowley held up the bowl of food he was carrying. “I’ve got food for the prisoners.”
The guard looked at the bowl. “That’s only food for one person.”
“I’m only feeding one prisoner. Are you going to let me pass or not?”
“You feed one without the others, it’s going to cause problems.”
“Tell you what,” Cowley said reasonably. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
“I hate being on guard duty. We always get our food last, and it’s burned and cold by then. Nice how they manage that. One or the other wouldn’t be too bad, but both together?”
Cowley held out the bowl. “How about I give you this food, and you let me talk to one of the prisoners?”
The guard looked around. “No funny stuff?”
“You have my word.”
“I heard that’s not too good.”
Cowley shrugged. “People talk. You can’t always believe them. But look, I’m not carrying my sword. Not even a dagger. What harm can I do?”
The guard hesitated a moment longer, then took the bowl and waved Cowley past.
“Sorry about that, Fen,” he said when he got up to the wagon. “I was hoping to get that food to you.”
“It’s okay. What are you doing here? It’s best if Rouk doesn’t see
you talking to me.”
Cowley made a dismissive gesture. “Rouk is in an officer meeting. He’ll be awhile. I wanted to update you on things.”
“What sort of things?”
Cowley leaned in close and lowered his voice, so the other two prisoners couldn’t hear. “I told the lads about your power.”
“How’d they take it?”
“About like you’d expect. But I think they believe me now. Lukas and Gage do for sure. Who knows about the brothers? I think Strout buys it because then he can tell himself he lost in sword fights against you because you cheated with your power. Noah can’t stop talking about staging some foolhardy raid to free you.”
“You’ll keep him in check, won’t you? Promise me you won’t let him do something stupid and get himself killed.”
“I’ll try. But you know how he is.”
“I haven’t seen Ravin since yesterday. Is she okay?”
“I sent Lukas to check on her. She’s fine. She sent you this.” Cowley reached inside his surcoat and pulled out a small wedge of cheese. Fen took the cheese and started to break it into pieces.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Cowley asked him.
“I was going to share with the other two. They haven’t eaten either.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to eat it yourself. Your sweetheart sent it for you. Probably stole it from the Fist’s table by the look of it. Are you going to throw your gift back in her face?”
“Okay, okay.” Fen took a bite of the cheese. It tasted amazing.
“Hey, are you eating something?” Chern asked in a low voice.
“No, and mind your own business,” Cowley told him. “We’re talking here.” He leaned in close to Fen again.
“I’ve been doing a lot of listening. Most of the soldiers are unhappy. They don’t like what happened at Marad, and they don’t like what’s been done to you. Everyone hates the Ankharans.” He lowered his voice even more. “Some are even speaking out against the Fist.”
“You’re not joining in on that talk, are you?” Fen asked, the cheese suddenly forgotten.
Chaos Trapped Page 5