A/N: Another thanks for the reviews! I do believe that Akkarin wouldn't try to escape only once. But not too many times either. In THL he said that he and Takan 'had a habit of helping each other out'. I know that before I only wrote about how Takan helped Akkarin, and now I've finally thought of a way for Akkarin to return a favor. Please review!
Chapter 7 The Second Attempt
During his second attempt to escape, Akkarin got considerably farther away from the camp, as he was on horseback. But somehow Dakova managed to find him again.
Akkarin had used all his power on the horse when the strike hit, not that he could actually shield himself from it even if he had what power he'd regained in less than a day. The force strike made him topple off the horse and fall dangerously close to its clomping hooves.
A series of heat strikes rained down on him and Akkarin did his best to curl up in order to decrease his chance of getting hit. They didn't hurt as much as the fact that he'd failed again. He'd staked everything on this attempt. He could do no more.
/
After they'd found a place with enough food and water the slaves began to prepare for the winter. About half the slaves, Akkarin sometimes among them, were sent out every day to find food from dawn to dusk, returning only once at noon to empty their filled baskets and have a meal. Two thirds of the remaining half, including the new slave Dakova had subdued in a week and a half, went out for firewood. The rest worked more than before at camp to finish the chores there.
Most slaves had one to three steady jobs to do, but Akkarin had his changed everyday. Dakova sometimes liked to keep him at camp and then send Ilaia out with errands. Akkarin knew the Ichani enjoyed it when he involuntarily watched Ilaia drift past him without meeting his eyes.
Sometimes Akkarin did wonder how Ilaia felt for him now. He could stand the torments, but could she? It wasn't fair, especially to her. But once as he saw her with an armful of Dakova's dirty clothes come toward where he was kneeling by the washboard, his hands coated in a thin layer of the freezing water he had warmed as much as he dared, he saw her looking at him directly for the first time in months. He saw in her eyes what he'd seen in many girls' back in the Guild, and also something deeper and sadder.
Then she smiled almost imperceptibly as she let the clothes slip into the tub in one graceful motion and then walked away.
Akkarin found himself grinning foolishly at her retreating figure and found his work just a bit more bearable.
But hearing her screams at night made him wonder if she'd be better off with him gone. That acted as a great incentive for his planning and preparation of a second attempt at escaping.
There was a lot to do. It was too cold to try in the winter, so Akkarin bided his time and began to execute his plan.
When in camp he used every opportunity he had to build trust with one of the two carting horses. Dakova's horse, he'd found grimly, had a magical binding on its chain.
In the frantic frenzy to find enough food for the winter, Akkarin managed to save more food, which he hid between the rags of his mat. Surreptitiously he got a general idea about where they were. He'd studied maps before coming, and hoped he knew the way back.
Winter was a great trial here. A pit was dug to store all the food they'd gathered: nuts, dried meet and berries, preserved roots and the plundered grain. Yet that was only the last resort, when food could no longer be found.
Takan had taught Akkarin how to weave and sew together a thin coat and a pair of sandals that would only last through the winter with dried grain stalks and some of the cloth sacks that used to contain grain. But that wasn't enough to ward off the cold. As winter really came it was impossible to go out and not get frostbitten without a thick long coat. The slaves had four coats made of well-worn hides or furs in all, which were used by the few slaves who had to go out. Most of the time they stayed inside the tent ― which was now smaller, shorter, and warmer, as the tent poles actually consisted of two shorter ones tied together; in winter they'd use all the short poles to make a shorter cone of a tent and wrap the tent material twice over the poles ― huddling around a small fire or doing chores like sewing or washing.
Akkarin had time to brood over his plan and rest. Sometimes he wondered how Ilaia was at Dakova's tent, or remembered the good old days at the Guild. It he got back― no, when he got back ― he knew he would already never be the same.
Though Dakova had plenty of food and power and warmth he was still more irritable than usual. And aggressive. When one of the slaves came back one day with only a few sticks of firewood, the Ichani gave him such a violent beating that he died a day later, which was probably due to the fact that Dakova had left him by the whipping post and order the other slaves to not help him.
Dakova also drank much more, which made Akkarin especially nervous. In the Guild they'd been warned to never get drunk. Magic was dangerous when used recklessly.
Once when he trudged out of the salves' tent to report to Dakova and get tormented for a while in one of the long coats, which only succeeded in keeping the cold out, he saw a magical flash coming from where Dakova's tent was and knew something was wrong.
He took a deep breath and started forward, the wind stinging his face. Dakova was blocked by his tent, and when Akkarin finally struggled over he gasped.
Dakova was indeed drunk. But that was not the terrifying thing: Takan was lying curled up nearby, a smoking hole in the long coat he wore.
Akkarin hurried over, keeping an eye on the Ichani, who was now cursing at the sky and laughing.
He fumbled with the buttons on the long coat but his fingers were too clumsy. Takan's breathing was labored and his face was contorted with pain. Hastily Akkarin grasped his wrist and sent his senses into the Sachakan's body.
It was caused by a heat strike. No organs were damaged, but the skin and flesh where the strike had hit ― on the very right of Takna's waist ― was badly burned. Hopefully he could fix it.
Akkarin didn't hesitate as he reached for his power and began to Heal the wound. For the past few months he'd Healed many of his own injuries and spent quite some time thinking about how to Heal with the least amount of power, so he wasn't out of practice.
As he persuaded the damaged nerves to heal themselves with dakova dangerously close, Akkarin forced himself to concentrate and not draw up a shield, which would not only alert Dakova but also be of no use.
As the skin began to Heal Akkarin felt his power dwindling. He knew he wouldn't be able to Heal Takan completely, and he felt Dakova was beginning to register their presence.
"Takan," he whispered. "Can you move? We need―"
An obvious stun strike whizzed past them, very off the mark. Takan's eyes opened and widened in surprise when he saw Akkarin.
"I've Healed most of the wound," Akkarin felt the pitch of his voice get higher as he ducked a strike that just might have hit him. "Takan…"
Takan seemed even more surprised, but with a practiced motion he saw up and moved the hand which Akkarin realized he was still grasping on the ground.
Akkarin hesistated as he felt the Sachakan's course skin under his hand, then tightened his grip and helped takan up. The man winced and closed his eyes for a moment. To Akkarin it seemed as if he were struggling with himself.
"The would still needs time to heal," he said casually. "You shouldn't put all your weight on it."
Takan seemed to sigh, then hesitantly he leaned on Akkarin.
Akkarin nodded and slipped an arm under his, and began the careful walk back to camp.
Takan was slightly shorter than he, and looked quite sick. Akkarin knew his Healing magic had only prevented him froim suffering the worst of the pain. The new muscles and half-healed skin still needed time.
They practically fell into the slaves' tent. A few slaves, probably those who were waiting for the long coats to return, looked up. When they saw Takan in such a state and drifted over others noticed.
"Dakova's drunk," he said to the tent on general, not caring what they thought of his using their master's name. He found no need to elaborate as Hitsu, the second best at medicines behind Ilaia, scooted over to where they'd laid Takan by the fire. Carefully he began to take of the long coat.
"I've already Healed most of the burn," Akkarin took off his long coat and held it aloft casually for a while until another slave took it and began preparing to go outside. "The muscles will need some rest and the skin isn't completely healed."
Hitsu nodded. Takan's shirt was off and Akkarin saw scars from a flogging on his shoulderes. He didn't look at the would straight on, no wanting to see. The Sachakan seemed barely conscious. Dakova might've just taken his power.
A few slaves saw the wound and glanced at Akkarin speculatively before returning to their chores. The slave who'd taken the long coat from Akkarin returned with a bucket of water, which Hitsu used to wash the wound.
Akkarin squatted down as he saw Takan tense and then fall limp again. His stomach began to protest against his use of so much power and he fell asleep curled in a corner wondering who'd make dinner.
Later when Takan woke he didn't thank Akkarin, and Akkarin was sort of glad he didn't. Takan had helped him so much in the past few months. It was the least he could do.
/
If hid punishment for escaping the first time was an atrocity then this one was hell. For years he'd remember the landscape before him as the first lashes hit: the horizon tinged red, a brilliant red so unlike the color of the half-dried blood, his own blood, splattered on the post before him. And Dakova's ruthless laughter and his own uncontrolled scream…
When he regained consciousness every inch of his body hurt. Beside that he only knew he was lying facedown. After drifting in and out of sleep because of the pain for a while Takan came and fed him some porridge.
It was so painful, his head being lifted so he could swallow, but he managed until the last spponful.
Takan muttered something about Dakova using magic on the lashes because Akkarin seemed more dead than alive after the beating. Then hitsu came and checked a few places, his rough hands sometimes brushing or lifting Akkarin's legs and torso, leaving him to wonder how much of his skin was exposed as he let fatigue take over
/
Just lie the last time Dakova had all the slaves stand around the shipping post while he dealt with Akkarin. This time he also made Ilaia stand a few paces in front of Akkarin as he was tied to the whipping post. He couldn't look at her, so he focused on the horizon just above her. He told himself not to scream, but before the whip came whistling down he didn't know what a real flogging was like yet…
Dakova had only used Healing magic to make scabs form on the lashes before Akkarin lost too much blood. As Akkarin healed he wished more and more that the Ichani would let him die. When he could stand he was sent to do chores again. As he struggled with clothes laden with water he seriously considered killing himself. Living this meaningless, horrid life…
But there didn't seem to be a way to do it. He wasn't ordered to chop wood again, nor could he find a tree with a branch able to hang him on.
Sometimes he suspected whether he was really determined to die or not. Secretly he wished Lorlen or somebody would get worried and find he'd gone to Sachakan and some and rescue him. He knew it was terribly far-fetched and naïve; and it would be quite embarrassing. But as spring ended and summer came he didn't care so much anymore.
