Assassins Crown

Chapter 1

How inadequate, I think as I push the wagon. At least their trying their best. It's the thought that counts.

I look around at my surroundings for what seems like the billionth time. Five soldiers are lined up three feet to my left, five to my right, and five behind. Fifteen soldiers total.

This is kind of insulting.

I count twenty-five additional soldiers not far, ready to come running or raise the alarm if I, or anybody else, do anything unusual; so much as eat with my left hand.

They're still scared of us, of me.

I smile to myself, Right for them to be. Kind of pointless though, I could kill them all without making a sound and walk out of here without a care in the world.

My smile falters.

The thought is tempting. It would certainly be easy enough.

No. You need to wait. Wait until they come. They will come soon, you know that. Just need to wait, then they will pay, I tell myself.

"Keep moving!"

I feel a sharp pain on my arm and I come to a dead stop. The soldiers tense and brace themselves. I look down at the warm, red blood that is running down my forearm where the burning pain is.

I feel my anger rising, then quickly try to smother it.

Just wait. They need you. They will come.

I look toward the uniformed man that holds a leather whip covered with blood. My blood.

Just wait.

I see his hatred, his blindness to who I am. Of course, no one knows who I really am, that's why they are so wary and uncertain of me.

"Get going!"

He's got guts, I'll give him that. Of course, if he truly knew who I am, what I am apart of, if any of them knew . . . they would all be praying for death.

I turn back. My hands are calloused from all the hard, back-breaking work. Pulling wagons that weighed hundreds of pounds for hours on end, building the most perfect structure ever designed without food or water until it was finished, harvesting minerals in the deadly mines, yeah, that type of work.

And who forgets the constant beatings? The days when the officers are even a little bit bored or mad or just careless were the days we wished we would just die. Which was basically every day.

Let's just say, it was the closest thing to Hell I have ever known.

I go back to pushing the 300 pound wagon uphill. The people beside me look like they've been dead for years, and maybe they are; they certainly looked the part.

I probably look that way too.

The thought makes me ache to take a bath. I use to be so clean and civilized, and now, I'm a ragged, old, dirt-stained puppet.

As I push, my shackles on my wrists and ankles made a rhythmic clinking sound.

This is humiliating.

I clear my mind of my degrading thoughts and focus on pushing the wagon. I focus on the pain.

It's almost completely pitch black by the time we are finished with the wagon.

I am roughly escorted to my 'bed', which consisted of a thin blanket, a low shelter from the sun, and the naked ground. I have no privacy, no respect, and certainly no luxury.