Isa turned to face it, and his eyes bulged. The Tougere roared, mauling the rider, its enormous teeth piercing through its gut in a show of misdirected fury. Isa stabbed at its flank, guessing where an artery might be. The beast jerked its fangs from its master’s gut, streaked with blood, and wheeled on him.
“Shit,” Isa hissed, stepping back. “Nice kitty cat.” It stumbled after him in an awkward gait, blood streaming from its ruined leg. More riders were coming, thundering from behind.
“Isa!” Senka was there, a limping shape coming for him behind the injured Tougere. She had a dagger in her hand, but her wrists were still chained.
The Tougere peered back at Senka, and Isa thrust his blade at the side of its face, then slid under its throat. The Tougere let out something that sounded like a yawn as it toppled over, blood spurting out of the wound. A great roaring filled the air, almost on him. Isa turned and could only guess at where to strike. He cut only air, his shoulders burning to control the force of it. Something enormous came at him, and he had just enough time to tighten his body for impact.
Then he was airborne. Corin’s sword spun from his grip, shining like a bloody mirror. A Tougere stared up at him in ravenous anticipation. He struck a pile of pebbles, and his legs were thrown over his shoulders, rattling the air out from his lungs, pushing bile from his stomach. He started to rise, but a storm of choking coughs pressed him back down, unable to get a proper breath. He tried again, and his vision swam, the world becoming shifting colors as sound faded out.
He watched a Tougere pad over to him, its fur shining in beautiful orange and black stripes. His body wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t move more than an inch before choking for air. A paw that must have weighed over a thousand pounds pressed on his chest, making him cry with the crushing weight. He thought his eyes might burst from his skull, ribs from his chest, organs from his belly.
“Stay,” the Tigerian rider commanded, not that Isa had any choice.
He watched a swarm of at least six more riders circle around Juzo, snaring his legs with bolas and his body with at least four sets of nets. His hands were bloody, angrily thrashing against the nets, only serving to tighten the snares.
“No! Not again!” Juzo punched his arm through a net, started working to tear the others off.
A Tougere shifted over to Juzo, glancing back at his rider who barked a command. The Tougere raised its ears, lowered its head, and hammered a tooth as long as a sword through Juzo’s arm. Juzo shrieked, tried to wriggle it free and the Tougere bowed its head, sinking the other long tooth into the ground for support.
“Please,” Isa croaked, but the weight only seemed to magnify, the last shred of air pressed out of him.
A rider dragged a lassoed man secured to a rope on his saddle to the surrounding group. It was Greyson, tears rolling down his dirt stained face. Useless, pathetic man, Isa distantly thought. Another rider came pulling Senka, who was caught in a lasso around her ankles. She writhed against her bonds, her fingers working to undo the rope. The rider turned on her, drawing a sword and leveling it at her throat. The world blurred out of focus again, filling with sheets of red. He tried to move, but his chest might as well have been under an anvil.
Tatlat circled around on his gilded Tougere, observing the dead and laying gentle hands on his men, muttering words incomprehensible to his ears. “Scab?” he asked.
“Gone,” a Tigerian woman replied, armor black as night covering her lithe form.
Tatlat growled, then snapped a series of what must have been commands. Three riders departed from the group, their mounts letting out shrill cries that sounded like excitement.
“What are you going to do with us?” Senka demanded. Isa’s eyes involuntarily closed.
Tatlat laughed. “You good fighter. Make good whore.”
“Bastards! Why not just kill us?” he heard her say, as opening his eyes seemed like an impossible feat.
“Debts to be paid for your flesh. To Ashrath.”
“You can’t. We must return to Zoria. There’s an evil force here, you must have seen it.” Senka pleaded, her voice muffling as the world faded away.
Thirteen
Death March
“I must become my enemies to understand them.” – The diaries of Nyset Camfield
Senka took staggering steps, every lift of her legs a tremendous effort. The heat of the sun sent shimmering waves floating up from the dusty path. It beat on her back, scorched the skin on the back of her neck, made her head pound with its fury. Living in New Breden had made her soft. She lost her heat adaptation from her time in the Nether. She would have laughed in this sort of heat five years ago, writing it off as just another day. Now, sweat rolled down her temples and glittered from the bottom of her chin. She was losing too much water, too fast.
The crushing heat was clouding her mind, making it hard to think. She looked up at the sun, thought they had been marching for hours since the wagons were destroyed, but knew her perceptions were skewed. Maybe things were different here, it was hard to tell. After a time, it seemed like the sun stopped moving, hanging over them in the most brutal position.
Iron rattled up and down the line of chained slaves, now all bound together in their suffering. In addition to her wrists, her ankles were now bound. About ten or so men died during the Whisperers’ raid, producing a surplus of chains for the ones the Whisperers had apparently considered the more dangerous captives. That left about twenty of them remaining. Isa had two sets of manacles and chains binding his wrists and a set around his ankles.
Juzo had two sets on his ankles, and three sets cinched down tight around his wrists and arms. Two Tigerian riders rode on either side of him, thick rope lassos hanging loose around his neck and secured to their mount’s saddles. The Tougeres swished their broad tails, batting away flies.
Tatlat led the pack, his golden armor a shining beacon of hopelessness. The other riders were fairly spread out, occasionally looking over the line with appraising eyes. More often than not, they peered up at hill rises, maybe looking for ambushes, Senka thought. They took long breaks to survey the stretching plains at clearings. What were they looking for? Landmarks? Enemy groups? She hoped for a stream, an oasis, a hotspring, anything to wet her throat.
Senka felt her legs falter, wanted to pause, wanted to rest, needed to drink. But what she needed more than anything else was Angel’s Moss. Anything that resembled something soft and greenish fit its profile, making her start to lust for its kiss. Her chest quaked for it, fingers trembled, toes writhing.
If not for the call of Angel’s Moss, she might have felt the angry blisters forming on the bottoms of her feet. Her calloused skin was being sanded away from the gritty path, blisters on the verge of breaking open. Someone’s feet were already profusely bleeding, leaving dark red prints in their toiling wake. She followed the bloody prints, turning it into a game, trying to step on top of them and mirroring the other unfortunate slave’s steps.
The hills seemed to go on forever, an endless upward slope that made her legs burn with acid. She was so close to falling over, so close to giving up. No, they couldn’t break her, she told herself. How could the others continue marching? Something jerked on her wrists, dragging her backwards and down towards the ground.
The man behind her let out a soft groan. She looked over her shoulder and saw him on his knees, trying to rise up, eyes watery. She stared down at him, her face twisted with scorn. Was he another savage who would try to touch her when she fell? Or could he be a friend? Senka sighed, bent to help him up, but stopped when a rumbling growl came from behind. The man’s swimming eyes looked at something behind her.
“Up,” the Tigerian said, vaulting him onto his feet. The man mumbled something and flopped over again, forcing Senka to drop with him lest she be dragged down. The Tigerian let out a series of squawks and whistles. The marching line came to a stop, and Tatlat regarded them with a hard gaze. He raised his arm and gave a series of flicks of his fingers.
The Tigerian let out a raspy snicker, a blade hissing out from the sheath over his shoulders.
“No. I’ll help him—” Senka gasped as she was shoved back and felt her stitches pulling at her side. The Tigerian dismounted, raised his arm, and in a vicious swipe tore the man’s head free from his body. She turned away as the blood sprayed against her neck and the side of her face. Something thumped against her toes. It was the man’s head, the eyes rolling back, tongue hanging out. Her lips twisted, and breath shuddered as she tried to inch away from it, bumping into someone behind her. “Why?” But she knew the answer. He was weak and needed to be culled from the pack. He would only serve to slow their progress. Would she be next?
The Tigerian’s milk white fur was splattered with red. He gave a growling snort and drew his sword back again, dripping globs of shining blood. He methodically lopped off the man’s hands, then his feet, each thud of his blade through bones making her flinch. It wasn’t much different than butchering a cow. He easily slipped the beheaded man’s manacles off and dropped them in his saddlebag. Why bother with a key when you had a sword? The Tigerian grinned at her with a smile that said he hoped to chop her up next. She grinned back, making him cock his head at her for a moment.
He bent down and wiped his blade on the man’s soiled shirt then sheathed it. The Tigerian tossed the dead man’s body over his shoulder like he was made of air, walked over to the steep edge of the hill, and let him tumble down into a dried out ravine. Senka saw Juzo a few men ahead of her, licking his lips at all the blood trailing for the edge, swallowed by the earth. Isa was a few men after him, watching with a grim stare, hands forming sinewy fists. After Isa was Greyson, whose eyes were distant and resigned. Ahead of him was Tatlat, still at the front. Tatlat gave a satisfied nod, whistled, and turned his mount around to march on. Just like that, a man once living was made food for animals. They truly were no different than cattle in their captor’s eyes.
The chains started again with their incessant rattling. Taunting her, telling her she was in a world without Angel’s Moss. She felt her legs moving again, shifting under her hips like they were someone else’s. Someone else’s blisters threatening to tear open. Someone else’s stitches screaming with every labored breath. Time felt like it stretched out, everything taking longer than it should’ve. They should’ve already crested the next rise; the sun should’ve already settled a bit. When was the next water ration? They gave them all a few sips before they left, but she needed more.
“More, damn it,” she whispered.
The dark skinned man ahead of her gazed back at her and shook his head. “Don’t talk. Waste your water,” he said.
“Talk,” she mumbled, watched the earthen path flowing under her.
She tried not to think about it, tried to remind herself how good it felt to be close to Isa for a time. She thought of the Sea Crocs. Then she felt cold, like a gust from the Mountains of Misery had cut through the road, but knew it was wrong by the sweat running down the back of the man ahead. She looked down at her arms prickled with gooseflesh. What was this? “What’s happening to me?” she whispered, her fingers uncontrollably shaking and making her chains clink.
Then she felt hot, so hot she thought her skin might go up in flames. Tears spilled from her eyes as coughs were pushed from her lungs. She was surprised she had the water to cry. It was as if it was suddenly the Heat Season, the hottest two weeks in the Nether when none dared to venture outside the safety of shade. She sneezed, thick yellow mucus grabbing onto her lips.
The colors of the world blended together, chains ringing ever louder in her ears. Her guts churned, and she wanted to stop to vomit but knew it would only end in her death. She wondered how it felt to be beheaded. How long would the pain last? She thought she could already feel it, the metallic bite of the sword hewing through her neck.
She pushed on, step by step, breath by breath. She retched, and her guts heaved, but nothing but air came out. She started sneezing so much she couldn’t keep her eyes open. There was a growling at her side, and something was shoved against her cheek, jabbing at her mouth. A waterskin, she realized. She moaned at the refreshing taste, the cool, life-giving liquid. Before she was remotely satisfied, it was cruelly pulled away, and she saw it shoved into the man’s mouth behind her.
“More,” she pleaded and reached.
The Tigerian offered her the waterskin again. She opened her mouth, but he pulled it away at the last instant. He snickered, fat whiskered lips rising up. Blood was matted in his cream fur, making pieces of it stick together like spikes. She started to glare at him, but his face shifted into a Cerumal’s. She looked down as new tears came. “This isn’t real, isn’t real,” she said to herself over and over.
Her bones ached, her hair hurt, smallclothes chaffing at her hips and scrubbing away her flesh. Everything hurt in a way that it never hurt before. Angel’s Moss would make it all go away, make everything right again. This was just a nightmare. She just needed a drop, and she’d wake, back in her bed in New Breden. “Just a drop. Just a drop,” she said.
“Quiet with your squawking,” the slave in front of her scowled.
“But I haven’t said anything,” she said. Or had she? She wasn’t sure.
“Just a drop. Said it about a hundred times now… crazy cunt.”
“I—” she saw something on a rock a few feet away that made her chest fill with warmth. It was a small pad of green plant matter, yellow at the edges. “Angel’s Moss,” she breathed. “I can’t believe it’s here.” She started to reach for it, but the chains yanked her back into line. “No. Please, I need it. I need it!” She screamed and lunged. Powerful arms dragged her back, her fingers mere inches away from grabbing it.
The chained men around her had no choice but to bring her back, heads down and marching on. Senka lunged back at the shear edge of the hillside again. If she went over, the rest of them would all be pulled down too. “No!” she screamed, her voice breaking as the man behind her pulled her back into line, elbowing her along.
“Stop. Please,” the man behind hissed.
She leaped for it this time and something hammered against her chest, shoving her down hard. The air was knocked out of her lungs, and she was left gasping for a full breath, tears streaming at knowing she’d never get her hands on that bit of Angel’s Moss. All her hopes were dashed away. Nothing mattered to her now.
She blinked up at a Tigerian rider, red spots of blood on his face. He was stark against his Tougere mount, fur shimmering in blacks and blues. Both of them stared down at her with big cat’s eyes. The Tougere licked its mouth with a broad tongue.
“Up. Die.” He growled.
“Die.” She pushed onto her elbows, eyes vibrating, teeth bared.
“Senka!” Isa called to her from the front of the group, lowering his hand in a gesture that said ‘calm down.’
One side of the Tigerian’s lips raised in a sneer. “Go,” he beckoned with his head. “Die?” He started to draw his sword.
“I’ll go, go.” She started to laugh as she rose.
And so the chained men marched on in a cloud of melancholy. A few words were spoken here and there. They gave each other warnings about the oncoming terrain, grumbled about too little water, muttered about taking a rest, knowing saying it too loudly might leave one’s carcass tossed into a ravine.
The day turned to night and night turned to day again. On the second day, the hills once more gave way to trackless plains. They were given water rations every hour and a handful of bitter nuts when the sun rose and set. They tasted horrible, but anything tasted better than nothing. It was just enough to keep them alive and strong enough to finish the death march. After all, it’d be hard to sell a dead slave.
The slaves slept huddled in groups to stay warm, the Tigerians in their own solitary tents made of animal skins. The enslaved said a few parting words before collapsing into the arms of sleep, not having the strength for much else. They slept under the giant trees dotting the plains,
giving their captors a place to chain their Tougeres. The trees had smooth pale bark and broad leaves as bright as gold coins, reaching at least fifty paces into the sky.
The night sky was full of swirling stars that reminded her of the Nether. She spent most evenings vacillating between cold and hot bouts of sweating, exhausted and squirming against the earth. She wanted to sleep near Isa, but their chains prevented it, forcing them to sleep with whomever they marched with. She didn’t want to know their names, didn’t want to have to mourn for them when they were butchered.
One of the first things Olin had told her when she started working at the Jolly Pig was to never get attached to the animals. The way you avoided that was keeping them nameless. When you gave them a name, you humanized them, made them something more than bags of unprocessed meat.
The aching in her body only grew worse, and she found it hard to focus on anything but the pain blossoming in her body. Her world narrowed down. She stopped watching the landscape, stopped trying to see anything but the shifting road below her feet. She went on like this for two days maybe, time mixing all together. Everything always looked the same. Rolling hills, then plains and over-sized trees going on as far as the eye could see, melting into a smoldering haze on the horizon.
Strangely, with each passing night, sleep came a little easier. There was a bit less sweating, shivering, and more time sleeping. During the third evening, she blissfully slept. No tossing, no trembling, no waking in a pool of her own clinging sweat. No waking and feeling like she might piss herself, not that it mattered. Without a breeze, all you could smell around the crowded bodies was the sour tang of old urine.
The next day, she could see the world again. She could raise her head, finding the warmth of the sun enjoyable for the first time since they’d started marching on foot. She could even find beauty in the landscape, the burning sunsets and stunning sunrises. She’d made sandals out of strips of bark and pieces of cloth torn from her shirt. The others around her followed her cue, making pairs of their own. They were crude, still made your feet ache, but at least offered some protection from piercing rocks.
Ascending Shadows (The Age of Dawn Book 6) Page 25
