Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2)

by E. J. Robinson

  Robinson’s reaction must have seemed familiar because Trog smiled, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth.

  “Pretty,” Trog said. “Ain’t I?”

  Robinson stuttered, but his throat had gone dry. When Trog stepped toward him, he tried to back up, but his feet refused to move.

  “What’s your name, boy?” Trog said.

  “R-Robinson,” Robinson muttered.

  Trog hit him with a fist that filled his vision with stars and sent him plummeting to the ground.

  “I said, ‘what’s your name?’” Trog asked again.

  “Robinson Crusoe,” Robinson answered.

  Trog moved quick as lightning and struck him again. Blood ran hot down his face.

  “Tell me your name,” Trog said.

  Robinson wobbled. He was struggling to stay conscious. But as his vision blurred, he noticed a small, bowed prisoner a dozen paces away. The man kept his head facing the earth, but he gave the subtlest shake of the head. Robinson seemed to understand.

  “I … don’t have one,” Robinson croaked.

  Trog’s smile faded slowly.

  “The boy learns quick,” Trog said.

  And then, to Robinson’s surprise, he tossed a hammer at his feet.

  “First rule of the caves: every man who enters fights. Win and you win your freedom. Lose and you take your place on the line.”

  Robinson glanced over the terrified faces of the other prisoners.

  “Whom do I fight?” Robinson asked.

  Trog grinned and held his hands out wide.

  Robinson didn’t hesitate. He reached for the hammer and leaped toward Trog, swinging it with all his might. The strike was fast, but not fast enough. Trog caught his arm and swung his mighty fist behind Robinson’s ear. The hammer went flying.

  Robinson charged him again, but his strikes seemed to have no effect. It was like hitting granite. Trog toyed with him for a while, but then he stepped up his own attack. Robinson did his best to minimize the crushing blows, but they came too fast, too hard. He flew against the cavern wall and crumpled into a ball as Trog assaulted him with kicks and blows that sent pain radiating through every cell in his body, until he eventually found himself withdrawing to that final sanctuary the mind seeks in such times, that no pain or suffering can assail.

  Still, if Robinson could have smiled, he would have. For in his descent to Hell, he had noticed something that made him believe in fate for the first time. Wrapped around Trog’s neck was a necklace of bones.

  The raiment of a Bone Flayer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Trog

  He woke sometime later, foggy and throbbing, to find the bowed prisoner quietly washing his wounds with a wet cloth. Robinson noticed the man only had seven fingers. Two on his right hand and one on his left had been shorn off.

  Robinson tried to speak, but his jaw was swollen, and his mouth tasted of blood. Still, he managed a thankful nod. The bowed prisoner returned it before putting a cup of grainy black water to his mouth. Robinson tried to sit up, but felt a hand on his chest. And then, blackness.

  It seemed like only seconds had passed when a shrill whistle snatched him from deep slumber. The prisoners rose, one by one. Robinson struggled to his feet to join them in line.

  They filed out of the sleeping area. Robinson limped quickly to keep in line.

  At the cavern’s entrance, Trog cut an apple in slices with a knife. When the brute saw the beaten face of his newest charge, he smiled garishly. Robinson forced his eyes down.

  In the cavern, the prisoners were charged with collecting the aged black substance that covered everything in sight. With a small tool, they knelt on the hard floor. Knees were scraped raw. Muscles cramped. The work was exhausting.

  The guards were also unmerciful in their abuse. Each carried some instrument of torture. The smallest violation prompted the crack of the whip and or the strike of wood on muscle. Just as often, they came without provocation. Trog let his men dispense punishment for trifling offenses. His attention was reserved for the more serious ones. He was particularly fond of fire. Wounds would heal, but no man could ever forget the smell of his own flesh burning.

  Twice a day, prisoners were given a cup of rotting gruel of indiscernible composition. It was gray, foul, and was hard to keep down.

  The days passed excruciatingly slow. Robinson lost track of time. At first, he thought the days were the worst. But the nights held their own horrors.

  One night—his fourth or fifth—Robinson heard heavy footfalls enter the cavern. He peered up to see Trog leading another young prisoner away. The sounds of abuse that followed were almost too much to bear.

  The following day, when Robinson was leaving the sleep area, Trog whispered into his ear, “soon.” That single word terrified him.

  Robinson learned the black substance they were collecting was called “guano,” the feces of bats. He remembered reading once that guano was packed with nitrogen, but he couldn’t remember why it was cultivated.

  One afternoon, Robinson was chosen to fetch water. The bucket was kept near the grotto where the guards slept. Stumbling through a dark tunnel, Robinson stubbed his toe on something hard and looked down to see ancient rails buried in the dirt. Someone once moved ore through there. Robinson started to rise when he saw an old iron nail pinning the rail to the tie below. Then the guard kicked him.

  “Keep movin’,” he barked.

  After filling two buckets of water and hoisting them on a wooden dowel across his shoulders, Robinson made his way back toward the cavern, but he halted near the tracks.

  “I forgot the ladle,” he said to the guard, with the requisite tenor of fear in his voice.

  After cursing him, the guard hustled back toward the grotto, and Robinson quickly knelt and pried the nail out. He hid it in his pants just before the guard returned.

  Sometime later, Robinson was finishing his second sack of guano when another prisoner cried out. He had cut his thumb but quickly tried to hide it. Trog took notice and started over.

  “Are you injured, friend?” Trog said.

  “N-no, sir,” the prisoner stuttered. “I can work, I swear it.”

  “Let me see your hand,” Trog said.

  The prisoner refused until Trog reached for his truncheon. Then the prisoner raised his trembling, bloody hand.

  “I give you rules,” Trog said loudly. “I treat you like men. Do your job, and the days will pass. But this man has let his concentration fail him. In doing so, he has failed me.”

  “No, please!” the man screamed.

  His cries fell on deaf ears. Guards surrounded him as Trog pulled a glimmering knife from his belt and cut his thumb from his hand.

  The man’s screams echoed through the cavern, as the others quickly returned to their work. The prisoner’s wound was cauterized with a torch.

  “You are a half bag short,” Trog told the sobbing prisoner. “Fail to reach your quota today and you lose another.”

  The wounded man fell back to his knees and picked up his tool. Trog headed back across the cavern. Robinson noticed he hadn’t sheathed his knife. Instead, he used it to strip the flesh from the severed thumb. When he later tied it to the necklace of bones adorning his chest, Robinson understood the depravity of his fetish.

  At that moment, Robinson realized that he would have to escape soon or he would die. He could take the beatings. A body can be broken again and again and heal, but the mind could only be broken once.

  When the work was done, Trog stood at the cavern’s entrance as the prisoners staggered out. As Robinson passed, Trog uttered, “Tonight.”

  Later that night, after the prisoners had all fallen asleep, Robinson lay on the muddy earth, tense, waiting. A single flickering torch coaxed shadows in his mind. But when he finally heard movement, he knew the moment had arrived. He slipped the iron nail into his hand and steeled himself for what was to come.

  As heavy footsteps approached, the seven-fingered man suddenly rolled o
ver to face him, his hand extended with something dark and wet.

  “Eat quickly,” he whispered.

  The man had never uttered so much as a single word before, but something in his eyes convinced Robinson to do as he was told. The substance tasted repulsive, but he forced it down just as Trog arrived.

  “Hello, boy,” Trog said, his voice heavy with alcohol. “Time for a taste.”

  Robinson turned over the same moment a stream of vomit exploded from his mouth, dousing his clothes and splattering Trog. Trog wheeled back, raging. He pulled his club out and struck Robinson over and over until he was winded.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he seethed. “Mark my words. You’ll pay dearly.”

  Trog stumbled off. Robinson vomited a second time, but the pain in his stomach soon abated. The seven-fingered man drew near.

  “Tomorrow they’ll come for the take,” he whispered. “Find a way onto the detail that goes to the surface. It’s the only chance of escape.”

  “There are no other ways out?” Robinson asked.

  The seven-fingered man grimaced and said, “Only the dead leave this place.”

  Robinson didn’t sleep that night. When the call for work came the following morning, Trog’s eyes stayed locked on Robinson, his anger infusing the cavern like a crushing storm.

  Robinson knew he wouldn’t survive the day unless he did something, so as he was passing his giant captor, he suddenly fell to his knees and said, “Forgive me.” And then he added: “Master.”

  Everyone in the cavern froze. They expected Trog to unleash his fury, maybe even kill him. Which was why they were all surprised when Trog reached down and lifted Robinson’s head with a finger before giving a single nod. Robinson smiled, even as Trog dipped his finger into his mouth.

  The day passed surprisingly easy. The prisoners were thankful for the respite. But everyone knew Robinson would pay the price.

  When Drego appeared hours later, Trog called a halt to the work and began choosing men to ferry the sacks of guano to the boat.

  Robinson lifted a trembling hand.

  “Master?” he called, his voice soft and his eyes wide.

  Trog grinned and nodded.

  To Robinson’s relief, the seven-fingered man was also chosen. Together, they carried bags quickly to the surface. Somewhere in the darkened tunnels, the seven-fingered man lifted his shirt, revealing a shank of wood. It must have taken him months to fashion.

  Robinson’s mind churned as the guano was loaded onto the boat. He needed to get on that boat, but Trog and another guard were standing by it.

  When a gap appeared in the line, the seven-fingered man pulled close.

  “When the boat comes back,” he said, “I’ll give the signal. You go for Trog, and I’ll take the other man.”

  “No,” Robinson said. “I need Trog alive.”

  The seven-fingered man was stunned.

  “I don’t have time to explain, but he has information I need. Kill the guard, but let me—”

  A guard appeared and shouted for them to hurry on. Robinson could see the seven-fingered man had no intention of waiting for him. He was preparing for what would come next.

  When the boat appeared, Drego called out, “Trog. After the train’s loaded, I’ll need two mules to come back to town and offload there.”

  “Why? Clawfoot has muscle.”

  “Clawfoot’s running errands with his men. This order comes from Mr. Dandy.”

  “I don’t take orders from him. Or you.”

  “O-of course you don’t. But Mr. Dandy takes orders from Boss, just like the rest of us. And if Boss wants it…”

  Trog simmered. He looked back to the prisoners, and Robinson immediately pushed through the fray.

  “Can I go with you, Master?” Robinson asked. “I’ll do anything to feel the fresh air on my face one last time.”

  Trog’s mouth adopted a wolfish grin. He nodded, but before he turned, Robinson pulled the seven-fingered man forward.

  “And him?” he asked. “He’s a hard worker. I’ve seen it.”

  “Yes,” Trog snarled. “But both of you best get in the boat before I lose my temper.”

  The train ride back to the yard was uneventful. Once the engine came to a stop, Trog ordered the guano unloaded. Even his guards joined in. Halfway through the process, Robinson noticed a group of riders on horseback appear atop the hill leading to Cowboytown. Boss was among them. She’d come to oversee things, which meant the guano was very important to her.

  They were halfway through unloading the shipment when Robinson handed two sacks of guano to the guard on the ground. Just as the guard took them, his head exploded.

  A rifle report reached them a half-second later.

  Then, everything went to hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Traitors and Schemes

  Crusoe was alive.

  Or had been when the foreign boy last saw him. Had he remained on his continent or returned to hers? It was a question she finally felt comfortable asking.

  She chose to believe he was here.

  The wind of change had turned in her favor. First Arga’Zul had saved her from death out of some perverse affection. And now the Goddess was letting her know Crusoe was coming. The pain and doubt she had felt for the last six months had plunged her to the depths of despair, but she had remained steadfast in her defiance. Her flesh was bent, but her heart was unbowed.

  The Goddess had approved.

  And yet her situation was unchanged. She was still a captive, subjected to the brutality and persecutions of her enemies. She must continue to strive to effectuate her own freedom. Her own retribution. She was Aserra. The blood of the mountain coursed through her veins. Only by aiding in the freedom of her people would she prove worthy of them.

  Her reconnaissance began with a layout of her enemy’s city and its defenses. How their society functioned. Its infrastructure. Its hierarchy. Its trade system. The functionality of their army.

  They did not train as the Aserra did. They were not a combat state, bred for battle alone. Rather, they were an army of slaves. Most had been taken young, forced to fight to survive. This made them strong and fierce, but few of them could be considered cunning. They were blunt instruments with no notion of honor. And yet their numbers continued to grow. If they were not stopped soon, they would become the kind of storm that blots out the sky.

  Like many of the young slave women, Friday was given menial chores inside the pyramid temple where she could be watched.

  Escape appeared impossible. But Friday knew if she was to succeed, she would first need to find a way out of the temple. Then she would need to slip through a bazaar full of villagers, every one of which knew her face. Lastly, she would need to cross a wide-open swath of land patrolled by Flayers on horseback and watched over by those in the towers.

  She continued her planning.

  Friday spent long days setting meals for her enemies and cleaning up after them when they were done. She spent longer hours scrubbing floors under the suspicious eye of Valud, the traitor who had betrayed the Aserra. He took great pleasure in taunting her.

  One evening, Friday saw a leftover cutting knife on the table, but just as she was about to take it, she looked up to see Valud in the doorway. He was eating a pear, the juices running down his fingers.

  “Reach it quickly enough,” Valud said, “and you might find a warm sheath for it. If the guards don’t kill you first.”

  “That would be too clean a death for you,” Friday said.

  Valud chuckled.

  “Death by blade is never clean, Princess. And there’s no guarantee of your success anyway. After all, I am Aserra too.”

  Friday flushed with rage.

  “You are no Aserra,” she said. “You are a traitor to your people. The Goddess will have her vengeance on you.”

  This time Valud laughed as he circled around the table.

  “Well, what she is waiting for? I’ve been here years, and still n
o scratch on me. Maybe she’s biding her time, dreaming up a worthy punishment. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t exist.”

  “You blaspheme against the Goddess?” Friday asked.

  “Willingly and often.” He snickered. “What care do I have for a deity that made me a slave, anyway? The Aserra. The Flayers. They’re all the same. We are the dogs, and they are the masters. At least here, the scraps are good.”

  “A true Aserra would choose death over such a life.”

  “Prove it,” Valud said. “Take the knife and sink it into your breast.”

  Friday looked at the knife but didn’t move.

  “That’s what I thought. You know, I’ve seen captives like you here before. Oh, I don’t mean princesses, but the girls my master’s brother turns his special attentions to. He is a simple brute, but what he lacks in complexity, he more than makes up for in zeal. This habit he has for finding slave girls to dote over, for example. It’s sad, and yet endearing in a perverse sort of way.

  “His method is always the same. First, he finds a slave with some element of strength. Usually pretty, but obviously not in every case. Then he heaps every imaginable form of abuse on them until they’re slowly broken. Only then, ironically enough, does he actually begin to care for them.

  “These girls are given special care until, one by one, they cleave to him, as if he was no longer the cause of their affliction, but the deliverer of their salvation. Of course, once he has his way with them, he grows bored and, well, you can guess what happens to them then.”

  Valud took a final bite of his pear and tossed it onto the table, splattering gravy across the floor. “You have until second stroke to clean up this mess. If you’re even a minute late, I’ll see to your discipline personally.”

  “Arga’Zul wouldn’t like that,” Friday said.