Sharp pain seared his upper torso as he fought his way out of the briars on the left side of the trail, their barbs ripping his shirt and leaving bloody gashes across his skin. When his feet reached the open path, three men tackled him back to the ground. He managed to sink his teeth into one of their arms before a fist connected with the side of his face, and he went limp.
When he came to, his jaw was throbbing and the skin around his face, neck, and arms was on fire. Had the briars cut him that bad? The pain was overwhelming.
“Don’t envy you the next few days,” one of the guards said with a chuckle. “Looks like you rolled straight through a patch of stinging nettle.” Ferrin turned to look. The guard was right. He’d landed right on top of an entire grove of the hairy knee-high plants.
“I told you there would be no escape,” Goat Face said as he strode over to where they had Ferrin up on his knees. Hatch laughed and held up a small metal whistle he had tied to a thin chain around his neck. “I would have stopped you earlier, but I must admit it was rather fun watching you try.”
The other men laughed.
Ferrin twisted and jerked to free himself, but there were too many guards holding him down.
Hatch lifted the short metal pipe to his mouth and blew. This time, instead of two short bursts and one long, he released one sustained high-pitched shrill. Within moments, the horse Ferrin had been riding trotted up beside the captain and stopped. Apparently, they had the horses trained to react to the sound. He was going to have to remember that in case he ever got another chance.
“The look in your eyes as you sailed through the air was worth it all,” the captain said. “I must say, with you around, I have a feeling this trip is going to be most entertaining.”
“I’m glad I could amuse,” Ferrin said through gritted teeth as he fought against the blistering pain of the nettles.
The captain turned and walked back toward the fire. “Throw him in with the others.”
They dragged Ferrin to the wagon on the end. It wasn’t quite as full as the others. One of the guards unlocked the back while two more waited with clubs in hand in case those inside decided to attempt an escape of their own. The prisoners scooted away from the door, either out of fear of the guards or to make room for Ferrin.
One of the guards hit Ferrin in the stomach with his bludgeon, and Ferrin fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The pain was almost enough to take his mind off the welts swelling across his uncovered skin.
They hefted him up the steps and tossed him in the back, where he landed in a heap, fighting past a wave of dry heaves to catch his breath. It took a while, but his breathing returned. Once it did, he pushed himself up to a sitting position against the back door and rested a moment as he got a good look at his new accommodations and those sharing it. There were eight prisoners, not including himself: three men, three women, and two children. Their clothes hung loose, covering frames that no longer held the same size as when first worn. Their faces were dirty, hair disheveled, eyes weary, and it was clear by the smell that they hadn’t bathed in some time.
“Thought you were gonna make it there for a moment, son,” an older man at the front said. By the rough, leathery skin, partially missing teeth, and bent back, he’d clearly seen some hard years. What a terrible way to end a life, Ferrin thought, with nothing but the White Tower to look forward to. Then again—he looked at the children—it was a terrible way to start one as well. “You ain’t the first to try it,” the old man said, “but you’re the first to make it as far as you did.” He chuckled. At least Ferrin thought it was a chuckle. It could have been a touch of pneumonia. “What’s your name, son?”
“Ferrin,” he said, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn’t have him leaning against the cuts and welts.
“Well, Ferrin, I’m Gillion, but everyone just calls me Rascal.”
Ferrin nodded. He was in too much pain to smile.
“Everyone, this is Ferrin. Ferrin, this is everyone.”
The others slowly began to make their way back to their original seats. A man on Ferrin’s right held out his hand. “I’m Brennon and this is my wife, Sora. We’re from Oswell, just east of the Slags.” The two looked to be in their fifties, their hair already holding a strong blend of gray.
Ferrin shook the man’s hand and then wished he hadn’t. The pressure from the squeeze caused the nettles in his skin to burn all the more.
“Quiet place, Oswell. You ever been?” Ferrin shook his head, and the man continued. “Not surprised. Most people have never heard of it, let alone been there. The Slags is a dangerous place even to those of us who’ve lived there all our lives. I guess it’s no surprise that—”
“Dear, I don’t think the man cares to hear about your knowledge of the Slags.” Sora smiled at Ferrin as she laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Sorry, he gets a mite carried away at times.”
“I do not,” Brennon said. “I was just making conversation with the man.” The two quietly argued with each other while the others continued their introductions.
“I’m Telsa,” the woman sitting next to Sora said. She looked to be about Ferrin’s age, in her early to mid-thirties. “They took me three weeks ago from my home outside of Storyl.” She nervously bit at her lower lip. “I’ve always kept to myself . . . minded my own business. I don’t know how they found me.”
“The temptation for gold will turn even the most kindred soul into a no-good skinflint,” an older woman sitting across from Telsa said. She looked angry enough to kill a guard with her bare hands. “I’m Narissa.” She passed a quick, appraising glance at Ferrin before turning back to Telsa. “That’s what happened to my Remi. He sold me to the White Tower for a single bag of gold.” She bared her teeth and Telsa scooted back against the bars. “Thirty-eight years of marriage, and he trades me in for the price of a new well! If I ever get out of here, I’m going to drown him in it!”
Ferrin wasn’t sure if he should be more afraid of the Black Watch or Narissa.
“I’m Beese,” the man next to Narissa said before she had a chance to continue her frenzied ranting, “and this is my son, Cory.” The boy couldn’t have been more than six. As thin and sickly as he looked it was hard to tell. Cory peeked out from behind his father’s shoulder and smiled. Ferrin returned the gesture. What kind of magic could be so dangerous that they would have to imprison a small child? “We’re from Kai,” Beese said, “just above Tara Springs. There’s a few more of us from Kai in some of the other wagons.” The man glanced over his shoulder at another grouping of prisoners farther down the line.
At the head of the wagon, sitting next to Rascal, was a young teenage girl, who had remained silent. Every so often, Ferrin caught her sneaking a peek at him. But every time he turned, she quickly looked away.
“This is Sasha,” Rascal said as he patted the girl’s shoulder. “Other than her name, she hasn’t spoken a word since we picked her up in Aldwick a few weeks back.”
Ferrin leaned back against the bars, realizing it was his turn. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but under the present circumstances . . . I guess you already know where I’m from.”
“Why weren’t there more of you?” Brennon asked, beside him. “Rhowynn is by far the largest city we’ve been to. It’s the flaming capital of Keldor, for pity’s sake.”
Sora poked her husband in the side. “Watch your language.”
Brennon ignored her. “We figured they were going to have to build some more wagons and hire additional drivers just to fill the haul from a city that size.”