A prison waggon followed in tow after the Lord's carriage.
Long, thin grooves were left behind by the one in front, forcing the one behind to dip, rise, almost bringing its momentum to a crawl.
As the churned-up mud hindered the waggon's journey, the old, tired work horses fumbled for footing, shaking and rocking the carriage uncontrollably, nearly throwing the lone driver forward with only a leather strap holding him back just barely.
The howling of rusted leaf springs rang out from underneath the mess of steel, wood, and mud.
*GUTTERAL CREAK.*
Prison Driver: Piece of crap! (Pulling on the reins.) Settle down, babies, settle down... 'Comforting tone.' Whoa, easy there, my black beauties.
The two black-and-white horses, unsettled and restless, pulled into the dirt ahead, flailing their thick legs around for something to dig into. The tense, strong muscles rippled under the patched skin as they fought the earth.
No longer in the comfort of the shadows and cold breeze from the road before, all that offered the trio of master above and hooves below was blistering heat, unforgiving and unrelenting with its grace.
Prison Driver: 'Sweating.' They seem spooked for some reason... Easy now. (Lightly tugging the reins.) We are nearly there, my girls. On to the homestretch. 'Determined.' You can do it!
Wanting to fall from the single seat atop the waggon, the single strap jerked on the metal ring it was attached to, tightening around the driver's waist with an uncomfortable feeling.
The large metal wheels that wrapped around the wooden core slowed at the back, inevitably becoming trapped in a crevice that the carriage in front had dug up in the dirt road. Forcing the weight of the waggon down, then forward, then back again in a harshness, once more the driver pulled on his reins on the duo below, making sure to hold on tight in hands and body, calling for the horses to press forward, to fight back against the hold of nature.
Prison Driver: Here we go! Rock it like a baby. 'Calling out.' Gently!
As the two horses listened to the call of their master and the soft pull of the reins that signalled a slow forward push, then stopped, the straps of leather rose and fell, signalling the command several times, making a sway motion on all that sat upon and in the waggon.
*PRISON WAGGON ROCKING BACK AND FORTH GENTLY.*
Prison Driver: That's it; keep at it, gals; you are doing great! Who's the best two horses in the world! 'Playful shouting.' I will have a big, juicy carrot waiting for you when we get to the village, I promise. 'Louder.' Come on... COME ON! PUSH!
*CREAKING OF WOOD.*
The horses pulled harder on the final words and the allure of a fresh reward as the waggon rocked for the final time, finally lifting from the trap. As the waggon moved onward, free from the earth, something hit the floor of the moving prison, getting lost in the noises coming from the battle that had come to an end.
The driver, not hearing it or wanting to, was only focused on the path ahead and the goal of catching up to the carriage in front.
*SOFT SLAM OF A BODY FROM INDIE THE PRISON WAGGON.*
Three prisoners were present inside the waggon, one slamming to the floor, no longer held to the prison walls with his hands now bound in front of him with steel bonds, unable to fight or correct himself from the jostling motion and the other two sitting on the other side, opposite the unmoving body.
The driver above the three inside the mobile prison shouted with elation at the two horses, only for it to be muffled by the thick wooden walls, barely seeping through the twisted iron bars near the top of the waggon, where two middle-aged men could only see the driver's feet tapping to a tune as he whistled on.
Both men looked back down, now watching the young man in front splayed out motionless.
*BROKEN WHISTLES OF AN OLD SONG.*
A prisoner covered in bruises and forcefully healed cuts spoke up at the sight of the fallen body in front of him, ignoring the driver above, lost in song. His hands locked together in the same way as the other two, with a small seal adorning the corner where the lock was, far away from his hands. As the prisoner shuffled for comfort on the hard wooden floor, the rivets caught on his buttocks as they rowed all along the wood beams, along with the years of time that took a toll on his body from the pain welling in his joints.
Kioker: If it wasn't for that blasted seal, I would have been a free man. (Glancing up.) You'd think for last rite, they would at least give us some swanky digs. (Looking down.) Cheap skates, I say...
The fallen form in front didn't move.
Kioker: Ah, just look at him... He's dead already, ain't he? 'Gruff.' Poor bastard got the worst of it; (Taking notice of the body.) have you seen his face and arm. (Recoiling away.) What's left of it... Fuck. (Turning to the second prisoner.) Oi Truckell, I heard one of the guards say a seer is going to be there. We better get our shit straight, if you know what I mean... (Raising his locked hands.)
*SLAP OF A HAND ON A BACK.*
Another chimed in, looking at the unmoving young boy and feeling the hand tap his back.
Truckell: A seer? Bollocks is a Seer going to be there; we are criminals, not nobility. Then again, these days... what's the difference? 'Grinning.'
*LAUGHTER.*
A broken, hushed laugh came from the two men, to the left of the still unmoving young man.
Truckell: And just who gives a fuck about "him." 'Crass.' If he's lucky, he will die right here and now... if not, death is only the beginning of his worries and ours. (Still looking at the fallen form.) Hey, kid, you are still with us, ain't ya? 'Pausing.' Hello? (Noticing the chest rise and fall.) Yup, he's still alive. 'Chuckling.' Never mind... (Now looking at Kioker.) Here, Kio... look at this.
Hidden under the thin rags of clothing by Truckell's wrist, a sharpened, rusted piece of metal could be seen, and the two men spoke softly.
Kioker: Whoa! Where did you get that from? (Looking up to the driver.) SHIT! If the guards catches you with that... 'Hushed concern.'
A sharp reply shot back.
Truckell: You know who gave it to me, our little friend. Plus, wha are they gonna do? Kill me; I'm up shit creek without a paddle on a prison cart going to hell anyway, thanks to him... 'Grinning.' If I am going, I am going out on my terms, and so should you, you dumb sod. (Pointing the makeshift blade at Kioker.) Where we are going, "this" is a mercy; the only way I am stepping foot on those northern lands is as a dead man. 'Pausing.' You heard what roams there?
The other prisoner leaned in, waiting for the next set of words, eagerly anticipating them; instead, a loud bang came from the top of the waggon.
*SHARP THUD OF A BOOT ON WOOD.*
The whistling stopped, and another foot slammed backwards, kicking the bars.
*TWING OF METAL.*
Cart driver: Shut up, will ya? for God's sake... 'Angry.' Lousy vagrants... (Muttering to himself.) Become a guard, they said... It would be great, they said, bloody idiots. I'm stuck here ferrying the living dead... 'Griping.' At least "Gumbo's" are quiet.
Silence sat for a moment, both men waiting for the driver to hush his prattling madness, and the carriage lurched up onto the stone, leaving the mud behind, now catching up to the carriage in front.
*MUFFLED SHIFTING OF A BODY. ON WOOD*
Truckell got closer to Kioker and continued the conversation that the guard had interrupted.
Truckell: They say the Discarnum of old... the Abysall itself roams the lands. 'Creepy quiet tone.'
A shocked face stared at Truckell, glued to the words he hadn't heard of for a long time, not since his youth.
Kioker: You tell me I'm speaking bollocks... At least seers are real 'Hushed.' That's just stuff they tell kids to be good little boys and girls... 'Worried.' Isn't it?
Truckell moved even closer to Kioker, almost on top of him.
Truckell: Well, you should know what little kids like you sick fuck. 'Chuckling.' As for the north, who knows? I, for one, don't want to find out. "Better the devil you know than the one you don't." (Leaning closer to Kioker.)
Another soft whisper slithered into Kioker's ear, and both men smiled and nodded agreeing to something.
Kioker: All right... I'm game. What about him? What's his name again? 'Thinking.' Apple... No, erm, Ankle. (Trying to clap his hands.) Airo!
Truckell's head shook in shock at Kioker's foolishness as a hand covered his face.
Truckell: You mean Ayrell, you dimwit... (Looking at the still breathing form.) Isn't that right, our comrade in arms? 'Snarky.'
On the floor, a broken gaze from a silvery bloodshot eye looked on at the blurry world passing by, and the chants coming from the square grew louder as they came upon the inn of the Dozy'Mare.
Ayrell's bloody, blackened hand moved to his neck, reaching for something that wasn't there, then to his face as a bloody tear rolled down his cheek.