The Captive (3 page)

She was about to climb back into the saddle when she saw the
row of cells on the far side of the compound. Looking quickly around to make
sure no one was watching, she tethered Artemis to a post and went to get a
closer look. The cells, each one fashioned from dark gray stone, reminded her
of play houses for children. Surely a tall man could not stand erect in one of
those squat, flat-roofed dwellings.

There were thirteen cells. Thirteen heavy wooden doors
reinforced with thick iron straps. Thirteen, she mused. Bad luck. All the
doors, save one, were open; the cells empty. Each cell was numbered in bold
black numerals.

Curious, she stepped into the nearest cell. It was dark
inside, rank with the odor of old sweat and excrement. Grimacing, she covered
her nose with her hand and looked around. The roof was only inches from the top
of her head. There was a pile of dingy gray blankets in one corner, a covered
chamber pot in another, and that was all. No table. No chair. No light of any
kind, not even a candle.

Shuddering with revulsion, she backed out of the cell. Why
did her father permit the slaves to live in such squalid conditions? Even
though the prisoners were, for the most part, criminals condemned to life in
the mines, surely they deserved at least a modicum of comfort. At the very
least, they deserved a candle to turn away the darkness of a long night, a fire
to turn away the cold. There wasn’t even a window, only a narrow slit near the
top of the door. She knew somehow that the opening was so the guards could look
in, not so the prisoners could look out. With some trepidation, she walked down
the row, coming to a halt in front of the door marked number 4. It was closed,
and locked.

She took a deep breath and then, standing on tiptoe, her hands
braced against the rough wood, she peered through the narrow opening at the top
of the door.

He was there. She felt his presence before she saw him. He
was lying amid a pile of ragged blankets. Even in the dim light, she could see
he was shivering, his body racked by chills. A low groan reached her ears, a
sound of such pain, such exquisite anguish, it made her heart ache.

Turning on her heel, she marched toward the overseer’s
office. She could see Dagan sitting inside. She had met him once, and thought
him a nice young man. He was second in command to Parah.

Lifting her head and squaring her shoulders, Ashlynne
marched into the office as if she had every right to be there.

Dagan glanced up, the color draining from his face when he
saw her standing there.

“Lady Ashlynne,” he gasped, obviously appalled by her
presence. “What are you doing here?”

“There’s a sick man in cell number four.”

“Begging your pardon, Lady, but how would you be knowing
such a thing?”

“I looked.”

“You should not be here.”

“I want you to look after Number Four.”

Dagan shook his head. “I have no authorization.”

“I’m authorizing you.”

“I mean no disrespect, Lady Ashlynne, but I don’t take my
orders from you.”

“I should hate to have to tell my father that your
negligence cost him a valuable worker.”

Dagan scratched his cheek, obviously judging the weight of
her threat. And then he sighed. “Very well, Lady Ashlynne.”

Rising from his chair, Dagan picked up an emergency medical
kit and followed her across the compound to number four’s hut.

Withdrawing a flash key from his pocket, he unlocked the
door. “I’m no doctor.” He thrust the kit into her hands, then drew a controller
from his pocket. “You do what needs to be done. I’ll keep watch.”

Ashlynne hesitated, but she had come too far to turn back
now. Taking her courage in hand, she stepped into the cell.

With the door open, she could see the prisoner clearly. It
was obvious, even to her untrained eye, that he was ill. His face and chest
were sheened with perspiration, his dark eyes were glazed with pain. She
wrinkled her nose against the abominable odor that emanated from within the
cell.

Ashlynne glanced over her shoulder at Dagan. “Why hasn’t
anyone looked after this man?” she asked, her voice heavy with accusation.

“I don’t know, Lady. The doctor said he wouldn’t be fit to
work for two weeks.” Dagan shrugged. “I thought Parah was looking after him.”

Ashlynne grunted softly. Crossing the room, she knelt beside
Number Four. The coldness of the stone floor seeped through her breeches. “I’ve
come to help you.”

His eyelids fluttered open, and she saw that his eyes were a
dark blue-gray. He stared up at her, his eyes wild, like those of an animal
caught in the jaws of a trap. An apt comparison, she mused, for he looked more
beast than man. Thick black bristles roughened his jaw. His long black hair was
disheveled and greasy. The gash in his cheek had scabbed over. When healed, it
would no doubt leave a nasty scar. The number four branded on his arm was an
angry ugly red, still black around the edges.

Ashlynne wrinkled her nose. Part of the stench emanated from
the prisoner. “He needs a bath.”

“Parah allows the prisoners to bathe once a month.”

“I want a basin of hot water, a bar of soap, and a lamp.”
She paused. “I also need a cup of black bark tea laced with rum and honey, and
some toweling.”

“I don’t think that’s…”

“Do it!”

With a shake of his head, Dagan went off to do her bidding.

While she waited for Dagan to return, Ashlynne drew back the
blankets, felt her cheeks grow hot when she saw that the prisoner was naked
save for a scrap of burlap-like cloth that covered his loins.

Taking a deep breath, Ashlynne peeled the bandage from the
prisoner’s thigh. She pressed a hand to her mouth, her stomach churning, as she
gazed at the wound. Thick yellow pus and black-red blood oozed from the center.

She stared at the wound, horrified by the ugliness of it,
the stink of it. She couldn’t imagine the pain he must be feeling.

When Dagan returned, she swallowed the bile in her throat
and began to wash the ugly wound.

Falkon stared at the girl kneeling beside him, wondering if
he had died. Surely only angels had silver-blonde hair and eyes the color of
new grass. Surely only an angel had such gentle hands. She washed his face and
chest, his arms and legs, his back and shoulders. The warm water felt cool
against his burning flesh.

With quick efficiency, she applied a medicated pad to his
thigh. It sucked out the poison, eased the pain, and disinfected the wound all
at the same time. A second pad drew the edges of the wound together. After
making sure the medi-pad was doing its work, she taped it in place. She worked
quickly, efficiently, hardly looking at him.

He wished for the strength to refuse the medicine she
offered him, to refuse the cup of strong black tea she held to his lips, but
the instinct to survive was strong within him, stronger than his wish for
death. He swallowed the small blue capsules she placed in his mouth, drained
the cup. A part of him, a small part he refused to acknowledge, blessed her for
her kindness even as the rest of him, the strong part that would not yield,
hated her for it.

Hated her for the pity he read in her eyes.

Hated her because she was one of
Them
.

Hated her because his wife and child were dead and she was
alive…alive and beautiful, with her whole life ahead of her, while he had
nothing to look forward to but endless days of slavery and long, lonely nights
of darkness.

But he was too weak to maintain his anger, too weary to
cling to his hatred. His eyelids were suddenly heavy, too heavy to keep open.
Her face was the last thing he saw before sleep claimed him.

When he was resting comfortably, Ashlynne left the cell.

Outside, she brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead,
squinting against the glare of the sun.

“I beg you, Dagan, tell no one I was here.”

He fidgeted under her gaze. “I should tell Parah.”

“If you do, if anyone finds out I was here, I’ll be
punished.”

“Lady Ashlynne…”

“I have one more favor, Dagan. I want you to tell Parah that
the doctor isn’t doing his job and should be severely reprimanded. Another day
or two, and the prisoner would probably have died. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady. I’ll take care of it. But…I really should
tell Parah about your visit.”

“You must do as you think best, Dagan.” She offered him a
dazzling smile. “Whatever you decide, you have my gratitude for what you’ve
done.”

Dagan released a heavy sigh. He knew what he ought to do.
And he knew what he would do. And they had nothing in common.

The strange restlessness that had plagued her since the day
she had visited the mine continued to haunt Ashlynne. Days turned to weeks, the
weeks to a month, and with every hour, her sense of unease grew stronger.

With her parents home, she dared not leave the compound to
ride along the beach. It was strictly forbidden. There were dangers outside the
compound’s protective walls—a chance encounter, however slim, with an escaped
prisoner; the lure of the jungle, wild and emerald green; the threat of attack
by ferocious beasts, both man and animal; the churning rip tides that attacked
the northern shore. She had always avoided the jungle, but the ocean, ever
seething, ever changing, called to some primal sense deep within her and she
answered whenever she had the chance.

Her days, once filled with pleasant diversions, now seemed
boring. She was tired of reading, tired of playing games and watching vids on
the tele-screen, tired of playing the piano. Tired of painting, and sculpting.

Tired of living behind the compound’s high walls. For the
first time, it occurred to her that she was as much a prisoner as the slaves
who labored in the mine. As much a prisoner as Number Four.

Number Four. She spent far too much time thinking about him,
wondering about him, daydreaming about him. It had to stop.

She heaved a great sigh as she went to the window and
watched the storm rage across the night. Slender bolts of brilliant white
lightning slashed through the roiling thick black clouds. Thunder rumbled in
the heavens, vibrating through the earth. Rain pelted the window. The wind
howled through the night like an angry ravenous beast.

A streak of lightning stabbed through the clouds on the far
side of the compound, and a tree burst into flame. It flared for a moment,
burning like a giant candle in the darkness, and then the rain snuffed it out.

The elements were still raging when she climbed into bed.
Drawing the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes. She had always loved
the savage unpredictability of the storms on Tierde. Lightning sizzled across the
skies, casting eerie dancing shadows on the walls. Gradually, the fierce rain
lessened to a slow steady rhythm which soon lulled her to sleep.

By morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a wide
swath of destruction. Trees and plants had been uprooted, debris floated on the
surface of the pool. The tree that had been struck by lightning stood like a
dark sentinel near the side wall.

Her parents conferred, then her father called the mine and
told Parah to send one of the prisoners up to the
jinan
to clean up the
wreckage.

She wished, but didn’t dare believe; prayed, but expected no
answer. It was too much to hope that Parah would send him. Number Four, with
his shaggy black hair and cool blue-gray eyes.

She stood at the back door, one finger tapping restlessly on
the wall, her gaze fixed on the side gate. She felt her heart jump into her
throat when she saw Number Four enter the yard, followed by one of the
overseers. Some prayers, it seemed, were answered after all.

She stood in the doorway, listening surreptitiously while
her father issued his instructions. Number Four was to dig up what was left of
the tree that had been struck by lightning and haul it away, and then he was to
clean up any other debris left by the storm.

Excitement bubbled up inside Ashlynne’s stomach as she found
a book, grabbed a couple of big yellow apples out of the crisper in the
kitchen, and headed outside to sit in the sun and read.

She found a perfect place on a flat rock a few yards away
from where Number Four was working. Pretending to be engrossed in the old novel
she had hastily pulled off one of her father’s bookshelves, she studied Number
Four from beneath the veil of her lashes. She hadn’t realized how tall and
broad-shouldered he was. He wore a pair of loose-fitting tan leather breeches
and black mud boots, nothing more. His skin was a deep golden brown; each
muscle was clearly defined beneath his taut skin. The gash on his cheek had
nearly healed, leaving a thin white scar. Sunlight glinted off the thick
lynaziam
collar at his throat, off the heavy shackles on his wrists. His hair, as black
as the
baneite
crystals he dug out of the mine, fell past his shoulder.
She had never seen anyone quite like him before. He was beautiful, wild and
untamed. Exciting. Forbidden. As dangerous as one of the big black mountain
lions she had seen at the circus when she was a little girl. The cats had been
prisoners, too, she thought, locked in cages at night, controlled by a collar
and leash by day…

Falkon listened to his instructions in silence, nodded that
he understood. A muscle worked in his jaw as he began shoveling dirt from the
base of the fire-ravaged tree. He sent furtive glances at the girl. There was
no doubt in his mind that she was the one who had watched him from behind a tree
that day at the dock, the same one who had come into his hut and tended his
wounds. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She wore her hair in
queenly fashion in a thick coil atop her head. Her skin was the color of pale
honey, her cheeks were dusted with a light sprinkling of golden freckles. Her
eyes, those deep green eyes that had been haunting his dreams, seemed intent
upon the book in her lap. He recalled the way she had looked at him when she
treated his wounds, her expression one of pity and revulsion. Much like a fine
lady might look at a wounded cur dog.

Rage spiraled through him as he shoveled dirt from the
tree’s roots. He was a sky warrior, meant to fly, to fight, not to dig in the
earth like a Hodorian slime-worm! Among his own people, he was a hero, treated
with honor and respect. He had achieved scores of battle honors, saved dozens
of lives at the risk of his own…

He felt the girl watching him. Did she take pleasure from
his captivity, he wondered, in knowing that the fine clothes she wore, the food
she ate, everything she possessed, came from the enforced labor and misery of
others? She was his enemy, as he was hers. No doubt it brought her an enormous
sense of satisfaction to watch him toiling in the hot sun.

Boldly, he lifted his gaze to hers.

Ashlynne’s senses reeled as Number Four’s impertinent gaze
met her own. The hatred in his eyes was almost palpable. She saw him glance at
the guard, his thoughts as clear as the words on the book in her lap. Could he
kill Dain before Dain activated the collar? And if he managed to kill the
guard, how far would he get before they came after him? If he managed to put a
good distance between himself and the mine, would the collar still be
effective?

She held his gaze for a timeless moment, and then she shook
her head in silent warning. Though many had tried, no one had ever escaped from
the mine. Those who were not caught were usually found dead in the dark green
heart of the jungle, their bodies mauled and mangled almost beyond recognition.
The ones who were caught were returned to the mine and placed in solitary
confinement. One month for a first attempt; two months for the second, and so
on. Magny said few men were foolish enough to try to escape a second time.

He moved so fast, she saw only a blur. Number Four lunged
forward, his hands closing around Dain’s throat, and the two men crashed to the
ground. The controller, knocked from the overseer’s grasp, flew through the air
to land inches from where she sat.

Startled by the speed of Number Four’s attack, Ashlynne
jumped to her feet, her book and the remaining apple tumbling to the ground.

The two men scuffled for several moments, rolling over and
over like playful puppies, only they weren’t playing. Number Four drew back his
arm and drove his fist into Dain’s face and the guard went limp.

Breathing heavily, Number Four stood up. Fear washed through
Ashlynne when his eyes met hers, stark, unreasoning fear.

With a cry, she reached down and scooped up the controller
and pointed it at Number Four, her thumb hovering over the activation panel on
the top. His blue-gray eyes, as turbulent as a storm-tossed sea, raked her from
head to foot.

And then he took a step toward her.

Fear clogged Ashlynne’s throat. Her heart was racing wildly,
pounding as if she had been running for miles. He didn’t look exciting and
mysterious now, only savage and ferocious and completely untamed. The sun
glistened on his sweat-sheened flesh, glinted on the thick collar at his
throat.

“Lady Ashlynne!”

She glanced past Number Four to see Dain struggling to his
feet. Number Four took another menacing step toward her and she tossed the
controller to Dain, who caught it in mid-air and quickly applied pressure to
the top of the control panel.

The effect was immediate.

A hoarse cry erupted from the prisoner’s throat as the
collar was activated, a harsh rasping cry that seemed torn from the very depths
of his soul.

Caught in the inescapable grasp of the collar’s power,
Number Four dropped heavily to the ground, writhing in an agony she could not
begin to imagine, his body twisting, thrashing helplessly in a vain attempt to
escape the pain that engulfed him.

Ashlynne had been told the pain was akin to being severely
shocked over and over again.

She watched in horror as Number Four’s body convulsed, his
muscles bunching, quivering. Sweat oozed from every pore. Once began, there was
no way to end the punishment until it had run its course. Moments passed, each
one seeming an eternity as she watched. Spasms coursed through him, his face
was contorted in a harsh mask of agony.

She bit down on her lower lip, wishing there was a way to
end his suffering. She had never seen the effects of the collar before; she
hoped never to see it again.

Gradually, the punishment diminished, then ceased. Number Four
lay on the ground, gasping for breath, his knees drawn up to his chest, his
body drenched with perspiration, his eyes tightly closed. His muscles continued
to twitch convulsively.

She flinched as Dain kicked Number Four in the back.

“Get up!” the overseer ordered curtly. “You’ve still got
work to do.” A cruel grin twisted Dain’s thick lips as he watched the prisoner
struggle to his hands and knees. “A month in the hole should cool that temper
of yours.”

Falkon stood up, swaying unsteadily. He felt weak, drained.
Every muscle in his body ached.

“Get back to work.” Dain held the controller in his right
hand. For all the pain it caused, the controller left no lasting ill effects.
It was a remarkably effective instrument. He had worked in the mine for ten
years and in all that time, he had never had to punish the same slave twice. It
was a lesson learned once, but learned well.

Picking up the shovel Number Four had dropped, Dain thrust
it into his hands. “Move it.”

Jaw clenched in silent protest, Falkon took the shovel and
turned back to the task at hand. He could feel the woman watching him, her eyes
burning into his back. Damn her! Damn them all!

The earth was hard and unyielding. The punishment had left
him feeling weak and a little light-headed. He cursed viciously under his
breath, his pride in shreds. It was humiliating enough to be a slave without
having her stand there, watching him writhing in agony in the dirt, helpless as
a worm squirming on a hot rock.

Why the hell didn’t she go back into the house where she
belonged? Time and again, he thrust the shovel into the earth, wishing the tool
was a weapon, wishing that it was Drade at his feet. At last, he exposed the
tree’s roots. He was panting heavily now, plagued by a relentless thirst.

Dain picked up his communicator and called the mine office.
“Dagan? I need a couple of men up here to haul this tree away.” He paused a
moment, his gaze never leaving the prisoner. “Right. We’ll be there in a few
minutes. Out.”

With a mocking grin, Dain touched the left side of the
controller, activating the magnets within the heavy
lynaziam
shackles on
the prisoner’s wrists. The bands snapped together with a sharp click.

“Let’s go,” Dain said, jerking his head toward the path.
“The hole awaits.”

Eyes forward, Falkon started down the path that led to the
mine compound. He refused to look at the girl, but he could feel her gaze on
his back, knew she was watching him with those enormous green eyes.

He cursed her all the way down the hill.

* * * * *

Solitary confinement. Falkon squatted in a corner of the
hole, his head resting against the damp dirt wall at his back, his eyes closed.
He had thought his cell the worst kind of prison, but he had been wrong. This
was worse. Much worse.

It was a hole he had dug himself. A rough square, four feet
wide, four feet deep. They had stripped him of his boots and breeches and
ordered him inside, then covered the hole with a canopy made of thick
ebonywood. A narrow slit in one corner allowed him just enough air to breathe.
The earth beneath his feet was damp and cold.

It was like being buried alive.

They opened the hole once each day, just long enough to pass
him a loaf of dark brown bread, a bowl of weak broth, and a cup of sour wine,
and then he was left with his own company again, his own dismal thoughts.

By the end of the first week, he could scarcely tolerate his
own stink. The air in the hole reeked of excrement and sweat.

During the day, he spent hours staring at the narrow ribbon
of light that filtered through the slit in the wood. The sun pounding down on
the thick black wood turned the hole into an oven. Sweat dripped down his body
to puddle at his feet. The collar and manacles chafed his skin. At night, he
huddled into a corner, his body shivering convulsively in an effort to warm
itself.

The close confines of the hole pressed in on him. He stared
into the darkness that surrounded him, his hatred for the overseers, for the
mine owners, for Drade, growing until he thought he might choke on it.