He stumbled along a ravine toward the main valley. An acrid odor hung in the air, and tendrils of fog leaked from splits in the cliffs. Breathing the stuff made his throat scratchy. As he neared the mouth of the ravine, the tromp of feet echoed off the valley walls. Stifling a cough, Tomaaz crouched behind a rock. Shards, he had to get this tickle in his throat under control or he’d give himself away.
A tharuk appeared around a bend, a group of slaves trailing it. They had to be slaves. They had that awful blank stare Lovina used to have, but worse. They shuffled forward, unsteady on their skinny legs. Wearing tatters, many of them limped or had festering sores. Their faces were the worst: hollowed out and empty.
A tharuk behind the group cracked a whip, raising a puff of dust. None of the slaves flinched.
Living with numlock had to be hell. To think, Lovina had—
A boy about his age stumbled and sprawled in the dust. The whip-bearing tharuk bellowed and turned away to yank the boy to his feet.
Now was his chance. Tomaaz darted into the crowd. Not a single slave glanced at him as he walked with them, letting his shoulders sag and his jaw hang loose.
Crack! Dust rose where the whip met the dirt.
It took all of Tomaaz’s nerve not to twitch. He glanced at the slaves either side of him, then drooped his head. The stench of unwashed bodies and soiled breeches crept through his nostrils. He fought back a gag, breathing through his mouth, but the taste coated his tongue.
The valley widened, and the slaves slowed to pick up tools from various piles—shovels, spades, pickaxes and grubbers. Under the watchful eye of hulking tharuks armed with whips, those with pickaxes and grubbers traipsed into rifts in the hillside that oozed the foul-smelling mist. Tomaaz grabbed a shovel and followed a column of slaves heading further along the valley. They passed large sprawling buildings, outdoor cooking fires and a few caves with thick metal doors set into the entrances. Doors Tomaaz had never seen the likes of, with strange dials inscribed with numbers and long metal rods protruding from them. Locks?
Was Ma being held in one of these? Or was she another nameless slave traipsing to work on the valley floor or venturing into the bowels of the mountains? Was she even alive? She had to be. He hadn’t come to this hell for nothing. He had to find her. The first opportunity he had, he’d slink off and look around.
“You lot!” the lead tharuk bellowed, “along here.” It pointed up a valley branching off the main one.
The slaves trooped mindlessly after their tharuk leader into a stench-filled fug that made the inside of Tomaaz’s nose crawl. Worse than the stench of the slaves, it was overpowering. Of course, no one around him reacted, all shuffling forward with their mindless gait.
They rounded a corner to a row of crude sheds, the stink making Tomaaz’s eyes water. He stifled a groan. He’d chosen latrine duty.
Commander Zens
Days later, Marlies was still dizzy. Chewing herbs was helping the infection in her arm, but the thin gruel and mangy bread Scar Snout brought her each day weren’t doing much to restore her strength. Her stomach was a constant gnawing hole. And this damp stone floor wasn’t exactly paradise. She’d been tempted to use piaua on her arm, but she only had one vial left, and that was her only defense against Zens’ torture.
Scuffing footfalls neared the cave.
Marlies lay down, pretending she was weaker than she was.
“You!” It was the tracker who’d caught her, the one with 555 tattooed inside its left wrist.
Scar Snout trailed it into the cave.
“Stand,” 555 commanded.
Scar Snout cut the rope around Marlies’ ankles.
The blood rushed into her feet, making them fuzzy and achy. Leaning against the wall, she flexed them.
“Human,” 555 spat. “Zens wants to see you.”
See her? More likely torture or kill her. Marlies staggered to the entrance.
“Pathetic!” 555 snorted. It threw her up onto its shoulder, and strode along the ravine.
When they reached the valley, a column of dead-faced slaves traipsed past them, staring at the ground.
She turned her head from side to side, trying to signal the slaves behind the tharuks’ backs. No response. No one spoke or even looked at her. Gods, this was awful. They were shells, not registering what went on around them. Deep in the grip of Zens’ plant extracts, they headed into caverns in the hillside.
“Stop wriggling!” 555 put her down. “Walk.”
She shuffled along the bleak valley, between her two captors. The tharuks stopped before an iron door in the mountainside. Scar Snout restrained her, digging its claws into her arm to keep her still. 555 opened the door, leading Marlies into a tunnel that led past a series of wooden doors. Storerooms? Somehow she doubted it. Dungeons, more like.
At the end of the tunnel, tharuk 555 knocked on a large door. It was opened by an enormous tharuk, bigger than any she’d seen. Although this beast was furry, the inside of its arm was completely bald and emblazoned with a tattoo that took up its whole forearm: 000. Marlies knew tharuks had numbers on the inside of their wrists, but a whole forearm? Then she remembered Tonio the spymaster’s lessons.
Zens’ most formidable tharuk is 000, his first creation. Strong, cunning and possessing better mental faculties than all other tharuks, Triple Zero is like a son to Zens. Loyal and completely devoted, he’s almost as dangerous as Zens himself. Zens’ later creations are weaker specimens with only part of Triple Zero’s talents. We suspect Zens made them that way to keep them subservient.
“Welcome,” 000 smiled, showing sharp yellowed teeth and tusks.
Polite as well.
The tharuks pushed Marlies into a large chamber. Torches were blazing, their flames reflected on a smooth shiny rear wall. Metal implements with sharp prongs and jagged edges hung on the walls. Marlies’ flesh crawled. These were the tools of a master torturer.
000 barred the door behind them.
A figure emerged from the shadows. Torchlight flickered over a bald head covered in blue-black stubble. His face was in shadow, but the bulk of the man was unmistakable—Zens.
“Good afternoon, 316 and 555,” Zens greeted. “Returned from patrol with a little something, have you?”
“Yes, sir,” 555 said, giving Zens an ingratiating smile.
Zens raised an arm, motioning Scar Snout forward. Zens’ upper arm was as thick as a man’s thigh, and his chest was a barrel, like Giant John’s. “I hear you were delayed getting back,” Zens crooned, pacing in front of the tharuk, his limbs moving with barely-restrained power. Above this thick malformed nose, his yellow eyes raked Scar Snout from head to foot.
The tharuk bowed. “Yes, sir. Found wagon in Tooka Chasm. All smashed.”
555 cut in. “The big oaf went east on horseback. I told crows. Other troops will find him.”
“Good, 555, you shall be rewarded.” Zens’ pupils dilated and he flicked a hand at 555.
Tharuk 555’s eyes glossed over, unseeing, and a tusky smile broke out on its face. It stood motionless, gazing into nothing.
These creatures were completely under his control. It was sick.
316 spoke up, “Sir, I found trail. And wagon. Can I have reward?”
Zens turned his attention to Scar Snout. “Certainly.” His smile gave Marlies the chills.
Scar Snout hopped excitedly from foot to foot, like an eager puppy. “The lake! Can I see pretty lake again?”
So, somehow, Zens gave them pleasant dreams.
“I won’t have tharuks stealing from prisoners. That rucksack and the stone were mine.” Zens stretched a hand out in Scar Snout’s direction, fingers splayed. “Disloyalty cannot be tolerated.”
The eagerness died on the little tharuk’s face. Its eyes widened.
How had Zens known? Had 555 told him? Or had he seen Scar Snout’s memories?
Slowly, Zens’ hand tightened into a fist in midair. The tharuk’s furry hands clutched at its neck. It gurgled and choked, then slu
mped to the floor.
Zens laughed, his thick corded neck rippling. “Triple Zero,” he said, “Clean up, please.”
“Gladly,” 000 answered, voice dripping with relish. The enormous tharuk strode to the wall and selected an axe. Striding to the small tharuk, it hacked off its hand above the number on its wrist. Dark fluid pooled on the floor around the stump, near the tharuk’s scarred snout.
Near the shiny end of the cavern, 000 pulled a lever, and the entire wall was flooded with yellow light. It was a glass wall, filled with fluid, holding trophies of Zens’ kills. Hands. Feet. And smaller things —ears? Fingers and toes? 000 threw Scar Snout’s hand over the top of the glass. It landed in water, its inky trail swirling as it bobbed on the surface, then sank.
Marlies retched, depositing her gruel and undigested bread at 555’s feet. The tracker was oblivious, stuck in its dreamworld.
“Ah, weak stomach, little rider?” Zens crooned.
As tall as most men, Marlies had never been called little before. She rose from the floor. Now that she was closer, the malice in his gaze froze her marrow. Zens’ irises were yellow, ringed with deepest blue. He smiled slowly, like a predator showing its teeth to transfixed prey.
She was not prey. “So, Commander Zens, we finally meet.” She had to survive to find Zaarusha’s son. Marlies planted an image firmly in her mind, holding it there.
§
“Tell me what you know.” Zens mentally probed the woman’s mind and found the holding cave. Gray stone, water dripping down the back wall. Clever, then, and a talented mind-blocker.
Zens had broken many riders. It only took a session or two of persuasion to get them gibbering the realms’ secrets. This one would be no different. He flicked his hand, sending the woman flying across the cave and smacking into a stone wall. She slumped to the ground, dark hair splayed around her and her bandaged arm at an odd angle.
“Ready to talk?” he mind-melded.
No answer. She could hear him. He knew it. But he only got that same dank cave. Zens tugged on the air with his hand.
The woman slid across the floor toward him. Her head graunched and bumped on the stone. That should help her talk. He lifted his hand so her body rose into the air, all the while battering at her mind. Then he flipped his palm and slammed the woman face-first into the stone. Blood dribbled out from her face.
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.
Dragon Hero: Riders of Fire, Book Two - A Dragons' Realm novel Page 21
