In the pitch-black night, the only indication of where the ground was came when the spade head struck it. His fellow slaves groaned around him as they heaved another shovelful of mud onto the growing pile. Then the splat. Their captor, none other than Fortune, lit a lantern but then withdrew back into the darkness. If he glanced over, he saw the red light reflected in Fortune's eyes. "Nothing has changed," the man thought as he drove the spade into the earth.

  The mud clung unnoticed to their skin and clothes, but neither he nor his companions cared. This only made them dig faster and groan louder. The man thought about what had happened to him so far; then about what would happen next. He glanced back. In the darkness, a pair of eyes flashed. He tugged at his collar. It was as if the metal burned into his skin had a mind of its own, the harder he pulled, the more pain it sent through his body.

  They kept clawing at the earth, deepening the pit with a ferocity as if they were repeatedly stabbing their captor.

  Suddenly, the spade slipped and hung over empty space. They had widened the opening to the abyss just enough to fit through. They threw down a rope and descended, their feet searching for solid ground. They lit a lantern. The light clung to the rusty walls of the cave. Finally, their captor's boots struck the stone. With a grin, he touched a red spot on the wall. He stared at it motionless for a while, the grin seeming frozen on his face. The man yanked at the ring around his neck again, his face contorting with pain.

  Their agitated grunts and the echoes of their exchanged questions snapped their captor out of his trance. He blinked and looked at them. Three collapsed passages were revealed in the lantern light. Following the wall, he pointed to a small crack:

  "This is it. Just keep going straight. You’ll find it at the end of the passage," their captor said.

  "I hope so," he said, looking at their captor before they all moved towards the crevice.

  On the other side of the rubble, a tunnel awaited them.

  Holding the lantern in front, they could only see a few steps ahead as they advanced.

  "We have to haul the whole lot out. Damn lazy bastard."

  "But if there’s nothing here, I’ll rip out his furry throat outside"

  He had planned everything out in his head. When their captor wasn’t watching them, when he finally left them alone for a while, they didn't just pour the pain wine down their throats. They searched for a way out. A blacksmith was already waiting for them, willing not only to remove their collars but also to hang a silver ring around their necks. But first, they had to get the loot.

  They moved down the cave’s throat, waiting to reach its stomach.

  "By this time tomorrow, I want to have someone to boss around. You’re too damn slow, move your legs!" he said, kicking the leg of the person in front of him.

  "Move, move, move!" the echo replied.

  Every sniff, every snort, every fart echoed a hundredfold in their ears.

  "Shove a cork up your ass, Pisser."

  "Would a dick do instead?" Crustyface asked.

  The line stopped in front of him. The tunnel ended in a collapse, and beyond that, something else:

  "Bones! Bloody, fucking bones!"

  "Bones! Bones! Bones!" the echo repeated.

  He kicked at the human remains and the rusty swords beside them, then roared in anger. The cave sent back mocking laughter.

  He turned away from them and started heading back. He already envisioned their captor, how he’d take control of his body, then cut him in half. After a few steps, Pisser called out to him. He turned, seeing Pisser rummaging through the rubble. Then he straightened up and flicked something towards him with his thumb. He couldn’t see clearly, but the distinctive twang that echoed off the cave walls for several long seconds made it clear what it was.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  They moved some of the rubble aside to squeeze through the gap. When the man reached the other side, his hand trembled, and he dropped the lantern. Only a few nervous gulps and breaths could be heard. He picked the lantern back up, its light catching on heaps of silver.

  Sweat and the mud on their red faces played with joy and impatience alternately. The silver coins slid under their feet. They bent down, grabbed handfuls of coins, felt their weight in their palms, tossed them, and listened to the clinking of the silver. Some exchanged a long-agreed dark glance instead. Their expressions hardened.

  The blacksmith promised them four silver rings. And the man didn’t want to be the fifth.

  ***

  The cave echoed with their last cries. Hatred burned in their companions' eyes as their swords fell from their hands and they collapsed among the silver. There they froze in eternal stillness, their bodies starting those wonderful procedures that would eventually turn them into bones.

  Only one task remained before they could divide the loot: to gain their freedom.

  Sweat made the sack full of silver slip from his grasp, his fingers numb, shifting it from one shoulder to the other. Eventually, he just dragged it along the ground.

  He collapsed to the ground, breathing as if he had been running for hours. His eyelids drooped lower and lower as the others climbed through. The crevice leading to the cave entrance was covered with a rag. They pushed it aside with their hands and crawled through. In the center, a neatly prepared campfire glowed, with a small pot hanging above it, emitting hot steam that filled the air. He couldn't place the smell despite rifling through his memories. One of them was already at the pot, dipping a silver coin into the hot liquid, blowing on it a few times before putting it in his mouth. As he tasted it, he staggered to the cave wall.

  Watching his companion's unsteady steps, he no longer wanted to know what was cooking in that pot. He just wanted to get out, as quickly as possible. Dragging the sack behind him, he felt his head grow heavy, his eyes staying shut longer with each breath.

  They all abandoned their sacks. The entrance to the cave was covered, but the rope was still there. They hurriedly climbed up, though much more slowly and clumsily than when they had descended. The air was thick with nauseating steam near the ceiling. They reached the entrance, pushed aside the rag with their hands, and the cool night air washed over their faces.

  His legs wobbled. Together with his fellow slaves, they tried to stand.

  "So, here you are. But why so few? Where are your companions? Hmm?" Fortune laughed at them. They all drew their swords, but Fortune only laughed harder.

  "Where are your companions?"

  "Come down here and you’ll find out."

  "Don’t tell me they stayed below? Counting the coins, right?" he heard the laughter again. The man was dizzy; leaves rustled and crackled everywhere. After his first step, he bumped into a tree.

  "Nothing happened down there, did it? All those coins would tempt many people. Almost anyone. But not you? Not you, right?" he laughed.

  "Shut up, bastard!"

  They shuffled close together with their swords.

  "Stick your ass out!"

  Crackling everywhere. They turned, shoulders touching, hearing each other's muffled breaths, cautious swallowing. They moved with uncertain, staggering steps.

  A bush rustled somewhere. Feeling dizzy and gripping his sword, he cautiously turned around. The sounds blurred together. Something touched him. He spun around, his companions turning at the noise, another rustle. A twig snapped beside him. He glanced over, heard a groan, the unmistakable clang of a sword, then that horrible, guttural laugh.

  "Got you, bastard!"

  He thrust in the direction of the voice, his blade piercing flesh. A painful cry met him. More thrusts. One final groan, then a dull thud on the ground.

  "He’s not laughing now, the bastard!" he shouted, stabbing the fallen body. "Not laughing, you motherfucker," he drove the sword in to the hilt. He left the weapon in the body, turned, then kicked it, panting.

  His eyes began to make out shapes, small details in the darkness. He recognized that face on the ground, and the disgusting pimples on it. Crustyface. The moon cast a faint light over the scene. Then the laughter again.

  He spun around, saw his companion struck on the head with a club, then collapse. Pisser lunged at their captor. It was like watching through a rain-soaked, foggy window. The club smashed into his companion's face, then a blow to the knee, a weary groan, and one last sluggish strike to the back of the head. Another dull thud.

  Their captor approached him with a grin. His legs nearly tangled as he swung his sword at him. Laughing, he dodged the attacks. The world spun around him; after nearly every strike, he had to steady himself. When he tried to get up from the ground again, he already felt their captor's breath on the back of his neck. The club pressed against his throat. He dropped his sword, scratched at their captor's face, and tried to push the wood away from his neck.

  "Please," he begged, but only received laughter in return.

  He felt pressure on his thigh as he leaned on him.

  The hunter’s dagger hissed as he drew it. He thrust it. He felt it sink into something. The pressure on his throat eased; he saw the grimace on the stunned face, the saliva hitting his neck. He thrust again, a little deeper, weakly trying to push the blade further in. Angry, tortured breathing warmed his ear. His throat was free. He slashed at his captor's throat, but the blade only cut his hand. Blood dripped from his captor's hand as he grabbed the blade, tore it from the man's exhausted fingers, and threw it into the bushes. The club tightened around his neck again, his hands went limp.

  "Goodnight."

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