Master of Chains

"We got ourselves a tough one here," said the taskmaster, pulling his whip up again. "Good. Good. You should fetch a high price in Westgate. Might even find interest for you with the Quivering Thumb." He leaned in closer. "You could actually live long enough to earn your freedom in the arena." Standing up straight, he snapped the whip again. This time though, he targeted the ski

Awakened rudely from his sleep, the ski

"Get up," shouted the taskmaster. He kicked the ski

The little man's entire body lifted off the ground from the impact, and he let out an "oof," then doubled over.

The taskmaster kicked the man again. "I said 'get up.'"

"Mr. Cobblepot," shouted the guard captain. "Quit messing around and get ready to march."

The taskmaster looked up at the mounted captain, being careful not to make eye contact. "Yes, Captain Tully."

"Be quick about it," said the captain, then he turned his horse around and rode off.

The ski

"I'll deal with you later," he said, shoving the man. Scuttling around to the front of the gang, the taskmaster wrapped his whip around his hand and lifted his drums to his shoulders.

"All right, scum," he yelled, "it's double-time all morning. Compliments of sleeping beauty there."

Ryder looked over at the ski

"We march," shouted the taskmaster. He slammed his drum. BOOM…

BOOM…

The chain gang lurched forward. Ryder stepped in time with the drum.

The sun finally crested the rise, spilling light over the valley. It was going to be a hot one. The ski

Ryder shuddered as he thought about what would happen when the ski

The ski

Nazeem reached out and grabbed the ski

The ski

This time the carriage took the lead. The mounted guardsmen fell into place alongside the chain gang, and they continued their march out of the valley. The taskmaster beat the drums at double the usual speed, and the prisoners followed the dirt road up the western slope, ru

"All right, you vermin," shouted the taskmaster as he lowered his drums from his shoulders, "we stop here for the night."

The entire gang collapsed to the ground in a cacophony of moans and groans. They had stopped in open lowlands on a big, flat, damp piece of ground surrounded by several small groupings of trees on the east and a large pile of boulders on the west. Thick swarms of bugs moved around like tiny rain clouds, shifting and circling overhead. The air reeked of rotten vegetation and stagnant water.

Ryder felt a wave of relief flush through his aching body as he crashed to the ground. They had marched from sunup to sundown, stopping once and only briefly for water. His feet throbbed, feeling as though all the blood in his body had somehow found its way down there and now threatened to burst through his skin, spilling out over the open plain.

To his right, Nazeem sat cross-legged, his arms resting on his knees. The tattooed man sat like this every time they stopped. He would close his eyes, sit up straight, and breathe through his nose. Nazeem looked so calm, so peaceful. Ryder wished that he could feel the way Nazeem looked. But right now, there was no peace or tranquility to be had on the hard, rocky ground.

Beside Nazeem, the ski

Someone shoved Ryder.

"Water."

Ryder looked up at a young guardsman holding a wooden bucket and dipper.

Ryder nodded and took the offered water gratefully. He swallowed the entire dipperful in one giant gulp-and immediately gagged. His mouth was covered with a gritty film, and his stomach felt nauseated. He looked down into the dipper. The inside of it was covered with mud and slime.

"You scum should be right at home drinking swamp water," said the guard, laughing.

Ryder tried to keep the contents of his stomach from coming back up. It was a struggle. He coughed and burped, swallowing hard with each breath.

The guard grabbed the dipper back, filled it again from the bucket, and passed it over Ryder to Nazeem.

The tattooed man took it, looked into the bowl, sniffed the water, then drank it down. Unlike Ryder, the tattooed man didn't seem to have the same reaction, simply swallowing and handing the dipper back to the guard.

Ryder tried to scrape the film off his tongue by rubbing it back and forth against his teeth. Some of it came off, but the taste of rotten vegetation still lingered in his mouth. He would be burping up stinkweed juice for at least another day.

"Hey you," said the guard, looking at the ski

The ski

"Hey. I'm talking to you." The guard flung the sludge from the bottom of the dipper at him.

Still, he didn't move.

The guard shrugged. "Suit yourself. But there won't be any more until tomorrow." He started to move on to the next row of prisoners.

"Just a moment."

The taskmaster appeared, hovering over the ski

"This man is very thirsty." Cobblepot took the bucket from the guard. "I'm sure he wants to drink every last drop." Squatting down, he grabbed the ski

Even being jerked back like that didn't elicit a response. His eyes opened, and he moaned, but otherwise he let the taskmaster move his body around like a rag doll.

"Open wide," said Cobblepot, forcing the scummy water down the prone prisoner's throat.

The ski