by Rob J. Hayes
Our little tunnel where we dug our lives away was on the seventeenth level of the Pit. It was far enough down that we never saw sunlight, but not so far that we were at danger from the creatures that called solid rock their home. Those poor bastards who worked down in the deep depths were often driven mad by the things that they saw in the dark, or killed by the things they didn't see. We rode the wooden lift up, not because we had earned special treatment, but because our lazy fucking foreman hated stairs. It was a lucky day for us scabs, finding the lift not in use. Prig was far more generous with his whip the days he was forced to climb to work, as though it was somehow our fault he was a fat fucker.
The tools we used each day waited for us right where we had left them. Hammers, pickaxes, shovels, and a little wooden cart with rusted wheels that squealed like a pig on the butcher's block. I could feel my nerves fraying away every time that fucking cart moved. Prig could have done something about it, ordered a little oil to ease the grinding metal, but the noise did not bother him and he knew it bothered me so he kept it just as it was. That bastard was always so quick to jump on every torment he could find, no matter how little it might be. He lived to make our misery more fucking miserable. Oh, I definitely hated Prig the most!
The marker was an iron spike, two feet long with the final quarter painted white. Each team had one and each day it was driven into the wall at the end of the tunnel. Every day we were set a target, a distance I believed Prig plucked out of his rotten mind each morning. Our shift lasted until we reached that distance, measured from the marker, and if we didn't do it fast enough then Prig would make his displeasure known with the lash of his whip, which is to say he whipped us fucking bloody. There were few jobs more dangerous than holding the marker.
"Right there," Prig said with a smirk, pointing.
I stood next to the wall and sank down onto my knees, holding the marker up against the wall in both hands and leaning as far away as possible. Prig was watching me, not the marker. A fat brown tongue licked out over his cracked lips and he hefted the hammer onto his shoulder.
"You know the job." Prig's voice sounded like he spoke through his nose as much as his mouth. "Hold real still."
The anticipation of the blow made my blood freeze in my veins and I felt a cold sweat spring onto my brow. Prig knew his stuff, I have to give the slug-fucking bastard that– he made it last. At first, he tapped the flat end of the marker, lining up his strike. Then he drew back the hammer and waited.
I had seen him hit two men with the hammer in my three months down in the Pit. The first I believe was an accident. The entire team watched as the hammer hit the side of the marker and Prig stumbled, the momentum carrying on and crushing skin and bone. I had seen blood before, of course, I had been the cause of injuries far worse, but seeing Ossop's wrist snap, the bone punching through the skin... Ossop's screams are what I remember most sharply. Even now when I think about it, I can't remember his face, but I remember the sound of his pain.
The second man I had seen Prig hit with the hammer was no accident. He did not miss the marker. You can't miss a thing if you were never aiming for it. The rotten bastard changed his swing at the last moment and that solid iron hammer smashed into the man's handsome face. It was brutal fucking murder, plain and simple, for a reason no one but Prig ever knew. There were no screams to remember, only the smell of loosened bowels. Prig made us work with a bloody oozing corpse at our feet. I think it was meant as a message though in a language alien to me. It just made me hate our foreman even more. There was no retribution for it, no justice for the murder of a man. Two days after his death, a new scab arrived to take his place and we all forgot about the handsome man and his crushed skull. I never even knew his name. I think that scared me even more than Ossop's death. I hated the idea that I might die down in the Pit, nameless and forgotten. That my death would be even more meaningless than my life.
Prig spent a long time drawing out that first swing of the hammer, waving it back and forth as though he couldn't quite get the angle right. It was such a blatant show, he might as well have been waving his cock about. I had seen people close their eyes and await the blow, and I had seen others focus on the marker as though that little spike of metal was the most important thing in their world. Well fuck that! I have never been one to hide from my fate, whatever it might be, and I wasn't about to give Prig the satisfaction he craved.
"I am the weapon," I whispered the words so quiet no one else could hear then I turned my head and stared straight at the bastard, holding his malicious gaze. It was foolish. I was daring him to miss the marker, but I couldn't back down from that fight. Prig made my life in the Pit a living hell and not just my life, but all of those on my team and even Josef. Come to think of it I've never been good at backing down from a fight, even the ones I've already lost.
Prig's face crumpled with rage. By watching him, I was defying him. Defying the terror he instilled within us. With a roar he drew back and swung the hammer.
I felt the bones in my arms rattle, pain shooting up and down. I'm a little ashamed to admit, I cried out. It was the first time I had ever held the marker and I was not prepared for the shock of it. But I kept my eyes locked on Prig, watching him as he drew back and swung the hammer again, and again, and again. Each time I felt as though my arms would snap, bones piercing through skin just like they had with Ossop.
After four blows the marker was driven deep into the side tunnel wall. I could feel sweat pouring down my face and I was shaking, still staring wild-eyed at Prig. His little victory stolen, he quickly put us to work and was not shy with the whip that day. It didn't take long for the bruises to show, by the end of the day my hands were brown and yellow, and my teeth hurt from clenching. But I survived. My first time holding the marker, and my first time defying Prig, and I survived.
I think Prig wanted to kill me that day. I could see the rage on his face, the anger at the defiance I showed him. I know now he wasn't allowed to kill me. Not while the overseer still had plans for me.
Chapter 2
Josef was waiting for me when I returned. I was weary and bruised, exhausted and coated in a new layer of sweat. My clothes, little more than grey, fraying rags were stiff with weeks of filth, but there was nowhere to wash it off and no fresh wardrobe to change into. I might have been ashamed of how I smelled, but we were all living in the same pile of shit and none of us smelled pleasant.
I collapsed next to my oldest friend and let out a sob, glad to be near him again. The lash on his leg from Prig's whip had scabbed over, and I hoped it wouldn't get infected. There was little any of us could do about a fever and the foremen often worked us hard even when we could barely stand. Honestly, it's a fucking miracle any of us survived that place.
"Let me see," Josef said in a quiet voice and I held out my hands, staring into space as he turned them over with a gentle touch. Josef sighed and pulled up my ragged sleeves, seeing the full extent of the yellow-brown bruising already spreading up my arms. "What did you do this time, Eska?"
I lowered my head onto Josef's shoulder and sobbed. I felt like crying, but I was far too exhausted to shed any tears. Dry sobbing is a lot like falling in love, pointless save for the pain.
One of the other scabs on my team, a giant by the name of Hardt was watching us. "She defied him," he said.
I've rarely seen a bigger man than Hardt. He was taller than most, with a bulk that defied the meagre rations we were fed. A true workhorse, he did more of our team's digging in a day than I managed in a week. Both Hardt and his brother, Isen, were Terrelans, though I didn't hold it against them. They both had dark skin and darker hair, which they kept short. I had no idea why they were down in the Pit. I didn't care. I didn't give a shit about anyone but Josef. Besides, we were all criminals no matter how innocent we were.
"Never seen anything like it," Isen said. He was shorter than his brother, though not by much, and not nearly as brawny. He was handsome in a rugged way, even wearing layers of sweat an
d grime. No one was truly pretty down in the Pit, but Isen made it work. "You just stared at Prig like you were watching his death, and all while he was swinging a fucking hammer at you."
"I thought he'd kill you for sure," Hardt agreed.
So did I, at the time. I think a part of me wanted it. They were not the first nor last suicidal thoughts I have entertained in my life. More than once I have considered how much simpler it would be to not be.
The others in my team moved away from the conversation. As though merely talking about Prig might cause him to appear, and they would be spared his wrath simply by not taking part. Bloody fools, all of them. Prig had more than enough wrath to spare even for those who hadn't earned it. Hardt moved forward though, two rolls of cloth in his giant hands. He held them out to Josef and we could both see they were bandages, and mostly clean.
I think I would have refused them, pushed Hardt away and suffered in the sullen silence I was known for. I didn't trust him or his brother. I didn't trust anyone. Not even Josef really. Not since his betrayal on the tower. He was my oldest friend, my only friend, but I couldn't forget it was he who had blindsided me. Luckily for us all, Josef was not me and trust came easier to him. He took the bandages with a smile and a nod and started wrapping my hands and forearms. I sat there, staring at nothing and letting my hate, exhaustion, and pain make me numb inside. There is pleasure in being numb, in retreating from the world and feeling nothing. It is matched only by the agony of emotion returning.
Isen moved closer, picked out a spot on the floor that looked slightly less rocky than the rest, and sat. A small lantern burned away in the corner of the cavern, and in that flickering light I could see his face was bruised and scabbed. The leftovers from a black eye. He was always nursing an injury or two. I thought it made him rugged, mysterious, maybe even a little dangerous.
"So, who are you?" Isen asked.
I realised then that I had never offered my name. In three months down in the belly of the Pit, not once had I so much as uttered my name, and until then no one had asked for it. These days, I couldn't buy that sort of anonymity. My name is known far beyond the limits of this continent. It's known far beyond the reach of the Terran language. These days even gods know my name, and that's not the sort of attention you want. Trust me. But back then, I was no one, and no one knew who I was.
"Josef Yenhelm." Josef extended his hand. Isen took it and they shook and Hardt followed quickly after.
"Isen," said the younger and smaller of the two. "This is my brother, Hardt."
All eyes turned to me as Josef finished wrapping the bandage around my left hand and started on my right. I felt scraped raw and no longer cared who knew my name. I let out a sigh and leaned against Josef's bony shoulder.
"Eskara Helsene," Josef said for me. "Don't let her terseness fool you. She can be quite sweet once you get past the bite."
That bastard! I should have bristled at his words. I certainly do when I think about it now, but I was so tired that it was taking more effort than I could manage just to stay awake. My memory of that conversation is softened by blurred edges and missed words, faded away like a fleeting dream leaving only vague impressions as proof it had ever been.
"What were you?" Isen asked. "Before all of this." He didn't ask what we were there for. It was rude to ask after someone else's crimes.
I grabbed hold of Josef's hands then, despite the pain it caused me. Whatever else they might be, Isen and Hardt were Terrelans. The enemy! Neither they, nor anyone else, needed to know that Josef and I were Sourcerers for the Orran Empire. Looking back now I realise how much easier life might have been if I had trusted the brothers. If I had told them who and what I was. Maybe if I had, we would all still be alive. But no, I was a secretive bitch for whom trust was an increasingly alien concept. And besides, second-guessing the past is no different to predicting the future; it is a fool's game with no winners. Time runs ever forward and not even Chronomancers can change that inextricable fact. Though I do know a few who have tried.
"Soldiers for Orran," Josef said with a shrug, patting my arms to release my clawed grip.
Isen nodded but Hardt frowned. Always the smarter of the two, was Hardt. He saw things that no one else did. Sometimes I wonder if he could see into the hearts of people, to know their intentions before they themselves did. It was a peculiarity of the man and one I came to rely upon time and time again.
"You're a little young to be soldiers," Hardt said, his stare lingering on me. He didn't need to point out that I was still a girl and a slight one at that. It was likely more than a little obvious that I had never before held a sword, let alone swung one in battle. Honestly, I looked about as likely to be a soldier as a goat looks likely to fly.
I almost heard Josef reply. No doubt he said something diplomatic. He was always that way, making others laugh and putting them at ease. When I opened my eyes, I saw Hardt sitting next to his brother, a crude set of dice on the ground between us. I couldn't say how long I had been asleep, certainly long enough to drool on Josef's shoulder and develop a taste in my mouth that suggested I had been chewing on blistered feet. I've never understood how just a few snatched minutes of sleep can produce such a foul taste.
"What..." I struggled away from Josef's shoulder and wiped at my mouth with bandaged arms.
"Here," Josef said, handing me a small clay cup. Water was one thing the Pit had more than enough of, though it was rarely clean. Some of the lower tunnels were flooded and I'd even heard of a giant cavern somewhere on the twenty-fourth level. The other inmates claimed it had massive stalactites that glittered in lantern light. They also claimed there were monsters living in the water that could suck the flesh from bone. I never once visited that cavern, though I sometimes wonder if the entire Pit is filled with those monsters these days, reducing all the people I left down there to bones and bad memories. It was far more likely the monster never even existed. We prisoners had little power, but convincing a person of a lie is a form of power over them. Lies, fear, food, and shoes, the greatest of all currencies down in the dark.
I drank deeply, sediment and all. It didn't so much wash the taste away as replace it with something less foul and more earthy. It's the strangest thing but to this day I sometimes miss the taste of Pit water. I think it made me feel connected to the earth somehow in a way that even a Geomancy Source couldn't.
"What's the game?" I could feel sleep tugging at me again, yet I didn't want it. The food bells would ring soon and I was ravenous enough to fight to be near the front of the line. It was a fight I would lose. The scabs of the Pit were beaten into a submissive lot for the most part, but the promise of food could wake a beast from even the deepest slumber.
"It's called Trust," said Isen with a cheeky grin. "And it's a game about trust. I was just explaining the rules to young Josef here, but I can start again for you."
I nodded and looked down at the dice. Each one was crudely made, carved from black rock with symbols scraped into each of the six sides. They were chipped and scratched and uneven, but then the Pit did that to all of us.
"Each player gets three dice," Isen said, "and each player gets a partner. Partners rotate, first you will play with the man on your left, then the man on his left, and so on. When it comes to your turn to play you select a side from either Friendship." Isen held up one of the die and showed me a face with a crude depiction of two men holding hands. They were stick drawings the like of which children were apt to scrawl. "Or Betrayal." The second face Isen showed us had another of the stickmen with an equally crude depiction of a knife in his back. I found I could sympathise with the poor stickman.
"You select your side in secret and keep it covered until your partner has also chosen." Isen placed the die on the ground and covered it with his hand. "If both players choose the side of Friendship then no dice are lost or exchanged, and the next set of players take their turns. If one player chooses Friendship and the other Betrayal, then the player who chose Betrayal takes the die f
rom the player who chose Friendship. If both players choose Betrayal, then both players roll one die to determine the outcome."
I could see both the simplicity and the complexity of the game right away. It started with an illusion of truce, all players on equal footing. The first player to betray another would, of course, get an immediate benefit, but the other players would then know their calibre and be more likely to choose betrayal against them. In a room full of murderers, the second person to die is usually the first person to start the killing.
"The roll?" I asked.
"That is just as simple. If you roll Friendship you keep your die no matter what. If you roll Betrayal you lose your die no matter what. As for the others." Isen held up the die and started turning it to show me all the sides. "War beats Peace. Peace beats Trade. Trade beats Coin. And Coin beats War. If you roll the winning face you take both dice. If neither player rolls a conflict, both players lose a die."
I struggled then, to consider all the possible outcomes of a single game of Trust. Even now, after hundreds of games played, the complexity staggers me. Every game is different whether the players are new or old. Friendships made and broken over a simple game of dice. And believe me, I have lost friends over games of Trust.
"What if everyone chooses Friendship all the time?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Then no one wins, and the game continues," Isen said.
Hardt shook his head. "Someone always picks Betrayal." He sent a pointed look at Isen. I thought, at the time, that Isen won games more often than not because he was the first to betray another. The more I think about that look the more I believe it was something else entirely. Something I was simply too damned naive to understand at the time.
"What happens when you run out of dice?" Josef asked.
