The Parting Gift by Noel Coughlan

Author:Noel Coughlan [Coughlan, Noel]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Photocosmological Press
Published: 2015-11-04T00:00:00+00:00

6

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.

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