by Stephen Wolf
“Rise up, scum,” one of the guards spat, signaling to two of the others to claim the warrior’s sword and shield. “Pretty times lie in wait for you, I think.” He finished off with malevolent laughter.
Two spears poked Gabrion in the sides, and a third guard held a sword to his back. Four archers followed the group as the captain led the way forward through a narrow hallway. Several passages opened along the sides as they went, and Gabrion counted them as points of reference. They turned right at the seventh hall and walked for many yards before turning again. There was a slight bend to the paths, he noticed, so they weren’t arranged as a simple grid. Keeping an eye out for markings on the wall, he desperately tried to remember their path.
After covering quite a distance, they reached a large iron door. The captain pounded sharply on the metal in a rhythmic fashion, waiting for a detailed response, then pounded again. After that, locks clicked and slid and the door opened. Another pair of guards waited on the other side and became part of the escort leading up a set of clammy stairs. Gabrion debated stumbling purposely but realized it wouldn’t actually get him far, especially with two of the archers specifically hanging a few paces behind the rest.
The upper area was brighter than the dungeon area below, but it was still mostly enclosed in stone, with a few cutouts for sunlight to pass through. The torches were not lit in this hallway, as it was a bright day outside. Hesitating to step forward into the light earned Gabrion a jab in the back, which propelled him onward. Four more flights of stairs passed under them before they proceeded through another secured door that required a different series of knocks. He wondered idly if they were actually messages or just random banging meant to sound planned.
A holding room waited down the end of the hallway, where Gabrion was asked to register his name and hometown, after which his chain mail was removed and placed into storage with his sword and shield. They patted down the rest of him, but he didn’t have any daggers concealed anyway, and they didn’t find the jade, as if the shard had concealed itself from their prying hands. The guard did, however, tug on the necklace carrying his engagement ring for Mira, which caused Gabrion to beg for it.
“Wifey, eh?” the guard sneered.
“She’s all I have left. Captured by the Hathrens,” he added, hoping to be united at least in hatred of their common foe. “Please, it’s all I have.”
They took it anyway. “We’ll make sure it’s got no specialties to it, then we’ll decide on giving it back to you. No chances, you know.”
Defeated, Gabrion sank within himself and was led through another set of doors and down a range of hallways to another stone room. A door swung open, and he was shoved inside, where he curled into a ball and mourned the loss of the engagement ring. His quest seemed doomed.
The first thing Gabrion did once he composed himself was move the jade from its uncomfortable position back to his trouser pocket. He kept his tunic out loose so it would hide the bulge, but he couldn’t have left the jade in his undergarments for much longer. He pushed himself upright and then stood, noticing that he wasn’t alone. As if it were a signal that he had accepted his fate, one of the other prisoners approached.
“Greetings,” the man said, “though there’s not much happiness in it, I’m afraid. Cavall.” He extended his hand.
“Gabrion,” he said, acknowledging and returning the gesture.
“I know it’s impolite to ask, but what are you in for? I’m here for taking too much of a liking to gambling. Well, I guess for not paying off my debts and then trying to fight my way out of it.”
Gabrion wasn’t sure what to say. “I guess for entering Grenthar’s complex without an invitation.”
Cavall backed away, clearly impressed. “And you’re not dead! I won’t ask more than that; that’s enough for me.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Just watch out for the scarred ones. If they hear you survived the labyrinth, they’ll likely put you to their own test, if you get my meaning. They lost a few friends to that place.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Cavall clapped Gabrion on the shoulder and brought him in among the others. The warrior saw that the outer wall was slightly curved and dotted with windows no larger than his head. The windows allowed a tease of fresh air and sunshine with the absolute knowledge that there was no escape through them. Patches of light beamed down upon a group of nearly twenty men, most just a couple of years older than Gabrion. Age wasn’t the only thing they had in common; all of them were very strongly built. Cavall spent the next few minutes introducing him around. Most of them greeted Gabrion with a sympathetic expression. Only a group of three men in the corner offered no response. Horrid scars covered their faces and arms, and they waited until he turned away before continuing their hushed conversation.
“It’s too bad you’ve come at this time of day,” Cavall said companionably. “In an hour’s time, we go to work, and they won’t let you off because you’re new.”
“Work?”
“Yep. Lots of physical stuff, so if you have any limbering up to do, now’d be the time for it.” He followed that by doing a handful of squats and side bends. Some of the others followed his lead, and soon a whole pack of them were running through a practiced warm-up routine.
The hour passed quickly, and Cavall’s prediction was right; the guards put him to work with the rest of them. They were led out a long corridor, where rows of archers waited with arrows nocked and ready for any form of outburst from the prisoners. They were brought to a large yard, and Gabrion could see numerous floors above him that wrapped around the periphery and extended into the sky. This was the highest floor that had a central dais. And it was here they were set to work.
Because he was new, two guards escorted him around the yard and explained various facets of the work he was expected to do during his time there. All the while, he could practically feel the archers in the upper wings readying to take him down if he acted rashly. They weren’t the only defensive structure, as the door through which they had come was now securely locked and barred from the other side, as were the other three exits from the area. Additionally, there were short cages along the perimeter that housed vicious dogs, some of whom pawed the ground when he passed, snapping teeth in anticipation of a kill.
One of the guards punched him in the shoulder, since he was too focused on the sights and not on their instructions. “Here is a bellows, as you can see. It keeps a healthy breeze to the lower quarters. It needs utilization throughout the day. Over here is the mill grind.” The guard pointed to a cross-shaped wheel where four prisoners just walked in a circle, turning the crank so an unseen mechanism could operate somewhere below. “On this side is the hydropump.” It looked similar to the mill grind, but the men pushing it were straining even harder.
Around they went, visiting the various stations, including an area for chopping wood. It included two large axes that were well fastened with heavy chains so they could not be used against the guards, not that they would help with all the archers at hand. Cavall nodded at him from one of the stations.
“Over here, the boulders for the lift,” the guard said next. There was a massive pulley over the ground, with an enormous chain running below. A thick stone basket on one end was up at the level of the floor, and peering into the other hole, Gabrion could see a similar basket on the other end of the line.
“Don’t get any ideas of jumping down there,” the guard said. “It’s protected on both ends. When a call comes, you roll those into the basket. Simple,” he finished, pointing to a nearby pile of boulders. “For now, go to the hydropump and apply yourself there.” They gestured him back to the turnstile, where two others were pushing away, and he went, not knowing anything else he could do at the moment.
It was a long, grueling day at the turnstile. It was much harder to push than it looked, and keeping it going was truly taxing on his stamina, not to mention his e
quilibrium. The constant walking in circles made him rather dizzy. When a halt was called over an hour later, he fell to the ground until he recovered.
There were three metal sluices that wrapped along the southern wall. They started from up at one of the guard stations and ended in baskets at the bottom. One sluice carried water, another bread, and the third a gritty sort of stew. Gabrion joined the line for the bowls and cups and took a share with the rest.
“Eat it all, trust me,” Cavall warned him. “Ten minutes from now they flush them with water to keep the ramps from rotting with leftover food. So whatever you haven’t eaten becomes pretty gruesome. But at least it leaves us with water for the day. They do, after all, need us.”
A call went out to return to their stations. One of the hydropump workers asked to switch with Cavall, and he accepted, so he and Gabrion returned to the post and kept turning the wheel. During the whole process, Cavall didn’t speak a word. He just leaned his body weight forward and kept pumping his legs in a rhythm. Gabrion followed suit.
The day was completely uneventful after the frantic morning. A new meal was sent down the sluices after a call was made to empty the baskets. They ate, famished, and put in another couple of hours of labor before being given a third meal and then sent back to their holding cell while a chilly night set in.
On the way back, Cavall commented, “Aw, no fireworks tonight.” He turned to Gabrion, but the warrior wasn’t listening.
Gabrion was so exhausted he passed right out. He was awakened late the next morning when it was time for the warm-up stretch, and then another day followed the first.
Dariak crashed to the ground in a terrible heap. His arms had completely given out; he couldn’t even use them to brace his fall. He smacked to the ground, and lightning sizzled through his head, stabbing him with pain. He couldn’t move; everything hurt so badly. Then, once he’d decided he was going to die there, the pain flashed up worse as his body was lifted into the air and carted away.
He had no idea how much time passed before the movement stopped. All he knew was that his robe was stripped off him and then he felt an odd, warm sensation that was somehow familiar. As the hours passed, he recognized that warmth as healing energy passing through him. He tried to pull himself together, but his arms and legs were strapped down to a wood table. Looking down, he saw needles sticking out of him, accompanied by a collection of crystals that facilitated the healing.
After another hour, one of the healers removed the needles and set aside the crystals, then bade him to stand up. He did so slowly and skeptically, keeping a close eye on the ten healers in the room and the eight guards. His robe was handed back to him, and he quickly covered himself up while trying to feel if anything had been taken. Strangely, it seemed like they hadn’t touched a single pocket.
He was then guided down a series of corridors that wrapped in a counterclockwise arc. Nudged up a set of stairs, he entered a small laboratory of sorts, confused beyond words.
The room was made of glass on three sides. Two sides had views of what appeared to be observation rooms, where people could sit and watch him work. The third side opened to a wider room that had magic-dampening spells set on all the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. The laboratory itself had a desk and a bookshelf with a collection of books, as well as a bathing tub, bed, and chamber pot that emptied to an unknown place below. In one of the glass walls, he saw a collection of glass chutes with bowls at the end and smelled the faint scent of food.
“I don’t understand,” he said aloud to one of the guards.
“These are your new quarters, mage. Here you will work whatever spells you can. You may request any spell components you wish. But you are required to perform magic every day.”
“What?”
“The amount and quality of food and water that you receive will be directly proportional to the amount and quality of the magic you produce. Want to eat? Start casting.”
Dariak stared at the man in utter bewilderment. “You want me to use magic?”
“That, or die of starvation.”
“But what if I use it to escape?”
The man laughed. “If you could, then you’d deserve it. But you won’t be able to. Still, feel free to give it a try; if you do it magically, it counts toward your rations.” He smiled widely and then stepped from the room with the rest of the guards. The iron door slid shut, and numerous bolts fell into place. Dariak then felt a horrible, wrenching sensation as an antimagic field spread across the doorway. No wonder they weren’t worried.
Dariak’s first reaction was to shake his head and lament, once again, the atrocities of this kingdom. They all refuted the magical energies of the land, touting the Hathrens as defilers of nature for their commonplace use of magic. And, once again, when the need suited them, the Kallisorians just tossed up a major spell to contain him. And, looking around again, he realized that the purpose of his prison was to give their mages a chance to learn more magic in the safest and most efficient way possible.
Dariak suspected that he would not be able to use the same spells over and over to earn his meals. They would likely demand greater and greater magic from him in order to best improve their own knowledge, but he would need to take care what spells he revealed to them over the next few days.
Kitalla struggled against Grenthar’s personal form of punishment. Unlike the others, she was kept within his complex, for a time simply locked away in total darkness, except when food was dropped from above. Her only companion was a trickle of water that ran down one wall and into a drainage hole in the floor.
She didn’t know what she was angriest about. It bothered her that she’d lost both of her companions on their way through the gauntlet. She was irritated that she hadn’t anticipated a host of guards at the final destination. She was outraged that she was stuck in this small, dank cell. But most of all, she was infuriated that she had held the jade, only to have it reclaimed from her mere moments later.
Kitalla was kept in the cell for at least three days before time started blending together. She had no light at all, except for those brief moments at mealtimes, so she felt along the walls for any sense of deformation that she could try to exploit. But top to bottom, the circular walls were completely smooth, with a diameter just wider than her body was long. There was no way she could even climb the fifteen-foot height to reach the upper hatch. She spent her time trying to keep limber and active, but it was hard with her only water supply a stale trickle down the wall that required her to press her tongue against the stone in order to capture any.
Perhaps a week after her imprisonment, a rope was lowered into the cell with a command for her to climb. It was smart of them not to use a ladder, for climbing a rope required her to use both hands, therefore preventing her from attacking when she reached the surface.
Sunlight cascaded into the room, and she squinted harshly against it. Two strong men grabbed her and dragged her forward along a corridor and into a room at the end of the hall. Her hands, feet, and neck were buckled into an oversized chair, allowing her to see and speak but not to move.
“Well, well,” greeted a voice she hadn’t wanted to hear again. Grenthar stepped into view and infuriated her by pacing back and forth, purposely walking beyond her field of vision with each passing. “I see you yet live, little pet.”
“I’m no pet,” she scowled.
“Temper, temper,” he scolded lightly. “Like it or not, little pet, you’ve become one.” He approached her and stroked her hair. She tried to bite him, but the restraining belts did their work well. “None of that, little pet, or I’ll put you to other uses, and trust me, you would not like them.” He made a suggestive expression, and Kitalla immediately calmed herself down.
“Better,” he said. “If you could ask of me one question and any question at all, what would it be?”
“What do you want from me?” she hissed.
&nbs
p; “Ah, now I expected a bigger heart from you! Not even asking about your friends. Tsk, tsk,” he admonished petulantly. “Well, let me tell you anyway. You see, His Great Royal Majesty of Kallisor sent his elite force to our town to capture three fugitives.”
He stepped outside her range of vision and brought back a parchment. “Look familiar?” he asked, holding out a wanted poster. “Well, you see, I handed over your friends to the guard for execution.”
Kitalla’s reaction betrayed her feelings. She writhed around in the seat, her chest heaving.
“Ah, so you do care for them. Pity.” He shook his head. “If only I had known before, I could have secreted them away as well.” He clapped his hands and sighed dramatically. “Well, nothing I can do now, I’m afraid. But this still leaves you, doesn’t it? That was your question, after all?”
It took everything she had to calm down and tell herself that he was wrong about Gabrion and Dariak. “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “What have you planned for me?”
“Ah, delightful!” he beamed, clapping his hands together again. “You are the only one ever to complete all parts of my little gauntlet and get your hands on my gem.”
“The only?” she interrupted. “What of those rogues who had it before?”
Grenthar growled. “Those fools had the object on loan. Do not insult my traps with the likes of them! They would not have survived a single one of them.” He paced back and forth a few times, trying to rid himself of the irksome memory. Kitalla wondered what the greater connection was between the two.
