“Your prize?” Isa asked and saw Greyson’s cheeks had paled while Devyn gave him a suspicious eye.
“You don’t know?” Scab reeled back, a smile starting to form and raised an index finger to show a blackened nail.
“Don’t know what?” Isa was growing tired of discovering new unknowns.
“You don’t know!” Scab threw his head back with a cackle, and Greyson scowled at him over his shoulder, his back to Scab. There was an angry rash crawling around Scab’s neck, flaked and bleeding from scratching, going under his shirt. “Life is grand, isn’t it?” Scab said to no one in particular. “Grand indeed!” He rode farther down the line, and a minute or so later, heard Corin’s rumbling laugh join in with Scab’s. “Doesn’t know about my prize!” he heard Scab roar with amusement.
Isa sighed. “Care to tell me what that was about?” He regarded Greyson. Devyn knitted his brows at Greyson, sitting beside him and seeming just as curious.
“It was nothing,” Greyson murmured, looking away at the passing flora.
Isa saw a strange tree that appeared to have a vertical mouth as big as a man at the base with a vaginal shape to it, gaping open with giant thorns for teeth. It had whip-like branches edged with thousands of spikes that slithered on the forest’s floor like snakes. He stared open mouthed as one of the branches snapped down to snare a fat rodent around the neck, raised it into the air with kicking legs. The spectacle vanished as the cart rambled on.
“Do you take me for a fool?” Isa barked. His arms were a flash of white, fingers winding under Greyson’s collar and dragging him off his ass until he was face to face. He had an odd fragrance to him, almost as if he might’ve once worn perfume.
“What?” Greyson breathed. Isa felt his panicked breath on his face, his flesh trembling. “Please, stop! Please! I’m sorry!”
“Isa!” Devyn put his hand on his arm. “Calm yourself, we’re friends here. Remember?”
“Friends. Right.” Isa uncurled his fingers from under Greyson’s collar, setting him down with a thump. “Sorry, don’t know what came over me. Have a bit of a temper sometimes,” he said sheepishly. His back screamed for attention, but he breathed in deep, squashing it down.
“It’s alright. Times aren’t easy for anyone here. Got enough enemies outside these walls.” Devyn gave them a rap with his knuckles. “Best we unite in them.”
“Right you are,” Isa said with a long exhale. “Going to tell us?” Isa gestured with a knife hand at Greyson, some part of him still wanting to chop it against the man’s skinny little neck. He wanted to gouge out his eyes, tear the answer from his throat, smash his head against the bars until his skull split. He had to do something, anything to quell the anger boiling in his chest. His other hand, resting at his side, curled into a hard fist.
He knew why then: he’d lost his freedom. He realized he felt free upon the Warwick, far enough from the Tower’s control that the pressure in his chest that made it hard to breathe had relented. The anvil was pushed from his body for but a moment. The lightness he felt was gone, exhaustion and the burden of control bearing down.
Once again he was trapped in someone’s clutches. He knew he was a slave in the Tower, but it was easier to ignore there. Rationalizations and excuses were effortless to make when you could come and go as you pleased. No doubt he was always leashed to the Tower, but at least it wasn’t visible. Here, he could see his chains as plain as day. There was no denying their existence. He dropped his hand, inhaled deep and let a heart calming exhale slip from his lips. Freedom lost could be regained. He’d done it before, and he could do it again. Now that he had a taste of its sweetness, it would be his life’s goal.
“I was a noble.” Greyson adjusted his tattered, dirt ringed collar as if it made all the difference in the world. “More precisely, the son of a noble who served in King Ezra’s court.” He puffed his chest out with that, even raised his nose an iota.
Nobles. Isa felt himself starting to snicker, snicker becoming a chuckle, chuckle a laugh that tore at his wounds. He wasn’t sure what he found so funny then. Maybe it was a combination of the absurdity of the man’s claims and the abysmal circumstances, all smashed together in one stinking shit pile. Maybe it was the way Greyson spoke down to him like every other noble once had. Except they were dressed in rich fabrics, choking perfumes, and the latest fashion trends, not the shambles he wore, something a beggar might scowl at. These slaves were nobles with their finery stripped away and showing the true form of humanity.
“I am! I’ll prove it to you one day.” Greyson rung his hands, voice cracking.
His laughter only grew, and he threw his head back with mad glee, thinking he and Scab must’ve looked a lot alike then. It felt good to laugh, despite the pain.
“You bastard. When I— when we get back, my father will make you pay for your arrogance, your insolence, your—”
Isa clapped his hand over Greyson’s mouth, muffling his protesting voice. Devyn winced, reaching for Isa.
“What did I tell you, swine?” Corin’s voice called from behind Isa. Isa let Greyson go, his mouth drawn into a tight sneer, though not daring to meet Corin’s eyes. Isa scanned him up and down out of the corner of his eye, reminding himself where the weak points on his armor might be. Under the armpits, between the legs, head fully exposed and a sure target. Everything bleeds, a wise man once told him.
“Hey! Hey you,” a voice called from the cart ahead. Judging by Isa’s estimate, it was a mirror image of the one they were in. A familiar voice, that, but not calling for him. “You remember me, don’t you?” There was another at the back he’d have to investigate.
Isa saw the man’s face now. “Bloody Captain fucking Derwood. You made it to shore, did you? Surprised.”
“Hey! Isa. Eh, sort of, part fish I’d say. Nah, must’ve drifted against the beach a day or so ago, woke up in these.” He raised his manacled wrists. “Good to see you’re still alive after Corin. Caught wind o’ yesterday’s spectacle. Sorry I wasn’t there to do anything. Kept me and some other… new additions back here.” He pointed back with his thumb.
“Huh,” Isa nodded with a grunt. He started working his shoulders around, trying to keep them limber. Opportunity arose when you least expected. You had to always be ready, always prepared. “We called for hours, didn’t see anyone else.”
“Like I said,” Derwood shrugged. “Hit my head so hard, it put me to sleep for days, I reckon.” He pointed at the back of it. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen any others from my crew?”
“None that were living.” Isa’s lips formed a porcelain line.
“Need to talk with our captor…” Derwood peered toward the front of the line. “Scab! Hey! Stop ignoring me, ya bastard!” Derwood called and cursed him a bit more until finally, he rode up beside the cart.
“Yes? What may I do for you?” Scab said with a flourish of his hand.
“Yes! Don’t you fucking ‘yes’ me! You know who I am. Stop pretending you don’t, you fucking shit! We had an agreement, and this is how you fucking repay me?” His big hands gripped the bars, tugging on them with every spitting curse. He pressed his face against them as if he might have tried to bite Scab if he could reach.
Isa looked at Greyson and Devyn, both staring off at the landscape, pretending not to listen. Isa’s guts churned, his brow drawing down.
Scab wrinkled his nose. “I do pride myself in my slave driving prowess. Have I ever told you that?”
“Scab. Why are you doing this?” Derwood pleaded.
Scab frowned and cocked his head, then started stroking the length of a long mustache. “My good man, my memory is not what it once was. Do I know you?”
Derwood’s face flushed beneath a patina of dust and dirt. “I trusted you. Why? There could be more. There could’ve been so many more, both our purses bursting at the seams. So much we could retire to the whorehouses for the rest of our days, and ale! Oh, the ale we could’ve had.”
He was a slaver. There were few th
ings Isa hated more than slavery. He added Derwood to his mental list of people he would kill. Derwood, Scab, and Corin made it so far. How many more would be added to his ledger before this trip was up?
“I was once burned by Dragon fire. Do you have any idea how that feels? The trauma of the experience has left me a different man. The fire burns and burns and no amount of water puts it out. And even when it stops burning, your flesh still feels it like…” He waved his sword arm in the air. “It reminds me… of an unrequited love you could never let go. You move on, but it still burns when you think about it, or see something that reminds you of it. Do you understand? Is there anything soft in that lecherous heart of yours, Derwood?”
“My men will come looking for me. You can’t sell me like a fucking slave!” he screamed the last word, spit flying.
“Hey, hey. You’ll upset the products. Don’t want them too stressed, you see?” Scab leaned toward the bars, inches from Derwood’s face. “More difficult to sell when they’re all nervous and jumpy.” He gave a shiver and a quick laugh.
Corin rode up on Scab’s side. “Got a problem that needs quieting, boss?”
“I’m not sure. Is there a problem, old man? Or will you be nice and quiet until we find you a gracious new owner?”
Derwood shook his head and pushed away from the bars, leaving rust lines down his face. “I can’t believe you,” he murmured. “You fucking betrayed me after everything we’ve been through. All the sacrifices. All the shit.”
“Might want to care for your words. Your cart mates may not be as kind as I,” Scab grinned and heeled his mount to a trot. Isa saw a few unfriendly faces staring daggers at Derwood. Scab might have just given him some sound advice.
“You scoundrel, pig fucking, shit eating—” Something cut the air, ringing against the bars.
Corin was on the other side of the cart, leaning over with his sword drawn. “Ssh…” he put a finger to his lips, “be a good little piggy.”
Derwood sulked, and there was wet in his eyes. “Not supposed to go like this. Not the fucking plan.” Corin and Scab rode off towards the front of the line.
Stories on top of mysteries. At least it would give him something to pass the time, Isa thought. Until the moment came when he’d open Scab’s belly to the outside world. There’d be no mistake in ensuring his death. How he managed to survive the Arch Wizard’s onslaught was a mystery.
Greyson’s eyes were wide as saucers, the veins in his neck throbbing as he stared at Derwood. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. “You,” he croaked.
“Yeah, me!” Derwood snapped, flashing a glare at him, wiping at his eyes.
Greyson broke into an awkward chuckle, gaze fixed on Derwood. “The gods are benevolent and deliver me justice. A rare tiding.”
“Yah, fuck off,” Derwood said, crossing his arms and dropping his head on his chest.
The carts hit a particularly bad section of road, slowing and bouncing up and down between deep pocks. The forest spread out a bit, letting the furious heat of the afternoon sun in. It had recently rained here, puddles all glistening mirrors. Fortune did not bestow the rains upon them, however. The forest crowded back in, engulfing the edges of the path and blotting out the sky.
“What’s this?” Isa gestured to Devyn and Greyson.
“Don’t know,” Devyn said. “Would’ve been nice to have a wash though.” He stared back at the fading puddles.
“None of your business, Tower killer. Might as well learn to stop knowing things. Your thinking days will soon be over once you’re a Tigerian slave. You’ll work the fields until there’s nothing left of you but a dried out husk, buried to feed next year’s crops,” Greyson’s lips twisted with anger.
“Right. That was a bit dark,” Isa snorted. “So you are from Zoria then?”
Greyson let his head fall back against the wall and looked up at the sky, his body sagging with defeat, the anger melting out of him. “What have I done to deserve this fate?”
Isa shifted back toward the front of the cart, gave a few hisses between the gate to get Derwood’s attention.
Derwood shifted his eyes at him. “Yeah?”
“What happened? How’d you end up here?”
“Knife me in my sleep if I’d told you,” Derwood said from the side of his mouth. “Probably got a blade stuffed up your arse, far as I know.”
Isa almost wished he had. “Really? With what knife?”
“No. Not much of a story. Just a scoundrel getting scoundreled. The gods are fickle bastards. Always tossed about on their waters like a ship without a sail.”
“I like stories.” Isa forced his mouth into a smile, an expression he was wholly unfamiliar with.
Derwood raised a scabbed over eyebrow in stratified states of partial healing, the tip bleeding as if it had just cracked open. “I’m a slaver. Alright? There’s your bloody fucking story, now you can include it in your latest ballad. Fucker! Not that you needed me to tell you that, did you?”
“No.” Isa leaned back. “But I appreciate the confession. It will ease my heavy conscience when I kill you.” It always surprised him how quick friends could become enemies.
Isa started to turn to regard his new friends when he heard someone from Derwood’s cart say: “No need.” A man across from Derwood growled, his hands shooting to the slaver’s throat, thumbs driving into his neck.
Derwood kicked and gave a choking breath, trying to claw them off. His neighbor seized control of one of his arms in the both of his, dragging it down, his face turning tomato red. Another pair of arms joined it, chains looping around Derwood’s other hand while his assailant choked the life from him. A dark face came into view.
“Senka!” Isa reached out, chains catching on the bars.
“Stop! Please stop!” she cried. She started peeling off an arm from Derwood, seeming weak as an elder.
An elbow shot up and caught her on the nose, sending her staggering back into the cart’s shadows. Isa watched her crash against the back wall, her face dark with bubbling blood. She slid to the floor with shaking hands.
Derwood’s eyes rolled back in his head, the veins throbbing in his neck, legs smashing against the floor.
“Murder!” Isa screamed. “There’s a murderer!” He shouted for help, Devyn and even Greyson joining him. The emaciated pair at the back of their cart cowered together like terrified apprentices. Neither Corin nor Scab made an appearance. They let it happen, Isa knew. He almost felt a laugh forming between his screams at himself, of all people, calling for the prevention of a murder. He found he didn’t care much for Derwood’s fate but knew that when men got bloody, they could be caught in a frenzy, letting their rage fall on the weakest among them. Senka didn’t look to be moving. If anything happened to her, if they did anything to her, it would force him onto a dark path he did not want to tread.
Derwood’s legs became a mad twitching, head lolling in his attacker’s crushing hands. The hands finally released, quivering, their owner horror stricken and falling back. But where the killer faltered, his two compatriots made up in savagery. They wrapped their hands together and started using the short lengths of chain between their wrists to beat him. Their strikes were ineffective, but when time was on your side, even stone would wear away eventually.
Isa sat in the lotus position, pain blossoming in his back, and watched the two working him for hours, their flesh shining with sweat. Derwood’s head became awash in purples and blues then bloated with blacks. Finally, the skin broke, and they gave a victorious whoop, even clapped their hands. How long had they been captive? How long until the guise of civility fell away and men found their true nature? They took a short break, then continued working him, pounding away with their bloody strips of chains until Derwood’s head was nothing but tattered flesh showing strips of bone beneath.
Their cart was a bloodbath. Blood streamed between the bars, covered the men, splashed on Senka at the back. Isa could smell the iron tang of it when a breeze fluttered down throug
h the trees. The three killers sat in grim resignation, seeming to have a bit of reluctance at their dark work, maybe about the mess they created more than anything else. Then the flies came, buzzing, biting, and feasting on Derwood’s corpse.
Isa wondered if he’d have the strength to defend against the four men in his cart had they wished to do the same to him. He could imagine a length of chain sliding over his neck now, choking him into unconsciousness, waiting for them to beat him to death.
ELEVEN
Savages
“I am young by all accounts. And yet all I know is blood, death, hardship, terror, and watching everything I love wither.” – The diaries of Nyset Camfield
The sky was painted in ocher like the sands of the Nether, the pinks just right, just how Senka remembered it. The clouds were lashing stripes, balls of yarn ripped apart by the winds above. She watched as the light faded, deep blues becoming gaps of darkness, cold as the bottomless ocean of the Far Sea. There was maybe a half hour of daylight left. She hoped when night came sleep would come too, and her pains would fade. Maybe the butchered mess the men made in the back of the cart would vanish. She had yet to let herself look at it. She was no stranger to blood, but simply didn’t feel the need to look. Senka learned long ago that hoping for things to change only left you hopeless.
The world beyond the cart became shifting shadows through the bars. The forest seemed to swallow light with a joyous glee, making the world darker than it should’ve been. Strange sounds rang out from the treetops, chirps, roars, and the beautiful song of an unseen bird. The land seemed vast, yet it felt as if they were trapped in a tomb of vegetation. She almost missed the endless stretch of silver making up Far Sea’s horizon. At least there you could see more than ten feet. She grew accustomed to the wagon’s constant bumping, finding some comfort in the regularity of it.
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