"I'll kill you-" Ryder woke up with a start. The nightmare of his failed ambush played over in his head, a persistent dream for nearly a month.
"Shh," said the bald man to his right. "You'll wake the taskmaster."
The realities of Ryder's situation came rushing back to him. It was very early morning. The sky had just begun to lighten, but the sun had yet to come up over the rise. He sat up straight and peered over the men in front of him. A few yards ahead of the chain gang, the taskmaster was hunched over his drums, still dead asleep.
They had stopped for the night, now over two tendays outside of Duhlnarim. The guards had made camp in a shallow valley, chaining the prisoners to a large oak tree. Ryder could see their fire about a hundred paces away. At least two of the guards were awake. He could hear their voices intermingling with the crackling of the fire.
Ryder lifted his hand to cradle his sore neck, but the chains connecting him to the bald man didn't reach that far. He was stiff, and his whole body hurt from sleeping on the hard-packed dirt.
"What'd they get you for?" whispered the bald man.
Ryder stopped moving. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
The bald man shook his head. "I wasn't asleep." He lifted his arm, putting some slack in the chain.
Ryder smiled. "Thanks." Then he reached back to rub the sore muscles in his neck.
"So," repeated the bald man, "what'd they get you for?"
Ryder shrugged. "I'm not sure. Conspiracy, I guess."
"Conspiracy? What, the baron caught you thinking impure thoughts?"
"That and ambushing one of his carriages."
The bald man smirked. "Sounds more like thievery to me."
"I guess you could look at it that way. But we weren't just stealing, we were trying to intercept a message from Lord Purdun."
The bald man raised an eyebrow. "A message? You don't approve of the baron's correspondences?"
Ryder nodded. "Well, to some extent, yes. This message was a letter of treaty bound for another barony. If it had gotten there, it would have meant more hardship for the folks of Duhlnarim and more trouble for the Crimson Awl."
The bald man's eyes narrowed. "A revolutionary, huh? Not much of a criminal then, are you?"
"Not really," admitted Ryder. "Does that lower your opinion of me?"
The man smiled, exposing a pair of golden front teeth.
"Anyone who puts a thorn in Purdun's ass is all right by me." The man offered Ryder his hand. "The name's Nazeem."
"Ryder." He shook the offered hand. "And what's your story?"
"Smuggling," said Nazeem. "Seems Purdun doesn't like the idea of anything coming into his barony without him getting his fair share of tax."
"Sounds about right-" Ryder froze, his comments cut short at the sound of the taskmaster snorting and rolling onto his side.
The large greasy man sat up and wiped a meaty palm across his face. Then, with a huge yawn and a stretch he got to his feet and began counting the prisoners. Ryder glanced once more at Nazeem, as if to say "we'll continue this later." He avoided eye contact with the taskmaster as the man's sausage-sized finger pointed to him, counting Ryder as number twenty-five.
The sky had gotten much lighter, and many of the other guards were moving around the camp. One of them poured a pail of water over the campfire. Ryder could hear the ashes sizzle as he watched a cloud of smoke rise into the air.
The taskmaster unlocked the chain that held the prisoners to the oak tree and gave it a healthy yank.
"Wake up, you scum," he shouted.
The rest of the prisoners stirred to life, sluggishly waking up from their less-than-restful sleep.
"On your feet."
Though it was difficult to lift his body and the heavy chains with his sore, stiff muscles, Ryder managed to get himself to his feet. Nazeem sat cross-legged on the ground next to Ryder. Without using his hands, the tattooed man attempted to lift himself to standing. The skinny man on the end of their row, however, did not get up, and Nazeem was forced to crouch, unable to hold up both his weight and that of the other man.
"Get up," Nazeem hissed under his breath.
But the skinny man didn't move. Instead, he let out a shallow snore.
All of the other men had gotten to their feet, and the taskmaster was making a slow circle around them, inspecting each of the prisoners.
"Get up, you fool," said Nazeem, this time a little louder.
The skinny man didn't hear his plea, but the taskmaster did. One moment he was at the front of the chain gang; the next he was right beside Nazeem.
"I told you never to talk." The taskmaster's whip cut the air, snapping as it slashed Nazeem's bare shoulder.
The bald man sucked in air through his clenched teeth, but he did not scream. Ryder hadn't noticed it before, but Nazeem's shoulders were covered with long, thin scars. He was no stranger to this sort of beating.
The taskmaster pulled his whip back over his head and cracked it again, catching Nazeem along the side of the face. Ryder cringed. Though he couldn't see exactly where the whip had hit the man, he knew it had to hurt. Nazeem handled it the same way he had the first lash, cringing from the obvious pain but refusing to give the taskmaster any satisfaction.
"We got ourselves a tough one here," said the taskmaster, pulling his whip up again. "Good. Good. You should fetch a high price in Westgate. Might even find interest for you with the Quivering Thumb." He leaned in closer. "You could actually live long enough to earn your freedom in the arena." Standing up straight, he snapped the whip again. This time though, he targeted the skinny man.
Awakened rudely from his sleep, the skinny man yelped when the tip of the whip slapped against his back.
"Get up," shouted the taskmaster. He kicked the skinny man in the gut.
The little man's entire body lifted off the ground from the impact, and he let out an "oof," then doubled over.
The taskmaster kicked the man again. "I said 'get up.'"
"Mr. Cobblepot," shouted the guard captain. "Quit messing around and get ready to march."
The taskmaster looked up at the mounted captain, being careful not to make eye contact. "Yes, Captain Tully."
"Be quick about it," said the captain, then he turned his horse around and rode off.
The skinny man convulsed, spitting up a glob of blood. Mr. Cobblepot reached down and with one arm lifted the beaten prisoner to his feet.
"I'll deal with you later," he said, shoving the man. Scuttling around to the front of the gang, the taskmaster wrapped his whip around his hand and lifted his drums to his shoulders.
"All right, scum," he yelled, "it's double-time all morning. Compliments of sleeping beauty there."
Ryder looked over at the skinny man. He could barely hold himself up. Beyond having just been beaten, he seemed sick, depleted. Ryder didn't think the poor man would make it through the morning. He wished there were something he could do, some way to help the poor bastard lift his burden.
"We march," shouted the taskmaster. He slammed his drum. BOOM…