The Windcaster [Fantasy/Adventure | Featured | Complete ]

Chapter 34: Ptarmigan Fortress

The guard grappled the slave, twisting the man's arm behind his back. Delivering a nudge to the knees, the man was sent sprawling like a common thief at their feet. Four more men were sent crashing to the same spot, coughing and wheezing in the dust. They looked a sorry sight: cuts and grazes all over their bodies, fresh bruises blossoming over old ones, dried blood on the skin, and fresh blood oozing from new lacerations.

"You are hereby arrested for failure to present to army registration without adequate medical excusal," said a cold voice. He turned to his right. "What is the punishment for this?"

"Punishment for this crime is the withdrawal of food and monetary payment for the accused and his family for two months, Master, with twenty lashes apiece." Her voice was quiet.

"Precisely."

"No!" yelled one of them, getting onto all fours only to be forced back onto the ground by a knee to the back. He struggled; the guard only increased the downward force until the slave was forced to submit in the undignified position. "No! My wife is with child... please..."

"You should have considered that before daring to believe you are above the law," the Windcaster said, his steely-blue eyes looking at the pathetic men before him without mercy.

"I am begging you, sir! We are all close to starving – had I known–"

"You honestly believe I have not heard these pitiful tales a hundredfold?"

Another one of the slaves cursed and lunged at him; the Caster sidestepped the attack almost without effort and kicked him in the stomach, resulting in a sickening thud. With a gasp of pain, the man bent on the ground, coughing.

"Attempting an attack on the Windcaster?" His eyes flicked down at the figure. "That is twenty more lashes on top of your jail sentence."

"You wish us all dead anyway!" the downed slave spat in a hoarse voice. "The last Great War killed most of the slaves – we are nothing but pawns to you!"

"In that you are correct." The voice held only callous indifference. "The law is the law. Those who disobey do not deserve to live. Chaos is the result of weakness."

"Please... I am begging you..." The first slave touched his forehead to the ground, his hands trembling in front of him. "I have children at home... they are already malnourished... you are condemning them to death with this punishment."

When the Windcaster said nothing, the guards moved in to clap irons around the men. The sobbing man threw himself forward, gripping the hem of the Caster's cloak.

"Please, please, I beg you!  They are no higher than my waist and love to laugh... please do not kill them! Please!"

The last word ended in a wail as he was dragged back to the line and secured to the chains.

"And how long is the imprisonment for?"

"As long as necessary; on release they are sentenced to hard labour for life, Master."

"Exactly. Take them away." With a deep bow, the guards dragged the wheezing, snivelling, shouting slaves away. "Come!" he barked at his trainee, who started and made to follow at once.

Almost a year had passed since the first news of the pending Gwentian invasion. All that remained at Ptarmigan Fortress – a citadel nigh impenetrable – were slaves and soldiers, with some governmental bodies tucked away safely in the centre. Conscription was still on-going. The army was stationed at every possible outskirt stretching from Elder Down to Ptarmigan Fortress, the two cities sitting on the border between Dernexes and Gwent in the south and southwest respectively. Dernexes was poised for invasion, but the threatening presence of an army of hundreds of thousands appeared to have kept the barbarians at bay for the past few months.