Firebrand
Page 137
He put Binning’s arm around his smarting shoulders. “Think you can hold your basket?”
Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks, cutting runnels through the stone dust. Zachary gave him the lighter basket, and hoisted the heavier to his own hip.
“You shouldn’t have done it, lad,” Binning said. “Should’ve just let them finish me.”
Protect. The word had struck Zachary as a lightning bolt and given him the strength to overcome his own injuries and weakness to help Binning. Wasn’t this the duty of a king, after all? To protect his people?
Zachary gave him encouraging words all the way out to the pile to empty their baskets, then guided Binning back into the passage beneath the smirking gazes of the guards. They were like vultures looking upon carrion.
“Think I can shuffle along on my own now,” Binning said. “Had a weak moment back there.”
“I’ll keep close,” Zachary replied.
“My thanks. You are wearing Skinner’s old cloak.”
“Skinner?”
“Aye. They took him away to the one called Nyssa because he mouthed off at the guards. He never came back. He was an old farmer, like me.”
At the end of the passage came the clack of metal on stone as workers swung picks at the earth and stone that blocked the way.
As Zachary knelt to collect rocks into his basket, he asked, “Where did you farm?”
“On the border. A little northwest of North. It wasn’t much of a farmstead, mostly rocks.” He tossed one into his basket in disgust. “But it was mine. I was no tenant, didn’t owe no one nothing. Not even the king. But then Second Empire came and took the little I had.”
“Life on the border is not easy,” Zachary said. He knew the stories of those who braved groundmites and rugged living conditions there. As Binning had indicated, it was not good farmland, but having a place of one’s own was something. It was freedom, a way of bettering oneself and not being under the thumb of a landowner, or the king’s taxes. He smiled to himself. He admired the border folk for their ambition and courage despite the fact most of them despised him as their king. And now they’d been hit hard by Second Empire.
He helped Binning lift his load, then hefted his own, and they continued down the passage. Before they could be accused of moving too slowly by the guards, the midday meal was called. Binning dropped where he stood.
“Wait here,” Zachary said. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
It was the same as the day before, gruel and pan bread. Zachary found Binning with his back against a tree and handed him the food and a cup of ale.
At first they ate in companionable silence; then Binning asked, “Where you from, lad? Sounds like the coast to me.”
Zachary smiled. “Good ear. I hail from Duck Harbor, in L’Petrie.”
“I’ve never been to the big water, never been south of Sacor City.”
“It is well worth seeing.”
“Don’t think I ever will,” Binning replied. “Not in this life.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Look at us, lad. What are these people gonna do with us when there are no more rocks to move?”
Zachary did not have an answer for him. When they returned to work, Binning appeared better for the meal, such as it was, but Zachary stayed by his side. On one of their trips into the passage, they discovered the workers with the picks had uncovered something in one of the walls. As Cole raised his lantern to look, Zachary glimpsed what appeared to be a lintel. He could not linger, for he was threatened by the cudgel-bearing guard to keep moving. On subsequent trips into the passage, more and more was revealed of what looked to be a stone door. On his final trip of the day, ancient glyphs of the gods carved into the stone were exposed. Most prominent was that of Westrion, god of the dead, and his steed, Salvistar. They’d been burrowing into a tomb.
Binning sat with Zachary that evening for their supper. Stew again. He was absorbed in wondering what Grandmother was after in the tombs.
“Bad business,” Binning said, “breaking into tombs.”
Yes, it was.
Soon after eating, Zachary lay down to sleep. Binning stretched out beside him, sharing his body heat. He clenched and unclenched his aching hands with their shredded skin and broken, bloody fingernails. If Grandmother’s goal was reaching that tomb, then perhaps his rock-carrying days were over. Perhaps his life would be over. He fisted his hands, ignoring the pain. He could not allow Grandmother to succeed in obtaining whatever it was that she wanted in the passage. He would not allow Second Empire to overcome his realm. He would not die a thrall.
Think! came the command, but he was too exhausted in body and spirit, and he fell into a hard sleep.
• • •
The next day, he was surprised when they kept digging downward past the tomb entrance. No one bothered to open it. What was Grandmother after?
Binning held his own, but Zachary helped others if they stumbled or tired. He began to learn the names of his fellow captives and from where they hailed. Most were from the northern boundary, but Pitkin, a hapless merchant from Penburn, had been taken from the North Road. Then there was Lorilie, with her Rhovan accent. He helped her lift her basket when they both ended up at the end of the passage at the same time.
“I do not need help,” she said.
“Of course,” he replied. “I will not help again unless requested.” There were enough fierce women in his life that he knew when not to argue.
Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks, cutting runnels through the stone dust. Zachary gave him the lighter basket, and hoisted the heavier to his own hip.
“You shouldn’t have done it, lad,” Binning said. “Should’ve just let them finish me.”
Protect. The word had struck Zachary as a lightning bolt and given him the strength to overcome his own injuries and weakness to help Binning. Wasn’t this the duty of a king, after all? To protect his people?
Zachary gave him encouraging words all the way out to the pile to empty their baskets, then guided Binning back into the passage beneath the smirking gazes of the guards. They were like vultures looking upon carrion.
“Think I can shuffle along on my own now,” Binning said. “Had a weak moment back there.”
“I’ll keep close,” Zachary replied.
“My thanks. You are wearing Skinner’s old cloak.”
“Skinner?”
“Aye. They took him away to the one called Nyssa because he mouthed off at the guards. He never came back. He was an old farmer, like me.”
At the end of the passage came the clack of metal on stone as workers swung picks at the earth and stone that blocked the way.
As Zachary knelt to collect rocks into his basket, he asked, “Where did you farm?”
“On the border. A little northwest of North. It wasn’t much of a farmstead, mostly rocks.” He tossed one into his basket in disgust. “But it was mine. I was no tenant, didn’t owe no one nothing. Not even the king. But then Second Empire came and took the little I had.”
“Life on the border is not easy,” Zachary said. He knew the stories of those who braved groundmites and rugged living conditions there. As Binning had indicated, it was not good farmland, but having a place of one’s own was something. It was freedom, a way of bettering oneself and not being under the thumb of a landowner, or the king’s taxes. He smiled to himself. He admired the border folk for their ambition and courage despite the fact most of them despised him as their king. And now they’d been hit hard by Second Empire.
He helped Binning lift his load, then hefted his own, and they continued down the passage. Before they could be accused of moving too slowly by the guards, the midday meal was called. Binning dropped where he stood.
“Wait here,” Zachary said. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
It was the same as the day before, gruel and pan bread. Zachary found Binning with his back against a tree and handed him the food and a cup of ale.
At first they ate in companionable silence; then Binning asked, “Where you from, lad? Sounds like the coast to me.”
Zachary smiled. “Good ear. I hail from Duck Harbor, in L’Petrie.”
“I’ve never been to the big water, never been south of Sacor City.”
“It is well worth seeing.”
“Don’t think I ever will,” Binning replied. “Not in this life.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Look at us, lad. What are these people gonna do with us when there are no more rocks to move?”
Zachary did not have an answer for him. When they returned to work, Binning appeared better for the meal, such as it was, but Zachary stayed by his side. On one of their trips into the passage, they discovered the workers with the picks had uncovered something in one of the walls. As Cole raised his lantern to look, Zachary glimpsed what appeared to be a lintel. He could not linger, for he was threatened by the cudgel-bearing guard to keep moving. On subsequent trips into the passage, more and more was revealed of what looked to be a stone door. On his final trip of the day, ancient glyphs of the gods carved into the stone were exposed. Most prominent was that of Westrion, god of the dead, and his steed, Salvistar. They’d been burrowing into a tomb.
Binning sat with Zachary that evening for their supper. Stew again. He was absorbed in wondering what Grandmother was after in the tombs.
“Bad business,” Binning said, “breaking into tombs.”
Yes, it was.
Soon after eating, Zachary lay down to sleep. Binning stretched out beside him, sharing his body heat. He clenched and unclenched his aching hands with their shredded skin and broken, bloody fingernails. If Grandmother’s goal was reaching that tomb, then perhaps his rock-carrying days were over. Perhaps his life would be over. He fisted his hands, ignoring the pain. He could not allow Grandmother to succeed in obtaining whatever it was that she wanted in the passage. He would not allow Second Empire to overcome his realm. He would not die a thrall.
Think! came the command, but he was too exhausted in body and spirit, and he fell into a hard sleep.
• • •
The next day, he was surprised when they kept digging downward past the tomb entrance. No one bothered to open it. What was Grandmother after?
Binning held his own, but Zachary helped others if they stumbled or tired. He began to learn the names of his fellow captives and from where they hailed. Most were from the northern boundary, but Pitkin, a hapless merchant from Penburn, had been taken from the North Road. Then there was Lorilie, with her Rhovan accent. He helped her lift her basket when they both ended up at the end of the passage at the same time.
“I do not need help,” she said.
“Of course,” he replied. “I will not help again unless requested.” There were enough fierce women in his life that he knew when not to argue.
