by Aaron Bunce
“Disappear? Where would they go?” Roman asked, the darkness of the cell feeling heavier and more substantial around him.
“Only two places you can go down here, sonny. Up, or down. Either way, it ain’t like yer walking out alive. No one’s ever gone into the deep dark and come back to tell the tale. You’ll hear it, moaning and growling. The guards say the tunnels are haunted, and the stone craves flesh and blood. I say…well, there are some holes men just can’t crawl out of.”
“Have you ever tried?” Roman asked, crawling over and searching until he found the stubby candle.
“Me? Ole Haybear’s seen enough of the dark. Minos will come around some night an’ unlock yer cell door. He’ll tempt you with the deep dark. Maybe because he knows how men are fixin’ to live beyond these foul walls, an’ most’ll brave the hungry dark for a slim chance to be alive again,” Haybear laughed, “slim don’t seem right. A fool’s wish to die of your own accord sounds more like it.”
Roman turned, caught off guard by the idea of the jailer intentionally unlocking his door. He shook his hands, jingling the chains and pulled, but the cuffs were too small to slip his hands through.
“Are you chained, too?” Haybear asked.
“It appears so,” Roman said numbly. “So what if someone was to make it through the tunnels, somehow? Would they go free?” Roman asked.
Haybear snorted, “Can’t rightly reckon lord constable would ever let someone worthy of this place walk the provinces. Tis more likely he knows rightly and true that no one can make it through them tunnels alive, or that there is no way out. Send ‘em down there to disappear. More the temptation and torture of thinking you’ll live again, I guess.”
“I don’t like the sound of either option,” Roman said, shivering.
“So…what did you do to wind up in here, Roman? Or can I call you, Ro?” Haybear asked.
“That’s fine,” Roman said, his thoughts sliding back to the Hopbarrows. The portly butcher, Noble, and his wife, Lucilla, always called him Ro. He felt a pang deep inside, the smell of their shop instantly coming to mind. He missed it, the almost overpowering combination of smoked sausages and dried herbs. There was nothing like it.
Roman cleared his throat, trying to will the sudden and debilitating sadness away. “I let those I love down. I wasn’t there for them when they needed me. I wasn’t there to protect them when someone hurt them, and now they’re gone. All of them.”
Haybear whistled under his breath, the sound multiplying and echoing through the small hole in the wall. He coughed yet again, and snorted. “And what does Lord Constable and his Crow think you did?” he asked a moment later.
Roman clutched his arms to his body under the scratchy wool, desperate to avoid the wretched blanket’s rotten smell, while unwilling to shed its warmth at the same time.
“Terrible things.”
“Aye. Constables, crows, and captains, they see terrible things so often. It makes ‘em hard, just like a mule I had once,” Haybear said, fading off into unintelligible grumblings.
Roman rubbed his arms, only half-listening to the man’s strange ramblings.
“Mule?”
“Yeah! That damn beast loved carrots. Wouldn’t eat anything else. Well, I worked him near to death, pulling my small plow. He hated that damn yoke. Started kicking it, and biting anyone that got close to him with it. Cursed beast…”
Roman worked the stubby candle over in his hands, careful not to break the wick. He considered the rumbling presence deep inside him. He longed for the warmth of the Ifrit’s fire, but feared its toxic and unyielding will. It was a festering poison. Part of him longed to let it loose. To let it warm his cell, even for just a moment, but also to be rid of its foul, dark taint on his soul.
“…so you see, the damn beast starved itself to death, cause it refused to eat anything else. I couldn’t plow the field cause it wouldn’t wear the yoke, and my wife couldn’t plant any carrots, and so it died. It couldn’t see past the yoke to the carrots it wanted so badly,” Haybear finished.
Roman nodded silently, understanding the moral of the distant, rambling man’s story, but couldn’t bring himself to respond. A moment later a flicker of light appeared through the small window in his cell door.
He crawled forward, eager for even a glimpse of light and warmth, but also the promise of news or another person’s face. But he had barely moved when the light illuminated the outline of a much smaller door set within the thick, wooden frame.
A small door, barely two paces high and a single pace wide, squealed and opened inward. Flickering warmth filtered into his cell, surprisingly bright considering the meager size of the flame. A small figure, basked in the glow of the lamp, appeared. The boy crawled through, backing into the small cell, dragging a metal plate of gray, lumpy looking food.
Roman recognized the boy from the night before, when he stoked the firebox in the day cell. He tried to remember what the soldiers called him. It was an odd name. Rat! He thought, finally connecting the memory.
“You’re Rat, right?” Roman asked, inching a little closer.
The boy froze, his eyes going wide, reflecting the dancing lamplight. His mousy brown hair hung down into his eyes. His nose was narrow and short and his cheekbones pronounced. A large bruise marred his jawline, just to the right of his mouth, where his lip was split.
“Rat,” the boy said, shaking his head in agreement.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Roman said, moving forward suddenly to introduce himself, but the boy’s face contracted in fear and he shrunk back against the wall.
Roman inched away, his hands held up before him. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, pushing his hands forward to prove the boy was well out of reach.
“Might I light this candle with your lamp?”
Rat looked at him suspiciously, before pushing away from the wall. He inched forward, sliding the plate of food before him, until it was just within Roman’s reach.
“Just this one candle, for a bit of light,” Roman said quietly, holding the stubby candle out in his upraised hands.
Rat teetered for a moment, his weight shifting on the balls of his feet, as if torn, but then shook his head violently and scampered over to the sour smelling bucket. The boy tapped the bucket quickly to see if it was full and then retreated to the door. He cast Roman a pained look, before sliding back out of the small door, feet first.
“Please, just this one candle. So I don’t have to sit in the dark!” Roman pleaded, angst and anger swelling up inside him.
He wasn’t angry at the boy, far from it. But he was angry about the prospect of having to sit in the interminable darkness. It was bad enough trying to suppress the Ifrit’s violent and combustive nature without having to worry about his own sullen and moody temperament rearing its ugly head.
Roman sat in the darkness, the plate of cold food sitting in his lap. He was hungry, but couldn’t bring himself to eat.
“I see you met Rat,” Haybear said, his voice echoing out of the hole behind him. Roman didn’t respond. He wanted only to sit in the cold, dark silence and pretend he no longer existed.
“The food ain’t great, but it’s better than nothing. An’ word to the wise, be mindful how you treat the boy. Constable and Minos don’t care a lick about him, but he’s the only face you’re bound to see. No Rat. No food.”
“If that’s what you call it,” Roman grumbled, lifting the plate up to his nose.
“An’ remember, Ro. Minos comes creeping up to your cell door late at night, it’s for one reason. We’re less trouble to him disappeared an’ dead in the deep dark than alive,” Haybear said, choking and coughing again. It was an unhealthy, wet rattle.
Get lost and die in the dark tunnels, or sit in a cell with cold, putrid food and a bucket of my own crap. That sounds crueler than hanging a person, Roman thought miserably.
“And that’s if I can manage to slip out of these chains. Either way, I die in a hole,” Roman mumbled
.
He set the plate of slop on the ground and crawled onto the mattress. Prickly straw poked and stabbed at him through the rough fabric as he curled up under the moldered blanket and closed his eyes, hoping to dream of warmer, happier times.
Chapter 21
Broken Tooth, Broken Claw
Wraithman watched the man on the opposite side of the pit pull on the chain.
“Ah, ha-ha. You should be nervous,” Benik said loudly, before taking a gulp from his tankard.
“No more than any other day,” Wraithman said, trying his best to sound bored.
He watched the gate rise slowly, until the iron crossbar dropped, locking it open. No going back now. Liv og den, he thought, watching Sigmere struggle with his own burden.
The crowd, which had thundered before, went suddenly very quiet as light shone on a flicker of movement in the far cage. Wraithman leaned forward a little as a hand emerged, and then a head.
“Goliath!!!” Benik cried out as his champion emerged from the depths of the cage. The crowd cheered.
Wraithman watched the creature slide into the sun, it’s thick, muscular arms pulling its bulk clear of the cage. He’d watched Goliath fight before, many times, but that didn’t necessarily prepare him for the sight.
It stood, raising its wide, flat face to the sun. Goliath wasn’t just an ogre. It was an ogre raised in the pit. Benik beat and starved the creature until it was savage and cruel. All traces of the normally docile creature were gone. It turned, snarling at the roaring crowd above him, batting at the air with his massive, scarred hands.
Goliath charged at the stone wall, slamming its fists angrily into the solid granite. It reached up, searching for handholds, desperate to crawl out and attack the source of noise and its torment. Benik’s champion circled the massive pit, feeling the stone and smelling the air. Wraithman watched the creature turn in circles, its fear quickly turning to anger, and its anger to rage.
“See, even yer beast knows better than to challenge Goliath. This is going to be the easiest winner’s purse I’ve ever collected,” Benik said, elbowing him in the side and laughing loudly.
Wraithman reared back, and almost struck the big man in the face, but thought better of it. He turned back to the pit and found Sigmere’s stupid stare.
“Get over here!” Wraithman yelled.
Sigmere jumped, and ran over, bobbing slightly.
“Get down in the tunnel and force it out of the cage!” Wraithman grabbed Sigmere by the front of his tunic and pushed him away.
After watching his friend run off, Wraithman turned and observed the crowd. Their excited cheers were changing. They sounded irritated, and restless. He knew something needed to happen, and soon, or angry insults would be the least of his worries. They would likely throw him in, where Goliath could tear him apart and paint the pit with his guts.
Goliath, the gray mountain ogre, scarred and battered from two score pit fights, paced the pit. Its mouth hung slightly ajar, his jagged and broken teeth visible through the crooked gap formed by a cracked jaw and talon injury that removed half of his bottom lip.
Wraithman watched him lumber around the circular enclosure, his arms swaying next to his body and his eyes glossy. He knew that its demeanor would change, especially if anything entered the pit. Benik trained the creature with pain and hunger to act without thought, and kill, ruthlessly.
A noise echoed out of the caged-tunnel beneath him. Wraithman leaned forward, daring to stick his head over the edge to look down. His heart started to flutter, and a moment later another deep, menacing growl reverberated out of the narrow confines.
He imagined Sigmere, stabbing at his prized beast, fighting to force it out of its cage. The thought sent shivers up his spine.
The crowd heard it, and instantly went silent. Goliath heard it as well. He stopped his pacing and quietly considered the dark cage, his arms appeared tense and his eyes clear. The killer was ready.
The ogre started growling, its jaws working as it chanted something that sounded almost like speech. It clenched its large, scarred hands and started pounding them against the ground.
“Watch, Wraith. It’s into it now! Goliath cannot be bested!” Benik cried, slopping ale down his front as he turned to slap Wraithman on the shoulder.
Anytime, Siggie. Anytime! Wraithman thought irritably, smacking the large man’s hand away.
On cue, another growl, followed by a strange, clicking noise filled the air. Goliath stepped back as the drakin, large and white, slid out of the cage. Wraithman saw it, clear as day, one moment, and the next it was gone.
“Finally!” he breathed, leaning as far forward in his seat as it would allow. He was practically hanging out over the pit.
“Ah, yer slippery, jumpin’ beast, finally…oh, wait. Where’d it go?” Benik said, leaning forward as well.
Goliath lumber forward, swinging its massive fists into the ground, and only then did he see it. Moving through the straw, sleek and fast as a shadow, the massive drakin wove around the charging ogre.
The crowd cheered, pounding their feet into the stands and clapping their hands. Wraithman watched the beast, his hard-won treasure, slink to the stone at the edge of the pit. Large feathers shifted white to black, to brown, before lying flat and exposing the sleek, armored scales beneath.
The drakin clawed at the stone, trying fruitlessly to crawl to freedom. It turned its massive head to the sky and hissed, exposing two rows of gleaming teeth. Wraithman’s chest swelled with pride. The beast was even more magnificent in the light.
But will it fight? Will it survive? The questions and doubts swirled around as his knuckles turned white on the railing. On one hand, the creature was wild, so it still had its instincts. On the other, he hadn’t had the opportunity to train it yet. He needed it to survive so he could condition it, much like Benik had with Goliath.
Not graced with Goliath’s height, or girth, the drakin was long and lean. Its powerful legs bunched beneath it, coiled and ready to leap. Its tail wove and danced, constantly in motion, moving like a snake.
Goliath roared and charged, showing no sign of trepidation. His fists thudded into stone, missing the mark as the drakin slid sideways out of reach. It was a battle fit for the pit. The crowd erupted. Men, women, and children screamed, stomping their feet or banging their drinks against the benches.
“The lumbering giant versus the agile predator,” Wraithman whispered.
Benik looked his way, spraying ale as he asked, “What’s that?”
Wraithman just shook his head, brushing his dagger hand with his elbow.
The drakin slid away from Goliath again, its speed and agility impressive to behold. Wraithman leaned back as the ogre pummeled the stone, the impact jarring the stone beneath it. Goliath could kill with a single blow. Or, if it got its hands on its prey, crush and splinter solid bone and burst organs.
“Den! Den! Den!” the crowd cheered, urging their pit champion to satisfy their need for blood and death.
Not today, Wraithman thought, casting a wary eye to the throng around him. He never considered what they would do if his beast did in fact win. Many of them had come to love Goliath as more than just a champion, but family, in a barbaric manner.
The drakin slipped around Goliath, causing the massive ogre to stumble headfirst into the wall. It darted across the pit’s straw-covered expanse in the blink of an eye and leapt right at Wraithman, its claws extended.
He cried out, falling back and toppling off his bench as the creature collided with the stone, just a half-length below him. Its claws scrabbled, scratching against the stone as it slid back down. Another few paces and it would have landed in his lap. Wraithman’s bladder spasmed as he crawled back onto his bench; he grabbed his crotch to make sure he didn’t piss himself.
Goliath waded back in, a trickle of blood running down its face. Its thick arms catapulted it forward faster than Wraithman had ever seen him move before.
The drakin hissed, its tail shaking
threateningly in the air, before leaping out of the way. But Goliath was seasoned, and knew how to play the space of the pit. It lurched to the side, its long arm lashing out. The ogre’s fist clipped the drakin, and sent it rolling in the dirt.
“Ah-ha-ha. The trapper brings a rabbit to a fight!” Benik roared.
“Damn,” Wraithman swore, trying to ignore Benik’s obnoxious bating.
Goliath swung back around, its other fist knocking the slippery beast off its feet once again. With a pained, frightened howl, the drakin darted towards the wall and slunk back and forth, clawing at the mud and stone.
“Ah-ha-ha! Yer beast means to dig its way out!” Benik roared.
“Turn…turn, damn you!” Wraithman growled leaning forward.
The crowd roared, but it wasn’t the cheers that had filled the pit moments ago, but laughter. He watched Goliath pace forward confidently, the knot in his gut winding harder.
The pit champion’s shadow fell over the drakin. It hissed threateningly and turned. Goliath held its long arms out to its sides, its fingers extended to trap the creature against the wall. The drakin shifted right, but Goliath followed. So the drakin cut back left, and the ogre countered.
“Trapped! Goliath’s trapped the trapper’s beast!” Benik roared, slapping Wraithman on the back.
He almost pulled his dagger to shove into the man’s side, right under his arm. If he was going to lose his coin, his reputation, and his prized beast, what did he have to lose?
Goliath reached for the drakin, but the creature sunk back against the wall and snapped at his hand. The ogre reached in again, but teeth and claws were waiting.
Goliath grasped for the drakin’s feet, but the move was just a feint. The champions other hand swept in as the drakin’s jaws snapped together and knocked it down.
Wraithman was standing, but didn’t remember getting up. Those that were close enough to hear started to cheer, taking up in Benik’s taunts.
The drakin screeched, its howl of pain and anger cutting through the noise of the howling crowd. Goliath collapsed on the creature, before straightening up, the dark, scaly form trapped in its thick arms.
