Free Heirs of the Fallen: Book 02 - Crown of the Setting Sun by James A. West

alone.
    By the time he had screwed up his courage enough to test the strength of the bindings, the light of day had fled night’s dark substance. The ropes held tight around his wrists, the same as those securing his ankles. Exasperated, he flopped and strained until he lay on his opposite side, gasping. Recklessness gave way to desperation, and Leitos heaved and pulled against the lashings. Dust rose and sand flew, the ropes tore his skin, but he came no closer to getting loose. Tears of rage coursed over his cheeks, and he spat every oath he knew in an effort to relieve the burning ache in his throat.
    In the end, he went limp, panting, staring into a darkness that had become like a living entity pressing hard against his face. The desolation he had held in check fell on him in cascading waves, extinguishing the rage. Sorrow came after, flooding him.
    Grandfather
, he cried silently,
is this my path, a life of suffering?
No answer came. Spent in mind and body, he eventually slumbered again. Matching his thoughts, all was blackness before his eyes, all was loss….
    Something jabbed against Leitos’s spine, once and again, rudely bringing him awake. Dawn shed its golden light over the land, filled the cave with warmth. A solitary bird trilled in the distance, but Leitos focused on the closer sound of something shuffling about in the sand behind him. The digging pressure went away. He remained still, thinking some desert creature was preparing to make a meal of him.
    “For an escaped slave to sleep so soundly,” the Hunter rasped, “life in the mines must be better than once it was. Or is it that you are a slave of a different sort? Did the
Alon’mahk’lar
wash and perfume you, boy … did they make a whore of you?” he finished with a nasty chuckle.
    Leitos went rigid upon hearing that unforgettable voice. Doubtless, the man would decide he needed another
lesson
for keeping silent instead of answering, or for anything else he did, as the Hunter seemed to crave delivering pain and terror on his captives.
    A madness swept through Leitos, and he decided that he did not care what the brute did to him. In truth, the worse, the better. Remembering how the man had beaten him before, Leitos guessed that he could anger him again, drive the Hunter to snuff out his life. If he could not hope to carry out his grandfather’s wishes, then death, he concluded, was better than returning to bondage.
But how to provoke the Hunter?
    He had unwittingly learned the answer to that question just after the Hunter dragged him from the river. When they first met, he had insulted the man, earning some many of the bruises from which he now suffered. He suspected that had he kept antagonizing the ruffian, the Hunter might well have killed him.
    Steeling himself for what was sure to follow, Leitos said in a cracking voice, “Suffering the pleasure of the Sons of the Fallen … you seem to know a good deal about that.”
    Heavy silence met this. Leitos pressed on, wanting to infuriate the man, goad him to unrelenting violence. “I suppose not,” he said in a scathing tone. “Had you
suffered
, they would not have allowed you to take up a life of seeking after fleeing slaves. I suspect you enjoyed all they did to you … longed for more. I wonder, when you bring back a slave, is your reward to pleasure them?”
    Instead of setting upon him with curses and blows, the big man strode to the mouth of the cave. Leitos blinked at the Hunter’s back, eyes swollen, gummy, and sore. The puffiness had retreated a little with sleep, and the reddish hue that had clouded the one was gone. The Hunter, his hood pulled well forward, stood wrapped in silence, looking placidly out into the desert, as if he had heard nothing of what Leitos had said—or was considering how best to destroy him.
    “You’ll want to break your fast,” the Hunter said after a time. “We’ve leagues to go this day, and I’ll not tote you like a weanling babe.”
    “I’m not