#1. TRAND & DEBROSH
It was the type of hot summer day that adhered to the body, trapped it like a fly on glue. Trand could feel every crease in his shirt, every place it clung too tightly to him, soaked through with sweat. The thin cotton was saturated by now, and he could feel the perspiration dripping from him with each swing.
He sunk the pickax into the hard soil, pushed against it to break the dirt. He lifted, he brought it down, he pushed it to break the soil. It was monotonous, yet the tireless work never let his mind dull. Each impact of the pick jolted his arms, reawakened the ache in his back. Even his hands felt each hit with a peculiar sharpness.
The chain around his ankle didn’t help him find balance for such work, neither did the constant tugging from the other workers along the line.
Trand sighed. “There is little reward for the truth.” He said the words quietly, but even their muffled sound, covered by the clanking of picks and the rattling of chains, was enough to fill him with regret. If the wrong ears heard…
A crack of energy flew by him, and for a moment he thought that his life was over, that the magus had finally had enough of his sullen words. But the red bolt soared past his head, and he saw it strike a worker near the end of the line. The man convulsed, hand gripping at his chest, and then collapsed in place as his whole body sagged.
Trand looked away, stomach roiling inside. He was not surprised, none of them were. Life, it seemed, was just as arbitrary as death. But he couldn’t stop the well of sadness that brimmed over in him then. The man who died was named Horus. He was only 20.
Trand kept his eyes low. He didn’t need to see the magus who did this to know what they looked like. It was Yera, a witch of old nightmares. Face obscured by her hood at all times, anyone only saw the flare of red fire in her eyes when she used her magic. A thought came unbidden. Ever since the Red came back…
Trand shook his head. He took a deep breath, kept his gaze low, and focused on breaking apart the soil. Some things, he determined, were simply outside his control.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Trand stripped the cloth from his body with little hesitation. He was off the field, back in the barracks. His room partner, Debrosh, was already inside, laying on a canvas cot with an arm draped across his eyes.
Debrosh was thin, wiry muscle and sinew across his entire frame. He was tall, though, legs hanging off the cot in familiar discomfort. Despite his petite stature, he contained a deep strength from years of swinging a hammer, having worked his life away in a blacksmith shop.
Now, he worked for the Tulaarans whenever they demanded.
Debrosh lifted his arm, looking Trand over. “Didn’t get killed I see.”
Trand shrugged. “Horus wasn’t so lucky.” He reached into the small trunk at the foot of his own cot and pulled out the thinnest pair of shorts he had. He quickly changed, not looking at Debrosh.
Debrosh recovered his eyes, shaking his head. “Horus was like you, couldn’t keep his mouth shut while working.”
Trand shrugged again, coming to lay out on his cot. Unlike Debrosh, whose legs hung well off the end, Trand was fortunate enough to find the cot moderately comfortable. It wasn’t like his bed back in…
The thought sent a cold shock through his gut. More thoughts followed, images of fire and burned down houses, the smell of burnt flesh and acrid smoke. “There is no bed there anymore,” he whispered within his soul. He dare not say the words aloud, for the truth of them would surely destroy Trand.
He took a deep breath, sighing through the pain that gripped him. Debrosh looked over for a moment, but then looked away. The silence that followed was one that all the captured Purans who now lived and toiled at the Tulaaran Labor Camp. He could never remember what they called this place in their strange language. Tullus? Tyulis? He stopped caring then, knowing that whatever the Tulaarans called this place, the name represented one of the many demonic, evil ideals that they all worshiped.
Trand turned over to look at Debrosh. “Do you think the Tulaarans will ever let us go?”
Debrosh sat for a moment, and Trand wondered if he was being ignored. After a long silence, Debrosh sighed. “Have you ever thrown away a pair of scissors that still worked?”
Trand didn’t fight the hopelessness that filled him then. Based on what he had seen, it was an apt description of their scenario.
As far as any of them were concerned, they were property of the Tulaaran Arcanaucracy.
redmysterium
A DARKER ENERGY 