Hot sand sifted past the opening of a tent. Conash opened his eyes, struggling against the intense lethargy that tried to drag him back into midnight folds. A howling pit filled his chest where his heart had been, alive with screams and blood. The emptiness consumed him, and he fell into it. His mouth was dry and sticky, glued together, but he forced it open and drew in a shuddering breath.
“Rivan!”
His shout was a broken, husky thing, cracked and hissing through a dry throat. Tears burnt his eyes, and a sob racked him.
“Rivan! Mama! Papa!”
A shadow blocked the tent flap, and a hard hand cuffed his cheek.
“Be quiet, boy!” a rough voice said.
“Rivan!”
“I said be quiet!”
A boot thudded into Conash's gut, and he curled up, clutching it. Metal cuffs dug into his wrists, and chains dragged across the sandy floor. He became aware of others around him, and soft weeping and sniffling. Raising his head, he gazed at the boys who were chained to him. Ten of them, bruised and battered, their eyes cowed and their faces twisted with misery. How long had he been unconscious? His stomach hurt, it was so empty. The shadow moved away, closing the tent flap behind him.
“Rivan,” he whispered.
“Hush,” the boy beside him said. “He'll come back and beat you.”
Conash's heart ached with a fierce pain that ate into him like acid, gnawing at his insides. Rivan was dead. Mama and Papa were dead. Raising trembling arms, he wound the chain around his neck and tugged, tightening it. He coughed, choking. A boy tried to pull the chain away, and Conash fought him. He wanted to die. That was all that mattered. He had to follow Rivan into the darkness, where he sensed the cat's lingering presence, soft and warm, calling to him with purring chirps. It had been a dream, for days now.
Rivan had been with him, curled around him, his presence fending off the world's hurts and hardships. It had been a death dream, bridging the gap between the living and the spirit world. Rivan had rubbed his silken length against Conash, patted him with gentle paws, and gazed at him with golden eyes. So much love had flowed out of the cat's presence that it had surrounded him in a warm glow. His familiar had protected him, comforted him, and filled him with his sorrow. Then had come the wrench, breaking the bond. Rivan's presence had faded away, taking with it his love and warmth.
Rivan was gone, and part of Conash had died with him. The boy sobbed, striving to reach that dark veil again, where Rivan's spirit remained, a distant light, beckoning to him. A faraway valley filled with radiance where he yearned to go, where Rivan paced the velvet grass, waiting. Conash pulled on the chain, and the blood pounded in his head. Darkness swept him away like chaff before a cold wind, and Rivan's soft presence returned. A warm tongue caressed his hand and silken fur brushed against him.
A slap jerked him from the darkness, and he gasped. The chain had been removed and his hands were bound behind his back. A man with golden skin and a shaven head squatted in front of him, regarding him with hard brown eyes.
“So, you're Bereft, are you? Tough luck, boy. Get used to it.”
The man left Conash to weep and struggle against the ropes until his wrists grew raw. The central pole, to which he was tied, swayed as he writhed. He screamed until his throat burnt and his voice died to a whisper, steeped in the most exquisite misery. His whimpers subsided, and a blanket of desolation enfolded him, cushioning him from the unbridled grief with layers of melancholy.
The man thrust aside the tent flap and dragged him upright. A rough palm cracked across his cheek. Conash opened his eyes to glare at the stranger.
“Snap out of it, boy. Find a spine. You're a weak little thing, aren't you? Cowardly, like all Jashimari.”
The man had a lean, tough face, leathery skin and dark eyes that glinted under thick blond brows. Biting his tongue to summon a little moisture into his mouth, Conash spat at the Cotti.
The officer slapped him again, knocking him down, then straightened and wiped his cheek. “Good. Hate me. That's fine. What do I care? You'll learn to, soon enough.”
Conash kicked him in the shin, but his bare foot bounced off the soldier's grieve, bruising his toes. The man chuckled and shook his head.
“Pathetic.”
As soon as the soldier left, the melancholy surged back, permeating Conash. He rolled onto his back and stared into space, remembering Rivan's scream and blood oozing through the cat's black fur. His father clutched his dead wife with trembling, bloody hands, his eyes full of despair when he looked at Conash and breathed his last, bubbling breath. Blood ran from his mother's back, and Ryana lifted red hands and wailed, her face crumpled. Shinda's wide, frightened eyes. Alenstra's anguished scream. Rivan's choked growl as the sword had slid across his throat and a crimson pool spread around him. Blood tainted the air, soaked into the grass, ran over his father's body, trickled down Ryana's arms, oozed from Rivan's torn belly.
Conash vomited. Sorrow invaded his heart with cold fingers, snuffed out his will and rinsed away his life. Beyond the dark veil, Rivan's lingering presence yearned for Conash to join him. He could not live without his beast brother. He would not. He sensed his spirit shrivel, withdraw, curl up in a dark corner. Part of him split away and drifted off into the frigid darkness of despair. Desolation clamped hard shackles of hatred around his heart.
Someone cuffed his cheek, then gripped his hair and dragged him upright. A different man squatted before him, a strong hand clamped around the boy's neck. A cup rattled against his teeth, and water flooded his mouth. Conash spat it out. The man threw the rest in Conash's face, making him gasp in shock.
“So, you want to die, huh?” the stranger asked. “That's not going to happen, boy. You want to know why?”
Conash stared through him.
“Because I'm not going to let you. I'm Sub Eagle Sharem, and I paid good silver for you.”
Conash did not want to listen to anything the monster said. If he cast himself far enough into the desolation, he could get lost in it forever. His crotch hurt, but he did not care why. Many parts of him hurt. Someone had probably kicked him while he was unconscious.
Sharem brushed sand over the pool of vomit with his boot. He gripped Conash's hair again, pulled back his head and pried open his mouth, pushing a water skin’s spout into it. Conash turned his head away, and water spurted onto the floor. When Sharem tried to pry his mouth open again, Conash bit him, and he recoiled with growl.
“You little animal.” Pushing aside the tent flap, he shouted, “You! Get in here and give me a hand!”
A soldier entered the tent, and between them they forced the water skin spout into the boy's mouth and filled it with water, but Conash refused to swallow. Sharem squeezed the boy's throat, making him cough, and he was forced to swallow or choke.
When the Cotti officer had forced Conash to drink half the water, he left him curled up on the floor. As soon as Sharem left, he vomited.
Sharem returned after a time-glass and cursed when he found the pool of watery vomit. Once more, he employed the services of a soldier to force water down Conash's throat, then squatted in front of him and glared into his glazed eyes.
“You'll drink and eat boy. I won't let you die, no matter how hard you try, so you might as well give up that idea, understand?”
Conash vomited up the water, and Sharem stood up with a curse. Shoving aside the tent flap, he left, and Conash curled up on the floor. Many time-glasses later, the officer returned and dumped a girl beside Conash, who sat with her head bowed. Sharem dragged him upright, slapping his face.
“Look, boy. This is your sister, isn't it? I know it is. Look at her!” He shook the boy.
Conash focussed on the girl, and a hiss of surprise and despair escaped him.
Sharem nodded. “Good. You want me to hurt her? Hmm?”
Conash shook his head.
“Then you'll do as I say. You drink and eat what and when I tell you, understand?”
The boy nodded. Sharem grunted, picked up the girl, and left.
***
Conash gazed out at the shimmering camp. The heat sapped him, made his legs leaden and his head pound. A moon-phase had passed since the Jashimari slaves had been brought to the camp, and the silence told him that they were either trained or dead. He leant against the tent wall and bowed his head, his hair hiding his face. He had co-operated after the threat to his sister, and now wore a coarse buff slave shirt and trousers. A slender chain encircled his neck, with which he was shackled at night. Sharem had named him Runt.
A commotion drew Conash's attention, and he frowned at a group of men that headed for a patch of sand in the middle of the camp. Sharem, who lounged in the tent's shade, rose and stepped out into the sun, gesturing for the boy to follow. Trudging after the growing throng, the Cotti officer pushed through the soldiers to discover the reason for the excitement.
A six-year-old girl stood in the centre of the circle, her long, tangled black hair gleaming in the sun, her eyes downcast. Sweat beaded her brow and ran down her cheeks, soaking the top of her a gauzy shift. Conash's heart leapt into his throat, almost choking him. What were they going to do to Ryana? She looked ill, her skin pallid and her eyes sunken, and she swayed. He longed to run to her, but Sharem would stop him.
A beefy sub commander walked around the circle, holding a helmet in which a few coppers rattled, soliciting money to pay for the sport. Soldiers threw in more coppers, and the sub commander rattled the helmet at the men until no more were willing to contribute. Conash almost shouted Ryana's name as dread filled him. They were going to do something horrible to her, he was sure. She was to be entertainment for the crowd of coarse, leering Cotti soldiers. A strangled sound escaped him, and Sharem glanced down at him and smiled.
Conash's eyes stung with unshed tears. He had to save Ryana. He would not allow the Cotti to torture her. Somehow, he had to stop them, although he had no idea how, in a camp full of warriors. Turning to Sharem, he tried to yank the chain from the Cotti’s grip, determined to reach Ryana and comfort her, for she looked so frightened. Sharem hung on and jerked back, and Conash sprawled. The men laughed as Sharem dragged the boy back to his side, forcing him to kneel there. Conash clawed at the chain, then punched Sharem, who slapped him, knocking him down again, and dragged him back.
Several men made derogatory comments that caused Sharem to scowl at them, and they desisted. He might only be a junior officer, but he was an officer nonetheless, with a water viper to prove it. A few more jerks and another hard slap forced Conash into submission, his head ringing from the blows. He knelt panting, his face twisted.
“Ryana!” His voice was thin and cracked, husky from disuse.
Sharem glanced at him in surprise, and Ryana looked up. She ran towards Conash, who held out his arms. A man stepped forward and scooped her up, carrying her back to the centre of the circle. More laughter came from the ranks. The sub commander emptied his helmet into his purse and donned the helm. Ryana's captor stood beside her, holding her arm. The officer signalled for the man to let her go, and she tried to dash past him. He slapped her down, then dragged her back and placed her on her feet once more.
“Dance, girl,” he ordered.
She shook her head, tears running down her face. He cuffed her, and she cringed.
“Dance, or I whip you. Dance!”
Conash leapt to his feet and lunged to the end of the chain, straining at it. “Leave her alone! Ryana!”
Sharem jerked him back, and the soldiers laughed. Conash kicked Sharem and clawed at the chain until the Cotti clubbed him to the ground. He panted, his head pounded from the blows, and the bright scene swam in his eyes. Ryana gazed at him, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. The officer cuffed her.
“Dance!”
The soldiers clapped and jeered, and Ryana shuffled her feet. The Cotti officer slapped her harder, making her cower.
“Dance like a Jashimari hussy!”
Ryana lifted her arms and swayed. The men clapped and cheered. Tears ran down her cheeks, and the sun reddened her skin. Conash made a strangled sound, stifling another bellow of outrage. The officer lifted his hands and clapped, goading the girl to greater efforts. She made a clumsy turn, waving her hands. He kicked her, sending her rolling, and Conash lunged to the end of the chain again.
“Ryana! Leave her alone, you Cotti pig!”
Sharem yanked the boy back and punched him, making him curl up with a groan, clutching his stomach. Ryana shrieked and ran towards him, but the officer caught her and flung her back, repeating his order.
Rising to her feet, the cowering girl spread her arms and swayed, shuffling. The officer smacked her, and she performed a clumsy skip and waved her arms. Sweat dripped from her chin and mingled with her tears. The officer clapped and skipped, grinning, and the men cheered.
Conash sobbed. “Ryana.”
Ryana's arms drooped and her eyes glazed with fatigue. She resembled one of the delicate clay dolls the village potter used to fire in his kiln and paint with pale skin and large dark eyes. Conash knew she would die if she did not stop. She needed water and rest. His mother would have wrapped her in soft sheets and sat by her side night and day, placing cool damp cloths on her brow, as she had done for Conash so many times. Why did she have a fever now? She was just a baby, and already weak. They had probably starved and beaten her, and he longed to save her. What was left of his heart turned cold and hard as tears ran down his cheeks. He could not save her.
Ryana stumbled in the hot sand, which burnt her bare feet just as it did his. The Cotti officer stepped closer and yanked the shift off over her head. She stopped and covered her face as the men shouted ribald encouragement. Dreal slapped her and repeated his order once more. She stumbled around, her feet dragging, then turned to him and held out her hands in supplication. The officer slapped them away and turned his back on her.
Anguish drove Conash to lunge towards her, trying to jerk the chain from Sharem's hands. If he could reach her, he would impose himself between her and her torturer. He did not care if they beat him to death. The chain brought him down with a grunt, gouging his throat. He tried to tug it off over his head, and Sharem dragged him back, cursing.
“Ryana!” Conash bellowed, his voice cracking.
“Be quiet,” Sharem said.
“Please!” Conash turned to him. “Please save her! Please!”
“She's already dead, stupid boy. She has the fever.”
Conash sobbed. “No... Ryana!”
The girl collapsed, and the officer walked closer to kick her, then turned away with a snort.
Conash's heart was a lump of despair and fury. Sharem chuckled and jerked the chain as the men dispersed, clearly eager to return to the tents' shade now that the entertainment was over.
Conash looked up at him, making no effort to hide his feelings. If he could, he would kill the sneering Cotti, and all those who had laughed at Ryana's pain. He hated them more than he would have thought possible, and it consumed him. Sharem dragged him back to the tent and flopped down in his chair to sip his wine.
***
Sharem glanced at Conash, who walked beside him, and gave the chain a tug that made him stumble. The sunset's fading glow softened the endless dunes with ruddy light, making it resemble an ocean of blood. Conash’s hair hung below his shoulders now, and he had sprouted and filled out in the last two years, although he remained thin. Sharem had dressed him a ragged gown, and Conash knew what lay in store. Undoubtedly it was intended to humiliate him, and they would laugh and mock him, as they always did. It did not matter, however, for he no longer cared. His heart was dead, and all that remained was a dull, dispassionate existence. Nothing could hurt him anymore.
Sharem led Conash into the light of the fire that roared in the centre of camp. Soldiers surrounded it, talking and drinking, some chewing meat roasted on the cook fires. Several long-haired slave boys of varying degrees of prettiness stood beside their owners, clad in ragged dresses. Sharem evidently wanted his slave boy to win the competition again. Some men called vulgar comments as Sharem tugged Conash into the light, others whistled and clapped. Sharem led the boy around the circle, and soldiers stepped closer to stroke his hair or pat his cheek, laughing.
The other boys also did the rounds, and soldiers slapped or pinched their bottoms and pulled their hair. Sharem completed his circuit, ensuring that all the men had a good look at the boy before he sat down. A drunken soldier tried to kiss Conash, who turned his face away with a grimace of disgust. It brought a roar of derision from the crowd, and the man recoiled and slapped the boy, sending him sprawling with a ringing ear.
“He's not a girl!” Sharem shouted, then chuckled. “Although you'd be forgiven for thinking that!”
The man beside Sharem nudged him. “I'll bet you could prank someone with him. Imagine his disgust!”
Sharem guffawed. “And then his anger! He'd probably kill the boy.”
A commander stood up and raised his hands. “All right, time to vote! Who's the prettiest Jashimari here?” He pointed at a red-haired boy. “That one?”
A few men cheered, but most booed or hissed. The commander pointed at another boy. “That one?” Again, the boy got more boos than cheers. The commander pointed at each boy in turn, and selected Conash second to last. The crowd roared when he did so, and he raised his arms to silence them, then pointed at the last youth, who only got boos. The commander gestured at Conash, who stood with his head bowed.
“That one it is then. Sub-Eagle Sharem wins a jug of wine!”
Sharem rose to collect his prize, dragged Conash to his side and forced him to sit. The crowd settled down to talk and drink, and grew rowdier as the evening progressed. Just as Conash hoped Sharem was considering retiring to his tent, the owner of one of the other boys stood up and shouted a challenge.
“Your girl may be the prettiest, but can she fight?”
Sharem grinned. “I'll wager she can beat your snivelling girl.”
“How much?”
“A silver!”
“Bring her!”
Sharem pulled Conash into the circle once more, and the other man brought his boy forward. The man shoved his slave at Conash, who stepped back.
“Fight her, Runt,” Sharem ordered.
The boy glanced at him in surprise and shook his head.
“Fight her, or I'll beat the stuffing out of you!”
The other boy received the same kind of encouragement from his owner, punctuated with slaps. It took a few more slaps to force the boy to face his opponent, and the men settled back to watch, sniggering. The youths circled, making ineffectual swipes at each other, and a wine bottle bounced off the other youth's back, making him yelp.
“Fight! Don't dance!” a shout came from the crowd, and a mutter of agreement followed it.
The other boy, who was taller and huskier than Conash, charged him and knocked him down, straddled him and punched him in the face. Sharem jumped up.
“Hey! Stop that!”
“It's supposed to be a fight, Sharem,” the other boy's owner shouted.
“No hitting the face! You'll damage her! She has more competitions to win!”
The crowd laughed, and the other boy received a nod from his owner. He punched Conash in the chest and arms, boxed his ears and smacked his face. Conash tried to fend him off with raised arms, but was hopelessly outmatched. After a beating that lasted several minutes and brought roars of laughter from the men, the bigger boy's owner called him off. Sharem took Conash back to his tent and shackled him for the night, giving him a kick for losing him a silver.
The following morning, when Sharem's kick woke Conash, he was feverish and sweating. The Cotti cursed, glaring at him.
“You've caught the fever, stupid boy. You'll probably die in a few days.” He looked thoughtful. “I should use you for sport, like your sister. But no, you're worth ten silvers now. I turned down an offer just a few days ago, and now I wish I'd accepted it. Maybe you'll survive. Some do, but only a few.”
Sharem gave Conash a flask of water and left him to sweat it out. Conash stared at the tent roof, fighting the shivers that racked him and the nausea that churned his stomach. He hoped he would die. That would end his hopeless, miserable existence, at least.