Duncan walked the length of the gallery. His torch guttered and dimmed, as if struggling to breath. The air was heavy, stale and hot and spiked with the stench of piss and sweat and fear. The dark depths reeked like hell, torturing his sense of smell.
Seating the flickering torch in an empty bracket, Duncan entered the first tunnel devoid of hammering. Forced to his knees by the low ceiling, he crawled toward the ore-face, pulling a wooden sledge behind him. Clovis followed, his workmate for the tunnel.
It was Duncan’s idea to pair the strong with the weak. The stronger of the two worked the ore-face, while the weaker pulled the sledge from the face to the bucket-chain. He’d chosen Clovis despite his racking coughed and slight build. The redheaded man had served less than half a year in the mines and already showed signs of rocklung. Despite his weakness, Duncan liked the older man, finding his tales of life in the north the only relief in an otherwise damned existence.
The tunnel narrowed, choking the light from the torches, but Duncan had no problem seeing. He reached the ore-face and found his tools waiting, a pointed metal wedge and a heavy stone hammer. Hefting the hammer, he checked the ceiling for signs of telltale cracks, always wary of cave-ins.
Clovis slumped to the ground behind the wooden sledge, consumed by coughing.
Duncan waited for the fit to pass and then asked his first question. “Why are so many prisoners deformed?”
Clovis chuckled, “You never run out of questions.”
Duncan shrugged. “I’ve a friend who says knowledge is power. Perhaps if I understand this place I’ll find a way to defeat it.”
“Still hoping to see the sky again?”
“When you lose hope, you die.”
The older man fell silent.
Duncan studied the rock-face, setting the wedge into a thick band of blood-red ore. “Why are so many malformed?” Kneeling, he hefted the stone hammer, taking aim at the wedge. Stone pounded against metal, driving the wedge a finger’s width into the stubborn rock-face.
Clovis began to talk, weaving his words around the hammer’s cadence. “I don’t know the why of it, only that it has always been so. The Pit is fecund with freaks. The breeders keep track of every deformity. The useless ones are sent to work the mines, while those of value are encouraged to breed, given ample access to the pit brothels. The Taals are the breeders’ greatest achievement, prized for their brute strength. Even rarer are the Duegar, the stunted dwarves who can sniff magic.” Clovis coughed, his voice falling to a hush. “But not all deformities can be seen.”
Hairs prickled at the back of Duncan’s neck. “What do you mean?”
“Some of us hide our special abilities.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “A rare few are born with the third eye, the gift of prophecy.”
Duncan shivered. Prophecy had brought him to the god-cursed north. He hefted the hammer, swinging it with vengeance. “What kind of prophecy?”
“Our best seers tell of a Light Bringer, one who will release our people from the Pit.”
Anger pulsed through Duncan. “People always expect someone else to save them, for the gods to send a hero.” He swung the hammer sideways, his gaze fixed on the metal wedge. “If you wait for the gods you’re lost. You have to save yourself.” The hammer struck a mighty blow. The rock face crumbled, releasing a cloud of dust. Coughing, Duncan pressed his face against his arm. When the dust thinned, he began dumping rocks in the sledge. He flicked a glance at Clovis. “What do you believe?”
“That your golden cat-eye lets you see in the dark.”
He glared at the older man. “Then we both have our secrets.”
“I believe you are the Light Bringer.”
“Me!” Duncan barked a rude laugh. “You’re mad, old man. I’m just a god-forsaken prisoner like you.” He lifted a chunk of ore, throwing it onto the sledge.
“I’ve watched you, Duncan Treloch. I’ve seen how you’ve changed the others with nothing but words.” He pointed to himself and then at Duncan. “The weak working with the strong, helping each other to survive. You’ve given us back our humanity, turning animals back into men.”
Duncan stared at his friend. “Yes, but will they listen? Will they dare to save themselves?”
“Ask them.” His voice rang with conviction. “I believe they’re ready to hear your plan.”
“Is this your second sight speaking…or just the last hope of a tired old man?”
Clovis shrugged the leather harness across his bony shoulders. “Perhaps a bit of both.” Coughing, he turned and leaned into the harness. “Perhaps you’re not the only one who wants to see the sky.” Wood scraped against stone, as the sledge slowly lurched toward the tunnel’s mouth.
Duncan grunted and hefted the hammer, his hands hardened with calluses. Pounding his anger against the wedge, he sent a steady beat through the tunnel. Sweat dripped into his eyes, his knees ached and his thirst raged. He worked the ore-face, falling into the weary drudgery of the mine. Clovis returned with an empty sledge, but by then neither man had the strength to talk. They filled the sledge with tumbled rock, coughing on the dust. Clovis leaned into the harness and Duncan picked up the hammer, each man yoked to his task.
One stroke after another, Duncan kept beating his rage against the ore-face. Better to have died in the steppes than in this hellhole. He longed for fresh air, for the smell of green on the wind, for the crystal waters of a mountain stream…and for Kath. The hammer missed the wedge, striking stone, sending chips flying. He swore, ducking the shards, but then he noticed a trickle of water. Dropping the hammer, he pressed his face to the flow. Sucking the rock like a tit, he swallowed the trickle, the tastes of rock and iron lingering on his tongue. The taste didn’t matter, only the water…warm and wet, like a balm to his parched throat.
Clovis’s voice came from behind. “See, the gods watch over you, Duncan Treloch, suckling you even in the depths of the earth.”
The trickle ran dry before he could get enough. “It’s only water trapped in stone.” He gripped the hammer. “The gods care nothing for the plight of men.”
“You’re wrong.”
The conviction in the old man’s voice made Duncan turn. “Why?”
“Because I’ve seen pure evil.” Clovis sketched warding a sign with his left hand. “I’ve witnessed things you wouldn’t believe…for I was once a guard in the citadel.” His voice dropped to a hush. “The Dark Lord is real, the true master of the north. If the Dark Lord exists, then there must be other gods, benevolent gods, else what chance does mankind have?”
For a moment, the old man’s faith was contagious…but then Duncan shook his head. “If the gods exist, then they should show their faces and strike a blow against evil.” He swung the hammer, driving the wedge deep in the ore-face.
The earth rumbled and shook.
A mighty roar came from the tunnel’s mouth. A belch of rock dust rolled towards them like a storm cloud. Duncan threw himself to the ground, his hands over his head, expecting the weight of the earth.
The rumbling stopped…and the screaming began.
Fear hung heavy in the stale air. Duncan squeezed past the sledge, pushing Clovis toward the exit. Choking on dust, they crawled on hands and knees till they reached the gallery. Other prisoners spilled out of their side tunnels, shock and fear etched in rock-dusted faces.
A wail of pain shuddered through the gallery. “My legs! I can’t feel my legs!”
The cave-in was three tunnels down. Trell lay pinned beneath a tumble of stones, half-swallowed by fallen rocks.
Duncan began shifting stones while Clovis tried to calm the injured man. “We’ll get you out. Lay still.” Duncan set his shoulder to a large rock, but it would not budge. It was only then that he realized the others were not helping. He turned to confront their stony stares. “Help me save him.”
A few men looked away, others fidgeted, but Brock met his stare. The big man shook his head. “No use, cat-man. He’s already dead.”
“You d
on’t know that.”
“Look at the size of those rocks.” Brock’s voice was hard as iron. “His legs are crushed, eaten by the mine.”
Trell loosed a keening wail, the sound clawing at raw-edged nerves.
Duncan pointed to the rock-fall. “And beyond the fall? Perhaps the other man still lives.”
Doubt flicked across Brock’s face.
Duncan pressed the point. “I’ll not leave a man buried alive.” Some of the others began to nod. “We work together and live…or we stand alone and die.” He extended his hand. “Don’t let the mine defeat us, brother.”
The big man hesitated…but then he stepped forward and clasped Duncan’s forearm. “We stand together.”
A ragged cheer rose from the other men.
The cheer soon turned to resolve; the men knew time was against them. Brock issued orders and the men formed a line, passing the fallen stones from hand to hand, stacking them at the far end of the gallery. Duncan worked with the big men at the rock-fall, trying to clear the entrance. Smaller stones rattled and fell as the larger rocks were muscled away. Trell whimpered, a trickle of blood at his mouth. Clovis whispered, “I think we’re losing him.”
Duncan grabbed another rock, careful not to start a slide. “Ask him who he works with. Who wields the hammer?”
Clovis answered. “It’s Bruce.”
Duncan pictured the tall, blond-haired man. “A strong one.” He wrestled a large rock from the pile. “I’m betting he’s still alive.”
Trell moaned, his eyes glazed with pain.
The men worked with grim determination, whittling away at the rock fall. An opening appeared at the top. Duncan peered inside. Dust choked the darkness, making it hard for even Duncan to see. Brock grabbed a torch and handed it up. Duncan poked it through the opening, calling for the missing man. “Bruce! Do you live?”
No response.
Duncan withdrew the torch. “It’s too dusty inside, too hard to see. Keep working, he might still live.”
Doubt clouded the other men’s faces, but they kept at it. More stones were cleared, opening a space large enough for a man to squeeze through. Duncan stared at the hole, fearing another collapse. “My idea. I’ll go.”
No one argued.
He took the torch to protect his secret and climbed to the opening. Rocks shifted under his weight, a bad omen. Thrusting the torch forward, he crawled on his belly, stones scraping against his bare-chest. His shoulders just fit, like a well-measured tomb. The way ahead narrowed. He shoved a rock aside, praying the ceiling would hold. Stones tumbled forward with a disturbing clatter. Duncan waited, holding his breath…but the ceiling held. Worming his way through, he gained the other side. Dropping the torch, he pulled free of the passage, peering through the dust. “Bruce! Do you live?” Halfway back, he found the blond-haired man sprawled amongst a tumble of stones. His face was covered in rock dust…but a strong heartbeat pulsed at his neck. Duncan shook him hard, willing him to wake.
Bruce’s eyes fluttered open. “W-what happened?”
“A cave-in. We need to get out. Can you move?”
His eyes widened in fear. “I’ll bloody well try.”
Duncan led the way, Bruce struggling to follow. Ahead, the torchlight glowed like a beacon in the dust. They reached the rock-fall and Bruce gasped. “Buried alive!” The big man began to shake.
Duncan gripped his arm. “We work together and we live.”
Bruce nodded, his eyes wide and wild, his face pale.
Brock’s voice came from the far side. “Any luck?”
“I found him. He lives!”
A muffled cheer rose from the far side.
Brock’s voice bellowed over the others. “Then get your lazy asses back on this side before more rocks fall.”
Duncan looked at Bruce. “Sound advice. You go first.”
Trembling, Bruce nodded and then scrambled up the rock-fall to the hole. Duncan retrieved the torch, knowing that Grack would punish them if it was lost.
Rocks shifted under Bruce’s weight, a few stones clattering to the tunnel floor, but the hole remained open. Duncan followed, worming his way back, rocks scraping against his bare skin. Hands reached for him, pulling him from the rock’s embrace. The others gathered around, pounding Bruce and Duncan on the back, talking all at once, celebrating a victory over the grave. Only Brock and Clovis stood apart.
Duncan looked at Clovis. “Trell?”
The older man shook his head. “He died before we could get him out.”
Duncan frowned, another life claimed by the mine, another victory for the Mordant.
Brock gripped his arm. “Bruce nearly died as well, buried alive. A terrible way to die.” The big man shuddered. “You were right, cat-man.”
Duncan nodded. “You see what men can do when they work together.”
Bitterness flooded the big man’s voice. “Yeah, we can live to die another day. We’re all fodder for the mine.”
“Maybe not.”
A spark of interest lit the big man’s eyes. “You have a plan, cat-man?”
The deafening clang of the bucket-chain rattled to a stop. The sudden silence signaled an end to their time in the depths.
A cheer rose from the men, they’d survived another day in hell, rescuing one of their own from death’s embrace.
Duncan nodded at Brock. “We’ll talk later.”
The men moved along the gallery to the central shaft, but instead of shuffling with weary defeat, they walked with purpose, even pride. Duncan noticed the change. Perhaps the cave-in was a godsend. Tonight might be his best chance to convince them to fight.
25
The Mordant
Splendor was the decree of the day. The Mordant abandoned subtlety for the trappings of power, choosing the garb of a warrior king. A gleaming gold breastplate inscribed with a pentacle, black leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, and upon his head he wore an iron circlet studded with black diamonds, a king come to claim his throne.
A dozen guards scrambled to open the massive bronze doors.
A gong sounded, a deep-throated voice announcing his presence.
Thousands of supplicants fell prostrate, their faces pressed to the cold stone floor.
The Mordant crossed the narthex, boot heels ringing on polished marble. He stood on the threshold, backlit by the fading sunset.
Intimidation wrought into stone, the Basilica of the Dark Citadel proclaimed a thousand years of dominance. Vast enough to foster echoes, the cavernous hall wielded proportion like a war hammer. Massive pillars lined the nave, supporting a vaulted ceiling shrouded in darkness. Slender rays of sunlight speared the upper dome, but they quickly faded, consumed by the gloom. Massive candles sculpted like malformed faces provided the light, weeping waterfalls of wax tears. Mosaics glorified his past lifetimes, every detail designed to enhance his power. Built of dusky-colored stone, the Basilica portrayed all the subtle shades of Darkness from smoky-gray granites and dark-green marbles to the true black of onyx. Gold provided the only relief, a crushing display of wealth paving the steps to the throne. And upon the glittering dais, exulted above all else, sat the Ebony Throne. Carved from the heartwood of a giant tree, the massive throne was jet-black with rich swirls of green in the ebony grain, a wealth of rare wood, a triumph of Darkness over nature…and all of it, his to use, his to command.
The Mordant strode down the long aisle, his black cape flaring behind, the Staff of Pain clicking on the marble paving. Beneath his stride, he walked on names. History was written on the Basilica’s floors. Names of battlefields won, cities plundered, towns burned, and villages raped. Most were long forgotten, missing from present-day maps, but in the Mordant’s citadel they remained etched in stone, eternally trod beneath his boot heel.
Dark glory echoed from every aspect of the Basilica. The Mordant breathed deep, imbibing the heady rush of unrestrained power. Virile with stolen youth, he traversed the immense nave. His boot steps echoed on marble, the only sound in
the vaulted hush. His stare feasted on the sea of prostrate subjects, as if the path to the throne was paved in mortal souls. Reaching the dais, he mounted the steps, a fortune of gold beneath his boots. His black cape swirled as he turned to survey the long hall. Thousands of subjects remained prone, covering the stone floor like a living tapestry. Not a single man dared to lift his head. The Mordant smiled, fear was such a beautiful thing.
He took a seat on the Ebony Throne, regal in black and gold.
The voice of the gong rumbled like thunder.
Thousands rose to their feet, a shuffle of humanity, all bowing toward his throne. Familiar faces stood the closest, the high priests and the generals, dressed in their finest, come to pay homage to his reign. He gave them a paternal smile, and then he began to speak.
“The Mordant has returned!” A trick of the architecture allowed his voice to boom through the Basilica. “The time of waiting is over. I have come to take up the Dark Lord’s sword, to bring the destiny of a thousand years to fulfillment. A new age of Darkness yearns to be born. Like all births, it will be drenched in blood, the blood of the southern kingdoms, for we are the Masters of War.” Cheers rose from the crowd but he quelled them with a raised hand. “The Basilica bears the proof of our prowess. Triumphs of the past surround us. Melted crowns gild the steps of our dais. Names of the vanquished are trod beneath our boot heels. Nothing in history has ever stopped the Dark Lord, and nothing will stop us now.”
“Victory!” A single shout rose from the base of the dais. The crowd took up the chant. “Victory! Victory!” A rolling thunder echoed through the dark vault.
The Mordant eased back against the throne, basking in their adoration, more proof of his power. After a time, he raised his hand to still the crowd. When silence returned, he nodded to his High Priest.
Gavis climbed halfway up the dais, resplendent in robes of the blackest silk trimmed with runes of gold. “My Lord, shall we begin?”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 20
