No Reprieve by Gail Z. Martin Page A

charges.
    Despite the persistent cold, mining was hard work, and sweat beaded Blaine’s forehead, running in rivulets down his grit-streaked face. Although he had done physical labor on his father’s estate, nothing had prepared him for the relentless hard work demanded from Velant’s inmates. Prokief made it clear that his first priority was making a profit for the homeland with rubies they mined and the herring fished out of the bay by the colony’s small fleet of boats. Whether or not the inmates survived the effort was of little consequence to Prokief or anyone else.
    Piran had started singing a popular tavern song, making up additional verses that were as obscene as they were amusing. The guard glowered but said nothing, since both Blaine and Piran swung their pickaxes in time to the off-key melody.
    “Better get those rock chunks broken up smaller than that, or there’ll be grief,” Blaine advised the third prisoner in their shackled trio. Ford nodded, too winded to speak. Ford stood a head shorter than Blaine, with the slight build of a boy not yet a man. Only fourteen years old, he had been exiled for stealing, not uncommon when a thief made the mistake of pickpocketing a powerful victim.
    Too late. “What kind of rubbish work is this?” Chok said as he made another pass down the long mining tunnel. He kicked at Ford’s rock pile, scattering the pieces. “Pick those up.”
    Ford bent to comply. The guard brought his knee up into the boy’s face, and Blaine heard a snap as Ford’s nose broke. “Now look at the mess,” the guard chided as blood flowed down Ford’s face. “Someone’s gonna have to wash that blood off the nuggets. Who’s gonna do that? Huh?”
    Ford snuffled a reply, doing his best to stoically bear the pain and humiliation. Malice shone in the guard’s eyes. Piran had a reputation for a hot temper, and the branded ‘M’ on Blaine’s forearm that marked him as a murderer gave the guards pause. But Ford was easy prey.
    “I asked you a question!” the guard thundered at Ford, and slapped him hard across the face. “Well?”
    “Me, sir,” Ford stammered, scrambling to gather the blood-spattered ruby nuggets.
    The guard’s foot shot out, catching Ford in the stomach. The boy crumpled with a muted “ oof .”
    “On your feet, boy!” the guard snapped. “Lazy ass. Get up before I drag you up by your hair!” He gave another savage kick, and Ford’s body jerked with the force of the blow.
    Blaine’s temper was at the breaking point, and he knew from Piran’s stance that his partner was already past that. With barely a glance between them, Blaine and Piran moved at the same instant, closing in on the guard from both sides.
    “Leave the boy alone,” Piran growled, landing a right hook that connected with the guard’s jaw hard enough to break bones, as his pickax swung low, busting the man’s ankle. Blaine had already learned how to use the chain of his shackle to trip an attacker, and he swung one foot in an arc and then jerked the chain back hard, pulling the guard’s good leg out from under him. The soldier fell and Blaine swung his sledgehammer into the guard’s shoulder with a satisfying crack.
    “Don’t think you’ll be busting up any children for a while,” Piran gloated. “And it’s a shame about your jaw, but I don’t think you’ll be telling the commander any tales until it heals up.” The guard sputtered angrily, sending a spray of blood flying. “Not that you’ll be much good for anything with a bum shoulder and a bad leg, but the healers might fix you up enough to clean out the latrines.”
    Blaine knelt next to Ford. “Come on,” he said. “Get up. We’ll pay Raka for what we’ve done.” But Ford’s breathing was shallow and uneven, and he was moaning in pain. That last kick hit him hard. Maybe hard enough to break something inside. Damn.
    Blaine looked up at Piran. “Got any other bright ideas?” he asked, glancing at the guard, who was