The Parting Gift

down to the edge of the grave to catch me, there’s no way they’d attempt to cross to the mound in the center.”

  They climbed up the slope and followed the cart track through the brush. Through the haphazard screen of branches and saplings, waiting Sables were visible. Defensor winked at Certamen and took a deep breath. They pushed forward.

  As Certamen emerged from the thicket, a fist punched his face. He stumbled backward, dazed by the blow.

  “That’s the wrong one, you fool!” someone yelled.

  Their correct target now identified, three Sables surrounded Defensor and punched and kicked him to the ground. Certamen’s foot twitched forward. He had to do something, and yet…

  The wrapped blade shifted dangerously under his tunic.

  “Enough!” the female Sable said.

  The other three panted as they stared down at Defensor’s inanimate body. He lay facedown.

  “Is he dead?” one of them asked.

  Another Sable grabbed a fistful of Defensor’s locks and yanked his head upward. Defensor roared.

  “So, you’re alive,” the Sable said. “We should’ve left you down there for the rats. Get up!” He pulled Defensor to his feet.

  PureHeart shoved between Defensor’s abusers. “Escort them to the pen at Beefield.”

  The Ors walked in front; the Sables strolled behind. The brush revealed glimpses of black-clad figures pushing piled carts toward the pit.

  Defensor tottered dangerously. Certamen wrapped an arm around him to steady him. Whatever awaited them in Beefield, at least he wouldn’t face it alone.

  VI

  It was well into the night when they reached the stockade. After some heated discussion between their escorts and the pen’s guards, the doors were opened, and the Ors were shoved inside. His legs aching, Certamen stepped awkwardly through the sleeping Mixies quilting the ground and claimed a small patch of earth into which he and Defensor could curl their frames. The ground was bare, but exhaustion numbed him to its hardness. He placed one arm across his chest to protect the precious knife from thieves.

  A prod in his back woke him. His eyes fluttered open. The morning light stung.

  “You don’t look too happy to see us, Certamen.”

  He pressed a hand to his tunic. Thank Aurelian, the knife was still there. He looked around to find the speaker. Galea and half a dozen other Ors sat in a circle around him and Defensor.

  “This is Taedifer,” Galea explained, his finger moving from one Or to another. “He was with the Ninth. Libamen, Cor, and Malleolus you might remember from the Eleventh. Urbanus and Fidelis of the Third. For those who don’t know, this Or is Certamen of the Eleventh. And your friend is?”

  “I’m Defensor of the Fourth. And who might you be?”

  “Galea of the Eleventh.”

  “I met your master,” Certamen told Galea.

  “One thing of which I am sure is that I am nothing to DiligentServant, not even his slave,” Galea muttered sourly.

  The Ors exchanged their stories. The others’ experiences were much like Certamen’s. Evicted without explanation from their farms, they had been marching for several days.

  “The only thing for certain is we are moving southward,” Cor said. “If we keep traveling in the same direction, we’ll eventually reach the river Rim that marks the boundary of the Sables’ domain. What happens then is anyone’s guess.”

  “If we reach it,” Libamen muttered.

  “We brought a knife with us,” Defensor whispered. “A special knife.”

  Before he could explain further, the pen’s gates groaned open, and Sables spilled inside. They picked out the sick and feeble from the crowd and removed them as they had the previous morning. The Sables’ whips organized the remainder into orderly lines, each of which was marched out the gates in turn. A row of bubbling cauldrons fringed one side of the road. As the slaves filed past, they received a small loaf of bread as soup was ladled into their bowls.

  Certamen sighed. Would he have to hold his soup in one hand?

  Someone behind him tapped his shoulder. Winking like a Mixy, Defensor thrust a small wooden bowl at him. “I noticed you had no bowl. This is a spare I found,” he whispered.

  Back along the line, a female Mixy cursed loudly. She demanded the Sables punish the culprit who had filched her bowl. She even accosted the slaves nearest her, rummaging their persons for her precious vessel. The encircling menace of raised whips quickly quieted her.

  As Certamen received his ration, he glanced at Defensor’s gleeful face.

  “We must look after our own,” Defensor said. “Nobody else will.”

  Certamen buried his dismay with a smile. Mixies hated them. The Ors owed them nothing. They would happily steal from Ors. Why should the theft of this bowl bother him?

  They ate as they marched. Distracted by their breakfast, the thread of slaves formed knots, permitting the Ors to travel in a bunch. The soup was watery and the bread stale, but the meal was delicious. Certamen ruefully licked his bowl clean. The food had sharpened his hunger. Cor offered him a chunk of bread. Certamen refused with a hand wave, but Cor just deposited the bread into his bowl.

  “Eat it, Certamen,” Galea said sternly. “You and Defensor ate little yesterday. You need your strength.”

  Certamen acquiesced with a nod and started to chomp through Cor’s gift. Would anything ever sate this ravenousness?

  A chariot sped by them. Somewhere ahead, it skidded to a sudden stop.

  “Stop!” The order echoed down the line. The slaves stuttered to a halt. Some sat down to rest, but they quickly rose again as a dozen Sables stormed past.

  “Oh no,” Defensor murmured.

  The Sables formed around their belligerent leader in front of the Ors.

  “That’s the one,” the leader said, pointing a finger at Defensor.

  “Are you sure he’s your slave, DuskJoy?” one of the Sables asked.

  “He’s still wearing his tag,” DuskJoy grunted, his face burning with barely contained rage.

  Defensor groaned. As the Sables closed around him, he made a halfhearted effort to evade them, more of an instinctive recoil than deliberate resistance. They dragged him before his former owner.

  DuskJoy flexed the whip in his hands. “Tie him to the tree over there.”

  “Shouldn’t we search him first?” one of the Sables asked.

  “No!” DuskJoy snapped. “Tie him to the tree first. I’ll search him then.”

  “I don’t know what all this secrecy is about,” another Sable muttered.

  They bound Defensor to the tree. He stood facing the trunk, his arms stretched around it in a grotesque hug. Defensor yelled as they pulled the rope taut.

  DuskJoy waved away the other Sables. He patted Defensor down. He tossed aside a wooden bowl. He whispered something in the Or’s ear.

  “Did you find what you are looking for?” a Sable asked.

  “No,” DuskJoy said. He tore open Defensor’s tunic with a knife, exposing his back. White scars already crisscrossed the flaxen skin. DuskJoy stepped back and raised the whip.

  Certamen flinched at every blow. For two dozen lashes, Defensor kept silent through gritted teeth. The fresh welts on his back quickly merged into a bloody mess. After that, each strike of the whip drew a scream.

  The blade beneath Certamen’s tunic weighed. If he exposed it, if he revealed the reason DuskJoy had come here, the Sables would turn on Duskjoy. He had committed a crime against the Lights, specifically his own patron deity. The monster would suffer a long, agonizing death.

  But DuskJoy wasn’t the only monster here. Any Sable could be as violent and cruel. This knife Defensor had entrusted to Certamen might make a difference to the Ors’ future. It might ensure they had one. He couldn’t throw that advantage away, however much he desired to.

  The pace of the blows quickened as Defensor’s screams turned to groans. DuskJoy’s face contorted into a triumphant grin. Defensor fell silent. His head loll
ed to one side. His legs were limp. Only the rope pinning him to the tree kept him upright. But DuskJoy gave no sign of relenting. This wasn’t punishment. This was murder.

  “Enough!” a Sable cried. “Killing him isn’t going to get back whatever he’s stolen.”

  DuskJoy panted as he stared at his victim. “Where’s the Or who brought him out of the pit?”

  A chill passed through Certamen. He glanced around at his friends. How could he slip the knife to one of them unnoticed?

  A reassuring hand rested on his shoulder. “I am the one you speak of,” Cor said, stepping forward.

  “Search him,” a Sable said.

  “Leave him, ShadowHelm!” DuskJoy commanded. “I’ll examine him.”

  ShadowHelm sneered. “You may be a captain, but you’re not our captain. You can’t order us about. I want to know what is so precious and secretive that you would go to all this trouble.”

  “Your captain, DiligentServant, will be informed of this insolence,” Duskjoy said. His voice was as hollow as his threat. He watched, trembling, as ShadowHelm and the other Sables searched Cor.

  “Found it!” ShadowHelm said.

  DuskJoy’s eyes popped. He lunged forward. “Give it to me!”

  ShadowHelm threw a wooden bowl at his feet. DuskJoy tripped over it. He spread his arms out to regain balance.

  “That’s not what you’re looking for?” ShadowHelm asked, tartly.

  The other Sables chuckled.

  DiligentServant stomped up to them. “What’s the meaning of this delay?”

  ShadowHelm lifted his helmet and scratched his black hair. “We were helping the good captain find something he lost.”

  DiligentServant directed a pointed