Alchymist by Ian Irvine

longer
my son. You will be erased, expunged, obliterated from the Histories of the
Hlar family.'
    'Father,'
Nish whispered. 'You can't take my Histories from me.'
    'I
can and I will, before this day is over.' 'But — what am I to do?'
    'You
should suffer the ultimate penalty, as all traitors must. But,' Jal-Nish said
inexorably, 'we are in sore need of labour to haul our clankers to the nearest
node. Therefore, Slave Nish, you will be harnessed into a team of criminals and
slaves. You will be teamed with the treacherous Slave Flydd, and every time he
incurs a whipping, so will you. You will haul clankers without respite until
your heart bursts, and then you will be buried in the road, face upwards, that
the meanest citizens in the world will tread you down. They will walk over you,
Slave Nish, until there's not a fragment of flesh or bone or sinew left. And
ever after, an obelisk at that point shall name your crimes and their
punishment. Such is the penalty for high treason.'
    Even
the chief scrutator looked shocked, though not, Nish thought, displeased.
    Jal-Nish
turned away, struggling to contain himself, but after a few steps he doubled
over and vomited into the grass. Shortly he returned, pulling the mask back
into place. A single tear glistened in the corner of his eye, then the iron control
was back.

    'It
is done,' Jal-Nish said to the Council. Take Slave Nish to his doom!'
    'You
have proven your worth over the past year Scrutator Jal-Nish,' Ghorr said
softly. 'Should you save our clankers, and defeat the lyrinx in battle, a place
on the Council will be yours. We have need of men such as you.' Taking
Jal-Nish's arm, Ghorr led him up the hill.
    A
pair of white-faced soldiers stepped in beside Nish. 'I won't resist,' he said
numbly, but they seized him anyway. One went through his pockets and removed
everything of value. The other patted him down for weapons. Finding none, they
lifted him between them and carried him away.
    As
Nish looked back, the crowd dispersed, except for two people. Tirior, who had
been watching the proceedings from behind, walked slowly back to the Aachim
lines. The other person was the one-handed man, Merryl, who had helped Tiaan.
He stared after Nish, then began to trudge around the curve of the hill, away
from the command post.
    After
a sleepless night in a solitary slave pen, Nish was hurled into the bloody
slush of the battlefield. A clanker stood just a few steps away, its thick
metal legs half-buried in mud. Wooden skids had been fitted underneath. To his
left a group of people, slaves like him, were being harnessed together. They
looked as despairing as he felt. Behind them were other slave teams, as well as
teams of horses, oxen, donkeys and buffalo, soldiers and camp followers, women
and even children. Every kind of beast had been harnessed to the impossible, heart-bursting
task.
    Nish
was numb with horror. His own father had cursed him, had sentenced him to a
bestial death. Even in this war, which had produced mountains of corpses, in
which the whole fabric of human society had been torn apart, that was
impossible to comprehend.
    Crack'
Pain flowered in Nish's ear. He put a filthy hand up and brought it back
covered in blood. It felt as if something had bitten a piece out of his
earlobe.
    Crack!
The other ear exploded with agony. Scrambling to his feet, Nish saw a grinning
overseer coiling his whip, a good ten paces away.
    'What
the hell do you -?' Nish roared, driven careless by despair.
    The
whip lashed out again, catching him on the chest through the gape of his shirt.
Muffling a cry, Nish looked around frantically. What was the brute trying to
tell him?
    He
scrambled towards the head of the team, slipping and sliding in the muck, and
every time he went to his knees the lash fell on his back or buttocks, or
coiled around his waist to nip at his belly. The overseer was a monster, a
sadist, and he, Slave Nish, the lowest worm in all of Santhenar, could do
nothing about