Known as Deadrot Row, the region had deep black soil with no vegetation outside of young or useless deadrot. The area had long been harvested, and any useful trees were gone, leaving behind only small, insignificant shrub-like trees.

  Welsh walked at the front of the line, with Lonnek sticking close to his side. At nearly seven feet tall, he towered over the line of humans that followed. In the back of the line, Soralees eagerly watched the injured slave who limped along at the rear. The blackened soil was perpetually moist from a small drizzle of rain that seeped through the dome above, and the poor man’s feet sometimes sank into the dirt, becoming stuck. He grimaced and groaned in pain as he attempted to free himself.

  Soralees’s mouth watered more and more with every sign of weakness. He was patient, however. He would wait until the following morning. By that point, the poor slave would be, quite literally, on his last leg, and he would have even more merit to devour him.

  “Meals” were often chosen by the Overseer. They were typically older slaves whose usefulness had run its course, but injured slaves were also frequently on the menu. For most elites, the tender meat of young slaves was the preference, and it wasn’t uncommon for elites to fight among themselves for the rights to seriously injured slaves.

  As for the healthy slaves, they were treated very poorly by most elites and were given small rations of rat meat sparingly. Welsh was the exception to this rule. He enjoyed the look on a slave’s face when he was given a double portion of meat—something that simply did not happen in Camp Keldarn.

  With Soralees tagging along, he would not get the satisfaction of charity.

  “Have you ever been to the Orchard?” Welsh asked Lonnek.

  Lonnek shook his head sheepishly. “No. If I’m being honest, I kind of wish it would have stayed that way.”

  Welsh snickered. “Sorry, friend. I needed you.”

  Lonnek sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, turning his attention to his fat belly, which shook and jiggled with every step. “You know, even if I sense them coming, I’ll only buy you a few minutes. The Korvis move fast once they attack.”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Welsh said, keeping his eyes peeled. Having Lonnek next to him certainly helped calm his nerves a bit. His uncanny ability to feel movements in the earth would prove very useful. A Korvis horde would undoubtedly stir up quite the commotion.

  Just as Welsh had begun to relax a bit, a loud screech filled the air. Soralees had become irritated with a few of the slaves for not walking as fast as he thought they should. The entire line, including Lonnek, threw their hands over their heads and doubled over in pain.

  Welsh, whose senses weren’t as keen as the others, grimaced but managed to keep his footing. He honestly wanted to rip Soralees’s head off. As far as he was concerned, the screech was unnecessary. It was a fight, however, that he didn’t want to pick lightly. Soralees would not be so easy to take down.

  The slaves quickly gathered themselves and quickened their pace, forcing Welsh to quicken his in the process. Soralees had no trouble carrying his tiny body extreme distances. The others weren’t so lucky.

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  The group had been walking in silence for over an hour, constantly having to force their feet from the dark depths of soil beneath them. Leaving Lonnek to lead the line, Welsh stepped off to the side to assess the slaves and their condition. He could tell they were tired, but the poor injured slave in the back shouldered most of the burden.

  His limp had worsened, and his hurt leg was now nearly useless. He dragged it behind him, sometimes having to lean down and pull himself free of the dirt with his hands. Normally, most elites would scold their slaves for their weakness, but not Soralees. He enjoyed watching the poor man struggle and knew that every step carried the slave closer to his death.

  He couldn’t wait.

  Having spent his entire adult life as a member of the Rotundra, Welsh had seen his fair share of humans slaughtered. As a matter of fact, he had killed a few himself. Orders were orders. But there was something about Soralees’s sadistic grin and the bright red trickle of blood that poured from the slave’s ear that Welsh couldn’t stomach.

  “Halt!” Welsh said, still standing off to the side of the line.

  The slaves stopped immediately, and Soralees’s head whipped in Welsh’s direction. He had a disgruntled look on his face.

  Welsh continued, “It’s growing late, and we are nearing the Ruined Fields. The Korvis have been known to hunt those grounds. We will want to cross them quickly. It’s important we have our strength.”

  Soralees immediately began walking toward Welsh, shoving the poor slave in front of him to the ground as he passed.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Welsh?” he said, trying to maintain a whisper. Every couple of words, he would lose control of his voice, and a loud screech would pop through, causing the line to grimace.

  “I just told you. It’s time to rest. Besides, you’ve had your fun…”

  Soralees turned and looked at the slave, who was struggling to get back to his feet. “With all of this walking… and stretching… he will be nice and tender, don’t you think?”

  The slave was out of earshot, but a few near the front had to have heard him. Not that they were going to do anything about it. If anything, they welcomed it. If someone else became dinner, they themselves would be spared.

  “I don’t care, Soralees,” Welsh said, turning his attention to Lonnek. “Feed the humans.” He then turned and walked away, leaving Soralees fuming.

  One by one, the slaves sat down, sinking into the soil with their weight. It would be a very restless night, as the perpetually moist soil would offer very little in the way of comfort.

  Lonnek did as Welsh had instructed. He pulled a few skewers from a large sack. Each had a number of large dead rats impaled across its length. At the very least, the meat had been previously cooked. This had nothing to do with the preferences of the slaves. Instead, it was because the Rotundra had learned the hard way that feeding raw rat meat to humans often led to rampant disease. Who wants to lose an entire horde of livestock?

  Each slave ate eagerly, knowing this would be the only meat they would see, possibly, for the entire journey. Welsh and Lonnek dined on a couple of plump beetles—their food of choice—and Soralees sat leaning against a young deadrot tree. His gaze never left the injured slave, who sat quietly eating his rat.

  Soralees couldn’t wait for morning; it was when he preferred to feed.

  As the evening “meal” was finished, the slaves turned in for the night. Most of them had the same idea—curl up in the dirt to preserve as much heat as possible. Luckily, the nighttime air was rather warm.

  Welsh, who had finished eating as well, watched as Lonnek finished up his last few bites of beetle. “We haven’t yet entered Korvis hunting grounds, but we have to remain vigilant. Will you take first watch?”

  Lonnek nodded. “Of course. Get some sleep, Welsh. I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know if I feel anything.”

  Welsh patted Lonnek on the top of the head. “Thanks, buddy.”

  He could hear Soralees let out a disgusted snort from the deadrot tree he rested against.

  “And what about you?” Welsh asked. “Will you be sleeping?”

  Soralees didn’t answer the question. Instead, he smirked. “Welsh, this is the only time I’ll warn you—don’t get between me and my meal again.”

  Without another word, he turned and walked away, pacing some distance before sitting down in the blackened earth.

  Welsh, his fists balled in anticipation, slowly relaxed. He had very little to gain by killing Soralees—assuming he even could.

  Lying down in the dirt, he shut his eyes for the night.

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