The Miscreant by Brock Deskins

king’s road. I’ve heard they killed nearly a third of the workers over the last year. That’s why they started indenturing free folks by paying families to sign over custodial rights like they done to you and Colin.”
    “What brings you to the camps? I thought it was voluntary even for prisoners?”
    “Not anymore, but I volunteered to get out of my cell. Better to die in the open than live in a cage. I was a member of the Free Traders. The Guild had me arrested and charged with conspiracy against the crown. It only took a few dinarins to have the court find me guilty. The name’s Frank, Frank Kamis if you feel inclined to carve my headstone.”
    Frank seemed a decent enough fellow, but Colin was his age and there by similar circumstance. It was easy to spark and maintain conversations with him to pass the hours and days-long travel. The other men were real convicts, guilty of robbery, murder, and everything in between. Garran was not indisposed to talking with them, but neither was he quick to attempt to make friends. They spoke amongst themselves, apparently preferring to keep to their own kind just as Garran did.
    Three days out of Wooder’s Bend, their small retinue met up with a larger contingent near a crossroads leading to the various small mountain communities scattered throughout the region.  Garran counted close to a hundred men including the two score of soldiers tasked with guarding them. The biggest surprise was the nearly dozen women occupying two wagons. It was obvious that their guards maintained a higher vigilance on them, not to keep them from running off but to maintain a barrier between them and the men. One group of women worked at cauldrons set over fire pits cooking meals while a second group scrubbed and mended clothing.
    Cyril climbed atop the kitchen wagon. “Listen up. We have one more recruiting group out, but I’m going to make my speech anyway. I’ll repeat it when they get here so you hard-headed louts can hear it twice and get it into your thick skulls. This is a work camp. That means you will work. You will do what you’re told when you’re told to do it. You see all this food these ladies have cooked up? Smells good, don’t it? If you want to eat, you will work. If you don’t work, you don’t eat. Pretty damn simple, isn’t it? Cause my men or me problems and you don’t eat. Are you seeing a pattern? Good. If you forget, your bellies will surely remind you. Cause violence to my men or your fellow workers and you won’t eat, and you will feel the sting of the lash across your backs. Are there any questions?”
    Garran raised his hand. “What was the second thing again?”
    Cyril grinned. “There’s always a clever one in the bunch. I had a hunch it would be you. Clever boys tend to go hungry. Best you remember that. I’m sure you have all heard about the attacks on some of the other camps. Working the road is a dangerous job, and I won’t lie by telling you it ain’t. Men get injured and killed during the job without the help of these raiders. It’s the duty of every man here to stay vigilant and defend the camp if it comes to it. Maybe you don’t have the kind of spirit or integrity of a soldier fighting for a cause, but I have to think even the lowest of you will fight for your own life, and you might just have to do it.”
    The camp commander pointed to a man standing in front of a wagon with a boxed-in carriage bed. “That man is Henri Pasternak, my quartermaster. All you new recruits line up so he can issue you your bedrolls and tents. Once you set up your camp, we’ll serve chow.”
    Garran got in line, taking a step forward every few seconds as the men received their basic issue and picked out an open plot of ground to set up camp. The quartermaster shoved a bundle into Garran's arms without a word. He carried his burden to a spot beneath a tree, unrolled the parcel wrapped in canvas, and inventoried its contents.
    Colin trudged up next to him and held up