by Rob J. Hayes
I pulled back and stared at him. I would not have used that word. Josef assumed he would, at some time, run out of dice. He was already planning on losing. I never plan to lose or fail. I have always played to win.
"Then you fucking lose," I said, already staring at the dice and deciding who I would betray first. It was foolish. A player might go into a game of Trust with a plan, but those plans needed flexibility above all else. Back then I didn't understand that winning was never about the game.
We played a game then. My first game of Trust. Josef lost his dice first, just as he had planned, even if he hadn't realised it. I was the second to go out, playing far too aggressively, betraying more often than extending an olive branch. I watched Hardt and Isen go head to head, eagerly waiting to see what tactics were involved once the game was reduced to just two players. They played only once, both picking Friendship, and then shook hands declaring the game a draw. I didn't understand at the time, I thought them idiots. A draw seemed like a loss for all players. They didn't see it that way. To them it was a win.
Chapter 3
Long after I stopped trying to keep track of days or time, I could tell a week had passed by my appointment with the overseer. Prig would appear, whip in one hand and a savage grin on his fat fucking mouth. I think he enjoyed parading me to my interrogations, knowing why I kept the attention of the overseer when so many others were forgotten in the depths of the Pit. There were men and women down there who were once mighty. Orran generals, lords of noble houses, legendary brigands of great renown. The Pit made nobodies of us all.
At first, it wasn't just me the overseer sent for. Josef would come back, shaken and cowed, sometimes sobbing and sometimes barely conscious. He never told me what the overseer did to him during those interrogations. Maybe the man used the same tactics to break us both, but I doubt it. My years have taught me that as every person is different from one another, so too are the best methods to break them. Eventually the overseer stopped calling for Josef.
The route Prig led was always the same. We didn't need to go through the main cavern, where food was dished out and new arrivals were inducted into their living hell. But Prig liked the illusion of power it gave him. He was on a mission from the overseer and the overseer was in charge. He liked to think that made him important. What a fucking idiot. Anyone could have done his job, but those of little consequence often mistake convenience for importance.
It took me a while to learn the structure of the Pit. At first it seems like chaos. The Terrelans were in charge, it was true, but there was only a small garrison of soldiers stationed inside the Pit and they took no part in the day to day running of the inmates. They were there so the criminals running things remembered who was really in charge.
The Pit was governed and run by inmates. Deko, the narcissistic psychopath at the very top, ruled over his captains and they, in turn, ruled over the foremen. The rest of the inmates, the scabs as the foremen called us, were the workers. We were the ones who dug the tunnels and fought in the arena. We were the ones who died while Deko and his sycophantic cronies lived a life of relative luxury. I hadn't met Deko yet, but I had seen him from a distance as he toured his little empire of rock and filth. He wasn't particularly tall, but had a girth to him, which is nothing but a nice way of saying he was a fat fucker. The rumours said he would kill another inmate simply for looking at him, and it was one rumour I could well believe was true. There were few people I would agree belonged in the Pit and Deko was one of them.
Being on the overseer's business gave Prig a measure of respect no other inmate could earn, and he made certain to flaunt it every time my appointment was due. I never felt as vulnerable as I did when I was marched through the main cavern. So many eyes watching me, it made my skin itch, although that could have been the lice. It made me glad that Josef thought to hack off my hair. At a distance, covered in grime and sweat, I might have passed for a boy, though closer up there was no mistaking my breasts. Still, when Prig marched me to my interrogation, I was untouchable. No one would dare make me late for my appointment.
Prig led me right through the centre of the main chamber, through the Trough where us scabs were fed, and through the Hill where all Deko's captains and foremen gathered about and congratulated each other on being cunts. It was not truly a hill and not raised in any way, but those in charge named it thus. No scab was allowed to climb to the Hill without permission. I saw the very worst humanity had to offer every time Prig dragged me through the Hill. Deko did not pick his captains based on good nature but on their ability to brutalise and instil terror into his subjects. I learned a lot from Deko even before I had the pleasure of meeting him.
There were six wooden lifts around the main cavern and Prig always used the same one. He knew the operator and they chatted and laughed together as I stood meekly by, waiting for my parade to continue. I hated the way Prig's friend looked at me. I was still a girl and he was long since grey, but he stared at me with such lust I felt myself redden, heat making me ashamed. It wasn't lust or desire that brought such heat on in me, but disgust. Disgust that such a loathsome man might be thinking of my body. A thousand painful deaths would never be enough for that arsehole.
"She clearly wants me," Prig's friend said, licking his lips, his nostrils flaring.
There was very little I wanted less, but voicing that opinion wouldn't have earned me anything but a beating, and my arms were still bruised from holding the marker for the fourth day in a row. They felt almost boneless and I was fairly certain the bandages Hardt had given me were the only things holding me together.
"Fuck you!" I spat in defiance of my own decision to say nothing. Prig raised a hand and I scurried back a couple of steps out of reach. I hated myself for showing fear.
"That'd be the point," Prig's friend said, staring at me with a greedy intensity. Arsehole!
"Don't think the overseer wants her soiled." Prig liked to mention the overseer whenever he had the chance, and that was often. "Maybe he wants her all for himself." Prig punctuated the statement by grabbing his crotch and both men laughed. I have noticed men often like to touch their cocks for little reason, or draw them on any surface they can find. We lived in a prison, deep underground where the only light was from lanterns, and yet there wasn't a single stretch of tunnel that didn't have at least one crude drawing of a penis scrawled upon it like a signature.
"Lucky bastard," said Prig's friend, still eyeing me in a way that sent a crawling sensation over my skin. There is a way some men can look at a woman such that it makes them feel dirty even when they are clean, uncomfortable in their own skin. Back then I had no choice but to suffer the indignity. I am pleased to admit I no longer suffer such stares.
"Did you see Yorin's fight?" Prig asked.
His friend laughed. "Saw him push in Arst's fucking eyeballs. Never thought I'd hear a man scream like that."
They both had a laugh at that. Two men laughing over the brutal killing of another. I have often wondered if the Pit made them cruel, or simply allowed them to stop hiding their true natures. Are we all just monsters waiting for the opportunity to show it?
"I should go. Don't want to make the overseer's fun late," Prig said
His friend grunted. "You coming back for some cards later?"
"You better save me a chair," Prig said even as his friend started working the wheel. The mechanisms began to turn and the lift started rising into the air. It wobbled at first and I almost fell. There were no railings to hold onto and more than one inmate had plummeted to their death since I had been in the Pit. By the end of my time in there I even saw a man thrown from high up on one of the rickety devices, and I also saw the pile of mushy flesh and bone he was reduced to. "I still have to nail that cheating slug, Rekka, to the wall," Prig shouted over the sounds of the mechanism thunking as it lifted us into the air.
We were going a long way up, to the third level of the Pit. It was the closest to the surface I would get, though still not close enough to see
any sunlight. I didn't even know if it was day or night outside. Inmates functioned on Pit time. I sometimes think part of the point was to make us forget what real light looked like. Perhaps it was about making us forget how to be terran, reduce us to little more than beasts. The lift was not fast and I had plenty of time to watch the great cavern sink below us.
"Ahh!" Prig shouted, stamping a foot towards me. I jumped, startled by the outburst. Prig laughed then, snorting and chuckling to himself as he turned and ignored me once more. I felt my cheeks redden again, ashamed that I had let him scare me so. Shit-gobbling arse-stain! I definitely hated Prig most of all.
With his back turned, Prig could no longer see me. He was staring out at the cavern, hacking up some phlegm to spit down onto anyone passing below, making sport of others' misery. I crept closer to him on silent feet, stilling my breath and keeping my eyes fixed on his back. In just a few steps I was right behind him, close enough to reach out and push. We were a good distance up and the fall would be enough to kill a man. Prig would scream as he plummeted to his death, and I would watch. But I didn't do it.
It was not that I had never killed before. True, the battle of Orran was my first real taste of war, the only time I ever fought for my kingdom, and it was true that the battle had been cut short by Orran's surrender. But I had killed. I summoned hellions to swarm units of soldiers. I rained down fiery death on advancing cavalry. Up on the highest tower of Fort Vernan I froze a woman, a fellow Sourcerer, solid and then shattered her into so many pieces a master puzzologist would need to spend three lifetimes putting her back together.
I had killed before, but this time felt different. It was more personal. The times before, I had not known those I killed. Not their names nor their faces, nor anything about them other than they were fighting for the Terrelans. I knew Prig. I hated Prig, but I knew him. The realisation made me hesitate. Perhaps if I had had longer to come to terms with it, I would have pushed him, sent him screaming to his death. I know for certain that I wouldn't have hesitated even a moment these days. Age has made me more callous in many ways.
I can be quite intense sometimes. I have seen enemies pale from my gaze, friends rally, and I've seen lovers fluster. Never underestimate the power of eye contact.
Prig glanced over his shoulder at me. I was just an arm's reach away and staring so intently. He jumped, fear and shock mingling in his shit-coloured eyes. I saw that fear for just a moment before the back of his hand caught my face. Pain erupted and blood filled my mouth. I found myself on the floor of the lift. Prig was pacing back and forth shouting, though what he said is lost to me. There's little like a good backhand to scatter the senses. He was furious, lashing his leather whip and screaming at me, his face red even beneath the grime. He was still shouting when the lift bumped to a stop at the third level. Prig stormed towards me then, hauling me to my feet and pushing me along in front of him. I had a bruised cheek and bloody lip, but Prig had learned not to turn his back on me. Prig had learned to fear me. I counted it a worthwhile exchange.
There was a distinct change in atmosphere when we entered the small Terrelan garrison on the third level. The general stench of unwashed inmates gave way to something cleaner. Boot polish and fresh air made me feel out of place. Prig was no different. He might be there on the overseer's business, but he knew he didn't belong. Soldiers were stationed at doorways and they eyed us with savage scrutiny. Just a few months ago, I would have considered these soldiers beneath me. Now I hung my head against their gaze and hoped they wouldn't notice me. Fortunes change so quickly with the fall of empires.
The overseer was always in the same room whenever he interrogated me. It was a small cell carved out of the rock. A single table sat in the centre with a chair on either side. Two lanterns hung on the walls and bathed the little cavern in a light so bright it hurt my eyes until they adjusted.
The overseer looked up as Prig stopped me outside the room. The two soldiers on guard outside watched us both, hands on weapons. I could smell the fear dripping off Prig. It smelled sweet and sour all at once, like meat left to rot.
"Right on time, Overseer," Prig said, bowing his head so low he was staring at his own ragged boots. I missed the feel of boots on my feet. They are one of those things I have always taken for granted in my more affluent times. You don't realise how much you need a good pair of boots until you step on something hard and sharp, and the Pit was littered with such mines.
"How would you know?" the overseer asked.
I glanced up to find Prig looking confused. I had to stop myself from grinning. It was often easy to forget that the foremen were inmates as well, and they themselves had as little concept of time as us scabs.
"Go," the overseer ordered in a flat voice. Prig turned and I turned with him. "Not you."
I stopped, again stifling a smile. Prig stopped as well, looking confused and glancing from the nearby soldiers, to the overseer, to me. It felt good to vex the overseer. I knew once I was in that room with the door closed, the tables would quickly turn.
With a nod from the overseer one of the guards stepped forward, grabbed me by my dirty tunic collar and shoved me inside the room. A moment later the door slammed shut behind me and I was alone with the one man in the Pit who tormented me more than Prig.
Chapter 4
The overseer was a bastard. A short man, he was of a height with me and I was just fifteen, still growing. He was much older than I, with a face pitted with pockmarks and a neatly trimmed grey beard that stuck to his chin and nowhere else. His skin was pale as milk and his voice as cold as the watery grave.
"Sit, Eskara," he said, pointing to the far chair. It was a show of power using my name. He knew that and much more about me. The Orran Academy of Magic kept meticulous records on all their students, and I later learned that all those records ended up in the Pit. Josef and I were not the only Orran Sourcerers locked up in the dark. I, on the other hand, knew nothing about the overseer, not even his name. I still know nothing about him, even so many years after his death. I sometimes think that might be my greatest victory over the man; I buried him without ever even knowing his name. He knew everything about me and never managed to break me. Well, almost never.
I trudged around the table and sank into a chair, letting my eyes fall on the table in front. It was bare grey wood, save for a small red stain close to me. If I looked carefully I could tell it was blood. The table had seen violence, that much was obvious. I wondered how long it would be before the overseer used violence on me.
"Are you thirsty? Hungry?" the overseer asked. He didn't wait for a reply but turned and knocked on the door. A moment later, it opened. "Bring a bottle of wine and a bowl of stew," he said, never taking his eyes from me. "And some fresh clothing. Boots as well."
The door closed and the overseer stepped forward, sitting on the chair across from me. I looked up into his eyes and saw compassion. It looked real, genuine. I don't think he knew how close that look came to breaking me then and there. To see someone care about me and my situation, someone with the power to change it, was surreal. Part of me longed to break down, to be rescued from the Pit. I squashed that traitorous little part of me down and crushed it. The overseer didn't care about me. No one did, except maybe Josef. Back then I think Josef cared about me more than I did myself, but still not enough to do anything about it.
"How is the foreman treating you?" the overseer asked, concern still written on his face.
I placed my hands on the table so the overseer could see the bandages wrapped around my arms. He ignored them and continued to stare at me. "As well as can be expected," I said. "We dig, he whips us, we dig some more."
The overseer nodded. "And the other Sourcerer? Your friend?"
There was an iron rung underneath my chair, no doubt for chaining unruly prisoners to. I kicked my feet against it, struggling to sit still. Anxiety was making me restless. "He digs sometimes too," I said. "We all dig. One day we might just dig ourselves free."
The
overseer smiled and nodded. "Hope is important for people in your situation."
I couldn't decide what he meant then, and I'm still not sure now. On the one hand he might have been genuine. Hope was important down in the Pit. I saw inmates lose hope and I saw the wrecks they became. Some got themselves killed, others stopped living and just existed, working away the rest of their lives in obscurity. Then again, the overseer might have wanted to cultivate hope because having hope would make me easier to break. He could be cruel at times and I've always wondered just how cruel. I sometimes think he wanted to make me hope just so he could see my face the moment he took it away. It was fucking maddening trying to comprehend the man's insidious games.
"What would you hope for?" I asked, suddenly desperate to turn the tables. "If you were in my situation."
The overseer seemed to think about that for a moment. "Freedom, of course," he said with a shrug. "An end to my suffering."
I let a slow smile spread across my face and stared at the man. "I hope one day I can give you both."
He frowned then, fidgeting in his chair under the scrutiny of my stare. A knock at the door broke the tension, and when it opened three soldiers filed into the little room. The first brought chains and a bowl of water, the second brought a tray of food and wine, and the third brought a fresh set of prison clothes with a new pair of boots that looked suspiciously like my size. They each deposited their burdens on the table and then the first soldier set about attaching manacles to my wrists and the chain to the iron rung beneath my chair. After I was firmly secured to the floor, the soldier put the key on the table and all three of them left, leaving me alone with the overseer once more.
I waited for the door to shut and rattled my chains, giving the man a real fuck you look.
The overseer smiled and fingered the key on the table, turning it around and around. "It's all part of the process," he said.