“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know! Okay?” he blew out his cheeks, felt its humidity going over her hands. “I’m not a fucking wizard.”
“Fine. Help him,” she snapped.
They reached Juzo and slid the Tigerian next to him, laying him parallel. He was shuddering, sticks, leaves and needles bloody and sticking all along his naked side. Flies swarmed around him like a fresh turd. “Now what?” Senka asked, lowering herself to sit, clutching the hunk of wood poking out of her side.
“Closer,” Juzo gasped. “Closer!” he screamed, his burned hand reaching. Senka stifled a look of revulsion. The flesh of his hand was a fused together blob of muscle and tendons, some spots showing bones beneath. By the Dragon, his flesh stunk like bad meat was cooking.
Isa shimmied the body on top of him, lifted the head and exposed its neck. “Like that? That good? Go on, friend. Do what you must.”
Juzo’s mouth parted, the melted flesh on the corners of his lips tearing apart and spouting blood. The side of his cheek was almost entirely burned away, the bone beneath black with char. Isa backed away, his lips forming a scowl and brow drawing down.
“You’re going to be alright,” Senka offered. “Going to be fine.” A part of her was glad he’d been burned, and it wasn’t her. She wasn’t sure she could’ve endured the torture. She almost thought to offer him a dagger, to see if he wanted its cold steel to meet his warm veins.
Senka lifted her head at a new sound in the distance, like a soft metallic rattling.
Juzo’s eye swiveled up as he sunk his teeth under its white mane, rivulets of dark blood coursing down his cheek. He slobbered, sucked, and moaned as he drank. Almost immediately, the color of his skin went from the ash gray of Death Spawn to his usual creamy white. The translucent thinness to his skin faded, thickening as if new flesh was forming beneath.
Senka watched with open-jawed amazement as bands of flesh wove around Juzo’s blackened bones, cinching down around it. She saw new tubes worm around his flesh, and more incredibly, watched them fill with blood. It was new muscle and tendon, she realized. His hair started regrowing, the charred tufts lining his scalp falling away. He let out a pleased moan and tipped his head back. His breath shuddered, half of his face bathed in rivulets of dark blood.
“You alright? Is there something else I can do?”
He imperceptibly shook his head, staring up at the sky. The wind blew hard, made the broad leaves dance, throwing waving shadows over them. Juzo pushed himself up onto his elbows and regarded the white-haired Tigerian between his legs with a scowl. “Did I do that?” he finally asked. At least ten minutes had passed. Senka paused, trying to peer around the village for any sign of the sound they heard earlier, finding nothing.
“You hear that?” she asked Isa. She had to stop talking, each word drawing tears from her eyes.
“Senka! Your side. You’re wounded! Did you know?” He crawled over to her, examining her side with a wince. “Shit. Need to find some supplies to take care of this.”
The clinking of iron rang out from the other side of the village, distinct and impossible to dismiss. Then came the murmur of voices, their tongues unknown. “What is it?” she breathed. “Not now.” She looked up at Isa, his bright eyes meeting hers.
He held his spear in one bloody fist, the flow of blood from his bleeding nose only seemed to be accelerating. “I’ll see what it is. Be back,” he said with a nod. He started weaving his way along the rickety fence, ducking to avoid low overhanging fern.
“Yeah,” she said to Juzo. “You did that.”
“Huh,” Juzo said, his head flopping back to the ground, his body still working to reform.
“C-can you die?” Senka asked, the pain making her wish she hadn’t.
Juzo cleared his throat, voice a rasp. “Thank you, thank you for the help. I can, though not easily. Take off my head,” he dragged his index finger across his throat. “Or fire. Fire without the aid of blood.”
She nodded at the woods and forced herself up to standing, more slumped half-over. She squinted into shadows, finding only shadows. The rattling of iron grew suddenly loud as the wind relented. She saw Isa come from around the bend trailing the fence, his head forced down by a hand, thick arms holding his behind his back. “What is this?” Her throat went dry as sand, her tongue sticking to her cheek.
Figures filled in all around. They emerged from between huts, the other side of the fence and out of the shadows. Some were chained together in pairs, threes, some in fours. They wore nothing but their smallclothes and crudely fashioned hats, their bodies smeared in months of dirt, dust, and shit.
Isa was sent stumbling forward, two figures grabbing at something on his back. Chains, Senka realized. “I tried to send them off, didn’t believe me. Tried—” Isa grunted as a giant boot collided with his back, sending him down onto his knees as he snarled at his captor.
“Hold him, please.” A voice called out as if he didn’t have a care in all the realms. A ringed hand flicked out from under the shadows of a frond and into the light.
Juzo gasped as though he was taking in the scene for the first time and struggled to get his legs under him to stand. “Senka? What’s going on?” A trio of chained together men swarmed in around him, deftly using the chains between their bodies to lasso around Juzo’s limbs and pulling them taut. She tumbled back, adrenaline surging through her limbs. They smelled like they hadn’t bathed in six months, malevolent odors of shit and piss blotting the air. They smelled worse than a latrine, worse than an unwashed piss-pot. The leg he drew up under his ass was jerked out straight, putting Juzo on his back with a thump. He let out a rumbling growl. “Let me go.”
Senka started to walk, and a pair of men came around to her back, swiveling to face them. “You won’t take me.” She shook her head, fingers twiddling near her daggers. Who were these men? Why did they so badly wish to die? She drew her blades, shining bright in the dim light.
“Please.” One man of a second pair implored with an opened palm. “We mean you no harm, just trying to survive.” His skin was as dark as hers, rings of dirt encircling his eyes. They might have even been wet with damp.
“You speak the common tongue? But I thought—” She relaxed for a second; a second too long. A pair of chained arms looped over her head and cinched down, forcing her arms down at her sides, crushing her tight against their owner. Hands peeled open her fingers, forcing her to drop her daggers. “No! Let me go, damn you!” Pain surged up her back like fire as the piece of wood pushed deeper. The chain looped over her belly lifted as hands dragged her arms back, causing her shoulders to burn. Something slapped around her wrists with a click, cold, heavy, and metallic. Manacles. “No.” Senka’s breath shuddered. “No!” she shrieked and jerked her arms apart, but they didn’t go farther than her hips, the chains jingling with her efforts. She screamed again, writhing against the men holding her.
She stomped on a bare foot that was too close, heard the resounding snap of a bone breaking.
“Ah! Ah! My toe!” The man hobbled back, the skin peeling in sunburned flakes as big as her fist.
Another came for her, filling in where the sunburned man was. He gave her a reluctant stare, hesitated, then came with arms opened wide. She raised her leg to kick him but was jerked off balance, hopping to regain her footing. “Please,” the man at her side hissed into her ear. “We were like you once. We are you.”
“Stop this nonsense or I’ll kill you all, leave you for the birds.” The figure from the shadows stepped out. Senka’s eye caught on a long jagged blade emerging from a stump on his arm. He wore an opened red coat of the Midgaard Falcon, a few sad golden buttons hanging by threads, chest spilling out with a pelt of black hair. He had torn filigreed trousers tucked into expensive boots ornamented with details, though the image was dashed away by clumps of clinging dirt. “You… look familiar.” The man brushed his hand along a graying goatee. “I never forget a face. Where can I place you?”
Senka always
forgot faces.
“Scab? But I thought—” Juzo’s voice was cut off, his chest smashed into the ground by the withered hands holding him. He started to rise up but was once again slammed down.
“Get a few more arms on him. That one is unusually strong. Maybe four more hands at least. Relic of the Shadow.” Scab rolled his hand as if looking for a word. “Ah, yes. Blood Drinker? No, that’s not quite right. Blood Stealer? Consumer? Blood Eaters! That is what they called you, no?” He grinned with a mouthful of blackened teeth. Senka thought she might have smelled his shit breath from here, even worse than the stink on all of the men.
Juzo let out a feral growl.
“Well, afraid your blood eating days are long over. Can’t have you going around and ruining all my product, after all.” He gestured at the men.
His product. What product? She’d heard all about him, knew how he’d betrayed Walter at the Great Retreat. He was a mad scoundrel, backstabber, almost brought the only dual-wielder to ruin.
They really could have used someone with the powers about now. Why had the Mistress sent them without a single wizard? The glimmering hope that she might get Phoenix healing was snuffed out then.
“The Mistress killed you,” Senka snorted, felt tears welling in her eyes. She was driven to her knees by powerful hands, fingers digging into her hair and jerking her head back. Not like this. I can’t be captured. Need Angel’s Moss. Need to return to Zoria.
“Killed me?” Scab laughed, laying the flat of his grisly blade over his belly. “No, no, my dearest… Senka? Sanka? Senjak? Which is it again?” He pinched his thumb against his fingers, hand gesturing. “Help me out here. Wait, you don’t have any powers do you? No— I remember. The last Scorpion!” He spread his arms and legs wide. “We have a hero in our midst, boys! An assassin of the legends. No, no but wait— two of them. Oh,” he hooted. “Got a member of the Swiftshades too. Careful with the hairless one, strong, tough bastards!” Scab laughed then blew out a long breath. “What luck!” He put his hand on his hip and tapped his jaw with his enormous blade.
He reached into his pocket, produced a flask, and took a gulp, rivulets of wine running down his neck. “Some things never change though, do they? Nah. Mistress left me alive well enough.” He let out a cheek shaking belch. “Said if she ever saw me again, she’d take all my limbs, and boy, do I like the rest of them, especially this one.” He reached down and grabbed his fruits, then gave them a tug.” He started to chuckle, burped, then laughed at his burping.
Senka could only stare. She tugged at the arms entrapping hers, testing them, felt them wind down tighter. They shoved her back down and pushed the side of her face into the dirt.
“So here we are, and here I am.” Scab snickered. “And there you are. How the tables have turned as life always tends to go. You think things could never get worse, not worse than your worst expectation. Reality has a way of surpassing even the most devilish of bad expectations. You can never be too prepared to embrace the change that whimsy brings. Had no choice but to change my profession, you see? Start anew in a strange land of strange man-tigers. They’re nice enough, anyway.” He gestured at the downtrodden men, all their eyes falling to their toes. “You’ll learn to be like them soon enough. I’ll make you all into good slaves eventually. Ain’t that right, Corin?”
Senka’s eyes followed Scab’s to a bald headed man who seemed to have been born without a neck. “That’s right, boss,” Corin rumbled. His armored torso was as broad as a bear’s, shoulders big as a human head. He wore polished bracers on both arms, securing well-used leather lashes coiled up tight around them. His jaw was square, eyes deep-set, a frown showing the face of a man intimately familiar with dark work. On both of his hips were long swords, the guards polished and dented. They likely felt like daggers in such big hands.
Slaves. The word pounded in her head. He didn’t mean it, did he? The practice had been outlawed over a thousand years ago. “You plan to sell us?” She blurted the words out and wished she could’ve taken them back. It showed her weakness, her frailty.
“Right you are! You’re a quick one, aren’t you, Senjak?” Scab raised his bladed arm up and pointed at the sky.
“No,” Isa whispered, his voice becoming an animal’s growl. “I won’t allow it.”
“Corin! Show our hair deficient friend what happens to rebels. You won’t allow it, huh?” Scab frowned and sat on a fallen trunk, reached into his pocket and produced a tobacco pipe and a pouch.
Corin lumbered for Isa, his hard expression unchanging. The shackled men near him trembled and made themselves small. He let the pair of heavy lashes fall from his tree trunk arms. He gave them a fierce crack, kicking up dust and leaving deep scars in the earth. A smile twitched up his killer’s face. He cracked his knuckles, taking the time on each individual finger. He worked his neck and shoulders around in a few muscle-loosening circles.
“He does have a penchant for the dramatic.” Scab was beside her now, puffing on his pipe, not sparing her a glance. The pungent smell of his tobacco tickled her nose. “You like drama, don’t you? Scorpions and all your strange rituals and other such nonsense.”
Senka rose up a bit, the arms holding her seeming to relent. She gave him her most disdainful glare, looking him up and down like he was a maggot to be squashed. She hocked up all the mucus in her throat, staring at him, his brows curiously drawing down, and spat with all the force her lungs could produce. Her aim was true. A fat glob of spit struck him square on his hooked nose, splashing into his eye, and dribbling down his cheeks. She grinned at seeing that there was even a bit of yellow mucus in her spit, the kind that clung with furious tenacity.
She was smashed back down, the wind knocked from her chest with a whoop. A hand latched around the side of her face, a dark thumb pressing into her cheek and grinding her skull into the ground. It felt like she was bearing all of someone’s weight, her head feeling like her brains might be pushed straight out from her ears.
“Sorry, sir. I’m so sorry!” One of her two captors pleaded.
“Terribly sorry, sir. Won’t happen again,” the other said. “We’re very, very sorry sir.”
Another hand pressed down on her head. She winced, and a moan escaped her lips, the pressure unbearable. The pain was like a knife in the back of her skull and tears were wrenched from her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Uh!” she screamed and the pressure only magnified. She was certain then that her head would split open, and this would be her end.
“That was quite uncalled for.” Scab wiped his hand down his face, smearing mud and flicking spit from his dirt-creased fingers. “Is this how you treat all of your benevolent captors?” He drew his leg back for a mighty kick, then held it frozen in mid-air, aiming for the hunk of wood standing from her side. Maybe not a split skull then, maybe a chunk of wood driven clean through her heart. She closed her eyes, waiting. Waiting. She opened them, saw Scab through a murky sheet of tears stroking his goatee and staring down at her. “I like you. You’ve got spirit. You’d make a good whore.” He gave her an appraised nod. Both of his legs were down now, and he puffed on his pipe. “Hold her, don’t kill her though. She’ll fetch a fine price for the brothels. Need someone whose cunt can endure a lot of fucking. Now, can we just please enjoy the entertainment?”
The pressure on her skull relented, both hands falling away and back onto her chains. She tried to pretend she hadn’t heard what Scab said, but her groin already felt sore at the thought of it. She wriggled against her captors. “No,” she hissed. “No!” There were too many of them, maybe thirty or so slaves in all. Even if Isa hadn’t been captured, Juzo weakened, and she wounded, fending off that many at once would’ve been an impossible feat, despite their talents. They had to live to finish their mission, had to tell the Arch Wizard the truth. She couldn’t let herself get killed if there was even a sliver’s chance of getting back.
The pair of slaves at Isa’s back dragged him onto his feet. “Sorry,” she heard one of them whisper
to Isa. He was tall and gangly with a shock of what must have been once red hair, now browned with dirt, debris, and slime. “Don’t want to do this. Got no choice, you see.”
“Just make a good show of it, maybe he’ll go easy on you,” the other breathed. He was taller than Red Hair but had a warrior’s frame. He might have been a fearsome man had he not been so emaciated. His back was covered in a mix of long scars in various states of healing. Some looked to be months old, which meant they’d been on the road for a long time. The continent looked big from Nyset’s map, but Senka had no notion of its scale.
The slaves dragged Isa around to put his back to Corin then tore off his shirt. “If you cry and wail, it will be over faster,” Red Hair whispered. “Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
If Senka knew anything about Isa, she knew he’d make it as hard as possible.
Isa raised his chin, a smile painted on a madman’s face. In that moment, she wasn’t sure who she feared more, him or her captors. “Do your best, fat boy,” Isa growled.
Corin let out a deep laugh, rumbling as if from the pit of hell. His lashes sprung to life at his back, then whirled over his head like a pair of dueling vipers. Time slowed as they came down. Senka saw how his lashes were made up of an endlessly coiling strip of thin leather, wrapped up tight to make them dense. They crashed down against Isa’s back, tore long strips of flesh from his body. Blood sprayed out in glimmering droplets, pattered onto the earth, darkening the lash’s tips.
“Fat and weak!” Isa threw over his shoulder, blood still streaming from his nose, into his mouth and making his teeth pink.
“Isa!” Senka shouted, pulling uselessly against her chains.
“Stop pulling,” one of her captors snarled.
Corin growled, and the whips came down again, striking almost at the same two spots. Men cringed as if they felt his pain. Likely they had given the scars on most of them. There were a few spots on his back where she could see the white of bone, streaked in a sheet of blood.
“In the Tower, we turn fat bastards like you into wood,” Isa laughed. “Doubt you’d survive it—” His words were cut off with another vicious crack, cutting long diagonals from his shoulders to his hips. Blood rolled down his trousers and over his boots.
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