The Testament of Lukar

Chapter Four

The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, its relentless rays beating down upon the vast wheat fields. Lukar, Petro, Thomas, and Adan stood in the midst of the endless waves of golden wheat, their hands clutching short-handled scythes. They exchanged anxious glances, knowing the grueling day that lay ahead.

Lord Nadik's farmworkers, well-versed in the art of wheat harvesting, moved with a practiced efficiency that was daunting to the newcomers. The rhythmic sound of their scythes slicing through the wheat stalks was punctuated by their occasional laughter and mocking comments.

Petro, with his grizzled beard and weathered face, stepped forward and raised his scythe high. He cast a glance at Lukar and said, "Listen up, boy. The key to harvesting wheat is to cut at the base, just above the ground. Make clean, swift strokes. And keep your movements steady."

As Lukar, Petro, Thomas, and Adan struggled to adapt to the demanding work of wheat harvesting, a sour-tempered attendant on Lord Nadik's farm could no longer contain his impatience. His name was Orlan, a burly man with a thick neck and a deep scowl etched on his face. Orlan had grown increasingly agitated by Petro's attempts to guide the newcomers.

Orlan stormed over to Petro, his eyes blazing with irritation, and barked, "Enough of your yammering, old man! These peasants should've known their place by now. We've got quotas to meet."

Petro's expression remained composed, and he replied evenly, "Teaching them ensures they can contribute more effectively in the long run, Orlan. It's in Lord Nadik's interest too."

Before Orlan could retort, a voice interrupted from behind him. "What's all the fuss about, Orlan?" The words were spoken with a tone of indifference.

Orlan spun around to face the source of the voice, revealing a young man standing nearby. This was Averik, Lord Nadik's son. His appearance contrasted sharply with the hardened farmworkers—Averik was clean-shaven, with fair features and an air of arrogance that accompanied his noble birth.

Averik glanced at Lukar, Petro, and the others with a mix of curiosity and condescension. "Newcomers, eh?" he remarked, his voice dripping with smugness.

Orlan quickly composed himself, casting an apprehensive glance between Averik and the farmworkers. "Indeed, young master. They're fresh off the street, not much to speak of."

Averik's gaze lingered on Lukar for a moment before he dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "Fine, then. Just ensure they don't slow down the others."

Orlan nodded with exaggerated deference, and Averik turned and walked away, the sound of his boot heels echoing across the wheat fields.

Lukar's hands ached, his fingers tingling with the strain of wielding the scythe. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow, blending with the dust kicked up by his every movement. His tattered shirt clung to his body, the fabric chafing against his skin. Every step felt like a test of his endurance, and his legs protested with each stride through the unending sea of wheat.

The jeers and mocking laughter of the seasoned farmworkers seemed to echo in his ears, a constant reminder of his inexperience. Every gaze he met was laden with judgment and disdain, and he felt the weight of their collective scrutiny bearing down on him.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple, Lukar and the others trudged wearily back to the familiar confinement of their cell. The toils of the day had left their bodies aching, their muscles fatigued, and their spirits weighed down by the ceaseless labor. The scents of sweat, dirt, and exhaustion clung to them, an ever-present reminder of the harsh life they now led.

Linok was waiting for them at the entrance, a stern expression etched across his face. He counted them to ensure that none had tried to escape, and a glimmer of relief passed over his features when he confirmed they were all there. The rich man, Lord Nadik, had kept his word and returned them as promised.