Verdant, and its capital city named Fortune.
Grange was in a daze, a long, consuming state of shock. He knew that his whole world had crumbled, that the great promise of one day soon had turned into a permanently lost dream. But the speed of the whipsaw, the change from being so high to falling so low made him numb, almost catatonic, and the brutal treatment by the guards drove him deeper into darkness. A tiny spark of resolute hopefulness barely glowed inside, wondering if he could somehow escape, and return to the city. But the chaffing of the metal cuff around his ankle painfully disabused him of that notion.
The guards ran the prisoners for miles, until they reached a small post at the confluence of a small river that ran into the Great River.
“All prisoners into the water; everyone into the ford,” their chief guard shouted at the exhausted men in chains. The road was a shallow ford across the stream, just a couple of hundred yards away from the mouth of the river.
A fresh set of guards came out of the post, as the prisoners plunged into the water, then shouted and squealed in shock. The small river’s waters were icy cold – the water flowed directly down from the snow fields at the tops of the mountains south of the Verdant valley, so that the water was painfully chilled.
Grange stopped moving, as the rest of his chain gang also stopped. He bent low at the waist, his hands resting on his knees. He looked down, where he saw that his yellow pants leg was orange around the ankle that was manacled, the result of the bloody chaffing the shackle had inflicted upon his leg, and he saw tendril of fresh red blood seeping away in the current of the water as he stood in the stream. The water was so cold that it quickly moved from painful to thankfully numbing, taking the sting out of his ankle as the cold overwhelmed his nerves.
“Good bye animals,” one of the guards mockingly called, as the escorts from the city turned the prisoners over to a new set of guards, who stood ready and rested.
“Stop your sleeping, and let’s get to work,” the commander of the new escort bawled. “Everyone pick up a bundle,” he pointed to a pile of canvas packs next to the post building.
The prisoners started to wearily walk over to the post, when the man in front of Grange suddenly went berserk. He lunged at a guard as he passed him, trying to grab the man’s spear. The chain around his ankle pulled him up short of his target – he fell on his face, his fingers inches short of the spear, while he pulled Grange and another prisoner off their feet with his desperate effort.
The guard jumped back, then mercilessly slammed the spear down into the prisoner’s back, making him scream, then stiffen, and collapse into silence.
“Who’s got the keys?” the guard asked in a bored tone, as the living prisoners looked on in shocked horror. “You,” the guard pointed the bloody spear point at Grange, “carry the body over and throw it in the stream, so that it gets washed away,” he commanded.
Another guard brought a metal key, and unlocked the shackle from the dead man, then from Grange, who hastened to obey the hard-hearted guard’s command. He hadn’t known the dead prisoner at all, he reflected. He’d stared at the man’s back for hours, seen the muscles cramp up and heard the man’s labored breath, when Grange’s world had constricted to only seeing what was directly in front of him during the run. And now that man was dead.
Grange lifted the dead man’s body, reluctant to look at his face because he didn’t want to see what death looked like, and carried the heavy body on his back to the stream, where he lowered the body as respectfully as he could into the water, then watched it float slowly in the current, headed towards the larger river beyond.
“Please watch over his spirit,” Grange gave a momentary prayer, thrown to any and all deities who might be listening, in the hopes
Grange was in a daze, a long, consuming state of shock. He knew that his whole world had crumbled, that the great promise of one day soon had turned into a permanently lost dream. But the speed of the whipsaw, the change from being so high to falling so low made him numb, almost catatonic, and the brutal treatment by the guards drove him deeper into darkness. A tiny spark of resolute hopefulness barely glowed inside, wondering if he could somehow escape, and return to the city. But the chaffing of the metal cuff around his ankle painfully disabused him of that notion.
The guards ran the prisoners for miles, until they reached a small post at the confluence of a small river that ran into the Great River.
“All prisoners into the water; everyone into the ford,” their chief guard shouted at the exhausted men in chains. The road was a shallow ford across the stream, just a couple of hundred yards away from the mouth of the river.
A fresh set of guards came out of the post, as the prisoners plunged into the water, then shouted and squealed in shock. The small river’s waters were icy cold – the water flowed directly down from the snow fields at the tops of the mountains south of the Verdant valley, so that the water was painfully chilled.
Grange stopped moving, as the rest of his chain gang also stopped. He bent low at the waist, his hands resting on his knees. He looked down, where he saw that his yellow pants leg was orange around the ankle that was manacled, the result of the bloody chaffing the shackle had inflicted upon his leg, and he saw tendril of fresh red blood seeping away in the current of the water as he stood in the stream. The water was so cold that it quickly moved from painful to thankfully numbing, taking the sting out of his ankle as the cold overwhelmed his nerves.
“Good bye animals,” one of the guards mockingly called, as the escorts from the city turned the prisoners over to a new set of guards, who stood ready and rested.
“Stop your sleeping, and let’s get to work,” the commander of the new escort bawled. “Everyone pick up a bundle,” he pointed to a pile of canvas packs next to the post building.
The prisoners started to wearily walk over to the post, when the man in front of Grange suddenly went berserk. He lunged at a guard as he passed him, trying to grab the man’s spear. The chain around his ankle pulled him up short of his target – he fell on his face, his fingers inches short of the spear, while he pulled Grange and another prisoner off their feet with his desperate effort.
The guard jumped back, then mercilessly slammed the spear down into the prisoner’s back, making him scream, then stiffen, and collapse into silence.
“Who’s got the keys?” the guard asked in a bored tone, as the living prisoners looked on in shocked horror. “You,” the guard pointed the bloody spear point at Grange, “carry the body over and throw it in the stream, so that it gets washed away,” he commanded.
Another guard brought a metal key, and unlocked the shackle from the dead man, then from Grange, who hastened to obey the hard-hearted guard’s command. He hadn’t known the dead prisoner at all, he reflected. He’d stared at the man’s back for hours, seen the muscles cramp up and heard the man’s labored breath, when Grange’s world had constricted to only seeing what was directly in front of him during the run. And now that man was dead.
Grange lifted the dead man’s body, reluctant to look at his face because he didn’t want to see what death looked like, and carried the heavy body on his back to the stream, where he lowered the body as respectfully as he could into the water, then watched it float slowly in the current, headed towards the larger river beyond.
“Please watch over his spirit,” Grange gave a momentary prayer, thrown to any and all deities who might be listening, in the hopes
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