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“Prisoner S-C-S-T-8-7-6-9, if you don’t retake your pickaxe, your meal allotment for today will be forfeit!”
“You can fecking have your gruel,” Andy muttered, shoulders so heavy he could do nothing but rest his hands upon his knees. His back was a field of fire, like what he imagined the ground at the base of the nearby mountain to feel like when it occasionally belched up its meal. Red and black, dancing, fighting, co-existing.
And how did these good-for-naughts remember so many combinations of letters and numbers, anyway? The brutish louts didn’t take their education at a university. Most boasted the sea-worn leathered flesh of the Southerlands, which was a real feck-you upon an entire season of feck-yous. So the king didn’t only take them for prisoners, then. Eoghan shou
