Free From the Ashes by Gareth K Pengelly Page B

come to bring their rations. His stomach grumbled in protest, as he gazed out between the bars of the cold, dark cell, yearning for a glimpse of Clansmen bearing food.
                  “I think we’ve been forgotten about…”
                  The voice at his side belonged to Narlen. The tall Plainsman’s words had a levity to them, a sing-song nature that rendered even his most serious statements somewhat flippant. Alann liked that. It kept the men calm. He turned, gazing about at his fellow captives that lay sprawled on the floor or pacing about; Elerik, the Alatharian farmhand; rotund Jorgen, of the Hills; and the others. Nine all told, after the Barbarian had gone rogue in the arena. Nine men, captive, bound, each with their own story to tell, their own private tale of woe.
                  And Alann knew them all by heart.
                  He had made it his business to; for though he was no Prince, no King, he knew how to be a leader of men. He knew that orders were best followed if they weren’t perceived as orders at all; but rather the advice of someone known and trusted. Someone who had their best interests at heart. But it was no mere ploy to win their trust, but actual empathy that had caused him to sit and listen as the men had sat in the circle on the stone floor and learned about one another.
                  No, despite his thirst for revenge over the years, Alann had truly cared for the Foresters that had flocked to him, rallying about him as moths to a flame. The Foresters. His heart ached at the memory of the battle in the North. Where were they now? Was Iain leading them? Had they gone North, as he’d asked, to find aid? Had he, in fact, failed them himself by lusting after his revenge rather than leading them tactically, withdrawing with them as Iain had suggested?  He shuddered, recalling the unnatural sight of Kurnos, rising, tossing aside the axe that had struck him like a man casually flicking aside a bug.
                  Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps one day I might get my revenge. One day happenstance might drop that chance in my lap. But till that day, I shan’t allow my own grievances to blind me to the safety of those that put their trust in me.
                  I shall resolve to be a better man.
                  He shook himself from his melancholy, aware that Narlen was standing, patiently, watching him.
                  “Sorry, my friend. You’re right; it does seem like they’ve forgotten us. It’s quiet…”
                  “Too quiet…”
                  The cliché came from behind them, the Farmer, sat on a stool looking down at the ground, his hands clasped together. Elerik rarely spoke, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself most of the time. When he did speak, it was because he had something to say.
                  “What do you mean, farmer?” enquired the Plainsman.
                  “Well… you focus on the jailers who come with our food. Yet, what about the Slavers bringing fresh slaves? What about the Auctioneers coming to inspect us, to see if we’ve broken yet?” He rose, slowly, to his feet, looking over at them now. “No-one has come at all. No-one. It’s as though some great calamity has occurred above. It’s as though you’re right; we have been forgotten.”
                  The Woodsman nodded as he recognised the truth in Elerik’s words.
                  “You’re right; these prisons were a-bustle with feet only yesterday. Now, nothing.”
                  He turned, looking out between the bars once more.
                  “What’s going on up there…?”
     
    ***
     
    The campfire was slowly burning down to a pile of ashen embers that glowed a steady orange, the leaders of the Shaman army sitting about it, staring in silence into its fading