A brutal kick to his bruised rib cage jolted Eujal awake, his head flying back and slamming into the stone wall. He gasped, pain throbbing through his side, and cracked open his eyelids. The world seemed to warp and twist before it came back into focus. Grey stone, darkened grass, stone walls all around. He was in the fortress, the previously Asiran fortress.
"Ugh..." He groaned and reached for the back of his head to ease the pain emanating from back there.
"Up, slave! Get to work!" The guard who kicked him spat on his face before moving on, bellowing at the other slaves. Most of them were already rounded up but were being immediately sent off to do menial tasks.
Eujal wiped his face clean of the foreign saliva, failing to grimace at the disgusting experience. He then pushed himself up slowly, trying to avoid the painful sensations that seemed to burst out from every joint. Surprised to see the sheer number of Zhardokhan moving around, he looked around. Their numbers were seemingly endless despite the bodies being piled near the shattered gate, which the slaves were already starting to repair. They swarmed over the fortress like ants, jeering and shouting orders, securing their loot, and hugging each other.
If Eujal had to guess, there were easily well over a thousand within the walls. The losses, while intense and numerous, didn't seem to affect them all that much. They were mercenaries, after all; they chose this life. Unlike him. Well, he technically allowed it to happen, but still...
Deciding not to lean against the wall any longer, he dusted himself off and limped over to where a group of slaves were being rounded up. A mercenary, seeing him hobble over, grabbed him by his shoulder and shoved him into another slave. His head smacked painfully against the other slave, and they both groaned.
They were kicked, shoved, and cursed back into service. The slaves endured it all, as did Eujal; they expected this from the mercenaries. It wouldn't make sense for them to allow any form of purpose to build up within the slaves' minds.
Over the next few hours, Eujal was forced to deal with the horrific task of clearing the battlefield within the walls. He dragged stiffening Asiran soldiers by their chainmail, the weight of which was immense and overwhelming to his weakened arms. He also had to deal with a lot of Zhardokhan dead but had to separate them into a different pile. From there, these bodies would be transferred to a mass grave outside the fortress, where other slaves were hard at work digging. Eujal would have preferred that job; he hated staring at dead bodies.
Once, while dragging a corpse near the central keep where officers seemed to be congregating, he saw the bearded bastard again - the man who had saved him on the beach. He stood tall, thoroughly cleansed of the blood that had soaked him during the battle, gesturing emphatically as he barked orders. For a heart jolting moment, their eyes met across the courtyard. Eujal froze, expecting...something. He didn't know what and certainly didn't feel like finding out. Thankfully, the man's stern gaze swept over him without pausing, and Eujal breathed a sigh of relief.
Hours later, having hauled more dead men than he could count with his burning shoulders, Eujal found himself momentarily forgotten near a less trafficked section of the wall. His arms hung like dead weights, his whole body trembling with fatigue. He had a terrible headache, and his stomach growled constantly. He slumped against the cold stone again, briefly closing his eyes.
I need rest. If I continue on like this...I don't know if I can survive...
"Rough day."
The voice, low and hoarse, startled the already sleepy Eujal. He looked up to see another slave leaning against the wall nearby. He seemed to be his age, with unkempt, wavy black hair and eyes; his skin was a warm beige, slightly soiled from the battle. Eujal's eyes widened as he recognized him. He was the slave he butted heads with hours ago!
He swallowed, his throat dry and feeling terribly scratchy. He hadn't spoken more than a mumbled compliance to a guard in what felt like a lifetime. "Aye," he managed, his voice cracking and sounding awfully weak.
The other slave nodded, wincing as he moved his weight. His arm was crudely bandaged with a strip of cloth that was stained red.
He probably was injured during the battle, Eujal thought.
"Thought I was dead back there on the beach. I had to pull an arrow out of my arm..." The slave began.
Eujal just stared at the ground. He really didn't want to think about the battle. Every thought seemed to be memories of the horror, high quality and haunting.
"There's still a lot of them left," the slave mumbled as he pointed towards the Zhardokhan mercenaries moving around the fortress grounds. "So many of them for what, though? I wonder what they want with this place."
Eujal had no answers. The future felt like a blank wall, incomprehensible like the violence prior. For the first time in days, however, hearing another voice that spoke to him like an equal caused a faint connection to shine within the overwhelming darkness inside.
"What's your name?" Eujal asked, making eye contact with the slave.
"Name's Johan," the slave offered quietly, meeting Eujal's eyes with a darkness that matched his own.
----
Over the next few hours, Eujal engaged in a tired discussion with Johan. Unlike Eujal, who had been kidnapped just a few days ago, Johan had been a slave for a couple months, at least, maybe a year. In fact, he was much younger than Eujal, with him being only sixteen years of age compared to Eujal's seventeen. The pitiful state that they were in, two blossoming youths being turned into measly slaves.
As the sun began to set, the Zhardokhan started gathering all the slaves and ordering them to sleep, all packed together near a patch of grass in one corner of the fortress. Eujal had just noticed, but the number of slaves there was relatively low compared to the mercenaries. Many had died, including the two slaves who were chained next to him on the bench.
How sad...
The thought cut through his exhaustion with surprising clarity. He remembered them vaguely—one skinny and quiet, the other built thick, constantly muttering curses under his breath. Now they were gone, buried alongside countless others whose broken bodies he'd spent the day dragging into mass graves. Looking at the pitiful cluster of survivors huddled together, dwarfed by their captors strutting around their prize fortress, Eujal felt like cattle awaiting slaughter.
Guards shoved the exhausted slaves toward their designated corner, boots connecting with the ribs and backs of anyone moving too slowly. Eujal pushed himself away from the wall, his body screaming in protest with every movement. Johan fell into the step beside him.
The Zhardokhan forcefully crammed them onto the damp grass against the outer wall. They were packed so tightly that there was barely space to sit. The smell of body odor was immense and nauseating. The cold ground seemed to seep through Eujal's thin loincloth. Guards watched nearby, spears planted in the dirt. Across the courtyard, mercenaries had lit cooking fires, the smell of roasting meat drifting over like torture to men whose stomachs had been empty for days.
Eujal leaned against the cold stone, pulling his knees to his chest to find some position that didn't make his ribs or broken nose scream. Johan collapsed beside him with a low groan.
"Better than the bench, I guess," Johan whispered, barely audible over the rustling bodies and distant Zhardokhan laughter. "At least the ground doesn't move."
Eujal just grunted. When he closed his eyes, he saw only the dead—their faces frozen in terror, mixed with flashes of steel and the roaring bearded bastard. His hands still felt the rough wood of the club, his nostrils full of blood and vomit that no amount of time would wash away.