Chapter 4: A break in routine

The first thing the slavers had done the day after 13 had been tattooed was shave his head completely. The image of his brown locks falling limply to the floor was a far distant memory in his mind as constant chores and grueling labor replaced anytime he could have spent reflecting on how he came to be here. In the early morning before the sun had even peaked the dunes, 13 would be awoken by the camp's chef, and made to help with breakfast preparations. Along with other male and female slaves, 13 would chop, peel and perform many other tasks to help prepare for the ravenous slavers that had yet to rise for breakfast.

The first few weeks were the most difficult for 13 as he was taught by any means necessary that the food prepared would never be for someone like him. The chef used a most devastating and truly nightmarish spoon that had the ability to appear from any direction and if need be, dimension. 13 was still unsure where that man kept that spoon on his person but after the first day of welts to the face and hands, he knew better than to tempt the demon that made the kitchens his lair.

After the ungrateful slavers fed themselves, anything left that would spoil later that day was left for the slaves to eat how they wished. The time allotted for eating was short, so what had moments ago been a slightly civil start to the day, quickly became a feeding frenzy with the strongest of the slaves hording the most for themselves. It would be correct to assume 13 did not eat well his first day.

The guards would decide how long they felt like watching before they put an end to the pathetic excuse for feasting and split the slaves into their appointed work groups. Women and small children under the age of 10 along with any old men to aged to work elsewhere would be rounded up to begin their day of cleaning. Tents, clothes and any areas deemed worthy were cleaned from morning till lunch.

Any males left would be rounded up, chained together, and marched out of the camp towards where ever the group was needed. Small talk and conversations were quickly deterred by the crack of a whip from the camel mounted guards on either side of the chained group. Most of the time the slaves were led towards a mine located a mile or so away from the camp. Upon arrival, each slave was given either a well worn pickaxe or shovel with a bucket. The children, such as 13, were usually given the buckets and shovels to help load up any minerals or excess rock mined by older adults.

At mid-day the mine workers were re-chained, then marched back to the camp so that they could help prepare lunch with the women. The same routine at breakfast was followed at lunch with the exception that afterwards, all slaves were kept inside the camp to be used where needed. 13 found himself placed in the group that maintained the camp's facilities, and regretted his survival intensely as he shoveled excrement from the camp's latrine into buckets he would later dump over the camp's wall. When twilight graced the slave's with her quick presence, dinner was quickly prepared, served, and cleaned up once more in a quick and merciless fashion. 13 managed to get away with more food this time and quickly stuffed his face with stale bread, a half chewed apple and a hand full of cheese crumbs.

Finally the slave's day had come to an end and 13 was corralled along with the rest, into an underground room that contained no visible light other than from what the moon managed to reach through the barred entrance to the slave's confinement.

From that day forward slave 13 followed this mindless routine for six years as he slowly lost what ever had marked him as human. He was alone when it came to the gods he no longer believed in and the slaves who shunned him because of his rounded ears and occasional uses of his higher learning. This left 13 bitter, no longer trying to help other slaves after the first month of yet another exile. For the six years he spent alone, 13 worked the hardest in the mines, shoveling and mining harder and longer than any other slave around him. When other slaves took quick breaks as the guards checked on other sections of the mine, 13 kept on, fueling his never ending work with the anger that slowly bubbled under the surface. As he grew in size and muscle from the endless days of work, 13 made sure he could fuel his growth by fighting any slave caught in his path for sustenance. Like a small fish in a big pond 13 worked his way up until even the grown men he worked beside, quickly fled his path during the slave's feeding times.

Even after finding himself at the top of the chain after 6 long years of work, 13 was still not satisfied. He was a slave, and even though he could push around those weaker, smaller and far more timid then him, he still had to take orders from the men and women with the whips. At night 13 would dream of ending the people that made his life what it was. He would break the spoon that chef wagged in front of his face and shove the ends into the fat pudgy man's neck. 13 dreamed with glee, of embedding a pickaxe into a mine guard's skull, or choking out Derik, the man who was the sole reason for him being here in this gods forsaken camp to begin with.

Everyday though 13 awoke to the same reality, where he had no true power, no true freedom and no real happiness in the routine that was his life, until today that is. The day started the same as the past 6 years for 13. He awoke with a frown, knowing that his dreams of violence the night before had been nothing but lies. He worked in the kitchens silently, ignoring all those around him as he mechanically prepared food he would later finish off after his jailers had had their fill. The routine followed with him taking his frustration out on the tunnel he had single handily created after the guards realized he worked best alone. The change came with mid-day as the slaves entered the camp to find an extra seat placed at the end of the rows of wooden tables used by the guards.

As lunch was prepared 13 listened in to the chef's quite grumbles. "Stupid boss and his stupid guest. Who does he think he is to tell me, ME, what we're having for lunch today? Fucking bastard has never had to slave over a hot stove or work with these stupid ingrates for cooks!" 13 stopped listening after that, none of the chef's complaints had anything to do with him so he continued to peel the potatoes he was working on while glancing trying to decide what pickings he would go for after lunch was over.

Like always, every slaver in the camp was seated before the slaves had even brought out the first dish. 13 had been singled out by the chef and made to wait back as most of the slaves took the prepared food out. With a look of pure disdain the chef pointed towards two covered dishes and growled at 13. "These are for the boss and our guest you got that? I don't want you dropping it, putting it in front of the wrong person or tampering with it in anyway, do I make myself clear!?" 13 nodded his head at the man, keeping his face clear of any signs of emotion, lest it meet the end of a furious spoon once more. "Those special dishes took me forever to prepare and I don't want you screwing them up, now get too it!" With that, 13 picked up the trays and headed out, looking for the camp's head honcho and his guest of honor.

As expected, the old and feared boss of the camp was currently laughing at yet another joke that was most likely at the expense of one of the slave's. No doubt it had something to do with a cruel punishment inflicted on one of the slaves, the camp's boss was known for deriving pleasure from others pain. Beside him though, at the end of the table where the extra chair had previously been placed, was a small woman who stood out amongst all the people present.

Her hair was a pure black, silky and clean, with her clothes being of a high quality and a vibrant green, while the make-up that adorned her face marked her wealth. She truly stood out among the worn and sand blasted clothing everyone else in the camp sported. Obviously everyone had been ordered to wear their nicest garments to help welcome this new guest, but from the secret itching of back sides and pulling of neck lines, most of the slavers weren't used to this sort of dress.

13 slowly made his way to his objective, dodging slaves hurrying back for seconds and the occasional guard arriving late because of the required dress attire. Upon arrival 13 bowed and placed the dishes in front of the two he was serving and quickly removed the lids so that the newcomer and camp boss could begin eating. The woman's eyes lingered on 13 as he stepped back and hovered near the two, expecting he would be called upon to retrieve their special dishes upon completion. With his eyes staring forward at the entrance of the lunch tent, 13 listened in on the guest's conversation to waste the time until he was needed again.

"Oh sir Barid, you did not have to do all this for me, I am but a mere customer perusing your wares." The giggle she gave all but screamed fake, yet Barid, the man who ran this camp with an iron fist was eating her act up like a box of sweets. "Oh madam Arezo, you honor me! A woman of your stature deserves only the best, even for such a quick visit as this!" A quick glance from 13 showed that this Arezo woman was more than aware Barid was trying his best, yet the taught muscle lines near her cheeks proved it wasn't close too enough for her tastes.

"Still sir, the gesture was thoughtful, and I'm ever grateful for it." Liar "You humble me madam, how is the dish?" Barid inquired with a grin. The act made 13 want to puke, yet the gross amount of guards in one place made him think better of it. Curiously 13 observed the dish in question and noticed that even though it contained far nicer ingredients than anyone else was given, the woman had only picked at it lightly. "Oh it is most wonderful, I just don't think I'll be able to finish such a big serving!" This caused Barid to laugh yet again.

Their conversation quickly diverted to other small talk and 13 tuned them out as he waited to be called on. Surprisingly, he still hadn't been called on as lunch came to a close. Barid and the guest woman Arezo rose from their seats and with a final glance towards 13, Arezo looped her arm through Barid's awaiting elbow and headed off to talk business with the leader elsewhere. With a glance down 13 noticed that even though Barid had finished his plate, mistress Arezo had left hers alone.

Without thinking 13 picked up her plate, ready to finish what ever the cook had painstakingly worked on while the slaves had gone about making lunch. Before he could bring the first handful of food to his mouth though, a wooden device made contact with the back of 13's neck. He quickly dropped the platter and spun around on his assailant, readying himself for the next strike. "What do you think you're doing 13?! That dish was not made for the likes of you, you'll never be good enough for something like that!" With practiced ease the chef brought his spoon down, ready to deliver the next strike, another part of his daily routine.

This time though, routine had changed. The chef's snarl disappeared as he realized he had not made contact. His anger was quenched as the reality dawned on him, 13 had caught his strike. With ease 13 yanked the spoon from the man's grasp and snapped it in half. "To good for me?" 13 questioned the man with a deep fury that quickly ran shivers down the pudgy man's spine. All the slaves had stopped their eating and turned to watch with the guards as 13 slowly loomed over the chef. With ease 13 lifted the man by the scruff of his shirt and raised him off the ground. "If it truly is such a brilliant dish, why don't you make sure it doesn't go to waste!"

13 marched the cook over to where the plate had been dropped and pushed the man too his knees. With one hand he slammed the cooks face into the ground, shattering the plate while shoving pieces of food up the portly man's nose. The guards jumped to the man's aid, but not soon enough, for 13 had already slammed the man's head into the broken plate more than enough times to draw blood. With urgency 13 was tackled into a dog pile, with 5 guards using all their weight and muscle to keep him down.

13 had already given up at that point though, all his anger had finally boiled over and now he was reeling from his actions. He had just attacked a slaver, a weak and pathetic one of course but a slaver either way. Two guards quickly pulled him to his feet after the pile had separated and dragged him to the center of camp.

The guards tied him to the post while the rest of the guards had quickly corralled the slaves around 13, making them watch as the guards bound the doomed man's hands around the blood soaked pole, with a smooth rope that had already been waiting for them. Time had smoothed the rope, time and the constant struggle of past slaves who tried to escape the consequences of their actions. 13 sat still, not fighting the guards or the rope, for he had accepted his fate the moment he grabbed the chef, knowing this would be his reward for the moments of satisfaction not even minutes before.

As the guards finished and retreated from the pole, 13 looked back to watch as the camp's leader and his guest also arrived to watch the spectacle that was about to take place. 13 transferred his gaze to the ring of slaves, noting the looks of satisfaction on of their faces as the "round-ear" got what he deserved for ruining their lunch. A loud commotion distracted 13 as a now bandaged chef burst through the ring, the tool of revenge in his right hand.

13 looked once at the cook and faced the pole once more, ready for his just deserts. With a crack the whip met 13's back, and he screamed. He was no mighty hero who could take a lashing in silence. "Crack!" He yelled with agony as the whip tore into his shoulder, taking with it more skin and blood. No, he was just a round eared slave, nothing more than property to be kicked and commanded. "Crack!" This time he yelled with aggression as more of him was torn open. The god's had forsaken him, his family had forsaken him. He was furious! "Crack!" Each lash made him angrier, and each strike made him roar, growl, hiss and scream as his fury fueled him through the pain. For minutes this display continued until a whisper ended it all.

"I want him."