In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers by Simon J. Townley Page B

‘wildman,’ in a place as savage as this? Conall approached, clutching his bucket.  
    The man turned to look at him. No smile, no look of greeting. A stare, then he pointed to a pile of rocks that had been separated from the rest. Blue, yellowish, streaked with white. Conall picked one up, looked it over. No gold or silver. No diamonds or precious stones. The rock had hard, crystalline edges. But it looked nothing special.  
    The wildman grunted at him, gesturing for him to get working.  
    Conall said his name, pointing at his chest, sure anyone would understand what the gesture meant. The man’s eyes, so dark they were almost black, glared at him. He understood, all right, but didn’t care. The wildman didn’t speak his own name, but turned back to the rock-face and hammered on his chisel with terrifying force.  
    Conall filled the bucket with rocks and hauled it across the quarry to where a group of slaves weighed them on scales. They made notes then put the buckets into a pile to be carried up the road out of the quarry. Conall picked up an empty bucket, following the lead of the other slaves. Each group had a set task, the timings co-ordinated so that buckets were returned, left to be picked up and filled again. Not a moment was lost, no effort wasted.  
    One of the slaves carrying buckets fell into step beside Conall. “That one, dangerous,” he said, in a thick foreign accent. He gestured with his head towards the one known as Wildman. “He’ll work you hard.” The slave nodded towards the scales. “Whoever cuts the most rocks, gets double food. He wins. Always wins. He makes you carry it. Do it, or he might kill you. Crazy man.”  
    The slave was right. Conall toiled all day, harder than most. He lugged bucket of rocks almost at running speed, while others loitered and idled, preserving their strength. That made sense to Conall. Why work yourself to death for no reason? But the wildman kept cutting rocks and Conall had to carry them, or the man would grunt like an animal, deep, dark and threatening.  
    Ten hours later, with only a short break for bread and water, Conall was exhausted. The wildman still hadn’t spoken a word. Could he talk? Did he know any language? He understood about the rocks and the double rations right enough.  
    When their shift ended a new set of slaves took their place. Conall trudged back to the huts and the men sat on the ground while slavers handed out food. Conall looked for Jonah, walking up and down the lines of men, a crust of bread in one hand, a cup of gruel in the other. He heard a familiar grunt, he looked down, and saw the wildman, sitting alone. He threw a chunk of bread towards Conall, his share of the extra food. Conall nodded his thanks, spotted Jonah and strode over to join him.  
    Jonah told him he’d spent the day on the edge of the quarry, wielding a sledgehammer and breaking rocks.  
    “What are they digging for? These rocks don’t look special.”  
    “Not precious, no gems or stones in ‘em,” Jonah said. “I asked around, no one knows. They crush ‘em, some say, then take the remains off somewhere. Makes no sense, all this work, for rock dust.”  
    Conall handed half his extra food to Argent. “What about getting out?”  
    “Not that hard, fences are rusted, rotten in places. Where to go though, that’s the thing. One road out of here, they say. Everything else is mountains and forest. Either they catch you, or you die out there.”  
    “Better than staying.”  
    “Aye, maybe it is, but we wait, like I said. No rushing things. We might get one chance. If it was easy, none of these slaves would be here. They’ve all got someplace else to be, sure of that.”  
    So they waited. Day after day, carrying rocks, sorting and breaking them, working ten hour shifts in the quarry. When they weren’t working, they slept, played cards with other slaves, talked and listened, learnt what they could. Everywhere Conall went, he saw the same