Garth stared straight at Zarel in cold defiance.
Zarel nodded slowly.
“Why did you come here, One-eye? Who sent you and why?”
“You will never know.”
“Damn you!” And then he slapped Garth, the blow striking with such force that it blurred Garth’s vision.
Garth looked at him coldly, spitting the blood out of his mouth into Zarel’s face.
“You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” Garth whispered. “Even when I am chained and in your hands, you’re afraid of me and what I might be.”
“I should kill you now!” Zarel said, raising his hand as if to deliver the blow.
“Go ahead. And then you’ll never know for sure. You’ll never know if there are more like me, plotting and waiting.”
“You’re from the House of Oor-tael, that’s it.”
Garth merely smiled.
“You will never know.”
“I destroyed all of you. All of you. What’s left are pitiful dogs that I hunt for sport.”
“If that’s true, then why do you fear me even now, chained in your dungeon?”
“I fear no man or woman.”
“You say that for yourself, but it means nothing to me, for I can see the truth in you.”
Zarel looked down at Garth and there was a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“You are driving toward the dark goal, the same as your Master did before you. And you are running a race. You must pay the tribute of mana each year to the Walker and yet you hold back more and more for yourself, to build the power so that one day you can be like him.”
“How do you know that?”
“The entire world knows it,” Garth whispered with a cold laugh. “Do you think the rest of us are such fools as not to see?”
Zarel stirred uneasily.
“And don’t you think they fear you for it? They remember what you did to the House of Oor-tael in service to your Master. Now they see that you are doing it to them as well, slowly bleeding the Houses in the Festival. Yet you bribe the House Masters each year and they close their eyes, but only for the moment. It is all coming unraveled, the rage of the Masters, the rage of the mob, and soon the Walker will know.”
“Is that what you desire, then?” Zarel asked. “To reach the Walker and tell him?”
Garth laughed.
“Perhaps.”
Zarel looked around the room and chuckled.
“Do you know how many have tried to cast me down? All of them, all of them finish up here.” He pointed to the chains on the wall, more than one of them holding rotting corpses and skeletons.
Garth smiled.
“I said before they feared you, but you don’t see what that fear will produce. You think it will keep your enemies under control. But it can also drive them to acts of desperation. Soon there won’t be enough chains in all the world to hold them. In the end either the mob or the Houses will tear you apart with their bare hands.” Garth laughed, his rasping voice a chilling cackle.
“Who are you?”
Garth spit in his face.
Zarel, with a scream of rage, slapped him again and yet again, and all the time Garth continued to laugh. In his heart he silently prayed that he could provoke him into ending it now, to deliver the deathblow so that he could go into the shadows and at least leave Zarel tormented by the mystery.
The rain of blows stopped and he looked back up, the Grand Master standing over him, heaving for breath, his cloak splattered with blood.
“No. You’ll not escape. You’ll not escape.”
Zarel turned away and started for the door and opened it. He paused and looked back.
“Do you know what the thousand cuts are?”
Garth felt a cold chill.
“Contemplate that, for in an hour it will be started on you. My man has skills, though, and by the time you are dragged before the Walker you will be but a remnant, blind, without fingers or toes, and without your manhood. I shall enjoy watching it.
“Drug him!”
And he stormed away, cursing.
Seconds later two of the torturers were at his side, grinning, one of them forcing his mouth open, the other pouring a draught down his throat so that he drifted into a fevered dream, unable to control his thoughts and thus will his heart to stop.
Swooning, Garth lay back, the two torturers laughing as they tightened his chains to stretch him back out on the table of pain.
***
Caught in his fear, the Grand Master walked down the dank corridor, ignoring the moans and cries of his other visitors in the basement of his palace. The hallway stank of them and of the open sewer drains set in the middle of the hallway, which served as a convenient place for the dropping of bodies and parts of bodies.
“Uriah!”
The dwarf turned, his features white with fear.
“What are you doing here?”
“You sent for me, Master.”
He looked closely at the deformed fighter, wondering if the man had been eavesdropping on the conversation.
Zarel paused for a moment, struggling to control the turmoil within. One-eye had to be of Turquoise. But how? How could he have survived? He was too young, most likely barely a boy, and the Grand Master roamed through his thoughts, for there was a half-formed memory, one which he could not clearly recall, and that was even more troubling.
Uriah coughed nervously, bringing him back.
“Has his servant been found?”
“Not yet, Master.”
“And Varnel, has he surrendered the satchel?”
“He says he can’t.”
“Damn!”
Zarel slapped Uriah with such force that the dwarf slammed against the wall and looked up at him, stunned and terrified.
“Tell Varnel I want that satchel and the hell with the price. He took three thousand just to bar the door; let him know that if he doesn’t release the satchel, word of his betrayal might slip out.
“Offer him ten thousand if need be. I want that servant as well. He must know something and he doesn’t have the mind of a fighter. He can’t resist the way One-eye can.”
Uriah held his cheek, which was red and swelling.
Zarel looked down at Uriah.
“Is there something else?” he asked, his voice suddenly gone cold.
Uriah shook his head, tears of pain and fear in his eyes.
“Damn you, get out of my sight.”
Uriah scurried away and, cursing, Zarel continued on, suppressing a gag as the cloying stench of the dungeon wafted around him.
There was a momentary sensing that something wasn’t quite right and he paused, senses alert, waiting. He heard the snuffling sobs of Uriah and the moaning diverted him. Angrily, he stalked out of the dungeon.
____________________
CHAPTER 9
“DAMN!”
The sound of the blow startled him and Hammen cringed against the side of the sewer, afraid to breathe. He looked over at Norreen, who stood calmly, blade out of its scabbard, staring toward the flickering circle of light straight ahead in the darkness.
He could hear Uriah whimpering.
“Tell Varnel I want that satchel and the hell with the price.”
Hammen looked over at Varena, who smiled at the sound of Zarel’s ravings.
“He took three thousand just to bar the door; let him know that if he doesn’t release the satchel, word of his betrayal might slip out.”
Varena stirred angrily, her features suddenly tight with rage.
“Offer him ten thousand if need be. I want that servant as well. He must know something and he doesn’t have the mind of a fighter. He can’t resist the way One-eye can.”
Hammen wanted to snap out a curse, half-amused at the thought of a subterranean voice wafting up from the sewer telling Zarel to burn in torment.
“Is there something else?” Zarel shouted.
There was a pause.
“Damn you, get out of my sight.”
Hammen waited and then, finally, started to slip forward. Varena’s hand shot out, holding him, shaking her head in warning.
She seemed to be holding her breath, and Hammen could sense the ripple of power, as if she was struggling to block something out. The minutes passed and then, finally, she sighed, lowering her head as if exhausted. She looked over at Norreen and nodded. The Benalish woman slipped forward, moving with a catlike ease, not making a sound as she moved through the thigh-high sludge and filth. Hammen and Varena followed, stopping just short of the overhead grate.
She reached up and felt the side of the grate, then looked back at Hammen, nodding. He came forward and she hoisted him up, hissing a warning as he attempted to run his hands up the side of her body. He slipped a lockpick out of his sleeve and started to reach up.
“That’ll keep the scum,” said a voice overhead, and there was a hoarse laugh.
Hammen froze, Norreen remaining motionless.
A foot stepped straight on the grate, and Hammen closed his eyes, waiting.
“Where do you think the cutter will start?”
“Where else?” another voice replied, and there was a crude laugh.
“Nah. He saves that for later. Five coppers it’s the hands first.”
“Which one?”
There was a momentary pause.
“The right.”
“Five coppers then.” And again there was the hoarse laugh.
Seconds later Hammen felt something warm splashing on his face and he fought the temptation to take his dagger and drive it straight up through the grate.
“Ah, that’s better, too much beer.”
The two continued on.
Hammen reached up and slipped the pick into the lock that held the grate.
It was rusted. He tried to force it but it wouldn’t give. He looked over at Varena.
“It’s stuck,” he whispered. “Use a spell.”
“Might draw attention. Oil it.”
He unslung a small tin tied around his neck, uncorked it with his teeth, and reached up, first oiling the hinges to the grate and then upending the rest into the lock. Oil dripped back down on his face, stinging his eyes.
He worked the pick again and still it wouldn’t budge. Sweat started to bead down his face in spite of the cold damp of the sewer.
“What’s going on?” Norreen whispered.
“I can’t get any leverage. It won’t budge.”
“Damn, keep working!”
“Hoist me up higher.”
Norreen, grunting, pushed him up higher against the grate, and he grabbed it with one hand, sticking the other one through the grate to work the lock.
Hoarse laughter echoed in the distance, the only answer a moaning cry nearby.
“Shut up, damn you, or we’ll cut the other hand off!” a voice echoed in the distance.
He heard footsteps drawing closer and again he froze, pulling his hand back down. Someone was going from cell to cell, opening peepholes into each cell to check on prisoners. The minutes passed, the guard drawing closer, stepping over the grate. He opened another peephole.
“Damn. Hey, Grimash, this bastard in here’s hung himself.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?” a voice echoed in the distance.
“Open the door so we can dump him.”
Hammen looked over at Norreen.
“Leave it till morning.”
“Come on, let’s get it done.”
“Oh, all right.”
Hammen looked down wide-eyed at Norreen. She quietly lowered him and slipped back, away from the opening.
Footsteps echoed overhead and there was the sound of a door unbolting.
“Damn, he stinks. When did you last check him?”
“I don’t know. I think they brought him in yesterday or the day before?”
“Damn you! Carry him then. What a stink.”
The two guards cursed softly and there was the sound of something being dragged. A shadow appeared overhead and there was the sound of a key snicking in a lock. The lock let go with a metallic pop and the grate was lifted up.
“Something wrong here.”
“What do you mean?”
“The key. Look, it’s covered in oil.”
“So somebody oiled it.”
“Who? I sure didn’t.”
“Just shut up and dump the stiff. He’s enough to make a maggot gag.”
The body plunged straight down, slapping into the muck, spraying the three in the sewer. It was stiff as a board, however, and rather than tilt over with the current of the sewer to be swept away, it lodged in place as if standing, its head banging up against the circle of stones directly beneath the grate. Hammen fought to suppress a gag. The corpse’s face was invisible in the shadows except for a thin ray of light that revealed his blackened tongue protruding out of a face that was swollen like a balloon, the rope, made out of strips of rag, cutting into its gray-green neck.
The guards overhead looked down and one of them started to laugh.
“He likes it here. He doesn’t want to leave.”
“Well, get down there and push him.”
“Nah, let’s leave him. Actually it’s kind of funny, him standing down there like that.”
“Damn it, push him. It’ll stink the place up.”
“As if the customers are going to complain.”
“Just move him.”
A hand reached down through the grate and, grabbing hold of the corpse by the back of the head, pulled him back. The current started to swing the dead man’s legs outward, and at that moment Hammen screamed.
Wide-eyed, Hammen found himself staring into the face of Petros, one of his brotherhood, a friend who only three days ago had shared the fleas and lice of their hovel.
Hammen’s scream was answered by the two guards overhead, both of them jumping back in terror.
“Go! Go!”
Varena pushed past Hammen, knocking him over into the muck so that he started to get swept away by the current, his dead friend bobbing beside him.
Looking up, she raised her hand and a blast of fire slammed upward, catching one of the guards and bowling him over. The other ran off in terror. Varena grabbed hold of the sides of the access hole and pulled herself up, Norreen starting to scramble up after her.
“I’m drowning!”
Norreen looked back at Hammen, hesitated, and then, cursing, waded after him, grabbing hold of him by his hair and pulling him back toward the opening. She pushed him, sputtering and choking, up through the grate.
Hammen flopped up onto the floor of the dungeon and rolled away from the guard, who was writhing back and forth, screaming hysterically, as he tried to beat out the flames that were engulfing him.
Norreen came out of the hole and her sword slashed down, cutting his cries short.
“Which one is his?” Norreen cried.
From down the corridor Varena came running back.
“He got away. We don’t have much time!”
“Which one is his?”
She looked around, confused. Their plan of sneaking in and silently checking cells was now gone.
“He must be at this end!” She started to walk down the corridor, raising her hand as she passed each door, blasting locks off. Norreen followed, tearing the doors open.
Hammen lay on the floor watching them, still shaken by the memory of what was left of his friend.
“Hammen, watch the corridor!”
Cursing, he came to his feet and started down the hallway. All around him was bedlam, prisoners inside cells shrieking for release.
He turned back to the scorched remains of the dead guard and found the man’s keys. As he worked his way up the corridor he started to unlock doors. Some of the victims within were beyond hope, chained to tables of pain or to walls, some of them looking up and weakly calling for rescue, food, water, or simply for an end to their torment. Tears clouded his eyes and he continued on. Behind several of the doors the prisoners were no
t chained and they staggered out.
“Get in the sewer and follow the current!” Hammen shouted, pushing them back. The men and women crawled away.
One of them hobbled up to Hammen.
“Hammen,” the voice was hoarse, croaking.
The man was familiar, his old handless friend from the hovel.
“Get out of here and tell the others, tell everyone,” Hammen whispered. “Tell them it was One-eye who set you free. Go hide with Lothor’s brotherhood, and I’ll meet you there later.”
The man grinned through a bloody face and scurried away to the sewer hole.
From down at the far end of the corridor he suddenly heard footsteps running, drawing closer.
“They’re coming!”
“We’ve got him!”
Hammen looked over his shoulder. Norreen was coming out of a cell, Garth in her arms, Varena pushing past her and running toward him.
A crossbow bolt shot past, skidding off a wall, showering sparks. At the far end of the cellblock torches appeared.
“Move it!”
Hammen, needing no urging, ran back toward her and stopped at the sewer hole.
Varena raised her hand, and within seconds a great horde of rats appeared, shrieking and crying, running down the length of the corridor. Directly behind them a wall of fire rose up and moved after them, driving them toward the end of the corridor.
Norreen came up to the hole, carrying Garth.
“Hammen first!”
He looked down into the darkness, hesitating, and a foot caught him from behind. With a curse he fell in, going under and then coming back up, struggling to get his footing on the slimy bottom.
“Catch him!”
Norreen lowered Garth feetfirst and then she let go. He fell into the current and Hammen struggled to pull his head out of the water. Seconds later Norreen jumped in.
“Varena, let’s go!”
The Orange fighter jumped down just behind her and overhead the brilliant glare of the fire winked out. But still there was the sound of the rats, squealing with delight as they fought for their meal, the guards shrieking and howling.
The two women pulled Garth up and started off, half walking, half swimming with the current. As they passed beneath another grate a spear slammed down, nearly catching Hammen in the shoulder.
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