The Long Road by S. L. MacLellan

Author:S. L. MacLellan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CEN Publications LLC
Published: 2020-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

The rattling of chains, the scent of blood, and the booming of war drums were all he knew. How long had it been? Hours? Days? Weeks? He didn’t know. He couldn't know. Just the chains, blood, and drums. The man opened his eyes – or rather, an eye – and peered at his surroundings. Red. Cloth? It looked like cloth. A tent then. He was inside of a tent.

Locke tried to move his arms but found them locked into place. He looked up and saw wrought iron shackles around his wrists, the skin around them rubbed raw and encrusted with dried blood. His hands, particularly around the thumbs, were bruised from an ill-fated attempt to break out. The first time he had regained consciousness, he had briefly considered breaking his own hands to slip out of the manacles.

But then what?

He looked down and saw that his ankles were held in much the same way nearly six inches off the ground, his feet stretched as far apart as they could be. His clothes hung in tatters and his gear – the rifle, machete, and revolver – was nowhere to be found. He looked down at his chest. The dog tags, locket, and crucifix were gone.

Across the room sat a brazier filled with coals and a variety of metal implements that would no doubt be used on him at some point or another – if not already. On the floor was a rug made from the hide of some unfortunate creature. Next to him was a water trough currently filled with, judging by the smell, what could only be urine.

There was movement outside the tent, a shuffling of feet and faint metallic clanking. Four metal fingers suddenly appeared and gripped the curtain leading into the tent. The curtain lifted and in walked Phoenix of Mesa, the Lord of the Wastes.

“John Locke Flynnt,” the warlord said as he crossed the room, his distorted voice booming.

Locke strained and managed to open both eyes to get a better look at the creature in front of him. He was an impressive specimen, standing nearly seven feet in height. He moved fluidly, like a great cat or a serpent. Surprisingly, given the mechanical hum coming from his legs. Whatever technology had been used to replace his legs was more advanced than anything Locke had seen in Potomac.

“It has been too long, old friend,” Phoenix continued as he stopped in front of his captive. “Adanto.”

Up close Locke could see the full extent of the man’s injuries. Everything from his left eye to his right ear was scar tissue. The ear itself was damaged beyond repair, and his hairline was jagged, though the man kept his hair in such a manner to hide most of the damage. Vanity, perhaps?

As Phoenix stared, Locke noticed there was no white in the left eye, leading Locke to believe it was permanent damage rather than a temporary condition. Everything below the cheekbones and above the neck was covered by the warlord’s gas mask.

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