Gorgoroth (Haladras #2)

TWENTY-ONE

How long had he been enslaved in the bowels of the castle? The lack of sleep made it impossible for Skylar to distinguishing one day from the next. To him, all the days blurred into an endless stream of nightmares. When he slept, he dreamt that he was awake, carrying that accursed crucible, his muscles tense and twitching. There was no day, only night. The darkness always pervaded in the depths of that infernal pit.

As he lost track of time, so too he began to lose track of himself. Utter misery and depravation clouded his mind. He no longer thought or felt. His body moved of its own volition, goaded by the task masters' stripes.

One morning he woke to the sound of the guards beating their iron cudgels against the bars of the dungeons. The sound jolted him out of sleep, just as it always did. He never crept slowly out of sleep, like one does after a long night's rest. Always with a start, his nerves and muscles reacting like a sprung trap.

Unlike every other morning, one of the guards was on him before he could muster the will power to stand.

"Up with 'ya," said the guard, prodding Skylar with the end of his cudgel.

Skylar stood, only to have the guard shove him toward the exit of the dungeon. He stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. The man whom he recognized as the driver, the one who purchased him and brought him here, stood just outside the threshold. The driver held his whip coiled in his hand.

"You're needed elsewhere, boy," said the driver with a sneer on his dark face. "Upstairs. You're going to be a court slave today. But don't get any ideas. You still belong down 'ere."

He grabbed Skylar by the throat and squeezed so that Skylar couldn't breathe. Then he brought his ugly face next to Skylar's ear.

"And if you give 'em any trouble, I'll personally slit your throat and feed your entrails to the hogs."

With a jerk, he tossed Skylar toward a line of several other slaves.

Skylar coughed and rubbed his neck.

Ten other slaves stood in the line with him. A portly gentleman carrying a lantern, and wearing a trim jacket stood at the head. His clean appearance in that filthy hole glared like the Haladrian sun. And when he spoke, his voice sounded kind compared to the harsh growls Skylar had grown accostumed to.

"Follow me," he said, holding his lantern level with his face and turning toward the stairs that led upward. The same stairs which first brought Skylar down into that blazing pit.

The portly gentleman led them up the stairs, through a cellar packed with dried meats, and into a kitchen filled with smells which set Skylar's mouth salivating like a dog.

"Here's a few more slaves, Lurdel," announced the portly gentleman. "They'll need a good meal before the ceremony."

An even portlier woman looked up from pounding a piece of raw meat with a mallet and let out a cry of indignation.

"Not in my kitchen!" she shouted, shaking her mallet threateningly. "Those filthy creatures! They'll get dirt and fleas all over the place. You get them washed and dressed in clean clothes afore bringing them in here."

The gentleman in the jacket didn't look like he wanted to risk getting his face flattened like the meat the cook had been pounding. Backing off a few steps, he held up his hands in surrender.

"Fine, fine," he said.

Then turning, he motioned for Skylar and the other slaves to follow him out of the kitchen.

"Baths first it is, then."

He led them into a chamber, lined along the walls with deep recessed. These recesses contained rows of narrow cots, each with a pillow and a blanket. They were also held behind iron bars. At the far end of the chamber, a set of wide stairs led down into a low area filled with wooden barrels, sawed in half and filled to the brim with water. The floor sloped gently inward, meeting with a circular drain at its center.