“Emperor Kurgan commanded him to attack Ildakar. What else would he do?” A scowl crossed Cyrus’s face beneath the fold of his gray hood. “Even if he chose the wrong leader to follow, Utros is a great military commander. Iron Fang is long dead, and Utros can be the true ruler that we have always needed. Our people will be part of his new army. He needs us! The Hidden People are a great army. We have waited so long for him.”
“Utros has more soldiers than you can imagine,” Nicci said. “How will you help him? Many mobs consider themselves armies until they face a real enemy.”
Cyrus looked at her defiantly. “Follow me. I will show you.”
Leaving the speaking chamber, Cyrus glided through the stone corridors until he paused before a sealed storeroom. Cyrus took a deep anticipatory breath and tugged on the door. The dark wood was so old it looked petrified, and the hinges creaked as they reluctantly swung open.
When the torchlight chased away the shadows, Nicci saw a vast chamber filled with gleaming swords in storage racks, enough weapons for an army of thousands. Spears stood in the corners like corn shocks. Curved helmets were piled on shelves. Stacked shields all bore Kurgan’s flame symbol.
Cyrus lifted one of the swords. “We keep these sharpened and oiled, ready to be used the moment General Utros calls us to war. We train at night, practicing our swordplay in front of his statue.” He looked eager. “We have waited long to be called to our duty, but it will happen. We know it will happen! Considering the stories of General Utros, we have no doubt.”
“You should have doubts,” Nicci scolded. Despite her skepticism about the man’s blind faith, she admired the blades and armor. “There is much you don’t know about your hero.”
Cyrus cut her off. “I know all I need to know, and we are ready for him.”
After showing her the weapons, he ushered her out and closed the door behind them. She heard the Hidden People stirring inside the dim corridors of the shuttered buildings, their conversations building. Outside, the sun had gone down, and once again the people had the freedom to roam the city.
CHAPTER 20
Inside the enclosed hold of the Norukai serpent ship, the air stank of sweat, fish, and fear. Bannon hunched on the wooden bench, feeling the manacles like jaws around his wrists. The jangle of the heavy chains was softer than the groans of pain and anxiety from the nearby slaves. But he made himself stay strong. He had survived this long.
The oars creaked as the slaves strained to row, driving the serpent ship downriver. The dull heartbeat of the pace drum echoed inside the hold, where the captives struggled to keep up with the rhythm. They worked hard to avoid the whip of the oar master, who was all too anxious to start the day by making an example of someone.
Open hatches in the hull were designed to let in sunshine and air, but provided little of either. Instead, the reminder of daylight and freedom was merely another aspect of the Norukai torture. Gripping the sweat-slick oars, Bannon’s hands were covered with blisters. His voice was only a dry croak as he groaned. He couldn’t guess how long it would be before the hourly bucket of river water was passed around again, a ladleful splashed into their mouths.
Bannon’s muscles throbbed from his biceps to his bones. The current of the Killraven River would pull them along, and the dark sails caught breezes, but King Grieve insisted on greater speed, forcing the captives to sweat and bleed and die if necessary. While others begged, Bannon didn’t give the scarred raiders that satisfaction. The drumbeat pounded harder, and he strained to keep up.
The oar master was a surly man named Bosko, prone to flatulence, which only increased the stink in the confined space belowdecks. Tattoos and scars covered his face, but Bosko would have been ugly even without the mutilation.
Sitting under the open hatch up to the main deck, he bellowed, “Harder, you worms! Lazy men will be hungry men. If you want your feast at noon, you’d better work up an appetite.” He laughed, flinging his scarred mouth wide.
Bannon’s stomach recoiled at the thought of the rancid fish guts they would shove into his mouth. He had been starving for so many days, and he would force himself to swallow the nourishment, no matter the awful taste.
The big miserable man chained next to him whimpered. His shoulders hunched and shook, and his hands were loose on the oar. Bannon whispered, “Please row—help me. If they think you’re lazy, they’ll chop off your hands, and I don’t want that to happen to you.” The man flinched as if Bannon’s words were as sharp as a Norukai whip. “Trust me, stick with me. We’ll get through this.”
Sullen, the big man gripped the oar shaft and pulled, though he couldn’t articulate words.
The man, Erik, was one of the new captives taken two nights ago when the serpent ships had raided a small peaceful village. When the raid had launched, Chalk remained behind on deck, bouncing with excitement as he watched King Grieve swing his war axe and lead his fighters. “The axe cleaves the wood! The sword cleaves the bone!” the albino called out. He had looked at Bannon as if the words had special meaning. From the deck of the main ship, Bannon had watched the ruthless Norukai ransack and burn. He wished he had Sturdy, or even a stick, to smash Chalk’s face, or King Grieve, or the shipwright Gara, or the oar master Bosko. Any Norukai would do.
They had pillaged the settlement, seizing supplies, burning homes, slaughtering children, raping women. They had also captured a handful of strong, healthy people, including Erik, to press into slavery. After the serpent ships set off again, Bannon was glad to learn that several of the Norukai had not come back, so the villagers must have put up unexpected resistance.
Now, Bannon and Erik were chained together on this bench, though they had few opportunities to talk. The big man was drowning in grief. “You’ve got to work so they don’t kill you,” Bannon urged him. “I know it’s terrible, and I can only guess at what you’ve lost, but don’t give up. Keep watching for your chance to escape. You’ll know when the time comes.”
Still sobbing, Erik nodded. “They’re all dead.?.?.?.”
Bannon tried to think of a way to give the poor man strength. “Getting killed won’t bring your family back. The Norukai won’t tolerate insubordination. We’re no more than a haul of fish to them.”
“I hate them.” Erik had shaggy brown hair and a beard, a square face, broad shoulders. The raiders had killed his wife and two children, but captured him because he looked like a strong worker. “I hate them,” he repeated.
“We have that much in common. Sweet Sea Mother, we will find some way out of this. Stick with me, and don’t give up.”
A looming shadow appeared at the hatch above, and King Grieve shouted down into the hold. The oar master stopped drumming so the king’s words could be heard. “You are beaten. You are slaves. You serve the Norukai. Your lives are ours, and we can take your lives whenever we like, if you don’t work.”
The chained men slumped on the benches. Bannon held his silence, though a flare of anger made his skin feel hot. Erik tried to stifle his weeping. Bannon wanted to comfort the man, but he could only offer empty hope and his own optimism. He comforted himself with the promise that he would kill as many of the Norukai as he could.
Bosko lifted a ladle of clean water from a wooden bucket at his side and slurped a drink for himself as he eyed the captives who looked desperately at the liquid. Without the least bit of embarrassment, he passed gas in a loud burst.
Grieve glared at the oar master from the deck above. “Why did you stop drumming? Keep the ship moving.”
Bosko pounded out the beat again at an even faster pace than before.
After Grieve retreated from the upper hatch, a spidery shape dropped down on the wooden ladder, peering into the smelly place. Chalk scuttled into the hold, where his bare feet splashed in the puddles of bilge that collected there.
“Row, row, row! Down the river we go. You’ll all grieve!” He stopped abruptly when he saw Bannon chained to the bench. With mincing footsteps, he came to torment the young man
, though he seemed to consider it conversation. “You like to row? Off we go!”
“I hate to row,” Bannon said, then thought of Ian as well as Erik’s family, all of the victims the raiders had left in their wake. “I hate the Norukai. Can you understand why?”
With a grave expression, Chalk bobbed his head on his bony neck. “Some Norukai are not nice.”
Erik shrank away from the scrawny albino, but Chalk’s attention remained entirely on Bannon. He took a seat on a sharp edge of the adjacent bench, squirming to find a comfortable spot, as if this were merely an afternoon in the park and they were two friends chatting.
“I want all Norukai to die,” Bannon said.
“Even me?” Chalk said. “I’m your friend.”
He paused in his rowing. “Friend? I’m chained here as a slave!”
“I give you fish,” Chalk said.
“You give me fish guts.”
“Moist and tender fish guts.” He licked his lips. “They are good! They are what I eat.”
“Leave me alone.” Bannon bent to his rowing because that was better than the albino’s taunting. Next to him, Erik groaned and sniffled.
As if jilted, Chalk frowned. “If you don’t like my fish guts, then I’ll give your portion to him.” He looked indignantly at the new captive. The thought only made Erik moan even more.
“Why do you keep pestering me?” Bannon asked. Was this creature some kind of strange ally? “You don’t see how cruel King Grieve is, how cruel you all are, the pain you’ve caused.”
Erik found the courage to echo the words, “I hate you all.” The other slaves muttered as well, all of them listening.
Chalk was surprised and curious, as if he honestly hadn’t considered the idea. “Why? Why do you hate?” From the expression on the albino’s face, he seemed to be expecting an answer.
Bannon was surprised. “You honestly don’t know? You can’t see the terrible things you’ve done?”
