Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  “Do you have the key?”

  “I do,” Brenna whispered as she dug in a crude pocket sewn to the front of her ragged shirt. “We must remain quiet. There are Dushken in the halls.”

  He stared at the black iron key. “Are you sure that is the right one?”

  “Nearly all the manacles use the same key. Most of the cell doors use another.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “Eight years is a long time to watch what happens down here.”

  The young woman squatted down beside his leg and steadied herself with a hand on his calf. He gritted his teeth as the pressure strained his stiff hip. The key’s tip rattled into the keyhole and pressed against the skin beneath. The tumblers ground together as they resisted her effort to turn it. After a moment they shifted with a loud snap.

  She winced as she pried the manacle open and caught sight of the raw skin beneath. His flesh had gone pale in some places and red in others, and clear liquid seeped from black, broken scabs. She slanted a look up at him as she turned to the other shackle. “Put some weight on your foot.”

  The stone felt strange against his sole. After so many months restrained in one position the muscles shifted, causing his hip to crack as he slid off the small shelf on which he perched. A groan of pain and pleasure rose from his throat as he stood on one foot, thigh muscles quivering as she scuttled sideways and set to work on the other ankle cuff. He repeated the process when the iron band clanked open and winced as blood flowed through atrophied muscles.

  Brenna’s worn leather boots creaked as she rose on her toes and reached for the lock securing the band around his throat. Loose roughspun cloth tickled across his chest as she shifted position, but the lock soon gave and the hinged collar swung apart.

  “I brought a flask of the shaddash and some clothes. It took time to find what we needed. When did they feed you last?” she asked, turning to the cuff around his left wrist. The tip of the key dug into his skin, twisting as the teeth turned the tumblers.

  “A while.” Tristan hissed as the shackle fell open and banged against the wall. They froze, neither daring to draw a breath as they strained their ears for approaching footsteps. The only sound his ears caught was the rapid thumping of his pulse. When the hall outside the door remained free of approaching footsteps, they relaxed.

  Pain shot through his shoulder as he rotated his arm, but the tears in his eyes were more from the sweetness of being able to move than any ache. The strained joint gave several muffled cracks as the tendons relaxed and allowed the socket to turn more smoothly. “Were you able to find my friends?”

  “I did. I couldn’t get to the Hillffolk, though, as there were too many Dushken nearby,” she said with a frown as she worked on the stubborn lock securing his right wrist. “I focused on finding the things we would need instead.”

  “An axe?”

  “A hatchet, and not in the best condition.”

  The lock turned with a clank, and she pried it open with care so it would not smack against the wall. Light-headed, he sagged on the edge of the small shelf which had been his seat for so long. He ignored the pain burning across his tailbone to focus on the ache radiating through his shoulders.

  “Come,” Brenna urged, beckoning toward the opening in the wall as she slipped the key back into her pocket. She caught him as he pushed himself away from the stone seat and collapsed, his weakened muscles unused to supporting his weight. Her small frame shuddered under the awkward impact, but she managed to ease him to the floor with a minimum of noise. “Your strength will come back, but we must go or be caught. Crawl if you must, but move.”

  Slithering wetness trickled down the back of Tristan’s thigh as he forced himself to his hands and knees and followed her into the gap in the wall. His muscles shivered with the strain as he squeezed himself into the cramped passage and slumped against the dusty wall. “I think I shit myself.”

  “Your backside has an ulcerated sore from sitting too long on that rock. It is a common wound, not unlike those on your wrists and ankles, and tore when you moved. Now, come.”

  The tunnel was scarcely wide enough for his shoulders and low enough to prevent him from rising from all fours. Cramps radiated through his shoulders and hips. He dug his fingers into the protesting muscles to ease the ache while Brenna swung the section of wall closed behind them. The tallow candle’s burning wick soured the cramped space as its supply of fresh air dwindled.

  She turned to him after securing bolts at the top and bottom of the hidden door and brought her mouth a hand’s width from his ear as she breathed instructions. “Move slow. Do not speak, and do not hurry. This tunnel passes the huntsmen’s quarters, and we do not want to be heard. If I stop, do not move. Do you understand?”

  An indignant remark rose to his tongue, but he choked it down with a nod as she twisted around and picked up the battered tin cup holding her candle. Despite the cramped conditions and with one hand full, she moved smoothly through the dusty shaft. Tristan felt awkward and uncoordinated, his limbs sluggishly obeying his orders. His knees were soon bruised and raw from contact with the unfinished floor.

  Quit complaining. This is an improvement over where you were.

  The young man wondered how Brenna knew the tunnel passed rooms occupied by Dushken. For that matter, he wondered how she managed to watch him through his cell’s stone walls. Other questions tumbled through his mind, as though the ability to move forced him from the circular thoughts of recent days.

  So focused was he on moving with more coordination than an infant that he did not see her shadowy form come to a stop until his face smacked into her wool-covered rump. Her eyes sparkled at him as she cast an annoyed look over her shoulder.

  She drew a circular-shaped piece of tin, the edges folded at a right angle, from a ragged pouch tied to the oversized belt wrapped around her waist. He realized it was a makeshift shade as she slipped it over the candle with small holes to allow enough air in to keep the wick burning while blocking the majority of the light. She pressed her finger to her lips to stress quiet and began crawling at a painstaking pace.

  As he followed, he understood why. It took a moment to register the growing brightness, but he soon realized there were gaps between the stones through which he could peer.

  The room he looked into was a crude barracks. A half dozen cots lined each wall, with four occupied by the sleeping forms of young Dushken. Having been caught outside this room several times, he recognized where he was in the labyrinth.

  It seemed impossible for this tunnel to be where it was; if there were more tunnels such as this, then there was a labyrinth within the labyrinth. Given the location of this particular passage, he also understood why Brenna urged caution. Through the wall to his right were a series of cells, one of which housed a prisoner who screeched at the faintest sound. They would be caught if the madwoman stirred.

  Progress was slow. He placed each hand with extreme care and struggled to keep his uncoordinated limbs from scuffing the stone. Dust caked his sweating skin as his shoulders whispered against the walls and low ceiling. He fought the urge to snort away the tickle in his nose, and thought of the mental map he had created to distract himself from the tension and discomfort.

  If he was correct, there was a hallway not far ahead – near the hidden staircase Urzgeth had taken him up on his ill-fated visit to Sathra’s chambers. As this tunnel ran at floor level, he wondered where Brenna led him; he could not figure out how they would cross the passageway. An exit might open within the chambers and cells they would pass. Perhaps there was a way to get out of this cramped tunnel and into the hidden stairwell.

  The longer they crawled, the more stifled he became. Despite his reduced weight, he was too large to turn around in the confined space. He swallowed a surge of panic and a desperate need to stand.

  After an interminable time, Brenna came to a stop. She pulled her feet under her body and turned on the balls of her feet. Enough light came through the holes po
ked in the candle’s tin top to illuminate her ghostly skin. Her left hand rose, seeming disembodied, and her forefinger pointed upward.

  Tristan tilted his head back and realized the tunnel climbed vertically. Shallow wedges jutting from the sides provided foot and handholds. He admired the way she shinnied upward with mouselike speed and quiet.

  It took him longer to follow. He rolled onto his back to put his feet under him and struggled to stand without making any noise. The chute was even tighter than the tunnel through which they had just crawled. The handholds and footholds jabbed him, forcing him to round his shoulders. For a brief, panicked moment, he feared he had wedged himself in place as he tried to extend his arms over his head. By the time he calmed his breathing and figured out how to move, he was scratched and bloody.

  Grateful as he was for being freed, he almost hated his rescuer for finding such an awkward escape.

  “HERE,” BRENNA SAID, pressing a metal flask into Tristan’s hands as he lay in a somewhat less cramped space. “We can talk, but keep your voice low.”

  The yeasty smell of the – what had she called it? Shaddash – filled his nose as he propped himself on his elbow and removed the flask’s top. He almost did not care if it was drugged, so long as it filled his belly and washed away the dust clogging his throat. “Where are we?”

  The young woman removed the tallow candle’s tin cover and set the small flame between them before turning away. “There are spaces between the floors. It is easier to move through them than within the walls, with less chance of becoming wedged or lost. You still have to be careful, though. There are a lot of chutes, and you don’t want to fall down one of those.”

  “Is that experience speaking?”

  “Several years ago, I broke an arm doing so.” Brenna handed him a stack of folded cloth as he drained the shaddash flask. “Best cover yourself, so dirt does not get into your wounds. I did my best finding clothes that might fit, but few Anahari are as tall or wide as you.”

  The roughspun linen shirt smelled of old body odor and lye, and was too tight across the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. The britches sagged around the waist, but a distressed leather belt snugged them tight. Much mended stockings slid over the knee, and he laced them in place before slipping on boots that were a shade tight.

  He could not shake his awkwardness aside as he lay in candlelit darkness. At least a year had passed since he last wore clothing. The linen, wool, and leather felt both alien and familiar, pleasant and painful, leaving him with a paradoxical sense that he was somehow more naked.

  He felt almost himself and extended a hand as he pushed himself to a seated position. “I’m Tristan.”

  “Brenna,” she said, a sympathetic expression on her face. Her small hand was cool in his, disappearing into his palm. They held each other’s gaze for a brief moment, then broke the contact. “I have more food packed and waiting at the escape passage, as well as more clothing. Autumn is approaching.”

  “May I ask a question? I don’t mean to sound suspicious—”

  “—but how do I know my way around, and what ways lead out?” she asked with a tired smile. She drained the remainder of the shaddash and twisted around the candlelit gloom. “I am the ghost of Feinthresh Castle. I’ve been crawling through the darkness for eight years, learning what secrets I may. It wasn’t hard; architecture fascinated my father, and I learned it at his knee. For such a solid fortress, quite a bit of it is made up of nothing.”

  Turning back with a grunt, she handed over a rusted hatchet mounted on a worn wooden handle. It was a crude weapon, the bit dinged, scratched, and wobbly on its shaft. His weakened muscles quivered under the weight. Coupled with the clothes she had provided, he felt as though a measure of control over his fate was restored. His lips stretched, curving upward in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable smile.

  “The friend you asked me to find is at the passageway out. I couldn’t reach the Hillffolk without getting caught – but perhaps you can.”

  “Do you have any more of the shaddash?”

  Another flask was presented. “I thought you might need your strength.”

  TORCHES SPUTTERED AND crackled, casting dancing patterns of light and shadow across gray walls. The spaces between were vast gloomy pools through which Tristan hurried. His footing became surer as he grew accustomed to the fit of his battered, stolen boots. Stomach full and his thirst slaked by the shaddash, he felt stronger. The ache in his shoulders had faded, and the axe’s weight was negligible despite the tremor in his arms. He was smart enough to recognize the spurious vigor had as much to do with the cold thrill of adrenaline flooding his veins as anything else.

  He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the intersection where three other passageways branched from his own. Brenna remained behind, closing the door to the hidden tunnels with the promise to open it as soon as she saw him returning. He felt her eyes on him, though he could not determine the shape of the hidden doorway.

  He took the left passage, then turned right at the one after that. He paused at the top of a short staircase, listening for approaching footsteps before hurrying down the five risers. If she was correct, Groush was behind the fifth door on the left-hand side of the passage.

  A thud and a grunt came through the door – which stood ajar, the sconce next to it empty. A familiar snarl cut the silence, accompanied by rattling chains, burned hair, and the stench of scorched skin. All too familiar with the scent left by a torch against his skin, his expression hardened as his hands clenched the hatchet’s handle and hooked the door open with his boot.

  A soldier in boiled leather and emerald green wool stood between him and Groush, his face clear of rishka’s vacantness. Startled by the cell door crashing open, the man dropped the torch he held and reached for the broadsword strapped to his hip.

  Tristan whipped the hatchet into the space between the man’s neck and shoulder before the soldier’s blade cleared its sheath. Bone crunched under the impact, and hot gore spurted him in the face as the man went down with a pained grunt. The sudden drop wrenched the hatchet from his hand.

  Startled by the speed and ease of the victory, a strange numbness swept him as he stared at the blood pooling around the squirming soldier. He was uncertain what – if anything – he felt. He had come close to killing a Dushken by smashing him in the head with a sharp-edged stone, and felt no qualms about doing so. This was different.

  Another part of his mind did not care. He pinned the man to the ground with a boot on the chest, then gripped the hatchet’s handle and pulled. Bone crunched as the bit came free with a sucking squelch. The weapon swept through an arc and split the soldier’s head like a ripe melon.

  Leaving the hatchet buried in the man’s skull, Tristan stepped around the spreading pool of blood without another glance at the twitching body.

  Heavy chains secured the Hillffolk to the wall. The bull’s beard and hair were unkempt, the whites of his black eyes bloodshot. A bit had been wedged between his teeth, revealing the sharp canines in his upper and lower gums behind cracked and bleeding lips. Burst blisters glistened where Groush’s brown skin had been burned; the raw, pink skin made the cuts and bruises stippling his muscled flesh stark.

  Hands shaking with adrenaline as he knelt beside the bound wildman, he fished the keys Brenna claimed to have stolen from a rishka-drugged guard from his belt pouch. Sorting through the dozen options, he jammed the wrong key into the manacle securing the bull’s leg to the wall. One key after another, he worked on the shackles binding the Hillffolk’s ankles before turning to the one around his wrists.

  Pained obsidian eyes stared at him as the last shackle clicked open – followed by a rush and an inarticulate snarl from behind the bit as the bull charged his rescuer. Blood from the dead soldier soaked Tristan’s shirt as he went down. Crouched over the prone youth, the Hillffolk wrapped his hands around the young man’s neck.

  Thick fingers dug into his throat with incredible pressure, and he understood why
Groush’s chains were so heavy; a year of imprisonment had not eased the wildman’s strength. A rumbling growl vibrated through the bull’s chest as he leaned forward, corded muscles standing out against his skin. A streamer of saliva trickled around the bit, dribbling on Tristan’s cheek as the bull’s nose pressed against his.

  His fingernails raked at the iron bars of the Hillffolk’s forearms as he tucked his chin to his chest. He sucked a choked breath as the pressure eased. “It’s me. Tristan. Let. Go.”

  The bull’s broad nostrils flared as he sniffed the young man and released him. Tristan rolled to the side and sucked a deep breath through his bruised throat. The Hillffolk’s bit fell to the floor as the youth coughed.

  Groush hauled him to his feet, then cuffed him across the side of the skull. “Pissboy.”

  Chapter 43

  The guard’s boots fit Tristan’s feet better than those Brenna had provided, but both pairs were too small for Groush. The Hillffolk slipped into the dead man’s pants with no regard for the blood soaking the wool and buckled the sword belt around his waist.

  He led the bull toward the hidden tunnel, lighting the way with the guard’s dropped torch. The hair at his nape prickled. Noise from freeing the bull had no doubt been heard throughout this part of the dungeons. At any moment, he expected Dushken to charge them.

  “You trust this girl?”

  The young man frowned. Though he wanted to believe his doubts were unfounded, he recognized that Groush’s suspicions mirrored the ones with which he struggled. “She hasn’t given me any reason not to. She got me out of my cell, and you’re free because of her.”

  “I don’t like it. Too convenient,” Groush said, slowing as Tristan eased forward to check around the corner of the intersection.

  “I can put you in one of these other cells if you prefer.”