After we were all herded into the pen, which had a hard-packed earth floor from the passage of hundreds of feet, we were forced to form lines and columns. Many of us held an arm to our fresh brand, whimpering in pain. Not all of us were fully compliant, and the Guards gleefully beat the troublemakers into submission. Extra licks of the whip were thrown in for good measure, leaving a few new slaves bloodied and bruised.
Suddenly, the Guards snapped to attention as a corpulent man entered the holding area. He wore a light red turban trimmed with fur, with a ruby at its center, and clothes cut from the finest silk. His round girth was emphasized by a sash of vermilion red that strained to contain his prodigious bulk. Two sparkling, jovial eyes were set in his face, orbs of icy blue against a backdrop of olive skin. His mouth lit up in a satisfied smile as he surveyed the slaves.
He spoke to us then in a voice filled with genuine joy, as if he had just enjoyed a particularly satisfying bowel movement, which was so incongruous to our suffering and pain.
“Greetings, friends, one and all. My name is Hassan. Welcome to the first days of joining the family of the Children. Life aboard will be harsh but fair. All must play their part on the great waves. By low or high tide, work and you will be fed. But understand that laziness will be met with the kiss of the whip. Know well, then, that either will give us great satisfaction!”
The fat man guffawed as his jeweled fingers sparkled and danced in time to the heavy heaves of his laughter. The Guards dutifully laughed along with him, having played this part many times before.
Initially I was puzzled at their use of a mariner-like lexicon before remembering that their whole culture was based on a seafaring people, now trapped inland by world-shattering events. I brushed aside these mistaken thoughts and focused on the portly, yet jovial man.
“Work well and live content,” he ended, my attention having wandered for part of his speech.
After Hassan’s introduction, we were manacled and chained together before being frog-marched out of the pen. Now that I had some time to gather my wits from the pain and mental exhaustion, I recognized where we were. Across from me, to what I presumed to be the east, a breathtaking vista of golds and reds painted a riot of color across gigantic trees. I stopped in my tracks to drink in some of the natural beauty, only to be pulled along once again by the cruel chains around my ankles that cut through my reprieve.
We began our descent down a wide dirt track that wound ever downwards, cutting through hard alabaster stone. Eventually we passed a checkpoint, where Guards lounged about their posts only to be playfully shouted at and brought to attention by our escort.
As our large group of slaves made our way through, the sounds of metalworking and industry grew ever louder—the clang of hammers striking metal, the roar of coal-fired furnaces, interspersed with the occasional crack of the whip and a painful scream. The smell came next, an acrid scent that crept up on the nostrils before finally overwhelming them.
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They led us to a pile of pickaxes, shovels, and other miscellaneous mining equipment. The Guards then removed the manacles from our wrists before gesturing for us to quickly pick up a tool. As I bent to take up a crude mining pick, I heard a sudden war cry rise above the sounds of the mine.
A blond-bearded animal of a man, with hair grown long in wild dreadlocks, screamed in fury as he brandished a pickaxe, attempting to strike down the closest Guard. He was hindered by chains still attached to the other slaves, dragging them along with him.
A Guard nonchalantly—with ease born of many years of practice—clubbed him across the back of the head with a blackjack. He fell to the ground like a great sack of meat. The flames of rebellion were instantly smothered, casting a pall over the rest of the slaves, stifling any thoughts of further defiance. The blond man was unchained from his line and roughly carted off by the Guards.
Our group was now thoroughly cowed, with some of us beaten and all of us still suffering from our recent branding. An individual approached us then, reed-thin and stooped like a wading bird. He lacked the musculature and solidity of his peers but exuded a strong bureaucratic aura.
Carrying a tablet and stylus, he directed our group with a pointed and oddly shrill voice, through his thin lips, to the mine shaft cut deep into the rock to our left. The noise from the industry around the mines was oppressively loud, so I could not hear his exact words, but our Guards nodded to his authority. My Mana had since recovered from the Winnowing, and I decided to silently cast my Identify spell on him.
Interesting, I thought. The Overseer, despite being three levels higher than me, seemed to be weaker overall, except for a little bit more Mana. I deduced that he must be a wily individual to have risen to his current authority. I cursed inwardly for not taking the opportunity to Identify Hassan as well.
As we continued to pass by the Overseer on our way to the open mine shaft, my column was forced to a halt as Degei raised an arm. The slave behind me was trembling, panicked vibrations traveling along the length of the chain that connected us like a cruel Morse code. The Overseer moved closer to me, his black eyes cruel and inquisitive, before checking something on his tablet and making some notes.
“No trouble from you, slave. Work, and if the gods are kind, you may live to see the end of the year,” he said, voice emotionless. He waved for the line to continue, and I was jostled forwards. A few of the slaves in front of me threw me wary, inquisitive glances before moving, pulled inexorably by the others in front.
