by Keith Ahrens
I nod, understanding. “That’s why I got attacked leaving the armory, right? To weaken the squad?”
“Yup, and ‘cause you’re the new guy. Kinda like lethal hazing,” says Des with a wry smile. “Right now, we're in the top ranks of the slave squads.”
“The only ones above us are the Fey Squads,” Haynes again resumes his explanation. “Those are the mercenaries hired to fight. They are free to come and go. Their barracks are located outside the courtyard practice field. Most of them are a mix of arms and spell throwers.”
“What about these ‘Highborn’ I keep hearing about?” I ask. “Also, ‘Spell-throwers,’ what are those?”
“Elves. Highborn is what they call themselves around here. A lot like Tolkien wrote about, but much nastier. You almost never see them bastards fight. That’s what they use us for,” Des says with a snarl. “Oh, except for the Knights, of course. Sadistic bastards, every one of them. They love a good fight and mix it up a bit by using magic as well.”
“But, what about Thorn? I mean, isn’t she Highborn?” I ask, forgetting about the second part of my question regarding the spell-throwers.
Dead silence. I should have heeded my own advice. The two men exchange glances, and finally Haynes says, “She’s a prisoner, just like us. Only difference is she was captured from another fiefdom during a raid. She belongs to this world, just not to this Fiefdom. Throughout the year leading up to the battle, the Houses of the Nobles conduct raids and skirmishes against one another to test each other's strength.”
“And this battle is for who controls the weather for a year?” I ask, glad to be steering back to safer ground.
“Not only the weather. Whichever kingdom wins gets the lions’ share of the ambient magic around here. Each Fiefdom controls about a hundred miles worth of magic, and the larger kingdoms control the Fiefdoms. And there seem to be a lot of these little Fiefdoms. The weather is just a major part of it. Imagine being able to send a tornado against your enemies and then follow that up with a flood and an earthquake. That’s the kind of thing they can and have done to each other. Allegedly, they do have some kind of code or rules about this stuff, but damned if we know what they are. Their magic is powerful, but as best we can tell, it also takes a lot of energy. It weakens the house that uses too much of it and leaves them vulnerable to the other Houses that survive. It’s a delicate balance of power that has been going on for a few hundred years,” Haynes says. “They call it 'Mortis Causa' or some such nonsense.”
“Calling these battles a 'war' is kind of bullshit,” Des steps in. “These houses have all kinds of rules for these fights. It’s kind of like a huge damn chess match. Each side gets a few rounds to maneuver some squads about the arena, and then they take turns trying to kill each other’s army. Sometimes they throw fireballs into the front lines. Sometimes they just have us charge against one another and cut each other to fuckin’ pieces.” His voice is full of bitterness.
“How many of these battles have you guys been through?”
“Jesse, Des, and I have survived two wars between the Highborn Houses; the Gnolls have made it through five each. We lost Ken about six months ago to a bunch of ogres during the last Mortis Causa; he had made it through three before that. Fred hung himself the previous year, right after his first battle.” Both men fall quiet for a few minutes, remembering their fallen friends.
I wait, a thousand questions churning in my mind, but I’m not willing to intrude in their grief. A few minutes pass, and they both silently drift back to their pallets and go to sleep. The mood has gone through a drastic change by now, turning somber and morose. It seems the Q&A is over for the time being.
I lay there for a few more hours on the hard, splintery pallet, thinking. Could I really kill someone if it meant my own survival? Would I kill to protect any of these new friends? A part of me already knows the answers, but I don't want to hear them right now. Survival instincts are a powerful compulsion.
Every hour that passes, I hear the distinctive step, drag, step, drag gait of the jailer making his rounds. If I listen hard enough, I can make out the faint sound of other people crying in their cells. I try hard to ignore them and not sympathize.
6
The next several weeks or so go by pretty much the same. Time seems to meld into itself, and I lose track of the days. We are awoken each morning by a loud horn, followed by the ogres grunting and screaming at us. More crap food in the form of MREs gets chucked at us daily by 'the Three Stooges,' aka, our goblin benefactors riding the food wagon. Ironically, as bad as these meals are, there’s never quite enough of them. Low-level hunger is just a fact of daily life for us.
Get beaten up all day long on the training field and chained to a wall at night. Lather, rinse, repeat. No blankets or pillows, of course, and it's just cool enough in here to be uncomfortable and chilly all night. Des snores. Repeatedly and very loud. Yup, living the dream. It’s like the movie Groundhog Day but without the fun parts.
I haven’t mentioned the latrines, and I’m not going to. They are as nasty as you would think, and best not to dwell on that.
The training is getting more and more intense every day—no slacking here. Imagine the most dangerous cross-fit you can think of but done with a variety of sharp and deadly objects instead of kettlebells. Injuries are commonplace and expected. Luckily, after the early days of my initiation, I haven't garnered too many severe ones, saving me from enduring frequent visits from Thorn's comforting bedside manner.
On the plus side, by the end of the day, we're all too exhausted to really think about our shitty situation. Which, in retrospect, is probably part of the plan to keep us in line.
Oh, and every couple of days, someone gets killed. Usually in a 'training accident,’ but sometimes it happens at the hands of an overzealous guard. The jailer with the peg leg seems to get some sick enjoyment from beating the shit out of a helpless prisoner. Sometimes, he doesn't even bother inventing an imaginary offense, he just grabs the nearest one of us and goes to town with his club. Random beatings and looming death continue to be a daily factor around here.
Once I leveled up, I began practicing with a mace and shield instead of a sword, becoming more proficient with them as the days pass. I find it more effective for bashing through armor, as opposed to my lack of finesse with a sword. I have to say, it’s pretty cathartic smashing the shit out of things. As a backup, I’m also training with a spear and shield combo. As my levels continue to increase, new proficiency slots open up, and I fill them as quickly as I can, usually with a weapon or armor specialization. Each time my tattoo flashes, the numbers on my sheet increase a bit. I’ve almost caught up with the others, at least in fighting. I remember the higher the level one is seeking to attain, the more experience it takes to reach it. I'm hoping I can close the gap between us.
By now, my stats are looking pretty good:
Cell# K4644
Prisoner# 5925
Fighter
Name: Caleb Bastion
Race: Human
Class: Fighter
Level: 8
Attacks/Round: 2
Hit Points, Max: 108
Hit Points, Current: 10
Special Conditions: None
Strength: 16 (+3)
Constitution: 14 (+2)
Dexterity: 12 (+1)
Intelligence: 16 (+3)
Wisdom: 16 (+3)
Charisma: 12 (+1)
Saving Throws For:
Fortitude: +8 Reflexes: +3 Willpower: +5
Armor Class: Base) 10+1
Bonus Armor Proficiencies: All Light (+1 Dex), Medium (+1 Dex), and Heavy (+1 Dex)
Armor Class Total: 24
Armor Equipped: Helmet +1 A/C, Breastplate +6, Greaves +2 (both legs), Pauldrons/Gauntlets +2 (both arms/shoulders), +2 Round Shield (Heavy, Wooden)
Ranged Weapon Proficiencies: (None Equipped) Firearms, Specialized
Melee Weapon Proficiencies: +8/+3 (2) attacks/round
Unarmed Comb
at: +11/+6 (Level + Str.) /+3/+3(Str.)
Weapon Group: Maces/Hammers, Specialized, Focused
Mace, Iron: +12/+6 Attack: 1d8+4/1d8+4 Damage
Weapon Group: Shield, Specialized, Focused
Shield, Heavy: +12/+6 Attack/ 1d6+4/1d6+4 Damage
Misc. Weapon Proficiencies:
Spear: +11/+5 Attack: 1d8+3/1d8+3 Damage
Dagger: +11/+5 Attack: 1d8+3/1d8+3 Damage
Skills: Animal Handling 5, Profession (Medicine) 10, Driving 4, Swim 1, Sense Motive 5, Intimidate 4, Survival 6, Alertness 5, Toughness 3
Equipment Carried: None
Base Movement: 30 feet
Property of Lord Dullahan of Terram Caeruleum
Though I’m kinda happy to see such an improvement of my skills, the rest of me hates that this is happening at all. The skills I'm using in whatever this place is are the only ones that actually increase. I guess that's a reflection that I'm getting better at them, while ones like ‘Driving’ have no place here, so they don’t improve. I mean, I have other skills. Everyone does. I guess these are the ones someone deemed the most useful or necessary. Interesting that ‘Firearms’ are listed even though this society doesn’t seem to have any. Maybe they found magic an effective enough killer that they didn’t need to evolve something new.
I'm beginning to learn to fight as a unit with my cellmates. A few days a week, we've been doing small skirmishes against other squads, always in full armor and with blunted weapons. There are a few other squads that Haynes and Des know and trust to not overtly try to kill us. We rotate through three or four of them to keep things fresh. By fresh, I mean new and exciting bruises in places I never knew could bruise. Most of these folks have been fighting a few months or years longer than I have, so it’s still a steep learning curve. We're trying to improve while not killing each other. However, this sentiment doesn't seem to exist much past the small circle of groups we spar with. In the past two weeks, I've counted at least four people in other areas around the yard killed during these daily training sessions, but none with us.
Pain is an excellent motivator, and self-defense is a great reason to get better. If I ever want to get out of here, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna have to fight my way out. But that won't happen alone. I already consider Haynes and Des allies, and I think Jesse and the Gnolls can be counted on also. We still need more people willing to band together if we want any chance of getting home.
My group has gotten into the habit of talking at night and any time we can’t be overheard, planning and plotting a way to break out from this accursed Hellhole. Slowly, I discover a bit more here and there about from my cellmates this world. We all agree that we need to get out of here before any more of us die. So, we've come up with a bit of a plan. During the skirmishes with other squads, we start to reach out and ask some questions, try to feel out the moods and motivations of the other prisoners. We’re looking for others to join us and who we can trust with our plan.
This is more dangerous than it sounds. The guards are always watching, and there are probably spies among the groups. We also know that if we say the wrong thing to the wrong person, they’ll sell us out for extra rations in a heartbeat. Our circle of trust is pretty small, and our paranoia runs pretty high.
During one of these long, interminable nights, Jesse wakes up and listens to our conversation. He is bleary-eyed and looks confused for the first few minutes, but seems content to sit and listen to us talk.
Des is just starting a story about the best steak he ever ate when Jesse straightens and looks at me with an intense stare. “You know what’s going on, right? It took me a few minutes to remember, but now I know again.”
Well, this should be interesting… “Yeah, I think so. But why don’t you tell me anyway?” I reply.
“Don’t patronize me, new guy. I know things.” He waits, staring at me, almost daring me to argue with him. I stay quiet. No need to poke the bear right now.
After a few moments, he goes on, “Almost three hundred years ago, we chased the elves from our lands. They took with them most every other creature native to magic out of our world. A hundred years ago, we began to find evidence of their history; these were written off as fairytales or hoaxes. Until a record was found in the form of a scroll in England around 1950 in our time. More were found, and these scrolls were widely studied and published for everyone to see. In the early ‘70s, some genius got the idea to use these past stories and make them into a game. Something to rival Dungeons and Dragons, the most popular game of the time. It was a hit, and it renewed the world’s interest in the Fey and Little People. The scrolls, and this newfound belief in them, called out to the Elves Under the Hill. They reveled in finally being remembered. They saw it as a chance for their revenge, a way of bridging their world with ours, partly through the power of belief and partly through the game. They use the game to enslave us… it was supposed to be fun, harmless fun… but then came the kidnappings and the screaming… no one even knows what happened to me; my whole life… left behind…” By the end of his speech, his voice has risen in both pitch and volume. This torrent of information, the longest speech I've ever heard from him, seems to exhaust him to the core.
Haynes quickly walks over and sits next to Jesse, trying to calm him down before the jailer hears him. Jesse, tears rolling down his face, has gone slack-jawed, a look of profound fear on his face. After a few minutes, he just lays down and rolls over, fast asleep like it never happened.
Haynes looks at me with a knowing look. I get why they wanted me to hear it from Jesse himself. It really does sound crazy. I still have a lot of questions though…
“Why do we say ‘Underhill,’ but the Fey says things like 'from Under the Hill' or 'Above the Hill'?” I ask.
“Perspective. Humans and the Fey are looking through the same door from opposite sides. We call it ‘Underhill’ because it's shorter, and it pisses off the elves by being dismissive of their home. Now let’s get some rest. If you wake up Jesse"—he points to our slumbering cellmate—"you get to sit up with him all night.”
I let the subject drop for now, but I wonder where Jesse’s idea came from, and how much of it could be true.
Eight weeks into captivity, the day begins like any other. Around midday, most of the squads are taking their usual break. The goblin wagon makes its rounds, dropping off buckets of somewhat fresh water to each group. We are passing around our bucket and ladle when we hear a loud argument starting not far from us.
I recognize a large, blonde man as the leader of a squad we sparred against the day before. He’s toe-to-toe with a greasy, rat-faced guy; both have hands on the hilts of their swords. A skinny, brunette woman with short, spiky hair stands next to Rat Face, a dagger already out and obvious in her hand. Voices rise as the argument escalates, and more people start to take an interest. The blonde guy (I think his name is Colt) finally has enough and steps back, drawing his sword, very fast. Rat Face also goes to draw, but he’s much slower. Not that it matters much. He was just the distraction.
Spike-Hair Girl twirls to her right and slashes her dagger across the face of Colt’s squad-mate, who screams in surprise. Everyone looks at him briefly, just long enough for a figure to come from behind and stab Colt in the thigh. A flash of a black cloak and a shining blade are all I see as Colt falls backward. The crowd surges, men and women getting to their feet, weapons drawn and raised. The assailant in the cloak melts into the crowd.
“Colt is down! Shit, there goes that alliance,” says Des, as we form up into a fighting square, our own weapons at the ready. Training takes over, and we all do this without a word. This is the first time someone has had a severe injury near to me. For better or for worse, my training and natural inclinations take over.
“Maybe not! Get me over there and cover me,” I bark. In my mind, I'm already assessing the wound I think he received. Colt was wearing heavy armor of plate and chain on his chest and back. Not much chance for a quick stab to get through that, but he was only arm
ored on the front of his thighs. This left his inner thigh and hamstrings open from behind. If I’m right, we need to get there quick.
Haynes takes charge. “Shields up, double-time forward! Defense only, GO!”
We’ve been using a modified fighting square much like the Spartans—shields locked together, each man protecting the other's flank or back.
Haynes anchors the middle of the front line, flanked by Jesse on the right and Des on the left, all armed with sword and shield. The Gnolls, Nian and Thirax, are on my left and right respectively, shields and spears raised defensively with swords sheathed at their hips. I heft my spear under my right arm, leaving the mace to hang from my belt. We charge forward, parting the chaos with shouts and brute force.
Colt’s squad is still fighting Rat Face, Spike Hair, and a few others; all the while, the crowd shifts in confusion, getting in the way and making a definitive strike almost impossible for either party.
Haynes leads us right to where Colt fell. He quickly looks at me. “Make your play.” He raises his voice as he directs the others, “Des, with me; Jesse, watch our backs. Gnolls, stay with Caleb!” They push through the last few people and take up positions to bolster Colt’s squad. I stick the spear into the ground, sling the shield onto my back, and drop down to my knees in the bloody dirt next to Colt. His second-in-command, Steve, is trying hard to stop the blood from pumping out of his leader's leg.
Shit, this is exactly what I was afraid of—a deep stab to the left inner thigh, right through the femoral artery. I grab Steve’s hands, positioning them one on top the other, and put them both right onto the wound. “Push as hard as you can, and stay there!”
“You gotta help him!” Panic makes Steve’s voice higher than I remember. His hands slip a little in the blood, and he quickly repositions them and clamps down with all his strength. Colt grunts in pain but doesn't move much.
I don’t answer. Colt is already unconscious. The femoral artery is one of the largest arteries in the body. Depending on how fast your heart is beating, depends on how fast you bleed out and die. His carotid pulse is already weak and fast. His skin is waxy and pale, and I can feel his sweat on my hands. Not good signs, all of it added up means severe and often fatal blood loss. Hopefully, I'll be able to avoid the fatal part of that equation.