Terror of the Shadow

CHAPTER FIVE

"Good morning!" bellowed a voice from above. Someone rapped on the metal of the hatch. It made a cruel, metallic sound that grated against their eardrums. Rude awakening...

"I've been so looking forward to meeting my new friends!" the voice continued. "Although, I doubt that you would say the same for me!"

Laban sat up and rubbed his aching head. He looked down at the knife, still clenched in the palm of his hand.

"Take it!" he said, extending the knife to Torreck. "It's no use if they know we have it!"

"You're right," Torreck responded, as loud as he could without the others overhearing. "So you keep it. Hide it. I think I'll stick with my bone club."

Torreck reached forward and grasped the slender bone in front of him. It still bore the stain of blood on one end. He slid the club behind him, obscuring it from sight. Laban carefully tucked the knife into the folds of his coat, deep enough to keep it hidden, but still close enough to grab if he needed.

The hatch was opened, and several War'ack men let themselves down with a rope. Samson was the final one to enter the cave before the rope disappeared back up the opening. The corners of his mouth curled up slightly when his gaze met the burned scar across Torreck's leg.

"Oh, you are a smart one," said Samson. The deep baritone of his voice resonated through the cave. "Our master will enjoy this."

"Your master?" Torreck said.

Sampson put a hand up to silence them. He looked up through the opening of the cave and motioned for something to be lowered. A man appeared through the hatch. He did not climb, but was lowered into the pit by the means of a shoddy platform connected by strands of frayed rope. The platform was carpeted with a stained piece of reddish velvet, as if the War'ack were attempting to convey some sense of actual elegance or dignity. Laban would have scoffed at this display, had his tongue not been so completely held by fear.

"Hello, young ones," the man said as soon as his platform had reached the floor. He sat on the ground so as to be at eye-level with the two starving prisoners. He looked at each one for a long time, making sure to hold eye contact long enough to make it very uncomfortable. His pale blue eyes twinkled like stars in the torchlight, and his rotten teeth peeked out from beneath a black, bristly beard.

"Very young ones, indeed," he continued. He clicked his tongue. "From the stories that dear Samson has told me about you, I would have expected someone a little... taller," he looked at Torreck as he spoke.

"Yes... it was you, wasn't it?" the War'ack said. He looked at Laban. "The one that made that dead body over here? This other boy doesn't have the strength in his arm, I don't think."

The grimy War'ack placed his hands on Laban's shoulders. He squeezed, making sure to dig his pointed fingernails into his flesh. Laban let out a small whimper. The War'acks all laughed, but only after their master had done so.

"Yes... I am right. I am also surprised that you've even made it to be this old. I'd've thought a child as thin as you would have snapped in half on his first day on the Outland."

He turned back to Torreck. "But you... Master Torreck, isn't it? I am impressed. Perhaps you would make a good addition to my band of soldiers. Stand. I want to get a proper look at you."

Torreck's lips hurled a wad of spit towards the War'ack.

"I don't take orders from War'ack slavers," Torreck said.

"Fine," the man replied with a shrug. "You can be made to stand all the same."

He snapped his fingers. Samson came to his side. Keeping one hand wrapped around the grip of his pistol, he grabbed Torreck's wrist and twisted it until his arm was probably close to popping out of its socket. Torreck ground his teeth, but relented against the pain and rose to his feet.