The Fighters: Master of Chains

by Jess Lebow

  Liam touched his chin. It was sore and probably would be for a while. "That discussion is what got me this fat lip."

  "Ah," Samira nodded. "A little fatherly advice."

  Liam smirked. Ryder had started courting Samira when they were still just teenagers, but she had known their family for much longer. Though she had been kind and friendly toward Douglas, Liam had always thought she dis­approved of the way he related to the rest of the family.

  The doorway went dark again. "Liam of Duhlnarim," came a voice. Three men shuffled into the shed. All of them wore hardened leather armor, and each of them carried a long sword. "You have some explaining to do."

  The speaker stepped forward, out of the backlit door­way and into the shadows where Liam could see him. He was tall with long black hair tied back in a ponytail. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was pale, making his face look sickly in the strange light of the shack.

  "Montauk!" said Liam, recognizing immediately one of his fellow Crimson Awl. "You've heard about Ryder, then?"

  Montauk nodded. "Yes, I did. And I also heard about your little visit with Lord Purdun. Seems you've gone over to the other side."

  Liam raised his hands. "No. You don't understand. I turned him down. I told him to go to hell."

  Montauk shrugged. "Tell it to the Council."

  The two men flanking Montauk stepped forward and grabbed Liam by the arms.

  Liam shook them off, shoving both away. "Let go."

  Montauk pulled his sword.

  Liam froze at the sound of the grinding metal. Sami­ra's hand tightened around his arm.

  "Don't make this any harder than it needs to be," said Montauk. "Come with us peacefully, and you'll get to tell your story."

  Liam looked at the two men, then at Montauk. Until just a few moments ago, he had thought they were on his side. "Do I have a choice?"

  Montauk shook his head.

  "Then lead the way." Liam touched Samira's hand, then let himself be taken from the shack out into the afternoon sun.

  Chapter 7

  "I'll kill you—" Ryder woke up with a start. The nightmare of his failed ambush played over in his head, a persistent dream for nearly a month.

  "Shh," said the bald man to his right. "You'll wake the taskmaster."

  The realities of Ryder's situation came rush­ing back to him. It was very early morning. The sky had just begun to lighten, but the sun had yet to come up over the rise. He sat up straight and peered over the men in front of him. A few yards ahead of the chain gang, the taskmaster was hunched over his drums, still dead asleep.

  They had stopped for the night, now over two tendays outside of Duhlnarim. The guards had made camp in a shallow valley, chaining the prisoners to a large oak tree. Ryder could see their fire about a hundred paces away. At least two of the guards were awake. He could hear their voices intermingling with the crackling of the fire.

  Ryder lifted his hand to cradle his sore neck, but the chains connecting him to the bald man didn't reach that far. He was stiff, and his whole body hurt from sleeping on the hard-packed dirt.

  "What'd they get you for?" whispered the bald man.

  Ryder stopped moving. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

  The bald man shook his head. "I wasn't asleep." He lifted his arm, putting some slack in the chain.

  Ryder smiled. "Thanks." Then he reached back to rub the sore muscles in his neck.

  "So," repeated the bald man, "what'd they get you for?"

  Ryder shrugged. "I'm not sure. Conspiracy, I guess."

  "Conspiracy? What, the baron caught you thinking impure thoughts?"

  "That and ambushing one of his carriages."

  The bald man smirked. "Sounds more like thievery to me."

  "I guess you could look at it that way. But we weren't just stealing, we were trying to intercept a message from Lord Purdun."

  The bald man raised an eyebrow. "A message? You don't approve of the baron's correspondences?"

  Ryder nodded. "Well, to some extent, yes. This mes­sage was a letter of treaty bound for another barony. If it had gotten there, it would have meant more hardship for the folks of Duhlnarim and more trouble for the Crimson Awl."

  The bald man's eyes narrowed. "A revolutionary, huh? Not much of a criminal then, are you?"

  "Not really," admitted Ryder. "Does that lower your opinion of me?"

  The man smiled, exposing a pair of golden front teeth.

  "Anyone who puts a thorn in Purdun's ass is all right by me." The man offered Ryder his hand. "The name's Nazeem."

  "Ryder." He shook the offered hand. "And what's your story?"

  "Smuggling," said Nazeem. "Seems Purdun doesn't like the idea of anything coming into his barony without him getting his fair share of tax."

  "Sounds about right—" Ryder froze, his comments cut short at the sound of the taskmaster snorting and roll­ing onto his side.

  The large greasy man sat up and wiped a meaty palm across his face. Then, with a huge yawn and a stretch he got to his feet and began counting the prisoners. Ryder glanced once more at Nazeem, as if to say "we'll continue this later." He avoided eye contact with the taskmaster as the man's sausage-sized finger pointed to him, counting Ryder as number twenty-five.

  The sky had gotten much lighter, and many of the other guards were moving around the camp. One of them poured a pail of water over the campfire. Ryder could hear the ashes sizzle as he watched a cloud of smoke rise into the air.

  The taskmaster unlocked the chain that held the pris­oners to the oak tree and gave it a healthy yank.

  "Wake up, you scum," he shouted.

  The rest of the prisoners stirred to life, sluggishly waking up from their less-than-restful sleep.

  "On your feet."

  Though it was difficult to lift his body and the heavy chains with his sore, stiff muscles, Ryder managed to get himself to his feet. Nazeem sat cross-legged on the ground next to Ryder. Without using his hands, the tat­tooed man attempted to lift himself to standing. The skinny man on the end of their row, however, did not get up, and Nazeem was forced to crouch, unable to hold up both his weight and that of the other man.

  "Get up," Nazeem hissed under his breath.

  But the skinny man didn't move. Instead, he let out a shallow snore.

  All of the other men had gotten to their feet, and the taskmaster was making a slow circle around them, inspecting each of the prisoners.

  "Get up, you fool," said Nazeem, this time a little louder.

  The skinny man didn't hear his plea, but the task­master did. One moment he was at the front of the chain gang; the next he was right beside Nazeem.

  "I told you never to talk." The taskmaster's whip cut the air, snapping as it slashed Nazeem's bare shoulder.

  The bald man sucked in air through his clenched teeth, but he did not scream. Ryder hadn't noticed it before, but Nazeem's shoulders were covered with long, thin scars. He was no stranger to this sort of beating.

  The taskmaster pulled his whip back over his head and cracked it again, catching Nazeem along the side of the face. Ryder cringed. Though he couldn't see exactly where the whip had hit the man, he knew it had to hurt. Nazeem handled it the same way he had the first lash, cringing from the obvious pain but refusing to give the taskmaster any satisfaction.

  "We got ourselves a tough one here," said the task­master, pulling his whip up again. "Good. Good. You should fetch a high price in Westgate. Might even find interest for you with the Quivering Thumb." He leaned in closer. "You could actually live long enough to earn your freedom in the arena." Standing up straight, he snapped the whip again. This time though, he targeted the skinny man.

  Awakened rudely from his sleep, the skinny man yelped when the tip of the whip slapped against his back.

  "Get up," shouted the taskmaster. He kicked the skinny man in the gut.

  The little man's entire body lifted off the ground from the impact, and he let out an "oof," then doubled over.

&nb
sp; The taskmaster kicked the man again. "I said 'get up.'"

  "Mr. Cobblepot," shouted the guard captain. "Quit messing around and get ready to march."

  The taskmaster looked up at the mounted captain, being careful not to make eye contact. "Yes, Captain Tully."

  "Be quick about it," said the captain, then he turned his horse around and rode off.

  The skinny man convulsed, spitting up a glob of blood. Mr. Cobblepot reached down and with one arm lifted the beaten prisoner to his feet.

  "I'll deal with you later," he said, shoving the man. Scuttling around to the front of the gang, the taskmaster wrapped his whip around his hand and lifted his drums to his shoulders.

  "All right, scum," he yelled, "it's double-time all morn­ing. Compliments of sleeping beauty there."

  Ryder looked over at the skinny man. He could barely hold himself up. Beyond having just been beaten, he seemed sick, depleted. Ryder didn't think the poor man would make it through the morning. He wished there were something he could do, some way to help the poor bastard lift his burden.

  "We march," shouted the taskmaster. He slammed his drum. BOOM... BOOM....

  The chain gang lurched forward. Ryder stepped in time with the drum.

  The sun finally crested the rise, spilling light over the valley. It was going to be a hot one. The skinny man coughed and gagged, stumbling forward with the march­ing group and spitting out another long stringy strand of mucus and blood.

  Ryder shuddered as he thought about what would happen when the skinny man finally collapsed. Stopping without orders would get a prisoner severely beaten. If the taskmaster didn't notice when the man fell, he might be dragged by the rest of the gang.

  The skinny man coughed again, this time so violently that he doubled over. The chains on his feet—bound to the man in front of him—pulled taut.

  Nazeem reached out and grabbed the skinny man by the back of his vest, dragging him forward on the next drum beat. Ryder moved closer to Nazeem, giving him as much slack in the chains as he could manage without falling over himself. If one of them fell, the others likely would as well.

  The skinny man finally recovered from his coughing fit, and he regained his balance. He looked up gratefully at Nazeem, tottered a bit, then pasted his gaze to the ground, concentrating on each and every step.

  This time the carriage took the lead. The mounted guardsmen fell into place alongside the chain gang, and they continued their march out of the valley. The taskmaster beat the drums at double the usual speed, and the prisoners followed the dirt road up the western slope, running from the rising sun.

  * * * *

  "All right, you vermin," shouted the taskmaster as he lowered his drums from his shoulders, "we stop here for the night."

  The entire gang collapsed to the ground in a cacophony of moans and groans. They had stopped in open lowlands on a big, flat, damp piece of ground surrounded by several small groupings of trees on the east and a large pile of boulders on the west. Thick swarms of bugs moved around like tiny rain clouds, shifting and circling overhead. The air reeked of rotten vegetation and stagnant water.

  Ryder felt a wave of relief flush through his aching body as he crashed to the ground. They had marched from sunup to sundown, stopping once and only briefly for water. His feet throbbed, feeling as though all the blood in his body had somehow found its way down there and now threatened to burst through his skin, spilling out over the open plain.

  To his right, Nazeem sat cross-legged, his arms resting on his knees. The tattooed man sat like this every time they stopped. He would close his eyes, sit up straight, and breathe through his nose. Nazeem looked so calm, so peaceful. Ryder wished that he could feel the way Nazeem looked. But right now, there was no peace or tranquility to be had on the hard, rocky ground.

  Beside Nazeem, the skinny man had slumped over into a heap. Ryder was surprised he had made it. He'd had a rough start at the beginning of the day, but after that he'd more or less kept pace with the rest of the group. Only a few times did Nazeem have to help him along or keep him from falling. Making it to the end of the day without being trampled or beaten seemed like a tremendous success.

  Someone shoved Ryder.

  "Water."

  Ryder looked up at a young guardsman holding a wooden bucket and dipper.

  Ryder nodded and took the offered water gratefully. He swallowed the entire dipperful in one giant gulp—and immediately gagged. His mouth was covered with a gritty film, and his stomach felt nauseated. He looked down into the dipper. The inside of it was covered with mud and slime.

  "You scum should be right at home drinking swamp water," said the guard, laughing.

  Ryder tried to keep the contents of his stomach from coming back up. It was a struggle. He coughed and burped, swallowing hard with each breath.

  The guard grabbed the dipper back, filled it again from the bucket, and passed it over Ryder to Nazeem.

  The tattooed man took it, looked into the bowl, sniffed the water, then drank it down. Unlike Ryder, the tattooed man didn't seem to have the same reaction, simply swal­lowing and handing the dipper back to the guard.

  Ryder tried to scrape the film off his tongue by rub­bing it back and forth against his teeth. Some of it came off, but the taste of rotten vegetation still lingered in his mouth. He would be burping up stinkweed juice for at least another day.

  "Hey you," said the guard, looking at the skinny man. "Time for water."

  The skinny man didn't move.

  "Hey. I'm talking to you." The guard flung the sludge from the bottom of the dipper at him.

  Still, he didn't move.

  The guard shrugged. "Suit yourself. But there won't be any more until tomorrow." He started to move on to the next row of prisoners.

  "Just a moment."

  The taskmaster appeared, hovering over the skinny man, a huge grin on his face.

  "This man is very thirsty." Cobblepot took the bucket from the guard. "I'm sure he wants to drink every last drop." Squatting down, he grabbed the skinny man by the hair and lifted his head from the ground. Then he put the edge of the bucket up to the skinny man's mouth.

  Even being jerked back like that didn't elicit a response. His eyes opened, and he moaned, but otherwise he let the taskmaster move his body around like a rag doll.

  "Open wide," said Cobblepot, forcing the scummy water down the prone prisoner's throat.

  The skinny man's mouth filled quickly and the murky water spilled out the sides, flooding over his face, nose, and cheeks, then down his chest. For a moment, the skinny man didn't move, letting the swampy fluid just flow over him. Then Ryder could see his mouth move, and the skinny man's chest heaved. The skinny man kicked pathetically against the taskmaster's hold, trying to fight the bucket away. He managed to get his lips away from the edge long enough to take in one huge gasp of air. Fighting to breathe, he made a sound like a strangled chicken and coughed up sludge.

  "Taste good?" taunted the taskmaster. He continued pouring the muddy water into the prisoner's mouth.

  The skinny man raised his hand. The chains on his arms rattled as they pulled tight. Though the bucket was up against his face, he couldn't get any leverage, and he pushed feebly against its edge.

  Ryder leaned on Nazeem's shoulders, reached over and shoved the bucket. "You're going to kill him."

  Mr. Cobblepot released his grip on the skinny man, letting him fall back to the ground, coughing and puking. He eyed Ryder, a look of hatred and frustration plain on his face. Then he smirked.

  "Guard, fill this up," he said, handing the now-empty bucket to the soldier, "I think we have another thirsty prisoner."

  The guard took the bucket and headed off toward the swamp.

  Cobblepot stepped over the skinny man and stood on the chains between Ryder and Nazeem. He loomed over the two of them.

  Ryder settled back into his place, trying to separate himself from Nazeem. He didn't want whatever was about to happen to him to flow over to any of the other pr
isoners.

  "It's been a while since I've given a proper lashing," said the taskmaster as he unwrapped the whip from his massive fist. "I'm going to enjoy this." He let the whip dangle on the dusty ground, dragging its tip around in a small circle.

  Ryder looked down at the whip. There was no way he could escape, no way he could fight back, shackled to the other thirty-five men in the chain gang.

  This was going to hurt.

  Cobblepot brought the whip over his shoulder and snapped it once against the ground, sending dirt and dust into Ryder's eyes. Sitting on the ground, helpless, Ryder was reminded of the beatings his father used to give him as a child. The man used to take his belt off in preparation for delivering his punishment. Then he would slap the hardened leather against the sturdy oak table a handful of times. Ryder wondered what it was about the torturer that made him revel in the torment, why the first few blows seemed intended not to inflict physical pain but to increase the mental torment. Ryder already knew what was going to happen to him. He didn't need reminding. This was just a way to extend the pain. Make it not only last longer but also seep in further, so that it hurt deep inside as well as against the skin.

  Straightening his back, Ryder crossed his legs under­neath him as he had seen Nazeem do. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He did not know if he could find solace the way the tattooed man seemed to, but he had no better option.

  The whip cracked again, then the familiar sting of leather crossed his chest. Ryder hissed at the pain. The tip of the whip was much narrower than his father's belt had been. The blow was so sharp; it felt like a razor carving into his skin. He tightened all the muscles in his body, trying to steel himself against the sensation.

  Again the whip cracked, slapping his shoulder. The pain was so poignant that even with his eyes closed he could sense the mark it left on him. It was as if the backs of his eyelids held a map of his body, and he watched as the taskmaster drew lines upon it. Ryder got lost in this image, escaping into himself, away from the beating. He would take the best the taskmaster had to offer, and he would be stronger for it.