Master of Chains

by Jess Lebow

  “All right, you vermin,” started the man. “There will be no talking, no whispering, and no complaining.” He cracked his whip against the stone floor. “If you’re here it means your life is no longer worth a piss. So until we manage to find someone stupid enough to pay good money for your wasted, worthless hides, you belong to me.” He turned and paced back toward the front of the room. “And I’m none too happy about having to spend the next several months with a bunch of criminal lowlifes, inhaling your fumes and watching you wallow in your own filth. Marching several hundred miles across the open plains ain’t exactly a picnic with a fair maiden for me either. So mind that you don’t make me angry, and you might just make it to your new home in one piece.”

  He stopped when he got to the front of the room. Atop a raised platform rested a pair of large drums with blackened leather harness straps—the kind that could be hefted over a drummer’s shoulders and carried during a parade or festival. The cow hide that covered their tops was stained a deep brown, and there were several tears and holes along the sides and bottom.

  Behind the drums was a pair of wooden doors held closed by a monstrous sliding bolt. As an added measure, a heavy metal lock hung from the latch. It was open and unlocked, but having the lock on the inside seemed odd to Ryder. Was there something they intended to keep out of here? Or was the taskmaster really prepared to sacrifice himself if the prisoners managed to break free?

  Beside the doors, as if in answer to Ryder’s query, hung a half dozen wicked-looking knives, cleavers, clubs, and other implements of pain. Perhaps there was another reason for the latch being on the inside.

  The taskmaster picked up a heavy-looking cleaver in his free hand and shook it as if testing its weight. He nodded, seemingly satisfied.

  “Now, about the rest of the rules. You address no one but me, and only if you’ve been addressed first. Any talking out of turn will get you fifty lashes by my own hand.” He slapped the whip against the floor again. It made a sharp cracking sound, and a small stone flew into the air. “If I do speak to you, you will address me as ‘sir.’ If I even think that you are being disrespectful, you will receive fifty lashes. If you look at me funny, you will receive fifty lashes. If I don’t like your tone, you will receive fifty lashes.” He paused and looked over the prisoners. “And if I just feel like it, you’ll receive fifty lashes.”

  The taskmaster swung the cleaver through the musky air. Ryder watched as the blade glistened in the lanternlight. This scarred, shirtless creature seemed to be enjoying himself. He had a whip in one hand, a cleaver in the other, and was swinging them both like a child might wave its toys. It made Ryder’s stomach turn. What sort of man would revel in such torment? What sort of life could have led a man to stoop to such a place? He was barely more than an animal.

  Ryder stared down at the chains on his arms and legs. They were trying to turn him into an animal as well. He looked back at the taskmaster. He was still flailing around with his whip and cleaver. The taskmaster’s chest and forehead were beginning to shine from sweat. That would be Ryder’s challenge here. He could never let himself become like this man, never let them take from him the only thing he had left: his humanity.

  A pounding on the door caused the taskmaster to stop his display.

  “Prepare the prisoners,” yelled a voice from the other side of the door. “The mounted guard is ready to leave.”

  The taskmaster was visibly deflated by this. He bowed his head then hung the cleaver back on the wall. “All right scum,” he said after a long sigh, “that’s your cue.” He wound his whip around his right hand, making his fist look like a giant’s. With his other hand, he grabbed hold of the length of chain on the floor that connected to the first set of three prisoners.

  Giving it a rough tug, he shouted, “Get up.”

  All thirty-six prisoners stood up.

  “To your left.” He gave the chain another tug. “Move.”

  Ryder, being on the farthest left side, sidestepped as far as he could. There was enough chain between the shackles on his ankles for him to take a full stride. But the chain between him and the bald man on his right was not as long, and the two of them got momentarily tangled. Ryder came to an abrupt stop, almost toppling over. The bald man reached out and caught Ryder by the wrist, righting the falling revolutionary.

  Ryder looked at the man. He had a gruff, surly countenance. His forehead sported a vivid blue tattoo shaped like a triangle. His left ear had a long tear in it, covered with a fresh scab—likely an ornament recently removed by force. His nose was bright red, a telltale sign of one who’s consumed a lifetime’s worth of mead in much less than a lifetime, and his face was covered with deep pockmarks. Despite his outward appearance, his eyes had a kindness to them, and the man nodded when they made eye contact.

  Ryder nodded back, acknowledging the man’s help, and continued to shuffle to his left. With several quick steps and a hop to avoid tripping over the chain again, he managed to move far enough for him, the bald man, and the third prisoner in his row to get out from behind the bench.

  Once the entire group of prisoners was ready, the taskmaster gave them a once-over and nodded. Clipping the lead chain onto a hook on his belt, he turned around and hefted the drum harness onto his shoulders.

  “All right, you worthless pile of dragon dung, this isn’t difficult.” He pounded one of the drums with his fist. It made a deep boom. “Listen to the beat and move your feet. If I stop beating the drum, you stop moving your feet. If I turn left, you turn left. If I turn right, you turn right. Got it?”

  No one said a word.

  The taskmaster looked back over his shoulder, shouting this time. “Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said several of the prisoners.

  “First beat,” he shouted over the drums, “you step with your left foot. Second beat, you step with your right foot. Anyone who can’t keep up or keep the beat will force me to stop beating the drum, and if I’m not beating the drum I’ll be beating you.” He slammed his fist against the first drum.

  Ryder stepped his left foot forward. The tattooed man did as well. The skinny man at the end of their row, however, was caught off-guard. He was yanked forward by his shackles, only catching his balance at the last instant. The prisoners in the next row bumped into the skinny man’s back, nearly causing a pileup.

  “Second beat,” shouted the taskmaster. He brought his other fist down against the drum.

  Ryder stepped forward with his right foot. This time the skinny man caught the beat, and he moved in unison with the rest of the group. As the prisoners shuffled forward, the chains rattled, sounding like some sort of angry spirit.

  “First beat!”

  Ryder stepped again. The bruises from the beating Captain Phinneous had given him burned from the strain.

  “Second beat!”

  Ryder looked up at the taskmaster. The taskmaster beat the drum again, this time without any verbal instruction. Ryder’s lip curled with the distain he now felt toward the man.

  As a group, the prisoners, led by the drum-beating taskmaster, marched in a wide circle around the wooden benches in the center of the room. When they reached the same place they had started from, the taskmaster abruptly stopped beating the drum.

  “Do it just like that until we get to where we’re going, and I won’t be forced to hurt you.”

  Pulling the bolt on the door, the taskmaster let it swing open. Outside was a courtyard enclosed by a high stone wall and two-dozen armed guardsmen on horseback. To one side sat a carriage, not unlike the one Ryder had ambushed with Liam.

  “Here we go.” The taskmaster beat the drum, and the gang of chained prisoners moved forward.

  When they reached the middle of the courtyard, the mounted guard captain shouted, “Halt.”

  The taskmaster stopped beating the drums, and the prisoners came to a stop. The guardsmen moved their horses into positions beside them. Holding loaded crossbows in one hand and the reigns to their horses in the other
, they surrounded the prisoners.

  The captain lifted his arm in the air then let it fall. “Forward.”

  Another set of doors opened up across the courtyard, and the drumbeat began again.

  The sun was going down on the horizon, turning the sky a deep orange.

  Ryder stepped forward, then stepped forward again. “I will not go down easy,” he said under his breath.

  The tattooed man turned to look at him. Ryder thought he might say something, but all he did was nod.

  The taskmaster picked up the pace, and they marched out of Zerith Hold toward the setting sun. The carriage rolled out behind them, taking up the rear.

  Boom, boom, boom, boom.…

  Captain Beetlestone pulled the knob on the door leading into Lord Purdun’s private study and entered the room.

  He bowed before the baron. “You sent for me, my lord.”

  Lord Purdun turned away from the windows looking out over the harbor. The sun had gone down. The only light that could be seen was the reflection of the moon off the lightly rippling water.

  “You’ve been with me a long time,” he said. “I trust your judgment.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” replied Beetlestone, standing up straighter.

  The baron took deep breath. “Tell me honestly. Do you think this is the right thing?” asked Purdun. “Do you think Liam is the right choice?”

  The captain nodded. “I was there when they attacked the carriage, my lord. I saw him with my own eyes. He’s definitely the one.”

  “What about his brother?”

  Beetlestone shook his head. “He would never give in. Liam is the one we want. He has the skills and the good sense to keep himself in one piece.”

  Lord Purdun nodded. “All right,” he said. “Then we will proceed.” He turned back toward the window.

  “Yes, my lord.” Captain Beetlestone turned and, closing the door behind him, exited the room.

  CHAPTER 6

  Liam woke up with a start. He was in his own bed. He was warm and comfortable. He touched the pillow, then his own face.

  “Dear Tymora, please let that have been a dream.”

  Then the images of Ryder came back to him. The aching in his chest, the crushing anguish, and the guilt rolled back in, and Liam was certain that it was no dream. That moment of obscurity, between asleep and awake, was a small taste of bliss. But now the realities of Liam’s life had come crashing back into his consciousness, and he would have to deal with it.

  Swinging his legs out from under his blanket, he put his feet on the floor and lifted himself out of bed. The sun hadn’t come up yet. All the better. Darkness suited his mood.

  Slipping his clothes on, he grabbed a hoe from a rack on the wall and headed out the door. Down the path, he turned and headed east. He didn’t need the sun’s guidance to find his way. He’d walked the path so many times that he sometimes felt he could find his way completely asleep.

  All of the farmers in Duhlnarim shared the same set of fields. Nobody owned them, of course. They were all the property of Baron Purdun and his wife, the Princess Dijara, who was also the king’s younger sister. Each family was allotted an amount of land to work as they saw fit, but every season, the tax collector came around, collecting for the baron. Every year the taxes got higher. It got so a family could barely make a living anymore.

  Liam and his folks would break their backs working the land, tilling the soil, planting the crops, then harvesting them, only to have most of what they reaped taken away.

  Despite how early he’d arrived, Liam wasn’t the first in the fields of Furrowsrich village. It was better to get an early start so one could finish the hard work before the sun got too high in the sky. Already the sound of sharpened metal tilling the hard-packed dirt had reached a steady rhythm. There were at least a dozen other men working here, including Liam’s father, Douglas. But none of them spoke, not in the morning.

  Liam wasn’t sure why the silence was part of the farmers’ morning ritual, but right now he was thankful for it. He just wanted to go straight to work—wanted to push himself, to feel something other than the anguish that had ruled his life for the past two tendays.

  Crossing over several planted rows, Liam came to the spot where he’d left off the day before. He raised the hoe and brought it down in a quick chop. His first strike was off beat. Raising it again, he brought it down a little faster. The blood flowed through his veins, and soon he had a good sweat going. His down strokes kept rhythm with the other farmers.

  By midday, he’d completed two full rows. As he began work on the third, Douglas grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “It is time for a break,” said the old man.

  Liam looked up but didn’t stop his swing. “I’m fine.”

  His father just nodded. “Well, if you won’t take a break for yourself, perhaps you’ll come help me fix the cart.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “The wheel is stuck, and I need someone to hold it while I pound out the axle.”

  Liam shrugged and followed his father to the small shed situated beside the field. All the farmers built these structures next to the land they worked. It was a way for them to claim a small amount of ownership in a system that allowed them no control over anything. Inside the rickety wooden walls, a farmer could do whatever he wished. The land the building sat upon didn’t belong to him, but the space inside did.

  Next to the shed, Liam’s father’s cart was turned over, the wheel in the air.

  The old man went into the shed and returned with a heavy stone hammer and a steel awl.

  “Grab hold of the wheel there,” Douglas instructed, “and I’ll knock the axle loose.”

  Liam did as his father instructed, bending over the cart and grabbing it with both hands.

  “All right, hold it still now.”

  They worked in silence, the hot afternoon sun beating down on them. This was how it had always been between the two of them, father and son. Liam had never really related to his father all that much. They didn’t talk, except when Douglas needed help with something. And Liam never felt the need to get more out of the old man. Liam didn’t like to think that he hated his father. He preferred to think that they just didn’t have anything in common. They had a duty to each other because they were family, and that was the extent of their relationship.

  With one final blow, the axle on the cart came loose, and the wheel slipped off.

  “Good,” said the old man. “Now take it around to the other side of the shed. I’ll put the new axle on it.”

  Liam lifted the wheel and carried it around the building. As he came around the shed, he caught sight of Samira. She carried a heavy-looking bucket over her right arm, and she braced it with her left. Every day she mercifully brought fresh water to the fields to quench the farmers’ parched throats. She waved at Liam as she approached.

  Samira was tired. Liam could tell by the way she carried herself that the past two tendays had taken their toll. It pained him to know how much she was mourning the loss of his brother. Something so beautiful shouldn’t have to feel such an ugly emotion.

  The other farmers saw her approaching with the bucket, and they flocked over to the shed to get a dipper full of the clean fresh well water. Liam put the wheel down and turned to be the first in line.

  “Hello Samira,” he said, taking off his cap.

  “Afternoon, Liam.” She smiled, worry lines creasing her face. “You look thirsty. Care for a drink?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Samira lifted the dipper out of the bucket and handed it to Liam. Covered in dust, standing out in the hot sun, the cool fresh water tasted better than any water he’d ever had. Though he knew this was the same water from the same well that he’d been drinking from since he was young, somehow, it always tasted better after a long day’s work.

  He finished the water in one long slurp, then handed the dipper back. As he did, he made eye contact with Samira. There was sadness there. Sadness and pain. Her eyes seemed
as if they were carrying a heavy weight all by themselves, holding back the emotions Samira was too brave to show off here among the other farmers. It was as if all of her anguish over losing Ryder had been packed away behind those two beautiful blue eyes. They struggled to hold it all back. But somehow, while Liam looked on, they softened. For a moment, the burden they carried was lifted, and a wave of happy relief swept over them.

  “Come on, son, don’t hold up the line.” The farmer behind him gave a light shove, and Liam looked away from Samira as he stepped aside and out of line.

  Liam went back and lifted the wheel he and his father had been working on. Standing up, he found himself face to face with Captain Beetlestone. The veteran was backed by four other soldiers.

  “Well, well,” said Beetlestone as he doffed his helm. “Back hard at work, are we?”

  Liam shifted his grip on the wheel. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Farmers in Furrowsrich village were a notoriously nosey bunch, and a crowd began to form behind Liam, watching the interchange.

  “No, Beetlestone, I don’t.”

  The guard captain smirked. “It’s been two tendays. Lord Purdun wants to know if you’ve thought about his offer to join his elite guard.”

  Liam looked back at the group of farmers. Everyone was silent, pretending to mind their own business, but he could tell they were hanging on every word.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well—” the captain said, taking a step closer to Liam— “let me give you a piece of advice. If I were you, I’d take him up on it.” He stepped back, examining in the entire crowd in one long, slow glance. “Someone like you doesn’t get too many opportunities. Could change your life.”

  Liam blinked.

  The farmers began to murmur. Beetlestone wasn’t lying. Many of these people would give all they had to see their son or daughter taken into the baron’s elite guard. Life in Furrowsrich was hard. No money, long days in the fields, barely enough to get by. Taking this position would mean an easier life for him and his family. But that was exactly why he couldn’t take it. It was Purdun who created this situation, and if Liam let himself be bought, then who would look after the interests of these other folks? If every revolutionary in the Crimson Awl could be bought, then Purdun would win. At least if Liam held out, there was a chance, albeit a small chance, of the Awl overthrowing the baron and changing everyone’s lives at the same time.