Lord Purdun took a deep breath. "Well, Liam, I can certainly understand your position." He placed the key in the shackles and locked them once again. "But it's a standing offer. If you change your mind, you know where to find me." Purdun placed his hand on Liam's shoulder and directed him toward the door. "Come."
Liam didn't budge. "Where are you taking me?"
"I'm escorting you to the front gate, Liam." He smiled. "To make sure you make it out of Zerith Hold safely."
Ryder sat in the bowels of Lord Purdun's dungeon, his legs chained together, his wrists chained together, and the chains chained together. Beside him on the wooden bench were two similarly chained men-one muscular and bald with the tattoo of a blue triangle on his forehead and the other skinny and sickly.
In fact, the entire dank, dripping room was filled with manacled men. They sat side by side by side, three to a bench, twelve benches in all, each man chained to the next. They all wore the same identical clothing: dirty gray baggy hemp pants and matching sleeveless shirts. Down one side of the floor a huge shirtless man, bulging with muscles, paced the narrow walkway between the prisoners. His chest was crisscrossed in old scars, and he carried a whip in his right hand.
"All right, you vermin," started the man. "There will be no talking, no whispering, and no complaining." He cracked his whip against the stone floor. "If you're here it means your life is no longer worth a piss. So until we manage to find someone stupid enough to pay good money for your wasted, worthless hides, you belong to me." He turned and paced back toward the front of the room. "And I'm none too happy about having to spend the next several months with a bunch of criminal low-lifes, inhaling your fumes and watching you wallow in your own filth. Marching several hundred miles across the open plains ain't exactly a picnic with a fair maiden for me either. So mind that you don't make me angry, and you might just make it to your new home in one piece."
He stopped when he got to the front of the room. Atop a raised platform rested a pair of large drums with blackened leather harness straps-the kind that could be hefted over a drummer's shoulders and carried during a parade or festival. The cow hide that covered their tops was stained a deep brown, and there were several tears and holes along the sides and bottom.
Behind the drums was a pair of wooden doors held closed by a monstrous sliding bolt. As an added measure, a heavy metal lock hung from the latch. It was open and unlocked, but having the lock on the inside seemed odd to Ryder. Was there something they intended to keep out of here? Or was the taskmaster really prepared to sacrifice himself if the prisoners managed to break free?
Beside the doors, as if in answer to Ryder's query, hung a half dozen wicked-looking knives, cleavers, clubs, and other implements of pain. Perhaps there was another reason for the latch being on the inside.
The taskmaster picked up a heavy-looking cleaver in his free hand and shook it as if testing its weight. He nodded, seemingly satisfied.
"Now, about the rest of the rules. You address no one but me, and only if you've been addressed first. Any talking out of turn will get you fifty lashes by my own hand." He slapped the whip against the floor again. It made a sharp cracking sound, and a small stone flew into the air. "If I do speak to you, you will address me as 'sir.' If I even think that you are being disrespectful, you will receive fifty lashes. If you look at me funny, you will receive fifty lashes. If I don't like your tone, you will receive fifty lashes." He paused and looked over the prisoners. "And if I just feel like it, you'll receive fifty lashes."
The taskmaster swung the cleaver through the musky air. Ryder watched as the blade glistened in the lanternlight. This scarred, shirtless creature seemed to be enjoying himself. He had a whip in one hand, a cleaver in the other, and was swinging them both like a child might wave its toys. It made Ryder's stomach turn. What sort of man would revel in such torment? What sort of life could have led a man to stoop to such a place? He was barely more than an animal.
Ryder stared down at the chains on his arms and legs. They were trying to turn him into an animal as well. He looked back at the taskmaster. He was still flailing around with his whip and cleaver. The taskmaster's chest and forehead were beginning to shine from, sweat. That would be Ryder's challenge here. He could never let himself become like this man, never let them take from him the only thing he had left: his humanity.
A pounding on the door caused the taskmaster to stop his display.
"Prepare the prisoners," yelled a voice from the other side of the door. "The mounted guard is ready to leave."
The taskmaster was visibly deflated by this. He bowed his head then hung the cleaver back on the wall. "All right scum," he said after a long sigh, "that's your cue." He wound his whip around his right hand, making his fist look like a giant's. With his other hand, he grabbed hold of the length of chain on the floor that connected to the first set of three prisoners.
Giving it a rough tug, he shouted, "Get up."
All thirty-six prisoners stood up.
"To your left." He gave the chain another tug. "Move."
Ryder, being on the farthest left side, sidestepped as far as he could. There was enough chain between the shackles on his ankles for him to take a full stride. But the chain between him and the bald man on his right was not as long, and the two of them got momentarily tangled. Ryder came to an abrupt stop, almost toppling over. The bald man reached out and caught Ryder by the wrist, righting the falling revolutionary.
Ryder looked at the man. He had a gruff, surly countenance. His forehead sported a vivid blue tattoo shaped like a triangle. His left ear had a long tear in it, covered with a fresh scab-likely an ornament recently removed by force. His nose was bright red, a telltale sign of one who's consumed a lifetime's worth of mead in much less than a lifetime, and his face was covered with deep pockmarks. Despite his outward appearance, his eyes had a kindness to them, and the man nodded when they made eye contact.
Ryder nodded back, acknowledging the man's help, and continued to shuffle to his left. With several quick steps and a hop to avoid tripping over the chain again, he managed to move far enough for him, the bald man, and the third prisoner in his row to get out from behind the bench.
Once the entire group of prisoners was ready, the taskmaster gave them a once-over and nodded. Clipping the lead chain onto a hook on his belt, he turned around and hefted the drum harness onto his shoulders.
"All right, you worthless pile of dragon dung, this isn't difficult." He pounded one of the drums with his fist. It made a deep boom. "Listen to the beat and move your feet. If I stop beating the drum, you stop moving your feet. If I turn left, you turn left. If I turn right, you turn right. Got it?"
No one said a word.
The taskmaster looked back over his shoulder, shouting this time. "Got it?"
"Yes, sir," said several of the prisoners.