* * *
“It’s your lucky day, exiles,” said the Northland Marauder as he stood beside the wagon, directly behind Tarik, rattling the chains that bound the men within. “You’re going to get a chance to earn a second life here in the plains, and I promise you that’s a better deal than these Swords would’ve given you. If it weren’t for us, then there’d be just two fates for you. Either these Swords would’ve run you through and been done with it, or you’d be lost out in the ruins getting hunted down by packs of wild beasties. At least with us, you’ve got a fighting chance.”
Tarik’s heart raced. He’d heard rumors about how the bandits filled their ranks with prisoners, and the process by which they weeded out the weaker candidates. Marauders had no use for men who weren’t willing and able to kill. To join the Northland Marauders, you had to prove your worth.
The Marauders got the key to the lock from the Swords, and were undoing the shackles that pinned the prisoners to the bars of the transport wagon. Tarik was thankful once his wrists were freed, and rubbed at the raw skin. There was still a corpse in the wagon, and the prisoners asked that the Marauders leave him bound, in case he awoke as an undead. The roguish former Sword who’d warned the prisoners of how he used to murder exiles was now standing near the door of the wagon, expecting to be let out. “Open the door,” he said, eager to get away from the blood and vomit that covered the floor. “Tell me what I have to do to join you. I’ve got no allegiance to the walls.”
“You’ll stay where you are,” said a man on horseback as he trotted by. He had golden hair and a thick beard, but Tarik focused on the massive war hammer strapped to his back. “We’re going to head off into the plains, and then you’ll get your chance. For those of you who don’t know, we’re the Northland Marauders, and if you’re lucky you’ll be joining our ranks today. Trouble is, we’ve already got too many mouths to feed as it is, which means we’re only going to welcome new members who can prove their worth. A good Marauder’s someone who’s willing to do anything to stay alive, even if he has to kill to do it. If any of you are holding out any hope of making it out of this alive, then you’d better prove your worth. We’ve got a long ride out to camp, and by the time we open this wagon up, there’d better be a few more corpses in it.”
The man’s lackey laughed as he rattled the bars of the wagon with the flat of his sword. Then the Marauders moved on to deliver a similar message to the next wagon.
“What’s he mean?” asked one of the men in the wagon. “I don’t understand.”
“He wants us to kill each other,” said the former First-Sword, his square jaw clenched as he regarded his fellow prisoners.
“Kill each other?” asked the handsome young man across from Tarik, his voice quivering. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am, slave.” The dark-haired former Sword beside the door stared at the frightened young man who everyone now assumed had been a thegn before being exiled.
“We’re not animals,” said Joyce, the disgraced prophet. Despite the circumstance, her voice remained strong and defiant, even regal. “They can’t expect us to murder one another like savages.”
“I promise you, that’s exactly what they expect.” The former First-Sword balled up his fists. He stood, and the rest of the occupants tensed and moved down the bench, suddenly fearful of everyone around them. The tall, strong man said, “Might as well face facts. Let’s get it over with.”
“Sit down,” commanded the prophet.
“Shut your mouth or you’ll be the first to go.”
“Let’s think this through,” said Tarik. “We can’t…” a chain looped around his neck. The prisoner behind him, a middle-aged man exiled because of a drunken brawl that left his opponent dead, had pulled a length of chain out from between the bars and was using it to murder Tarik. The young victim reached up and tried to get his fingers between the chain and his throat, but the pressure was too tight.
Tarik thrust his elbows back, and then reached up to try and dig his fingers into his assailant’s eyes, but the man avoided his attacks. Despite his need to fight back, Tarik continually reached for his own throat in desperation, as if his body had a will of its own and focused solely on the chain. He came to the awful realization that he was about to die.
It was the thegn who saved him. The young, strong man leapt across the wagon and started to pummel Tarik’s attacker, screaming out for the older man to stop. The rest of the occupants of the wagon had started to fight as well, throwing one another to the ground or against the bars. There were screams of pain and anger, and then the crack of breaking bones. It was beastly chaos, the likes of which Tarik had hoped to never see. All sense of humanity was lost as flesh tore and bones broke. The thegn who saved Tarik didn’t want to fight more than necessary to stop the murder, but the man he’d attacked was intent on impressing the Marauders.
Tarik found the chain that had been meant to murder him, and then said, “Hold his arms.” The thegn had the other man pinned, and was trying to subdue him as Tarik wrapped the chain around his neck.
“Wait, wait,” said the man desperately as he realized he would lose this fight, and perhaps his life. He stopped fighting, but Tarik wasn’t quick to forgive. He pulled the chain hard enough to silence his attacker. He was on his knees, in the blood and vomit on the floor of the wagon, and his victim tried to fall to get away from the chain. Tarik went down with him, and ignored the pain from the man’s attempt to fight back.
“Let him go,” said the prophet as she stood on the bench, near the back of the wagon, away from the murderous brawl.
Tarik looked up at her and saw the horror in her eyes as she watcged the desperate battle. Then he heard someone else say, “Kill him.” He looked over at the other side of the wagon and saw two men still standing. One of them was the former First-Sword, and the other was an equally imposing man, each of them bloodied from their crimes. Of the ten people locked in this wagon that morning, only six were still alive. “Kill him or the marauders will kill you.”
Tarik’s victim was losing strength. He was clawing at the chain at his throat, but he’d stopped kicking.
Tarik released the chain and pushed the body away from him before standing. The thegn helped him up as the man who tried to kill Tarik moments ago now coughed and sputtered on the floor of the wagon.
“I’m no killer,” said Tarik.
The former First-Sword stepped forward and said, “I am.” He slammed his heel down into the head of Tarik’s victim. The first hit didn’t kill the man, nor the second, but the third silenced him for good.
Tarik backed away, and stood between the prophet and the thegn, facing the two murderers who were looking to impress the Marauders. “Stay where you are,” said Tarik, warning the men.
“You’re going to die, little thief,” said the former First-Sword. “Might as well get it over with quick and easy. The Marauders don’t have any use for you three sad sacks.”
“We’ll see,” said Tarik, his throat still aching from the assault. “Just stay on your side and we’ll stay on ours.”
The dead separated them, and blood dripped through the slats to the ground, plopping in pools that were quickly growing. The horses at the head of their wagon were neighing and stomping, disturbed by the clamor behind them. All five survivors kept a wary eye on one another as they sat down on the benches to wait for the Marauders’ return.