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 skinny man convulsed, spitting up a glob of blood. Mr. Cobblepot reached down and with one arm lifted the beaten prisoner to his feet.
"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 skinny man. He could barely hold himself up. Beyond having just been beaten, he seemed sick, depleted. Ryder didn't think the poor man would make it through the morning. He wished there were something he could do, some way to help the poor bastard lift his burden.
"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 skinny man coughed and gagged, stumbling forward with the marching group and spitting out another long stringy strand of mucus and blood.
Ryder shuddered as he thought about what would happen when the skinny man finally collapsed. Stopping without orders would get a prisoner severely beaten. If the taskmaster didn't notice when the man fell, he might be dragged by the rest of the gang.
The skinny man coughed again, this time so violently that he doubled over. The chains on his feet-bound to the man in front of him-pulled taut.
Nazeem reached out and grabbed the skinny man by the back of his vest, dragging him forward on the next drum beat. Ryder moved closer to Nazeem, giving him as much slack in the chains as he could manage without falling over himself. If one of them fell, the others likely would as well.
The skinny man finally recovered from his coughing fit, and he regained his balance. He looked up gratefully at Nazeem, tottered a bit, then pasted his gaze to the ground, concentrating on each and every step.
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, running from the rising sun.
"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 skinny man had slumped over into a heap. Ryder was surprised he had made it. He'd had a rough start at the beginning of the day, but after that he'd more or less kept pace with the rest of the group. Only a few times did Nazeem have to help him along or keep him from falling. Making it to the end of the day without being trampled or beaten seemed like a tremendous success.
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 skinny man. "Time for water."
The skinny man didn't move.
"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 skinny man, a huge grin on his face.
"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 skinny man by the hair and lifted his head from the ground. Then he put the edge of the bucket up to the skinny man's mouth.
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 skinny man's mouth filled quickly and the murky water spilled out the sides, flooding over his face, nose, and cheeks, then down his chest. For a moment, the skinny man didn't move, letting the swampy fluid just flow over him. Then Ryder could see his mouth move, and the skinny man's chest heaved. The skinny man kicked pathetically against the taskmaster's hold, trying to fight the bucket away. He managed to get his lips away from the edge long enough to take in one huge gasp of air. Fighting to breathe, he made a sound like a strangled chicken and coughed up sludge.
"Taste good?" taunted the taskmaster. He continued pouring the muddy water into the prisoner's mouth.
The skinny man raised his hand. The chains on his arms rattled as they pulled tight. Though the bucket was up against his face, he couldn't get any leverage, and he pushed feebly against its edge.
Ryder leaned on Nazeem's shoulders, reached over and shoved the bucket. "You're going to kill him."
Mr. Cobblepot released his grip on the skinny man, letting him fall back to the ground, coughing and puking. He eyed Ryder, a look of hatred and frustration plain on his face. Then he smirked.
"Guard, fill this up," he said, handing the now-empty bucket to the soldier, "I think we have another thirsty prisoner."
The guard took the bucket and headed off toward the swamp.
Cobblepot stepped over the skinny man and stood on the chains between Ryder and Nazeem. He loomed over the two of them.