by Aaron Bunce
They climbed a wide set of stairs. Gladeus struggled to keep pace, as his feet slipped and slid treacherously on the icy stone. Balin was already halfway across the bridge by the time Gladeus reached the top. He looked over the edge while trying to catch up, and felt a chill take to his body as he stared into the sweeping, frigid water rushing along below him.
“Balin!” he yelled, mounting the stairs on the opposite end of the bridge, but he couldn’t see the cloaked figure.
The steps down were just as icy. Gladeus clung to the slippery handrail with both hands, his feet squirming uncomfortably with each step.
He reached the last step and lifted his eyes to look for Balin. He caught a glimpse of the cobblestone road and shadowy, sculpted evergreens, but then everything tilted. His feet shot out from under him as he stretched for the ground.
Clouds passed above him, snowflakes drifting in their lazy, back and forth dance before landing on his face. It took Gladeus a moment to clear his mind. The fall had rattled him and scattered his thoughts.
“Get up, you old fool,” he spat, twisting and heaving his body into a sitting position.
The ground felt impossibly hard against his surprisingly boney backside. The cold seeped into him, ravenously consuming what little heat remained. He was shivering before he could even manage to stand.
His first step up the lane was tentative, but he found the snow considerably less treacherous than the ice. He almost fell on the second as a sharp pain jabbed up his leg, radiating throughout his hips and chest.
“Balin!” he cried, staggering to the side, but the lane remained empty, save for him.
Limping, grunting, and cursing, Gladeus gimped forward, the massive, columned council chamber appearing out of the darkness ahead. Good, he thought, at least there he would have warmth and a comfortable seat.
He struggled up the sweeping stairs, a shadow emerging from behind a shadowy column.
“Damn you, Balin. I’ve fallen. I’m hurt. Help me!” he spat, struggling over the top step.
Balin didn’t move. Instead, he hung on the cusp of the shadows, like a dark specter. Gladeus stopped, the shadows creeping just before his toes. He peered at the rogue and noticed a metallic, green glimmer from the depths of Balin’s hood.
“Uh…well, at least open the door?” Gladeus said, his hands shaking and his jaw trembling.
Balin slid backwards without a sound. The door opened quietly, bathing Gladeus in a wash of warm light. He walked through the door, passing by Balin. Despite his considerable height advantage over the rogue, he couldn’t help by feel smaller in comparison.
The door closed just behind him, a loud click echoing from inside the door. Gladeus spun about and pushed on the door, but it was securely locked.
“Balin!” Gladeus hissed, but the howl of cold wind was the only reply.
Gladeus pushed forward, favoring his left leg in an attempt to keep the weight off his right. Hushed voices echoed out of the chamber beyond. He rubbed his arms, trying desperately to rub some of the chamber’s warmth into his paper-thin flesh, but it felt paltry compared to the cold outside. I will never be warm again!
Two statues, chiseled in white marble, wearing flowing robes and each clutching a scroll and staff, seemed to greet him as he neared the chamber. He remembered the day he posed for the sculptor, all those winter thaws ago, when he was a much younger man.
Stronger than a king! He thought with pride, trying to puff out his chest.
A group of men clustered together in the chamber hall, whispering and gesturing animatedly. Their voices sounded familiar, but knew without a doubt once he smelled their expensive oils and perfumes.
“Gladeus! What in the stinkin’ kingless crypts is this all about?!” sour-faced Miko Kingsbreath yelled, spotting him. He lurched and moved toward Gladeus, breaking from the crowd, his blading pate and liver spotted skin glistening in the warm light.
The rest of the Council Lords prattled, falling into step behind him, their voices blending into an unintelligible chatter. Gladeus stopped, his legs begging him to sit.
What do I tell them? How do I respond without admitting I am out of my depth and completely unaware? He thought frantically, unwilling to look the part of the fool.
“Why am I here, Gladeus, when I should be tucked away in my warm bed, my young wife’s soft breasts pressed against me?” Morimor Strongside, the youngest of the group, said.
The group chattered loudly again, before Gladeus could bring himself to speak. It took him a moment to break through the angry wall of noise.
“Wait…wait! Please, shut up!” he yelled, his heart fluttering. The group quieted, each of the men looking to him expectantly, just as they did every council meeting.
Weak fools! Gladeus thought as he slid into a bench. The seat was hard, and with no padding, it instantly made his backside ache.
“Why are you all here?” he asked. He eyed his high-backed seat up on the elevated platform, its luxurious cushions calling out to him.
“What in the fire blasted hells does that mean?” Lord Russo cursed, saliva covering his chin. “Why are we here? I had a summons to a private conference with a Denil delegate, a monk, or so I was told. Urgent business! T’was your man that delivered the notice, and again that fetched me at this Goddess forsaken hour!”
“Aye! An’ me,” elder Lord Thatcher chimed in.
“Me as well. That slippery little fellow in the black cloak. The one you’ve always got slinking around the city,” Lord Kingsbreath said, agreeing.
Gladeus felt his stomach knot up as he listened, his hands going white against the seat before him.
“So what is so important? Is it trouble with the boats?” one of the men asked, but Gladeus couldn’t meet his face. He was thinking of Balin, and how the man acted.
“The door…he locked me in,” he mumbled, and the other men went quiet.
Chapter 20
Expelling darkness
Well, what did they tell you?” the woman asked Dennah, her eyes hardening and her mouth scrunching up.
“I…” Dennah said, stumbling over the words, unsure of what to say. In truth, she had no idea what happened, or what was going to happen for that matter. “A…dispensation,” she added, shaking her head ruefully.
“Well yes, that is what I thought they said,” the woman offered, straightening her apron. Dennah bit her tongue and wrung her hands, but could muster no response.
“Oh, dear, it means you are going to be just fine! The constable ruled you an innocent, and more than that, truth be told. Dispensations aren’t handed out willy-nilly. Only those honored in service, or suffering great pains, are ever even considered,” the woman offered.
Dennah crumpled, just barely catching the lip of the tub with a trembling hand. The woman came forward and hefted her over to the bed.
“Oh I know, dear, I imagine you have been through quite the ordeal. Here, why don’t I draw you a nice hot bath. You strip off those filthy rags and I’ll have them burned,” the woman said, cupping Dennah’s trembling hands in her own.
“Thank you…” Dennah said.
“You just call me Alma, dear,” she replied softly and gave Dennah’s hands one more pat. Then she bounced back over to the fireplace where she started hefting metal buckets of water heating by the fire.
“Come on now, dear, don’t be shy. We’re all born into the world bare of breast and bum. I can stay and help you scrub your hard to reaches if you need be,” Alma said, dumping another bucket of steaming water into the tub.
Dennah felt her legs go weak, a creeping sensation crawling up her back. She nervously untied the drawstring at the top of her shirt, but when she moved to pull it over her head, her arms refused.
“Here, I’ll help you, young one,” Alma said, dropping her bucket and bustling over. She moved behind Dennah and bunched her shirt up in both hands.
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Yes,” the woman said, lifting her shirt up.
Dennah’s eyes instantly
glossed over, but she held back the tears. She didn’t want to fall apart. Not now. Not when everything was mired in so much uncertainty. Alma touched her back, tracing one of her many bruises, her hand warm but calloused.
“You just take all the time you need, dear. I’ll just finish drawing this water, then you soak as long as you want,” Alma said, letting her shirt drop back down.
Dennah sunk onto the bed, her vision going fuzzy as she watched the short woman bustle back and forth between the fireplace and the tub.
“Alright, dear. It’s all ready for you. I laid out a fresh towel for you. You just call when you’re ready for something warm to eat.” And then she was gone, closing the door quietly behind her.
Dennah self-consciously eased out of her trousers, and then pulled off her shirt. She laid it on the small chair in the corner, folding it neatly.
Wrapping her arms around her chest, Dennah crossed the room and eased into the steaming bath. She sank into the deep tub, accepting the sting of the hot water on every nick, cut, and rope burn. It hurt all over, a vivid reminder of those things she had tried to block out.
She traced the dark bruises on her arms and then her legs. She wiped the raw skin of her wrists with a soapy rag and then her ankles, the haunting flashback to the barn and the horrible figure of the Crow prodding intrusively into her thoughts.
She scrubbed her breasts and stomach, but no matter how hard she scoured her skin, she could still feel Banus’ taint, like an invisible film covering her body. Her hands drifted down to her thighs and then between her legs, to the bruises that shamed her worst of all. Dennah closed her eyes, a sob wracking her body, but then she laughed.
Her laughter lasted only a moment before her eyes filled with tears. The emotions she had been bottling up inside were final breaking loose. She reached up and covered her eyes, trying to hold the anguish in, but her skin crawled and her insides knotted up. Her hands shook until she could no longer hold them in place. As soon as they slipped into the hot water the tears started to flow.
Her insides contracted and cramped, knotting painfully as she tried to expel the pain. Dennah slid deeper into the water, sliding down until only her head was clear of the hot water.
Smoke, pain, and anger swirled around and around, fighting her attempts to push them clear. She no longer wanted them inside her, to feel them, or remember them. They swirled in her guts, souring her insides like bad wine and even made the air smell putrid. She couldn’t take it, so she pulled her knees in and let her head sink under the water.
The hot water covered her face, stinging her eyes, nose, and split lip. She opened her mouth, longing to take the scalding water into her lungs and be rid of it all. Air rushed out instead, bubbling in the water in a desperate, wounded scream. She pushed, until her breath was gone and her throat burned.
A suffocating need to draw breath overtook her, and she gave in. Hot water rushed into her mouth, filling her throat and instantly gagging her. Panic flooded through her body, a heartbeat before twitching and pushing off.
Dennah’s head broke the water, the air like ice shards against her skin. Water rushed back out of her nose and mouth, her throat almost closing off completely. She coughed and gagged until her ribs ached and her voice was hoarse.
The door burst open, a shadow falling over her as she slumped over the side of the tub.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” Alma asked, slumping to her knees next to the tub.
Dennah lifted her head off of the cool metal, her eyes still blurry with tears. She choked, trying to speak, but words wouldn’t come out, only pain.
Alma leaned over the tub and embraced Dennah. She buried her face into Alma’s shoulder.
“Oh, I know, dear. You let it out. You let it all out. No one will hurt you here. No one!”
* * * *
Roman stood in the middle of the cell for what felt like an eternity. It wasn’t just dark. It was absolutely dark, damp, and cold. He shivered and crouched down in the middle of the dark space, clutching his arms in close. The only thing he could hear was the plink, plink of distant dripping water.
He reached up and scratched a cut on his forehead, the shackles and chains binding him to the wall jingling mockingly. He longed to rip off the heavy cuffs and rub his wrists. He struggled to think of a time where he wasn’t bound up.
Finally, after his legs started to burn and shake from crouching, he decided to move. Roman crawled to his left, walking his hands out into the darkness. He moved forward until he came to a wall, searching the damp stone in either direction, carefully testing the length of his chains. They grew tight as he approached what he thought was the door, and worked his way across to the opposite wall. There was no light beyond his room, and worse, just the sound of dripping water.
Continuing around the room, Roman stumbled over a bucket. He pulled away immediately. Based entirely off the smell, he knew what it was. A bucket for a toilet, he thought, cringing.
Avoiding the sour smelling bucket, Roman continued. He found a table, with what felt like a candle stub on it, next to a straw-filled mattress. He pulled the scratchy blanket off the bed and pulled it over his shoulders.
Beyond the bed he found the far wall. Pockets had been dug out of the stone, creating shelves. The first was empty, but the second held several items. He couldn’t tell what they were in the dark, even after running his cold fingers over them for several moments.
Something hissed behind him. Roman spun about, the unknown items dropping and clattering off into the darkness. He heard something move. It sounded like a rock, wiggling or shifting.
Rats, he thought, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He never had to worry about rats in his cottage. Tusk made sure of that. Thoughts of Tusk tore at his insides, filling him with fresh pangs of grief and guilt. Tusk was dead because of him, just like Frenin and so many others.
Slowly, he moved forward, towards the sound. The rock grated again, small particles rattling against the ground. He reached the wall, and tentatively searched the rough, damp stone.
The noise cut the air again, closer than before, and again something moved. More sand rattled against the ground. He moved in the direction of the sound, slowly searching the wall, until he found it. His fingers fell upon a loose stone, roughly the size of his hand.
Roman wiggled the loose rock back and forth, until it finally pulled free. He set the stone onto the ground at his feet, before standing, and searching the hollowed space. He worked his hand back into the hole, slowly, nervously, until the chain pulled tight. There was nothing there.
Pulling his arm back, Roman whispered, “hello,” into the empty space.
The dark hole was quiet for a moment, and Roman moved his ear closer. But then he heard it, a shuffling, scuffing noise. It sounded like someone was moving, somewhere beyond the wall. And then he heard them cough.
“Hello, is someone there?”
Someone cleared their throat, the sound echoing strangely through the hole. How thick is the wall between us? How far away is the next cell?
“H-h-hello? Uh, hey. Who’s there?” the person on the other end of the hole said. Their voice was gravely and hoarse.
“My name is Roman.”
“Roman, eh? Me, I’m Haybear,” the voice said. Roman heard the distant man gag and then cough, before spitting loudly. He cringed and instinctively turned away.
“The rock? How…” Roman started to ask, confused as to how the other man could reach the rock, if he couldn’t.
“I got a stick!” Haybear said, his voice rising excitedly. “I hide it under my mattress. Ain’t good fer walking, cause I ain’t going fer walks down here, but I can reach that rock. Used to have long talks with the fellar used to live in that cell. But haven’t heard his voice in a long, long while. And that’s me being honest. Wish I could say it’s nice to meet you, but you’re in the deep dark now, son.”
“Live. He lived in here?” Roman asked, confused and shocked. “Where did he go? What
happened to him?”
“I reckon he’s dead now.”
Roman felt his heart drop and his stomach clinch up. The Ifrit pushed against him, filling him with surging, fiery and angry emotions. He bent over, gasping for breath, fighting to master his own thoughts. It was several moments before he could stand straight again.
“Ya’ll right? Breathing funny. Someone in there with ya?” Haybear asked.
“No, I’m alright,” Roman lied.
There was a host of questions Roman longed to throw at the man. How long would he be down here? What would happen to him next? But he knew his disembodied neighbor likely didn’t have any answers.
“Is this where they keep people before…” Roman started to ask, but he couldn’t finish. He reached up and rubbed the tender spot on the back of his neck, where Teague’s soldier let the axe rest.
“They die?” Haybear finished his question softly.
Roman nodded, before remembering that the man couldn’t see him. “Yes,” he said, quickly.
“Not before, sonny. This is a place for dying. If the lord constable and the crow simply wanted you dead, your neck’d already be stretched. But when things don’t always look neat and tidy, they ship you down here. You must have done something real nasty, or someone thinks you did, to end up down here. Or…”
Roman sunk towards the ground. If the reality of his situation hadn’t already sunk in, he was practically drowning in it now. Everyone thought he was a monster. He had no home to return to, not that he could return anyway.
“Or what?” he asked, not bothering to pull himself back up to the hole in the wall.
“Heh?”
“You said, ‘or’!” Roman said it a little louder this time.
“Oh, yeah. Or they think you’re too dangerous to let near common folk. You know, magic and dark crafts an’ such. These doors are banded with red iron, an’ the stone is thick. I heard those crazies before, shouting, cursing, wailing in strange tongues. They’d make an awful racket. I heard some weird things, but these cells kept em locked up tight. Eventually they all go quiet, an’ then they disappear.”