Chains of Sand - short story

Hey all! I hope you’re doing well. This is part 3 of our ongoing story serial, Halfast the Woodsman. If you need a refresher on parts 1 and 2 you can find them here, and here, respectively. Without further ado let’s jump right into the story!

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The Tale of Halfast the Woodsman - Part 3 - Chains of Sand

The skin of his back blistered and stung, the searing light sending waves of prickling agony washing down his spine.

Southerners were not made for the harsh sun of Archos.

He winced and shifted, trying to ease his suffering. He heard the leather crack and felt the barbed tip of the foreman’s lash bite into him, another slash to join the others.

“Don’t turn around, filth!” The man snarled. “Keep marching.”

Halfast felt it inside him, felt the urge to turn and rip the man’s head from his shoulders rise up in his chest.

“Don’t piss him off.” He heard the prisoner behind him whisper. “Or we’ll all pay.”

Halfast knew it to be true. He bit his tongue, he bowed his head, and he kept trudging forward.

“Good.” The prisoner whispered again as their convoy continued to tread. “It’s easier this way.”

For over a fortnight Halfast had been marched along the eastern coast of Fjorung. They had stopped in Oenares, the retinue of prisoners kept in squalid cells with the prisoners and escaped slaves, before they’d been carted off again, this time making for Andira. From there a ferry had shipped them all the way to the Southern Gate, on the western stretch of the continent of Archos.

And still they marched, toward the desert.

The lush forests and verdant grass had slowly faded, and the path they walked had grown rockier and sandier as they moved eastward. The Acheans, the great mountain ranges the divided Archos into its eastern and western halves, had come into view on the horizon two days prior, like the hands of a stone giant, reaching up to scrape the sky.

He’d lived his whole life in Stone Hill, he’d grown up in the shadow of the Fingers of Ran. He knew mountains, he had seen stones the size of cities fall from cliffs taller than the clouds. He had seen barbarian clans come pouring from their high caves to raid and pillage.

But these mountains… The Acheans… He could not comprehend their size. The range stretched endlessly north, forming a great wall of stone and rock that would be impassable for any army or marching host, save for a wide gap just north of the sea. A flat plane stretching between one mountain and the next.

“That’s our heading?” Halfast whispered behind him. He would have turned to see the prisoner behind him, had his neck not been bound in a harsh iron collar in the style of the Fjori slavers.

“Aye.” The voice whispered. “The far deserts of Archos.”

“Why send us to fight desert clans and mystics? Surely there’s faster ways to kill us.”

“Well they’re not sending us to fight our own kind, are they? They’d never keep control of us. But out here, so far from home? The clans don’t care if you’re an imperial or a Fjori slave. All they see are westerners, and they’ll kill us just the same. If you don’t fight back, you’re dead. I guess they figure we’ll fight to survive.”

“And that one?” Halfast motioned with his bound hands, pointing to the guard that drove their caravan along the southern coast.

“Ah. Za’aron they call him. A cruel bastard if ever there was one. Best not find yourself on his bad side, friend.”

“Halfast.” He said. “My name’s Halfast.”

“Gregor.” The prisoner whispered.

“No talking!” He heard the guard, Za’aron, yell. He heard the lash crack and heard Gregor wince. The prisoners carried on, blistered feet mingling with the sand and the dirt as they marched further into the scorching desert.

Night soon broke, the sun mercifully dipping behind the horizon. The prisoners were herded like wayward cattle into a small outcrop between two boulders, both for protection and control.

“We will sleep here.” Za’aron commanded. Stale bread and a wedge of cheese was passed from prisoner to prisoner, each taking their allotted portion.

The guards surrounded the gaggle of broken prisoners, each bound to the next by the chains affixed to their collars. Halfast saw the large one, Manceon.

The one who’d invaded his home.

The one who’d kicked Freki.

The one who’d found Sidna.

He will die first. Halfast thought. He felt himself glaring at the thick man, before averting his gaze. He would take his revenge, he was sure, but it would not serve him to incur the guards’ wrath now.

He would have to play his part. The beaten slave, broken and weak. He would have to fool them.

“Where are you from, friend?” The man behind him, Gregor, asked.

“Near Stone Hill.” Halfast grunted. “You?”

“Nowhere you would’ve heard of. A small village, just south of Crakehall.”

“When did they take you?” Even now, as they sat and ate, he could not turn to look at the man behind him, so short were the chains that fastened him to the prisoner in front of him.

“Oh, a while ago.” Gregor said. “A year or so, I think. It’s hard to track out here.”

“How do you know so much? You know the guards’ names; you know where we’re going and why.”

“Well, I’ve been around the circuit before. This is my second rotation out here.”

“And your first time? What happened?” Halfast’s eyes widened.

“They sent us out into the desert to fight against the clans, as you said. But they were like demons. We were the front line of an imperial host. Starved prisoners with picks and wooden clubs against the clans? It was a massacre. They were everywhere. They fought with the land on their side, as if the sand itself shifted and flowed in their favour. We’d launch an attack, and they’d be gone. We’d dig in a defensive position, and they’d slither in like snakes and collapse it on our heads. Even in combat they were unbeatable. I fought one of them once, one on one. It were as if he knew every move I was going to make before I made it. I felt like a child. I’d swing, he’d counter. I’d lunge, he’d be long gone. He even laughed, right then, in the middle of combat. He laughed at me.”

“How many made it back from your old caravan?” Halfast asked.

There was a long silence, the question hanging heavy in the air.

“None.” Gregor finally spoke. “Just me.”

“We can’t go up against them, then.” Halfast whispered.

“That’s dangerous speak, friend. I saw a prisoner refuse to fight once. I saw what they do to us that decline to fight.”

“What would you do, then? Let the desert dwellers butcher us?”

“At least you have a chance of surviving against them.”

“Do you really want to go through that again?”

He felt the man shift behind him, thinking. “No. No I don’t.”

“I-”

“He felt a hard impact in his gut. He doubled over, wheezing, heaving desperately, praying for his breath to return.

“I told you no fucking talking.” Manceon’s voice snarled in his ear, the large man’s hand grabbing Halfast by the hair. “If I hear one more word out of your rat mouth, I’ll gut you like a fish.”

Halfast nodded, drooping his head. The guard released him, air finally filling his lungs.

“I told you.” He heard Gregor whisper. “Don’t piss them off.”

He turned back around, nibbling on his stale bread and wedge of cheese, readying himself for the day to come.

He gazed up at the Acheans, the impossibly large range stretching ever northward. How easy it would be for me to disappear among those rocks, never to be found again. He thought. They would never find me, not even the most cunning imperial soldier. Not up there.

He had grown up in the shadow of the largest mountains in Fjorung. He knew well how to survive, how to prosper, and how to fight up among the rocks and the stones. If only he could escape. One golden moment, one chance to flee into the hills at the foot of the mountains, that would be all he’d need. He turned the idea over in his mind, visualising the moment, giving form to the emerging plan.

But he would need patience. For now, on this night, he could do nothing. Not yet, at least.

It was a special cruelty, to be shackled to the other prisoners day and night. Even during sleep, they were bound together. The iron collar scraped and chafed at his skin as he lay on the hard stones, staring up into the black sky.

Finally, his thoughts turned to his home. To Mera, to Sidna, even to Freki.

He felt a cool tear fall from his eye, rolling down his cheek.

I will be free. He thought to himself. For you, Sidna, I will be free. I must find you, my love. And I will end them. He looked across to Manceon, sleeping in the dirt. The gruff soldier was more than accustomed to hard nights and harder ground, it seemed. And you will be the first to die.

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So that’s it for this week, everyone. Be sure to tune in next time to find out what happens next! You can subscribe to our mailing list below so you don’t miss out!!

As always, thanks for reading, see you next time!