by Adam Carter
Hero Cast
Trilogy Omnibus
Adam Carter
Copyright 2017, © Adam Carter. All rights reserved. No content may be reproduced without permission of the author.
HERO CAST
Book 1
THE VILLAINOUS HEROES
CHAPTER ONE
The cries of evisceration were horrific, which meant it was around noon. Jobek Crenshaw settled down as comfortably as he could. He had a corner, which was something of a status symbol in the dungeon. Anyone who slept in a corner could see ahead of them and no enemy could sneak up either side. Crenshaw had established his right several years ago to such a position. Over his time in the dungeon there had been challengers, mainly young punks who thought a man with a mangled arm did not present much of a threat. Crenshaw seldom killed such contenders; he found breaking both their arms more poetic.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the dampness seeping through his shirt from the wall. It had been a month since he had been able to wash his clothes, so he found the dampness almost welcome. He knew it was just the mind of a condemned man seeing good in what was keeping him down, but fighting it would not change anything.
The screams were abruptly cut off, which did not always mean the evisceration was over. Most of the time it meant the victim had simply passed out. He would know should the screams start up again within the next half hour. There would be wagers laid, there were always wagers laid, yet Crenshaw had never bet money on the actions of his tormentors. Sometimes, if he was feeling in a mood slightly better than miserable, he would even offer a brief prayer to whatever god was listening that the victim had died of shock.
“I got you something.”
Crenshaw opened his eyes to find someone crouched before him, holding out a belt. Before each evisceration, the clothes and other property of the condemned would be removed and discarded, and other prisoners were always quick to descend upon such treasures. Anyone could be chosen next for evisceration, and once in the death chamber they no longer had any need for material possessions.
Crenshaw took the belt and felt along its leather. It was well-made. “Thanks, Asp.”
Asperathes grinned, which was always unnerving for one of his species. Asperathes was as down-trodden and abused as Crenshaw, but neither of them was defeated. They fought emaciation by taking whatever food they wanted, they combatted boredom through engaging in complex mental puzzles, they maintained their lives by being there for one another. But never could have been found two beings more different.
Jobek Crenshaw was a former soldier, with a stocky, muscled frame. Aged around thirty, he knew he looked older, but that was what five years in a dank dungeon did to the human body. He kept his hair regulation short, although had allowed himself to grow enough stubble to cover most of the scar which tore down his right cheek. The scar was the least of his injuries sustained in the war, for his right arm had been mangled in an especially devastating battle; it had been this which had drummed him out of the army. In contrast, Asperathes was entirely hairless, and if he possessed any scars Crenshaw could not see them. Asperathes was of a race known as the apepkith, which always sounded a bit silly to Crenshaw but he was told had some meaning or other. Seven feet tall, with pale green scaled skin, Asperathes was essentially a giant bipedal snake, with a lithe body and limbs which always looked a little too long to Crenshaw’s eyes. Both Crenshaw and Asperathes were garbed in soiled shirts and trousers, and Crenshaw longed for the day when they might be able to acquire some armour and take an axe to the necks of their captors.
Asperathes sank to the floor beside him – he was the only person in the dungeon Crenshaw would allow to do such a thing – and examined something he had himself taken from the death chamber. It was a bootlace, and the snake man was gazing at it lovingly.
“Asp, what do you do with all those laces?”
“Oh, you know.”
“No, I really don’t. Please don’t tell me you eat them.”
“They look like mouse tails, don’t they?”
“Good gods, you do eat them.”
Asperathes chuckled and tucked the lace into his pocket. Whatever he did with them, Crenshaw figured he had earned his right to privacy. For a while he had feared his friend had been losing his mind, but Asperathes had never shown any other signs of madness, so Crenshaw was not overly worried. He and Asperathes had been friends for so long neither of them remembered who had come to the dungeon first. For a while it had even formed an argument between them, until they both realised such ignorance was soul-destroying.
“Thirty-three.”
Crenshaw frowned, listened in case the screams had resumed after thirty-three seconds, but there were only the ordinary sounds of the other hundred or so prisoners in their part of the dungeon. “What is?” he finally said.
“The number of vacant squares following a fool’s mate.”
“Oh, that,” Crenshaw said. He had forgotten he had posed that problem the previous night. “It’s thirty-two, anyway.”
“I think you’ll find it’s thirty-three, old chap.”
“You’re counting the king. You don’t remove the king from the board following checkmate.”
“Well, maybe humans don’t, but then it’s my experience that humans never like to finish a job worth doing.”
Crenshaw smiled, leaned his head back against the wall. “I defer to apepkith logic.”
“I’ve just this moment been able to add to my experience that humans also don’t like to fight for what they believe is right.”
“Show me something worth fighting for and I’ll fight you. In the meantime, thanks for the belt.”
A commotion sounded by the entrance and Crenshaw glanced over without much caring. It was likely a new prisoner being introduced to their cell, and Crenshaw always liked to get a look at their eyes in case there was any challenge there. The cell was large, formed on three walls by stone, the other being taken up by dozens of vertical iron bars. Across the corridor there was an identical cell, just as there was an identical cell beside this one, and above and below. No one knew precisely how many cells there were in the castle, but the baroness did love her prisoners. The story went that when she commissioned the construction of the dungeon, the first thing she did was incarcerate the workers just so she could have some prisoners.
The swarm of unwashed, dirty bodies concealed the newcomer from view, although Crenshaw could hear a surprising amount of noise from the crowd. Some prisoners were shoving each other, another was whooping. Two men were shouting at each other, and judging by the blood streaming from someone’s nose at least one punch had been thrown.
It all added up to one thing: the new prisoner was a woman.
“Leave it,” Asperathes said without having looked up at all. He was concentrating on fixing a small rat trap, several of which he kept dotted about the dungeon. If there was one thing apepkith loved to eat it was rats, which suited the human prisoners as well since killing them stopped them chewing people’s faces off in the night.
Crenshaw looked back to the commotion. His heart was pounding but he forced himself to stay where he was. Asperathes was right, this was none of his concern, but he had been a soldier once. Granted, most of the soldiers he fought with would not think twice about sullying a woman, but Crenshaw had always believed he had been fighting for the people, that it was his duty to protect them. Most of the prisoners in the dungeon were from the working class, but things always went a lot worse for any of the upper classes who were thrown amongst them. There were too many prisoners with something against authority, although the only authority Crenshaw had something against was that of Baroness Thade. If the new prisoner was someone of high social standing, it was all the mo
re Crenshaw’s duty to protect her.
“You’re not a soldier any more,” Asperathes said as though reading his mind.
“Once a soldier, Asp.”
“It never does any good,” Asperathes said even as Crenshaw was halfway up. Crenshaw paused and looked at him. The snake man made an exaggerated show of sighing and put down his trap to look his friend in the eye. “You go through this every time, my friend. You march over there, sometimes you even drag the poor girl away from the vile clutches of the mob. But even the ones you save still have to live here. And sooner or later all the weak become playthings for the strong. Boys, girls, lesser faeries; the weak exist to make life bearable for those in charge. If life is like that outside, why would it be any different in here?”
“I have to try, Asp.”
“Why? If you’d take a woman for your own, maybe then people would leave her alone, but you won’t do that will you? You never do, my friend.”
“If I did that, I’d be admitting I’m never going to see Maria again.”
“It’s been years, Crenshaw. Your wife will have grieved for you and found someone else to marry. A woman needs stability, your Maria would have been no different in that.”
“I have hope, Asp. Hope is what keeps men going through the worst of times.”
“Then with that mentality I’m glad I’m not a man.” He hesitated. “Well? If you’re going to go save that poor girl, you might want to do it before half the mob’s had their way with her.”
Crenshaw knew his friend’s attitude was correct, but it did not make it right. The dungeons were home to all manners of species and sex, and Crenshaw was not the only one who was left alone. But the weak were always picked off and forced into nothing better than slavery. There was nothing Crenshaw could have done about it, but he would always try to save the newcomers. No one had yet claimed them and as such Crenshaw would not be interfering with anyone’s perceived property.
Taking firm hold of a shoulder, he tore the nearest man away from the mob and tossed him to one side. His arm reached in, pulling a man away with every yank. A man with two good arms would not have been able to move as quickly through the masses as did Crenshaw. The farther he waded into the sea of stinking sewage, the louder he could hear the laughter of the men at the entrance. At last he caught sight of three men struggling with someone and heard the bark of a frightened, desperate girl.
Shoving aside a final man, Crenshaw saw the young woman who had been thrown into the cell. She was aged somewhere in her early-twenties and was dressed in frayed and badly patched attire which marked her as a member of the peasantry. Her face was grimy with dirt, tears, sweat and dried blood; no different to anyone else in the dungeon. Her hair was a matted mass of scarlet and Crenshaw could imagine that before being arrested she had sported a fiery head of curls.
The girl saw him shoving his way through and her piercing green eyes looked upon him pleadingly. Two men had her arms and seemed to think they were engaging in a strange game of human tug of war. A third man, barrel-chested and naked from the waist up, was standing behind her, kicking her in the back and laughing.
“That’s enough,” Crenshaw said, pushing one of the men holding the girl’s arm. He fell back under the unexpected impact, releasing her. The girl yelped as she tumbled into the man pulling her other arm, who enveloped her in a fierce hug, lifted her from the ground and cackled contentedly.
“I said that’s enough,” Crenshaw said.
The man who had been kicking her stepped close to Crenshaw and glowered. Crenshaw had had dealings with him before. His name was Baros the Skullcracker and he had been some form of circus strongman on the outside world. He had been arrested, or so he boasted, for twisting round the head of a noble who refused to pay admission after not liking the performance. He never wore a shirt for the simple reason that he wanted everyone to see his well-formed muscles. A vein in his bald head always throbbed when he was truly angry, which was ever an indication for the prisoners to make space for him. It was handy when queuing for dinner. Crenshaw noted the vein was throbbing now.
“Problem, Crenshaw?” Baros asked.
As ever when confronting him, Crenshaw’s first thought was whether Skullcracker was his circus title or if it was a position he had acquired since his arrest. “No problem,” Crenshaw said, “if you stop kicking helpless girls. And you can stop moving as well,” he said to the man who was struggling to drag the girl away. Even with both her feet off the floor, she was not making his task easy, for in her panic she had become a frantic, kicking and screaming hell-cat. Crenshaw found he had to give her credit for that.
Baros took a half-step closer to him, so they were practically touching. A towering powerhouse looming above the old soldier, it was clearly Baros’s intention to get Crenshaw to take a step back, but Crenshaw was not in the habit of stepping away from trouble. “Maybe I like kicking girls,” Baros said.
“Then you have issues.”
Baros tilted his head slightly and Crenshaw could see the vein about ready to explode. “Maybe I should kick you,” he said.
“Maybe you should,” Crenshaw said. “When you checkmate, do you remove the king from the board?”
Baros frowned, glanced to one side in confusion.
Crenshaw punched him solidly in the gut.
The crowd roared with approval as Baros staggered back and were instantly silenced as his eyes blazed with fury. People began scrabbling in every direction to get away from the behemoth. The man holding the girl was staring in shock and fear, and she seized her opportunity, clawing at his eyes. He screamed, his grip slackened, and the girl twisted from his hands, falling to the cold stone floor with a sharp wail as her shoulder impacted audibly.
But Crenshaw could not afford to waste any more time looking out for her. Baros was fuming by this point and had dropped to a crouch, his arms held before him, his fingers shaking with rage as he held them pointed at Crenshaw like daggers. Even Baros crouching was taller than Crenshaw. He began to wish he had listened to his friend’s advice and stayed half-asleep in the corner.
With a roar, Baros charged. Crenshaw met the attack, twisting his right shoulder so that Baros collided with his useless arm while at the same time bringing around his left in a wild swing to batter the other man’s face. Baros did not even feel the blows and raised Crenshaw in the air, crushing him and laughing maniacally. Crenshaw gasped in pain, felt his bones strain and knew he could not afford cracked ribs. Even if they could heal, opportunists would swoop upon him, for he would have become one of the weak.
Remembering the girl’s tactics, Crenshaw shoved his fingers into Baros’s eyes. The strongman bellowed in pain, releasing Crenshaw, who rolled back into a crouch so he could assess how much time he had bought himself.
Baros had already recovered. His eyes were red and sore, but his lips were flecked with foam and his entire bald head seemed to be one big throbbing mass.
Crenshaw’s heart sank.
“I claim the girl,” Crenshaw tried. “I claim the girl as my own. After all these years, I think I’m due one.”
But Baros was not listening; it was likely he could not even hear. Roaring, he ran at Crenshaw, who desperately wanted to flee but knew if he did he would have his throat slit in the night. He stood his ground, and was suddenly flung back in pain, the flagstones smacking into his face. Rolling onto his side, his head swimming, he could see he had been hurled fully ten metres by the crazed charge, and Baros was still coming.
Scrabbling to his feet, Crenshaw only made it to his knees before Baros grabbed his shoulders and hurled him across the floor. Crenshaw was certain he heard something crack this time, tasted blood in his mouth, and blinked away stinging sweat. He could hear the cries of the crowd and swung his good arm with all his might. Baros was upon him already, and Crenshaw’s fist caught him in the belly with enough force to stop the big man in his tracks. Bringing up his fist, Crenshaw pounded him in the face and sent the strongman staggering back, tottering dru
nkenly from a blow which sent waves of pain shooting up Crenshaw’s arm. He had learned many things in the army, but one of the most important was that the best way to break your own knuckles was to punch a man in the jaw.
Shaking his head, Baros stared hatred at Crenshaw. His eyes were burning now, his muscles rippled with unreleased energy, and Crenshaw knew this was about to end. He backed away slowly and felt something at his back. He was up against the metal bars. The bars were formed of iron, which was lethal to many of the faerie races, but Crenshaw had a horrible feeling Baros was entirely human.
The strongman came for him one final time, and even as Crenshaw threw a punch he knew it would be ineffectual. Baros grabbed him, twisted his body and slammed his face against the bars. Crenshaw gasped, realised Baros was trying to shove his head through the bars whether the gap was large enough or not. His face screamed in pain, his skull threatened to crack, but there was nothing he could do against so gargantuan a foe.
His right foot was kicking without him even realising: kicking and kicking and kicking. He blindly struck Baros on the knee and the big man almost went down. It was enough of a reprieve for Crenshaw to twist in the tight grip, although Baros did not release him and slammed him once more against the iron. This time it was Crenshaw’s back which hit the bars, and as he stared into the furious eyes of his manic foe he almost wished he had met his end staring into the corridor. At least then he could have glimpsed something of his freedom as he died.
Suddenly a bright light flashed through the gloom and Baros released him, clutching at his head. Crenshaw could see blood on his hands and caught the faint odour of burning flesh. His first thought was that Baros’s vein had throbbed so madly his head had exploded; then he saw the young woman he had tried to save. She was still lying on her side, still terrified and still drenched with sweat and fear; but she had one arm held shakily before her, faint wisps of smoke curling from her trembling fingertips.
