The Barbarian Book 4
Auteur·e
G. M. Marks
Lectures
59,1K
Chapitres
27
Chapter 1
Book 4: The Darkness
The Mother’s Children
BULL
Black Bull bent into the yoke until it bit hard into his chest. Gritting his teeth, he dug his toes deep into the earth as he slowly dragged along the plow.
Recent rains followed by days of dry had turned the soil into little more than clay. But he wouldn’t give up. He wouldn’t give in.
Their masters were watching. One stroked his whip, his eyes on Bull, the usual smug smirk on his face.
The king’s farms had draft horses, of course, and real bulls that could do the job better. But what were slaves for but to torment and punish?
Still, he preferred it to the mines. He preferred anything to the mines. The last he’d heard, over twenty slaves had died when the caves had collapsed on top of them.
Black Bull paused a moment to hold onto the yoke, so he could ease the pain in his chest and use the strength of his arms as well as his thighs. Any extra strength was good, no matter how small.
Pull. Pull. PULL. The muscles in his shoulders bulged. The screaming muscles in his thighs tightened. The hard core of his abdomen wrenched. And the yoke pulled. And the soil turned. Slowly. Achingly.
Sweat dripped from his hair and onto his chest. He was naked, his slave’s tunic tossed in a pile along with the others while he worked and sweat and stank.
The air burned in his lungs. His heart hammered against his ribs. Dirt and grime and cow shit were spattered all up his calves. He could feel it caked behind his knees.
Rivers of sweat turned it all moist. His throat was like sandpaper, unhelped by the glaring sun.
He was one of the lucky ones. His darker skin only burned rather than blistered, unlike some of the paler half-and-halfs.
They might be treated better at times—but he survived.
Black Bull. If only he had horns.
He was so focused on his task that he didn’t notice the commotion until well after the master with the whip mounted his horse, and the other slaves stopped what they were doing to stare.
Their eyes were wide. One was pointing at something.
Bull turned.
Smoke. Black smoke. It wafted in coils from the top of the city until it sat above the white capital like a dark cloud.
Shading his face against the midday glare, he watched as orange flames raced up the spire of the Grand Cathedral. Watched as it leapt from one building to the next.
And that was when the air filled with thunderous noise: screaming, shouting, the hammering of hooves.
Hundreds came spilling through the gates of Fairmont, charging along the main road or into some of the closer farms—rich and poor alike, slaves and Toths, men, women, and children.
The slave masters raced to help, shoving their way through the crowd, forcing their way back through the gates, but the people were like a wave.
Two were swallowed up, thrown from their horses and trampled on the ground.
One of the slaves behind him roared with laughter. The corners of Bull’s mouth tugged into a grin.
He let the yoke slip from his chest, and for the first time in hours, he took a rest, leaning against the plow.
Briefly, he looked over his shoulder toward the open fields, the winding road, and the distant mountains.
There lay escape. There lay freedom.
But only in his dreams. They would catch him, like before.
Already, he could feel the lash on his back, the heavy chains grinding against bone. He ran his hand through his dripping hair.
And more. So much more. In the darkness. In the quiet.
Let’s see what kind of man you are on the inside, Black Bull.
Forcing back a shiver, he crossed his arms and legs as he watched.
The coiling smoke was billowing now, blowing toward the farms in a haze. It tickled his throat. Bull hawked and spat.
More and more people spilled through the gates. It made his heart pound with excitement.
Something was happening, something to break up his miserable days of endless work and suffering.
He felt no compassion, no desire to help. In his deepest heart of hearts, he hoped they all would die—the women, the children, the squalling babies.
His gaze flickered from ashen face to ashen face, all stricken with fear and disbelief, all except one. His eyes latched onto her. A girl, a slave girl. At least he assumed she was a slave.
She was a half-and-half, for sure: smooth brown skin, long, dark hair, the high cheekbones and heavy brow, tall and long limbed. But she was dressed in a Toth dress, not in the usual slave tunic.
A beloved bed slave, perhaps?
He immediately dismissed the thought, his eyes fastening on the blood smeared all over her. Then there was her face—her jaw was set; her eyes were bright. There was no fear there.
Nobody else seemed to notice her. They were too focused on their own panic. But Bull did, watching as she left the crowd on foot, running hard over the hill and vanishing into the trees.
A fool, whoever she was. The masters would catch her, and she would pay.
Pity. She was beautiful.
With nothing else to do, the slaves sat or slept as the light of the day dimmed into a bleak afternoon.
The smoke eased its billowing from the rooftops, and the waves of frightened people rushing through the gates reduced to a trickle.
Some of the slaves even continued with their work, wary of what the masters would do if their tasks weren’t complete.
Bull was one of the former. He’d never had a chance to rest before, except at night, not in all his twenty-one years. And he was tired. So very tired. He felt it in his bones.
He sat on the hard earth, arms wrapped around his knees, as he gazed into the smoke-filled sky.
After a while, he lay down and shut his eyes, dreaming of the mysterious girl with the blood-soaked dress and the long, smooth limbs and the dark, hard eyes.
“Get up!”
Bull’s eyes snapped open at a sudden rush of agony. Sucking in a breath, he rolled over into a fetal position, clutching at his throbbing balls. His body quivered. His eyes filled with tears.
“I said, up!”
The master pulled back his heavy boot, but Bull rolled away before he could kick him again.
Behind the haze of smoke, stars twinkled, and a half-moon gleamed in the darkness.
Their masters had returned, pale, their faces creased with exhaustion. Some limped. Others were bruised and bloodied from the incident with the crowd. All reeked of smoke and sweat.
All were miserable—and furious.
“Up! Up!” the master screamed, his eyes bulging in his head. A second master slashed his whip through the air. Bull leapt into a crouch at the ear-splitting crack! still holding his balls.
He was used to the masters’ moods: angry, annoyed, bored, eager. He’d rarely known them so maddened with rage, however.
Bull shared a worried look with another slave as they hurried to form a line. The masters tossed them their tunics, and they quickly changed.
Mounted, the masters harried them into the city, snapping their whips, shouting and kicking.
Bull looked around him in wonder as he ran. He glimpsed the black and broken rooftops in the distance, jagged and gnarled in the light of the moon.
The destruction hadn’t spread to the main street—no burned buildings.
But he could see the remains of the chaos, discarded clothes, spilled baskets of food, a range of valuable objects he couldn’t identify.
They’d been discarded as their owners fled. Broken wagons and trash spilled onto the street.
His eyes lingered over a couple of bodies. Two were burned and stinking. The rest had died from causes he couldn’t see in the moonlit darkness.
There were soldiers everywhere. Some sat on the edge of the road with their heads in their hands. Others wandered around, looking dazed. One rushed toward the castle, carrying a screaming woman.
Unfortunately, the dungeon in which Bull and the rest were held remained intact.
It figured.
The inner steel door clanged shut. An inky blackness fell as the outer door slammed closed, snapping off the moonlight. The smell of old smoke hung thick in the air.
Bull blinked in the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Usually, he would sink into his pile of blankets and pass out. But not tonight.
Not tonight.
Whispers from the other slaves, some fearful, most excited, echoed around him.
“Can you believe it?”
“What the hell happened?”
“An attack from Euroba?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
Whispers and mutterings and rumors, but nobody had a clue.
Bull sat quietly in the darkness, his mind turning over, thinking of the mysterious girl with the blood-soaked dress and of the troubling rage of the masters.
And somehow, he knew things were far from over.
They were going to pay.
They came halfway through the night, when the dungeon was quiet, and all were fast asleep, the exhaustion from their day’s work prevailing over their excitement.
Bull didn’t wake at the first door opening, but he did at the second. He heard the heavy clunk as the lock lifted, the moan of hinges. Boots scuffed against straw.
He squinted against a flash of bright light as one of the masters hung a lantern up on the wall.
Some of the other slaves were stirring now, lifting their heads, hands raised against the light. Bull didn’t move, keeping his eyes half-shuttered. Best to keep from being noticed.
Six masters. So many. Cold crept up his spine. Armed with whips and iron poles, their faces grim, their eyes glittering. The air seemed to crackle around them.
God help us.
It was the longest night Bull had ever known. And he had known some very long nights. There didn’t seem to be a single part of him that didn’t know the cold agony of the iron poles or the angry sting of the lash.
He didn’t make a sound, though, not like some of the others. He was Black Bull, after all, and the masters always liked an excuse to make him suffer the most.
Bruised, bloodied, and beaten. Moans and quiet weeping. Bull didn’t move, afraid of the pain, but more afraid of attracting their attention.
The masters weren’t satisfied. They never were. Not with mere beatings.
The beatings Bull could handle. It was the other tortures that he feared the most.
And he hadn’t feared so much as he did that night.
They held him down as they took him, each limb pinned by its own guard. Closing his eyes, he bit his lip until it bled, until the blackness from the pain swarmed over his eyes.
Grunts and gasps. Laughter. Moans from the other prisoners.
“Do you like that, Black Bull? Do you like that?”
“Harder, I think. Give it to him. Harder. Harder—”
“—Like the beast that he is.”
Bull moaned. Despite the pain and humiliation, his body betrayed him.
The master grabbed onto him, smoothing his hand along his hardened shaft, up and down, up and down, while he thrust into him, in and out, in and out, with a fury Bull had never experienced before.
“Such a bull,” the master behind him hissed in his ear, gripping him tightly as Bull groaned and hung his head, his traitorous seed jetting onto the floor. “Such a bull.”
Laughter. There was always so much laughter.
How he hated himself. The hard stone floor bit into his body. He was so rubbed raw inside he couldn’t take anymore, until he could almost scream to the heavens and to God to save him.
But he didn’t. There was no point. The masters’ ears were shut—and so were God’s. For the likes of Bull, anyway.
When they were finally done, Bull curled into a ball, gripping his knees to his chest like a frail woman. His backside burned. His cock throbbed. His eyes filled with tears.
Black Bull indeed.
