Kenneled

A criminal’s sentence is worse than imprisonment and worse than death.

Did you know that there are hounds bred specifically for the purpose of tracking down military deserters? It's true. Wretched things, disgusting ensorceled creatures with no will of their own.

 

The hounds, not the deserters.

 

I might have had a better chance of slipping away to freedom, but last night I'd made the mistake of camping out with another band of former conscripts like me. They seemed nervous, huddling in the dark, afraid to light a fire. The battle had been winding down around dusk, some foolish affair between two junior lords of this house or that. To be honest, I don't even remember the name of the noble I'd been fighting for. Though, to continue being honest, I took the half-up-front that mercenaries get, and got the hell out of there once the fighting began.

 

Look - if you want a story told by some noble hero, you've curled up with the wrong book.

 

Anyway, I was camped out in the dark with these other shivering b******s, and one of them pulled out a flask. They were passing it around, and I figured I might as well join in. Hours pass, and eventually I fall asleep. When I open my eyes again it's dawn, those guys are long gone, I have a monstrous hang over (did they ferment rat poison?), and I can hear the baying of the hounds not one hundred yards away.

 

“F**k me,” I groan, trying to find some delicate balance between sitting up and keeping my head from splitting open like a rotten gourd. It's a fragile situation that is made even more precarious when I hear the shouts of scouts, saying something or other about 'there he is, get him.' Whatever that means.

 

Gods in the rocks, why am I suddenly on the f*****g ground with dogs all over me and blades pointed at my face?!

 

“Wow, hey!” I cry, lifting my hands to show I'm unarmed.

 

“SILENCE, DESERTER!”

 

They grab my obviously unarmed hands and start tying rope around my wrists, and they're being as far from gentle as you could imagine. “Now, c'mon. Can't we be civil about this?” I'm guessing the answer is no, given how a filthy, heavy boot crashes into my ribs. I curl up and wheeze, groaning out a pathetic “guess not...” When they get me to my feet, I'm half covered in cold dirt and leaf litter, my clothing is half soaked, and my vision blurs as each beat of my heart makes my head ache terribly. In such a state I don't put up a fight, allowing myself to be led along like a tame little lamb.

 

That is, until I clear my throat and ask conversationally “So... did our side win?”

 

I can see the punch coming from a mile away, and I smile blissfully, even as gloved knuckles crack into my temple. Oh numb unconsciousness, you are my blessed savior, and I tumble like a lover into your embrace.

 

When I come to, my headache's cleared up, though my ribs still hurt. There's not a lot of light in here right now, but I can hear the drip of water, and I know that there's very little around me that's soft. As my vision sharpens up, the wan starlight shivering in through the barred window high above gleams on the edges of the stone blocks making up the walls. Empty shackles hang like morbid garlands, and rock sweat trickles down their links.

 

Which reminds me - it's really cold in here. My chest cramps as I take in a deep breathe, and when I exhale I can see the fog of it writhe up through the air like dragon smoke. My clothes have been removed and replaced by, I'd imagine, prisoner-issue garb - a fabric that somehow is warm enough to keep me alive here while at the same time being itchier than a trouser-full of nettles. Not that I've experienced that, but I have a healthy imagination.

 

I move a little, and realize that my a*s is numb because I fell asleep sitting up with my back to the stone wall. And I did that because I'm shackled there by the wrists and neck. A wiggle of my fingers assures me that none are considering snapping off from the cold, so I've got that going for me, but still, I'm quite uncomfortable. I'm also not sure when I've last eaten either, not counting that 2000-something-proof fermented rat poison those other deserters gave me.

 

The b******s... they knocked me out so they could get a head start. If only I'd thought of that. I'm jealous more than anything.

 

Of course, now that I'm awake, I have cause to notice that there are no buckets or any other measures taken for me to obey the call of nature. And I really have to obey it right now.  “HEY!” I shout, rattling my chains. “HEEEEEY!” My face prickles with chill as I frown, and I take a moment to see if I can even reach my trousers. Nope. The chains stop my hands just inches short. “HEEEEY!” I cry even more desperately.

 

“Shut up, prisoner” comes a gruff voice down the hall, beyond the bars of my cell.

 

“No. I need to relieve myself.”

 

“Then do so and shut up.”

 

“There's no bucket!”

 

“Go in the corner, and breathe through your mouth.”

 

“I'm chained to the wall, idiot!”

 

“Then I guess the corner's off the menu.”

 

“I can't even reach my pants! What am I supposed to do?” At this point I've gotten the guard to say enough to reveal a feminine voice, a really deep-throated, jaded one at that.

 

“I would think the answer is obvious” she murmurs, and I hear the rustle of something, and the creak of a chair. Is she reading a newsprint?

 

“You're asking me to s**t my pants and then just sit in it?”

 

“That's the long and short of it.” There goes another page.

 

“Do you understand that all I've had in my stomach for the last day is half a flask of some gods-forsaken poison that knocked me out? That and camp rations, and camp coffee. And now it's a furious, bubbling helltide that's going to make the entire prison a nightmare if you don't get me a bucket and let me get a handle on this disaster.” I grit my teeth, closing my eyes. “You've got thirty seconds, or I will find a way to scrape my pants down and send it towards the door.”

 

I hear a pause, then a sigh, and the scrape of a heavy wooden chair on stone flooring. The damn paper is put down, and I hear the clap of boots. The jangle of a bucket is plucked up near my door, and a ring of keys is pulled out. The figure of my jailor is just visible in the dark. She enters, then locks the door behind herself, securing the keys back on her belt. I might be biased because I'm chained up and sitting down, but she looks very imposing, even though she's got slender limbs.

 

If this were any other situation, I'd probably find her very pretty. But as it is, I suffer the indignity of having my situation remedied with assistance. Neither of us speak during the entire affair, and luckily it's cleanly over soon enough, and the bucket is taken away. It wasn't quite as awful as I'd anticipated, but it wasn't delightful either. I'm not sure shitting in a bucket ever is. In a few minutes she comes back, and brusquely tugs my pants up and fastens them.

 

“I bet you're not paid nearly enough for this” I mutter as she finishes knotting my slacks, and she only grunts in annoyance. “I'm Tahlin, by the way.” Her head lifts a touch, and I can tell that she's giving me a dirty look. “Uh... I figure, you deserve to know my name, after that whole thing.”

 

“I hope they execute you” she growls, getting back to her feet.

 

“I thought that was a done deal.”

 

She pauses by the door, pulling out her keyring. “For you, they're dithering.” Her tone makes it clear that she thinks they're idiots.

 

“Who's they?” If I can keep her talking, maybe I can get her to come closer, and I can have a chance at those keys.

 

“Do you want me to provide you with a bucket, in future?” is her rejoinder.

 

“...Yes, please.”

 

“Then shut up.” The door's unlocked, opened, and then locked behind her again. Yet she pauses as she fastens the keys to her belt, noting “whatever they decide, you'll likely learn of it tomorrow. There’s a good boy.”

 

My mouth opens, almost letting slip another attempt at conversation. But I really will be needing that bucket in the future, so I stay silent, slumping against the wall. What could be worse than executing someone for deserting?

 

 

 

 

 

It is now months later, and I long for the days of my incarceration. Back when I was a man. Back before my shape was changed and my mind was altered. I’m tired most days, running so far in the chase. But there are times of joy. Times when I catch deserters. My only satisfaction is thinking that they might join the pack someday soon.