Chapter 08 Desperate Plea

Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the cliff face. One of the slaves, exhausted and delirious from hunger, had collapsed. The guards descended on him with savage fury. They kicked and beat him, their shouts mingling with his cries of pain. Then, in a horrifying display of power, one of the guards grabbed the slave by the wrinkled skin of his head, dragging him towards a makeshift altar at the base of the cliff.

The goblin master Rakrak stepped forward, a sadistic grin on his face. He raised a crude dagger high, the blade glinting in the harsh sunlight. With a swift, merciless motion, he plunged it into the slave’s chest. Blood sprayed, and the slave’s body convulsed. The guards cheered, their faces alight with twisted glee.

The rest of us watched in horror, our mouths still filled with splinters and sap. The message was clear: defiance, even weakness, would be met with brutal consequences. The dead slave's body was left at the altar, a grim reminder of the fate that awaited us if we failed.

We turned back to our task, the taste of blood and wood mingling in our mouths. The days ahead were filled with endless gnawing, our teeth chipping and breaking as we struggled to bring down the trees. But no matter how brutal the task, we kept our heads down and worked, driven by the primal instinct to survive, even in this nightmarish existence.

After a few days of relentless gnawing, our mouths raw and bloody, we finally managed to put a dent into the thick tree trunks. One by one, the trees began to crack and tumble to the ground with a resounding crash. Relief washed over us momentarily, but it was short-lived. The guards immediately barked new orders, giving us no time to rest. We were to strip the fallen trees of their branches, turning them into logs.

The task was agonizing. We used our bare hands and broken teeth to snap and tear away the branches, our fingers splintering from the rough bark. Every motion was a struggle, our bodies were already pushed beyond their limits. But fear kept us moving; the memory of other slaves' gruesome fate lingered in our minds.

Finally, after another day of backbreaking labor, the trees were stripped bare. The logs, though still crude and splintered, were deemed suitable by the guards. Now came the impossible task: carrying these massive logs back to the farm. The guards lined us up, assigning two or three small groups to each log.

We stared at the enormous trunks, our scrawny bodies trembling. Our limbs were thin and brittle, hardly able to support our weight, let alone the massive logs. Our ribs poked through our skin, our eyes sunken and hollow from weeks of malnourishment. The first attempt to lift the logs was laughable in its futility. The logs barely budged, and we collapsed under their weight, our weak muscles failing us.

The guards lashed at us with whips, the sharp cracks splitting the air and our skin alike. Each stroke of the whip tore through our already fragile flesh, leaving bloody gashes. We screamed in pain, but the fear of further punishment forced us to rise. Our legs wobbled as we stood, our bodies shaking with exhaustion and terror.

We struggled to lift the logs again, our bones creaking under the strain. The weight was unbearable, pressing down on our frail shoulders. The rough bark dug into our skin, leaving deep abrasions that bled freely. With each step, we stumbled and faltered, our legs buckling under the strain. The guards taunted us mercilessly, their laughter mingling with the crack of their whips.

"Move faster, you pathetic worms! You're slower than snails!"

"Is that all you got? Even hatchlings could do better!"

"Move those filthy feet! Or we cook them tonight! Don't even think about resting!"

Their words cut as deeply as their whips. We were so weak that every movement felt like torture. Our breaths came in ragged gasps, our hearts pounding in our chests. Sweat mixed with blood, making our skin slick and our grip on the logs even more precarious. Each time we fell, the guards were there, ready to kick us, to whip us back to our feet.

The logs seemed impossibly large, dwarfing our small, emaciated bodies. Every attempt to carry them was a monumental struggle. Our backs bent under the weight, our knees shaking violently. The logs pressed down on us with the force of a crushing burden, our bones feeling like they might snap at any moment.

Despite the overwhelming pain and fatigue, we pushed forward. The guards' relentless cruelty left us with no choice. The thought of the whip, of further beatings, drove us on. We bit our lips until they bled, trying to hold back the screams that threatened to escape. Our teeth were chipped and broken from gnawing at the trees, our mouths filled with splinters and the taste of sap and blood.

Every step was agony. The ground beneath us was uneven, rocky, and littered with debris. Our bare feet were cut and bruised, adding to the torment. The guards showed no mercy, their jeers and insults echoing in our ears.

"You call yourselves slaves?! I've seen worms with more strength!"

"Pathetic! Shitty slaves! You don't deserve to live! We should hang you all under the fire pit! At least would be a decent snack! A worthless bunch!"

The days blurred together in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Our bodies grew weaker, our movements slower. We were barely more than walking skeletons, our flesh hanging loosely from our bones. Each night, we collapsed in a heap, too tired to even think, our dreams filled with nightmares of the day's torments.

At one point, I stumbled, my legs giving out. The log crashed to the ground, pinning me beneath its weight. The guard's whip cracked, and I braced for the pain. But instead, he leaned down, a cruel smile on his face.

"Get up, shitty runt," he hissed.

 "Or you'll end up like your friend. On a spit and sizzling!"

My fellow slaves rushed to my help pushing the log off me, lucky for me the ground was soft and I wasn't crushed by the weight of the wood. Quickly, I scrambled to my feet and we continued to carry the log.

For the whole week, we struggled to drag the logs back to camp, each step feeling like a death march but we finally finished the task. Our bodies were pushed beyond their limits, and the cost was great. We lost several of our slave friends, their bodies too weak to continue. They collapsed where they stood, unable to rise again. The sight of them lying motionless, their breaths shallow and labored, was a grim reminder of our fragile life.

Butcher, the sadistic goblin with a twisted grin, took his sweet time gutting the fallen. He gutted them so, that they would still be alive. He relished in the task, his knife glinting in the sunlight as he carved into their flesh. He cooked them over the fire pit, their bodies turning on the spit for all to see, their screams instilling fear into our minds. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, a nauseating reminder of what awaited those who were too weak to continue. We watched in horror, knowing that we were just one misstep away from the same fate.

After half a day of rest, our reprieve was over. We were tasked with lining the logs into the trenches that other slaves had dug, creating the foundation for the walls. The task was grueling, our bodies already broken and battered. It took us another few days to finish the foundation. Many slaves broke their limbs during the process, the logs slipping and falling on our scrawny feet, crushing them. Some broke their arms trying to lift the heavy logs, their bones snapping under the strain. Others, more unfortunate, were pinned beneath the logs, suffering serious fractures.

The wounded and unable to work were piled up in a heap, alive and screaming in pain, begging for mercy that never came. Their cries were a constant backdrop to our labor, a chilling reminder of what awaited us if we faltered. The evil goblins showed no pity, their eyes gleaming with hunger as they eyed the pile of broken bodies.

I knew I had to do something. This was unreasonable. With a bit of rest, we could recover, and with some primitive tools, we could work more efficiently. But the evil goblins did not care. Their cruelty knew no bounds.

 I decided to take a risk and approach the master goblin Rakrak. I had seen him talking regularly with other slaves, their conversations did not seem hostile. I hoped that he was reasonable and would listen to advise, even if it was coming from a stinking slave.

Gathering what little courage I had left, I shuffled towards the master goblin. My heart pounded in my chest, fear and desperation driving me forward. As I neared him, I bowed low, keeping my eyes on the ground.

"Oh mighty Master Rakrak. May I say a word?" I croaked in a submissive whisper.

Rakrak looked at me with narrowed eyes and asked, "Speak, slave! What do you want?"

 "Please, master, listen to my plea. We... we can work better if we have a little rest. And... and if we had some tools, we could build faster, stronger. The way we're working now, we're just... we're just dying. I can show, I can teach how to make tools. Work will be faster. The farm will be built faster. Please, let the fallen ones rest a day or two, they will work harder than before. Please, great master, give us this boon. We beg, we do."