The remaining trek across the fields went off without a hitch, and the entrance into the orchard rested ahead. Welsh had been distracted by the fallen Rotundran and had neatly forgotten about the hobbled slave. He turned to see the injured slave and his curious friend walking with the others, showing no signs of struggle.

  He wondered how disappointed Soralees was in this development.

  Deadrot trees weren’t particularly hard to harvest. They did sometimes get large enough to be a threat for the slaves who were unfortunate enough to find themselves underneath them as they fell, but harvesting only one should take no time at all.

  Since most of the slaves in Keldarn were limited in their ability to communicate, most of the directions were given through pointing and other hand gestures. As they approached the gate, Welsh held up his hand, signaling the party to stop behind him. It had been some time since he had last laid eyes on the orchard.

  “Once we enter, we are on the clock,” Welsh said. “It’s only a matter of time before the Korvis find us. We have to be quick.”

  Lonnek only nodded.

  Welsh took note of the dilapidated fencerow—made of deadrot itself—that wound its way in no organized manner from each side of the gate. In some sections of the fence, there were three rungs, and in others, two or even one. Architecture hadn’t always been the Rotundrans’ strong suit.

  Behind the gate, the orchard began. It was a sharp contrast to the Ruined Fields. The orchard had no storms overhead and had an abundance of deadrot. In some spaces, the trees were so tightly packed together, it was difficult to navigate between them. Should the Korvis attack, fighting them within the orchard would be a nightmare. With their large numbers and tiny stature, they would use their maneuverability and the trees to their advantage.

  Soralees stepped up beside the group. He first looked up and into Welsh’s eyes, then turned to face the slaves.

  “Don’t,” Welsh said firmly. He was afraid Soralees would let loose one of his ghastly screeches. Such a scream would be nothing more than a beacon for every Korvis horde in the area.

  Soralees slowly turned his gaze to Welsh, looking him defiantly in the eyes. His snake-like irises narrowed, and instead of causing a commotion, he simply pointed his lengthy, clawed fingers toward the nearest deadrot tree in the orchard and snapped his fingers.

  The slaves who followed immediately began filing in through the gate with their axes and climbing spikes at the ready.

  Soralees held his gaze, doing everything he could to assert that he, not Welsh, was the alpha elite on this expedition.

  Welsh maintained eye contact until Soralees sneered and made his way into the orchard.

  “It’s a good thing you’re here,” Lonnek said with a sigh. “Do you know what life is like for us when it’s just Soralees?”

  “Not very pleasant, I imagine,” Welsh responded.

  The slaves got to work quickly. Deadrot trees, while not typically large, still posed a challenge. They would need to chop it down in a way that would cause it to fall into the orchard. Unfortunately, the trees were so closely spaced apart, the biggest part of the job would be getting the harvest tree detangled from the vast web of branches above.

  Lonnek and Welsh stood and watched just inside the fencerow of the orchard. Soralees, on the other hand, crept around the area, sometimes walking uncomfortably close to the slaves. It was clear he enjoyed tormenting them and liked to watch them squirm. Welsh would sometimes glance down to Lonnek, who would only shake his head when Soralees engaged in his antics.

  Lonnek was always on guard. He kept his small hands pressed firmly against his gut. His ability to sense movement would buy them a bit of time should a Korvis horde find their location. They had no idea whether or not the Korvis were currently hunting and could only hope their previous meal would hold them over long enough for them to make it back to Keldarn.

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  It had, however, been a number of weeks since the last reported disappearance attributed to the Korvis.

  It didn’t take long for the slaves to carve a significant chunk out of the side of the deadrot’s trunk. Several slaves then stood on the opposite side of the cut, and with a heavy push, the tree began to crack and pop. A few more slaves joined the effort, and with one more heave, the trunk gave way, and the tree came tumbling into the orchard, where its branches mingled and tangled their way into those above.

  Climbing into the trees definitely posed the biggest threat to a slave’s safety. The slaves all looked to one another, each desperately hoping a few brave souls would volunteer and begin the climb. This essentially never happened, though. As they all stood around, silently considering their choices, Soralees stepped into the middle of the group.

  He walked from slave to slave and, seemingly at random, pointed to a few before signaling for them to make the climb. As the chosen ones gathered their climbing spikes, Welsh noticed their eyes had dropped and now stared aimlessly at the ground. He knew what they were thinking about. They could see themselves falling from the tops of the trees.

  Such a mistake, or accident, would undoubtedly be fatal in some form or another. A wounded slave would be put down.

  And yet, they showed no hesitation.

  Their climbing spikes were little more than cloth straps made from rat hide that wrapped around their hands, with sharp metal barbs that pointed outward from the palm. Deadrot trees had relatively brittle bark, which allowed the climber the ability to sink their spikes deep within the wood.

  Each slave chose a different tree and slowly began making their ascent. Welsh noticed that neither the slave who had been injured nor his curious comrade had been chosen. Instead, these slaves were among three of the larger slaves present. Welsh assumed Soralees had chosen these three intentionally, as they would likely have the most difficulty with the climb.

  This thought made Welsh consider the dynamics present within the Rotundran empire. The Rotundra controlled their subjects through fear, and the Overseers and elites each had their own agenda. Welsh had always taken pride in his work, but most elites—those like Soralees—had no interest in the outcome that best served the community at large.

  Sure, at the end of the day, Soralees would carry out the orders of the Overseer by bringing back a harvested deadrot, but it certainly wouldn’t be the most efficient way of doing so.

  He was brutal, selfish, and power-hungry.

  The first couple of slaves had begun to climb the twenty or so feet it took to make it up into the branches. Each tried to find a fat limb to rest on while they snapped, cut, chopped, and twisted the limbs free from one another.

  The third slave was struggling. The laborers were never given any sort of training or practice before they were thrown into the thick of it. Beads of sweat had formed atop his bald head and were now streaming down the sides of his face. He had only made it halfway, and his arms and knees shook from trying to maintain his grip.

  Lonnek pointed up into the tree. “He’s not going to make it…” he said quietly.

  “No. It’s unfortunate,” Welsh agreed.

  “…Is there anything you can do?” Lonnek asked hopefully.

  Like Welsh, Lonnek was a rarity among the Rotundra. Although he was a lesser, and barely even considered a member, he had experienced his fair share of abuse at the hands of those above him and sympathized with the slaves. Most lessers, like their more prestigious counterparts, were cold-blooded killers.

  Welsh considered Lonnek’s question before replying, “No. It’s not my place to challenge the orders of another elite.”

  The slave had now made it three-quarters of the way up the tree. His face had turned a deep shade of red as he grunted and groaned.

  Soralees stood motionless at the base of the tree. It was as if he were waiting for the ripest piece of fruit to drop from its limbs.

  Just as the other two slaves began dropping down their first few limbs, a scratching, cracking noise popped from the tree. The struggling slave’s right-hand spikes had slipped loose from the tree. He tried with all his might to keep his grip with his left, but it was futile. His hold gave way, and he came tumbling down, hitting and bouncing off limbs along the way.

  He hit the ground just next to Soralees with a deep, loud thud, sinking nearly half a foot into the earth.

  The other slaves glanced quickly but then turned their attention back to their work as if nothing had happened.

  At first, he was lying motionless, and Welsh truly hoped, for his sake, that the fall had killed him, but to Welsh’s dismay, an audible groan escaped his lips and he began moaning loudly, squirming lightly on the ground.

  Soralees stepped over close to the poor man and, with a sadistic whisper, said, “Oh no. You seem to have broken your legs.

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