Liberation

PROLOGUE

The sharp, familiar metallic flavor of blood filled Konan’s nose, an almost welcome reprieve from the stench of the sulfur mines.

If only it weren’t coming from Isellan.

The older man gasped in erratic spurts, his stout chest heaving with effort, but Konan could hear the gurgle of blood in the lungs. Like everyone in Tahayi Mines eventually did, Isellan was dying, his life wasting into the sand in a bright red pool.

Konan knelt beside him, silent, every part of him feeling numb.

Isellan’s eyes rolled up toward the cold sky as he wrenched another breath in; his sun-worn skin stretched into a grimace on his gaunt cheeks. His crow’s feet, etched on by years of kind smiles despite the misery of the mine, creased with pain. A tremor took over his lower lip as he tried to speak.

“Son.” The word bubbled out, and Isellan hacked a bloody cough.

The spray hit Konan’s face, but he didn’t flinch, just stared down with a furrowed brow. Could the Five-Faced God be this cruel? He made several quick hand motions, although Isellan’s eyes were already losing their focus.

“Don’t leave me,” he signed. Please don’t leave me. His vision blurred for a moment, but he blinked it away for fear of losing awareness of his surroundings. He glanced up to be sure the other prisoners had gone, then placed a protective hand on his mentor’s laboring chest.

They were alone. The men who’d attacked Isellan had taken the rations and disappeared into the endless rows of wooden shanties.

Konan returned his gaze to Isellan, who was trying to speak again.

“Endure it,” he managed. “Overcome—”

The complex words took too much effort. Frothy red spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth, and he shuddered once more under Konan’s broad palm. The stiffness pulling at his face softened. The tension of a decade protecting Konan in Tahayi Mines eased from his brow, and the tremble in his lip stopped.

The constant gurgling died away, and Isellan’s head lolled to one side, his bright eyes vacant of their typical hard glint. Konan had always likened them to diamonds, clear and impossibly hard. Isellan was exactly like that, a man forged of iron will and strength, a leader and a mentor.

A savior.

Isellan was the only reason Konan had survived the mines as a boy.

In truth, the man was the only reason he lived now. What purpose had life to offer Konan, bereft of the only person who cared for him? What was the point of waking, working, breaking one’s back and growing weak with thirst, all for the glory of Tahayi Mines and its masters, the merchants of Shayal?

Something in him transformed, condensing any boyish, nonsensical hope of escape into a tight ball, then crushing it into a blackened, toxic pit. The pit burrowed his heart, digging deep into the layers of guarded emotion, and seeded itself.

Konan brushed a bloody hand over Isellan’s face, pushing the eyelids shut. The tradition left sandy fingerprints everywhere, and Konan heaved a resigned sigh, taking the cold, dry air in through his nose and out through his mouth. It burned his nostrils.

His other hand still lay on Isellan’s chest. Beneath his palm, the man’s heart no longer beat, his lungs no longer labored. Behind the third rib on the right side, several small puncture wounds leaked the last of his congealing fluids, feeding the desert sands their rich life. Konan could taste the metal hanging in the air, and it reminded him to wipe the blood spray from his lips and cheek with a tattered sleeve.

He glanced around again, hovering protectively over the corpse, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. A few other prisoners watched, their impassive gazes no more or less than he’d expect. Death was no surprise in the mines, merely an eventuality. Sometimes, it was accompanied by the opportunity for new boots.

Other than the man with the dagger, no one would challenge Konan today. They had seen him fight, they had seen him rage against three or even four men with practiced jabs and hard knuckles and bodily tosses. Despite his less than twenty years, his natural height and brawn gave most prisoners pause. Combined with the massacre of pockmarked skin covering the left half of his body, his hulking presence was usually avoided, as he preferred.

Every fight avoided was a battle won in the name of survival. Isellan had taught him that.

But if you had to fight, show no mercy. Weakness, hesitation, and uncertainty could kill. Isellan had taught him that too.

That unfamiliar sensation of blurred vision returned, and Konan winced, willing it away with tightly squeezed eyes and a hardened resolve. He could feel the movement stretch the taut skin of his left eyebrow. His cheek ticced, an erratic and constant twitch that revealed his inner turmoil, and then he realized how sore his jaw felt.

He was clamping his teeth together so hard, an ache was emerging in his temple as well.

With another slow, deep breath of the winter air—that bitter chill that sucked warmth from the body and teased with skies as bright and clear as ice—Konan began to remove Isellan’s boots and clothes.

The Tahayi Desert was miserable in winter, when the straight-line winds screeched down from the northern wastes and tore across the sands until they broke against the Bleeding Wall. Beyond that massive cliff of blood-streaked malagate and shale and slate, the raised steppe of Shayal’s dry kingdom truly began. The edge of civilization.

Tahayi Mines had no guard wall, no sealed stone buildings, no hearth fires. Only an endless sea of leaking shanties with dilapidated roofs and empty sacks and rotting barrels—and the mines. The small fortress guarding the mines featured towers facing the prison camp, spaced regularly to ensure each section of the camp was monitored just enough to ensure consistent operation.

Konan had been inside the fortress once, according to Isellan: when he arrived as a boy, unconscious and horribly maimed. And since, he had been here in the camp, surviving from day to day on rations exchanged for mined sulfur and salt and occasional gemstones.

He fastened Isellan’s boots onto his feet; they were tight. He’d have to cut the toes out. The pants and shirt would be used as cloth to augment his existing clothing, though neither would fit.

Konan stood, looking at the dead man one last time. Isellan was gone. His intelligent, glinting eyes and good soul were gone, passed through the Gates to the next life. This was merely an empty, naked husk. Konan slung it over his shoulder, his own expression frozen with neutrality, and headed to the waste pits.

He was alone.

CHAPTER 1: THREE YEARS LATER

The tunnels of the sulfur mine meandered in all directions, tracing the paths of yellow seams deeper and deeper into the sand and rock. Konan had memorized the network years ago, and now its familiarity felt reassuring. The cooler air, stagnant and musty with sulfur as it was, was also heavier somehow than that of the breezy desert above, comforting like a heavy fur blanketing one’s bed. The sun, which blazed down without mercy during summer, couldn’t reach more than twenty paces beyond the entrance, forcing miners to carry candles in the deeper recesses.

Konan stepped carefully through the gloom of others’ candles, allowing his feet to wend their way through his memory of this section. It was safer to carry only one’s quarry if possible, allowing a free hand for the undersized pick allocated by the sentries. Konan spun it with a flick of his wrist, its balance and motion perfected even in the dark.

Today was a good day.

He had pried a near-luminescent stone from the earth, one that glittered with flecks of rainbow color in the dim candlelight. He had nearly broken through it, but upon seeing a corner chip off and twinkle at him, had dedicated time to working a large, single piece out. It was worth weeks of rations.

Tucking it closer into the crook of his left elbow, somewhat hiding it under his piecemeal cloak, Konan hurried toward the entrance.

A dark figure emerged from the shadows, blocking the tunnel.

“What y’got there?” came a voice.

Konan paused. He had passed no one, he was certain. This man was alone.

The stranger angled his own pick at Konan like a weapon. “Give it to me, whatever it is. Must be a good’n, the way you was rushin’ outta here before dusk.”

Don’t be a fool, Konan thought, steeling himself as the other man stepped forward.

He closed the distance enough that they could see each other’s faces, then paused. A glimmer of hesitation and recognition crossed his haggard features, but just as quickly, he planted his feet. “Can’t go no further till y’give it up. I’m starving.”

Then use that pick to mine, Konan thought, narrowing his eyes.

The man swung wildly, and Konan sidestepped him. The tunnel was tight and low, making it awkward to move around. He swung again, swiping his pick at Konan’s abdomen, and Konan lurched backward. They circled each other, wary. There was no going back now; this man wanted his prize. Unless . . .

Konan had circled the man, his gemstone clutched tightly to one side and his pick white-knuckled in the other. He was the one nearer to the entrance now. He spun and ran.

The man cursed and scrambled after him, and then Konan felt a yank on his flailing cloak as the assailant managed to catch it with his pick. The fabric tore.

Enough.

Konan turned back.

The man clearly hadn’t expected that, as he stumbled forward with his own momentum, one arm outstretched to the edge of Konan’s cloak. His face filled with fear as Konan swung the gemstone like a left hook; the rock hit with a sickening crunch.

The man tried to swing his pick once more as Konan fell on top of him. Konan caught the weak attempt and smashed at the clutching fingers until they were bloody and broken. The pick dropped to the ground. Then he struck the man’s face once again for good measure. Blood poured from a crooked, ruined nose and jagged cuts on the man’s cheek and brow.

He snuffled something about mercy through the blood and sinus fluid, and Konan straightened his shoulders.

“I don’t care whether you live or die,” he signed, his face neutral and cold. He adjusted his slipping veil and hood.

The man didn’t understand him; no one could.

As Konan stood, careful not to bash his own skull against the sharp rock of the uneven ceiling, the man clutched his broken hand to his chest and sobbed. “Can’t dig nothin’, can’t do nothin’.” He snorted and spat a bloody mess onto the ground. “Can’t get no rations. I’m gonna die here.” He continued moaning to himself, and Konan ignored him.

After retrieving both picks to ensure the man didn’t come after him again, he resumed his departure, his gemstone sequestered by his side. Konan wound his way up the tunnel, occasionally passing a small candle set on a jutting rock, adhered by its own wax and burning to its eventual death. He focused on regaining control of his fluttering heartbeat, inhaling the blessedly cool air in a calm, even rhythm.

Other miners glanced at him with vacant, hopeless eyes as he passed, then returned to their own labors. The closer he got to the entrance, the more there were, tapping mindlessly away at the deposits, trying to earn enough to get by. Most of them would receive only a portion of the rations gained, as they were obligated to give tribute to whichever gang leader they followed.

Konan stopped at the entrance and handed both picks to a sentry. The other sentry, an older man with sunburnt skin and a weary expression, scanned him for hidden weapons. His eyes widened as they caught on the bloodied stone, and his face twisted into a sour grimace.

“By the fucking Light, boy,” he snarled. “Not again.”

Konan stared down at him, the image of calm, his eyes dead. It was strange how the old-timers still called him boy.

The first sentry raised both picks in question. “We gotta go get a body, sir?” He glanced at the older sentry for confirmation, who looked at Konan.

Konan shook his head, and the older man’s scowl softened slightly.

“Good. Lotta fuckin’ work that’d be. Fucking molehill in there, stinks to the Nethergate. You do me a favor, boy?”

Konan didn’t acknowledge, only listened, and the younger sentry leaned over and asked his superior if Konan was dumb. The man ignored him and continued.

“You kill someone deep in, at least carry them out so someone finds ’em. Damned rotten down there already.”

With a slow nod, Konan turned away. Why had he defended himself? In the heat of any altercation—and there were many—his instinct was to fight, to operate with sheer white rage that filled his vision and warmed his core. To battle against whatever foe until that foe diminished or died. But why?

Had he allowed that man to take his life and his gemstone, perhaps Konan would be at peace. Perhaps he would find something better on the other side of the Gates, wherever it was Isellan had gone. Regret filled him as he recalled the bloody pulp of the man’s cheek and nose. He should have allowed the assailant to end it, this miserable, pointless life.

He trudged along the fortress wall and watched the sun sink behind the distant horizon. Dusk had arrived. With the wall on one side and the sea of shanties on the other, Konan could now walk safely to the well and food window. It was the best-watched place in the camp, guarded by two nearby towers. Soldiers could pour from the adjacent iron-spiked gate if necessary, although that was infrequent enough. They seemed to better enjoy picking the rare troublemakers off with arrows from up high. Konan knew they kept score amongst themselves, small numbers that carried much weight in the monotony of guarding the mines.

After rinsing his bloodied, dusty hands, he cupped tepid fresh water into his mouth from the well. The stone pool built against the wall was fed by a small fountain, circulating enough to rinse away blood, urine, or whatever else soaked one’s body and clothes. It was the only water available in Tahayi Mines, a sure way to control the prisoners. Drawn from deep underground into a well inside the fort, the water was pumped through aqueducts onto the salt flats—the other half of Tahayi Mines’ operations—and to here, the drinking well. With a surreptitious glance around, Konan shuffled his empty water skein from under his cloak.

Skeins were rarities, and he had fashioned this one from the limited leather he had encountered over the years. He had sewn it with a needle, another rarity obtained only because the middle-aged woman at the food window, a Shayalese named Tass, had known him when he was young.

She leaned out the food window now and grinned at him with yellow teeth. “What you got today, boy?”

Konan secured his full water skein to his belt and hid it with his cloak, then carried the stone to the exchange window. He was surprised to see a younger woman peering around her, first with a semblance of curiosity, though it was quickly replaced by fear and disgust. He stood back slightly, allowing them to appraise his offering.

Tass gestured at the younger woman. “Come now, he ain’t one to be afraid of. I know he looks it, but he’s fine. Look at this stone now, and light that lamp.”

The younger one grimaced with distaste at Konan and at the blood-grimed stone, then leaned forward to help.

Tass gave her a prim look of approval. “This here’s Dawna, new girl y’know. She don’t know you yet, but she’ll have to get used to you and the rest.”

Konan didn’t respond, but he was aware of other miners making their way from the far east end. He wished the woman would hurry so he could leave. Things got more dangerous in the dark, and he preferred to be back in his shanty, alone.

“See here, Dawna, he’s brought us an entire sunstone,” the older woman continued, pulling out a tiny pick and inspecting different sides of the rock. She seemed unaware of the blood, entranced by the rainbow sparkle showing beneath the gray stone in each place she tapped. “This here’s worth weeks of rations.”

Two maximum, he guessed, but she pushed three weeks’ worth through the window with a wink. “Good work, boy.”

Dawna mumbled something and flinched as Konan reached for the sack of food. She threw a dubious look at the older woman. Her reaction was normal—all the servants who worked the food window were frightened of the prisoners, as they should have been.

With a wary look around, Konan saw the other miners approaching and hurried away, his rations held close.

As he trudged off, he heard the other miners’ lewd comments and laughter. They were teasing Dawna. He clenched his jaw at the rough words, which seemed to be getting rougher as he made distance.

Then he heard a yelp, and he looked back.