by Robert Evert
He landed face first, the impact only slightly absorbed by his outstretched hands. Not daring to move, he lay motionless on a dirt floor, the foul-smelling bag still over his head, his eyes forced shut. The thought that he was in a dream, a very bad dream, once again entered his mind. But he knew the torment of reality when he felt it. With what strength he had left, he started muttering the words of healing that he had been using every day since being captured at Tol Helen.
“Smerte av—”
Something was moving behind him.
His eyes popped open, but he saw only the darkness inside the leather bag.
The shuffling crept closer.
“Is it dead?” a deep voice said, with no hint of compassion. “Are we supposed to eat it?”
Edmund’s body jerked to a sitting position, despite the stabbing pains coursing throughout his body. Tearing off the bag, he whirled around, prepared once again to beg for his life.
Two eyes were leering at him through the darkness. They were wide, intense, and only a couple of feet from his own. They drew even closer.
“How’re you doing?” the owner of the eyes asked in a perfectly normal, almost happy, tone. “Doing okay?”
Pushing himself away along the dirt floor, Edmund backed into a dirt wall. “Wh-wh-what? What, what did you say?”
“I said, ‘How’re you doing? Doing okay?’” a man with a black face said, smiling broadly at him. Indeed, everything about him was completely black except for his staring eyes and the few teeth that he had remaining. “So . . . how about it? Doing okay?”
Edmund’s vision adjusted to the dimness.
He was in a deep pit, perhaps forty feet in diameter. There was scarlet light, probably from torches, spilling over the lip of the hole, fifteen feet or so above him. Across the pit he could make out three other figures, all humans covered with the blackest dirt Edmund had ever seen. Then the stench hit him, the mixture of human waste, sweat, and death.
The man directly in front of him inched closer. He squinted, surveying Edmund. “You don’t look too bad. Not bad at all, actually. Why, I’ve seen a great deal worse. You should consider yourself lucky.”
“L-luck, lucky?” Edmund replied in disbelief. He felt his mouth and then looked at his hands; they were covered in blood. He couldn’t see out of his left eye. Two large bumps were pulsating on his forehead. Sharp pains radiated throughout his ribcage whenever he moved or attempted to breathe.
“You’re alive, aren’t you?” the dirt-covered man asked, merrily. “Well, there you go!”
Edmund glanced around again.
I must be dreaming. Maybe one of those blows did something to my head.
“I’m Pond Scum, by the by,” the man said, holding out a black hand.
Out of habit, Edmund shook it and then examined his own hand, now covered in a muddy mixture of blood and black dust.
“Oh, don’t mind that,” Pond Scum went on. “We were digging coal today. It coats you, inside and out. You’ll see what I mean tomorrow, if they send us back. But don’t worry. We get baths next week, if we achieve our quota, that is. Which I’m sure we will now that we have your help. Say, what is your name?”
Edmund felt his throbbing head. He peered across the pit at the other men. They seemed half-dead, staring with unseeing eyes at the walls, mouths hanging open as if they were too tired to moan. Even the giant figure directly across from him seemed only barely alive. All he did was blink every few seconds. Pond Scum waited patiently.
“N-n-name? Name?” Edmund repeated.
“Yeah, the one they gave you when you came in? You can’t use your real name, the one your family and friends call you. If you do, the guards will beat the crap out of you, so be careful.”
Edmund looked around again, but found that nothing in the pit had changed since the last time he had surveyed its contents. “F-F-Filth. They named me . . . they named me Filth.”
Pond Scum chortled in contempt. “You must have had Questioner Bar’zal. Not very original, that one. Everybody is ‘filth this’ and ‘filth that.’ Tell me, did he call you pathetic?”
Scanning the opening above him, Edmund wondered whether he could climb out. He nodded at Pond Scum.
“Right. Exactly. See what I mean? How about vile? Did you get the ‘vile thing’ line? Vile this, vile that?”
Feeling his stomach, Edmund wondered when the last time he had eaten. He nodded again at the oddly happy man in front of him.
“Oh, see. There you go. Exactly what I mean. Now I had Questioner Narvel. He’s much more original. He actually puts some thought into it. Why, there have been at least a half dozen or so ‘Filths’ that have come and gone since I’ve been here and not so much as one other ‘Pond Scum.’ Gives me a sense of identity and identity is something you’ll value after a while.”
Edmund’s attention drifted past Pond Scum. He studied the other, less talkative, men in the pit.
“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Pond Scum said, crawling to Edmund’s side. His odor was worse than Norb the stable hand’s. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the gang.”
“Gang?” Edmund repeated to himself.
“The gentleman to our immediate right is Vomit.” A nearly naked, bony man with a beard down to his waist lifted his tired eyes at Edmund and then went back to staring at the floor in front of him. “He’s number two in this pit. I’m number three, but I’ll explain our rankings later.”
He pointed to the massive man next to Vomit.
“Next to Vomit, the big fellow there, he’s Turd, or Tiny Turd as the guards sometime call him. Please don’t upset him. He’s number four, the newest here, that is, before you came. You’re number five.”
Turd didn’t acknowledge Edmund’s presence. He merely rubbed the palms of his burly hands and scowled.
“Continuing along to the far left over there is Crazy Bastard. His name used to be Vermin, but they changed it a while back. They do that on occasion. I pretend I don’t like Pond Scum and they keep calling me that. I really don’t want a change.”
Edmund’s thoughts wafted to the skeletal figure sitting furthest from him. He appeared older than everybody else, though Edmund couldn’t even begin to guess his actual age. Unlike Pond Scum, Vomit, and Tiny Turd, Crazy Bastard didn’t have a beard and he had only patches of short black hair on his head. Soon Edmund understood why. As he watched, Crazy Bastard ripped out a portion of his remaining hair, shoved it in his mouth, and cackled. He then slapped himself hard across his face and put his head in a hole in the ground.
That’ll be you soon.
“Now, by all rights, Crazy Bastard should be our Pit Leader, being here longer than anybody, that is. But, given his mental state, Vomit here takes care of us.”
At this, Crazy Bastard sprang to his feet and beat his bare chest with clenched fists. He screamed. Edmund noted the old man’s ribcage protruding through his taut, coal-covered skin. Several ribs appeared to have been broken and healed at off-kilter angles. Edmund’s hand rubbed his own abundant belly. It rumbled with hunger.
“So, there you go. Welcome to the family. Next,” Pond Scum went on, as if mentally ticking off an item from a list. “There’re few things that you need to know straight away. Things that you need to always remember. All right? First, never talk to a guard or any non-Pit Dweller unless spoken to first. Only Vomit, who is acting in Crazy Bastard’s stead, can ever approach a guard. Got that? That’s really important. If you approach a guard, or say something when not spoken to, or even so much as look at them in the eye, they’ll beat the crap out of you or worse. And believe me, there is a lot worse than a beating.”
Worse?
Pond Scum shuddered, a look of pain floating over his face. “Second, that bag you have, the one they put over your head. As of now, that is your most prized possession. You’ll put your food in it, when you get some. You’ll also defecate in it should you need to go while in the pit.”
Edmund attempted to focus on Pond Scum to see if he was being se
rious.
“This is also very important. You don’t defecate in our home.” Pond motioned around the pit. “You go in the bag and then dump it out once we get into the mines. You understand? If you go in the pit, Vomit will levy a punishment against you. But let’s not talk about that right now. I want your first day to be pleasant and all. Let’s see, what’s next?”
Pleasant?
“Oh, never touch another man’s bag. It isn’t polite and, quite frankly, if you do, we’ll beat the crap out of you. Just a friendly warning about that. Again, I want your first day to be a good one.”
Good . . . one?
Edmund’s gaze drifted around him.
“This here is your area.” Pond Scum created an arc with his arms, showing Edmund the five-foot wide area he meant. “Generally, we tend to keep out of each other’s space without permission. But I’m here because you are new and all. You don’t know the rules. Next time, I’ll ask, of course. I don’t want to be an annoying pest and all. So if I ever bother you, just let me know and I’ll leave you alone.”
Edmund’s awareness floated to his assigned area.
Pond Scum tapped his bearded chin. “I’m sure that I’m forgetting a good deal. But I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
Overwhelm?
“The main thing is to keep your head down, don’t provoke the guards, and do whatever you’re told without question. Don’t think too much and stay positive. ‘Stay positive,’ that’s my motto. That and . . . ‘Don’t get captured and thrown in a damn pit!’”
Pond Scum grinned, apparently waiting for Edmund to laugh. But Edmund was incapable of such an emotion. He was beyond numb. Even the pain that wracked his body seemed somehow distant and something other than his own. He felt as if he were sinking into cold darkness.
“Our shift begins in about four hours, so you might want to get some rest. We’ll talk more then.”
Heavy footfalls and the clink of armor approached the lip of their pit. Pond Scum’s smile disappeared. He put an urgent black finger to his black lips and scampered to his spot along the wall.
Overhead, brighter light appeared. A helmeted goblin with a torch looked down at them.
“In honor of our new guest,” he said, sneering, “we would like to give you all a present, courtesy of Mr. Kravel and Mr. Gurding.”
He dropped a pinkish mass into the pit. It landed with a lifeless thud. In the dimness, Edmund couldn’t make out what it was. Then the goblin dropped the torch next to it.
In the middle of the pit was the skinned and gutted corpse of a headless dog.
Edmund fainted.
Chapter Twelve
Edmund smelled something that he couldn’t quite place, like the odd mixture of chicken being barbecued in an outhouse with lantern oil. His stomach rumbled. Then the rest of his body reminded him how much pain he was in. He tried to open his eyes, but found the left one was swollen shut.
“Hey! There he is,” a vaguely familiar voice called out happily.
Pond Scum?
Three people were in the middle of the pit roasting something over a crackling torch. Another person danced in the corner, gnawing on a bone.
Pit?
One of the three men got up and limped to his area, his right foot dragging across the dirt as he approached.
The human called Vomit came within five feet of where Edmund was lying. He was eating something. “May I enter?” he asked.
Holding his throbbing head, Edmund peered at him, but didn’t respond.
“Forgive me,” Vomit said, entering Edmund’s space without permission. “Part of my duties as Pit Leader is to dole out food. Usually, you wouldn’t get anything, given that you didn’t work today. But, seeing that you are new and you have some sort of connection to the additional meal, a couple of us thought that you might need this.”
There was a fistful of small ribs in Vomit’s filthy hand. Partly cooked meat clung to the bones.
Edmund recoiled.
“Go ahead. It’s all right. It’s dog. It’s very good. It tastes like rat.”
“Best we’ve had in months,” Pond Scum called to Edmund, a piece of meat from the canine’s leg hanging from his mouth. “It’s incredible.”
“Did you succeed, Mr. Gurding?” Kravel said in Edmund’s head.
“Well enough, I suspect.” Gurding replied. “Solid thigh strike. She won’t go very far. We can track her after we finish up here, if you wish. Or we can let her die on her own in an hour or so.”
Edmund began hyperventilating. Did they find Thorax? He couldn’t remember. He recalled being dragged down the hidden stairs and waiting as the goblins explored the secret way Edmund discovered. There was a trail of blood. Did they ever reach its end? Kravel and Gurding seemed more interested in finding something else. What was it? What were they looking for?
An image of a wall in the cavern below Tol Helen coalesced in Edmund’s horrified mind. The wall had writing on it, carved into the damp stone. What was it? What did it say? Kravel and Gurding wanted to know. They held Edmund’s head in the cold subterranean lake until they were satisfied that he told them the truth. It was meaningless drivel.
“Here,” Vomit repeated.
Edmund didn’t move.
“I understand. I’ll just leave it.” He set the ribs next to Edmund on the bag in which he was supposed to defecate. “Perhaps saving them for later is the smartest thing.”
Vomit lurched back to the center of the pit where Pond Scum and Turd were roasting pieces of Thorax over the crackling flames. Pond Scum licked his black fingers, savoring every morsel. Turd stared intently at the meat he dangled over the torch, contentment creeping over his face.
When they had finished, they each placed the bones of the animal into their bags. Pond Scum and Vomit leaned against the wall in their areas, put their hands on their sunken stomachs, and sighed.
Turd stood up. In the dimness of the dying torch, he looked like a monster rising out of a grave. Walking across the pit, he entered Edmund’s area without permission.
“I want your boots,” he said.
Scrambling to their feet, Vomit and Pond Scum leapt in front of Turd. He towered above them by at least a foot. Edmund stared up at him in quivering disbelief.
“Now Turd,” Vomit began.
Throwing a forearm, Turd sent Vomit flying across the pit. Vomit bounced against the wall and crumbled to the ground. Pond Scum retreated, his hands raised.
Turd seized Edmund’s calf. “I want your boots,” he repeated.
The huge man jerked Edmund’s leg up.
Edmund flipped over and found himself dangling upside down above the dirt floor.
“Let go,” he begged, thrashing wildly. “Just l-l-let . . . let go of me. Pl-pl-please!”
“Turd,” Vomit repeated from the safety of the far wall. “This is against the rules. He came in with those. They belong to him.”
“I don’t care,” Turd said, knocking away Edmund’s feeble blows.
Edmund cried out in pain as Turd twisted his foot. The boot came off, and Edmund crashed to the ground.
“And I want his shirt,” Turd said. “I’m tired of having my hands hurt.”
Pond Scum reached for Turd’s sizable arm, but hesitated. “If you hurt him, he won’t be able to help in the mines. Then we won’t make our quota. And you know what that means.”
“Look at him!” Turd shouted. “Do you actually think he is going to be of much help? Look at him. He’ll eat our food. He’ll drink our water. That’s what he’ll do. We might as well kill him now, the fat pig.” He grabbed Edmund’s blood-covered wool shirt. Sounds of tearing filled the pit.
“Get off me,” Edmund repeated with increasing anger.
The fear was leaving him. He could barely see, barely breathe without flashes of pain. His home was a wasted lifetime away. He had nothing to live for. This behemoth couldn’t hurt him any more than he already had been.
“Get off,” Edmund hollered, hitting Turd’s forearm as har
d as he could.
“Look,” Vomit went on, “if he doesn’t perform, he doesn’t eat. Just like any of the rest of us. He’ll only get his fair share. I’ll see to that.”
The front half of Edmund’s shirt tore away from his chest. Turd fell back. Edmund sprang to his feet. Vomit and Pond Scum stepped in between them again.
“You can have it when he dies,” Vomit said. “You know the rules. I’ll give you first pick of his things.”
Turd wrapped his callused right hand in the bloody wool strip. He flexed his fingers with satisfaction.
“I’m tired of being hurt,” he said. “I need his clothes, his boots.” He took a step toward Edmund, reaching over Vomit and Pond Scum. “I do most of the work here.”
“Think of it this way, he’ll be dead in a week, ten days tops,” Pond Scum said optimistically. “All you have to do is wait!”
To everybody’s surprise, Edmund didn’t back away.
“Leave me alone,” he said, slapping Turd’s bandaged hand aside.
Furious, Turd tossed Pond Scum and Vomit out of his way and came straight for Edmund. Stepping forward, Edmund knocked Turd’s hands away a second time. They were toe to toe, Edmund looking up as if examining the top of a tree.
“Get away,” he said, the pain throughout his body overcome by fury. “I’m warning you. Get the hell away from me!”
Half snarling, half laughing, Turd lunged at Edmund, reaching with his bandaged hand for Edmund’s throat. Edmund grabbed the big man’s thick wrist.
There was a burst of blue fire.
Reeling back, Turd pulled the burning bandage off his hand and threw it to the floor. Angry flames leapt up into the air. Everybody froze, staring at the blaze.
“Magic,” Crazy Bastard muttered from the other side of the pit. “Magic!” he yelled.
Now you’ve done it! Now they know. They’re going to kill you for sure!
But how . . . ? How did I . . . ?
Pond Scum and Vomit hushed Crazy Bastard. But Crazy Bastard kept dancing and screaming, “Magic! Magic! Magic!”
Above the pit opening, a guard bellowed for silence.
