She was carrying no possessions and her weapons had been taken in the forest. The dark days that lay ahead would unfurl terrible horrors but, for that moment, that awful moment, nothing seemed worse in her life as she slowly removed her clothes and set them on the table, the heat of the fire doing nothing to reduce the chill on her skin. She had never felt more crushed, more humiliated in her entire life. She had seen men and women hang, had pulled the trigger on many souls and cast them into the soil, yet here, in this room that reeked of foulness, the ceiling lowered, the walls shrank, faces blurred, words distorted. She wanted to sob. She wanted to die. She wanted to have known her parent’s eyes and known their voices but she never had and never would.
One hand across her chest, one hand between her legs, she stared forward, wanting eye contact with no one. She knew Conrad stood near her but she didn’t want to see him naked, not here, not under these circumstances.
Floran walked to the table and took a cursory glance. Most of the clothes would be recycled, a few he would burn, one pair of shoes and trousers he would keep. He poked at the possessions, puzzled by a few of them. He would take his pick before passing the rest onto the Thinker.
“Follow me,” he said.
He led the prisoners back into the tunnel, escorted by the Cuvars. His shoes drummed a pattern along the stone floor. He slipped off his glasses, wiped the lenses and placed them back onto the bridge of his nose. He walked with his back straight. He stopped the prisoners at the end of the tunnel and was approached by a black haired man, a sword hanging from his belt.
“I am Captain Niklas. You will address me as Captain or Sir. If you fail to do so, you will be punished.”
His staring eyes were dark, tiny pools in a taut leathery face, heavily browned from the sun.
”You will be marked and you will carry this mark until you die. When you look at this mark you will realise you mean nothing.”
His voice was raspy, words slipping over cracked looking lips.
“We will issue you prison clothes so we can easily identify you. You will wear the clothes until you die.”
He stepped forward.
“And when you die, you will be thrown into the sea.”
Hand resting on the hilt of the sword, he glanced along the line. Nuria felt his eyes roam her flesh.
A rusted iron door opened, squealing on hinges. Heat poured into the tunnel. The prisoners began to mutter nervously and the Cuvars shouted at them to remain silent. One of them cracked his club against the wall, shaking loose flakes of stone in a cloud of dust. The young humourless man, captured on the forest highway, was at the front of the line. Two men dragged him through the doorway and into a poky room. The iron door was slammed shut and Nuria heard struggling and pleading following by a blood curdling scream. The two Cuvars pushed him back into the tunnel, a cloth wrapped around his forearm. He was shaking, face stained with tears. The line shuffled forward and the next prisoner was bundled through the doorway.
Eyes lowered, Nuria saw Niklas exchange a few words with Floran. The bespectacled man nodded as the Captain passed him something. A small bag, a flash of blue.
He strode toward her, took her arm in his hand, and guided her from the line.
“Nuria,” yelled Conrad, and she turned to see him lunge toward her, only to be beaten to the floor by several Cuvars, howling as the clubs struck his bare flesh.
The Captain took her into a new corridor and shoved her through a door. The room had a low ceiling. There was no window. A few candles burned. He closed the door and she covered herself as he let go of her arm. She saw a table, a chair and a low bed with blankets. Clothing hung from pegs banged into the stone wall. He slid a bolt into place and grinned. His teeth were brown. Her breathing became uncontrollable. Her legs weakened and she knew she would collapse on the floor at any moment.
There was no escape from him. Her throat was numb. She had no voice.
He watched her, closely, eyes never leaving her, saying nothing as he loosened his belt and set the sheathed sword across the desk.
He pointed at the bed.
--- Eleven ---
Conrad gingerly peeled back the cloth and stared at the trio of symbols burnt into his forearm.
He drew his knees to his chest and lowered his head. Slumped against the floor of the tunnel, torches flickering, he felt he was about to explode with the pain of what was unfolding. He didn’t care for his arm. Drunk, he would undoubtedly parade it in the village tavern and draw onlookers to guess what the symbols represented and regal them with a wild tale that would bear little resemblance to the truth. He didn’t care for the tears barrelling down his cheeks or the beating he had endured in the courtyard. Shivering, gasping for water, strength sapped, his pain was for Nuria, curled against the wall, further along the tunnel, eyes blank, a fresh bruise on her face. He clenched his fists until the knuckles whitened. He saw the cloth wrapped around her left forearm. She had been the last to be strapped into the chair to feel the red hot iron.
He wiped the tears from his face as Floran led the freshly branded prisoners into another room where they were issued a pair of ill fitting trousers, a shirt and sandals and instructed to dress. The clothing was dark brown, made from stretched hide. The prisoners were divided into two groups, one male and one female, and then marched to separate cell blocks. Conrad glimpsed Nuria one final time. He swore to himself that, if he was doomed to rot in this wretched place, he would drive his every living fibre to carving open the chest of Captain Niklas and ripping out the man’s beating heart.
The prisoners were working so the cell block was empty and a giant iron gate, bristling with rust, hung wide open. The smell made him gag as he was pushed inside; the rank stench of sweat, urine, stale pipe smoke and excrement. The lower floor was lined with cells with no doors or gates. He glimpsed blankets and buckets and a scattering of personal possessions, though not many. Here and there he also spotted a chair or a bench. The walls were heavily pitted and scaled up toward a second floor of cells with a long balcony running the length of the block. The ceiling was arched, filthy and crumbling. He picked his way forward. He saw bedding on the floor and realised that some men slept outside in the corridor. He nodded to himself, understanding that in a place such as this a hierarchy had naturally evolved. Men from the Eastern Villages might have tried to create unity, in the beginning, all victims of the Collectors, but he saw many blankets and knew that people must have been taken from all over Gallen and he was intelligent enough to realise that caged men, brutalised with punishments, would turn the violence inward, petty grievances and squabbles rapidly erupting into bone-crunching brawls. He kept away from the cells and chose a spot that had not been claimed, quickly rolling out his blanket.
Conrad sat, wrinkling his nose at the stink of stale urine from a nearby bucket. He watched the other prisoners look around and find spots to bed down. One was foolish enough to take a place inside a cell. Conrad shook his head and the thought passed him to warn the man but he stayed where he was and kept his mouth shut. He wondered how many fellow villagers from Dessan he would come upon. The notion danced in his head for a brief moment, lifting his darkened heart. He balanced his chin against his knees and thought back to the ambush on the forest road; chasing through the woods with Nuria, Justine and Mallon, hacking down the Collectors with his fine sword. It had been quite an adventure. Mischief drew him in. It always had. He fleetingly recalled what Nuria had told him about Stone’s ruthlessness that often landed him, and those around him, in trouble. His wry smile faded as he saw Captain Niklas swagger casually into the cell block.
How can the man be so aloof and matter of fact having committed such a vile act?
“Tomorrow you will begin work,” said the Captain. “You will obey all orders given, or you will be punished. You will work hard, or you will be punished.”
Conrad wanted to tear his throat out.
“You need something more original than you will be punished. It’s already getting bori
ng.”
There was the loud scrape of iron and the Captain’s sword flashed before Conrad’s face, the tip an inch from his eye.
“I’m extremely skilled with this weapon,” said Niklas. “Would you care for a demonstration?”
“Hand me a sword and we’ll see how good you are.”
“There’s always one,” he said, lowering the sword and pressing the blade against Conrad’s rib cage. “I’m extremely skilled with another weapon of mine as well. That seems to have bothered you a great deal.” Conrad eyes twisted with hate. “She cried a lot but she’ll get used to it.”
He drew back his sword.
“Factory,” he said. He began pointing at the other prisoners. “Farm, farm, factory, factory, farm …”
“That’s my spot.”
Conrad raised his eyes. The cell block resonated with conversation and heaved with sweating men, roaming in and out of individual cells and along the balcony on the upper floor. The iron gate was locked.
“I can move.”
He rolled up his blanket, shifted a few feet away and set it down on the grimy, dusty floor.
“That’s my fucking spot as well.”
Conrad let out a sigh. The man was of a similar age. His head was shaven, chest bare, arms rippling with muscle. He rocked on the balls of his feet, casually bouncing his brutish looking fists together.
“Why don’t you tell me where I can sit?”
“You can’t sit anywhere,” said the Bald One. “These are all my fucking places. Get your shit, find somewhere else.”
Conrad picked up his blanket, began to shuffle away when the Bald One stepped into his path. He attempted to go around the man, first left and then right, but the Bald One blocked each attempt.
“Leave him alone,” shouted an indistinct voice.
“You want to fucking die?” called the Bald One, over his shoulder. “Keep that fucking mouth flapping and you will.” Cold eyes burned at Conrad. “Where you going, eh? Eh? Where you going? I told you this is all my space? You get it? So where you going? You’re still in my space, long hair.”
“I’m sorry. If you let me pass, I won’t be in your space anymore.”
The Bald One grinned, surprising Conrad. An arm was wrapped around his shoulder.
“Hey, I’m just fucking with you, alright? I don’t mean anything. Don’t take things too fucking personal, man. Hey, nice sandals. You got new sandals? I like your sandals, man. Nice, let me try them on.”
“What?”
The arm tightened around him.
“Come on, slip them off, let me try them.”
Reluctantly, Conrad stepped from his footwear. The floor was cold against his bare feet. The Bald One kicked off his worn and scuffed sandals and tugged on Conrad’s new pair.
“Man, these look good. You think they look good? Yeah? They look better on me than you, yeah?” He grinned again. “You can have mine, long hair. OK? Yeah? That OK? Good.”
He slapped him on the back.
“Can I have my shoes back?”
The Bald One let out a low whistle. All eyes turned on Conrad. Faces peered from the balcony above. Conversation fell away.
Conrad steadied himself. He was in no mood for a fist fight. He had already seen the Bald One’s cronies gathered around the front cells. He knew he was horribly outnumbered and was under no illusion that the Cuvars wouldn't care he if was subjected to a beating over a pair of sandals. The broad chested man approached him once more, again draping a thick arm around his shoulders, pulling him close, to whisper in his ear.
“Get the fuck out of here, whilst you can still walk, long hair.”
He shoved Conrad away. Not looking back, Conrad stumbled along the cell block, clutching his blanket and worn sandals to his chest, laughter ringing in his ears.
“Conrad.”
He turned at the sound of his name.
Nuria had been allocated to the farm, shovelling manure. It was outside so she breathed clean air, even if the air was thick with the headache inducing aroma of excrement. She was an ex-soldier. She had been trained on how to react if captured by the enemy but no amount training had fostered any response to what she had experienced in Tamnica. He came for her at the end of the working day, after the prisoners had been fed, and would unlock the cell block with a bunch of keys. Heads lowered as she was marched silently along a torch lit tunnel until she reached his office. He would tell her to undress and lie on the bed. She had already stopped fighting him.
This was her world. This was her reality.
She would shape her life around Tamnica. Mould herself to it. Become the ancient stones and gloomy tunnels and rusted barred windows. The Warden had told them to forget; she would. The name Nuria was dead. Her home city of Chett was a figment of her imagination. She would no longer stroll through the trees or doze in the afternoon sun or cross desert sands or hear words that filled her heart. Survival was her existence. She had accepted that. Sleeping on a hard floor with a single blanket to keep her warm in the cold and damp cell block would become normality. She would consume a meagre breakfast of hard biscuit and water and bask in the weak sun that touched her skin through the day. She would fill her head with the noise of the animals that roamed the farm, creatures she had never before seen; white sheep that made a curious bleating sound, giant cows, with black and white patterns, fat and hairy pigs, stinking and snuffling in muck. The days seemed shorter now. The rains came and went. The sky was mostly leaden or dull blue. She would bury herself in silence. Make no friends. Talk to no one. She could trust the animals. They were cared for, never mistreated, well fed and allowed to breed. They inhabited warm barns with straw covered floors and drank from troughs of water. Sometimes, she drank from the troughs, too.
This was her world. This was her reality.
Once, she thought she saw Conrad, but it was a fleeting glance, and she couldn’t waste any energy thinking about him or Stone or Justine. They were all dead. They were all dust. Her focus was on her new world and her new world was the female cell block in Tamnica. She would continue to adjust to the routines and lack of freedom and suffer at the hands of Captain Niklas. His molestations would form one part of the tapestry that was her life, woven intricately with the sleeping and eating and shit shovelling.
On the eighth day, and she really wondered why she continued to count the days, one of the other prisoners called her over. It had been a long hard day on the farm and she could feel the rain tip from the angry clouds, the wind blasting her face raw. She had spoken with no one since being placed in the cell block. Several women had attempted to engage her in conversation but she had ignored them. One had offered her extra blankets but Nuria had simply stared at her and shook her head. No one handed over anything for free in a place such as this, not without wanting something in return.
“Doing a good job,” the woman had said, leaning on her shovel, picking at a wart on her hand.
“I am Cathy. What is your name?”
Nuria remained silent.
“I understand,” said Cathy, strolling toward her. “But they cannot hear us from up there.”
She nodded at the Cuvars in the watchtowers. High walls surrounded the fields and the barns where the animals were kept, located beyond the sprawling prison buildings.
“They tell you to forget,” she said. “But you must always remember. In here. In your heart.”
Nuria flinched as Cathy touched her chest.
“I am sorry. Forgive me. The Captain has been taking you. We all know. He has taken us all. New prisoners arrived today. I saw women. He will take one of them tonight.”
Cathy brushed her hand against Nuria’s. She shot her an angry look and brushed hands for a second time. Nuria realised she was attempting to pass her something. She didn’t want anything but Cuvars were wandering the fields - and she had no intention of landing the woman in trouble - so she accepted it. It was small, much smaller than she had anticipated, and it slipped through her fingers, landing in the d
irt.
“Leave it,” said Cathy. “Don’t reach down for it.”
Nuria glanced. She couldn’t see anything at first. Then she spotted a blue tablet lying in the dirt.
“It will help you forget,” said Cathy. “I can see you have pain. It will take the pain away.”
Cathy began dry heaving and doubled over and Nuria watched as the woman skilfully plucked the tablet from the ground. One of the Cuvar’s called over to her but she held up her hand, indicating that she was fine.
As the women began to return their tools to a large shed Cathy slipped her the tablet.
Cathy had been right.
The Captain had arrived at the cell block gates once the evening meal had been consumed. He scratched his unshaven jaw and his small eyes scrutinised the new prisoners, huddled into one corner. Nuria had barely glanced at them. He unlocked the gate and this time Niklas chose a young woman with skin the colour of night. She pleaded for help but she was alone. Nuria leaned her back against the crumbling wall and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the cries echoing through the tunnel as Niklas took her to his room. Her voice faded. She swallowed hard and shivered as a breeze rippled her skin.
“Did you take it?”
Nuria opened her eyes, shook her head.
“It will help. Makes things easier. You start not to care about the shit that goes on in this hole.”
She studied the woman closer. She must have been in her late teens, maybe twenty, but she had aged rapidly, lines around her eyes and mouth, across her narrow forehead. Her long black hair, tied back, was peppered with flecks of grey.
“How long have you been here?”
“Me?” shrugged Cathy, sitting next to her. “I don’t know. Two, three years, I reckon. I grew up a long way from here. Was hiking across country with a few others. We found food in the forest, mushrooms and shit, cooked it up. We never kept watch, nothing like that. We woke up the next morning to these men with masks and crossbows.”
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 14