Guardians of the Keep: Book Two of the Bridge of D'Arnath (54 page)

about the best you can do. Some live quite a long time, months, on occasion. You’ll have to rely on your

physical prowess alone, but—”

“Dujene is ready,” said one of the guards.

“Tell him this one’s for the practice pens. If he’s a decent fighter, he might be useful.”

I was led into a dim, smoky room that greeted me with a blast of heat. My stomach knotted as they

half pushed, half pulled me onto my knees on the dirt floor. The stench of fear permeated the place. That

scream had originated here.

“Spread him.” My hands were detached from each other and pulled forward and apart, forcing my

upper body onto a slanted, and very cold, stone slab. Once my hands were fixed in place, someone

removed the loose iron ring to which my neck-chain had been attached.
Good riddance
, I thought.

I couldn’t lift my head far enough to see much beyond the cold granite in front of my nose. A blurry

dark-clothed figure hovered about my head. I didn’t like the blaze that roared behind him. Not one bit.

Someone spread a cold ointment on my neck while whispering words of enchantment. I inhaled

deeply, trying to ease the dread that constricted every aching muscle. I smelled hot metal. They had

talked of collars.

“This should do him,” said a dry voice. “We’ll see what sort of stomach such a sturdy fellow has.”

Hands lifted my head and slipped a strip of hot metal between me and the stone. And, of course, in the

position I was, I couldn’t pull back, not far enough to do any good when they wrapped it about my neck

and it scalded the ointment away.

I didn’t scream. It was bearable; surely it was bearable.
Go deep . . . do not feel. . . let it pass. . .
.

As the Zhid spoke enchantments that curdled my blood, the hot metal shifted and flowed and settled

into position, smooth and close-fitting. Then they threw cold water over me. Sick and trembling, I thought

I had come through the worst.

“Anyone important about who wants the pleasure of the seal?”

“You’ll have to set them yourself. Master hasn’t been seen all day, and he has no guests. I’ve got to

get the next one ready. We’ve a hundred more.”

“Ah, I can do them faster anyway.” The guard went away, leaving only the man in black.

“Well, slave, one more thing to do. The joining. Back here ...” He ran his finger along the narrow slot

where the ends of the collar lay along my spine. “As Slavemaster Gernald would tell you if he were

considerate enough to make himself available, we’ve discovered a substance far more effective than

dolemar in controlling Dar’Nethi power.
Mordemar
it’s called. Not only prevents any use of true talent,

you won’t be able to acquire power for it neither. No more of it. Ever again. Your collar will be with you

until you die, and so you will spend the rest of your days half a man. Enjoy it.”

Liquid dripped on the strip of skin exposed between the ends of the collar. Hot, though nothing

compared to the searing collar itself. But as the liquid seal filled the gap, completing the ring about my

neck, it gnawed its way into my being as surely as acid devours flesh. And then I screamed.

Suffocation . . . paralysis . . . blindness . . . What words can convey the loss? A soul excised, the

mind uprooted and ripped apart, the world reduced to two dimensions instead of three. What would be

the universe without a color like red or blue or green? What would life be if there were, all of an instant,

only men, or only women, or if there were to be no children ever again?

As the seal cooled and hardened, my screams faded to weeping. I had lost the Way. I could not

savor the moment because I could not see the colors of the fire, only the blaze of it. I could not see the

marvelous intricacies of the granite on which my tears fell, only a cold slab. No longer could I feel the air

on my bare skin and sense all the places that air had been, the faces it had touched. I could feel only the

cold and the heat and the pain. Death and cruelty could no longer be fit into any larger meaning, for the

ability to take them into myself and see beyond had been stripped from me. No more. Ever again. Better

. . . far better if they had taken my mind, if I had been made nameless and cruel, so long as I did not

understand what I had lost.

I could not have said when they removed the common shackles from my wrists, replaced them with

wide, close-fitting bands of the same dark metal, and sealed them as well. When one is in uttermost

despair, no pain or indignity can make it worse. After removing the hobbles, they gave me a gray tunic to

cover myself, hooked a tether chain to my collar, and led me back to the slave pen. They had removed

the dead and the crippled, and put down clean straw. Everyone remaining had close-cropped hair, gray

tunics, and collars, and like each one of them, I huddled into myself against the bitter night.

CHAPTER 32

Morning. The sun was scarcely risen, and the pen was already stifling. Those of us in the cage could

not even look at each other—not from any enchantment, but because by seeing we would acknowledge

the reality of what had been done to us. It was an unspeakable violation, an unimaginable horror to be so

maimed.

Step back. Observe. Learn everything there is to learn. You are not alone. . . .

Stupid. Of course I was alone. The collar separated me from all of life, from my race, from everyone

I knew and everything I had ever been.

You are not alone. There are others. Watch and learn. .
. . Thoughts and calculations running

rampant in my head, as if I had heart or mind to care. Madness nibbling at my edges.
Listen . . . outside

the cage . . . why are we left so long untended
?

“Are they to be fed then?” Someone outside the cage. “It would be a waste to have brought them this

far if not. We were up half the night getting them fixed.”

“I’ve no orders.”

“Somebody’s got to know.”

“Bring me orders and I’ll feed ‘em. Not till then.”

I was tempted to call after them that they shouldn’t bother feeding us, but instead I leaned my head

against the cage and tried to see between the bars. It was hopeless. The field of vision was so narrow.

Hard-packed earth, endless movement, horses—I could smell them. Hundreds of foot soldiers marching,

drilling . . .

“Have you heard about Gernald?”

“Aye. In his bath, they said.”

“And he’d only been here a month.”

“Looks like he ate something off.”

“Someone new’s been sent by. . . .”

The two passed beyond my hearing. Why did their words fill me with such despair?

More bits of meaningless conversation drifted by. Shouted orders. A great deal of activity. Sen Ystar

may have been the first to feel the Zhid assault, but it would not be the last. These were not small raiding

parties being prepared.
Avonar . . . oh, Avonar, be vigilant. . .
.

I must have drifted off to sleep in the heat, for when the gate to the pen opened and the guard yelled,

“Up, you lazy pigs,” the angle of the shadow cage had changed significantly. I considered not following,

but the Zhid had shown us on the first day of captivity what disobedience would mean—the death of

another captive. Quite simply, they would make you a murderer. It didn’t matter that the poor soul would

most likely thank me for causing his death. I couldn’t do it. So I put myself in line with the rest.

Four armed guards were waiting at the gate. “This one for the mines. . . . For house slave . . . For the

farms . . .” They were sorting us.

I was the first to be designated “practice slave,” and was shoved back into the pen. Evidently the

collars were marked with our assignment. When the next practice slave was selected, I saw the image of

a sword etched into the dark metal of his collar, so I guessed mine had one also. I almost reached up to

find out, but I could not make myself touch the thing.

Three of us were designated to be practice slaves. As soon as the assignments were complete and

our former companions led away, we were taken inside the building again, this time to stand before a

pale man with a narrow, aristocratic face. He sat behind a wide desk in a bare, windowless, stifling room,

flanked by two heavily armed Zhid.

“Only three this lot?”

“Yes, Slavemaster,” said the Zhid who had brought us in.

“I understand we’ve used up three practice slaves this week alone. We’ll have to do better.”

“There’s another lot due tomorrow.”

“Well, let’s have a look at these.” The Zhid officer rose from his desk and walked around us slowly,

poking at each of us with the handle of a whip. He stopped in front of us. “So, my Dar’Nethi friends.

You’ve been chosen to die in order to make your enemies invincible. The time of your death will depend

on how diligent you are—and how obedient. You will be required to fight to the best of your ability, even

if it means death to one of our warriors.” He tapped his whip in his hand. “Because you must be able to

fight effectively, we cannot bind you with the same compulsions we use on other slaves. But we do have

methods to prevent your taking advantage of your freedoms. You will be penned when not in use, and—

Let me show you what I mean. You”—he pointed the whip handle at me—“kneel.”

I did so. Grudgingly. But I did.

“It is required that a slave spread his arms when kneeling. Ten lashes if you fail to do so again.”

He stood close enough that I could smell his slightly astringent sweat. “Now, take me down.” I

looked up stupidly, and he spit in my face. “Are you deaf? Obey, or one of your companions will find

himself without a head. Take me down.”

With much misgiving, I swept my arms around to grab his knees, releasing far too much anger in the

process. But I had scarcely touched him when he laid his finger on my collar. Spasms of fire rippled

through my muscles, my chest, my limbs . . . everywhere. The collar constricted my throat, so I couldn’t

get a breath. When he took his hand away, I collapsed, gasping and shaking, huddled in a mindless knot

on the floor.

The Zhid resumed his seat. “Cinnegar here is your keeper and will tell you how it is you will eat,

sleep, clean yourself, and train. Speak without permission, and we will remove your tongue. You have no

life that is your own, no function save what we require of you, and so it will be until you die.”

For the rest of the day, Cinnegar, a short, burly Zhid with reddish hair and a nasty scar on his left

cheek, put the three of us through one exercise after another. We ran, jumped, and demonstrated our

skills with bows and staves, and he had us fight each other with a variety of blades and knives, and with

bare hands, our only orders not to damage each other. We worked in an unshaded, walled compound,

but were allowed to dip into a water barrel as often as we needed and eat graybread until we felt

bloated.

One of my companions was a scrawny youth of about twenty. He was a decent fighter, precise and

quick with his movements, able to present a variety of attacks and defenses, but he had no training in

tactics and no endurance at all. Our second bout left him panting and lead-footed. Eight days of the

desert and the horror of the collaring had done nothing for any of us, of course, and my own arms felt

heavy early on. My feet were wretched. Raw and stinging, they bled as we worked.

The second man was nearer my own age, a short, blocky fellow with thick brows. He had no skills,

only brute strength and such fear that it brought him near frenzy when I wrestled with him.

“Calm yourself,” I growled in his ear as we rolled on the ground. “Live.” I pinned him in moments. He

squeezed his eyes shut, and tears rolled down his leathery cheeks. As I stood and reached out my hand

to help him up, he gripped it ferociously.

By sundown we were too tired to move. Cinnegar made no comments about our efforts. He shoved

us into individual cells in a stable-like block of them, giving us each a basket of graybread and a

waterskin. “Bang on the bars if you need more. Someone might come or might not.” He showed us how

to ask permission to speak. You slapped the back of your hand against your lips, then drew it sharply

away.

Even after Cinnegar left us alone, we kept silent. Though no guards were in sight, I wasn’t willing to

risk my tongue by saying anything.

I sank down on the straw and picked a chunk of graybread from the basket. Eating was about the

last thing I wanted to do at the moment, but I forced myself. The days would get no easier, I guessed,

and I wanted to live. As I leaned against the bars, staring at a second unappetizing lump, a motion from

one of the other cells caught my eye. The older man had lifted his own bread to me in salute. I returned

his gesture, and we matched each other bite for bite through piece after piece of the sour stuff.

With every swallow, I felt the collar. Could one ever become accustomed to such a thing? It was

wide enough to prevent a complete range of motion with the head— something to be considered in

combat. The Zhid warriors would know. It was as tight as it could possibly fit without choking, tight

enough to keep you on the near edge of panic all the time, tight enough you could never forget it.

Tentatively I reach my hand up to touch the thing. Oh, gods ... I heaved up all the foul stuff I had eaten,