Sark allowed his pick to drop from fingers deadened by toil. It's iron head clattered off gouged stone, striking sparks from more solid materials. Hands throbbing, he swatted rivulets of perspiration from his brow. Long boned fingers trembled as he raked them through sweat-soaked hair. Vertigo gripped him, spinning the world around him. Thirst scratched his parched throat. He cocked his head, focusing on a muffled sound that sent a shiver through his spine.
Booted feet echoed in the mine's confined darkness, beating time to a shrill, tuneless whistle. A serpentine hiss rustled in the null light. The footsteps ceased. Thunderous whip-cracks rattled through the enclosed darkness. Muffled sobs and high, keening cries followed.
"Well, well. What a lucky bunch you are."
Brig's mocking voice preceded her flickering orange presence. Though his underlight vision was useless for picking out finer details, Sark could easily make out her cocky strut. He snatched his pick-axe from the ground. Gripping the haft two-handed, he squeezed the polished wood until his knuckles cracked.
"Only two of you dropped dead on shift today," Brig purred, sauntering up the line of unchained slaves.
"I'll have to work you harder next time."
Shoulders hunched, Sark pressed his back against mutilated stone. Breath tight in his chest, he watched the dwarf woman approached. Ten feet away, he caught the now-familiar stink of mold wine rolling off her. A grim smile twisted his mouth. Despite her training and brutality, her booze-deadened reflexes couldn't possibly protect her from his axe. Especially if he came at her from behind.
"Right, you useless bunch of slag rats."
The woman stopped six feet short of Sark's position. Heart slamming against his ribs, the miner clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. Rage flashed through his veins, leaving his arms and legs trembling with renewed vitality. A whisper of breath escaped his lungs. He made a silent inhalation, ready to strike.
"Tools down!"
Brig's order boomed through the confined space, its volume matched only by the clattering impact of two-score picks. Bone-weary labourers gave thanks to shift's end with gasps of relief.
"Cuffs on."
Eyes narrowed to slits, Sark stared at the dwarf woman's silhouette. Bubbling rage caused his vision to waver. Long fingers tightened around his pick. Breath coming in short, ragged gasps, he slid his left foot two inches forwards. A bead of cool sweat trickled from his temple. A low, rumbling growl escaped his lips.
Brig moved, closed the distance between them in less time than it took a bead of perspiration to break his hair line. Again, he felt her fat nose press against his. Rotten breath clogging his throat. Her leather cuirass felt cold against his bare chest. Steel hissed a moment before her dagger pricked the base of his jaw.
"Looks like I've got a deaf one here," she hissed, digging the poniard deep enough to draw blood.
Wringing the axe haft in a trembling grip, Sark aimed his stare where her eyes should be. Beneath the gut-churning tang of her breath, he caught a waft of smoky perfume. The scent burrowed into his senses, digging repressed memories from the darkest pit of his brain. He shifted his shoulders a fraction, opening a better angle to drive his weapon into the guard's belly
"Are you deaf, slave?"
Brig twisted the blade, digging deep until she struck bone. A flick of her wrist slashed his face. A bloody red line opened to the corner of his right eye.
"I hear you," Sark growled, fighting to keep his voice steady and any hint of the pain searing his grey flesh at bay.
"Then why are you still clutching that mattock like it's a house mothers teat?"
She stepped away, cleaning her blade on a sleeve and simultaneously pressing a hand to her lips.
"You're not thinking of using it against little old me, are you?"
Sounds of shuffling, nervous slaves died at the woman's faked sob. She wailed for a moment longer, her broad shoulders hunched and shaking. Screaming a final choked snort, Brig uncoiled her shoulders with the power of compressed spring. Her backhand strike smashed into Sark's jaw, driving the back of his skull into the cavern wall. Caught off guard by the speed and power of her assault, Sark grunted at the impact. His hand leapt to the hot blood streaming down his neck.
"And there was me thinking you were too thick to feel pain," she said, her tone revealing a twisted grin that underlight vision could not.
"You lot," she bellowed.
Brig turned on a heel, leather whip curling around her with serpentine threat. A flick of her wrist unleashed a thunderous crack. Low murmurs and the click of manacles snapping shut filled the darkness.
Sark lowered his pick, let the tool return to the ground. Eyes still on the sentry's orange glow, he reached to the rear of his breech cloth, fumbled with numb hands for the cold iron stocks. Fire and humiliation battled in his gut as he thrust a fist through the restraint's opening.
Another whip crack. Cold leather snaked around his muscular wrist in a death grip. Jolt of surprise ripped through his body. His right foot shuffled back, angling his left shoulder toward the guards-woman.
"Mistress?"
He spat the question through clenched teeth, his free hand hovering over the coiled leather. Weight set, he considered jerking the whip, pulling her toward him and disabling her with a headbutt or a knee strike. Hot blood still trickled from his face, dripping into his beard and crusting into matted lumps. Each chest-expanding breath pulled at the dried wounds on his back, tested wounds to the point of reopening. His muscles still twitched from exertion. Starvation growled and twisted in his gut. Letting his free hand drop to his side, he lowered his eyes.
"You don't get to cuff up yet, maggot," Briga chortled.
"There are two bodies cooling it the far wall. Drag them up here and sling them in the pit."
Sark turned his gaze to the yawning blue tunnel. Nothing moved in the cool expanse. Not the slightest flicker of heat registered in his underlight vision. Left handed, he returned his manacles to the loop on his cloth. His right balled into a knotted fist.
"Mistress," he whispered, dipping his head in a sullen bow.
