Chapter 12: Example

Mordred opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

The foreman squinted, his gaze piercing like a white-hot blade.

- I repeat. Where. Are. Your. Stones?

The tension was palpable. Every slave's eyes were riveted on him, some with pity, others with resigned indifference. A man without stones... was a dead man.

Mordred felt his legs trembling under the pressure. He had to find an excuse. Quickly.

- I... they fell..." he stammered, his throat constricted.

The foreman didn't flinch.

- Fell, eh?

His voice was flat, cold, without a trace of belief.

Mordred nodded frantically.

- Yes... while digging... I... I wasn't paying attention...

His heart was pounding so hard he was nauseous.

The foreman watched him for a second longer, then... an evil smile stretched his lips.

- Then go and get them.

Mordred felt the ground give way beneath him.

Damn.

He wanted to say something. Anything at all. But the foreman had already turned to the guards posted nearby.

- Take him to the stake.

A cold shiver ran down Mordred's spine.

The stake?

An older slave beside him twitched slightly. His eyes reflected silent horror.

- Wait... no... I...

Too late.

Two guards violently grabbed his arms.

- No! Let me go!

He struggled, but their steel-hard claws dug into his flesh. They lifted him effortlessly and began to drag him away.

The other slaves kept their eyes riveted to the ground, frozen like statues. No one flinched.

No one would help him.

The stake.

Mordred had no idea what it was.

But seeing the look of horror on some people's faces, he knew one thing.

It was going to hurt, very hurt.

Mordred struggled with all his might, but it was like trying to push back stone walls. The guards didn't flinch, their grip implacable.

The dusty ground shifted beneath his feet as they dragged him towards a huge pile of chains, away from the quarry. The chains were still covered with dried blood and deep scratches.

His heartbeat quickened.

- No... NO!

A nearby slave looked away, murmuring in a barely audible breath:

- Courage kid...

Mordred felt his stomach knot.

Why is this happening? Why didn't anyone react?!

He looked around for support, a sign that someone would protest. But everyone kept their heads down, resigned.

Is this what it means to be a slave? To bend your back and watch your fellow human beings die without flinching?

- Say something, damn it!

Silence.

The guards laughed in their throats as they reached the pit. One of them opened the gate with an agonizing creak.

Mordred tried to grab hold of the edges.

- Please! Wait!

A black claw sank into his skull and his face crashed to the dusty floor. He felt a searing pain explode in his skull.

- Shut the fuck up!

Mordred was chained to the post, his arms pulled above his head by icy irons that bit into his skin. His wrists, reddened by the pressure of the chains, were already burning, and he hadn't suffered a thing yet. His breath was short, his heart beating so fast it seemed to want to escape his chest. All around him, there was total silence. Everyone knew what was coming next.

The foreman stepped forward, his massive figure obscuring some of the torchlight. In his clawed hand, he held a thick leather strap, worn by use but still perfectly functional. He unwound it slowly, snapping it once against the dusty floor. A simple test. A warning.

- The day's total: forty-seven stones.

A murmur ran through the assembly. Some slaves looked away, others swallowed hard. They knew that forty-seven strokes was a long time. It was inhuman.

Mordred felt his muscles contract instinctively. He tried to calm his breathing, but his body refused to obey. His stomach knotted, and a cold sweat ran down his spine.

The foreman stared at him, sizing him up like an animal about to be slaughtered. Then he raised his arm.

The first blow landed.

A sharp sound. A quick, sharp bite that sent a shiver down Mordred's spine. The pain stretched down his back like a line of fire. His body tensed, his breath caught in his throat for a moment.

The second blow followed immediately, more violent. The strap slammed against his naked flesh, cutting through the shreds of his tunic as if they didn't exist. An intense burn radiated down his spine, and he clenched his teeth to keep from screaming.

Third blow.

This time, his muscles contracted on their own under the impact, causing him to jerk involuntarily. He tried to move, but the chains held him firmly in place, preventing him from moving away from the torment.

Fourth blow.

A grunt escaped him in spite of himself. The strap came down again and again, digging deeper into his flesh. He could feel his skin tearing in places, a sticky heat building up on his shoulder blades.

Fifth stroke.

The foreman took his time. He savored each impact, adjusting the force, modifying the angle. Mordred found this out the hard way when the whip lacerated his lower back. A flash of pain shot through him, causing him to inhale violently.

Tenth blow.

His shoulders were now shaking. His breathing became erratic. He no longer knew if he was holding on or if his body was merely surviving the moment.

Fifteenth blow.

The pain was a burning torrent gnawing at her spine. His mind tried to hold on to something else, but there was nothing. Just the night, the stares of other slaves and that leather strap that came down on him again and again.

Twentieth blow.

His vision blurred slightly. He could feel the blood, soaking what remained of his clothing. He tried to move his wrists, but his muscles felt numb.

His legs trembled violently, his muscles tense with pain. His breathing became erratic, each inhalation seeming to plough through his lungs. His heart beat so hard it echoed in his skull, a war drum announcing his own defeat.

Then, around the thirtieth stroke, something inside him gave way.

Mordred tried to keep control. He really tried.

But his body no longer obeyed him.

His eyes filled with tears that he couldn't hold back. An unpleasant heat spread through his lower abdomen, and a sudden wetness slid down his thighs. The realization hit him hard, heartbreaking shame adding to his torment. He'd just pissed himself. Like a terrified animal. Like a helpless kid.

He bit his lip to the quick to stifle a sob. But his body still betrayed him. His shoulders shook in spite of himself, his knees knocked together. His stomach twisted in uncontrollable spasms, and a gagging heaving in his chest. He wanted to scream, to beg, but no sound came from his gnarled throat.

He was no longer Mordred. He was no longer Isaac.

He was nothing.

Just a panting carcass chained to a post, offered up for beating like a piece of meat on a stall.

The foreman noticed. He paused for a moment, raised an amused eyebrow, then spat on the floor.

- Tss. Pathetic.

Then he raised the whip.

And Mordred, unable to do anything else, closed his eyes.

His legs gave way, and he could only hold on by the chains that suspended him.

Thirty-five blows.

His back was a gaping wound. With each new blow, shreds of flesh burst open, and the pain dug into him like fangs.

Forty blows.

His breath was nothing but a rattle. His head felt heavy, too heavy. He toppled slightly forward, unable to maintain any kind of posture.

Forty-five strokes.

His thoughts diluted. For a moment, he wondered if he wasn't dying.

Forty-seven.

The last one.

A leaden silence fell over the quarry. Mordred hardly felt the last bite of the whip. His body was a heap of pain, a broken puppet held in place by rusty irons.

The foreman approached, observing his work with a satisfied eye.

- Is it still standing? Hmpf.

He snapped his fingers. Two slaves stepped forward to untie him. As soon as his chains fell, Mordred collapsed on the dusty floor, unable to make the slightest movement.

- Bring him back.

He felt himself being lifted, dragged along like a sack. The pain was still there, but it seemed far away now. As if it belonged to someone else.

Before sinking into unconsciousness, a single thought occurred to him.

This world was going to break him.