“I try to be better than that,” Amero said, kicking at the hearthstones.
The dragon stared as Amero gazed into the fire. Finally Duranix asked, “What about Karada? I can search for her, if you want.”
Amero shook his head. “How do you search for a kokusun? Can you spot a spirit from on high and take it in your claws?”
“If you ask me,” said the dragon, “I will try.”
Chapter 6
Days followed days in a blur of hard labor, filth, and fear. Beramun worked in a tannery, stirring huge clay vats of molten beeswax. The wax was kept boiling as sheets of cowhide were dipped in it. Slaves had to lift the hot dripping hides out of the wax and carry them on poles to the molding shed where the leather was pounded over carved wooden forms and allowed to dry. The result was a shell of tough, hardened leather that other slaves trimmed into breastplates.
Roki worked in the molding shed. Beramun was able to see her several times a day when she brought in steaming sheets of leather. Roki explained that the raiders wore the hardened leather shells over their shirts to protect themselves from knives and spears.
“There are so many,” Beramun said, eyes traveling down row upon row of hide-covered molds filling the shed.
Roki flopped a hot, limp hide over her workbench. Molten wax splattered on both women, as it did a hundred times a day, leaving them with tiny, livid burns on their arms and legs.
“There must be more raiders than we’ve seen so far,” Roki said grimly.
Beramun learned other prisoners worked in a knappery, pounding out flint spearheads all day, and still another group cut and trimmed score upon score of green saplings for spear shafts. Zannian’s plan was all too obvious: He was going to raid on an even greater scale.
From sunrise to sundown the slaves labored. When it was too dark to see, their captors sounded a drum and herded them back to their walled enclosure. They were fed the same coarse food the raiders ate — a stew of nuts, wild greens, mushrooms, and the tough, unsavory meat of a common forest bird. It was not generosity that filled the slaves’ bowls. Roki said they were fed well so they could work all the harder.
After consuming their large bowls of flavorless but filling stew, the slaves went to sleep. Like the others, Beramun slept where she sat and did not stir until the drums rumbled at dawn, calling them back to work.
She wondered at her deep and dreamless rest. All her life she’d been a light sleeper. Living on the open savanna had taught her to remain alert to any possible danger. Since Almurk reeked of peril, how did she sleep so soundly?
One evening she feigned illness and gave away her food to those around her. Moments after finishing their meals, the captives fell fast asleep. Though tired and sore, Beramun felt alert. When vigorous shaking failed to rouse Roki, Beramun knew her suspicions were confirmed: The raiders were putting something in the food to make the prisoners sleep.
The next day she passed this information to Roki. The older woman was surprisingly unmoved.
“At least they allow us to rest,” she said with a shrug.
“But don’t you see? If we don’t take the food, we can stay awake and escape from here!”
Roki peeled a dry breastplate off the form and tossed it on the pile with the others she’d made that morning.
“We’ll never get out of here,” she said flatly. “If the raiders don’t catch us, the stormbird will. Or would you rather be eaten by some spirit-cursed monster in the forest?”
“I’d rather escape this muck hole and live free,” the girl insisted. A guard, sauntering through the molding hut, brusquely ordered Beramun back to work. She shouldered the poles and hissed at Roki, “I’ll not eat any more of their food.”
“Then you’ll starve.”
The day did not improve after that. One of the slaves was stung to death by bees while removing a section of honeycomb for the waxworks. The forest bees were the size of Beramun’s thumb, and the poor girl was overcome so quickly there was no chance to help her. The girl was an uncomplaining worker, no more than fourteen. That was all Beramun knew about her. She didn’t even know the girl’s name.
As the guards routed the bees with smoky pine knots and carried the girl’s body away, Beramun could only think she had been someone’s child. She must have had a family who cared about her, yet she had died alone and unknown in this horrible place.
Beramun refused to accept the same fate. She resolved to escape that very night.
After work, the usual stew was served. Beramun waited until the guards were gone then gave her portion away, ignoring her growling stomach. She considered telling her fellow slaves about the sleeping potion then changed her mind. Many of them had lapsed into sullen indifference, like Roki, or else openly collaborated with the raiders in hopes of currying small favors. Not wanting to risk exposure of her plan, she decided to keep it to herself.
She feigned sleep a long time before making her move. The slaves’ pen resounded with snores and wheezes as the exhausted captives dozed under the influence of the potion. Beramun didn’t bother trying to open the heavy gate but simply climbed the low wall. She had one leg over the top when something grabbed the ankle still inside the pen. A scream formed in her throat, but she stifled it. Looking down, she saw Roki had hold of her foot.
“Come back!” the woman said hoarsely. “You’ll be killed!”
“Why aren’t you asleep?” Beramun replied.
“I didn’t eat the stew. I knew you would try this!”
“Join me or not, but let me go!”
Roki hesitated a few seconds, but to Beramun it seemed like an age before the older woman’s callused hand released her ankle. By the feeble starlight penetrating the canopy of vines overhead, Beramun saw Roki’s cheeks were wet with tears.
A lump formed in Beramun’s throat. The woman had been her friend, the only one she’d made among the captives, but she couldn’t remain here.
She swallowed hard and said, “Farewell, Roki. Smooth trail and — ” She stopped, unable to complete the plainsmen’s usual farewell. There would be no smooth trail or open skies for Roki here.
Beramun lifted her leg over the wall and prepared to drop three steps to the ground. Suddenly Roki exclaimed in a loud whisper, “Wait! I’m coming!”
“Hurry!” Beramun replied and dropped to the ground. The moldering turf muffled the sound.
Her friend clambered over the rough wall and fell heavily against Beramun. Her landing was frighteningly loud, and they froze for a moment to make sure they hadn’t been heard. There was no sound but the trill of the night creatures in the forest.
The two women stole across the empty camp, hand in hand, with Beramun leading the way. She went directly to the lean-to where the newly made spears were stacked and took one for herself and Roki. Somewhere in Almurk a dog barked. Huddled against a pile of spears as high as their shoulders, the women listened fearfully. The dog made no other sound.
“Where shall we go?” Roki whispered close to Beramun’s ear. “The trail we came in on?”
“Too obvious. We’ll have to strike out through the forest.”
Roki recoiled in horror, clutching Beramun’s arm. “That’s crazy! We’ll be eaten alive!”
“Go back then. The slave pen is right there.”
Roki said no more but transferred her tight grip from Beramun’s arm to the shaft of her spear. With hand gestures, Beramun indicated she intended to go straight across the camp, skirting the opening to Sthenn’s lair. Roki looked very much like she wanted to protest, but clamping her lips tightly together, she nodded.
They slipped by the yawning hole in the ground, glancing nervously into its dark depths. North of the pit were the hovels where the raiders lived. Outwardly, they were little better than the pen enclosing the slaves — simple structures of scrounged stone, wood, bark, and mud plaster. There was a strong smell of woodsmoke there, and
