Tharuk 568 shoved a pick at Tomaaz. “Here, use that.”
Tomaaz dragged his heels while the weakened slaves further down the canal climbed to safety.
568 narrowed his eyes, watching him.
Tomaaz’s heart pounded as he leaned over the edge of the trench. Giving away that he wasn’t controlled by numlock would mean losing Ma. He had to let the slaves around him suffer, or he’d be found out. Every nerve in his body screamed at the injustice. He swung the pick: once; twice. The dirt gave. Sludge spewed out of the gaping wound, flowing down the canal.
When 568 yelled, “Down tools! Rest time!” Tomaaz collapsed right next to his slave crew, not caring about the overpowering stench.
How had Lovina survived this?
§
Tomaaz scrubbed at the bottom of the cauldron to get rid of burnt-on sludge. The tharuk gruel had done little to fill his aching stomach or revive his weary muscles. Cramps ran down his back and his shoulders were more knotted than the old piaua trunk in the sacred clearing at home.
A whip-wielding tharuk paced nearby, scowling at him. “Scrub harder. It’s almost sundown.”
Giving a dumb nod, Tomaaz put his back into it. Gods, he was ready to fall into bed—if they even had beds here. He’d kept his eyes open, looking for possible places to keep a prisoner, scanning slaves’ faces as he’d ladled out gruel, looking for Ma.
Nothing.
A whip cracked.
Tomaaz resisted the urge to snap his head up, raising it lethargically and gazing about with his jaw half open. Beyond the eating area, near a pile of rubble, a tharuk with a droopy eye towered over Half Hand, who was lying in the dirt with his shovel nearby. Odd—everyone else had returned their tools to the piles. What was he up to?
“Up,” Droopy Eye bellowed, cracking its whip again. “Now!”
Half Hand dragged himself to his knees and heaved his shovel across the dirt, panting. Using the spade, he pulled himself to stand, then shambled a few steps, only to fall again.
Droopy Eye booted Half Hand in the ribs. “Get up, you mangy mutt! It’s feeding time.”
Tomaaz clenched the side of the pot to stop himself from running over. He had to bide his time. Find Ma.
The tharuk kicked the boy again. Blood trickled out of his mouth.
Half Hand was starved, weak and senseless. Anyone could see he was dying. The pot bit into Tomaaz’s palms. Cords of muscle stood out on his forearms.
A whip cracked against the cauldron, making Tomaaz start. Furry hands grabbed his head, wrenching it around. “What’s wrong? A bit twitchy?” Tharuk 568’s fetid breath blasted his face. Tusks nearly scraped his cheek. The tharuk yanked one of his eyelids up and gave a satisfied nod. “Still numlocked. Good. Now, finish that pot.”
Tomaaz thrust his arm back into the cauldron and kept his head down, scraping the ladle to loosen the last of the burnt crust. Thank the Egg, his father had given him dragon’s scale to keep his eyes gray.
Above the prone figure of Half Hand, two tharuks were arguing. “You should’na kicked him.”
“He wasn’t moving,” Droopy Eye growled.
“Probably killed him.”
“He’s fine. Look.” Droopy Eye raised his whip …
One more lash would kill the boy. Tomaaz abandoned the pot, running, a croak escaping his dusty throat. Around him, time seemed to slow as slaves gaped and tharuks turned. He pretended to stumble and fall, then pulled himself up again. Shards, shards, shards! What had he done?
With a snap, a whip wrapped itself around his arm. Pain seared his bicep. Droopy Eye heaved on the whip, pulling Tomaaz toward him. Tomaaz stumbled, dragging on the whip as if it was hard to walk—as if they’d believe that, after his mad dash.
Droopy Eye and another tharuk grabbed his arms. A tharuk with a bent tusk thrust its snout into his face and, for the second time that day, Tomaaz had his eyelids pulled up and his eye color inspected. He kept his body loose, face slack. Bent Tusk fired questions at him and he stayed dumb, answer-less, except for an apathetic shrug of a shoulder.
“His eyes are fine,” a huge brute snapped. “Doesn’t have wasting sickness. Must be from last raid. Maybe not enough numlock.” The beast pointed at 568. “You. Give him more. Keep an eye on him.”
“Y-yes, overseer.” 568 yanked Tomaaz’s hair, pulling his head back and tipping a waterskin over his mouth.
Tomaaz spluttered, then gulped down tainted water until his bloated belly ached.
“Right,” the tharuk overseer snarled at 568. “Replace the feeder with this dog.” It kicked Tomaaz in the backside.
Then the overseer booted Half Hand in the head.
The boy twitched, his bloody head rolling to one side, then was still, staring at the world with open glassy eyes.
568 shoved Half Hand’s spade into Tomaaz’s hand, then drove his claws through the back of Tomaaz’s jerkin, pricking his skin. “March. We’re feeding the beast. Your job now. Morning and night.”
Droopy Eye and Bent Tusk fell in beside 568.
His tail bone throbbing and back stinging, Tomaaz stumbled along the valley—driven by the three tharuks—without a backward glance at the dead boy.
§
Tharuk 568 jabbed Tomaaz’s back and growled, “Go right.”
They turned down another arm of the sprawling valley and headed between steep hills dotted with the stumpy thorn bushes. Once they’d gone a short way, a new stench greeted Tomaaz. Something putrid. His belly, distended with foul water, roiled. He gagged, but swallowed his gorge. He wouldn’t give 568 another reason to stuff him full of Zens’ tainted water.
Dragging his shovel, he shambled along until they reached a dead end—split into three short gullies by folds in the hills.
“Halt,” 568 snapped. “Been here before?”
Tomaaz shook his head mutely.
“Left is human flesh. Straight ahead are dead tharuks. Right are
