Dave Duncan - West of January

“How many did you fill, then?” he asked.

I grinned. “Twelve, master.”

“But I told you to do fourteen.”

My relief froze before a cold breath of terror. He was only teasing, of course. Wasn’t he?

“Master, I am sorry.”

“You’re going to be sorrier.”

“But—” I stopped. My tongue was too dry to move.

He tilted my head back so I could see the sadness in his face. “The others are waiting to see, Knobil. They remember how you befriended me, so they are waiting to see what I do. I have to damage you. Surely you can see that? I have to show them. You’re two buckets short, slag!”

Two buckets short—a terrible failure.

Never had I suffered a major clawing. I had been scratched often enough, of course—my calves were a network of scars. A moment’s rest that slipped into an exhausted sleep…a pace that flagged near the end of a shift…even the unearned spite of a sadistic boss…any of those could bring a black terror creeping in unnoticed behind a worker, the sudden flash of pain. But never more than that. I had seen, and heard, other men’s backs or legs being shredded like lace, but always I had worked as hard as I was able and been a good slave…

Hrarrh was waiting—for what? What was I supposed to say?

“Yes, master.”

“Well, lie down! My wife’s a very good cook. My dinner’s getting cold.”

Trembling with both terror and deathly exhaustion, I turned around and stretched out, nose against the floor. The mine was silent except for distant dripping noises. There was another pause. I wished he would get on with it. I ached everywhere, and only fear was keeping me from falling asleep.

“Those are remarkable calves, Knobil! After so long in the mine! You must have been a very good dross!”

“Yes, master.”

Then two rock-crusher hands grabbed my ankles and jerked me backward, dragging me half out of my smock. He dropped my feet.

“And there isn’t a single mark on your thighs yet! Amazing!”

I shuddered and was silent. The panther had taken up position beside me, but I just stared at the floor, smelling damp rock and my own terror.

Suddenly Hrarrh began to laugh again. “Oh, Knobil! You believed me, didn’t you? You think I’d worry about the others? You think I’d claw a man who saved my life—just to please them?”

“You won’t, master?”

“Certainly not!”

I relaxed with a gasp of relief and was taken unaware by the searing rip of talons raking my right thigh from knee to buttocks.

“I’m going to,” Hrarrh explained, “but not because of them. I’ll do it just to please myself. You’re two buckets short, aren’t you?”

“Yes, master.”

I could not see the signals, of course, but the cat could, and each movement of his hand brought another fiery slash. Then I would spasm and scrabble my fingers on the rock, and wait for the next one—but I did not cry out.

Hrarrh kept making tsk! noises. “She’s still cutting too deep,” he said. Somehow I stayed silent, and no panther ever made a sound. There was only pain and more pain and greater pain, and Hrarrh’s voice, soft and patient and almost bored. “Do try not to jerk like that, Knobil. It makes it very hard for her to judge.”

And finally…“There, that ought to do it. Well…you might as well be symmetrical.” Two more…“Yes, that looks better. Now we have to clean you up, and I can go home to momma.”

Very bad. Now I knew what a major clawing felt like. But now came the licking, and that was always far worse that the scratching itself. I had not known a man could have so much sweat left in him after a full shift in the mine.

“They don’t enjoy this, either, you know, Knobil. They dislike the taste of human blood—that’s how they learn not to cut so deep. She’s really having trouble stopping the bleeding. But she’s only a beginner, so we’ll just have to be patient with her.”

I never was lucky enough to faint. I bit my tongue, and I bruised my face and hands by beating them against the rocky floor, but I did not disgrace myself by losing control of my sphincter, and I did not cry out. Hrarrh had endured such pain himself without a sound. He would despise me if I screamed.

And nothing can last forever. Eventually he was satisfied. Drained, finished, I lay like a rag on the rock at his feet. He had proved to his buddies that he would savage his former friend. I wondered if I would have the strength even to stand up. I waited for the order, and braced myself to make the effort…

“Turn over.”

“What?”

“Roll over!”

With great difficulty I obeyed, and the cold sandy floor gritted on my cuts. Lying on my back with my smock up around my belly, I felt even more vulnerable than I had before. The lantern flickered gently from a high ledge, making shadows writhe on the rough walls of the little crypt. The panther was pacing again. Seeming very tall, Hrarrh was staring down at me, rubbing his whiskers.

“Two buckets short? Is that enough punishment, do you think?” he asked.

I just grunted, tasting the blood from my bitten tongue, feeling the cold air on my sweat-soaked skin.

“I think that ought to satisfy them—don’t you?”

I managed to mumble, “Yes, master.”

“But it doesn’t satisfy me, Knobil.”

“Huh?”

“We’re going to do more. Yes, it’s too bad, but we will have to do more.”

“What! Why?”

He sighed. “Once a herdman, always a herdman! They make good slaves, but they’re not very smart.”

I had no strength to take any more, and I began to weep silently.

“You don’t understand pride, do you? I told you that before.”

I sobbed and choked and finally found my voice. “Please, master! No more clawing! I’ll work a double shift… I’ll lick your boots… I’ll do anything, anything at all—but, please! No more clawing…”

He shook his head in disgust. “That’s not good enough! You’d do any of those things anyway, if I told you to.”

He gestured. The panther slunk over rather sulkily and sat opposite him, on my other side. It looked down at me with eyes that momentarily glowed red.

Faint voices and clumping of ants’ boots echoed eerily through the mine.

“The next shift is coming!” Hrarrh said. “We must get a move on—my wife will be furious. The right shin to start with, then. And do keep still this time or you’ll lose a kneecap.”

He gestured. I felt the talons scrape along the bone. It was the worst yet.

I screamed.

It burst out before I knew it was coming—a howl of terror and torment beyond endurance.

“Ah!” Hrarrh said approvingly. “You did it!”

“What?”

“That’s what I wanted! Ever since you helped me, dross, I’ve wanted to hear you scream. Pride, remember? That was a very good scream—but I think you can do better. So now Chuckles is going to practice clawing, and you’re going to practice screaming. You’re going to weep and you’re going to beg, but mostly you’re going to scream. You’re going to scream your lungs out for me, Knobil, my friend.”

WHEN IT WAS OVER, two slaves carried me back to the paddock.

I did not sleep, and the clay where I lay became soaked with blood. As the bosses arrived for the next shift, I did manage to stand up, but I knew that he had ruined me. Nevermore would I be a top worker. No food, no sleep, loss of blood, too much pain—work was out of the question. The only remaining secret was how I would be put to death—quickly or slowly? Certainly he would begin the shift by ordering another licking for me. I wondered if it would be possible to blacken his eye before the panther felled me, and I knew that my quaking limbs were not even capable of throwing a punch.