Chapter Two
Pachat trudged along the rutted, dusty path, iron manacles slicing into his ankles, the brutal sun smashing down on his shoulders like a giant hammer. Ahead of him, Tryst stumbled, catching himself on the shoulder of the man beside him. He stole a furtive glance at the slave master who marched a few paces ahead, then let out a sigh of relief that the man hadn’t seen.
Tryst exchanged a worried glance with Pachat, then resumed the march, their line moving with clinks and clanks, the air occasionally cracked open with the snap of a whip.
It had been a hard day in the mines, but then, they all were. The Pushtani Masters drove them from sunup to sundown, but stopped them early today, making them march back in the brutalizing midday sun.
Pachat almost wished they’d worked them all day. The high desert air cooled quickly after sundown, and walking back was often a treat after a long day sweating underground.
The stark, treeless foothills south of Nishi’iti broke many men, with their lack of water, summer heat, and withering winter cold. But Pachat had survived five long, hard years here, never forgetting the day the Pushtanis had ransacked his village. They had taken him hostage, along with his betrothed, though her fate had turned out better than his.
Kendshi had been taken to Dar Tallus, her Nishi’iti beauty saving her from a miner’s life that probably would have killed her. She’d always been a gentle soul, nurturing and kind, and while she had a tough side, this was not her kind of work.
So as much as he missed her, as much as his heart ached, Pachat thanked Nishi for taking his love somewhere gentler. Safer. Here, with the slavers … he shuddered at the thought.
They rounded the base of a hill and came into sight of the slave camp. It didn’t look like much, just a cluster of tents cowering at the base of a crude, wooden fortress. Designed to keep slaves out rather than defend against another military, the walls of the fort were built from logs twelve feet high, sharpened at the top and lashed together by rope and pegs. A few Pushtani soldiers walked the battlements, and a stout keep made of logs peeked over the wall from the center of the fortress.
Nishi’itis did not get to go inside the fort, unless they were being punished. Hangings and beatings took place inside, often for the soldiers’ entertainment, but otherwise, slaves lived in tents. So defeated were the slaves that the fort never had to close its gate.
The slaves’ canvas shelters formed their own little city around the base of the wooden fortress, nestled like children against their mother’s skirts.
They did little to keep out the summer heat, even less to keep out winter’s cold. But the slavers knew that frozen slaves did no work, so they provided firewood enough to keep their workers alive.
The slaves marched through the low, outer barriers and into camp just as the sun started its descent in the west, the slave masters stopping them on the main pathway through their tents. They worked their way down the line, unlocking shackles and letting the chains drop to the ground where they stood.
Next morning, the slaves would line up again without being told. Even now, as shackles dropped to the dirt and slaves felt the weight of iron fall from their legs, they stood fast. Their eyes stayed straight ahead. Their hands hung limp at their sides, and their shoulders slumped. These were beaten men, men with broken wills and severed spines.
The slave boss sauntered down the left side of their line, his belly straining the laces of his black leather armor. He patted the whip that rode his thigh, looking each man in the face, daring them to make eye contact.
No one did.
He stopped before he reached Pachat, his pig face twisting into a smile that showed his rotted teeth. He spit a wad of chew leaf into the dirt and held a folded paper above his head.
“I hold in my hand an order from Her Majesty, Princess Makari, heir to the throne of Pushtan,” the slave master bellowed, sarcasm dripping from his words like blood from fangs. “Her Majesty instructs me to deliver this letter to a slave, and to do so without delay.”
He marched to Pachat’s side, and stood with his belly pressing against Pachat’s hip. Pachat fought the urge to punch the man in his turned up nose, to make blood gush from the man’s face. To knock out one or two of his rotten teeth, and blacken his beady little rat-eyes. The beating he would take would almost be worth it to see Slave Master Cargil crying like a little girl.
But then Pachat wouldn’t get his letter.
“Form a circle!” Cargil barked.
Having been through this drill before, the slaves formed a ring without hesitation. Three rings, actually, of forty men each. Perhaps ten guards, armed with clubs and cudgels and whips, mixed into the circles and for a moment Pachat thought how easy it would be to overwhelm the men and take control.
But no. There were real soldiers nearby, with swords and axes. His friends would die.
Cargil shoved the paper under Pachat’s nose.
“It’s story time, slave,” he announced. “It’s bad for slave morale if one slave receives something the others do not, so everyone will hear your lover’s letter. I’m sure most of them will imagine fucking her tonight, or maybe even as you read to them.”
Pachat forced down bile and rage and took the letter in his hands. Kendshi’s smooth, flowing handwriting danced across the page, clean and pure. She’d been forced to write in Pushtani, but had mastered it well.
“Come on, slave!” Spit flew with Cargil’s words. “We all know your daddy was a Pushtani soldier who lowered himself to fuck your mother. So you can read the language.”
Fuming, Pachat cleared his throat and read.
Dearest Pachat,
I hope this finds you well, and that life in the mines has not harmed you. It seems forever since I saw you, since you held my hand and led me from the village the day we were attacked.
Cargil snickered. “I’d make her hold something other than my hand.”
The slavers all laughed, but Pachat ignored them. This was Cargil’s way of being the big wolf, the dominant male. Responding would only play into his bite.
He read on, instead.
Life here is safe, if not predictable. The Princess is a fair and compassionate mistress, who treats me well. Probably better than I deserve. Overall, I’m happy here, though I miss many things about home. I miss snow in the winter, and the spice we make every fall. I miss shepherd’s lamb, cooked over an open fire, and our winter celebration most of all.
Pachat’s grip tightened on the paper. They did not celebrate winter—it was a killer far worse than Pushtanis. But during the season, they held a three-day celebration of Nishi’s providence, three holy days of prayer and feasting. Three holy days Kendshi was not allowed to celebrate or even mention for fear of punishment.
“Keep reading, slave,” Cargil said. “Some of your comrades are just starting to touch themselves.”
The princess has agreed to request your relocation to Dar Tallus, though she does not think her father will agree. King Abadas does not like Nishi’itis, especially Nishi’iti men, and every day he’s more and more careful about who he allows inside. Still, Princess Makari promises to try. She has a good heart, and I believe she will do as she says.
“Don’t get your hopes up, slave. You won’t be crawling into your lover’s bed anytime soon. That’s for King Abadas, should he want to dirty himself with Nishi’iti filth.”
Pachat allowed himself a brief glance at the slave master, hoping to lock eyes with him, but the man’s back was turned.
This is all I have time for, my love, but know that I think of you daily. Remember that the same sun warms both our shoulders, so we’re never really that far apart.
Love always,
Kendshi.
Cargil snatched the letter from his hands, balled it up as tight as possible, and tossed it in a nearby campfire.
“All the princess ordered me to do was to deliver it,” he smirked. “She didn’t say to let you keep it. And we all know what her father, the king, likes to do to Nishi’iti slop like you.”
He ran his finger along the whip at his belt.
This time Pachat did lock eyes with the slave master, his fists bunched at his sides. He took a step forward, toward the black-armored man, and for an instant Cargil looked like he might step back. Then Pachat realized his mistake.
A whip cracked, and fire shot up his ankle. He spun, but too late—the slave driver jerked the whip and pulled his feet out from under him. Pachat hit the hard ground, his breath exploding from his lungs and his head bouncing off the hard dirt.
He started to get up, but Cargil put a booted foot in the middle of his chest and pushed down, keeping his lungs from filling with air. Pachat’s arms and legs flailed as he fought for breath, and his vision started going dark. Grinning, Cargil lifted his foot.
“You think to challenge me, you worthless piece of shit?” Breath finally rushed back into Pachat’s lungs as Cargil kicked him in the side of the head and went on. “You know the punishment for challenging your masters.”
An instant later, they were dragging him toward the whipping pole. Pachat didn’t resist.