The sky had gotten much lighter, and many of the other guards were moving around the camp. One of them poured a pail of water over the campfire. Ryder could hear the ashes sizzle as he watched a cloud of smoke rise into the air.
The taskmaster unlocked the chain that held the prisoners to the oak tree and gave it a healthy yank.
"Wake up, you scum," he shouted.
The rest of the prisoners stirred to life, sluggishly waking up from their less-than-restful sleep.
"On your feet."
Though it was difficult to lift his body and the heavy chains with his sore, stiff muscles, Ryder managed to get himself to his feet. Nazeem sat cross-legged on the ground next to Ryder. Without using his hands, the tattooed man attempted to lift himself to standing. The skinny man on the end of their row, however, did not get up, and Nazeem was forced to crouch, unable to hold up both his weight and that of the other man.
"Get up," Nazeem hissed under his breath.
But the skinny man didn't move. Instead, he let out a shallow snore.
All of the other men had gotten to their feet, and the taskmaster was making a slow circle around them, inspecting each of the prisoners.
"Get up, you fool," said Nazeem, this time a little louder.
The skinny man didn't hear his plea, but the taskmaster did. One moment he was at the front of the chain gang; the next he was right beside Nazeem.
"I told you never to talk." The taskmaster's whip cut the air, snapping as it slashed Nazeem's bare shoulder.
The bald man sucked in air through his clenched teeth, but he did not scream. Ryder hadn't noticed it before, but Nazeem's shoulders were covered with long, thin scars. He was no stranger to this sort of beating.
The taskmaster pulled his whip back over his head and cracked it again, catching Nazeem along the side of the face. Ryder cringed. Though he couldn't see exactly where the whip had hit the man, he knew it had to hurt. Nazeem handled it the same way he had the first lash, cringing from the obvious pain but refusing to give the taskmaster any satisfaction.
"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 skinny man.
Awakened rudely from his sleep, the skinny man yelped when the tip of the whip slapped against his back.
"Get up," shouted the taskmaster. He kicked the skinny man in the gut.
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 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.