He d foreseen various brutalities, improvising off those he d witnessed himself in the past or had heard in campfire tales. He d relived the memories of his rape in the debt cells, imagined that it might well happen to him again who knew how many times. He d even brooded briefly, and unable to repress his shudders, on the chances of castration, which they said wasn t uncommon for male slaves in the Yhelteth trade.

But he d never once imagined his life might end. Never really believed he might be the one cut loose and abandoned, begging and babbling as the coffles trooped on into the desert glare. Never thought it could be him, Gerin Trickfinger, fifteen years old, life barely begun, lying there too weak to move, too weak for anything but husked prayers to the Dark Court, Hoiran or Dakovash, Kwelgrish or Horchalat, Firfirdar or fucking anyone who might be listening out there, entreaties bargaining down like a roped and filled bucket let slip through weary fingers and back down the well, hope failing; prayers to be rescued, then prayers simply to be found, albeit by more slavers or bandits; finally the simple plea that thirst and heat might kill him before he felt the first darting, tentative tugs at his flesh, as the scavengers circled his twitching body and the vultures spiraled down to take his eyes

He shivered this fucking cold and stared miserably around at his fellow captives. The gaunt man looked across at the Rajal veteran.

You, scar-face. You think you ll make it?

The veteran grimaced. Against the scarring, it wasn t a pretty sight. Gerin thought of tusked and fanged statues he d seen in the candlelit shadows of the temple to Hoiran at Trelayne s southern gate. And they said that dark spirits were drawn to malformed and mutilated flesh. His father had once told him

The scarred man shrugged.

Probably would, yeah. But you got to think like that. It s all over if you don t.