“We never seen this one afore till the scum came through here.” The barmaid stood with her hands on her substantial hips, glaring at the man.
“’Tis true,” said the gaunt man who’d applauded earlier. “I reckon this whoreson got my folks killed. They’re still hangin’ from that tree out there.” He stepped forward, fists clenched and face turning red with fury.
Ferret slammed the man against the wall, holding him pinned there with ease. With her free hand, she plucked a coin purse from the man’s belt. After looking inside, she gave a sound similar to a whistle. “His purse is full of Nebaran gold.”
“Lies! They’re lyin’!” In spite of his protests, the spy was shaking like a leaf, eyes wide with burgeoning panic as he tried futilely to pry Ferret’s hand free.
“Then how’d you come to be in possession of a purse full of Nebaran gold?” Ferret shook the man hard enough for his teeth to rattle.
All at once, the life seemed to go out of him, and he deflated like a punctured wineskin. Creel gestured for Ferret to release the spy. She tossed him down to the floor atop one of the fallen soldiers.
“We’ll leave him for you folks to deal with as you see fit,” Creel said. “If I was in your shoes, he’d have a noose around his sorry neck in short order.”
Angry mutters of agreement came in response.
Ferret tossed the spy’s heavy coin purse down on the table. “For you all’s troubles.”
Creel shot her an approving glance. “Time to leave.” He hoisted his pack and a couple sacks of goods he’d returned with, then Mira and the others quickly followed him out the door and back into the freezing rain.
Chapter 16
The stench of vomit, excrement, and unwashed bodies all atop an underlying odor of brine nearly overwhelmed Elyas’s sense of smell in the close confines of the hold. His fellow prisoners’ miserable whimpers and groans were drowned out by the creak of wood and roar of waves pounding the hull of the slave galley. Iron manacles had chafed his wrists and ankles raw, and his muscles ached brutally from not being able to move about or stretch his limbs. He was chained in a seated position, as were the others, scores of them packed into the ship’s hold. The chains lacked enough slack for them to move about more than a foot or so in any direction. No bucket or other means were provided to relieve themselves, so he had been reduced to soiling himself like an invalid, the same as the others. He could only think enviously of how many animals were treated better than the slaves. Nebara was notorious for its slave caste, and Elyas had no delusions as to what fate awaited him.
Days had passed since the battle and his defeat by Nesnys in single combat. He spent the following days in an alternating haze of waking misery and blessed unconsciousness. Yet the battle had been seared into his memory and haunted his dreams and waking hours alike: the death of Prince Jerard and King Clement’s resulting sorrow and fury; his plummet into the midst of the Nebaran horde and the desperate push to try to rescue him; Glin’s valiant death and Elyas’s vicious fighting only to arrive too late, to find his king with Nesnys’s sword driven through his chest; his ensuing duel with the fiend and the wash of emotions flooding him during that battle; her eerie, shining silver eyes and lips red with his blood. All these images tormented him, a swirling ode to his own failure and that of his fellows.
The army had suffered a rout. Ketania was lost.
The ship was wallowing in a ferocious storm, the flash of lightning glimpsed through cracks in the deck overhead. Water poured down through the open hatch and gaps in the timbers to slosh around them. The water was currently over Elyas’s hips in his seated position, chained to the wall. His sour stomach clenched from the ship’s tossing about, and he leaned forward and heaved the sparse contents of his stomach into the sloshing water between his spread legs. A thin stream of bile was all that came out, burning his throat and making him gag from the bitter taste.
In that moment, he wished the ship would be swamped and sink to the bottom of the sea. Anything would be better than the misery he was being subjected to and that which was yet to come.
Following the duel, he had regained consciousness chained to the back of a wagon with a group of fellow prisoners. Threatening clouds filled the sky overhead, yet looking back where they’d come from, he saw a portrait of a sunny day merely a few dozen paces away, outlined by a fiery archway. Some type of magical gateway had been opened, allowing the slave caravan to cover many miles in but a moment. As he watched, ox-drawn wagons laden down with supplies entered the portal, the Nebaran army’s lifeline. The caravan grew smaller in the distance under that sunny sky. The whole Nebaran wartime operation functioned like a well-tuned clock, smooth and well oiled when compared with the ineptly managed Ketanian war effort.
He heard the cries of gulls and rush of surf before he felt the wagon roll onto the sandy beach, wallowing as the oxen strove to gain purchase. Whips cracked, and a moment later, they continued trundling forward. Minutes later, the wagon stopped. A soldier reeking badly of sour sweat unchained them, and they were herded along the beach by the prods of Nebaran cudgels. Several beached skiffs were loading up and transporting the chained prisoners to a large galley waiting offshore. Elyas had tried to resist the slavers, hoping to somehow escape, but had nothing to show for his efforts other than a number of fresh bruises added to his accumulation of wounds from the battle. Surprisingly, none of his injuries were severe although he would be in pain for some time and have a number of resulting scars.
Anhur, don’t let me live like this. Let me die with a dagger in my chest or, if nothing else, at the bottom of the sea with the crabs tearing at my corpse. Anything but being a damned slave, forced to serve these Nebaran dogs.
He prayed daily for the chance to throttle one of his captors, to wrap the thick iron chain around one of the bastards’ necks and pull it tight, crushing his throat. But the slavers knew their business, keeping their prisoners weak from thirst and near starvation, and remaining wary around them at all times.
During the journey, he had plenty of time to second-guess his actions. He had foolishly dueled Nesnys—but for what reason? He couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking, but surely it hadn’t been rational. His king was captured and needed rescue, at least that’s what he’d thought at the time.
Better if I had fallen with Glin, Kavia, and the others on the field. Why did that evil wench spare me? Why not slay me like the king and the others that fell by her blade?
The thought that she had spared him for a reason gave him an unusual feeling, something between dreadful despair and bleak hopefulness. He thought he might have a very slim chance to work her interest to his favor, but he knew that was the foolish and desperate thought of a condemned man.
He had no answers for his questions, only the constant tossing of the ship and his own persistent misery.
So Elyas suffered along with the other three score men, women, and even children in the galley’s hold. He dreamed of death and dreaded what new manner of torment life might have in store for him next.
***
The day after the storm, the ship made port in a busy harbor, the skilled crew having successfully battled the elements and guided the vessel to safety.
With a pained groan, Elyas struggled to his feet when his shackles were freed from the sturdy iron loops in the timbers. He easily felt thrice his age as he shuffled with the others up the ladder onto the deck, then down a gangplank to a broad dock. His muscles and joints protested from disuse. Any thoughts of wrapping his chained hands around any of the slavers’ necks was dissuaded by the cold fact that it was all he could do to stand and keep moving with his cramped muscles. Many weren’t so fortunate. Several women and children were dragged like rubbish from the hold. A few of the sorry figures never even made an effort to rise, too weak or perhaps even dead, he suspected.
The midday sun was blinding after the gloom of the hold, and the humid heat felt brutal although it was eased by a sea breeze. After days in the stinking, miserab
le darkness of the hold, Elyas was heartened to fill his lungs with fresh air and to feel the sun on his skin. All around, tall-masted ships filled the harbor. A clamor of noise and activity filled the docks as cargo, both human and not, was unloaded and sent toward its destination.
“Let’s go—get these scum moving!” The ship’s mate cursed as an old man collapsed on the gangplank and nearly toppled into the water before being dragged to the dock by a pair of slavers.
After a lot of cursing and encouragement with cudgels and boots, the sorry lot of slaves were grouped together on the pier. With practiced ease, slavers chained them together in a double line, and they were then hustled down the dock. Elyas glanced back and saw a cart stacked with several bodies being wheeled down the gangplank.
He turned his attention back to the harbor. From overheard conversation on the ship, he knew he must be in Leciras, a port city on the far-eastern edge of the Nebaran Empire. The buildings looked to be made of baked clay bricks with terra-cotta roofs. Colorful silks and satins appeared to be in fashion, judging by the garb worn by merchants and wealthier citizens moving about a lively market just past the docks. None of the locals even so much as glanced in the slaves’ direction though everyone gave them a wide berth in what appeared to be second nature to them.
A young boy a short distance ahead of Elyas stumbled and fell and was dragged along the street a few paces by the chains before the man behind helped the child back to his feet.
The group was shoved and prodded along several streets until they ended up in a dusty plaza filled with slaves—the lot of them thin, haggard, and dressed in filthy rags. Hard-eyed guards and slavers watched them like hawks eyeing plump rodents.
“Over here with those sorry arseholes!” A fat man wearing a broad-brimmed hat and dressed in a jerkin and baggy satin breeches waved them over to a clear space. He looked over the slaves with a keen eye then turned to the slaver chief. After they haggled for a few minutes, the fat man deposited a coin purse in the hand of the lead slaver. “Get them some water,” their new slave master ordered his aide, a toothless old man whose wrinkled skin was a deep brown.
The aide carried a wooden bucket and ladle over. “Cup yer hands. Ya spill it, that’s all ya get.” He went down the line and ladled a scoop of dirty water into everybody’s cupped hands.
Elyas drank it down without hesitation, as did the others, for he was parched. The water had a foul taste to it but soothed his dry throat. He hoped it wasn’t tainted, but ill slaves would be worth less than healthy ones, so he decided it shouldn’t be a concern.
The fat man came down the line with a pair of henchmen while a dozen guards eyed them with hands on the hilts of their weapons. He muttered to himself as he looked each of them over then divvied the slaves out to either henchman, a system Elyas had no idea what it meant.
“Oh, this one be special here,” he said when he came to Elyas. The man squinted at his collar then looked around the square and, apparently not finding whom he sought, told one of his henchmen, “Go find Dirich. This one’s his.” He continued down the line, leaving Elyas to bake in the noonday sun.
A few minutes later, the fat man returned with another pair of men.
“This one here was sent by the warlord herself. Musta worked out an arrangement with House Pasikos.” The slave master yanked hard on the chain attached to Elyas’s neck collar and pointed so the other man could see.
The band of iron had apparently been struck with special markings indicating he was the warlord’s property.
Elyas could do little but stare sullenly at his captors. Seasickness, thirst, and hunger had taken their toll over the past days, making him feel weak and ill. He was fortunate to be among the healthiest of the lot. Looking down the line, he saw several had keeled over where they stood, while others like the old man on the gangplank and the young boy had been dragged partway to the market. He couldn’t help but wonder how many corpses had been retrieved from the slave galley’s hold.
The fat man stepped away, then Elyas faced a dark-skinned, scarred man with a hulking henchman looming over his shoulder. The scarred man examined Elyas impassively with arms crossed over his chest. He looked as though a trident had raked across his face, three deep gashes cutting his flesh from forehead to chin. The tip of his nose had been cut off, and his lip was twisted with scar tissue, giving him a perpetual grimace. But his dark, flint-hard eyes revealed nothing. After a moment, he grunted and gestured curtly with a thumb over his shoulder.
“With the others. If naught else, this one at least looks less pitiful than the rest.” He handed the fat slave master some coin, and Elyas was led away by the scarred man’s henchman.
The sun beat down overhead, baking Elyas as he was marched through the dusty streets with three other slaves, all of them chained together and under the watch of a trio of armed guards, along with the scarred man and his henchman. He marveled at the heat even so late in the season, with autumn soon to be turning to winter.
Must be hotter than the damn Abyss here in midsummer.
The streets reeked of sweat and dung. Donkeys brayed irritably as they hauled carts through the winding roads. Collared slaves were a common sight, most dutifully accompanying their owners, but a number were alone, going about whatever errands their masters had sent them on. Silk-draped palanquins were carried by sweating slaves, their masters traveling through the streets in style. He saw a fair-skinned, bejeweled hand with a decanter of wine in it hold one of the silk curtains aside so the occupant could briefly peer outside.
After about thirty minutes of walking, they reached the outskirts of Leciras, where the terrain grew hilly, providing large villas with fine views of the city and sea beyond. Terraced vineyards covered the hillsides with slaves laboring among the vines. They climbed a winding path up one of the hills until they reached a walled compound with armed guards posted inside a wrought-iron gate.
At their approach, the guards moved to unbar and open the gates, and the slaves were marched into a wide courtyard. Directly across the courtyard from the gates, separated by a white stone wall, was an impressive three-story villa with numerous terraces overlooking the valley below. To the left was a stable and what looked like a storehouse, beside it an open mess hall covered with an awning and containing tables and benches. To the right stood a grim-looking single-story building, which Elyas immediately took for a barracks—or a prison, perhaps.
They halted at a command from the scarred man. His henchman scowled at the slaves, smacking the haft of a whip in his beefy hand as if impatient for any excuse to put it to work.
The scarred man regarded them a moment before speaking. “I am Dirich, the overseer of your training here at House Pasikos. This is my assistant, Shoat. I am a man of few words—what I say now is the longest speech I’ll ever give. You are worms, nothing more. You shall obey me in all things. If you don’t, Shoat will set you straight. Do not think to attempt escape, for you will be beaten severely and, if your worth is lacking, likely maimed but kept alive to continue your servitude in other ways. Do not ever pass those white wall gates onto the villa grounds, or the same will happen to you. There will be no easy escape through death either, unless it be a glorious one in the pits. You shall train from sunup to sundown in all manner of combat, armed and unarmed. When—if—I judge you ready, you will enter the pits to earn your name. If you earn your name, you shall be a worm no longer, but a gladiator. As a gladiator, you will fight valiantly and bring glory upon this house. Fail in this and bring shame upon this house, and you shall incur my lord’s wrath. Do that, and your life will be more miserable than you could ever imagine. You will have wished you’d died gloriously in battle, of that I assure you.” He was pacing along the line, staring long at each of the men, and noticed that only Elyas met his eyes. Dirich nodded slightly, seeming to approve that he still had some small amount of spirit and pride. “However, if you please my lord and bring this house glory in the pits, your life will not be so onerous. You will be eligible
to gain certain privileges: you may eat and drink well, have your own room, and even slake your desires with some of the slave women in the master’s household upon occasion. Decide well which path you would take.” He turned toward Shoat. “See they are fed and watered and bathed. They reek of piss and shite.” Dirich strode away across the courtyard toward the villa.
“All right, you miserable little shites.” Shoat glared at them. “Strip outta those reeking rags you’re wearin’.”
Elyas did as he was bade. One of the slaves balked, and Shoat’s whip cracked sharply, striking a chunk of skin from the man’s cheek. He cried out and then hastily disrobed.
Once all four were standing naked in the courtyard, Shoat looked them over with a smirk. “A couple of yous might have the strength to survive, if I was gonna make a wager. Now, to the baths!” He pointed around behind the barracks building.
They rounded the stone building to find a small stone pool filled with water.
“In you go, worms!” Shoat bellowed.
Elyas lowered himself into the water, which smelled of lye. After the heat of the day, the water felt blessedly cool. He submerged his head briefly and then proceeded to scrub away the sweat and grime befouling him with one of the stiff-bristled brushes set out. After a few minutes, he felt reasonably clean again.
Following the baths, the men were each given smallclothes and a pair of breeches, though the legs were cut short, rising above the knees. Each was also issued a pair of thick-soled sandals with leather straps that wrapped around the ankle and lower calf to secure them in position. Elyas was surprised at how comfortable the sandals were, especially in the sweltering heat. No tunics or other garments were issued, so they remained bare chested.
Shoat led them back into the main courtyard and put them at the end of the mess-hall line. These other men were slaves also, but they appeared to have free movement about the compound, save the villa and environs. All of them were deeply tanned and well muscled, bearing many scars from intense fighting. They were the house’s gladiators, what Elyas and his three fellow new arrivals would become, or failing that, they’d be reassigned, sold off, or slain in combat.
The Way of Pain Page 15
