To Green Angel Tower Part 2 Part 39

Tiamak put aside his suspicions for the moment and squeezed between Hotvig and Sludig, who were standing just behind the prince. The Rimmersman looked down in annoyance, but when he saw Tiamak he grinned. "Knocked him rump over plume! The old man is giving Benigaris a stem lesson!"

Tiamak winced. He could never understand his companions' pleasure at such things. This "lesson" might end in death for one of the two men who were now circling each other, shields up and longswords at the ready. Black Thorn looked like a stripe of emptiest night.

At first it seemed the combat would not last long. Benigaris was an able fighter, shorter than Camaris but stocky and broad-shouldered; he swung the heavy blade as easily as a smaller man might have brandished Josua's Naidel, and was well-trained in the use of his shield. But to Tiamak, Camaris seemed another kind of creature entirely, graceful as a river otter, swift as a striking serpent. In his hands, Thorn was a complicated black blur, a web of glinting darkness. Although he knew nothing good of Benigaris, Tiamak could not help feeling sorry for him. Surely this whole ridiculous battle would be over in a few moments.

The sooner Benigaris gives up, Tiamak thought, the sooner we can get out of this wind.

But Benigaris, it rapidly became clear, had other plans. After looking almost helpless through the first score of strokes, Nabban's duke suddenly took the battle to Camaris, crashing blow after blow on the old knight's shield and deflecting those that his opponent returned. Camaris was forced back, and Tiamak could feel the worry that ran through Josua's party like a whisper.

He is an old man, after all. Older than my father's father was when he died. And perhaps he has even less heart for this battle than for others.

Benigaris rained strokes against Camaris' shield, trying to push home his advantage as the old knight gave ground; the duke was grunting so loudly that everyone on the hillside could hear him above the clang of iron. Even Tiamak, with almost no knowledge of drylander swordplay, wondered how long he could keep up such an attack.

But he doesn't necessarily have to last a long time, Tiamak realized. Tiamak realized. Just until he beats down Camaris' guard and finds an opening. He is gambling. Just until he beats down Camaris' guard and finds an opening. He is gambling.

For a moment Benigaris' gamble appeared to have paid. One of his hammering blows caught Camaris with his shield too low, skimmed off its upper edge and struck the old knight on the side of the helmet, staggering him. The crowd made a hungry sound. Camaris regained his footing and lifted his shield as though it had become almost impossibly heavy. Benigaris waded in.

Tiamak was not quite sure what happened next. One moment the old knight was in a crouch, shield raised in what looked like helplessness against Benigaris' battering sword; the next, he had somehow caught Benigaris' shield with his own and knocked it upward, so that for a moment it hung in the air like a blue and gold coin. When it fell to the earth, Thorn's black point was at the duke's gorget.

"Do you yield, Benigaris?" The voice of Camaris was clear, but there was a hint of a weary tremor.

In answer, Benigaris knocked Thorn aside with a mailed fist, then thrust his own blade at Camaris' unprotected belly. The old man seemed to contort as the sword touched his mail-clad midsection. For an instant Tiamak thought he might have been skewered, but instead Camaris whirled all the way around. Benigaris' sword slid past him, and as Camaris finished his circular turn Thorn came with him in a flat, deadly arc. The black blade crunched into Benigaris' armor just below his ribs. The duke was driven to one knee; he wobbled for an instant, then collapsed. Camaris pulled Thorn free of the rent in the breast plate and a freshet of blood followed it.

Beside Tiamak, Sludig and Hotvig were cheering hoa.r.s.ely. Josua did not seem so happy.

"Merciful Aedon." He turned to look at his two captains with more than a little anger, but his eye lit on the Wrannaman. "At least we can thank G.o.d Camaris was not killed. Let us go to him, and see what we can do for Benigaris. Did you bring your herbs, Tiamak?"

The marsh man nodded. He and the prince began to push their way forward through the knot of people that was quickly forming around the two combatants.

When they reached the center of the crowd, Josua put a hand on Camaris' shoulder. "Are you well?"

The old man nodded. He appeared exhausted. His hair hung down his forehead in sweaty twists.

Josua turned to the fallen Benigaris. Someone had removed the duke's helmet. He was pale as a Norn and there was a froth of blood on his lips. "Lie still, Benigaris. Let this man look at your wound."

The duke turned his bleary eyes on Tiamak. "A marsh man!" he wheezed. "You are a strange one, Josua." The Wrannaman kneeled down beside him and began looking for the catch-buckles on the breastplate, but Benigaris struck his hands away. "Leave me alone, d.a.m.n you. Let me die without having some savage paw at me."

Josua's mouth tightened, but he motioned Tiamak to step back. "As you wish. But perhaps there is something that can be done for you...."

Benigaris barked a laugh. A bubble of b.l.o.o.d.y spittle caught in his mustache. "Let me die, Josua. That is what is left for me. You can have ..." he coughed more red froth, "... you can have everything else."

"Why did you do it?" Josua asked. "You must have known you could not win."

Benigaris mustered a grin. "But I frightened you all, didn't I?" His face contorted, but he regained control. "In any case, I took what was left to me ... just as my mother did."

"What do you mean?" Josua stared at the dying duke as though he had never seen anything quite like him.

"My mother realized ... with help from me ... that her game was over. There was nothing left but shame. So she took poison. I had my own way."

"But you could have escaped, surely. You still control the seas."

"Escape to where?" Benigaris spat another scarlet gobbet. "To the loving arms of your brother and his pet wizard? And in any case, the d.a.m.nable docks belong to Streawe now-I thought I was holding him prisoner, but he was gnawing away at my power from within. The count is playing us all off each other for his own profit." The duke's breath sawed in and out. "No, the end had come-I saw it as soon as the Onestrine Pa.s.s fell. So I chose my own death. I was duke less than a year, Josua. No one would ever have remembered me as anything but a father-murderer. Now, if anyone survives, I will be the man who fought Camaris for the throne of Nabban ... and d.a.m.ned near won."

Josua was looking at Benigaris with an expression that was not quite recognizable. Tiamak could not let the question go unasked.

"What do you mean, 'if anyone survives'?"

Benigaris looked at the Wrannaman with contempt. "It talks." He slowly turned back to the prince. "Oh, yes," he said, his labored breathing not disguising his relish, "I forgot to tell you. You have won your prize-but you may not get much joy from it, Josua."

"I almost felt sorry for you, Benigaris," the prince said. "But the feeling has pa.s.sed." He stood up.

"Wait!" Benigaris raised a b.l.o.o.d.y hand. "You really should know this, Josua. Stay just a moment. I won't embarra.s.s you long."

"Speak."

"The ghants are crawling up out of the swamps. The riders have begun coming in from the Lakelands and the coast towns along Firannos Bay bearing the tale. They are swarming. Oh, there are more of them than you can imagine, Josua." He laughed, bringing up a fresh welter of blood. "And that's not all," he said gleefully. "There was another reason I had no desire to flee Nabban by boat. The kilpa, too, seem to have gone mad. The Niskies are terrified. So you see, not only did I buy myself a clean and honorable death ... but it is a death you and yours might find yourself envying very soon."

"And your own people?" Josua asked angrily. "Do you care nothing for them? If what you say is true, they are already suffering."

"My people?" Benigaris wheezed. "No more. I am dead, and the dead have no loyalty. And in any case, they are your people now-yours and my uncle's."

Josua stared at him for a long moment, then turned and strode away. Camaris tried to follow him, but he was quickly surrounded by a curious mob of soldiers and Nabbanai citizens and could not break away.

Tiamak was left to kneel beside the fallen duke and watch him die. The sun was almost touching the horizon, and cold shadows were stretching across the hillside, when Benigaris finally stopped breathing.

20.

Prisoned on the Wheel

Simon had at first thought the great underground forge was someone's attempt to recreate h.e.l.l. After he had been captive there for nearly a fortnight, he was certain of it. thought the great underground forge was someone's attempt to recreate h.e.l.l. After he had been captive there for nearly a fortnight, he was certain of it.

He and the other men seemed barely to have fallen into their ragged nests at the end of one backbreaking day before one of Inch's a.s.sistants-a handful of men less terrifying but no more humane than their master-was braying at them to get up and start the next. Almost dizzy dizzy with weariness before the work had even begun, Simon and his fellow prisoners would gulp down a cupful of thin porridge that tasted of rust, then stumble out to the foundry floor. with weariness before the work had even begun, Simon and his fellow prisoners would gulp down a cupful of thin porridge that tasted of rust, then stumble out to the foundry floor.

If the cavern where the workers slept was unpleasantly hot, the vast forge cavern was an inferno. The stifling heat pressed against Simon's face until his eyeb.a.l.l.s felt dry as walnut sh.e.l.ls and his skin seemed about to crisp and peel away. Each day brought a long, dreary round of backbreaking, finger-burning labor, made bearable only by the man who brought the water dipper. It seemed eons between drinks.

Simon's one piece of luck was that he had fallen in with Stanhelm, who alone among the wretches working in the forge seemed to have retained most of his humanity. Stanhelm showed the new prisoner the spots to go and catch a breath where the air was a little cooler, which of Inch's minions to avoid most scrupulously, and, most importantly, how to look like he belonged in the forge. The older man did not know that Simon had a particular reason to stay nameless and unnoticed, but sensibly believed that no one should invite Inch's attention, so he also taught: the new prisoner what was expected of all the workers, the greatest part of which was cringing subservience ; Simon learned to keep his eyes lowered and work fast and hard whenever Inch was near. He also tied a strip of rag around his finger to cover his golden ring. He was unwilling to let such a precious thing out of his grasp, but he knew it would be a terrible mistake to let others see it.

Stanhelm's work was to sort bits of waste metal for the crucibles. He had Simon join him at it, then taught his new apprentice how to tell copper from bronze and tin from lead by tapping the metal against stone or scratching its surface with a jagged iron bar.

A strange jumble of things pa.s.sed through their hands on the way to the smelter, chains and pots and crushed bits of plating whose original purpose was unguessable, wagon rims and barrel bands, sacks full of bent nails, fire irons, and door hinges. Once Simon lifted a delicately wrought bottle rack and recognized it as something that had hung on the wall of Doctor Morgenes' chamber, but as he stared, caught for a moment in an eddying memory of a happier past, Stanhelm nudged him in warning that Inch was approaching. Simon hurriedly tossed it into the pile.

The sc.r.a.p metal was carried to the row of crucibles that hung in the forge fire, a blaze as large as a house, fed with a seemingly unending supply of charcoal and heated by bellows that were themselves pumped by the action of the foundry's ma.s.sive water wheel, which was three times as high as a man and revolved ceaselessly, day and night. Fanned by the bellows, the forge fire burned with such incredible ferocity that it seemed a miracle to Simon the very stone of the cavern did not melt. The crucibles, each containing a different metal, were moved by a collection of blackened chains and pulleys which were also connected to the wheel. Yet another set of chains, so much larger than the links that moved the crucibles that they seemed made to shackle giants, extended upward from the wheel's hub and vanished into a darkened crevice in the forge chamber's roof. Not even Stanhelm wanted to talk about where those went, but Simon gathered it had something to do with Pryrates.

In stolen moments, Stanhelm showed Simon the whole process, how the sc.r.a.p was melted down to a glowing red liquid, then decanted from the crucibles and formed into sows, long cylindrical chunks of raw metal which, when cool, were carried away by sweating men to another part of the vast chamber where they would be shaped into whatever it was that Inch supplied to his king. Armor and weapons, Simon guessed, since in all the great quant.i.ties of sc.r.a.p, he had seen almost no articles of war that were not damaged beyond use. It made sense that Elias wished to convert every unnecessary bit of metal into arrow heads and sword blades.

As the days pa.s.sed, it became more and more clear to Simon that there was little chance he would escape from this place. Stanhelm told him that only a few prisoners had escaped during the past year and all but one had quickly been dragged back. None of the recaptured had lived long after returning.

And the one who escaped was Jeremias, Simon thought. Simon thought. He only managed it because Inch was foolish enough to let him go upstairs on an errand. I doubt I will get such a chance. He only managed it because Inch was foolish enough to let him go upstairs on an errand. I doubt I will get such a chance.

The feeling of being trapped was so powerful, the impulse to flee so intense, that at times Simon could hardly stand it. He thought obsessively about being carried upward by the great water wheel chains to whatever dark place they went. He dreamed of finding a tunnel leading out of the great chamber, as he had during his first escape from the Hayholt, but they were all filled in now, or led only to other parts of the forge. Supplies from the outside came with Thrithings mercenary guards armed with spears and axes, and the arrival of anything was always supervised by Inch or one of his chieftains. The only keys hung rattling on Inch's broad belt.

Time was growing short for his friends, for Josua's cause, and Simon was helpless.

And Pryrates has not left the castle, either. So it is likely only a matter of time until he comes back here. What if he is not in such a hurry next time? What if he recognizes me?

Whenever he seemed to be alone and unwatched, Simon hunted for anything that might help him to escape, but he found little that gave him any hope. He pocketed a piece of sc.r.a.p iron and took to sharpening it against the stone when he was supposed to be sleeping. If Pryrates discovered him at last, he would do what damage he could.

Simon and Stanhelm were standing near the sc.r.a.p pile, panting for breath. The older man had cut himself on a jagged edge and his hand was bleeding badly.

"Hold still." Simon tore a piece from his ragged breeches for a bandage and began to wrap it around Stanhelm's wounded hand. Exhausted, the older man wobbled from side to side like a ship in high winds. "Aedon!" Simon swore unhappily. "That's deep."

"Can't go no more," Stanhelm muttered. Above the face mask, his eyes had finally taken on the lifeless glaze that marked the rest of the forge's laborers. "Can't go no more."

"Just stand there," Simon said, pulling the knot tight. "Rest."

Stanhelm shook his head hopelessly. "Can't."

"Then don't. Sit down. I'll go find the dipper man, get you some water."

Something large and dark pa.s.sed before the flames, blocking the light like a mountain obscuring a sunset.

"Rest?" Inch lowered his head, peering first at Stanhelm, then at Simon. "You are not working."

"He h-hurt his hand." Avoiding the overseer's eyes, Simon stared instead at Inch's broad shoes, noting with numbed bemus.e.m.e.nt that one flat, blunt toe poked through on each. "He's bleeding."

"Little men are always bleeding," Inch said matter-of factly. "Time to rest later. Now there is work to do."

Stanhelm swayed a little, then abruptly sagged and sat down. Inch stared at him, then stepped closer.

"Get up. Time to work."

Stanhelm only moaned softly, cradling his injured hand.

"Get up." Inch's voice was a deep rumble. "Now."

The seated man did not look at him. Inch leaned down and smacked Stanhelm on the side of the head so hard that the forge worker's head snapped to one side and his body rocked. Stanhelm began to cry.

"Get up."

When this did not produce any better results, Inch lifted his thick fist high and struck Stanhelm again, this time knocking him into a splay-limbed sprawl.

Several of the other forge workers had stopped to stare, watching Stanhelm's punishment with the crushed calm of a flock of sheep who have seen one of their number taken by a wolf, and know that for a while at least they are safe.

Stanhelm lay silent, only barely moving. Inch lifted his boot above the man's head. "Get up, you."

Simon's heart was racing. The whole thing seemed to be happening too fast. He knew he would be a fool to say anything-Stanhelm had clearly reached his breaking point and was as good as dead. Why should Simon risk everything?

It's a mistake to care about people, he thought angrily. he thought angrily.

"Stop." He knew it was his own voice, but it sounded unreal. "Let him be."

Inch's wide, scarred face swung around slowly, his one good eye blinking in the scorched flesh. "You don't talk," he growled, then gave Stanhelm an offhand kick.

"I said ... let him be."

Inch turned away from his victim and Simon took a step backward, looking for someplace to run. There was no turning back now, no escape from this confrontation. Terror and long-suppressed rage battled inside him. He yearned for his Qanuc knife, confiscated by the Norns.

"Come here."

Simon took another step backward. "Come and get me, you great sack of guts."

Inch's ruined face screwed up in a snarl and he lunged forward. Simon darted out of his reach and turned to run across the chamber. The other workers gaped as the master of the forge lumbered after him.

Simon had hoped to tire the huge man, but had reckoned without his own weariness, the weeks of injury and deprivation. Within a hundred strides he felt his strength ebbing, although Inch still plodded some distance behind him. There was nowhere to hide, and there was no escape from the forge; better to turn and fight in the open, where he could best use whatever advantage of speed still remained to him.

He bent to pick up a large chunk of stone. Inch, certain that he had Simon captured, but wary of the stone, moved steadily but slowly closer.

"Doctor Inch is master here," he rumbled. "There is work to do. You ... you have ..." He growled, unable to find words to describe the magnitude of Simon's crimes. He took another step forward.

Simon flung the stone at his head. Inch dodged and it thumped heavily against his shoulder instead. Simon found himself filling with a dark exhilaration, a rising fury that surged through him almost like joy. This was the creature who had brought Pryrates to Morgenes' chamber! This monstrosity had helped kill Simon's master!

"Doctor Inch!" Simon shouted, laughing wildly as he bent for another stone. "Doctor?! "Doctor?! You are not fit to call yourself anything but Slug, but Filth, but Half-Wit! Doctor! Ha!" Simon flung the second stone, but Inch side-stepped and it clattered across the cavern floor. The big man leaped forward with startling speed and hit Simon a glancing blow that knocked him off his feet. Before he could regain his balance, a wide hand closed on his arm. He was jerked upright, then flung headfirst across the stone floor. Tumbling, he hit his head, then lay for a moment, dazed. Inch's meaty hands closed on him again. He was lifted up, then something struck his face so hard that he heard thunder and saw lightning. He felt his cloth mask pull away. Another blow rocked him, then he was free and toppling to the ground. Simon lay where he had fallen, struggling to understand where he was and what had happened. You are not fit to call yourself anything but Slug, but Filth, but Half-Wit! Doctor! Ha!" Simon flung the second stone, but Inch side-stepped and it clattered across the cavern floor. The big man leaped forward with startling speed and hit Simon a glancing blow that knocked him off his feet. Before he could regain his balance, a wide hand closed on his arm. He was jerked upright, then flung headfirst across the stone floor. Tumbling, he hit his head, then lay for a moment, dazed. Inch's meaty hands closed on him again. He was lifted up, then something struck his face so hard that he heard thunder and saw lightning. He felt his cloth mask pull away. Another blow rocked him, then he was free and toppling to the ground. Simon lay where he had fallen, struggling to understand where he was and what had happened.

"You make me angry ..." said a deep voice. Simon waited helplessly for another blow, hoping it would be strong enough to take away the pain in his head and the sickness in his guts forever. But for long moments nothing happened.

"The little kitchen boy," Inch said at last. "I know you. You are the kitchen boy. But you have hair on your face!" There was a sound like two stones being rubbed together. It took some time for Simon to realize that Inch was laughing. "You came back!" He sounded as pleased as if Simon were an old friend. "Back to Inch-but I am Doctor Inch now. You laughed at me. But you won't laugh any more."

Thick fingers squeezed him and he was jerked up from the floor. The sudden movement filled his head with blackness.

Simon struggled to move but could not. Something held him with his arms and legs extended, stretched to their utmost.

He opened his eyes to the tattered moon face of Inch.

"Little kitchen boy. You came back." The huge man leaned closer. He used one hand to pinion Simon's right arm against whatever stood behind, then raised the other, which clutched a heavy mallet. Simon saw the spike being held against his wrist and could not hold back his shout of terror.

"Are you afraid, kitchen boy? You took my place, the place that should have been mine. Turned the old man against me. I didn't forget." Inch raised the mallet and brought it down hard against the head of the spike. Simon gasped and twitched helplessly, but there was no pain, only a tightening of the pressure on his wrist. Inch hammered the spike in deeper, then leaned back to examine his work. For the first time Simon realized that they were high above the cavern floor. Inch was standing on a ladder that leaned against the wall just below Simon's arm.