The gray granite cliffs towered above the skiff, the waves threatening to dash the small craft against the rocks as the thirteen passengers, ten of them dressed in simple prison tunics of red wool, fought to stay upright.
One by one, the prisoners were forced to the front to the skiff and made to catch the rope ladder hanging down from somewhere far above. Looking like a string of holly berries, they clung to the ladder, the stiff winds swinging them into the cliff-side and back out over the open ocean, the weathered wooden rungs slick with salt and sea spray.
The last prisoner unloaded, the skiff rowed for the waiting ship, neither captain nor oarsmen casting a backward glance at the unfortunate prisoners or their island prison. Wool tunics growing cold and heavy with moisture, the men struggled towards the cliff top, the first quavering scream ringing out as one lost his grip and plunged into the sea below. He surfaced once, as all who stopped to catch their breath could see, then the sharks came, the sharp white fins cutting through the steely water as sure as jagged teeth cut through flesh and bone.
When the blood-slick thinned the men moved on, one hand, one foot above the other, knowing too well that the penalty for failure was death.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Hands raw and bleeding, Lian scrambled up onto the muddy ground, the stiff grass trampled flat by many boots. Her arms and legs aching, she lay in the muck and stared up into the pale gray sky. Birds screamed and wheeled overhead, somewhere the wind rattled leafless branches, and all around she could hear the roar of the ocean.
"Get up, boy," growled a one-eyed dwarf, and heavy dwarven boots landed a solid kick in Lian's ribs. Rolling to her feet, she staggered away on legs that shook like a foal's, leaning against a scarred and twisted tree to keep from falling. How had it come to this? she wondered, her eyes flicking from one cruel and hardened face to another.
Crack!
The snap of a whip rang out, and a murmur ran though the assembled prisoners. Lian leaned around the tree and watched them shuffle back as four men dressed in blue marched into the center of the group. Each one carried a long black whip, with each handle wrapped in a different color; blue, green, purple and yellow.
The man with the blue whip cracked it again and leaped upon a weathered boulder, his flowing silver hair streaming out behind him. Definite elf, Lian decided, taking in the lean, wiry body, thin angular face and pointed ears. Only the eyes were wrong, gold instead of violet, as if he were a Kirra.
"Welcome to Sambia," he said, looking out at each and every one of them. Lian cringed as his eyes passed over her. He was Kirra, all right, everything about him screamed vampire. "This is the men's prison of the entire eighth sector, so you'll probably see a lot of strange faces. Take a good look, because from this moment on, you're no longer human or elf, dwarf or troll, ichthian or dragon. We're all prisoners. No one is equal here, but it will not be race that divides us." He leaped off the rock and another took his place, the man with the yellow whip.
"We are the four kings of Sambia. We have earned these places with the blood and pain of others. We will not give them up easily. Shortly, you will be divided among us, and you will become our property. With hard work, a little luck and a lot of backstabbing, you may move up in ranks and enjoy greater privileges, but until then, you are nothing." He scowled down at the prisoners, the great expanse of forehead rising above his brow betraying his trollish background.
Uncoiling his green handled whip, the tall, black skinned king stepped forward, bearing the sour disposition of a dishonored Dracorian. Barking orders, he chased the nine surviving prisoners onto line. Lian was shoved in between the surly dwarf and a horned azalian man. The four kings stood across from them, talking among themselves while the prisoners shifted nervously.
"I am Errin Mar," the first king said when he finally stepped forward. He held his blue handled whip with the ease of much practice and when he spoke, Lian could see the glint of his sharp fangs. He walked the length of the line, studying each one before moving on. Don't pick me, don't pick me, Lian begged silently, holding her breath until the vampire moved on. He came back, though, stopping in front of Lian, a thin smile playing on his bloodless lips.
Behind Errin, one of the other kings made a noise in his throat. Errin looked at Lian once more, the smile gone from his face. His lips moved slightly, forming the words 'I'm sorry', then he turned and pulled the dwarf out of line. Lian looked across at the man who made the sound, the fourth king with the purple on his whip, but his face was hidden by the hood of his blue cloak.
Without introduction, the Dracorian king paced the line, stopping before Lian and grabbing her by the back of the neck. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "You looked so tasty, too," then he let go and chose a human from the other end of the line. Lian swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest.
With fingers gone cold, she touched the hem of her tunic, feeling the wax paper packets sewn within. At least that was all right. Without the salve to keep her breasts from swelling, she would no longer pass as a man, and then every horny bastard on the island would be lined up to rape her. She shuddered and looked up to see the king in the blue cloak striding toward her.
He did not walk the line like the others, but came directly to her, his gloved hand falling heavy upon her shoulder. Somehow, the hood made him the most frightening one out of all the ugly faces around her. Lian looked up into the dark circle of the hood, trying to see his face, but saw only the sharp gleam of narrowed silver eyes before he backhanded her.
She stumbled as he shoved her across the muddy cliff top, the ache in her face doubled by a fierce burning. When she touched her jaw, her hand came away bloody. She looked again at the hands of her new king, the long fingers gloved in black sharkskin.
The rest of the men were divided up, the vampire, Errin, taking the last, ninth man. Lian and the other prisoner selected by the hooded king marched through the mud and sharp grass, following the cliff edge to the river, which cascaded from the heights in a violent, white laced display. Then their ruler pointed them upriver, having not yet said a word to either of them.
~*~*~*~*~*~
No walls or fences surrounded the prisoner's village, just dark damp forest and a stretch of cold gray river. Several large, long buildings, built of wood and stone, lay scattered around a squat stone hall, the slate roof green with moss and lichen. To one side of the buildings ran barren fields, the dark earth turned over in crooked and ugly rows. Lian's father had once beat her brother senseless for plowing a furrow half that poorly, and the sight of those mangled rows made her flush with anger.
The king marched them through the center of the village, the other prisoners pausing in their various tasks to watch the newcomers pass by, but they didn't gawk long. Into the stone hall they were directed, past rows of wooden tables and benches, to a small chamber at the rear. Once inside, Lian and the other man stood in silence as the hooded king closed the heavy wooden door.
The little room was warmed by a crackling fire on the hearth, the cheery golden light mingling with the wan winter sun that filtered in through the poorly made glass of the windows. Below the windows lay an assortment of pillows and cushions, the cloth coarsely woven and dyed in garish shades of red, brown, green and yellow. Against the far wall sat a massive throne carved from a single block of dark red wood. It didn't look very comfortable. The king turned his back on them and finally spoke.
"I am Karis Mirrik," he said in a quiet, scratchy voice, like a man who drinks too much whisky. He pushed his hood back, revealing close-cropped white hair. He must be an old man, thought Lian. King Mirrik now removed his cloak entirely and tossed it over the back of the throne. His lean, strong body was clothed in black hide, from his heavy boots to his long-sleeved jacket. Lian found herself holding her breath as he took his place on the throne and finally allowed them to see his face.
Hideous was the first word that occurred to Lian. Scars lined and mottled his face, long, thin pale ones and raised, round red ones, scars that ran up into his hair and down his neck into his collar; whip scars, burn scars, spell scars, scars she couldn't even tell what made them. She didn't realize she was staring until he flicked his whip in her direction.
"Name," he demanded. She took a breath and looked down at the floor.
"Lian Daren," she said, trying to sound gruff and manly. Mirrik stared at her a moment, then turned his cold silver gaze on the man beside her.
"I'm Nechar DeVarence, your majesty," the prisoner said with obvious contempt. Mirrik's grim expression never changed, but he struck out with his whip, thin hide scoring a bright red streak down Nechar's cheek. Grunting in pain, the big man stumbled back, reaching up to stop the blood that flowed down his jaw and dripped onto his tunic, leaving dark spots on the much brighter red cloth.
"You will fear me," King Mirrik said, in the same quiet voice. "Nechar, house two. Lian," and here his voice softened, almost like a purr, the sound sending chills down her spine. "House nine."
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Welcome to the harem," said a cherub faced youth as Lian stepped inside the high-ceilinged barracks house. Rows of beds filled the huge room and fires burned in the hearths at either end. "I'm Barribi," he said.
"Lian," she said, not sure what to make of this cheerful boy. He didn't look much older than she was.
"C'mon, Lian, I'll show you around." He led her down the rows of beds to one in the middle, a thick gray blanked folded neatly on the lumpy mattress. "You're new, so you sleep here. Those that've been here longest get the ones nearest the fires." He took her to a window and pointed out a small building with high windows of frosted glass. "That's the bathhouse. Water comes from a hot springs. Very nice. Over there," and he pointed to a row of shacks, "are the outhouses. There're more behind the hall and on the far side of the fields. We're very civilized here."
"What is this?" Lian asked, looking around at the dozen or so young men lounging around inside the barracks. None looked over twenty-five, with most only a few years older than her.
