Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  “Then we’ll make do with what you managed to gather,” Tristan sighed. The adrenaline flooding his body earlier was gone, leaving him weak and shaky. “Where’s my hatchet?”

  “The bit is still in that woman’s chest. Not much left of the handle,” Groush said.

  “We have another problem,” Brenna said.

  “What is that?”

  “Me,” Gashan said. “I’m not going anywhere; my knee is busted. You’re going to have to leave me behind.”

  “I didn’t get you out of that chamber to let you get caught again.” Lips pursed, Tristan shook his head and glanced at Brenna. “Does anyone else know about these tunnels?”

  “Hard to say. Some have been found. Some haven’t.”

  “So, we’re going to leave him to crawl around in the dark and maybe find his way out?” one of the young women huddled nearby asked.

  Gashan shook his head. “There is no getting out, Nisha. Not for me.”

  The weight of his words stole the air from the small space. Nisha swallowed and shook her head. “I don’t accept that.”

  “Whether you accept it or not, it’s true. I will just slow everyone down if you try to take me.” Gashan hissed as he pushed himself to a sitting position, his face going pale as the movement pulled at his knee. He undid the lacing of his stolen britches and wormed out of the thick wool. “At least this way, I won’t die in a cell, feeding Anasha or that bitch Sathra. Leave me here where I can feed the rats – they’ll appreciate the meal more than those two ever would.”

  Nisha fought the injured man’s effort to push the britches into her hands and looked to the other escapees for assistance. They averted their eyes, the fear and reluctance on their faces equal. Swallowing, she looked up at Tristan. “There has to be another way.”

  The young man held her gaze for a moment. She was pretty, though haggard looking, and perhaps a year or two younger than him. Watching the hope in her eyes fade as he shook his head was painful. “There isn’t. You crawled the same tunnels I did. If Groush couldn’t pull me through, we won’t be able to drag him. They will catch us if we go back into the dungeons to try and find another way out.”

  “You know he speaks truly, Nisha. Should they find me here, dressed, they will know I was part of the escape and soon catch you.” Gashan took the girl’s hand in his and gave it a firm squeeze, then closed his eyes and lay his head down. “Now, who has a knife?”

  Nisha began to sob as the impact of his words struck her. Another of the other women tried to soothe her, lest her weeping carry through the tunnels. A third crawled forward and pressed the leather-wrapped hilt of a stolen dagger into his hand. “Here.”

  “Thank you, Tosha.” The Anahari man studied the dagger as the blade reflected the candlelight. He swallowed and placed the point against his stomach, then shifted it up to his chest.

  Groush rolled to his knees and shuffled forward, then laid his broad hand over the young man’s. “I’ll do it, and make it quick. It’ll hurt, but only for a moment.”

  The young man licked his dry lips. “Groush, was it? It’s a shame I didn’t get to know you better. I appreciate the help, but give me the dignity of ending my life.”

  Crouched at the young man’s side, the Hillffolk shifted the dagger’s angle to a spot beneath the sternum. He laid his other hand on the Anahari’s shoulder as Gashan gripped the blade’s hilt. Sweat beading on his pale brow, the youth murmured something in a language Tristan assumed was Anahari, then gave a short nod.

  The others looked away as the pair pushed the dagger in together, but Tristan did not. Pale skin dimpled, and a trickle of blood pooled on Gashan’s hollowed stomach. Groush leaned over Gashan, using his weight to press the blade deeper and pierce the chest cavity. The Anahari grunted, his muscles tightening as the point found his heart, and made a choking sound as his breath caught and sighed away.

  BRENNA SET HER CANDLE on the cramped passage’s floor. “We’re here.”

  “Where is here?” Tristan asked as he crawled up beside her. There was not much to see; the tunnel was tall enough for the shortest among them to walk bent in half and perhaps a finger’s breadth wider than Groush’s broad shoulders. There were footprints in the dusty floor – Brenna’s, he assumed – and the smaller five-toed prints of mice. Otherwise, the tunnel was as unremarkable as the rest of the twisting rat warrens she led them through.

  “It’s a false wall,” she said, stilling her breath before pointing at the candle. The burning wick sputtered, tiny sparks crackling as the flame leaned to his right. The young woman shook her head at his uncomprehending stare and handed him the candle. She laid her hands on the wall, then pressed her booted foot against the opposite side of the tunnel and pushed.

  The block’s edges grew sharper as the stone gave way. The sound of scraping rock was brief; the wall section stopped no more than a hand’s length in depth. Cool, damp air swept into the tunnel, threatening to extinguish the candle as the stone slid sideways on a hidden track. Tristan’s skin prickled from the unaccustomed chill.

  Seating herself, she swung her feet into the darkness beyond the opening and dropped a short distance to the floor.

  “A hidden passage within a hidden passage?” Tristan asked, a note of disbelief in his voice despite the evidence in front of his eyes. He handed her the candle, then swung his legs through the opening. He dropped to the floor and rolled his shoulders back, grateful for the chance to stand upright.

  “What better way to hide something than put it someplace already hidden?” Brenna asked as she placed her hands in the small of her back. Several vertebrae cracked as she stretched her spine. “I haven’t found all the hidden passages, but hidden rooms, doors, and staircases which can only be accessed through the tunnels riddle the entire castle.”

  “How did you know about them?”

  “I didn’t,” Brenna said, her eyebrows rushing together at the suspicion in his tone. “I found most of them by accident. But there’s logic to them if you think about it. A lot of stone goes into building a castle, which equates to a lot of weight and building time, but you don’t have to build a solid structure for it to be strong.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She favored him with a condescending smirk. “It is basic engineering.”

  Tristan gritted his teeth and turned to help the other orphans out of the tunnel so she could not see his irritation. As Groush handed him their liberated swords, he reminded himself that the Anahari educated their children differently than the Ravvosi. Brenna might have been taught architecture before her imprisonment.

  The Hillffolk slid from the tunnel and slid the false stone back in place after a moment’s inspection. “You look like you ate bad meat.”

  “I’m not sure I trust Brenna,” he said as the young woman led the other escapees down the passage.

  “You said we could. Now you think different?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little too convenient that she knows about hidden doors, secret passages, and concealed rooms? She knows a lot about this castle and the dungeons for being a prisoner.”

  Groush slung the liberated weapons over his shoulder and gave Tristan a patient look. “How long has she been here?”

  “Eight years, or so she claims.”

  “Then it’s possible she is what she says. She got you out – and you got me out with her help.”

  “Ankara likes her games. What if this is a trap? What if...” The young man broke off as the Hillffolk shook his head. “What?”

  “Is it a trap? Could be. Might not be. We Hillffolk have a saying: if a bear lets you go without attacking, don’t poke it with a stick to find out what’s wrong.”

  “You’re saying don’t go looking for trouble?”

  “Seek trouble, and you will find it.” Groush clapped the young man on the arm and followed the others. “I like her. She thinks you’re stupid. Means she has some sense.”

  THE PASSAGEWAYS BRENNA led them through differed from the ea
rlier cramped, claustrophobic warrens. These halls were older, carved from living rock with hammer and chisel. The air’s dampness gave teeth to the chill radiating from the granite, and the mass of the mountain pressing down made them feel insignificant.

  Where these tunnels led and why they had been built, Tristan could not guess. He found no torch sconces mounted to the walls nor reddish stains where the iron had rusted away. Arched doorways pocked the broad corridor; the oak doors within were long petrified, their swollen and twisted planks joined without the use of metal and wedged in their stone frames. Archways connected extensive galleries – natural pockets in the granite with limited shaping by tools. In the last of these, he began to understand the intention behind these tunnels’ construction.

  Statues slumbered in the darkness, their cold features reflecting the weak light of the candles. Stern-faced men frowned at them from atop marble stands, their unsmiling lips framed by close-cropped beards. Statues of lovely women in flowing gowns reclined on plinths; their sidelong expressions were at once demure and coyly seductive.

  “What is this place?” Nisha’s voice reverberated from the walls despite the awed softness with which she spoke, amplified by the natural accoustics.

  Tristan kept his voice at a whisper but found it still carried. Though the candlelight did not extend far, he was aware of the statues’ eyes staring from the darkness. “These must be the castle’s catacombs, which would mean the doors we passed are crypts.”

  “As best as I can tell, they date back to the earliest days of Anahar – perhaps before the founding of the Kingdom of Bayeren. Brenna’s ragged hair brushed her shoulders as she lifted her candle high. “I can’t read most of the names or phrases written on the statues; the language predates the alphabet we use today.”

  “Does anyone else know about them?”

  “I can’t say for certain. In one form or another, Feinthresh Castle has stood where it is for more than two millennia. No one has ever found me down here, so they may have been forgotten.”

  “It’s strange the catacombs would be hidden,” one of the other men, Rashek, said as he stepped up to a statue of a woman and examined her features. “I can’t imagine trying to move a body through those tunnels.”

  “Maybe they were buried for a reason,” Sahra, a young girl of about fifteen, added with a nervous glance around.

  Groush chuffed as his eyes turned toward Brenna. “Does it matter? Dead people won’t help us now. You said you know way out?”

  The woman chewed her lower lip. “Maybe.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes at her. “Maybe?”

  “It’s a door, but I can’t open it,” she said defensively, hurrying across the uneven floor of the gallery and entered another of the carved hallways.

  “A postern door? In the dungeons?” Rashek asked, incredulous.

  “Not the dungeons – the catacombs,” Tristan said, seeing the defensiveness on Brenna’s face. “It makes sense when you think about it. The castle stands on a spur of the mountain, surrounded by curtain walls. The only gate leads up from the city. Any other gate would be too visible and would need a way to reach it. No rational person would think a way in or out of the castle would be down here.”

  “Then where does the door open to?” Nisha asked.

  Brenna said nothing as she led them around a corner to a door that stood ajar. The wood’s warped bottom scraped against the rough stone floor as she pushed on it.

  Someone stirred in the shadows, sitting up from a makeshift bed with a snort. A blanket fell from the man’s shoulder, revealing him to be roughly Tristan’s size and of slender build. Loose, wavy brown hair fell around a bearded face.

  The man dug the heel of his palm into his watering right eye with a yawn. “Well, hello there.”

  “Who in all hells are you?” Tristan asked.

  Chapter 45

  “Rathus,” the man said in a melodious baritone as he clambered to his feet and let the blanket fall to the floor. He was tall, almost as tall as Tristan. Close-fitting black britches tucked into scuffed, knee-high boots set off his leather doublet, the silver toggles down the front undone to reveal an unlaced white linen shirt. Three gold rings glittered in his left ear as he raked a hand through his shoulder-length hair. A mustache and pointed beard framed his lips, made rakish on his lean and handsome features by the stubble shadowing his cheeks and throat. He gave a perfunctory bow when he saw Tristan’s irritated scowl and expanded his introduction with, “Rathus mac Ranier of House Ranier, of the Isle of Thorsbend.”

  “A nobleman?”

  “Of a sort, I suppose. Fifth son of a sixth son to a fourth daughter married to a third son – so about as highborn as a toadstool standing in a pile of horseshit, for all the good the breeding does me. The name does open doors, though.” Rathus’s crooked smirk faded when no one laughed. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Brenna ignored Rathus’s question and met Tristan’s scowl with a confused look. “What?”

  “You were supposed to find my friend, Gwistain.”

  “You said to find a man a little shorter than you, with graying hair and brown eyes.”

  “Excuse me,” Rathus said, holding up a hand, “it’s silver, and there are just a few strands—”

  Brenna ignored him and folded her arms across her chest. “Do you know how many dark-haired, dark-eyed men there are in the dungeons? I haven’t seen them all, and you didn’t give me a whole lot of detail. You’re lucky I found him at all, what with trying to find everything else we need.”

  “Does this look like a prince to you?”

  “Oh, your friend is a prince, is he? Next, you will say the sun rises in the west and sets in the east.”

  “Uh, while I appreciate being mistaken for a prince, I—”

  Groush clapped his hands, the retort sharp enough to break the argument. He fixed Tristan with a scowl. “Enough. The girl got you out. She got clothes, food, and the keys to free me from my cell – keys you used to free this lot. She got all of us, including him,” he said, gesturing at Rathus, “out of the dungeons. You got us lost, and killed a bitch on accident. She’s done more useful than you. Best make peace with that, boy.”

  Rathus cleared his throat. “If we’ve all said our peace, I’d like to add that I appreciate being let out from the cell I was in – even if you didn’t mean to free me specifically.”

  Brushing past the nobleman, Brenna kicked aside his blanket and stepped into the small room. She stuffed threadbare shirts, patched britches, and mended stockings taken from nooks into the crook of her arm, then pushed past Rathus again. She did not bother to look at Tristan as she distributed the clothing to the Anahari prisoners. “I’ve been gathering clothes for some time. Sorry if they don’t fit, but I’ve been nicking these from refuse piles and mending baskets where I can for years...”

  “So, it’s you I have for my accidental freedom, is it?” Rathus asked, interposing himself in the line of the young man’s glare and extending his hand.

  “Tristan. You heard Groush; Brenna freed you while I hung chained to a wall,” he said, gripping the nobleman’s hand with a sour smile. “She said there’s a postern door around here somewhere.”

  “Back around the corner. This used to be a guard room of some sort, I think. I don’t know much about castles, to be honest; we don’t have many in Thorsbend. I suppose this makes a good enough home, compared to a cell.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s been living here for years, or so she claims,” Rathus said as he stepped through the door. He picked up his blanket and draped it over his arm as Tristan and Groush ducked beneath the arched lintel. “I’d believe it. She has blankets, food, candles...all manner of things. Not the most comfortable place, perhaps, but I think it unlikely anyone will find it. Not that I want to stay and find out.”

  The nobleman led them around a corner at the back of the room and gestured at a recessed door set into a shadowy corner. “The way out, I believe. It’s war
ped shut, but I can feel a draft through a gap by the floor.”

  Groush’s bulk crowded the two men away from the door as he set his candle on a stone shelf. He ran his fingers along the door’s edge where it met rock. “Oak. The planks are joined with no metal, but for the handle and lock.”

  “It’s a very old wood joining technique,” Rathus said with a nod. “I’ve read about it, but never gave it much thought. Now I wish I had paid more attention to my lessons.”

  “You’re a historian?” Tristan asked.

  “You could call me that. I’m a bard.”

  Groush snorted with irritated amusement. “A poetaster, more like.”

  Rathus bristled at the insulting reference to his trade. “I’ll have you know I held high marks in composition and historical verse, and speak four languages fluently.”

  “Pity you’re not a carpenter; you’d be more useful.”

  Tristan held up a hand as Rathus took a deep breath to retort. “Can you open it?”

  Ear pressed to the door, the bull rapped his knuckles against the wood in several spots before nodding. “I’ve seen doors like this at Caer Ravvos. Multiple bolts, all secured by one lock and turned by one handle. Like iron bands on the outside, it adds strength to the door.”

  “So, how do we get through it?” Rathus asked.

  “A regular door, we might pop the hinges. This doesn’t have any; it slides into the wall when it’s unlocked. We’ll need to pry the handle off, break the lock, and try to push it open.” The weapons slung across the bull’s back rattled as he shrugged. “It will take time, and we’ll lose a sword or two. Or we find another way out.”

  “I’d hate to lose any of the swords, but I don’t think any of us are up to using one.”

  “I know something of swordplay,” Rathus said. “Also, if I may speak frankly, I’m not in as sorry a shape as you lot.”

  “Fine. You can have one of the swords if there are any left.” Tristan looked at Groush before adding, “Do what you can. We need the rest, and any food Brenna may have stashed.”