A month later, James was brought to a camp on the side of a mountain deep into no-man’s-land between two kingdoms. He was wearing the filthy, tattered remains of the clothes he’d been wearing when he was captured by a bandit. The first time he tried to run away, the bandit had beaten him black and blue. The second time he tried to run away, the bandit had broken his arms. The bandit hadn’t broken his legs because he needed James to keep walking, but the constant pain from the untreated broken arms wore down James’ willingness to resist. After several days of walking in pain, the bandit sold James to a slave trader, who fitted James with magic-blocking shackles. The slave trader had a healing magic class, but after James tried to run away again after having his arms healed, the slave trader tied James up and took him deep into the mountains.

  Unfortunately, James had by this point earned a reputation as an uncooperative slave.

  The camp was on a somewhat level patch of ground halfway up a mountain. There were several tents here and there, and a long lean-to up near the side of the mountain, by a patch of exposed rock. There were signs of mining on this patch of rock, and a short way from the lean-to there was an entrance to a mine. Just outside the entrance, on the other side from the lean-to, was a primitive smelter and a pile of mined ore. What ore, James couldn’t tell from that distance. There was a small game trail leading up to the camp, and James could see what looked like metal stakes outlining the boundary of the camp.

  James was pushed onto the ground and lied there while the slave trader and a short man with a coiled whip on his belt spoke quietly. A minute later, the short man squatted down next to James.

  “My friend here tells me you’re a runner.”

  James remained silent.

  The man sighed.

  “My friend also tells me you’re a smith and a mage.”

  James continued to be silent.

  The man clicked his tongue, stood up, and kicked James in the side, hard. James heard something crack and screamed, then fell silent again as he was unable to breathe. He choked, trying to gulp air but unable to control his breathing, and black spots swam across his vision.

  The slave trader stepped forward, activating his healing magic, but the short man held up a hand to stop him. “He’s fine; I cracked a rib, but he’ll catch his breath in a minute. Let him stew.” They stood over James, watching him suffer for several minutes until James managed to breathe again.

  The short man squatted down next to James again. “When I speak to you, you will answer. Do you understand?”

  James took in a painful breath and managed to wheeze “...yes.”

  “Good!” The short man’s face contorted into a nasty, sadistic grin. “Did that hurt?”

  James wheezed. “Yes.”

  “Excellent.” The man’s grin deepened. “You see, I like to hurt people. I’ve always liked to hurt people. I even have a class dedicated just to hurting people. I’m very good at it. And it’s fortunate for you, and all your fellow slaves, that I am good at it, because I’m not good at healing people. For today, my healer friend is here, but he has to leave this afternoon. So we don’t have much time.”

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  The short man leaned closer.

  “My friend here tells me you’re a smith and a mage. Is that true?”

  “Yes.” James replied through gritted teeth. Every shallow breath he took brought a fresh wave of pain from his ribs. A deep breath was unthinkable.

  “And are you a good smith?”

  “I… just got the class…”

  “That… is not what I asked.” The short man reached over and grabbed James’s hand, picked out his ring finger, and bent it back to just before the point of snapping it. He paused, and looked thoughtfully down at James’ face. “Will you answer my question?”

  Desperate now, James wheezed. “Yes! I’ll answer! I’m not. I’m not a good smith!” James, although wracked with physical pain, now also felt an overpowering sense of shame at admitting he was not a good smith. He quickly forgot this, though, as the short man still had a firm grip on his finger.

  “That’s a shame. But I’m sure we can still find a use for you. You ever used a smelter?”

  “Yes!” James gasped.

  “You ever fixed up any tools? Like a pickaxe?”

  “Yes, I mean, no-”

  Snap.

  James screamed, and the short man gripped James’ middle finger.

  “Don’t go making this confusing now. Have you ever fixed a pickaxe?”

  James had reflexively taken a deep breath when his finger was broken, which had then caused a stabbing pain like lightning through his chest. He could barely take even shallow breaths now.

  “Not… a pickaxe… other tools… a hoe… and a scythe…” he managed to squeeze out.

  “Do you think you can figure it out anyway?” the man asked with a detached air.

  “I’ll… try…”

  “Oh, but that reminds me, my friend here says you’re a runner. Is that true, James? Did you try to run away?”

  “...Yes.” James answered.

  “Tsk tsk, that’s really not good.” the man said with a light tone. He then broke James’ middle finger, and shifted to the ring finger of James’ other hand. He waited for James to recover from the shock of the pain, then broke that finger, too.

  James broke down sobbing. The pain was just too much. The short man stood up again and beckoned another man over, this one wearing a hardened leather helm and carrying a sheathed sword on his hip. The swordsman looked down on James pitilessly, merely making sure that James did not try to flee. Not that James had the wherewithal to make the attempt. Just breathing was almost too much, as every gasping breath brought on a new wave of pain.

  After a time, James’ sobs lessened, and he merely wept quietly. Noticing this, the swordsman whistled and the slave trader and the man with the whip returned. The slave trader remained standing with the swordsman while the bringer of pain squatted down next to James again. He leaned in, and with a low tone said:

  “You are forbidden from attempting to run away. If you do try to run away, we will hunt you down and bring you back, and we will punish you. While I would relish the opportunity to punish you, it would be a waste of valuable time you could be spending working for us. Sadly, we are not all here to indulge in my desires, we are here to mine. Now…” he paused, making sure that he and James were looking into each others’ eyes.

  “Are you going to try to run away?”

  “N, no… n-n-never…!” James stammered through the pain.

  “Good…” the man muttered, then stood up. In a loud, cheery voice, he continued. “However! We must still punish you for both times you attempted to run away before you arrived here. You caused my friend quite a bit of trouble! Are you sorry for that? For causing my friend trouble?”

  “Yes!” James replied hastily. “I’m sorry-” he coughed, and another wave of pain from his ribs assaulted him, interrupting his apology.

  The man smiled darkly down at him. “Sorry, eh? Good. Remorse is a powerful emotion. It prevents one from making the same mistakes over and over. However… one must still suffer the consequences of their decisions.”

  For the next several hours, the mountain range echoed with the sounds of James’ screams.

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