Page 62 of Griffin Food
“G’it back, green bastard,” Overseer Barnes snarls. He nods once.
The hatch is shut. No food for this one.
“Aye, this batch is feisty.” His laugh is cruel and carries a note of mockery. “They’ll learn their place soon enough, eh, whelp.”
Like many people in this godless place, he thrives upon the misfortune of others.
I continue my round, doling out bowl after bowl until all the prisoners are fed.
The overseer waves me on, and I take my empty pot back to the kitchens where I work. Here I scrub dirty pots. But there are worse things than scrubbing, and I don’t complain.
I’m thirteen, and I’ve been a thrall of the dark fae all my life, like my mother and father were before they died, and their parents before them.
Sometime later today—or maybe tomorrow, or the day after—the orc prisoners will be collected one by one. Then they’ll be taken over to the compound, where they will be tortured and made to drink the tar drawn from the Reba swamp.
A few of them will likely die.
Those that survive will become rocklings.
I do not hate all orcs, though I have heard of their fearsome reputation and warlike ways. All I see are the prisoners before they are changed, who might be both good and bad. No different from men, really, save for green skin and tusks.
The moans start low, just enough to rouse me from sleep. Rolling over on the bare wooden cot, I pull the threadbare blanket over my head.
Not that it will help. Nothing blocks out their moaning once they start.
Also, pulling the blanket up uncovers my feet.
Old Billy, on the far side of the men’s dorm, has a nasty cough and begins hacking up a lung.
“Die already,” someone mutters.
Their anger might be directed at Billy, the orc prisoners, or both.
The next moan is long, drawn out, and agonized.
I clamp my hands over my ears.
It doesn’t help.
A scream comes next—high-pitched, inhuman.
“Bastards are starting early tonight,” another man grumbles. He shifts; wood creaks as he turns over, trying for sleep.
There is no peace here. Nor sleep, for the screams continue long into the night.
When I get up the next morning, there are no prisoners to feed.
But a week later, new ones arrive, and it begins all over again.
Present day…
The screams fade. They always do, eventually. I roll out my shoulders and shake the past loose from my wings as I follow Altas and Darrion for the training pit where Rafe and Lark wait.
Chapter Nineteen
Lark
They have us lugging rocks again today. But we have barely started—and haven’t even had our breakfast, which, aside from bedding our mate, is the one sorry highlight of our day—when Pete turns up and announces that it is training time.
