The slave crews settled into digging ditches again. The lash wound on Tomaaz’s back burnt every time he bent to dig. He’d maintained his position at the head of each ditch he worked on, lucky to be the slave that let sewage flood the ditches. By being careful, he’d saved a few lives while he’d been here. His thoughts flitted to the boy with Ma.
“Maazini, how’s the boy?”
“In pain, but remarkably brave.”
He was glad he’d found Maazini. All of this would be worth it, if they could free him.
A tharuk ran into the latrine area, panting, and reported to 568. “The small male is not there,” it said. “I searched the flesh pile. It is gone.”
568 turned to Burnt Face, barking, “Gather the guards.”
Burnt Face brought most of the tharuks from each crew toward the latrine Tomaaz was working on, leaving only the overseers to guard the ditch diggers.
Now would be the perfect time for a slave rebellion. They were all armed with shovels and outnumbered the tharuks. Tomaaz sighed. Numlocked slaves weren’t capable of rebellion. He threw another shovelful of dirt out of the trench.
The tharuk group gathered in front of 568.
“Small male human is missing. Not on flesh pile. Not in sleeping hut. Where is it?”
His troops shook their heads, shifting from foot to foot.
“Something is wrong,” snarled 568. “Did one of you eat it?”
Tomaaz’s flesh crawled. Tharuks ate people?
The underlings shook their heads again. “Not eat humans,” one said. “Commander Zens kills us if we eat them.”
“No humans.” 568 nodded. “Waterskin is missing. Anything else?” His red eyes scrutinized the tharuk guards.
Tomaaz kept digging, tossing dirt. The slaves were oblivious. At the crack of an overseer’s whip in the next trench, Tomaaz forced himself to breathe steadily, and tossed another spadeful of dirt.
“Tell me!” 568 barked. “Or straight to Zens.”
“A blanket, sir,” a tharuk muttered. “Missing from the hut. Two days ago.”
“Anything else?” 568 thundered, claws extended.
They knew about the blanket, the boy, the waterskin …
“A saw snapped. Half blade is missing.”
“What?” 568 roared, wheeling to grab the beast’s leather tunic. “When?”
“184 was with me,” the tharuk gibbered.
Tharuk 184 spoke up. “Found out this morning. Just checked the mines. Still missing.”
They’d discovered every single thing he’d taken. Who would have known this ramshackle valley was so organized? Tomaaz’s breath hissed as he worked. His scent would be on the boy’s bed. The boy’s scent would be all over him. Could a tracker find his trail or had he masked it? Only one way to be sure.
Tomaaz was nearly at the end of the ditch. A few more shovelfuls and he’d hit the latrine pit. He tossed another spade of dirt. He dared a quick glance around. No tharuks were watching. He tossed out two shovels of dirt in rapid succession.
“We have tharuk traitor,” 568 said, “or slave spy. Get a tracker!” it bellowed.
A tharuk ran off to the main valley.
“Report back,” 568 barked at two burly tharuks. “What happened to 216?”
“Zens took a hand,” one answered.
“Good. Keeps you all honest.” It laughed. “If tracker not find spy, everyone can hunt.”
The tharuks laughed raucously.
The violence in their guffaws raised the hairs on Tomaaz’s neck. His spade hit the dirt in front of him. A trickle of sludge crept out of the pit. Tomaaz nudged the slave behind him and scrambled out of the ditch. Slumping on the freshly-tossed earth, he waited until everyone was clear, then leaned over, whacking the pit wall with his spade. Not too hard, that should do it. Only a trickle of sludge leaked out.
“Get in and finish it off!” bellowed a tharuk, breaking away from 568’s group. “Move it!”
Wearily, Tomaaz clambered back into the ditch. He had to time this right.
He hit the wall with his shovel, twisting it. A spurt of sewage shot out, hitting him in the chest and splattering his breeches and spade. Tomaaz scrambled out of the ditch as the whole wall caved in under the pressure of the pit’s stinking contents.
“Rest time,” thundered the tharuk.
The slaves from Tomaaz’s crew flopped to the ground. He leaned back on the earth, stinking of excrement, breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench. That should mask his scent.
A swarm of tharuks reported to 568. Their black eyes flitted across the slaves, and their tusks gleamed with trails of dark saliva. “We scented bloody bed. Two strong scents. One toward Zens’ beast.”
“Maazini, is your chain cut?”
“Yes. I’m ready and waiting for you.”
“The tharuks know the boy is with you. Get him and Ma out! Quick, before they come for you.”
Without Maazini, Tomaaz would never get out of there. Not with suspicious trackers prowling. He’d become another lump on the flesh pile. But he didn’t want the boy’s life and Ma’s life on his conscience. Or Maazini’s. “Go, Maazini, go.” Tomaaz stared blankly at the sky.
No answer from Maazini.
No trace of dragon above the hilltops. Not even a silhouette of a wingtip.
“Go, Maazini, don’t be a fool. Save them while you can.”
Although he couldn’t hear Maazini’s voice, Tomaaz could feel him. Stubborn refusal trickled over him, like a littling stamping its foot for a toy.
Tomaaz sighed. “Get out of here, Maazini.”
“There’s still time. Be careful, Tomaaz. If they suspect you, they’ll kill you.”
“I know, but I don’t want any of you to die.”
Maazini gave a mental snort.
Trackers scoured the edges of each ditch, sniffing at the slave crews, working their way closer. Tomaaz’s crew was still on break, so he couldn’t do anything to release the dread building inside him. Could trackers smell fear? Perhaps they’d sense his heart pounding.
“Stay calm,” Maazini mind-melded.
Soothing energy washed over Tomaaz, but it wasn’t enough to calm his racing heart.
“Stand up!” barked Burnt Face.
The slaves scrambled to their feet.
Trackers roamed among them, black eyes flitting from slave to slave, and snouts twitching.
A small wiry tharuk stopped by Tomaaz. “This one,” it barked. “This scent goes to the beast.”
His ploy with the sewage had been for nothing. The beast had still recognized his scent.
568 laughed. “Of course. That human feeds beast. But did it take small male?”
The trackers clustered around Tomaaz. Claws out, their nostrils quivered, snouts thrust in his face.
“Can’t tell,” muttered the wiry one. “Too dirty.”
The others nodded and broke away, stalking among the slaves.
Tomaaz held in his sigh of relief, only letting his breath escape slowly.
A heartbeat later, 568 was in front of Tomaaz. “Time to feed beast.” He motioned to Burnt Face and Wiry. “Come. Feeding time.” His laugh was laced with menace.
“Maazini, I’m coming, with three tharuks. Escape. Now. Take Ma and the boy.” The tharuks behind Tomaaz prodded him with their claws. His nails! Oh, shards! They were pinking at the edges. What about his eyes?
The tharuks marched him to the rodent pile.
“Feed beast well today,” 568 said. “Zens wants to play with beast tomorrow.”
Thank the Egg, they were leaving. Tomaaz piled his shovel with rats and a dead bird. “Maazini, get out of here.” He didn’t dare look up. But there was no flap of wings, no gust of wind to signify a dragon flying above them. And no flash of orange. “Escape, you silly dragon,” Tomaaz melded, pleading, “please, go.”
Too soon, they rounded the bend in Maazini’s branch of the valley.
The cavern mouth was dark. Tomaaz shambled forward, 568 right beside him,
while Burnt Face and Wiry hung back.
An earth-shattering roar ripped through the air, and Maazini lurched out of the cavern, chain rattling and sagging gray wings drooping at his sides. His scales were dull gray. “Dragon’s scale works wonders,” Maazini melded.
Tomaaz stared blankly.
“You look like a numlocked slave,” Maazini said in his head.
“Feed it,” 568 growled.
Tomaaz tossed the rats at Maazini’s feet and retreated.
Tharuk 568 turned to Wiry, the tracker. “Smell the small male?”
Wiry shook his head. “Nothing new.”
“Your mother’s very clever. She gave the boy freshweed. See you here tonight.” Maazini retreated into his cave with the rats.
§
Zens thrust his hand in the air and, with his mind, overturned a table. Then he flipped his hand over, turning the table back onto its legs. Then he did it again. It wasn’t enough. He sent the table smashing into the wall, where it splintered, broken pieces clattering to the floor.
Now, that felt better.
A waterskin missing. A blanket. The prisoner’s rucksack. A hacksaw. It could only mean one thing. The ex-rider wasn’t dead. He scanned through 555’s memories.
Glassy-eyed, the woman stared at him vacantly, her lips blue-tinged. She looked dead all right, but there was only one way to appease his sneaking suspicions.
He addressed 000. “Triple Zero, search the human flesh pile. Make sure the ex-rider is still there.”
§
Tomaaz turned over the corpse of a littling. Vacant brown eyes stared up at him from under matted blonde hair. He swallowed. Only four or five summers old, her skin was smudged with grime and yellow dust. She’d been in those bitter-smelling mines. She should have been free to romp in meadows, play with chickens and pick flowers, not waste her life underground.
“Find the female,” 568 barked at the slaves, searching through the human flesh pile. “Tall. Blue eyes. Dark hair. Keep looking.”
Zens was looking for Ma. Did he really suspect that she was still alive? Or was he just eliminating her as the cause of the missing things?
Tomaaz turned over a woman with dark hair. Her face was bruised, marred by viscous claw marks. She had blue eyes. He waved an arm and 568 came over, dragging a small tharuk with him.
“Is that the one?” 568 snapped at the small tharuk.
The beast shook its head. “Our one is taller.”
It was right; Ma was taller. Tomaaz turned back to his sickening task, sifting through littlings, men and women. All these lives ending here, in Death Valley. It was hopeless, daunting.
They had to fight back. Free slaves. End the terror caused by Zens.
It was nearly evening. Soon they’d stop for gruel. He smothered a cynical snort, not daring to let the tharuks notice. He’d never thought he’d ever look forward to that sloppy weevil-infested muck. But after he’d eaten, he could feed the beast and escape with Maazini, Ma and the boy, to meet Pa and Handel.
Way before mealtime arrived, 568 ordered them back to the latrines. Tomaaz had never been so glad to shovel excrement.
Closing In
Tomaaz didn’t dare strain the weevils or cockroaches out of his evening gruel. Hundreds of tharuk guards were scrutinizing the slaves’ movements, hovering over them like giant vultures. Burnt Face had been staring at him all afternoon, red eyes slitted in concentration, as if their earlier trip to Maazini had cheated him of a chance to have fun.
Tomaaz kept his eyes hooded and his face slack. The tips of his all fingernails were now pink, so he kept them curved around the base of his bowl as he drank his soup from the rim. Something wriggled in his mouth. A weevil? A roach? Red eyes bored into him. He fought his gag reflex, swallowing the squirming insect.
Shards, he hated this place.
He washed the insect down with another gulp of gruel and shambled to the dish barrel to dump his bowl. Then he sat, away from Burnt Face’s gaze, to await his next orders. It wasn’t long until sunset.
He’d be leaving all these people behind, condemning them to this horror. Why did Zens have slaves? The latrines crews weren’t important; they were only servicing the latrines for the hundreds of slaves that disappeared into those crevasses in the hillsides. Tomaaz had never seen what came out of the earth, and there was no way he’d find out now. He was leaving.
A scream cut through Tomaaz’s thoughts. Tharuks were still observing them, so he tightened his muscles against the urge to look. But it got harder to act numlocked when another scream was followed by grunts of pain and cries. More than one person was being hurt.
Slowly, as the slaves around him shifted, Tomaaz adjusted his position to see.
Burnt Face and a few other tharuks were kicking slaves—not littlings or the elderly, but able-bodied men and women. Each time a tharuk kicked a slave in the gut, their fellow guards observed the slaves’ reactions.
Tomaaz sucked in his breath. They were testing to see if everyone was numlocked. If they didn’t find anyone, they’d probably start on the littlings. This was his fault. If he hadn’t stolen those things, the tharuks wouldn’t have known he was here.
“Maazini, they’re hurting the slaves to find me. I should give myself up.”
“No!” Maazini roared in his head. “Stand strong. We’ll come back and hunt down Zens and free the slaves. Your ma, the boy and I need you.”
Burnt Face was closer now, kicking a man, four slaves over. Through hooded eyes, Tomaaz watched the slave moan and curl in on himself. The man hadn’t tensed as the tharuk had neared, and he hadn’t made any move to defend himself. Acting numlocked was going to be harder than he’d thought.
Burnt Face skipped a littling and kicked a woman in the stomach. She sprawled on the ground, whimpering, then curled up, holding her middle. The tharuk’s stench wafted over Tomaaz as it swung its boot at Tomaaz’s neighbor.
It turned to him.
Tomaaz didn’t dare look up. Relax, relax, relax.
Burnt Face’s boot connected with his gut in an excruciating thud. Pain bloomed through his middle. He flew backward, sprawling on the ground. He gasped for air, letting out a moan, and curled up. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe. Gods, his stomach hurt.
“Tomaaz!” Maazini mind-melded, his concern spiking through Tomaaz’s head.
Two tharuks loomed over him. Yanking him to his feet, they held him up. He tried to hunch over to ease the pain, but they refused to let him, pulling him by the shoulders until he was dangling from their sharp claws, his feet hanging in the air. “Maazini, they know. They’ve found me.”
“Stay calm,” Maazini melded.
“You,” Burnt Face bellowed, “feed the beast.”
The tharuk followed Tomaaz as he stumbled toward the tool pile, clutching his stomach with one hand, and picked up his shovel.
“Fall in,” Burnt Face called, gesturing to other tharuks, who formed a wall behind Tomaaz. Wiry, the tracker, was among them.
His pain receded to a dull ache as they marched him along the valley, prodding him with their claws and breathing their foul stench over him. “Maazini, coming now, with five tharuks. Tell Ma.”
“We’re prepared.” There was malice in Maazini’s tone.
He hefted rats off the rat pile. Maybe with a dragon on his side he had a chance.
But Ma was weak, the boy too, and Maazini wasn’t in the best shape either. The tharuks escorting him were carrying quivers and bows. Their arrows could be drenched with limplock. All he had was a shovel. He’d be lucky to get any of them out of here alive.
“Keep moving,” 568 growled, hurrying him along.
They were trying to catch him out. He shambled along, as if he couldn’t go any faster.
“Faster,” Burnt Face roared.
Tomaaz ignored it.
They rounded the last corner in the waning light. The entrance to Maazini’s cave was shrouded in shadow. The dragon was nowhere to be seen. Tomaaz’s neck hair prickled. I
t was a dead end. The only way out was on dragonback.
Moving forward like a numlocked slave, Tomaaz staggered to the mouth of the cave, holding out his shovel of rats.
Burnt Face hung back, pushing Wiry forward. “You! Go too.”
With the tracker breathing down his neck, Tomaaz’s chest was tight. He threw the rats. They thudded to the stone. With a roar, Maazini leaped out of his cave, brilliant orange, his chain rattling.
Wiry twitched.
“Coward,” barked Burnt Face. “It’s chained up.”
“It’s orange! Not numlocked,” Wiry snapped, lunging at Tomaaz.
With a roar, Maazini flew at Wiry. Dropping his spade, Tomaaz ducked and rolled. Maazini swung his leg at Wiry’s head. The chain whipped around the tracker’s neck. With a yank, Maazini pulled it tight, strangling the tharuk. Maazini kicked out. Wiry flew through the air, his corpse knocking Burnt Face to the ground.
Maazini pounced on another tharuk, crushing it with his jaws and flaming its corpse.
“Get them!” yelled Burnt Face, jumping to its feet.
Scrambling up, Tomaaz snatched his shovel and hefted it in front of him as a tharuk charged. He whacked the brute in the neck, but the shovel blade bounced off.
The beast swiped with its claws, raking Tomaaz’s side. His ribs stinging from a flesh wound, he danced away, swinging his spade again. Shards! If only he had his sword.
“Their matted fur’s like armor,” Maazini melded. “Try its head. Fur’s thinner there.”
Another tharuk ran at Maazini. The dragon pounced, shredding the tharuk’s torso with his talons, spilling its stinking guts.
568 lunged at him. Raising his shovel high, Tomaaz brought it crashing onto the monster’s skull. It stumbled, then lunged again, scratching his face. Tomaaz whacked its head again.
Groggy, the beast reeled and fell. Tomaaz brought his shovel smashing onto its head one last time, and the beast lay still.
Everything had gone quiet. Panting, Tomaaz looked up.
Burnt Face was facing him, bow nocked, with an arrow pointing straight at his heart—an arrow dripping with green grunge. Limplock.
Maazini was silent, crouched near the cavern, haunches tense, his green eyes slits. His tail twitched. Tomaaz’s heart pounded as his eyes flitted from Maazini to Burnt Face.
Dragon Hero: Riders of Fire, Book Two - A Dragons' Realm novel Page 27