by Jess Lebow
Someone shoved Ryder.
“Water.”
Ryder looked up at a young guardsman holding a wooden bucket and dipper.
Ryder nodded and took the offered water gratefully. He swallowed the entire dipperful in one giant gulp—and immediately gagged. His mouth was covered with a gritty film, and his stomach felt nauseated. He looked down into the dipper. The inside of it was covered with mud and slime.
“You scum should be right at home drinking swamp water,” said the guard, laughing.
Ryder tried to keep the contents of his stomach from coming back up. It was a struggle. He coughed and burped, swallowing hard with each breath.
The guard grabbed the dipper back, filled it again from the bucket, and passed it over Ryder to Nazeem. The tattooed man took it, looked into the bowl, sniffed the water, then drank it down. Unlike Ryder, the tattooed man didn’t seem to have the same reaction, simply swallowing and handing the dipper back to the guard.
Ryder tried to scrape the film off his tongue by rubbing it back and forth against his teeth. Some of it came off, but the taste of rotten vegetation still lingered in his mouth. He would be burping up stinkweed juice for at least another day.
“Hey you,” said the guard, looking at the skinny man. “Time for water.”
The skinny man didn’t move.
“Hey. I’m talking to you.” The guard flung the sludge from the bottom of the dipper at him.
Still, he didn’t move.
The guard shrugged. “Suit yourself. But there won’t be any more until tomorrow.” He started to move on to the next row of prisoners.
“Just a moment.”
The taskmaster appeared, hovering over the skinny man, a huge grin on his face.
“This man is very thirsty.” Cobblepot took the bucket from the guard. “I’m sure he wants to drink every last drop.” Squatting down, he grabbed the skinny man by the hair and lifted his head from the ground. Then he put the edge of the bucket up to the skinny man’s mouth.
Even being jerked back like that didn’t elicit a response. His eyes opened, and he moaned, but otherwise he let the taskmaster move his body around like a rag doll.
“Open wide,” said Cobblepot, forcing the scummy water down the prone prisoner’s throat.
The skinny man’s mouth filled quickly and the murky water spilled out the sides, flooding over his face, nose, and cheeks, then down his chest. For a moment, the skinny man didn’t move, letting the swampy fluid just flow over him. Then Ryder could see his mouth move, and the skinny man’s chest heaved. The skinny man kicked pathetically against the taskmaster’s hold, trying to fight the bucket away. He managed to get his lips away from the edge long enough to take in one huge gasp of air. Fighting to breathe, he made a sound like a strangled chicken and coughed up sludge.
“Taste good?” taunted the taskmaster. He continued pouring the muddy water into the prisoner’s mouth.
The skinny man raised his hand. The chains on his arms rattled as they pulled tight. Though the bucket was up against his face, he couldn’t get any leverage, and he pushed feebly against its edge.
Ryder leaned on Nazeem’s shoulders, reached over and shoved the bucket. “You’re going to kill him.”
Mr. Cobblepot released his grip on the skinny man, letting him fall back to the ground, coughing and puking. He eyed Ryder, a look of hatred and frustration plain on his face. Then he smirked.
“Guard, fill this up,” he said, handing the now-empty bucket to the soldier, “I think we have another thirsty prisoner.”
The guard took the bucket and headed off toward the swamp.
Cobblepot stepped over the skinny man and stood on the chains between Ryder and Nazeem. He loomed over the two of them.
Ryder settled back into his place, trying to separate himself from Nazeem. He didn’t want whatever was about to happen to him to flow over to any of the other prisoners.
“It’s been a while since I’ve given a proper lashing,” said the taskmaster as he unwrapped the whip from his massive fist. “I’m going to enjoy this.” He let the whip dangle on the dusty ground, dragging its tip around in a small circle.
Ryder looked down at the whip. There was no way he could escape, no way he could fight back, shackled to the other thirty-five men in the chain gang.
This was going to hurt.
Cobblepot brought the whip over his shoulder and snapped it once against the ground, sending dirt and dust into Ryder’s eyes. Sitting on the ground, helpless, Ryder was reminded of the beatings his father used to give him as a child. The man used to take his belt off in preparation for delivering his punishment. Then he would slap the hardened leather against the sturdy oak table a handful of times. Ryder wondered what it was about the torturer that made him revel in the torment, why the first few blows seemed intended not to inflict physical pain but to increase the mental torment. Ryder already knew what was going to happen to him. He didn’t need reminding. This was just a way to extend the pain. Make it not only last longer but also seep in further, so that it hurt deep inside as well as against the skin.
Straightening his back, Ryder crossed his legs underneath him as he had seen Nazeem do. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He did not know if he could find solace the way the tattooed man seemed to, but he had no better option.
The whip cracked again, then the familiar sting of leather crossed his chest. Ryder hissed at the pain. The tip of the whip was much narrower than his father’s belt had been. The blow was so sharp; it felt like a razor carving into his skin. He tightened all the muscles in his body, trying to steel himself against the sensation.
Again the whip cracked, slapping his shoulder. The pain was so poignant that even with his eyes closed he could sense the mark it left on him. It was as if the backs of his eyelids held a map of his body, and he watched as the taskmaster drew lines upon it. Ryder got lost in this image, escaping into himself, away from the beating. He would take the best the taskmaster had to offer, and he would be stronger for it.
The taskmaster continued his beating, the blows landing one after another in a regular rhythm. He was trying to beat the humanity out of Ryder, trying to turn him into a version of the taskmaster—an animal with no respect for human life or dignity.
Ryder fought against this transformation. But the whip burned him, and with each new attack, he lost more ground. Though he battled against the pain, his grip on his humanity was slipping. The whip’s sting was all-consuming, and he lost track of all other sensation. He was adrift in a world of pain, and it was all he could do to hold on and not break down.
The whip struck the side of his face. Ryder breathed then braced himself for the next blow.
It never came.
“Bandits!”
Ryder opened his eyes.
The taskmaster was several paces away, looking out to the west. In front of him, a few of the guardsmen were scrambling to get to their horses. The rest however, were in a fight for their lives.
A band of mounted bandits had come out from behind the boulders and encircled the guards as they began preparing the camp for the night. They wore baggy pantaloons and loose-fitting tunics that fluttered behind them as they rode. Every one of them had wrapped their heads and faces with scarves, leaving only their eyes exposed. They carried a hodgepodge of mismatched weapons—the spoils of other raids—and they howled as they descended upon Lord Purdun’s guardsmen.
Taskmaster Cobblepot was rushing now to the guardsmen’s aid, swinging his whip over his head, Ryder and the other prisoners seemingly forgotten.
Ryder’s body throbbed from the lashing he’d received, but somehow the pain felt diminished by the sight of the bandits. Under different circumstances, he might have been terrified. But right then, anyone who would fight Purdun’s men was all right with him.
Nazeem leaned over. “Are you all right?”
Ryder shook his head. “I’ve been better.”
This made Nazeem laugh. “I’ve never seen a man take such a beating withou
t even making so much as a whimper. You are very brave.”
A second wave of billowing riders rode out of the trees behind the prisoners. The prisoners in the rows behind Ryder and Nazeem gasped and stood up, forcing both men to get to their feet. The skinny man was lifted into the air, his full weight carried by the chains.
The entire chain gang got up off the ground and began to move, but the riders were much faster and overtook them. Ryder craned his head to see what was happening. As they approached, two of the bandits dropped down off their horses, leaped to the ground without slowing, and landed on their feet at a full run.
“Hold still,” shouted the first one. “We’re the Broken Spear. We’re not going to hurt you.” His voice was high, like that of a boy not quite fully a man.
Nazeem looked to Ryder. “Do you know of these men?”
Ryder nodded. “I’ve heard of them. My father used to tell us stories about them when we were little. I thought they were a myth, something he had made up to scare us into being good.”
“Perhaps your father is not as much of a liar as you thought,” replied the tattooed man.
The two dismounted bandits reached the last row of prisoners. Both of them were relatively short, and Ryder lost sight of them behind taller men.
“Please don’t hurt me,” screamed someone in the back, followed by the sound of metal crashing against metal.
A chill ran up Ryder’s spine. This was not the way he wanted to die. Trapped like a hunter’s quarry, unable to fight back.
“Be quiet, you coward,” yelled the young bandit. “Now go fight your oppressors.”
There was more pounding, and the sound of metal bending then giving in. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryder watched several prisoners, their sleeveless gray tunics stained with sweat, running toward the taskmaster, large rocks in their hands.
There was a lot of commotion. The men behind Ryder were shoving. The men in front were craning their necks to see what was going on. The sounds of men fighting and dying floated on the wind, surpassed only by the crack of the taskmaster’s whip.
There was another loud metallic snap behind Ryder, then the bandits were standing beside him.
“Hold out your hands,” ordered the young one.
Ryder did as he was told.
The man produced a pickaxe and a glass vial. He poured a thin, clear liquid on the two chains that connected Ryder to Nazeem and the skinny man. It seemed to smoke, and the metal touching Ryder’s skin grew terribly cold.
The other bandit stepped up and grabbed hold of the chains. This one was much larger than the young one. Ryder could feel the man’s strength through the shackles as he pulled them taut.
“Hold your hands as far apart as you can,” ordered the muscular bandit.
Ryder nodded.
The younger one reeled back and slammed the pickaxe against the chains on Ryder’s wrists—right where he’d poured the liquid. The pointed weapon sparked as it struck, but the chain remained intact.
“Damn,” shouted the young one. He hit it again, and again the chain didn’t budge.
The muscular bandit let go of the chains. “Try the lock.”
The young one nodded and held out the vial of liquid. “Don’t move,” he said, “or you might lose your hand.”
Ryder looked into the man’s brown eyes. He had the purposeful look of someone with an agenda—an inner demon that drove him to do great things, perhaps despite himself. Ryder had seen that look before in the eyes of the men of the Crimson Awl. They had a reason to live for, something so dear that they would risk everything to protect it.
Just looking into his eyes, Ryder knew this man was the same.
“You understand?” The bandit poured the liquid directly on the cuff holding Ryder’s left hand. The locking mechanism smoked just as the chains had.
Ryder nodded.
“Speak up, man,” shouted the bandit. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” It felt strange to speak. The only words he’d spoken in the past several days had nearly gotten him killed.
“Good.” The bandit raised the pickaxe.
Ryder held his arms as still as he could and braced himself.
The head of the weapon came down. Clank.
A buzzing pain ran up his arm, and Ryder looked down at his wrist. The shackle hung open, the lock broken, and with a quick shake it dropped away. The chain dragged on the ground, about five feet of it still attached to the cuff on Ryder’s right arm.
“That did it,” said the muscular bandit.
The younger grunted his acknowledgment and went to work on the other chains. They came away with much less effort, leaving only single links attached to the cuffs on each ankle.
“You are not truly free,” said the young one, “until we all escape these oppressors.” He slapped Ryder on the shoulder. “Now go. Fight back against the men who would make you into a beast.”
CHAPTER 8
Liam followed Montauk and his men to the woods just outside Duhlnarim.
“Stop right here,” said Montauk. He pulled from a pouch a long thin strip of fabric. Holding it up, he pushed it toward Liam’s face.
Liam pulled away. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” replied Montauk. “I’m blindfolding you.”
“Montauk, what’s with you? I’ve been a loyal member of the Awl since its inception. You know this. You were there.”
Montauk nodded to the other men. Each grabbed one of Liam’s arms.
“Yes, Liam, I know how long you’ve been around. Frankly, that’s what surprises me so much about your betrayal.”
Liam struggled only slightly as the other men held him in place. “Betrayal? What betrayal?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” replied Montauk. “Now play along, or I’ll be forced to hurt you.” He held up the blindfold again.
His arms pinned to his sides, Liam let Montauk place the fabric against his skin. He felt the knot press against the back of his head, grabbing at his hair as it cinched tight. The two men pulled his arms behind his back. Liam heard the heavy clanging of a chain, then he felt the familiar sensation of manacle cuffs closing over his wrists.
“Am I a prisoner?” Liam tested the shackles. There wasn’t much play in the chain.
“Of a sort,” replied Montauk. “You never can be too careful.”
A hand on Liam’s back urged him forward.
They walked on in silence for a long while, the regular crunch of dried pine needles underfoot keeping time as they went. Liam counted his steps, trying to distract himself from the uncertainty of what was to become of him. Ever since the morning Ryder died, his life seemed to be spinning out of control. The world moved by in front of him. He tried to reach out, to grab hold of something. But it was no use. He was powerless to affect the sights and sounds running before his own eyes. It was as if he were watching a play. The story would work its way to its final conclusion, regardless of whether he was in the audience or not.
Eventually, Liam’s mind wandered. He lost track of the number of steps. He lost track of the forest and the men. He thought back on the days not so long ago when he and Ryder would come out into the woods to play hide-and-seek. Ryder would blindfold him like this and spin him in circles. When he fell down from dizziness, Ryder would run off to hide.
Liam had always hated the sensation of being dizzy. It made him sick to his stomach, and the feeling wouldn’t go away for some time afterward. Still, Liam had enjoyed these games with his older brother. By this time, both of them had different sets of friends. Liam was still in school, and Ryder had taken to helping their father in the fields full time. The brothers didn’t get to spend much time together anymore. So when they did, Liam did whatever his brother wanted. It didn’t matter. Somehow, just playing games like they had when they were both younger felt right. Ryder had been the one person Liam could count on to understand him. He had been the one person who would always be there t
o back him up when things got tough. Liam couldn’t say that about his father, or even his mother for that matter. Ryder had been the anchor for Liam.
“I wish you were here right now,” whispered Liam.
“What?” said Montauk. “Speak up.”
Liam shook his head. “It was nothing.”
“Well, you’d better have something to say. You have plenty of explaining to do.”
Someone jerked Liam to a stop. Without unlocking his shackles, Montauk pulled down the blindfold and left it dangling from Liam’s neck.
They had brought Liam to a clearing. It looked to be the old, abandoned druid’s circle—Dowmore Glen. Liam had never met any of the mythical druids who were reputed to live in the forests outside Duhlnarim. No one had seen them. Still, the stories of their existence and of the rituals they carried out deep in the woods were generally taken for truth by the farmers of Duhlnarim. Everyone had heard the hunters’ stories of this place.
Liam himself had always believed they were there. At the very least it was an easy way of explaining the strange behavior of the animals during the full moon, and the odd crop growth during times of drought. But if ever he needed any proof, the scene before him would be plenty.
A low rock wall encircled the entire clearing. Years of the elements had worn the edges of the stone down into a series of softly sloping curves. Vines grew up over large sections of the wall, but unlike the roots and brambles Liam had seen tearing apart the buildings in Duhlnarim, these formed patterns and shapes, decorating the wall rather than fighting its unnatural presence.
The vines climbed over the wall and up the sides of four crumbling stone monoliths. Carved into each monolith was a depiction of the same nude female drow, her long flowing hair strategically twisting and turning to cover her more private parts. Liam was no divine scholar, but judging from the carving, he supposed this was the goddess Eilistraee.
In each monolith the goddess struck a slightly different pose than in the last. But the theme was the same in all of them. The goddess stood on one leg, holding a large sword over her head with the full moon large and glorious behind her. The carvings all faced the center of the circle, presumably looking down on the proceedings.
