The only one who seemed to care was Slug. The pit master had taken an instant dislike to Silas from the moment he’d laid eyes on him. As the weeks wore on, he grew more and more resentful. I didn’t know whether it was the constant singing slowly driving him mad, or the fact that, in time, nearly all of the slaves toiling in the mine joined in.
But as Silas continued, Slug began to look longingly at the sharpest and heaviest rocks, no doubt entertaining memories of his previous partner’s fate.
♦ ♦ ♦
“We’re working here today.” Slug stopped in the middle of the busiest tunnel of the mine. A thin layer of salt coated him, the mine cart, and nearly everything else in sight.
Silas, for his part, seemed disappointed. “I was hoping we’d go deep today, maybe down that new shaft we’ve been digging.”
“It’s hotter than the abyss in there.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” Silas replied with a salt-encrusted grin. “The heat roasting my lungs and the sweat stinging my eyes. It all serves to remind me how close to damnation I would be if not for the disgust of Twareg.”
A chorus of “PRAISE TWAREG!” rose up amongst the other slaves present.
“Enough of that!” Slug shouted, a vein visibly throbbing on his tattooed forehead. He looked around and eyed the other diggers, disgust plainly evident on his face. After a moment, it appeared that he had come to a conclusion of sorts. “Listen up, and listen well. From here on in, I say this ends. There will be no more talk of this false god.”
Grumbles rose up from the others, but Slug wasn’t finished yet.
“Stop and think for a minute, you soft-headed fools. Has this Twareg done anything for you? Has he made your tools lighter or the rocks softer? Has he made the hours of your labor shorter? No! So why bother singing his praises?”
Instead of getting angry, Silas actually laughed. “Twareg does none of that. He’s not some weak god. He doesn’t hand out fish to the hungry masses, or sneak into our houses while we sleep to leave presents in our stockings. No! Twareg’s greatest gift is his disdain. He offers us no pity or quarter. If I were to approach him parched and begging for a sip of water, he would drown me in his spittle. If I were starving and asked for bread, he would sit his lordly ass on my face so that I might feast upon the only loaf I’m worthy of.”
All eyes in the mine were firmly locked on Silas, albeit many of them appeared confused as to what his point was.
“And do you know why?” Silas continued. “Because it makes us strong. The louder we scream for his mercy, the more burdens he drops onto our shoulders until we have a choice – to be crushed like bugs, or to thank him and ask for more weight.”
The other slaves turned and looked at one another for several long seconds, until finally they all screamed out in unison, “THANK YOU, TWAREG!”
“I said that’s enough!” Slug grabbed Silas by his tunic, spun him around and ... slugged him in the jaw.
The zealous warrior turned over-enthusiastic slave hit the ground with a heavy thud and lay unmoving for several seconds. But then he sat up, his lips freely bleeding, and pulled himself back to his feet. “Thank you, brother.”
“What?!”
“For reminding me that my words are mere pathetic ramblings. For indeed, if I spoke them to Twareg, he would gladly punch out my teeth, magically heal them, then punch them out again.”
“I told you to shut up!” Slug kicked Silas in the gut, doubling him over.
But again, Silas was not so easily dismayed. “Next ... time ... hit me lower. For there is no love quite like the feel of Twareg’s steeled boots crushing one’s crotch into paste.”
Slug began to pummel Silas in earnest, all while the other slaves gathered around and watched. But the young warrior refused to be bowed – rising and praising Twareg despite each new bruise or contusion that appeared on his body.
Blood flew, staining the white salt of the cave walls, but still Silas continued to sing his praises.
Eventually, Slug’s blows became less frenzied and he began to breathe hard. But Silas continued to stand his ground and take the beating until, at last, the other man was clearly exhausted by his efforts.
“Do you see now, my friend?” Silas asked, one eye blackened and blood dripping from half a dozen minor cuts. “When one gives their heart to Twareg, there is no amount of pain that doesn’t feel wonderful.”
Slug was gasping for breath, but he still screwed up his face in contempt. “You’re full of shit, and your god is, too.” He let fly one last time, striking Silas contemptuously across the face.
“Indeed. I am full of so much shit, it stains my soul.”
“Gah! How are ... you still standing? I don’t understand it.”
Silas grinned, showing cracked teeth. “I will show you, brother.”
“Show me what? How to bleed like a...?”
Slug’s question was interrupted by a fist to his mouth.
The pit master fell back against the mine cart, catching the edge so as to keep himself from hitting the floor. With a growl, he pushed himself off and rushed Silas, but the earnest paladin was ready for him. He raised a knee, catching Slug in the midsection and knocking the wind out of him.
Slug hit the salt-encrusted floor and Silas straddled him, punching him in the mouth again. Blood began to run freely from the side of Slug’s split lips, but the young warrior wasn’t finished.
“Fear not, brother,” Silas proclaimed,” for I shall teach you the love of Twareg as it was once taught to me.”
A chorus of voices immediately rose up around them.
“PRAISE TWAREG!”
Silas smiled, then reached down and rubbed his hands in a mound of salt dust before proceeding to strike Slug again – each blow accompanied by the frenzied shouts of the other slaves.
♦ ♦ ♦
Though it’s debatable whether it was Silas’s intent or desire, by beating the love of Twareg into Slug, he inadvertently found himself named the new pit master of Dingus Glitterfinger’s salt mines – a promotion only possible through force and strength of arms.
At first, he appeared confused by his new station, not seeming to understand why the others started coming to him for their assignments. However, he seemed pleased once he learned that his new place in the slave hierarchy afforded him the benefit of having to work even harder.
Within a short while, he simply accepted the fact and told the other slaves to keep doing what they had been – digging salt and screaming the praises of Twareg while they worked their fingers until they bled.
One morning, several days later, Silas awoke early, looking forward to another day of backbreaking labor as his lungs slowly filled with salt dust. He was just about ready to leave for the mine when Gideon appeared at the door of his cell.
The chief slave held up a hand when Silas attempted to step past him. “No digging today, Maggot.”
Silas visibly brightened at the news. “I see. So what will it be, then? Am I to be whipped for my insolence? Perhaps branded with hot pokers?”
“No,” Gideon replied, looking somewhat confused. “If anything, Master Dingus is pleased at the output from the mines. In fact, I believe this is the first time in recent memory when he hasn’t constantly threatened to have you all buried alive if you didn’t dig faster.”
“Pity.”
“Um, yes. Quite the pity, I’m sure. Now, if you’re through giving me torture tips to share with our master, I’m here to lead you and your men to the temple.”
“The temple?”
“Of course. Today is Lordsday, after all.”
“Every day is dedicated to my lord, Twar...”
“Yes, yes, I know. Believe me, we all do. Your singing is so loud down below that we can even hear it in the kitchens. I’m surprised the staff up here hasn’t gone mad yet. But that’s not what I meant. It’s Lordsday, as in the day of the week.”
Silas shrugged, apparently not comprehending.
“Every Lordsday we give th
anks. Our gracious master allows us to take a third of the day off from our labors.”
Silas clapped his hands together. “Truly he is generous. Wait. If this happens every Lordsday, then what about all the other weeks?”
Gideon smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that, but sometimes we forget about you mine rats. I’m sure you can understand how it is with my position. It’s so hard to keep track of everyone.”
Silas was quick to nod. “No worries, my friend. Back at the shrine it was considered heresy to cease laboring. If anything, I was expected to work twice as hard on our lord’s holidays.”
“A fascinating life you led prior to coming here.” Gideon replied, obviously impatient to get moving. “You must tell me about it sometime, but enough of that for now. The mention of your multiple weeks of nonstop labor has reminded me of the real reason for fetching you this day. On Lordsday, slaves are marched to the temple, where we are blessed and healed by the clerics there. But perhaps most importantly,” he added with a wrinkle of his nose, “we are bathed.”
SHODDY HERESY
The numerous slaves serving Dingus Glitterfinger’s estate were marched in chains to the temple of Loradain, the mistress of the downtrodden. A massive marble relief of the goddess stood outside, her arms opened as if welcoming everyone no matter of their status. However, despite this comforting façade, the slaves were still led in through a back door.
“What is this place?” Silas asked Slug, who was marching solemnly beside him. “A shrine to some heretical goddess of wealth?”
“Are you kidding me?” he replied. “Everyone knows Loradain.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Well, you will, for within her walls we are allowed the few small comforts that our life of misery affords us.”
“Feh! Comfort is sinful.”
“Look, Maggot, she’s the goddess of hope and salvation. It’s simple. We come here to have our wounds healed, the muck scraped off our bodies, and to give thanks to her blessings.”
“And our master’s, too,” Gideon said, stepping up and joining the two men. “Let us not forget to give praise to Master Dingus for his generosity in allowing us these few short hours of rest in which we contribute nothing to society.”
Silas was silent as they entered the halls of Loradain. Inside, he saw reliefs – presumably of the goddess – in the midst of various labors of mercy. Stained glass windows depicted her washing the feet of strangers, healing their injuries, and comforting them as they lay dying. The room they were led into was filled with steaming baths, most of them already full of slaves. So packed in where they, the water in which they bathed had already turned brown from the collective dirt washed off their bodies.
White-robed acolytes raced back and forth among the masses. Some provided towels to the bathers. Others offered healing ointments. Still more led throngs of slaves toward pews aligned before another massive depiction of the goddess. There, a cleric led a group already kneeling in prayer.
On one side of the statue hung a large portrait of Dingus, but on the other was a different painting, one depicting a red-skinned man with dark horns curling around his head.
“So where shall we start?” Slug asked. “A bath maybe, before the water turns completely black? Or maybe a potion to make my knuckles finally stop aching.”
“I would recommend the supplication myself.” Gideon pointed toward the cleric addressing the assembled slaves.
“...and may Loradain bless your master Dingus Glitterfinger in allowing the lowest of the low this moment so they might give thanks for his mercy in all things...”
Silas continued to watch all of this in silence, a perplexed look upon his brow, but then his eyes fell upon the portrait on the opposite side of Dingus’s. “They’re worshipping a demon?”
“Huh?” Gideon replied. “Oh, him? No. That’s his lordship Rhex Teleghar. He’s the supreme ruler of Kel and...”
“The ruler of Kel is a demon?!”
“No, no. He’s an infernling. They’re...”
A priestess of Loradain interrupted them. “Hail there, slaves. Might I rub your sore shoulders a bit before you return to your labors?”
“What for?” Silas asked, his attention pulled from the demonic image of the painting.
“I have oils and herbs to soothe even the most painful of aches.”
“Feh. Just tell me when the beatings will begin,” Silas replied offhandedly, trying to look past her at the portrait again.
“Excuse me?”
Silas narrowed his eyes at her. “After you have taken away my pain, you will then return it to me threefold, yes?”
The priestess looked aghast. “Why would I do that?”
“Because that is the one true path of salvation. That is the way of Twareg.”
“I know not this path,” she said. “Look around, slave. Do you see anyone being beaten here, being whipped?”
“No, I do not,” Silas replied with gritted teeth. “’Tis shoddy heresy indeed.”
“Heresy? We offer comfort and succor here. All are welcome to...”
“Lies.”
“What?”
Silas shoved her away. “I said you offer lies. Away from me, blasphemous whore! Do you think I’m stupid enough to be fooled by your devilry?”
Gideon stepped between them. “Is everything okay here, Maggot?”
“No, it’s not okay. This is a temple of lies and deceit.”
“Deceit? Did you inhale too much salt dust or something?”
Silas turned to him, a strange look in his eye. For once, he wasn’t smiling. “As a matter of fact, I did. I breathe deep of the poisons every time I am there, for I find the burning in my lungs stimulating. Each new cut in my flesh revitalizes my spirit.” Silas turned to Slug before he could wander off toward the baths. “And whenever a friend smashes my face in, it inspires me!”
“You may want to keep your voice down,” Gideon warned.
“No! Screaming the praises of Twareg moves my soul ... not to greatness, but to the best a lowly worm such as myself can aspire to!”
By then, Silas’s voice had risen high enough that he’d caught the attention of several slaves in the room, including some of those who worked in the mines with him.
“Praise Twareg!” a small group replied.
“Don’t encourage him!” Gideon snapped, but he was too late.
Silas stepped toward the center of the room and bellowed out, “Hear me, my fellow filth! What does this so-called goddess do for you? She heals your cuts. Rubs your bruises. Bathes the encrusted grime off your unworthy bodies. And you do it again and again every week. They say she is the goddess of hope and salvation, but the only hope I see here is the hope of keeping you weak.”
“Maggot,” Gideon implored, “please stop. This is not the...”
Slug pulled the chief slave away. “Let him speak. I want to hear what he has to say.”
“What the fuck’s going on over there?”
Both slaves turned to find a temple guard approaching. He was a brutish fellow wearing leather armor adorned with the symbol of Loradain – two angel wings fluttering in the breeze. He wore a sword at his side and had a bow strapped across his back. The temple of a healer god this might be, but it was still in a city run by slavers, and this man had the look of someone who enjoyed kicking the downtrodden.
“Nothing, sir,” Gideon replied. “My friend there is simply overworked. He’s from the pit. You know how they get.”
“Well, you better shut him up before I shut you all up ... for good.”
Silas, however, appeared to be just getting started. He raised his voice again. “I say you should worship Twareg.”
“Who?” one of the slaves stuffed in the baths cried out.
“Twareg!” Silas replied, stepping up onto a stone bench so as to make himself heard. “He should be your lord, for though he is a dwarf, he stands tall above all others. This Loradain is but a disappointing servant to him, to be slapped in the face wh
enever it amuses Twareg.”
A few chuckles could be heard among the assembled masses.
“Listen and listen well, for Twareg is a god of strength. He won’t heal your cuts; he’ll pour salt in them. He won’t rub your bruises; he’ll backhand you until your jaw lies in pieces on the floor. Twareg won’t bathe you. He’ll piss down your throat and then laugh as you drown in it. That’s Twareg. You can never earn his love, but you will grow powerful trying.”
The guard who’d been questioning Gideon turned and approached Silas. “Okay, that’s enough, buddy. Lay off the mine fumes for a while.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Yes you are. You need to get off there and shut up about your loser god before I cut your stupid tongue out of your fucking head. You’re upsetting the other slaves.”
“Loser god?”
“Yeah,” the guard said. “You heard me. Newsflash, genius. You’re nothing but a piece of shit, ergo any god you worship must be nothing but a fucking ... oof!”
Silas kicked the guard in the chest. “BLASPHEMER! Silence your bedeviled tongue.”
“All right, that’s it. I hope Door Egg has a nice spot in Hell picked out for you.” The guard drew his sword and rushed at Silas.
The young warrior narrowly dodged the blow and stepped down to the floor, jumping back just as the guard swung the blade again.
Though neither combatant appeared to be focused on anything but their opponent, all eyes within the temple were quickly converging upon them.
“Stay still so I can run you through!”
Silas held up his hands. “You can still throw down your sword and repent.”
“Like hell, troublemaker!”
“Trouble? I simply wished to educate these people in the true path.”
The guard raised his sword, intending to cleave Silas in two. “The only path you’re following is the one to the graveyard.”
The Silas Kane Scrolls (Authors and Dragons Origins Book 2) Page 6
