Chương 12: The Wrong Kind Of Freedom (2)

Teren spent the first day being moved from one job to another around the compound. Teren carried sacks of fodder from a wagon to both stables. He carried buckets from a stone well set near the right wall. He helped move crates of dried beans, hard bread, and salted meat to the compound's kitchen, where two red-faced cooks shouted at everyone equally. He swept dung and old straw from animal stalls while trying not to breathe too deeply. The horses were almost comforting in their own stables.

They were large, nervous, and fully capable of kicking a man's chest in, but at least they looked like horses. Earth had prepared him for the form of them, if not the smell. The skarnaks were worse. That was what one of the stable hands called those iguana-like scaled beasts. The name fit them well. They were long-bodied and low-backed, with thick but stout legs, heavy claws, ridged spines, and blunt triangular heads. They were not as tall as horses, but were nearly twice as long when their tails were included.

Their hides ranged from dull green to brownish gray. One of them opened its mouth as Teren entered the stable and showed flat grinding teeth at the back, coupled with razor sharp ones near the front—they were omnivores, it seemed, fully capable of eating a man—and a tongue that flicked toward him like a wet rope. They had a separate stable from that of the horses, and for good reason. Teren stopped in the doorway of the skarnak stable. A younger slave carrying a bucket behind him laughed.

"Scared of lizards?"" That"—Teren pointed at the scary-looking beast—"is not a lizard!" The slave laughed harder. One of the stable guards looked over.

"Keep moving, or I'll feed ya to it." Teren forced himself inside. The skarnak watched him with one of its amber eyes. He carried the fodder to the trough and tipped it in from as much distance as his arms allowed. The beast lowered its head slowly, claws scraping against the floorboards. Teren stumbled back looking at those sharp teeth, barely managing to stop himself from falling. The younger slave grinned.

"Careful. They smell fear." Teren looked at him.

"Do they also smell idiots?" The boy's grin faded slightly. The old man from the wagon, working near the horse stalls, gave a quiet snort. Later, when the guard had moved away, the old man came beside him with another sack of fodder.

"Salen," he said. Teren shifted the weight of his bucket.

"What?"

"My name. Since you keep lookin' like ya want answers."

"Oh. I'm Teren."

"So I heard." Salen nodded toward the skarnak stalls.

"Keep to the side. Don't stand in front of the head. Don't step near the tail—certainly never on it. And don't let their little ones fool ya. They bite quicker."

"We also have their young in the compound?"

"Not here. Be grateful for it." Teren looked at the nearest skarnak's claws.

"I'm... trying." Salen snorted and moved on to finish his own tasks. The work moved Teren through more of the compound than any previous loop had allowed. By late afternoon, Teren had a rough map in his head. The left side of the compound pressed against the huge city wall. The fighting enclosure stood near that side, its timber fence reinforced with iron bands. The examination hall and assay yard sat closer to the middle, near the path captives followed after being unloaded.

The clerk's table could be moved, but it stayed near the intake line. The right side held the labor halls, the kitchen, the stables, the well, and the lower wall that separated the compound from the rest of the city. There were two gates that he saw. The southern one was closer to the city gate, where the wagons had entered from. Another gate stood on the far side of the compound, guarded and used by soldiers, mana-crystal supply carts, and messengers.

The restricted section sat beyond the low wooden fence near that far side. The guards made sure slaves never crossed it, even by mistake. Teren saw two men in better armor pass through the fence gate around midafternoon. One wore mail beneath a dark blue surcoat. The other had a short cloak pinned at his shoulder and a sword with a polished hilt. Knights, probably, or something close enough. They did not look at the slaves except when one stepped too near the fence and was struck across the back by a guard.

That section had better lamps, cleaner buildings, a private stable, and rooms where military men could speak without slaves overhearing. Teren guessed it was simply living quarters and workrooms for military men. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. As the sun lowered, the yard slowly changed. The intake line had already ended. The assay was covered with an oilcloth. The fighting pit had roared louder for a while, then quieted.

Laborers were fed from a pot near the kitchen and sent toward the sleeping halls. The stew was thin and oversalted, and the bread was hard. Teren ate every bite and still wanted more. Salen sat beside him on the packed earth outside the male slaves' hall. The old man tore his bread in half, looked at Teren for a moment, then tossed him the smaller piece. Teren caught it with a frown.

"What's this for?"

"You're young," Salen said.

"Young bodies complain louder when empty." Teren looked at the bread. His first reaction was suspicion—this place taught that quickly—but Salen had already turned back to his own bowl. Teren sighed and ate the bread.

"Thank you," he said. Salen shrugged.

"Don't waste it by gettin' killed tomorrow." Night came before long. The men's hall smelled of sweat, damp clothes, old straw, and unwashed bodies. The bedding was little more than layered straw mats and rough, smelly blankets. Men lay shoulder to shoulder in rows, with just enough room between them for guards to walk through if they needed to drag someone out. Teren lowered himself onto a mat near the wall. This was the first time since he had arrived in this world that he was going to get a full night's sleep.

He closed his eyes and thought of Earth as the stiff ends of the straw bedding pressed into his back and the coarse blanket scratched against his skin. He did not think of modern comforts like smartphones or televisions. He did not think of his parents, who had died years ago, or of siblings he had never had. Nor did he think of the tiring job he had left behind, or of all the other parts of his old life that remained blurred behind the fog separating this body and this world from Earth. He thought of his mattress.

Of clean sheets and a pillow that held its shape. Of a door that locked and warm water in the bathroom. More than anything, he missed being able to sleep without wondering whether a guard would kick him awake or another slave would steal his blanket. A laugh almost escaped him. He had not appreciated civilization nearly as much as he should have. The straw mat under him was thin, and the blanket itched. A rattling cough came from somewhere nearby in the dark, while another man muttered loudly in his sleep.

Teren closed his eyes. For the first time since waking in this world, death did not feel seconds away. That alone should not have been enough to make him sleep, but it was. Sleep took him almost at once, deep and heavy, as if his mind had been waiting for the smallest permission to collapse.

When he opened his eyes again, pale morning light showed through the narrow shutters. For a few seconds, he didn't understand where he was. Then the smell of the hall returned, along with the rough blanket, the ache in his shoulders, and the black slave-mark under his skin. Teren sat up slowly. I'm still in Karthane, still enslaved and trapped in this world... but at least I'm alive. His thoughts felt clearer than they had since the very first loop.

His body was hungry, his back ached and his mouth tasted foul after going who knew how long without brushing his teeth. Even so, he had slept well. He felt more refreshed than he wanted to admit. The second day began with shouted orders and cold water from the well. Teren worked the stables again, then helped carry food crates to the kitchen.

While he worked, he listened whenever guards spoke, watched the restricted area's fence carefully, and kept track of how many men stood near each gate and how often the watchtower guards changed position. After a few hours, he began to notice a few blind spots where a man might pass unseen for a few seconds if he timed it well, though none looked remotely safe. He still stored that information away. Near noon, the southern entry gate opened and another two slave wagons entered.

Teren was in the yard with a broom in hand, sweeping while keeping track of the guards and where each of them stood. That was how he noticed the new captives. His first instinct was to look away. New captives meant new suffering, and he had no room left in him for more of that. Then he saw the girl. She climbed down from the wagon with the others, wrists chained, worn clothes hanging loosely from her tall frame. She looked to be in her late teens, around Teren's own age.

Shoulder-length, flaming red hair framed her face, vivid enough that even the dust could not dull it. She had pale skin, almond-shaped eyes, long ears that tapered to points, and was far more beautiful than anyone had a right to be. Wait... Was she an… elf? She must be. That was the first thing he noticed. The second was that she did not look scared. At all. The other men and women from the slave wagons moved like people expecting blows, their shoulders hunched and their eyes lowered or darting around the yard.

One was crying silently, while another looked close to fainting. The red-haired girl looked... annoyed. She did not fight the guards or shout at anyone, but she simply stood too straight for someone in chains and kept studying the yard with the air of someone judging the place rather than being frightened by it. Like a person who owned the place. Teren slowed with the broom in his hands.

"Keep sweeping," a guard barked. He obeyed, moving the broom across the dirt. He also watched. The new captives were taken through the same questions, the same clerk, the same mana assay. Teren could not hear every answer from where he worked, but he heard enough. When the red-haired girl reached the assay, several of the other women watched her. They looked nervous around her, though Teren could not tell whether that came from something she had done on the wagon or simply the way she carried herself.

The yard-master pointed at the grip. The girl put her hand around the grip without hesitation or fear. The crystal stayed dark. Teren's broom stopped. The yard-master waved her toward the labor group. Teren frowned as he resumed sweeping. For some reason, he had expected her to make the crystal glow brightly enough to light up the whole yard, or something just as unique, but apparently she had no magic at all.

The female captives from that wagon were gathered near the women's hall instead of being given the slave-mark immediately. One guard shouted that they would eat first and go to work after getting the mark, because two of them looked ready to drop where they stood. Wooden plates were brought out with hard bread, watery stew, and a few strips of something gray that might once have been meat.

The women sat on the ground in a rough line under the sun, their plates in their laps, and began eating like they had been starving for days. Except the redhead. Teren swept near the kitchen wall, then shifted gradually closer to them as if chasing dust along the yard. Something about that redhead didn't feel right to him. Luckily, no one stopped him. He was still working, after all. The red-haired girl sat with her plate untouched. Her arms were crossed and her back was straight.

Instead of looking at the food, she kept glancing toward the doors and across the yard, as if waiting for something to happen. What's going on? What's she waiting for?