by Robert Evert
Tackling Crazy Bastard, Pond Scum pressed his hands over the old man’s mouth while Vomit whispered into his ear. Crazy Bastard’s muffled screams and thrashing subsided. Turd stood staring at the burning bandage. Then they all turned toward Edmund, fear and hope in their eyes.
“You’re a . . . a witch?” Pond Scum said under his breath. “A real . . . live . . . witch?”
They’re going to kill me.
No! You have them where you need them. Don’t blow this. Don’t blow this. Don’t show fear. Convince them that you know what just happened.
Edmund, as surprised as any of them, flicked his quivering chin at the smoking remains of what used to be the front of his shirt. Stepping toward Turd, he jabbed a finger into the mountain’s stomach. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
His body weakening, Edmund pulled on his boot, lay back down in his area, and faced the wall so that they couldn’t see his tears. “Everybody just, just leave me the hell alone!”
Chapter Thirteen
Edmund woke from a dreamless void. Vomit and Pond Scum were hissing at him from their areas of the pit.
“What is it?” Edmund demanded, trying in vain to get comfortable on the dirt floor. “What do you want?”
Unnerved, Vomit and Pond Scum exchanged glances.
“They’ll . . . they’ll be here soon,” Pond Scum said. “The guards I mean. They’ll drop a ladder down, we’ll climb up as quickly as we can, and then-and then they’ll take us to wherever we will be for the day.”
Edmund yawned as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He actually felt much better. His left eye was still swollen shut. There were two egg-sized knots on his forehead, and his bottom lip was several times its normal size. But most of the sharp stabbing pains he had the day before were now more tolerable throbbing aches.
Thank goodness for mother’s healing spell.
Don’t you wish you learned more as a child? Shame you wasted so much of your life. Such a waste . . .
He spit, trying to get the gritty taste of dirt out of his mouth, but it wouldn’t go away.
The sound of clanking metal approached. Pond Scum, Vomit, Crazy Bastard, and even Turd rushed to the center of the pit, forming a straight line. Pond Scum and Vomit watched Edmund. They exhaled in relief when he got up and stood behind Crazy Bastard.
“Your bag,” Pond Scum said, pointing to the leather bag lying on the ground in Edmund’s area. Vomit had placed the partially cooked ribs on them the evening before, but both they and the bag had been trampled during the previous evening’s altercation.
Edmund grabbed his bag and flicked it, sending broken dog ribs across the pit in the process. Crazy Bastard dove for them. “Fair game! Fair game!”
Two heavily-armed goblins in chain mail glowered down at them. One lowered a narrow wooden ladder.
“Get back in line or there’ll be hell to pay,” a guard hollered at Crazy Bastard.
Shoving the dirt-covered ribs into his mouth like a carnivorous chipmunk, Crazy Bastard scampered back in line.
Vomit, Turd, and Pond Scum shimmied up the ladder. Slowly, Edmund followed. Imitating everybody else’s example, he got to the top of the pit and stood in line, his head bowed, his functioning eye riveted on the ground.
“Nice to see you up and about, Filth,” one of the guards said to him. “Think you can manage lasting another three days?”
The other guard poked Edmund’s stomach with an iron club. “Look at this. Why, I’m surprised they didn’t eat you. You would have provided your pit mates with food for a week and a half.”
Don’t react. Don’t antagonize them. Just stare at the ground!
“Why, I bet that he doesn’t last the night,” the second guard went on.
“Don’t give them any ideas,” the first guard said, hooting. “I have a month’s pay on this one. They can eat him at the end of week.”
Grabbing Edmund’s midsection, the second guard jiggled the roll of fat hanging over the straining waistband of his britches. “By then most of this will be gone.” The goblin shook his head. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.”
Don’t upset them. Just stare at the ground. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t upset them!
“All right, enough of this fun,” the first guard said. “Let’s get them moving. There’s a lot to be done today and the work guards are a-waitin’.”
As the two goblins marched them out of the chamber, Edmund stole a glimpse around.
They were in a partly natural cavern, at least a hundred yards wide and even longer in the other direction. Edmund counted thirteen other pits by which other haggard men stood in lines, staring lifelessly at the ground. Two goblins guarded each group of slaves. Each guard was fully armored in chain mail. Several had shields and various styles of helms. They also had swords, clubs, whips, and, on their backs, crossbows and quivers of bolts. Along the walls of the cavern, another thirty goblins paced, all armed.
There’re too many of them. I’ll never get out of here. Never.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think. Do what they tell you and don’t think.
The lead goblin marched them out of the cavern and into an adjacent passage. It was lit by crackling torches protruding from the otherwise unadorned walls, oily smoke lingering in black clouds. Edmund returned his attention to the ground.
I have to get out of here . . .
For the better part of an hour, they marched through passageways populated sporadically by goblins going about their own business. For a time, these passages were like underground roads—flat floors, smooth walls, room enough for several people to walk abreast. Then they entered meandering tunnels that appeared cruder, more cave-like. The steady plunking of cold water as it dripped from damp ceilings echoed around them. The torches of their guards hissed and wavered.
Often the tunnels became so narrow they had to walk sideways. More than once, Turd had to get on his knees and crawl through low points where the ceiling dipped close enough to snag Edmund’s disheveled hair.
They’re walking us in circles. That’s what they’re doing. We’ve passed this spot twice before. I wonder why.
Shut up. Don’t think. Just don’t think about any of this madness.
Eventually the goblins brought them to an underground quarry where five ore carts sat empty on tracks leading off into darkness. In the middle of the chamber were rusty picks and bent shovels. On scaffolding made of thick wooden beams, a guard strolled back and forth, a bow in his hand, arrow at the ready. Another guard stood by the main entrance, stroking a black whip. He winked at Edmund.
“And good mornin’ to ya, Filth. Glad you joined our little party?” He cracked the whip inches away from Edmund’s right ear.
Flinching, Edmund’s pace quickened as he followed Pond Scum and Turd to the tools. From the corner of his functioning eye, he watched as Vomit approached the guard at the exit, dragging his left foot in a severe limp.
“Don’t stare,” Pond Scum whispered to him. “Just grab a pick and follow me when the time comes.”
Edmund did what he was told.
Vomit shuffled back to the waiting slaves.
“They want us excavate two tunnels, at least six feet high, four feet wide, heading straight that way and that way.” He indicated the directions the guards had told him.
Without waiting for additional explanation, the slaves silently split up—Turd, Vomit, and Crazy Bastard heading to one side of the cavern, Pond Scum heading in the other. Edmund followed Pond Scum.
Far off, the faint ringing of metal on stone echoed.
Standing in front of the designated wall, Edmund sized up his pick. It was heavy. But its use as a weapon, or even as a mining tool, was questionable. Its tip was dull and dented. Further, its metal head wobbled on the splintered wooden handle.
Better get this over with . . .
Hefting the pick on his shoulder, Edmund stepped toward the rock face and swung hard.
The point of the pick struck the grey stone with a shar
p clang and kicked back, wrenching itself from Edmund’s grasp and landing on his big toe. He shouted, hopping around on one foot.
The guards laughed, joined seconds later by the rest of the slaves. Crazy Bastard hit the wall with an imaginary pick, pretended that it fell on his foot, and then danced around in a circle screaming obscenities.
Even Pond Scum chuckled.
“No, no,” he said, making sure that the guards weren’t coming in their direction. “Here, like this. Take the pick with your hands wide apart, like this. See? Swing it up, like so. And then let the weight of the pick’s head hit the wall. Try not to use your muscles much. We’ll be here a long time, so conserve your energy. Let the pick’s momentum do most of the work. Watch me.”
Pond Scum’s pick struck the wall. Flakes of stone fell to the floor.
“See? You try.”
Edmund repositioned his hands along the handle. He brought the pick’s wobbly head up and let it fall on the rock. It bounced off with no discernible damage.
“Good.” Pond Scum patted him on the shoulder. “Good. You’re getting the hang of it.”
Edmund did it again.
“How, how long?” Edmund asked, sweat beginning to trickle down his temple. “How long do we have to do this?”
Pond Scum hoisted his pick up and let it fall on the stone. More debris slid to the ground. He smiled at Edmund, a calculating smile that seemed to hide some unpleasantness.
“Don’t think about it. The time will go faster.”
He struck the rock face again.
“H-h-how, how long?”
Pond Scum inclined his head at the five empty ore carts waiting in the middle of the cavern. “See those?”
Edmund nodded.
Pond Scum swung again. “We need to fill them . . . ten times.”
Edmund examined the chips of stone gathering at his feet and then back at the carts. “About how, how long . . . how long does that take?”
Pond Scum hit the wall yet again.
“You better keep working. You don’t want the guards coming over here. Trust me.”
Edmund hoisted his pick above his head and let it fall on the stone in front of him. A little more dust fell to the floor.
“How long?”
“See those?” Pond Scum thrust his chin toward the torches burning by the entrance to the quarry. “When those are out . . . ” He swung. “Then we should be done. If we get done early, we get to bring the torches back to the pit. But there’s a catch, you see. Always a catch.”
He swung again.
“If we get done too early, they just make us work more next time. You know what I’m saying? Do you get it? It’s all about getting the most out of us as possible.”
Edmund struck the wall. A piece of stone the size of his thumb sprang back and struck his swollen eye. He rubbed it, smearing even more dirt into the wound. His eye burned and watered. He swore.
“How long? In . . . in hours I mean.”
“About twelve, maybe thirteen.”
Twelve, maybe thirteen . . . hours?
I’m never going to survive that long.
“Breaks?” Edmund asked. More sweat matted his grimy hair. His breaths were coming in short bursts now.
Pond Scum shook his head. He swung his pick, his blow opening a small hole in the wall. “To piss and crap. That’s it. And get something to drink. But . . . ” He swung again. “If you do that more than two or three times, Vomit will levy a fine. He’ll withhold some of your food.” He swung again.
Edmund heaved his pick.
This is what you get for being such a fool. You should have stayed in Rood. You should have left well enough alone.
For many moments, he and Pond Scum traded ringing blows. When the pile of debris on the ground was ankle deep, Pond Scum broke his silence.
“So,” he said. “How did they get you?”
Edmund balanced the mining pick on his shoulder and examined his hands. Around his palms, flaps of soft skin hung loose, revealing tender pink tissue beneath. “I’d, I’d r . . . rather not talk about it.” He panted, wincing as he tried to wipe the grit from his palms.
“I understand.” Pond Scum hit the wall. “But it helps, you know, talking I mean. It helps keep away the pain. And it helps pass the time.” His pick created another fist-sized hole in the wall. “Vomit, Turd, Bastard, and me have been together for quite a while. We know just about everything about each other. Hearing some new stories would be like a breath of fresh air in this place.”
Fresh air! What I wouldn’t do to breathe fresh air . . .
Another chunk of rock fell clattering to the growing pile.
Pond Scum nudged Edmund with his elbow. “Not to be an ass or anything like that, but, you know, you better start swinging that pick or there’ll be hell to pay, either from the guards or from us. Nothing personal, you understand. You can’t just stand around like that.”
Turd was glaring at them from across the cavern. He and Vomit had already amassed a pile of stone up to their knees. Crazy Bastard was bringing shovelfuls of it to the ore carts. Edmund tore off one of his sleeves and wrapped the wool around his hands as Turd had done in the pit. He raised his pick and let it fall on the wall. The constant clanging was giving him a headache.
Pond Scum’s pick rang against the stone. “If you could say something interesting, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
Edmund thought of the last conversation he had with Norb, when they debated the merits of stories that scholars and stable hands could tell.
That seems a lifetime ago . . .
Edmund’s pick hit the wall.
“Suit yourself,” Pond Scum said, disappointed. “You’ll just have to deal with me talking to hear my own voice. Otherwise, you can go work with the others.”
“N-no.” Edmund panted, his pick rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic fashion. “Go ahead. I’d, I’d prefer to kind of-to kind of listen for awhile, if you don’t mind.”
“I understand. Still getting adjusted. You’re actually doing surprisingly well. The last newcomer we had curled up in a ball the morning afterward. Turd had to compel him to get up before the guards came down the ladder to get him. Fortunately, Turd is an effective motivator . . . at least to most people.” Pond Scum looked sideways at Edmund. “You sure made him think twice last night.”
Edmund struck the stone, the sharp impact jolting his bones. He brushed the sweat off his brow with his remaining sleeve and then noticed that his companion wasn’t even breathing hard.
Pond Scum went on. “That fellow, the last one before you, didn’t last very long. Two days. But I’ve seen others not make even that.”
“What happened?” Edmund asked, letting his pick come down in front of him. “To the last one and the others, I mean?”
Pond Scum swung again. “Sure you want to hear about it? Like I said last night, I want you to have an easy go of it at first.”
This is an easy go?
A thin sheet of stone slid down the now concave wall, causing a small avalanche of rubble.
“Like you said, I’ll hear it eventually. G-g-go . . . go on. Say what you have to say.”
“All right. Anyway, the last one was named Excrement, soldier from down south, from the war and everything. He was brought in in pretty bad shape. They beat him something fierce before he was willing to stop saying his real name.” Pond’s pick came up and then down. “There are some people who take a long time to die here, some people who die very quickly, and some people are dead, but don’t realize it. Excrement, well, he wanted out. So he found a way.”
Edmund grunted and then coughed on the dusty air. “Go on. You’re right. Talking is help, helping. Wh-what . . . what happened?”
“On his first day,” Pond Scum said, kicking away debris that had fallen on his black feet. “On his first day, he went at a guard with your pick.”
Edmund examined the splotches of red staining the wooden hand. “But you, but you said that he was killed on his second day.�
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“I also said that there are things worse than being beaten.”
They fell silent, the ringing from their alternating blows echoing around them.
“All right,” Edmund wheezed, wondering if it was too early to get a drink. Looking over at the cask of water in the corner, he found that one of the guards was urinating in it. His heart sank still further. “G-go . . . go ahead. Tell me what happened. I need to know the worst.”
“Oh, this isn’t the worst. Not by a long shot. But I’ll tell you anyhow.” Pond Scum swung again. “He approached a guard. That was his first mistake. Like I told you last night, only Vomit can approach them. Always keep that in mind. Don’t go near them. Don’t look at them. Don’t speak to them unless they tell you to.”
Edmund grunted again. “All right.”
“Also, he had a pick in his hands. That was his second mistake.” Pond shook his head. “You don’t get three mistakes here.”
Edmund let his pick fall. A segment of stone the size of a man’s head broke free and toppled from the wall. He barely had the energy to jump out of the way as it crashed about his feet.
“If you want my advice,” Pond Scum said, striking the wall. “Take pleasure in small things. That’ll help you get you through the day. But don’t let the guards see you being happy—ever. Save your happiness for when we are alone in the pit.”
Happiness? How can anybody be happy here?
“It’s like developing a separate identity,” Pond went on. “Show one to the guards so they leave you alone. Cherish the other when you are in the darkness. Do you know what I mean?”
“I . . . I, I think so,” Edmund lied.
“Good. Do as I do and you’ll be fine.”
Edmund nodded as he swung, perspiration flying from his brow.
“And another thing, don’t look around so much. Frankly, I’m surprised how gently they have been treating you. They must have some sort of wager going or something.”
Gently? I can barely open my eye . . .
His arms trembling, Edmund raised his pick. It seemed even heavier than when he had first lifted it. He swung, producing another dull clang.
