Shadow War: Book 3 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy (WIP Rough Draft)

29. More of a Scythe than a Flower

32nd of Uirra

Rain beat against the freighter's main cargo deck, sheets of water lashing at us with malevolent force, plastering clothing to skin, sluicing over bent shoulders, running in rivulets from brow and chin. Between the dark and the rain, the dingy yellow glow of the deck flood gas lamps on the main smokestack only succeeded in casting deep shadows, rendering everything in blurry shades of sulphur and ink. Beyond the edge of the railing there was an absolute darkness that swallowed the light of the searchlights on the bow of the freighter.

The lights were blinking. One long flash, one short, a pause, then the same again.

I buried my nose in the crook of my arm, breathing in the damp space between my elbow and the soaked wood of the deck. Fierda hunched next to me, doing much the same. It was the only way to get a real breath as we waited, fifty girls and twenty men lined up ten to a row, all of us on our knees with our foreheads to the floor while the rain tried to wash us away.

I took another lungful of tar-scented air and tried to calm the clacking of my teeth. Questions wheeled through my brain, but it wasn't as if I could ask Ugly Face why we were signaling to a harbormaster's tower instead of passing cargo off to another ship like Obyrron had mentioned in his journal. So I sat there, shivering, grimly trying to keep from sliding away with every roll of the slippery deck as the ship steamed slowly past a breakwater and into the quiet water of a harbor.

Finally, the freighter cut its engines and began a lazy swing to port. There was a bump of docking pads, and then Beetlelegs began shouting at us, prodding at our bent backs with a long, pointy stick, "Up-up-up-up!"

In doing so, he was getting soaking wet just like the rest of us, which made me smile.

My smile died as I got to my feet and fiery needles erupted down my numb calves, the heat of my own blood scalding as it coursed into frigid muscles. Swaying, I reached for the length of chain separating me from Fierda. She pulled back, offering resistance, and together we steadied each other – the better to keep from being singled out and beaten.

For being slave drivers, the Panesians didn't seem to care if we had marks on us or not. As Ugly Face liked to say, he had already been paid for our transport, so our survival was up to us. They were careful not to hit our faces, though, I had noticed. Just backs, and thighs, and knees, and buttocks. Hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to break.

These were the things we were told to be grateful for.

These were the things I kept in my list.

Ugly Face gave a command from somewhere behind us, and Beetlelegs began barking, "You! Move!" shoving and smacking at us, aiming a thick finger at the starboard railing. The first girl in line staggered forward, then the next, and then all of us were shuffling along like a string of wooden windup toys, trying to keep from slipping on the deck or tripping on our chains as we made for the boarding gate that the Piglet opened for us, then down a steep gangplank and onto a loading platform, toes stubbing into the crosspieces that were meant to be stairs.

The Piglet and Beetlelegs came down after us, and immediately the poking and prodding began again. Get in a single file line. Start walking. Don't stop. We marched down the length of the loading platform, and straight into the open end of some sort of warehouse or hangar. All I got was a vague impression of dimly lit dark grey walls. The fact that there was a roof somewhere overhead and the rain wasn't hitting me anymore was all I cared about. I kept my head down, concentrating only on the bare feet of the girl ahead of me, stepping when she stepped so I could stop when she stopped.

The Piglet bellowed the command to halt, but when several of the others automatically began to kneel, he smacked them with his stick. "No! Up! Hands out!"