Silk And Steel: The Skeleton King Part 19

The healer stopped, her face guarded. "Your throwing axes with their red hawk harness are much admired. Good steel, excellent craftsmanship."

No mention of the crystal dagger. "I need my weapons."

"They are being held in safe keeping."

The meaning behind the words. .h.i.t Kath hard. "So we're prisoners."

"Not prisoners...guests who are not yet trusted."

"But we both fight the Mordant."

The raven stared back at her, eyes as cold and hard as ebony chips. "Freedom is hard won."

Her reply struck like a cold slap. Kath felt as if she teetered on the edge of a chasm, a division of history and customs, a great divide sundering potential allies. "How can I win the trust of your people?"

The raven retreated, letting the woman return. "The Ancestor will decide." She raised a hand forestalling any more questions. "When the old man's battle is either won or lost, then you will be tested." Her voice held a note of finality. "In the presence of the Ancestor, much will become known." She turned. "Now come, your friends await."

24.

Duncan "On your feet, maggots!" The harsh cry came from overhead. "Rise and serve. The Mordant needs his ore." A grated trapdoor clanged open and a wooden ladder was thrust through the hole. Three boys in ragged clothing scampered down into the chamber. Two carried large buckets while the third held a bulging sack over his shoulder.

The smell of sour gruel pierced the chamber, pulling even the sick and the feeble from their straw pallets. Only the dead did not respond, two men sprawled face down in the soiled straw.

Fifty-eight prisoners rose and stood along the rock walls, a clang of chains and a shuffle of bare feet, every pair of eyes focused on the two buckets. Like a pack of starving wolves, the men slavered to be fed. Duncan stood with the others, fighting the urge to lunge for the pail of murky water. More than food, he craved an end to his raging thirst, but he bridled his need, refusing to act like an animal.

Light blazed in the chamber's heart, a lantern lowered on a chain through the trapdoor. Grack, the one-armed turnkey followed, the ladder groaning under his ma.s.sive weight. Maimed and battle-scarred, the ogre-like Taal wore cruelty like a cloak. "Get to it boys." His voice sounded like gravel. "Feed the maggots and then we'll get them into their holes. The day's a wasting."

The three boys leaped to obey, working their way around the chamber.

One at a time, the prisoners reached into the bag and grabbed a small metal bowl and a cup. The bucket boys followed, allowing each man one dip of gruel and one cup of murky water. Duncan waited his turn, watching the buckets with desperate eyes, angry if even a single drop was spilled. Any man who wasted water or gruel rarely lived to see another morning.

When his turn finally came, Duncan plunged his bowl into the grayish-brown gruel and dipped his cup into the bucket, careful not to spill a drop. Like the others, he ate standing, quickly lapped the foul-tasting gruel like a starving cat. A sour mash of barley and wheat, he licked the bowl clean. Finished, he gulped the muddy water, the taste of metal fouling his mouth. All too soon, the cup ran dry, leaving his raging thirst unslaked. One cup was never enough.

While the others slurped their morning meal, Grack prowled the chamber, swinging his spiked mace in a deadly arc. "We'll have no slackers in this cell." The fearsome weapon whistled with threat. "Only death frees a man from the mines." Moving with surprising speed, the ma.s.sive Taal strode to the nearest dead man, smashing the mace into his head. Blood and brains splattered the chamber. Grack laughed. "Meat tonight, boys." Two quick strides and the mace struck the second corpse. The skull shattered with a sickening crunch. Death was never feigned in the mines.

Accustomed to cruelty, the boys continued working their way around the chamber, gathering the empty cups and bowls. Grack chose two prisoners to strip the dead, lifting their shattered bodies up through the trapdoor. Duncan used the time to stretch, knowing what lay ahead. Bare-chested, he'd cut his leather shirt to strips, wrapping his feet for protection against the rock shards. His ankles were free of chains but he still wore shackles on his wrists and an iron collar around his neck. Collared and chained like a beast, they'd even put a brand on his left forearm, a rune of some sort, marking him like cattle. The brand had long since healed, but Duncan couldn't stand the sight of it. Being 'owned' was anathema to the people of Deep Green...but he was a long way from the great forests, chained in this h.e.l.l-sp.a.w.ned pit. His hatred ran deep; the Mordant had much to pay for.

"All right maggots, time to earn your gruel."

The prisoners shuffled into line as Grack unlocked the iron-studded door. One at a time, they shambled through. Duncan waited his turn with the others. His fellow prisoners were a strange bunch, as if a freak-show carnival had been captured and forced to work the mine. Hal was a giant of a man, with a face like a Taal and the mind of a child. Gren was a dwarf with a nasty temper. Simeon and Brent were hunchbacks. Trell had a clubfoot and Stan a cleft lip. But Nef and Bredan were by far the strangest. Nef had six fingers on each hand, making him an excellent juggler, but Bredan's deformity was downright eerie. The older man had a closed eyelid in the middle of his forehead, like some monster from a bard's nightmare. Duncan found himself staring at it, wondering if the lid truly hid a third eye. He shivered at the strangeness of the thought. Deformities were not unknown to the villages of Erdhe, but it seemed to Duncan that nature had run amok in the pit...or perhaps nature was not the cause. The Mordant's h.e.l.lhounds were not natural...and neither was a third eye. Shuddering, he made the hand sign against evil, following the others toward the door.

"Hurry up, maggots." Grack growled, "The Mordant needs his iron ore. Meet the quotas or no one eats."

The prisoners quickened their pace. Duncan reached the doorway and one of the bucket lads handed him a flaming torch. Every tenth man got a torch, the only light in the depths of the mine. Twenty steps and the rocky corridor opened onto the side of a deep vertical shaft, the throat of the iron mine. A ma.s.sive set of chains dangled down the center, with buckets attached every ten feet. Rumors said the chains went all the way to the surface. Duncan stared up; hoping for a glimpse of sky, but the mineshaft was too deep.

One at a time, the men swung out into the shaft, clinging to the iron ladder. Hammered into the rock wall, the ladder disappeared into the depths, a line of ragged men clinging to the rungs. Some of the rungs were missing, making for a tricky descent. Careful not to drop the torch, Duncan followed the others. Like spiders descending a single strand, they made their way down. Abandoned galleries began to appear, dark mouths gaping in the rough rock wall. More than a few side tunnels were clogged shut with rock-falls, proof of the danger of cave-ins. Duncan wondered how many men lay buried beneath the rubble, a grim way to die.

A hundred rungs of the ladder and still he descended, as if h.e.l.l had no bottom. The mine grew hot and the air tasted stale with sweat and rock dust. Above him, a man slipped, his foot missing a rung. Duncan braced for the impact but it never came. Dangling by his hands, Clovis regained his footing. Relieved, Duncan kept moving, slick with sweat by the time he reached the bottom.

A deafening clatter filled the central shaft. The bucket-chain rattled to life like some ancient metal monster wakened from slumber. Running all the way to the surface, the chain slowly jerked around a wheel fixed to the bottom of the mineshaft. Clanking and clattering, the empty buckets went down one side while full buckets went up the other, an endless chain of buckets starving for ore.

Giving the bucket chain a wide berth, Duncan paused to stretch muscles aching from the long descent. Clovis joined him and the two men entered the long gallery that led to the ore face. Forty smaller tunnels branched off the main gallery, two men working each tunnel. Hammers pounded against rock, flooding the mine with a wild heartbeat. The men worked without overseers, yet they wasted no time, knowing if the quota was not made none would eat. Hunger proved a powerful force, bending the men to the will of their jailors.

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 p.i.s.s and sweat and fear. The dark depths reeked like h.e.l.l, 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 d.a.m.ned 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 pa.s.s 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 p.r.i.c.kled 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 G.o.d-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 G.o.ds to send a hero." He swung the hammer sideways, his gaze fixed on the metal wedge. "If you wait for the G.o.ds 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 G.o.d-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 sc.r.a.ped 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 h.e.l.lhole. 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 t.i.t, 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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.ds, benevolent G.o.ds, else what chance does mankind have?"

For a moment, the old man's faith was contagious...but then Duncan shook his head. "If the G.o.ds 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 don'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, pa.s.sing 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 s.p.a.ce 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 pa.s.sage, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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!"