“Too fat. Too ugly.” Isa’s legs betrayed him though, quivering like an autumn leaf in the wind. Corin’s great lashes shredded into his trousers, cutting red lines down the backs of his legs. Isa’s body stiffened with the blow, his jaw flexing in and out.
It was Corin’s turn to laugh, a genuine smile pasted on his lips showing square teeth in his square face. She would knock them all out, cut the smile from his lips, cut the laugh from his throat. He would come to know her blades, that she guaranteed. She felt at the needles under her bracers— still there.
“Broken already, white one?” Corin scowled.
Isa’s head snapped up. “You are not capable of breaking me, fat boy. As I said, you’re too weak. Too fat. Too hard of hearing too. What I—” Isa grunted as he was struck again. Beads of sweat started forming on Corin’s bald pate.
“Look at that!” Scab gestured with his bladed arm at Isa. “Now there’s a man with heart. You all could learn something from him, crying like babies at a couple lashings.” Scab forced a line of spit out from between his teeth. “This is the sort of entertainment we’ve long needed, wouldn’t you agree Senkik?” He leaned down close to her and blew smoke into her face. She turned away. “Hang on. Turn her head to me, would you?”
A strong hand held her under the jaw, forced her to face Scab.
Scab raised his blade in front of her face, the point unsteadily waving and gleaming down in her eye. “Owe you a little something for that show of disobedience. As you see, disobedience can’t go unpunished. Otherwise, you might get the idea you could rise up, mutiny, overthrow your captain and all that. Can’t mar you up too bad though, brothels like their whores to have pretty faces.” He let out a great sigh, his scraggly mustache fluttering. “I am torn.” Scab rose up and put his hand on his hip, smoke curling up in a beam of light from his pipe. He pulled his blade back and jabbed it into the ground. “I’ll let you choose. Which would you prefer to keep, your eye or your teeth?”
Senka’s eyes went wide. “What?” she croaked, then gasped at the pain in her side lighting up like fire.
“Eye or teeth? A simple question, really. Just a few teeth though, might help you suck cock better too.” He grinned down at her and started snickering.
Another crack spiked the gloom and flung streaks of blood into the air from Isa’s back. She noted no taunt came from him now. No taunt came because he was limp as a corpse in the vacant arms holding him. This was a nightmare in which she would soon wake. Any moment now she’d hear the roosters screech their morning alarm, waking her so she could make her way to the Jolly Pig to butcher today’s cows.
“Well?” Scab’s bushy eyebrows narrowed. “Decide or I’ll decide for you.”
Senka shook her head. “Please, don’t do that.” An idea sprang to mind. “With my teeth, my smile is pretty… and no one will want a one-eyed whore,” she stifled down the tears that wanted to erupt from her eyes. Dragons no, by the Phoenix please help us.
“A fine point.” Scab tapped a finger on his chin. “This will do then.” Light flickered in her eyes and pain exploded in her leg. She screamed, saw Scab’s blade wedged through her calf muscle. He jerked his blade arm out, the jagged edges snapping against her flesh and trousers. Her chest heaved with violence, her hand clasping down around the wound welling out with blood.
“No more disobedience?” he asked cheerfully and peered down at her.
“No more.” She shook her head.
TEN
The Long Road
“An intelligent woman procures more from her enemies than an idiot from his allies.” – The diaries of Nyset Camfield
Something bumped against Isa’s back, his head rhythmically thudding over and over. There was an incessant squealing in his ears. It made him think of Crystal. Part of the squeal sounded like her within the throes of ecstasy. He wanted to go down to the whorehouse and have his way with her. She’d make him feel good, make the sound and the pain go away. He inside her, she wrapping him in her silken folds. She was good at dulling his aches, earned from a lifetime of assassinations that never went as smoothly as planned. The screaming of his sore elbows, swollen knuckles, and kinked spine became a background note in her arms.
Then he remembered she was dead, her arms cold as mud. Her eyes were casket black. Dead by his ineptitude and inability to protect her. He was never good at keeping things alive. His true talent was always in the ending of life. It seemed his primary purpose was to destroy everything that he touched or might have held dear.
Something heavy jangled against his wrists with every thud against his back. There was a warm light in his eyes, showing pink under his closed lids. Everything came back then, and pain lit his body like bolts of lightning. He opened his eyes, saw a pair of travel-worn faces crowded in together and staring at him. He twitched in alarm, driving against the wall behind him, and felt the pus riddled scabs on his back break apart. “Where am I? What is this?” He winced at the strings of pain clawing up and down his back.
“You’re to be sold as a slave. Remember?” Red Hair said, his pale arms hanging between his wiry legs. His trousers were threadbare, showing his milky flesh beneath. They were stained with urine, mud, maybe shit too given the odors attacking his sinuses. Even with the breeze, the stink of old shit clung on the air.
“What?” Isa muttered, rubbed his head now crusted with blood and salt crystals. Their words weren’t getting in. His mind wasn’t working. Concentrate. He rubbed his sticking eyes.
He realized they were in some sort of wagon, the squealing and bumping of wheels. It all came back in a crushing wave of memory. Their time on the Warwick, fighting the Shadow princess, Corin whipping him. Corin. He would pay, by the Dragon would he pay. “No,” he hissed. You’re to be sold as a slave. “Senka. Where is she?” He scanned about, not seeing any sign of her or Juzo. There were four other bodies crammed in the same wagon he was in, hardly an inch between them. He supposed you had to be grateful for the small things.
“Senjak?” Red Hair asked.
“Senka. Dark skin, short stature, short hair. Traveled with me. Seen her?” Every word scratched at his parched throat. He stifled down a cough that sat in there, threatening to well out and overwhelm him. He tried to peer around the pitted iron bars of the wagon but was unable to see more than a few feet in front. There was nothing but hanging ferns, hundreds of varieties of broad-leafed shrubs, and crawling thorns making up the view on either side of the wagon. It was a wall of shifting organic matter that made him feel cloistered in as if the forest were trying to swallow the lot of them. The occasional leaf brushed against his neck with an annoying tickle. The wood tried to reclaim the narrow road that once belonged to the forest, shoots coming up in spots where their wagon’s wheels would invariably stomp them flat.
Some time passed, about a half hour. “Think she’s in the foremost wagon. Scab likely wants to keep an eye on her,” a man beside Red Hair said, his thick black eyebrows drawn down. The man had a broad form, thick torso, veined arms and legs. He might have been a soldier once, most of his muscle mass now cannibalized by his body. He was no Grimbald, certainly no Corin, but a man who could bear some weight and swing a sword.
“At the front,” Isa said then growled. He looked down between his legs at the stained wood making up the floor. What could he do? Hands chained, bars as thick as spear hafts. The wood was heavily dented, warped, and scratched as if thousands of bodies had been cycled through these walls. He looked up and saw Red Hair staring down too. “What are your names?”
Red Hair’s mouth dropped. “My name?”
Isa looked at him flatly, waiting, not wanting to waste his words in this heat. It looked to be an hour or so past sunrise. His smallclothes were already clinging to his balls, his back, and shirt bonded in one weeping scab.
The broad man beside him gave Red Hair a nudge. “Go on.”
“Greyson. Sorry, been a long time since someone asked me that.” He chuckled nervously, fingers working opened and clo
sed. Isa knew what confinement would do to a man over the long term. If it went on long enough, it made him see, hear, and feel things that weren’t there.
“Devyn,” the man beside Greyson said, and offered his thick hand to Isa who gave it a gingerly shake. He was thankful for his gentle grip then and saw why. His hand was wounded, likely had been caught by Corin’s lash, torn open from thumb to little finger.
“The others?” Isa nodded at the other two men pressed together at the back of the cart, hardly weighing a hundred pounds between the two of them.
“Stopped speaking a while ago. Don’t engage us anymore, just stare at the floor. Stare at the sky. Stare at the trees. Never gave us their names though. Here long ‘fore us, I think,” Devyn stroked his beard, a series of tendrils in unruly lengths and black as night. “Your name?”
“Isa.” He leaned forward between his legs. “How long have you been on the road? With Scab?” The cart jolted, and his knees bounced between Greyson and Devyn. He’d likely have to get used to that.
Devyn twisted around and stared at a section of wood behind him, whispering at a series of vertical scratches.
Isa felt his guts drop. There were so many, too many.
“Seventy-seven days today,” he forced a smile with peeling lips, red with inflammation under his beard.
“You Greyson?” The man’s head swayed to the movement of the cart, bobbing as it went in and out of an endless series of potholes. Strings of his hair fell over one eye, the other red with irritation. “Huh?” He snapped up with alarm then cringed back against the bars.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Devyn said, placing a comforting arm on his. “We’re all friends here. No one is going to hurt you.”
“All friends,” Greyson said with a laugh that was much too loud. “Twenty-nine. Twenty-nine days,” he swallowed.
The path widened a bit showing a strip of shingle and the edges of the road. The clopping of hooves came from behind the cart as a black stallion with shining hair came into view. Upon it rode Corin, sword sheaths engraved with symbols unknown to Isa. “Shut your mouth holes, shitbags!” He slammed the side of his bracer against the bars, making them rattle. Greyson jumped between Isa’s legs, spreading them apart and pain roared up his back like white fire.
“Get off me!” Isa shoved him back against the bars with more force than he’d wanted. Greyson coughed and choked for air like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Fucker,” Isa muttered, wincing as the pain in his back only magnified. Fresh blood, pus maybe, seeped down his back. “Oh, you fucker!” he growled.
“The rebel has awoken. How are you feeling, young rebel?” Corin dipped his head low so he could peer between the bars and grin at Isa. “I enjoyed your fortitude. Hadn’t had a good workout in months. These cowards usually crumble and weep at the first lashing. You are refreshing. Are there more like you, I wonder?”
Isa raised his wrists. “Remove these chains, and we’ll see who speaks last. You can even keep your weapons.” Fat boy.
“Alas, this is only work and as my employer has said, can’t ruin the product. But perhaps someday your wish will be granted.” Corin winked then trotted off to inspect other wagons.
I’d like to strip the fat from your bones, fat boy. Isa wanted to say, but even he knew there were occasional times when it was prudent to keep one’s mouth closed. Isa forced himself to hang his head, give a good show of being defeated.
“Could’ve saved yourself a lot of grief if you did that yesterday,” Greyson whispered. “Now all of us are going to pay. That’s how Scab does things. One person makes a stir, all get punished.” Greyson bit his lip and narrowed his eyes at Isa. “Your fault we’ve got no water in here to start. Be lucky if we don’t get whipped too.”
Isa sighed. “Sorry.” But he wasn’t sorry, not at all. He was murderous.
“Didn’t know. Now you know,” Devyn said with a flinty hardness.
Isa felt another glare, saw one of the pairs of emaciated men shift his eyes away when he looked. Isa dropped his voice low. “Don’t suppose anyone knows a way out of here?”
“Death is the only way,” Greyson said with a mad smile.
“Searched every nook, every board, every bolt and cranny. Wagon is as good as stone,” Devyn said.
“He patrols like that all day?” Isa asked. “Even stone has weaknesses.”
“All day. Every day. Every night. He never sleeps. Some kind of strange creature. Told you the only way out of here is to kill yourself.” Greyson snickered, his voice cracking.
“Why’s it all humans? No Tigerians?” Isa asked.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Devyn stood, but had to hunch his back against the low ceiling to do so. He started kicking his legs and shaking them. “Damned legs get so tight sitting in here all day. Lack of movement alone is enough to kill you. Have to try to move when you’re out, keep the body strong.”
“No, not from around here.” Isa scanned the entirety of the wagon. Every board was nailed every six inches or so. Despite the wear, it seemed like the wagon’s security was well maintained. There was a heavy chain looped around the rear iron-barred door. He searched his body, patting at his boots and belt, not a weapon to be found.
“They searched you. Scab’s no amateur.” Greyson slowly shook his head at Isa. “Learn to get comfortable here.”
“Only humans. Why?” Isa asked.
“You’re really not from around here,” Devyn said with a nod. “In Tigeria, only humans are taken as slaves, treated as a second-class species.”
“Sort of are, compared to them. No claws, no—” Greyson launched into a fit of coughing, foamy spittle spraying up from his lips. Devyn gave him a few raps on the back until he gathered himself. “No more. Need water,” Greyson hissed.
“As I was saying.” Devyn gestured with hands whose knuckles were scabbed over. “They only use men, women too, as slaves. We’re to be sold at the market in Ashrath.”
“Ashrath?” Isa asked, making Devyn and Greyson exchange glances.
“The capital, of course,” Devyn said in a tone he might’ve used on a child. “Don’t you know anything?”
“No, the problem is—” He stopped himself. He had to be careful with how much he revealed. The walls always had the ears of his enemies. “Not much of a man of books, not unless they involve the ways of combat.”
“You’re a soldier. Seems about right.” Devyn looked him over.
Greyson’s eyes seemed to regain some focus, looking like he was seeing Isa for the first time.
“I can’t believe it.” He let his head sag. He had to stifle the urge to burst into tears, then realized how surprising it was to have felt that. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried or had even an inkling of the urge to do so.
“Believe it. Slavery is very real here. Where you from anyway?”
He raised his head with a snort. To tell them or not? Could they be trusted? He had to trust someone. “Zoria.”
“Whew! Long way from home, aren’t you?” Devyn whistled with a hand on his chest.
“Mhm.” Isa nodded. “You?”
“You’re looking at it. Tigeria, born of the forest. Though all I’ve ever known is masters. Born as a slave, likely die as one too.” The man’s dark brown eyes went hard.
Isa wanted to learn more but thought it wise not to push the issue, but Devyn went on as if he couldn’t contain the words. “Escaped my last master with my wife, made a small place for ourselves in the southwest. The short of it is that, well, Scab found us and here I am. My wife…” His throat worked in waves. The wheels creaked, the chains always gently clinking.
“Your wife?” Isa asked and Greyson shot him a glare.
Then the tears came, and Devyn shook his head, his lips drawing into a miserable frown. “Bastards!” He pounded his fist against the floor with a thump.
“Idiot,” Greyson muttered.
“Scab and Corin had their way with her. Had to listen to her screams. Made
it a few days, but they never let up. Never let her heal.” He hammered his fist against the floor again, leaving spots of blood where his scabs had broken. He choked off and slapped a hand against his mouth. “Oh Dragon, oh Phoenix. Larida, Larida. What could I have done?” He looked up at the empty sky, no answers coming. It was the place where no answers ever came. Violence was always the answer.
Isa reached out and put his hand on the man’s trembling forearm. “Don’t know a whole lot about patience myself, but when the time comes, we will get out, and I assure you that you’ll have your vengeance. Scab will make a mistake… and when that time comes, we have to jump on the opportunity. Doubt I’ll be able to do it myself. You’ll help me?” Isa looked from Greyson and back at Devyn, who was pretending to pay no attention.
Devyn gave a few quick nods and wiped his tears on the backs of his bloody knuckles, smearing red across his brow. “Scab doesn’t make mistakes. Been waiting on one for seventy-seven fucking days,” he whimpered.
“Everyone makes mistakes eventually,” Isa said. Crossing the Arch Wizard was one. Scab should’ve been dead according to Nyset. She must have not finished the job in its entirety. Isa always cut the throat if his victim’s wounds weren’t mortal. It was always prudent to make sure the work was done right. He supposed that was what happened when you sent a civilian to do a killer’s work.
Greyson inched towards Isa. “Zoria, you say? Long ride. Why’d you come?” he whispered it so low Isa almost couldn’t hear.
Hooves clopped up alongside the cart, and Scab dipped his burned face low. “Hey, hey, hey!” He flicked his ringed hands against the bars. “No damaging the goods with your tricks, Tower man. Don’t go infecting them with your tales of heroism, hope, and triumph. Only a grim future awaits these meat sacks,” he said with a bit of a stutter. He tapped his sword arm against the bars with a clang, eyes madly whirling. “Tell me, assassin-killer man, have you come to rescue my prize? You won’t take him from me. No, no, no. Not over my dead, aching, pimpled body.”
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