The Egg Thief of Alungar, ch 1
The stick thwacked against the ox’s broad back, and the beast bellowed before lurching to the side, crashing into the waggon boxing them in. Spokes snapped as the ox strained to escape its cruel master, but it was stuck with nowhere to go. The owner of the broken wheel vented their own anger on the ox, and soon it was beset on both sides. In the confines of the rocky approach, its anguished cries joined those of other animals forced to haul heavy loads up the mountain road.
For nearly two days, a cumbersome line of waggons and hand-pulled carts had snaked its way up from the valley floor to the high pass and The Eastern Gate. It was a ritual repeated every autumn as cities sent their finest goods to the hidden valley, hoping to buy another year of peace. Those entrusted with the task knew the price of failure, but still bridled under the mocking gaze of those on the wall. The soldiers jeered and pointed at the bickering waggoners fighting among themselves, their laughter only worsening the situation. In the cramped space before the massive gate, drivers shouted and jostled, scraping wheels against the steep walls. Amidst the commotion, a short man shot up from his seat, screaming as he lashed out with a whip at a pair of shaggy horses blocking his path. It quickly devolved into a fight, with the men trading blows from their seats. It was chaos, but for the guards, it was sport, and a few placed bets on who would be knocked from their seats first. As twilight descended upon the procession, torches sprung to life, sputtering in the frigid wind sweeping down on them from the snowy peaks. The last of the lengthy line of waggons was finally in sight of the gates, the end of a journey that, for some, had lasted a thousand leagues and seen them cross deserts. Slaves did the work of unloading while the drivers ordered them about from atop the waggons, aware that setting one foot inside The Vale of Alungar, even by accident, meant death. From his lofty vantage point, Rell took a drink from his flask and studied the commotion below. He brushed the water from his chin and let his grey eyes drift over the scene, noting the different styles of clothing worn by the workers and listening with interest to the multitude of languages reaching up to him. His own garments, while well-made, had grown threadbare—a woollen shirt, untucked over brown britches, and boots in need of a cobbler’s tender care. Tendrils of steam wafted from him as the sweat on his skin cooled in the chill wind. Counting the remaining waggons, Rell groaned, his gaze drifting from the dozen in the narrow pass to the line snaking along the cliff wall. A knot had formed in his lower back, and he worked at it while he stretched. The sun was sinking low, soon to vanish behind the peaks, plunging the valley into darkness. At the rate they were going, they’d still be up at the sorting house counting sacks of grain when the stars came out. Boredom was part of Rell’s usual state, but today was worse since he couldn’t sneak away. Normally, he’d find a corner in his father’s shop and take a nap or pretend he was on an errand and vanish down the pub, but today there were too many eyes watching him, and he’d been forced to do his share of the work. As an apprentice, he was required to offer his services during the tithe at one of the three gates. The southern was the quietest, but Rell was always sent elsewhere. The tithe comprised a little of everything the subjugated lands produced: textiles, pottery, cheese, wines, grains, and precious metals. A selection of the best that each land produced, given in tribute to the people that ruled the high valley. Among the goods delivered were also Human cargo, hundreds of men and women forced into slavery and marched up into the mountains. Most were taken in war, but some were put in chains by their own people. Too poor to bribe an official or too much of an outsider to count on the group’s protection. It was these same slaves that did the bulk of the work that day and performed the manual labour in the valley. They clambered aboard the waggons and lifted the sacks and bolts of cloth, all while working under the gaze of their masters and, sometimes, their former countrymen. Chains rattled as a steady stream of them passed through the gate, dropping the goods off in the storehouse before returning to the waggons. As Rell watched them work, a tall man caught his attention, straight-backed and long-limbed. A recent addition, Rell thought, not yet resigned to his life. Despite being raised in a household that owned slaves, the practise sat uncomfortably with Rell. To trust that fear alone would keep someone from attacking you while you slept or from poisoning the food as they brought it to the table was not something he’d ever grown accustomed to. Much better to pay for someone’s loyalty than demand it at the end of a whip. The slave cast fervent looks at the drivers, searching for a countryman or a sympathetic face. Spotting the glances, Rell leaned out over the stone wall to get a better look. A chain ran from the slave’s neck to a manacle around his left ankle, hobbling him enough to stop him from running away. With only a thin shirt to stave off the cold, he wouldn’t last long if he did. The slave caught the eye of a small man, wrapped in a warm green cloak, standing in the back of a waggon directing two slaves as they struggled with a large wooden chest. Rell would have loved to talk to the stranger, to any of the men and women who’d made the journey, but as they were forbidden entry, so was he from leaving. The guards that watched the gate would have stopped either of them if they tried to pass through. The waggoner shifted uncomfortably and scowled as the slave approached, waving him off and ignoring the outstretched hand and the folded square of parchment grasped there. When the slave refused to give up, the driver drew a club and raised it, ready to strike, but the blow never came. At the last moment, he froze, aware he was being watched from the wall. Cursing, the driver dropped his club and shoved the slave away, muttering all the while to himself. With a resigned sigh, the waggoner returned Rell’s stare as if daring him to punish him. It wasn’t as if he could flee, not with his horse stuck in the line as it was. The slave shook with fear at being caught, but he stood his ground, aware that to run would mean death. With a disinterested air, Rell mused over what to do. It wasn’t in his nature to call out others for doing what he’d have done in their place. For most of his life, he’d lived on the bottom rung, but he was above a slave. Of course, if they were a spy attempting to pass information back to their king, there would be trouble, but if they were just a husband or a son desperately trying to get word to their family, what harm could there be? It was a subtle nod, but both the slave and the waggoner caught it. They both looked surprised by Rell’s clemency, and as the slave passed the message over, they stared at the gate, expecting the guards to come swarming out. The waggon lurched as the slaves slipped the heavy chest from the back, and the waggoner clambered into his driving seat, slipping the letter into a pocket. The tall slave gave Rell a last look before resuming his duties. “You’ll catch your death standing out here like that,” Barris boomed, emerging from the stairwell. Once outside, he flexed his broad shoulders and tossed a coat to Rell. “Thought you might want this.” “It’s too damn warm in there. I had to get some air,” Rell said, taking the proffered garment gratefully and draping it over his shoulders. He let it hang open so that the cold air could reach his chest. Resting his meaty forearms on the wall, Barris started counting the waggons. His deep groan echoed Rell’s when he realised how many were still to be processed. He was a bear of a man, with wild black hair and a beard that must have been a hazard around the forge where he toiled. Despite being only a year older than Rell’s nineteen, the blacksmith’s apprentice had an air of solid dependability about him that most would say Rell lacked. “It’s a good haul so far, but the grain’s of poor quality.” “Do you think they look up at us with envy or hatred?” Rell asked with a nod to the gathering below. Barris reached for the flask and drank greedily. “I think, if I were them,” Barris said, corking the bottle, “I would look up with both. It’s better to be behind the wall than stuck outside. Ask any of them, and given a chance, they’d gladly swap places.” He gave Rell a sideways glance, noting the faraway look in his friend’s eyes. “Are you thinking of offering them yours?” “Rell, go out into the world?” a skinny young man said from the stairwell. He wrapped his arms around himself as he emerged into the biting wind. “I wondered where you two were hiding. I just had to recount the tithe from Messen. The sneaky bastards tried to pass off some jars full of sand as the genuine article.” “It’s a good thing you caught it, Tan. Couldn’t let them get away with trying to dodge the tithe.” Rell’s words brought a frown from both his friends. “Every bloody time with you,” Tanis said, shuffling past Barris on the narrow ledge. He took a spot between them with his back to the wall. A lock of blonde hair whipped around his face as he peered back toward the city. A curve in the road hid all but the tallest towers, concealing the rest behind a ridge of pitted lava, spewed an age ago by the volcano looming to the north. Halfway up its steep flanks were a cluster of grey stone buildings called Gorphin’s Breach, named after the ancient dragon sleeping in the pool of molten rock deep within. A single road, lined with fluttering pennants, cut through the sharp rock descending to the hidden streets below. A throng of people, barely discernible in the distance, waved and jumped as a group of runners burst out of the temple doors. “When will you learn it doesn’t matter how much you complain about this duty? You can’t get out of it,” Tanis said, tearing his eyes from the race and gesturing for his friends to lean in close. “Besides, I’ve made us a deal.” “What have you done?” Barris asked in a tired voice. “Only what we agreed in the pub,” Tanis answered, as if that was explanation enough, but Barris’ frown only deepened. “I’ve put aside a little something we can sell later.” “When did we talk about this?” Rell asked, slipping his arms into his coat and rubbing at his hands. “Last night, in the pub,” Tanis said all too cheerfully. “You were on your second to last drink and Barris was off having a piss.” “Oh, that.” Rell didn’t have the slightest memory of any conversation about stealing from the tithe. Breaking the law was the sort of thing he liked to remember, no matter how inebriated he got. “And remind me, what do I have to do for my share?” “Well, nothing, but...” “But...,” Rell echoed.If you'd like to read this as an ebook, please follow the link.
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