“Are they to be fed then?” Someone outside the cage. “It would be a waste to have brought them this far if not. We were up half the night getting them fixed.”
“I’ve no orders.”
“Somebody’s got to know.”
“Bring me orders and I’ll feed ‘em. Not till then.”
I was tempted to call after them that they shouldn’t bother feeding us, but instead I leaned my head against the cage and tried to see between the bars. It was hopeless. The field of vision was so narrow. Hard-packed earth, endless movement, horses-I could smell them. Hundreds of foot soldiers marching, drilling…
“Have you heard about Gernald?”
“Aye. In his bath, they said.”
“And he’d only been here a month.”
“Looks like he ate something off.”
“Someone new’s been sent by…”
The two passed beyond my hearing. Why did their words fill me with such despair?
More bits of meaningless conversation drifted by. Shouted orders. A great deal of activity. Sen Ystar may have been the first to feel the Zhid assault, but it would not be the last. These were not small raiding parties being prepared. Avonar… oh, Avonar, be vigilant…
I must have drifted off to sleep in the heat, for when the gate to the pen opened and the guard yelled, “Up, you lazy pigs,” the angle of the shadow cage had changed significantly. I considered not following, but the Zhid had shown us on the first day of captivity what disobedience would mean-the death of another captive. Quite simply, they would make you a murderer. It didn’t matter that the poor soul would most likely thank me for causing his death. I couldn’t do it. So I put myself in line with the rest.
Four armed guards were waiting at the gate. “This one for the mines… For house slave… For the farms…” They were sorting us.
I was the first to be designated “practice slave,” and was shoved back into the pen. Evidently the collars were marked with our assignment. When the next practice slave was selected, I saw the image of a sword etched into the dark metal of his collar, so I guessed mine had one also. I almost reached up to find out, but I could not make myself touch the thing.
Three of us were designated to be practice slaves. As soon as the assignments were complete and our former companions led away, we were taken inside the building again, this time to stand before a pale man with a narrow, aristocratic face. He sat behind a wide desk in a bare, windowless, stifling room, flanked by two heavily armed Zhid.
“Only three this lot?”
“Yes, Slavemaster,” said the Zhid who had brought us in.
“I understand we’ve used up three practice slaves this week alone. We’ll have to do better.”
“There’s another lot due tomorrow.”
“Well, let’s have a look at these.” The Zhid officer rose from his desk and walked around us slowly, poking at each of us with the handle of a whip. He stopped in front of us. “So, my Dar’Nethi friends. You’ve been chosen to die in order to make your enemies invincible. The time of your death will depend on how diligent you are-and how obedient. You will be required to fight to the best of your ability, even if it means death to one of our warriors.” He tapped his whip in his hand. “Because you must be able to fight effectively, we cannot bind you with the same compulsions we use on other slaves. But we do have methods to prevent your taking advantage of your freedoms. You will be penned when not in use, and- Let me show you what I mean. You”-he pointed the whip handle at me-“kneel.”
I did so. Grudgingly. But I did.
“It is required that a slave spread his arms when kneeling. Ten lashes if you fail to do so again.”
He stood close enough that I could smell his slightly astringent sweat. “Now, take me down.” I looked up stupidly, and he spit in my face. “Are you deaf? Obey, or one of your companions will find himself without a head. Take me down.”
With much misgiving, I swept my arms around to grab his knees, releasing far too much anger in the process. But I had scarcely touched him when he laid his finger on my collar. Spasms of fire rippled through my muscles, my chest, my limbs… everywhere. The collar constricted my throat, so I couldn’t get a breath. When he took his hand away, I collapsed, gasping and shaking, huddled in a mindless knot on the floor.
The Zhid resumed his seat. “Cinnegar here is your keeper and will tell you how it is you will eat, sleep, clean yourself, and train. Speak without permission, and we will remove your tongue. You have no life that is your own, no function save what we require of you, and so it will be until you die.”
For the rest of the day, Cinnegar, a short, burly Zhid with reddish hair and a nasty scar on his left cheek, put the three of us through one exercise after another. We ran, jumped, and demonstrated our skills with bows and staves, and he had us fight each other with a variety of blades and knives, and with bare hands, our only orders not to damage each other. We worked in an unshaded, walled compound, but were allowed to dip into a water barrel as often as we needed and eat graybread until we felt bloated.
One of my companions was a scrawny youth of about twenty. He was a decent fighter, precise and quick with his movements, able to present a variety of attacks and defenses, but he had no training in tactics and no endurance at all. Our second bout left him panting and lead-footed. Eight days of the desert and the horror of the collaring had done nothing for any of us, of course, and my own arms felt heavy early on. My feet were wretched. Raw and stinging, they bled as we worked.
The second man was nearer my own age, a short, blocky fellow with thick brows. He had no skills, only brute strength and such fear that it brought him near frenzy when I wrestled with him.
“Calm yourself,” I growled in his ear as we rolled on the ground. “Live.” I pinned him in moments. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears rolled down his leathery cheeks. As I stood and reached out my hand to help him up, he gripped it ferociously.
By sundown we were too tired to move. Cinnegar made no comments about our efforts. He shoved us into individual cells in a stable-like block of them, giving us each a basket of graybread and a waterskin. “Bang on the bars if you need more. Someone might come or might not.” He showed us how to ask permission to speak. You slapped the back of your hand against your lips, then drew it sharply away.
Even after Cinnegar left us alone, we kept silent. Though no guards were in sight, I wasn’t willing to risk my tongue by saying anything.
I sank down on the straw and picked a chunk of graybread from the basket. Eating was about the last thing I wanted to do at the moment, but I forced myself. The days would get no easier, I guessed, and I wanted to live. As I leaned against the bars, staring at a second unappetizing lump, a motion from one of the other cells caught my eye. The older man had lifted his own bread to me in salute. I returned his gesture, and we matched each other bite for bite through piece after piece of the sour stuff.
With every swallow, I felt the collar. Could one ever become accustomed to such a thing? It was wide enough to prevent a complete range of motion with the head- something to be considered in combat. The Zhid warriors would know. It was as tight as it could possibly fit without choking, tight enough to keep you on the near edge of panic all the time, tight enough you could never forget it. Tentatively I reach my hand up to touch the thing. Oh, gods… I heaved up all the foul stuff I had eaten, and after an hour’s venture into the realm of despair, I fell asleep shivering and empty. At some time in the night, though, I woke and forced myself to eat. I had to live. It was imperative that I live. I just couldn’t imagine why I felt that way.