The next day's work was hard and laborious. The Vorion Imperium had built a series of mountain forts deep in the Crestfall Peaks of the moon of Kela Minor, to keep the local indigenous peoples - the Kelas, the Banshees, the Siiraan, and the like - under control. When the Orr'uns had first occupied the planet, nearly a decade ago, they had tried the same tactic with little success; the indigenous peoples refused to be tamed.
In these fortresses, built specially to battle the deadly conditions of the Wastes, were mines, built to dig for ferrobrick, thocrete, and other materials the Vorions needed to build their forts. For miners, the Vorions used slaves.
The Crestfall Peaks were in the Emyhr Wastes, separating the northwest of the region from the south. The Wastes were a harsh and unforgiving environment. There were no nights here, and the sun ravaged the dustplain endlessly. Water was sparse; indeed, the ground was so cracked and broken that it threatened to give way at any moment. But worst of all was the fauna, deadlier even than the legendary poison jungles of Ry'bush'ii: rybeasts, thawbeaks, ulfs, giants, morkrakkens...there were enough dangerous beasts to make even fearless warriors like Ivan the Slayer tremble (if but for a moment).
Garrun remembered back to when he had been stationed on Kela Minor, along with his special Dagger unit. The unit had contained some of the finest warriors in the Orr'un Second Legion; but a simple expedition into the mountain caves, where they had found only a handful of ulfs, had left the unit at less than half-strength. It was his failure as Dagger Commander which (among other things) Garrun attributed to his failure to become a general. As devastating as the ulf was, the huge loss of life was his fault.
Garrun grimaced as he stepped out of the fortress and onto the dusty plateau. The howling wind swept away most of the sound his boots made as they struck the plateau's hard rock. He inhaled a lungful of dry air and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead for what felt like the thousandth time in the last few minutes and brushed aside his sweaty locks of dark hair. The air clogged his throat like clay, and his body was layered in a permanent film of sweat.
'Move,' barked one of the Vorion guard. They didn't even give Garrun a chance to oblige the request: Garrun groaned as the guard struck his back with their pike. Bent over and breathing hard, Garrun shuffled across the plateau alongside the rest of the slave group. His injury still burned, but the pain was gradually fading.
Most of the slaves were Orr'uns, like him, with silvery skin, three arms, and squarish heads. Their bare, silver chests gleamed in the sunlight. Like him, they had once been great warriors; now they were cogs in the Imperium's slave empire. The non-Orr'uns in the group were mostly the Vorion guards, who wore tight, dark-grey bodysuits and helms, though a couple of the slaves were also non-Orr'un. All the slaves looked thin and fragile. One - a small, ratty Siiraan - looked so emaciated Garrun half-expected it to simply soar away on the wind.
Eventually, they reached the edge of the plateau, where the towline was placed. Comprised of a metal rope set on a conveyor and attached to sequentially-placed handbars, the towline would carry them from the plateau, down the mountainside, and into the mines. Next to the towline sat the operating box, where a group of uniformed reptiloid operators stood by a cluster of terminals.
As the slaves arrived at the towline, a couple of the uniformed reptiloids - whose species Garrun still had yet to determine - scarpered out to meet them. After exchanging a few grunts of Oiy, the main language of the Vorion Imperium, with their guards, the reptiloids set to work getting the slaves on the towline. One by one they stepped up and grasped the handbars, before the towline whisked them away.
As the slaves grasped the towline, Garrun noticed them suppress winces - and bit back a wince of his own. The handbars were electrified, which paralysed the slaves and ensured they didn't let go: the journey to the mines was long and the Imperium had already had valuable slaves fall to their deaths on the mountainside - intentionally or not.
When it was the Siiraan's turn, the ratty being let out a pitiful wail as it grasped the handbars, before the conveyor whisked it down the mountain. By contrast, when one of the huge Orr'un warriors at least twice Garrun's height and width stepped up to the towline, he didn't flinch when he grasped the handbar. With a bald head and a body of bulging muscle, the warrior was Vax, a man Garrun had fought alongside only briefly in the Gallacag War. Garrun remembered being impressed by Vax's warrior skill, though had been unnerved by what he'd perceived as the man's unbridled sadism. Still, he had been a loyal son of the Conquest.
When it was Garrun's turn to step forward and grasp the handbars, he made sure to keep a hard face, like Vax had. Even as the electricity coursed through him, he glared furiously into the slitted eyes of the nearest reptiloid operator and was pleased to see the reptiloid was visibly shaken. Rattling and shaking, the towline carried him away.
As Garrun descended the mountain, the mountainside blurred beneath his feet. A few tufts of bramble and thorny bush poked up from gaps in the grey stone, but for the most part, the mountain was rocky and barren, empty of life. Adjacent to the mountain, Garrun spied a huge river - the Grey River, which wound through much of the west region of the Wastes. Even all the way up on the mountainside, he could still hear its rushing waters and foaming swells.
After a few minutes on the towline, Garrun's arms began to ache. By the time he saw the mine - a gaping, black hole in the side of the mountain - his muscles felt fit to pop. As he drew closer, another spurt of electricity buzzed through the handbars, unparalysing him; he dropped from the towline, landing roughly in a cloud of dust at the entrance of the mine.
Hoisted to his feet by a rough-tongued guard, he heard sobbing and turned to see the ratty Siiraan slave coiled up in a ball, shivering with exertion and crying. One of the nearby Vorion guards stepped forwards and barked at it, but the Siiraan was unresponsive. The guard barked again, but there was still no reply. Finally, judging the ratty creature as unfit for mining duty, the guard drew their pistol and fired.
A bolt of blue energy zipped from the barrel of the pistol and into the Siiraan's back, leaving a smoking hole in its torso. The Siiraan stopped crying and shivering. Its breathing slowed, then stopped altogether.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
As the other slaves nearby gasped and hurried away, Garrun stayed put, staring impassively at the Siiraan's corpse. The Siiraan had been one of the smaller empires the Orr'uns had conquered in their Third Great Expansion. Garrun himself had fought and killed many Siiraan, on Vishos, on Uhh, and on their homeworld of Kela Major (which the Kela Minor moon orbited).
While the Orr'uns' conquest had been bloody, they had at least respected the Siiraan. They had honoured their fallen soldiers with burials and - for the most prestigious of them - statues. The Vorions, though, did nothing of the sort.
There was a difference, at least Garrun thought so, between murder and killing on the battlefield. On the battlefield, both sides had implicitly consented to the other side trying to kill them; as such, death on the battlefield was justified. But murder had no logic like this: it was unjustifiable.
What that Vorion did was murder, Garrun thought disdainfully as he eyed the Siiraan's still-smoking corpse. I will bury you, Garrun promised the corpse, before the guard dragged him away to the rest of the slaves.
Garrun tripped and was sent into Vax, the big Orr'un soldier. The big Orr'un caught him and righted him; he said nothing, but gave Garrun a curt nod of acknowledgement.
Garrun turned away, fixing his gaze on the huge mouth of the cave, which brimmed with shadow. The guards barked some commands and led the slaves into the caves. Guards stationed at the cave mouth handed them pickaxes as they entered.
The guards led them deep into the gloom. It was near-pitch-black, lit only by a thin lines of sconces tracing the edges of the mine. Away from the outside's blazing heat, it was cool and damp. It would have been pleasant were it not for the great fogs of dust which clouded each chamber of the mine and the continued dink-dink-dink of the slaves' pickaxes as they struck the rock. Lining every cave wall were haggard slaves with bare chests and tattered rags wrapped around their waists. They looked pleadingly at them as they passed, as if silently begging the new slaves to bring them reprieve from their toil.
They turned down one of the chasms, coming to another large cavern. Unlike the others, it was empty and silent and there were no dust clouds poisoning the air. The darkness cowered somewhat beneath the glowing silver skin of the Orr'uns.
The guards barked their commands, and the slaves lined themselves up along the cave wall, pickaxes poised. Garrun was reluctant at first to oblige, staring hard at one of the guards - a two-headed caninoid - before eventually taking his position on the cave wall between Vax and an old Orr'un.
'Dig,' ordered one of the guards, before they and the other guards retreated to the entrance of the cavern. There they stayed, peering intently at the miners. Their blacksteel pikes glimmered like onyx shards through the darkness.
Garrun's pickaxe sang with strength as he pummeled it into the rock. That strength would soon fade, he knew, but at least he had strength to begin with. Other slaves - most of the women and a couple of the older men - tired after only a few seconds, muscles burdened by months of toil; their pickaxes sang softly in barely-perceptible whispers.
Garrun glanced at the old Orr'un next to him. He looked entirely different without his gold finery and rubies, and were it not for his prior conversations with him, Garrun would not have recognised him. The old Orr'un's face was tight and wrinkled, his potbelly had shrivelled to a patch of excess skin hanging from his bare torso, and his arms, which had previously rippled with fat, were now gaunt and skeletal.
It was safe to say Elder Volh'gaag had changed significantly during his time under the Vorion Imperium.
Garrun regarded the man with dark eyes, thick brows twisting. But Volh'gaag simply smiled kindly at him.
'Strong as ever, Garrun de Tiorne,' said the old Orr'un.
Amidst his mining, Garrun grunted an unintelligible response, before adding, 'Not "de Tiorne". Not anymore. That name is my father's now, as it was first; I carry it no longer.'
'A warrior's title never leaves him-'
'Not a warrior anymore.' Garrun smashed his pickaxe into a chunk of rock, which shattered into a thousand pieces. He raised the pickaxe. 'I'm a miner now. You elders made sure of that.'
A flash of something crossed Volh'gaag's face, but it faded with a wave of his hand. 'It's for the glory of the Orr'un.'
Garrun rolled his eyes. If he had an amtag for every time he'd heard that, he'd be the richest man in all the Western Quarter.
'No, no, I'm serious,' Volh'gaag continued, unabashed. 'The Whisper came to us in a dream-'
Garrun froze. He dropped his pickaxe; it clattered on the rock. That was a new part of the story - a part he'd never heard before. 'What did you say?' he asked sharply, interrupting Volh'gaag.
His heart pounded. If the Whisper was part of the Great Betrayal, then could that mean...he was real? And if he was real - and that was a big if - what did he want with him?
The old man frowned. 'What did I say? You mean about Seer Augrin and-'
Garrun shook his head. 'No, no - before that.' He stooped, picking up his fallen pickaxe. 'The Whisper. You mentioned the Whisper.'
'Oh?' Volh'gaag shrugged. 'Did I? No matter. Must've been a slip of the tong-'
The old man never got to finish his sentence. With a low growl, Garrun leapt at him, pinning him against the cave wall with two hands. His third hand tore Volh'gaag's pickaxe from his grip and cast it to the floor. He barely heard the clang as the pickaxe hit the ground - but the guards did. They shouted, not that Garrun heard.
Rage bubbled through him. 'Tell me,' Garrun growled, glaring at Volh'gaag. 'TELL ME.'
Volh'gaag choked, eyes wide. He squirmed, trying hopelessly to break from Garrun's grip. His silver face faded to grey then to purple.
Garrun groaned as a pike smacked into his back - followed shortly by another. He released the pickaxe and fell back as two guards grabbed him from behind. Roaring, he struggled against them, but he couldn't fight them off.
There came a thunderous bellow, and suddenly, the hulking frame of Vax appeared. He tore the two guards away from Garrun, throwing them across the cave, and pulled Garrun to his feet.
Garrun frowned. 'What are you doing?'
'Saving you,' the big Orr'un grunted. 'As you saved me.'
Garrun's frown deepened. He couldn't remember saving anyone - and if he had saved someone, it wouldn't have been the big warrior Vax. He didn't need saving.
But before he could think on this any longer, a hand grabbed him from behind and pulled him to the floor. He grunted loudly as a pike struck his chest. More guards rushed in to restrain him and Vax, pinning them both to the floor.
'Solitary for you both,' one of the guards sneered. He gestured to the guards holding the two Orr'uns in place. Garrun and Vax groaned as pikes struck them in the abdomen.
As the guards pulled them to their feet, Garrun spied Volh'gaag approaching one of the guards, inhaling sharply. But the guard had no time for him, shoving the old man roughly into the cave wall.
Garrun and Vax were dragged to their feet and marched out of the chamber. As they walked through the cave gloom, Garrun watched Vax curiously, thinking on what he had said.
Did I really save him? Garrun thought.