Warrior’s Blood by Stephen D. Sullivan

Author:Stephen D. Sullivan [Sullivan, Stephen D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7869-4300-5
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2007-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Erikoff moaned and rubbed the bruises on his arms and legs, then picked up his shovel once more. The clattering, clanking sounds of the mine pounded all around him. His lungs burned from the oppressive, metallic air. Sticky gray loam covered his body and clothes. Around him, sweaty prisoners moaned and cursed and dug at the rock. This was the price for starting his ill-fated revolt against Rogar.

What had he been thinking?

The king’s throne room was clearly the wrong place to try an escape attempt. A wise mage would have bided his time, studied his enemy, waited for a weakness to appear in the enemy’s strategy.

Why hadn’t he done that?

Deep inside, Erik knew why: because he couldn’t stand the idea of being a slave, couldn’t stand submitting to authority of any kind. Even his association with the Fellowship of the Phoenix was more of a mutually beneficial agreement than the usual magical apprenticeship. That’s why he’d chosen the fellowship, rather than the traditional magic schools of Krynn.

Still, he should have known better. He should have bided his time. He hated himself for being so foolish. Perhaps that was why no help had come for him yet. He’d tried to send a request for assistance to his masters, but so far, nothing had shown up. They’d helped him in the past, but perhaps they’d now abandoned him for his foolishness.

He wouldn’t blame them if they had. He’d gotten himself in deep this time.

The durogar were watching. There weren’t many guards, but they were well armed with short swords, leather whips, and daggers. The other slaves seemed completely cowed by them. The durogar laughed with every crack of the whip, confident in their superiority.

Though he didn’t exactly fear them, Erik didn’t want to attract the guards’ attention. He stuck his shovel into the rubble at the base of the wall and emptied the debris into a nearby cart.

Rohawn was working a short distance away, stooped over to avoid hitting his head on the mine’s low ceiling. The tall squire didn’t seem to blame Erik for their predicament. That fact both relieved Erik and grated on his nerves. It was his fault, after all—more than Rohawn knew.

Would Catriona blame Erik for her beating once the durogar got through with her? How long could someone be beaten? It seemed ages since they’d taken Cat away, though it was impossible to tell time in the underdark. He and Rohawn had worked two shifts since being captured, two shifts of backbreaking, mind-numbing physical labor: picking and shoveling and digging and hauling amid an unwashed mass of humans, regular dwarves, and even a gnome or two.

The work was horrible and the stench of bodies, waste, and ore nearly overwhelming. Erik hated every minute of it.

Wasn’t this the very kind of thing he’d rebelled against in the first place? Mindless obedience, meaningless work, abuse of power? He longed to bring every rotten tunnel tumbling down around the ears of King Rogar and every stinking durogar.

There was little chance of that, though.

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