Tomaaz’s shovel hit softer dirt. Brown liquid seeped through the soil, trickling into the trench. He didn’t dare risk saying anything, but he nudged Half Hand, before he loosened the dirt with a few taps of his shovel. A thin stream of sludge spurted out. He scrambled out of the ditch, half dragging Half Hand with him. The rest of the slaves climbed out, dropping their tools.
Tharuk 568 shoved a pick at Tomaaz. “Here, use that.”
Tomaaz dragged his heels while the weakened slaves further down the canal climbed to safety.
568 narrowed his eyes, watching him.
Tomaaz’s heart pounded as he leaned over the edge of the trench. Giving away that he wasn’t controlled by numlock would mean losing Ma. He had to let the slaves around him suffer, or he’d be found out. Every nerve in his body screamed at the injustice. He swung the pick: once; twice. The dirt gave. Sludge spewed out of the gaping wound, flowing down the canal.
When 568 yelled, “Down tools! Rest time!” Tomaaz collapsed right next to his slave crew, not caring about the overpowering stench.
How had Lovina survived this?
§
Tomaaz scrubbed at the bottom of the cauldron to get rid of burnt-on sludge. The tharuk gruel had done little to fill his aching stomach or revive his weary muscles. Cramps ran down his back and his shoulders were more knotted than the old piaua trunk in the sacred clearing at home.
A whip-wielding tharuk paced nearby, scowling at him. “Scrub harder. It’s almost sundown.”
Giving a dumb nod, Tomaaz put his back into it. Gods, he was ready to fall into bed—if they even had beds here. He’d kept his eyes open, looking for possible places to keep a prisoner, scanning slaves’ faces as he’d ladled out gruel, looking for Ma.
Nothing.
A whip cracked.
Tomaaz resisted the urge to snap his head up, raising it lethargically and gazing about with his jaw half open. Beyond the eating area, near a pile of rubble, a tharuk with a droopy eye towered over Half Hand, who was lying in the dirt with his shovel nearby. Odd—everyone else had returned their tools to the piles. What was he up to?
“Up,” Droopy Eye bellowed, cracking its whip again. “Now!”
Half Hand dragged himself to his knees and heaved his shovel across the dirt, panting. Using the spade, he pulled himself to stand, then shambled a few steps, only to fall again.
Droopy Eye booted Half Hand in the ribs. “Get up, you mangy mutt! It’s feeding time.”
Tomaaz clenched the side of the pot to stop himself from running over. He had to bide his time. Find Ma.
The tharuk kicked the boy again. Blood trickled out of his mouth.
Half Hand was starved, weak and senseless. Anyone could see he was dying. The pot bit into Tomaaz’s palms. Cords of muscle stood out on his forearms.
A whip cracked against the cauldron, making Tomaaz start. Furry hands grabbed his head, wrenching it around. “What’s wrong? A bit twitchy?” Tharuk 568’s fetid breath blasted his face. Tusks nearly scraped his cheek. The tharuk yanked one of his eyelids up and gave a satisfied nod. “Still numlocked. Good. Now, finish that pot.”
Tomaaz thrust his arm back into the cauldron and kept his head down, scraping the ladle to loosen the last of the burnt crust. Thank the Egg, his father had given him dragon’s scale to keep his eyes gray.
Above the prone figure of Half Hand, two tharuks were arguing. “You should’na kicked him.”
“He wasn’t moving,” Droopy Eye growled.
“Probably killed him.”
“He’s fine. Look.” Droopy Eye raised his whip …
One more lash would kill the boy. Tomaaz abandoned the pot, running, a croak escaping his dusty throat. Around him, time seemed to slow as slaves gaped and tharuks turned. He pretended to stumble and fall, then pulled himself up again. Shards, shards, shards! What had he done?
With a snap, a whip wrapped itself around his arm. Pain seared his bicep. Droopy Eye heaved on the whip, pulling Tomaaz toward him. Tomaaz stumbled, dragging on the whip as if it was hard to walk—as if they’d believe that, after his mad dash.
Droopy Eye and another tharuk grabbed his arms. A tharuk with a bent tusk thrust its snout into his face and, for the second time that day, Tomaaz had his eyelids pulled up and his eye color inspected. He kept his body loose, face slack. Bent Tusk fired questions at him and he stayed dumb, answer-less, except for an apathetic shrug of a shoulder.
“His eyes are fine,” a huge brute snapped. “Doesn’t have wasting sickness. Must be from last raid. Maybe not enough numlock.” The beast pointed at 568. “You. Give him more. Keep an eye on him.”
“Y-yes, overseer.” 568 yanked Tomaaz’s hair, pulling his head back and tipping a waterskin over his mouth.
Tomaaz spluttered, then gulped down tainted water until his bloated belly ached.
“Right,” the tharuk overseer snarled at 568. “Replace the feeder with this dog.” It kicked Tomaaz in the backside.
Then the overseer booted Half Hand in the head.
The boy twitched, his bloody head rolling to one side, then was still, staring at the world with open glassy eyes.
568 shoved Half Hand’s spade into Tomaaz’s hand, then drove his claws through the back of Tomaaz’s jerkin, pricking his skin. “March. We’re feeding the beast. Your job now. Morning and night.”
Droopy Eye and Bent Tusk fell in beside 568.
His tail bone throbbing and back stinging, Tomaaz stumbled along the valley—driven by the three tharuks—without a backward glance at the dead boy.
§
Tharuk 568 jabbed Tomaaz’s back and growled, “Go right.”
They turned down another arm of the sprawling valley and headed between steep hills dotted with the stumpy thorn bushes. Once they’d gone a short way, a new stench greeted Tomaaz. Something putrid. His belly, distended with foul water, roiled. He gagged, but swallowed his gorge. He wouldn’t give 568 another reason to stuff him full of Zens’ tainted water.
Dragging his shovel, he shambled along until they reached a dead end—split into three short gullies by folds in the hills.
“Halt,” 568 snapped. “Been here before?”
Tomaaz shook his head mutely.
“Left is human flesh. Straight ahead are dead tharuks. Right are animals.” 568 yanked Tomaaz along while the Droopy Eye and Bent Tusk waited.
Earlier in the day, Tomaaz had dragged his shovel to prove he was numlocked. Now, he doubted he could lift it. He hadn’t eaten properly; he hadn’t slept; and he’d been digging all day.
Ahead, a tharuk was throwing mice onto a heap of dead animals—squirrels, birds, but mainly rats. No wonder the place stank.
“Get the beast food.” 568’s shove nearly sent Tomaaz sprawling.
568 speared a dead rat on its claw and crunched it down, tail flicking against its tusks.
Tomaaz pushed his spade into the heap, piling it with dead rats and a squirrel carcass.
“No. Squirrels and birds is for tharuks.” 568 shook the spade, making everything but one rat fall off. “Not too much. Zens wants a hungry beast.”
The tharuk tending the heap gave a throaty snarl, grimacing at Tomaaz. “An angry beast to feed.” It sprinkled gray powder over the rat on Tomaaz’s shovel. Shrugging at Tomaaz’s lack of response, it spat. “Humans. All dumb.”
With the rat balanced on the end of his shovel, Tomaaz followed 568 out of the narrow gully, past the heaps of rotting tharuks and dead slaves, hopelessness building inside him. Not only had he managed to get noticed by the tharuks, they’d singled him out for feeding some beast. He’d never had a chance to look for Ma—fat lot of help he was. The only chance he had of surviving this hellhole was to submit to the tharuks and hope he didn’t run out of dragon’s scale or clear-mind before he got out of here. He traipsed along, balancing the dead rat on his spade, arms burning.
The tharuks slowed. “It’s your turn,” said Droopy Eye. “Train the slave, 489.”
Bent Tusk stopped, shaking its hea
d, its face dark against the setting sun. “568’s turn.”
568 snarled. “Coward. I’m not going. I train him here.” It shifted from foot to foot, then grabbed Tomaaz’s shoulder. “Go to the end.” It pointed up the narrow side valley. “Caves up there. Beast in large cave.” 568 flashed sharp teeth. “Drop rat outside cave. Watch beast eat. If you throw wrong, you go get rat.”
“Don’t do that.” Droopy Eye gestured at the scar pulling its eye down. “I did. Look what happened.”
The other tharuks guffawed.
Tomaaz swallowed, trudging away. He turned a bend. Out of sight of the tharuks, he scurried further along the canyon. The sun was dipping below the hills as he reached the end of the gully, swathes of shadows creeping across his path and shrouding the cave entrances. The largest cavern was a dark maw in the shadowy hillside.
The rattle of a chain and a growl made Tomaaz’s neck hair stand on end. He was no longer alone. Snatching the rat by the tail, he flung it through the air toward the gaping hollow.
The snap of jaws and crunching told him all he needed to know. The beast had caught its meager meal.
There were caves on either side of the beast’s. Hopefully, the creature’s chain wasn’t long enough to reach them. Tomaaz ducked into the cave on the right, the one furthest from the beast, and pulled the calling stone out of his pocket. He sunk to the cavern floor, leaning on the rough wall. Rubbing the crystal vigorously, he kept Pa’s face in his mind, staring at the flat surface. It was too dark to see anything. He could hardly see his own hands, but he had to know if Pa was still alive. Rubbing again, he willed his father to answer.
The crystal grew warm in his hands, then glowed. A vibrant sunset rippled across its surface, casting light around it. Pa’s face came into view. “Pa,” Tomaaz whispered. He was alive, thank the Egg. His breath whooshed out of him in relief.
His father’s words drifted through his mind. “Tomaaz, did you make it down to the valley? Have you found Marlies?”
“Yes, I’m here. No sign of Ma yet.”
“Handel says she’s captive. Been beaten. You have to …” Pa winced as a spasm wracked his face.
“Pa, are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Find your ma.”
“I’ll sneak out tonight and search for her.” His voice caught. “Pa, the poison—they said it was a strong dose. That you’ll die in two days. You have to get help.”
Pa managed a grimace as another spasm wracked him.
Tomaaz peered at the image of Pa glowing in the dim cavern. Sweat beaded Pa’s face and his skin was ashen.
A low rumble skittered through the wall behind Tomaaz’s spine, making his skin crawl. He turned.
A hand span from where he’d been leaning was a hole in the wall the size of his head. Bathed in the glow from the calling stone was a large gray eye with a slitted pupil, watching him.
The glow on the stone was fading. Tomaaz raced for the entrance. The beast growled. Its chain clanked. Tomaaz ran back toward the waiting tharuks, its roars echoing behind him. Just before the bend in the valley, he heard the tharuks snarling at each other about who was going to fetch him. He slowed to catch his breath, then slumped and shuffled around the corner. No! He’d forgotten his shovel. Hopefully his captors wouldn’t notice in the dark.
568 yanked his arm, dragging him down the valley. “Stupid slave. You dropped the spade.”
§
The sprawling buildings Tomaaz had seen when they entered the valley turned out to be the slaves’ sleeping quarters. 568 took Tomaaz’s crew to the closest one. They were each given more numlocked water as they filed inside. Crammed with dirty pallets and sweaty unwashed bodies, the place reeked. Tomaaz shuffled forward. Imitating the slaves who collapsed, dragging tattered blankets over their bodies, he sank to his knees on a filthy pallet, hoping it wasn’t infested with lice or vermin. He pulled the thin blanket over him. The moment his head hit the fabric, his eyes drooped.
The last time he’d slept had been in a cave with Pa and Handel, two days ago, high above the forest. He’d had no idea how beautiful that landscape was. How great his freedom had been.
Tharuk 568 grunted and slammed the door. Its footfalls crunched along the valley.
Struggling to stay awake, Tomaaz gazed around the room. Candle stumps flickered. One guttered and died. Its life was snuffed out, just like Half Hand earlier. Had the same happened to Ma? Was she lying dead somewhere on the ground? Did that boy have family who didn’t know where he was? Or had they all died here, too?
A hollow ache gnawed at Tomaaz’s belly as he drifted to sleep, but nightmares of tharuk whips yanked Tomaaz awake. Around him a hundred sleeping slaves wheezed and muttered. A lone candle was still burning, so he couldn’t have slept that long. Outside, feet stomped toward the sleeping hut.
The door opened and a tharuk held a torch high. “All good here,” it growled.
“Of course,” another tharuk answered. “Numlock keeps slaves easy.”
“We got to check,” said the first. “I not give keepsakes for Zens’ tank.”
Lovina had mentioned a tank, too. What was that about? And where was Zens?
“Let’s go. Check the other sheds.” They closed the door, their voices getting fainter as they moved away.
How soon would they be back? Should he slip out now? No, he didn’t know their routine. Tomaaz lay in the dark, counting his breaths.
Sure enough, after about three hundred and fifty breaths, the tharuks returned, chortling at a joke. The door opened, the torch flared in the room, then they were gone again. Rising to a crouch, Tomaaz took his boots off and tucked them under his blanket, leaving a lump in the bed. The crude wooden floor was cold on his feet, but his socks would be quieter outside than boots. He didn’t have long.
Tomaaz eased the door open and stepped outside.
Dim moonlight filtered through the mist wisping from the cracks in the hills as Tomaaz picked his way past the eating area and the cold fire pits. Sticking to the shadowy cliffsides, he soon reached Half Hand. Tomaaz rolled him over. The boy’s skin was pale in the wan light, and his eyes glassy. He felt for the pulse at his throat, just in case. Dead.
He’d had to check. Could he bury him? No, the tharuks would get suspicious if the body disappeared.
Besides, he had to find Ma. He couldn’t get sidetracked by some slave he didn’t even know.
But that was the problem. Tomaaz wanted to help them all—to free these poor people from this living, dying hell. Straightening, he sighed and cast about. Where could Ma be?
“Strange scent,” a tharuk’s voice carried across the valley. “Someone outside.”
“I not seen anyone, 701.”
“Course not. You’re no tracker, 131. Let’s get one.”
A tracker! Panic clawed at Tomaaz’s throat. He had to hide, but the voices were between him and the sleeping shed. There wasn’t another shed nearby—only a rubble pile and the boy’s body.
He took off his shirt. Kneeling, he unbuttoned the boy’s shirt, and slipped it on. Then he put his shirt on the boy. Hopefully, that would disguise his scent. He ducked in among the rubble. Whatever Zens’ slaves were doing in the hillside, it produced a lot of debris.
Tomaaz’s heart pounded as the tracker traced his scent to the dead boy.
Moonlight glinted off the tracker’s tusks as it cast about, circling the rubble pile. “Lost the trail,” it snarled. “Scents are mixed. Are you two skiving off patrol?”
“No. Slave stole his shirt,” muttered a tharuk. “One slave is thinking.”
“Zens will be angry,” said another. “Should double their numlock.”
“Zens must not find out,” the tracker agreed. “I mix strong numlock tonight, so no one will know. Now, get back to patrol.”
The tracker took one last sniff, and the beasts moved on.
So, trackers were smarter than the usual tharuk grunts. With a tracker on the prowl, it was too dangerous to keep searching for Ma. Sweat slick
ing his brow, Tomaaz sneaked back to the sleeping shed.
Piaua’s Promise
Marlies hadn’t had food or water for a day and a half. Her head was throbbing, her face was swollen, and every time she moved, fire shot through her ribs. Even breathing hurt. She’d tried to get out of the barred door, but … oh, shards, she was exhausted.
“Zaarusha,” Marlies murmured, “I’ve failed you.” And she’d failed Hans, Ezaara and Tomaaz …. Maybe, if she slept, she’d feel better.
A while later, Marlies woke—not better, but worse.
Zens was right: if he tortured her again, she’d crack. In fact, if he visited right now, she didn’t have the strength to put up a fight. She no longer knew the latest secrets of Dragons’ Hold and the Council of the Twelve Dragon Masters, so that wasn’t a danger, but Zens would find out about her family. And Zens never did things by halves. He’d discover Ezaara was the new Queen’s Rider. His tharuks would hunt down Ezaara and all Marlies’ loved ones and murder them all.
Marlies would never let that happen.
With sudden clarity, she understood why Zaarusha’s dragonet had sacrificed its life so she could have the twins.
Sometimes, it was worth it to give your life for others.
She reached into her healer’s pouch and silently thanked the piaua tree as she pulled the stem of blue berries out. No one was coming to save her. No one even knew of her plight. She would never be able to repay Zaarusha. It was time to become a witch of blue.
A tear tracked down her cheek.
Marlies ate the berries and tucked the stem back in her pouch.
A Terrible Discovery
Tomaaz tossed and turned all night, his belly rumbling. He woke before dawn and chewed clear-mind berries and checked his fingernails. Still gray, so he could wait a while with the dragon’s scale. Thankfully, he hadn’t been searched, or his remedies would have been found. Perhaps he should hide them somewhere. Or would a tracker sniff them out?
Tharuks roused the slaves and dosed them up with numlocked water. Chunks of rock-hard bread were their breakfast fare. Tomaaz nearly broke his teeth on them, but at least they filled his belly more than the sour gruel they’d had the night before.
Dragon Hero: Riders of Fire, Book Two - A Dragons' Realm novel Page 22