Rebels of Vulvar (Vulvarian Saga Book 2), стр. 44
After we had eaten, with a rattle of chains, Greyson and I stretched ourselves out on the damp stone floor as best we could in the cramped quarters. Within a minute or two, Greyson’s heavy breathing told me he was asleep. But sleep escaped me as my mind whirled, seeking a plan by which I might extricate myself from my intolerable circumstances. There was little conversation in the chamber. Men whose bodies were worn from the cruel labors of many days had little to say. I lay with my back on the damp, hard floor, listening to the sounds of their sleep.
I was far from Mount Volz, far from the Goddess Queens of Vulvar, with whom I wished to lodge complaints. I had failed my beloved Idril and my friend Emer. It seemed I would never solve the riddle of the Goddess Queens, their pitiless, impenetrable wills. They would keep their secrets. I would die, eventually, either whipped or starved in the bowels of the mines of Nisa.
24
The Uprising
Most of the mine tunnels we worked in did not allow a man to stand upright in them. The builders had inadequately braced many of them to save on the cost of lumber. Collapses that killed slaves were all too common. As we worked in the tunnels, freeing the copper ore from the sides of mine with our picks, we crawled on hands and knees. Our knees bleed at first, as we scraped off the skin on the rough stone floors. But gradually, we developed thick calluses. Around our necks hung the leather bags in which we placed the ore and later carried to the scales. Our only light to work by, the small foul-smelling lamps provided.
The working day was fifteen hours, though we of the mines of Nisa had no way to track the passage of time. The overseers never took us back to the surface, and once plunged into the cold darkness of the mines, we never again saw the sun.
Others had told me the only relief to our pitiful existence came once a year. On the birthday of the Anax, the overseers distributed portions of savory meat, fresh brown bread, and a pot of trog to each slave. One fellow on another chain boasted that he had drunk trog three times during his time in the mine. Most were not so fortunate. The life expectancy of a mine slave, given the hard labor and poor diet, was usually between six to eighteen months.
After many days in the mines, I found myself unable to concentrate on anything other than escape.
Each morning, the overseers woke us with their shouts and curses. The term morning was mostly irrelevant to us since we lived in the continuous foreboding darkness of the mines. Two overseers would then unlock the door and dump a tub of the foul-smelling grub into the feeding trough. After they had filled the trough, the slaves edged toward it. But we could not fall on the trough and get food until the overseers exited the cell and locked the door. Only after an overseer outside the door shouted, “Feed,” could we approach and take the food from the trough. If any slaves dared to violate the rules, the overseers would open the door, enter the cell, and drive them back with their whips.
On this particular morning, the overseer in charge was a man who enjoyed his modest power a little too much. It was his habit to stand outside the door for several minutes before giving the command to feed. He knew we were eager to eat our morning rations because the overseers gave us only limited time after they had filled the trough. Often, they forced us out of the chamber to begin the workday before we had finished eating.
The slaves tensed, their eyes fixed on the feeding trough, yet the overseer stood outside the door, grinning and refusing to give the order to feed. He was a petty tyrant who enjoyed persecuting us. Though like us, a slave who would never again see the light of the sun, as overseer, he was Dabar in this dreadful dungeon. I saw in his beady eyes the pleasure he took in cruelly tormenting ragged, starving slaves. It was too much to bear.
Dragging those of my chain with me, I approached the feed trough.
“Get back!” the overseer cried as he hurriedly unlocked the cell door.
Closest to the trough, I inched forward even as he and his companion entered the chamber with whips raised. He approached me. Six times he struck me with the whip. I did not flinch. Again he raised the whip.
“Do not strike me again,” I hissed.
Dropping his arm, he backed away. He must have seen in my eyes that his life was in grave danger. Had he struck me again, I would have killed me with my chain about his throat.
I turned to the men.
“We are men, not animals,” I said. “You are men. From now on, we will not feed as animals. We will distribute the food in an orderly fashion.”
Greyson regarded me.
“Greyson,” I said, “will distribute the food.”
I heard the clang of metal behind me as the angry overseer slammed the door and threw the bolt. Both had exited the cell during my address. Greyson grinned. Stepping forward, he began distributing the food to the hungry slaves in equal portions.
As Greyson and I ate our humble rations together, he looked at me. “They may flood the mines for this,” he said.
“Hopefully, not until they have secured another day’s quota of ore from us,” I said. “I am trusting in their greed.”
I stood and again addressed the men. “I, for one, have tired of this place,” I told them. “We won a minor victory, but chances are good the administrator will flood the mines in retaliation. Is it better to die like vermin, and