"This is not good!" Zehava said, gripping the bamboo pole hard in his hands, not sure of his next move. He licked his lips and looked to Meath.
"No, I think this would be where we give up," Meath said back to him.
"I cannot end up like that guy back there Meath - I would rather die right now."
"There is still a chance we can make it out of this later. Do not give up now," Meath whispered back. They both lowered their weapons slowly, hoping not to startle the bowmen.
One of the barbarians walked out from the group, yelling at them in a language neither Meath nor Zehava could understand. He had a fierce appearance and the aura of a leader.
"You think they are going to kill us?" Zehava asked, following the man's finger and dropping to his knees.
"I think they would have done that already."
"I will not be a slave, Meath," Zehava said to him, his voice full of fear.
"Do not give up hope yet," Meath told him, though his eyes did not stray from the massive barbarian who marched towards them.
He screamed down at them, picking up Meath's club and raised it high into the air bellowing out something neither understood. He turned to his men and said something regarding Meath's chosen weapon and they all shared a laugh. He turned back to them; his eyes glistening with loathing. With one mighty swing, it all went black for both of them…
*****
Meath came around faintly; he felt himself being dropped, hard, to the ground. He tried to open his eyes but they were heavily blurred - the light that assaulted him felt like daggers and he recoiled. His head was pounding violently as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The only thing that kept pulling him back were the voices he could hear around him. He could not understand who they were or what they were saying. He was sure it was in a language that was not his own, but he honestly could not tell. He tried to force himself alert but the vicious pulsing that surrounded his head kept dragging him back down. He felt his arms tingle and move. With all the strength he could muster, he rolled over onto his side and almost lost consciousness again. The voices stopped - he could hear shuffling getting closer to him. He opened his eyes again only to see a dark figure moving toward him. He tried to focus on the figure but suddenly pain erupted through his guts and he curled into a tight ball, coughing grimly and collapsed.
*****
Zehava sat in the cell beside the one he and Meath had escaped from earlier. He had woken a while ago - surprised to find he was not dead and wondering where they had taken Meath. He feared for his friend and his mind played on those fears while he sat in silence. Had they killed Meath because he had The Gift and was a dangerous threat? Had Meath died from the club to the head? Or maybe Meath had already awakened and they were interrogating him? So many possibilities and none of them seemed to have a good outcome.
He groaned as his stomach grumbled with hunger. It was becoming dark outside and Zehava questioned himself even more if Meath was even still alive.
Zehava wondered if he should try to escape again, though he doubted he would be able to. The bars of the cells were strong and even if he could get out, the result would likely be the same or worse. Though death was more appealing to him than becoming a slave. He could not make a rash decision until he knew if Meath was still alive or not.
"I told you…. I told you…never make it," the man in the far cell rambled out.
Zehava had almost forgotten about him and was surprised he had not heard him earlier.
"See… see… me was right… me right, you wrong…" He cackled out as if it were an immense achievement for him.
"Yea?" Zehava eyes narrowed dangerously. "Silence you vermin - crawl back to where you came from!"
The man shifted uneasily and shuffled back several inches to the darker side of his cell mumbling to himself. Zehava was in no mood for the man's lunacy.
Zehava sat there in silence for what seemed like forever. He found it hard to believe that the crazed man had once possibly been normal. He found it petrifying that one's spirit could be broken down to that point. What horrific things had they done to be able to destroy all hope? What terrified him most was the thought of that becoming him. Impossible he told himself. He would not succumb to such a fate, ever.
Zehava cursed under his breath and his head banged up against the back of the bars. "Do you know where they would have taken my friend?" The man ignored him as he continued to converse to himself.
"I am sorry I yelled at you - I am just having a really, really bad day," Zehava exasperated, trying to hold back his anger. He needed answers and information and the crazed man was the only one he had. "Please, do you not want someone to talk with? To be your friend?" The man looked back at him, seeming to understand and to take interest in him again.
"Me like talk…. Me like talk," he finally replied, crawling back closer to the bars.
"Good, me too. Do you know where they took my friend?"
"He magic…" he mumbled. "They will…take…"
"Yes, he has The Gift. They will take what?" Zehava probed.
The man rocked back and forth and scratched his head as if deep in thought. "Magic… they take… they keep…"
"Who will take his magic?" Zehava asked intently, worry for his friend growing.
"High Priest take… make stronger…dark practice…pain…much pain…" He rocked harder, his tone almost a whimper.
"What about Meath? What will happen to him?"
The man moved as close to the bars as he could and stared gravely at Zehava. "Death…death will come… death will… will take him…away."
"Of course!" Zehava muttered to himself bitterly. "Do you know when?"
He just shook his head back and forth as he rocked.
"What about me? What will happen to me?" Zehava asked almost defeated.
"No kill… work… no kill…" He replied enthusiastically. "Me work… no die… me work. You work… no die…"
Zehava sat back against the bars of his cell and put his head between his knees. "Slavery… just what I wanted."
Zehava sat contemplating the information he had gotten for some time - not liking any of it. Not all of the information was useless - Meath was alive, at least for now. That gave him some hope, staving off the more defeatist thoughts.
"Where are the other slaves?" Zehava asked, wondering why the cells were not full since they had just overtaken the river encampment.
"All gone… no more…" he stammered. "Just me… now you too…"
"But there were others?" He pushed for more.
"Men and girls… trade… bad men… trade… no want me," the man whimpered.
Just then, the doors to the barn opened and a girl slipped in with a large steaming pot and two clay bowls. The man in the other cell shrieked joyfully and bounded around his cramped cell like a dog happy to see its master.
The girl put the pot and bowls down and began lighting several torches placed in the wall brackets. Soon the place had an orange glow of faint light. She picked up the pot and bowls and set them down again, this time closer to the cells. She was slender; her muscles were toned and smooth to her petite frame and Zehava guessed she was younger than he was by a few years. She wore a simple buckskin skirt that hung halfway down to her knees. It had a high slit up the right leg, to stop constriction and provide flexibility without hindering the wearer. Her top was of the same material. It had a single strap over one shoulder to hold it in place and stopped just shy of her navel. Her hair was a bright auburn ...straight and smooth, it fell halfway down her back.
She dipped one of the bowls into the pot and filled it with the thick stew inside. By now, the aroma had wound its way over and found Zehava. His stomach growled its reminder that it was hungry - so loud in fact, the girl heard and looked up at him. Her eyes caught his and held for a long moment, as if intrigued by him. She quickly glanced away, back to the floor, as if she had realized she was staring.
She brought the filled bowl to the crazed man and handed it to him.
He took it gratefully and began scooping handfuls of it into his mouth, not caring that it was hot. She watched him for a while, a heartrending gaze on her face in the dim glow of the barn. Zehava found that strange and looked harder to make sure he was seeing the look it appeared to be.
The girl went back to the pot of stew and filled the other bowl slowly, almost unsure of her safety. Her eyes came up to meet his again and this time Zehava knew it was not intrigue he had seen before, but sympathy. She averted her eyes as she brought the stew to his cell. She held the bowl out to him, her eyes avoiding his, but he did not take it. She held the bowl closer to the cell and shook it lightly, prompting him to take it, but still he made no move to receive it.
"Why do you not take?" She asked awkwardly, shifting on her feet, trying hard not to meet his gaze. He was surprised to find she spoke his language and her accent was not as barbaric as he would have guessed.
"You are not like them," Zehava said, moving closer to the bars to get a better look at her. Her skin and hair was more diluted then most of her race and her features not nearly as sharp.
She shifted back several steps, uncomfortable. "I am not like them?"
"Your voice, it is so soft and peaceful, not forceful and hoarse like most of your kind. Your eyes are so compassionate and…" he trailed off for a moment, seeing her eyes in the light now. "…and a vibrant blue."
"I am a half breed!" she growled, with more than a little acid in her tone. She put the bowl down by his cell, tired of holding it for him and walked back to the pot of stew.
Zehava knew half-breeds amount the savages were rare. They were an overly proud race and spawning with another race was deemed loathsome and tainted their bloodline. "What is your name?"
She stopped and slowly turned her attention back to him. "Why? My name is of no value to you…slave."
That word hit him hard and resentment flashed in his eyes briefly. Her tone had no conviction behind it - she was merely using it in hopes to silence him. "I did not ask it for value. I just enjoy knowing who I am talking to."
The half-breed eyed him suspiciously, taking a few steps closer to him again. "You are not like most men. You are strange."
"PLEASE more… more eat… more eat…" the broken man cried out and banged his bowl against the floor.
She went and filled his bowl again then came back to Zehava's cell. "If I give name, you eat?"
Zehava found this too uncanny and it only raised his curiosity about her. "Deal," he said, picking up the bowl of warm stew.
"Name is Shania." A quick smirk crossed her lips, but vanished just as fast.
"My name is Zehava." He put the bowl to his lips and began pouring the mild tasting stew into his mouth. Though it was plain, it stopped the cramps in his stomach.
She filled his bowl again once he was done. An awkward silence followed. She stood there as if waiting for more conversation or maybe just for him to finish with the bowl so she could take her leave.
"What is going to happen to me?" Zehava asked bluntly.
Her eyes shifted uneasily. "I…I not know…"
Fair enough, he thought to himself. She was almost a slave herself, so why would she know. He could tell the question had bothered her, possibly even scared her. What trouble might she get into for telling him anything like that? "So what do you do here, besides feed the slaves?" He asked, the last part rolling bitterly off his tongue.
Before she could answer, the barn doors opened abruptly. A large, imposing barbarian stood towering in the doorway. "Shania! What is taking you so long?" he barked sourly in broken tongues. The crazed man in the cell screeched in terror, tossing his long emptied bowl by the pot and curling up in the corner of his cell, rocking and muttering.
Shania quickly snatched the still full bowl from Zehava and backed away from the cells to the half-empty pot. "I…I…I am sorry…father…. I was leaving…now."
The bulky barbarian walked over to her, his demeanor hard and furious with each step. "Were they giving you trouble?" he growled when he reached her, his eyes burning full of hatred.
Zehava could tell by his movements that he was under the influence of liquor. The way Shania shuddered at his presence he knew she was afraid to death of her father.
"No…no father…. I was…" she started to say, but the meaty grip of her father's hand clenched over her jaw and mouth cruelly.
"I told you to hurry, and you disobeyed!" he hissed down at her, his thick fingers digging into her cheeks. He pushed her away and with the same motion, his hand connected hard across her face.
She hit the ground, knocking the stew pot over, her hand instinctively covering where she had been slapped. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as she trembled, but not from pain, from the fear of what might come next. "Forgive me…father…. It will not happen again…"
He was breathing hard, almost labored breaths of exertion. "Go ready my food," he ordered her - his tone gritty with annoyance, his attention shifting toward the crazed cries and mumbles in the cell. Shania got to her feet and bolted out of the barn without looking back.
Zehava watched the barbarian lurch over to the crazed man's cell and grab the bars and shake them violently. The broken man inside cried out, afraid of what might come next.
"You wretched piece of filth, shut up!" He spat angrily. He grabbed a thick branch that lay on the ground and was about to open the cell door. Zehava moved forward on impulse wanting to help the man. The barbarian noticed the moment and his eyes turned on him. "What?" He barked walking over to Zehava's cell. "You want to do something?"
Zehava just stared hard at him. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle him. Though he doubted he would be able to do so, his neck was thick and he stood almost a foot taller than Zehava.
The barbarian grinned broadly as he watched Zehava's face twitching involuntarily, as he tried to restrain his temper. "Your fate will be worse than his," he pointed to the crazed man, "much worse."
Zehava spat down at the barbarian's feet in defiance. The savage's hand dived between the bars and grabbed Zehava's shirt and pulled him hard, into the bars. Zehava tried to pull back but the savage's strength outmatched his own and his head smashed violently into the bars.
"I will break you, vermin!" the barbarian snarled, yanking Zehava's face and body against the bamboo repeatedly.
Zehava tried to find his bearings as he was battered viciously. Finally, the battering stopped and Zehava opened his eyes again to see a meaty fist coming towards him. It connected hard with his jaw, knocking him backward to the ground, dazed.
"You will learn your place soon enough, slave," the barbarian grumbled, kicking dirt at Zehava then exited the barn.
Zehava pulled himself up, using the bars for support. He rubbed his jaw and was glad to see he had not lost any teeth from the assault.
*****
Meath woke again but did not find himself on the cold dirt floor as he expected. He lifted his head, surprised to find that most of the pain had subsided, though some still pulsed in his sides and he was sure he had cracked some ribs. He tried to move his arms but he could not feel them - anxiety shot through him and pulled him out of the dreamy stupor, he blinked several times before he realized he was upright. He looked up and saw his hands suspended him above the ground. They were tied to a large wooden beam in the center of a large hut. He tried to move his arms again, but they had gone numb from lack of circulation.
He looked around for Zehava, wondering if his friend shared the same dangling fate, but there was no one with him. The room was almost completely bare other than a large wooden table in one corner, which was covered with hide, and a burning fire pit a dozen paces from where Meath hung. There was a small hole in the center of the roof that allowed the fresh air in and smoke to travel out. He hung right above the ground; looking down he noticed there was white powder circled all around him.
Meath has no idea how long he had been out for, or how long he had been hanging from the ceiling. All he knew was d
usk was fast approaching by the dimming light outside.
"If they think I am going to hang here all night they have another thing coming." Meath said to himself, tapping into his innate abilities to burn the leather cords holding him to the roof beam. A sharp pain coursed through his entire body like Wizard's fire was flowing through his veins. His screams could have awakened the dead. The pain lasted several long moments and he almost slipped into unconsciousness from the intensity - it left him disoriented and his body convulsing.
"You will find your powers no good to you now, Wizard. That circle ensures it." A man said, very calmly, as he walked into the hut.
The barbarian was tall and slender wearing a brown leather loincloth with a large white tiger skin draped over his back.
Meath pulled himself out of his pain-induced stupor to focus on the man in front of him. "What is going on? What have you done to me? Where is my friend?" Meath yelled, but he was too weak to have any conviction.
"Your friend is of no concern to you now. You should be much more concerned about yourself. As for your question about what is going on, you have The Gift. I want it!" the man said with a hiss.
Meath laughed at the man, impertinence drawing back some more strength. "You are a fool - that is impossible."
The man looked him in the eyes with a deadly, sure smile. "I assure you, it can be done, and of course you will not survive the ordeal."
"Who are you, you maniac?" Meath questioned, trying to keep his tone in check and not give away the fact that he was truly terrified.
The man paced the room not sure of whether he should answer the question or not. "I am one who should not be taken lightly boy."
"What, are you afraid to tell me your name? You are pathetic!" Meath spat at him.
"The one hanging from the roof, powerless, calls me pathetic - how ironic." The man laughed walking just outside of the white circle.
The False Prince (Fall Of A King Book 1) Page 13