Rotten to the Core

Three days had passed since the dreadful incident on the road. Elteber and his fellow prisoner actually found that their former companion's tragic demise had worked in their favor. With only two prisoners remaining the captors chose to speed their journey along by placing their charges in the bed of the wagon. It was uncomfortable, as space was limited. Elteber found himself regularly being crushed by the large chests and barrels that were stuffed into the bed of the wagon. It was this experience that roused him from the gentle doze he'd managed to sink into. A sharp pain shot through El's ribs as a heavy crate slid backwards when the wagon began to ascend a hill. El sucked in his breath deeply, straining yet against the chains that bound his hands above his head, connected as they were to the side rail. He'd learned within the first day of his new "riding" situation to not voice his complaints about the pain. He was often met with a swift backhand, or occasionally the pommel of a dagger. So he bore his discomfort stoically, and when the wagon crested the hill and began its descent he was able to nudge the crate out of his way and once again resume dozing.

That doze was interrupted some hours later by a pair of shouting voices. One of those voices El recognized as the big man who drove the wagon, but the other was unfamiliar to him. Slowly opening his eyes in order to allow them to adjust to the light he did his best to pull himself up enough to see over the wagon seat. The group appeared to be at a way station of some sort, a rather shoddy one, and the driver was arguing with one of the attendants.

"Look, I told you before. Everyone pays the toll. If you want to use this road to Southgate, then you pay the toll. It's as simple as that," the porter, a sandy haired man with large ears, was saying.

"This is the only road to Southgate," replied the burly wagon driver replied cooly.

"That's true friend, it is."

"So you're telling me that you and your friends are taking advantage of this pass to make a profit?"

"It seems we understand each other friend, and before you get any funny ideas in your head about fighting your way through, there are six of us who run this station. You look a lot of things friend, but stupid ain't one of 'em. Now be a smart man and pay the coin and be on your way."

El held his breath as he watched his captor. On one hand if his captor got killed things could possibly improve for him. Of course that wasn't guaranteed. Things could get much worse depending on the temperament of the highway bandits. El released his breath explosively as the driver tossed a purse full of coin at the highwayman's feet. The man snatched it up and then stepped aside, ushering the wagon on with an exaggerated flourish. The wagon rumbled past and El caught the evil glare that the driver gave the big eared man.

El was surprised how little they traveled that day. After only an hour or so from the way station, the wagon was pulled into a copse of trees. Camp was set up and that ended the days travel. Much later, after night had fallen, the rat faced little man, who had quite recovered from his tumble a few days before, snuck off into the trees. It was several hours later that he returned, the sound of his voice rousing El from slumber.

"It's taken care of," the little man said bluntly.

"How many of them were there?"

"Only four, the big eared one lied," came the reply.

"I was certain he was. That shack wasn't large enough to house that many," the big man grunted sourly, then he took a sniff, a rather loud one at that, "do I smell smoke?"

The rat faced ruffian grinned at his partner, "The shack won't house anyone anymore, well anyone except their remains."

"You left them inside of it?"

"It was easier that way. The lookout was simple, but the others were all inside. So I barred the door using the dead one's sword and then set fire to the place. I waited outside the window, but they were too drunk to realize what was happening till it was too late.

El listened to the whole story with a feeling of utter revulsion, a feeling that was intensified exponentially as the two men began to laugh. It was in that moment that El understood just how wicked his captors were. Everything to this point had just been a scratch on the surface. These men were rotten to the core. El closed his eyes and felt a sob run through him. He found himself praying for arrival at Southfate. Even the arena couldn't possibly be as bad as this, could it?

The Road pt. 1

The journey had not to this point been pleasant, and within seconds of having that thought, El realized he was making a gross understatement. The journey had been a disaster.

After six hours of sitting in a cell in Quinn's manor, an experience which Elteber had found highly distasteful, he'd been dragged out into the night, along with a trio of other men. Their captors had roughly chained them to a cart, and then set off into the darkness. Being dragged along by ones wrists behind a cart is not the easiest of endeavors in the best of circumstances. At night, however, it's all but impossible. Each step is a gamble, and El found himself more than once stumbling, and occasionally falling. The falling was the worst, for the cart didn't stop. The pair of mules that stoically pulled it along didn't care for the plight of the prisoners, and continued their implacable pace regardless.

Eventually most of the prisoners found a rhythm, and while their stumbling continued the regularity of their falling, and consequently their dragging decreased. One prisoner, an older man from what little El had seen, never seemed to find that cadence. Instead he would fall repeatedly, and struggle to his feet as the wagon would approach an elevation change. After about several hours El noticed that the man was taking longer and longer trying to rise. Then as dawn began to break over the mountains far to the easy, the man fell. For twenty minutes those dreadful mules continued to put one hoof in front of the other, the sounds of those steps like the beat of the executioner's drum, and yet the man made no effort to rise. Finally El could bear it no longer and called out to the driver.

“Hey, you've got to stop. This man isn't getting up. He's hurt! Stop the wagon!”

The driver barely turned, casting little more than a glance in the direction of the man. He grunted and nudged the other, much smaller, man who sat next to him on the seat. The man stirred, and then hopped from the wagon, landing with a light roll in the dust. The acrobatic captor came alongside the man who was being dragged and reached down to check his pulse, even as they walked. With a grunt he leaped into the wagon bed. Reaching down he lifted a small, yet sturdy chest that bore a pair of locks and set it on the wagon seat. The driver lifted a silver key, attached to an iron chain, from beneath his tunic. The acrobat did likewise, though his key was a coppery color, and the two opened the chest, each inserting their respective keys into one of the locks, and turning them in opposite directions.

From within that chest the smaller man removed a large black metal key. Stepping back to the end of the wagon the acrobat inserted the black key into the heavy padlock that connected the chain to an iron ring that was on the wagon's frame. The padlock popped open and the thick length of chain that had been dragging the fallen prisoner behind the wagon went instantly slack. The body lay in the road, and El watched as it lay there in the dust. Then there was a sharp twang, and a small bunch of feathers sprouted from the man's back. El spun and saw the acrobat casually reloading a hand crossbow and tucking it back into his vest. The man regarded El with an almost amused expression, and then hopped back into his seat beside the driver. El shuddered, and was going to shout something at his captors, but a misstep caused him to pitch forward violently, and his retort was lost in the attempt to maintain his footing.

* * * *

After a sustained march of nearly five hours the captors pulled the wagon to the side of the road. The two of them helped, though again this is not a term that accurately describes their actions, the chained men to drink from a water skin. Much of the water did not end up in the captives mouths, but rather down their fronts. Each man was unchained long enough to relieve themselves, and then to eat a small chunk of stale bread, and a bland white cheese. As soon as the last crumb had passed their lips, those horrible chains once again were firmly secured around their wrists, and a small dribble of water was again allowed to fall into the general vicinity of their mouths.

Once all four prisoners had eaten, their captors settled back into their wagon seats and set out again. From where he was chained Elteber watched with jealousy as the pair ate their repast. A thick hunk of what looked like salted pork was sliced and eaten, and the men also each chomped loudly on a crisp golden colored apple. Elteber licked his lips as he watched, but said nothing. Opening his mouth would expose it to the dust and the dry heat of the road, and he didn't know when the next time they'd stop for water would be.

It was another three hours before they were again allowed to stop, and were provided with a small amount of water to wash the dust from their parched throats. Elteber began to guess that part of why the prisoners needed so few guards, was because they were not to be kept very healthy. As the inexorable creak of those wooden wheels again filled the air El let out a shudder. It was fifteen days in optimal conditions to reach Southgate. This wagon was not what El would consider optimal. It was slow moving, and the captors were forced to stop, which had they been alone they wouldn't have needed to do. El hazarded that they were more likely three weeks out from Southgate. He silently wondered how many of them would die before reaching their destination.

* * * *

A partial answer to that silent musing came two days later. An hour or so before noon one of the other prisoners, a well muscled man, pitched forward. El was surprised when the man did not rise. The big man had seemed in good health, and had endured the perpetual punishment with significantly greater fortitude than the third man. Again the mules were not called to a halt, indeed the drivers did not appear to have noticed the man's fall. Determined to not let another death occur, El called out. The taste of blood filled his mouth, as the dry skin within it cracked at his hoarse shout. Again the little man grimly went about the task of checking the fallen man. This time the fallen was not dead, and the acrobat hauled him to his feet. Perhaps acting on instinct, though more likely in sheer desperation, the prisoner swung his arms and attempted to wrap the heavy chain around the small man's neck.

Unfortunately, the prisoner's arms were weak from exhaustion, and the small man easily stepped out of reach of the chain. He raised a thin finger and tauntingly waggled it from left to right. The prisoner let out a howl and lunged forward at his tormentor, reaching for his throat with bound hands. The acrobat laughed and danced out of the way. Again the prisoner came at him, and again the acrobat moved away. Luck, it seemed, had not forsaken the big man. The rat faced captor stepped into a rabbit whole during that second move and his ankle twisted underneath him. The big man dove forward and smashed the heavy iron bands of his shackles on the small man's head. The small man's eyes crossed for a moment and then he fell. The driver, who had by now stopped the wagon and turned to check on the ruckus spoke.

“Enough, get back in line. You know you can't escape, so back away from him.”

“I'll kill him,” the big man cried out in a cracking voice, raising his manacled hands above the acrobat's head meaningfully.

A dagger seemed to materialize in the driver's hand and he tossed it such that the blade rested easily between his index finger and thumb. The big man laughed roughly.

“A single dagger, it'll take more than that to kill me,” and again he hefted his hands as if to illustrate his point.

The driver seemed to consider it, and then began to lower his hands. The brute did likewise. Then in a motion so smooth and fast that El could only barely make it out the driver cast his dagger sidelong, it's polished blade neatly laying open the cheek of the big man. The other hand came up in an underhand motion and another blade came up and out, embedding itself squarely in the now exposed throat of the belligerent prisoner. The big man let out a gurgling noise and crashed to his knees, his hands coming up to the pommel that protruded from his neck. Those weakening fingers fumbled with it for a moment and then the big man's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell with a heavy thump onto his face.

The driver vaulted down from the wagon seat and lifted the rat faced acrobat up into the bed of the wagon, aiming a heavy kick at the side of the big man's head.

“Stupid oaf. You've cost me a lot of money by making me kill you.”

After having deposited his companion in the bed of the wagon, the driver collected his dagger's and once again performed the required steps to release the big man's chains from the iron ring that held them. Then he climbed back into the wagon seat, gave one last disgusted look at the dead body lying in the road, then flicked the reins across the rump's of the mules and set off once again.

Elteber sighed and stepped forward to stay ahead, and thus keep some slack in those dragging chains. Eighteen more days like this? Did Quinn actually want him in Southgate? Or was she just trying to make his last days as miserable as possible?