Still that same cave in her head.
This one had tenacity. What secrets was she keeping? Zens scratched his chin. He didn’t have forever to mess about; he had to get back to developing his new beasts. Therein lay his hope. They would help him conquer the dragons of Dragons’ Realm, not this stupid rider.
Then again, now that he’d softened her up, perhaps it was time to up his mental game.
§
Gray stone. Water dripping onto green moss. Sunlight angling in. Hard damp floor, cold. Marlies kept the cave in her mind, not daring to focus on the pain, the agony, the—
Stone walls. Hard floor. Gray, everything gray, even the bread. No, focus on the cave.
A chill started in her head, flowing down her neck and over her torso. Zens. She pushed the image of the cave back at him. The moss was lush and green, verdant—a sign of life in this awful bleak hell—so she kept the moss, the dripping walls, in her head. She would not let it budge.
“I know you can hear me. Can feel me,” Zens’ words slithered inside Marlies’ head. “Let go of the cave. Relax.”
A rush of cold engulfed her mind. Her head and neck. Her torso. Oh, gods, so cold, she was going to die. Marlies gritted her teeth. The cave. She kept it solid, despite him hammering her.
Then fire came. Flaming across her face, making the skin sear and bubble. The sensation was so strong, so real, Marlies bit her lip to stop herself from screaming. The stench of charred skin filled her nose. No! Cave. Gray. Stone. Moss. The fire washed across her, turning her body to cinders, leaving her gasping. Cave.
Then Zens spoke. “Take her away. No food or water for three days. That’ll weaken her.” His boots crunched on stone. He yanked her hair, pulling her face up from the floor.
Cave.
“Until then, little one,” he sneered. Dropping her head, he left.
000 snapped its fingers and woke 555, who picked Marlies up, tossing her over its shoulder.
“Zens says this one is cunning,” 000 said to 555. “Put her in a cave with a barred door.”
555 carried her away, and still, Marlies kept the cave in her mind.
Sure enough, as they headed down the corridor, Zens tried battering her mind again.
The Creature’s Ploy
Hunger gnawed at the creature’s belly. For a week now, he’d thrown the human’s putrid rats into a pile at the rear of the cave, where they’d lain stinking. Soon, live rats had come to gnaw at the carcasses. He’d snapped them up, still wriggling, crunching every last bit of tail and fur.
It had done little to ease his gnawing belly, but at least his senses were his own again.
Each time the food human arrived, the creature acted out its charade, squinting and groveling for putrid drugged rat as if it were a delectable morsel from a king’s table.
Zens had underestimated him. One day he’d have revenge on this bunch of pathetic tharuks with their pitifully short claws and stumpy tusks. But it wouldn’t be today. No rats had sneaked into his cave for a couple of days, so he was barely strong enough to stand. He had to eat, even if it was drugged food designed to torment him.
A faint whiff on the air—the human and his meal.
The rat landed on the dirt with a thump.
He snaked his neck along the arid earth to snatch his rotten flesh. The male stumbled and toppled to the ground, face down. Dead? The creature nudged him with his snout. Then growled, and nudged again.
The male dragged himself to his feet and shambled off, leaning on his shovel for support.
The creature doubted he’d see this one again.
Life in Death Valley
Tomaaz’s shovel bit into the earth, the stench of the latrines making his eyes water. They’d made a pit that morning. Now, they were digging drainage ditches toward overflowing outhouses. They’d been at it all day, without food—only sips of tainted water from communal skins. With all the slaves under the watchful eyes of their tharuk overseers, he hadn’t dared refuse the numlocked water.
It hadn’t taken him long to learn that the tharuks called each other by the numbers tattooed on the bald spot inside their wrists. That’s what Lovina had meant when she’d told him tharuk 274 had liked her drawings.
Tomaaz flung dirt out of the trench onto the pile behind him, and dug again. He was used to hard work. These slaves were, too. They dug without a word, blind to their surroundings. Even the littlings were silent, with hollow faces, skinny little arms, and legs as thin as wheat stalks.
Working next to Tomaaz was the boy who had stumbled earlier, causing the diversion that had let Tomaaz join the slave crew. He was pitifully thin, and so weak he lifted one shovelful for every six of Tomaaz’s. Each time the boy threw the dirt out of the ditch, he leaned on his spade, panting, his shoulders jutting out like chicken wings, before he dug again. They were about the same height, but the boy’s muscles had wasted and his cheekbones protruded from his gaunt face. Half his right ear was missing as well as two fingers on his right hand. It was as if he had half a hand. No wonder it was hard to dig.
In fact, many of the slaves had missing fingers or ears.
“You,” snapped tharuk 568, flicking a whip in the air behind Half Hand. “Speed it up.”
Half Hand leaned forward to dig, but stumbled, landing on his knees.
Tomaaz kept up a steady rhythm, not daring to lift his eyes as Half Hand got to his feet.
Another tharuk roared with laughter. “Problem controlling vermin, 568?”
568 reached into the pit and dragged Half Hand out by the scruff of the neck. “On his last legs.” 568 shoved him back into the canal. “But he can dig more.”
Half Hand sprawled face down in the dirt.
568 guffawed. “Get up and dig. Or it’s the flesh pile.”
Two canals over, slaves scrambled out of their trench. A man swung a pick. He swung again, breaching the latrine pit. There was a gurgle and a wafting stench as effluent flowed into the ditch and down the slope to the waiting pit.
Tomaaz fought back a gag, trying to school his features into blank dumb acceptance. He battled the tension that ricocheted through his limbs, making him want to flee, screaming, from this gruesome hell.
“Rest time,” called the tharuk leading that slave gang.
The slaves collapsed where they stood, right next to the stinking canal. Other crews kept digging.
Great. One latrine was done and only about fifty to go. There must be thousands slaving underground. Soon, the sinking sun would touch the tips of the mountains, plunging them into shadow. The pit had taken half a day, and the canal had taken most of the other half. With around a hundred slaves working in five crews, perhaps they could manage ten latrines a day. That meant another week of this stuff. Tomaaz’s mouth soured as he struck the dirt again. A whole day here without finding Ma. He’d planned on questioning slaves when he’d arrived—not knowing they’d all be muted by numlock, every heartbeat scrutinized by tharuks.
His drain had almost reached the latrine, and he was at the front of the line. Tomaaz gave a mental groan. He was actually looking forward to hitting sewage so he could rest. His life had been reduced to this—and he’d only been in this nightmare place for hours. It had to be worse for slaves who’d been here moons or years.
Anger burned in his empty stomach. Zens was a monster, ruining the lives of thousands. The worst were the littlings, no longer running in meadows, laughing or playing; just digging, heads down, like whipped dogs. And for what?
Zens valued something. Something above human lives. Something deep in those misty chasms in the mountains where hundreds of slaves had headed that morning.
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 head, 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.�
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“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.”
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