Hell's Chimney

by Derek Smith

  He screamed and ran into a wall. He turned and raced and bashed into another. The imp was after him. It would rip his soul from his body. It would prick him like a sausage. Into the wall. And off and back. And into the wall…

  But this was no wall. It moved, it creaked. It was true. He was in Hell.

  He backed off. Standing still. He counted to twenty. He pressed his nails into his hands. A little calmer, he moved forward and pushed. He had felt it move again.

  His fingers were against metal and bolts. It was the door. He shouldered it. It had a looseness. Slackness in the lock perhaps… He worked his fingers to the edge of the door. Pressing them into the groove, he pulled with his fingertips.

  The door opened with an agonizing groan.

  Just a few inches, but enough for a dull strip of light to enter the cell. He dare not believe it. The door was open. Was this really Hell? Could there be devils out there ready to roast him? Was he already dead?

  He battled with the dream world, conjured out of fear and darkness. It was the real door. He could see the outline. He could feel its realness. He listened intently, and could hear nothing outside.

  This was still the living world.

  But why was the door open? Accident – could it be so? That the gaoler had been so in awe of the Queen that he had forgotten to lock up after him. A man who locked scores of doors daily… It seemed so unlikely. Gaolers do not leave doors open. If it was deliberate – then why? Why would they have left his cell door open?

  It hit him. She wanted him to escape. To run for it. And then he could be chased and speared like a rat. She had men out there, waiting for him to come out.

  Then let them kill me, he thought. Rather than go mad, chased by devils, rather than be axed at noon. Let them cut me down now.

  He opened the door a little more, and slid into the corridor.

  Chapter 6

  A lantern hung on the wall, just outside his cell. He was a privileged prisoner, a prince. Ordinary prisoners did not have lights outside their cells. Of course he would have liked it within. But not even princes were granted that.

  Toby took down the lantern from its hook. And walked slowly into the gloom of the corridor. He kept close to the wall, creeping on the flagstones to silence his footsteps. He had been down in the dungeons once before. Curious as boys were, his father had asked the Captain of the Guard to show him round. He’d loved the torture chamber, and had even put his foot in the boot.

  Three corridors, he remembered, came off the end of the stairs. So he must just trace this one to their foot. He could so easily be caught. There was nowhere to go, no way off the corridor. He stopped for an instant; if they were waiting for him – where would they pounce?

  He continued walking, and his heart jumped in his chest. He’d heard a grunt. He stopped, listened. It was rhythmic. Someone was snoring somewhere. He crept on, and in a little while came to him in a recess. The gaoler was slumped on a bench, a jug on the floor by a flickering lantern. His mouth was open, the bloated tongue almost out. Each snore lifted his chest and threw back his head. By him, on a large ring, was a set of keys.

  There was just two on it. The Captain of the Guard had explained to Toby – all the cells had the same key. And the other was for the door at the top of the stairs that opened out into the courtyard.

  Toby inched his way to the sleeping man. He could smash the jug over his head – but perhaps that skull was so thick, it would simply wake him up. The gaoler groaned, waved his arms and fell back into his slump. Toby could smell drink. All the better.

  He took the keys, squeezed them in his hand to stop them clinking. He was about to go forward to the stairs when he had a thought. Instead, he turned about, crept back along the corridor to his cell. Which key was it? He tried one. It fitted. He turned it and locked his cell door.

  Back he went up the corridor, past the sleeping gaoler. He wondered whether he should blow the man’s lantern out. Better not, it would make his own more obvious. He crept on, listening to the darkness, looking deep into the shadow ahead. Expecting every instant to be jumped upon.

  At the foot of the stairs two other corridors ran off like mine shafts into blackness. The stairs were well worn. 54 of them or 55 – he had counted them on his visit. On his way up, on his way down – and had been one out. He began his ascent. They curled round like the stairs of a lighthouse. He could only see a little way ahead, to the round of the bend. The stairs were narrow, well worn, barely wide enough for one person. If they came for him now, one from the top, one from the bottom – he could be skewered between them.

  Rounding each bend he expected a guard to be standing there, spear at the ready. Perhaps someone was coming up after him. He forced himself to stop. There was no sound. For a few seconds he was frightened to go on. At least in this space he was temporarily safe. He took another step, and another. He counted them upwards. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t begun from one. He wasn’t counting stairs.

  It was then he heard a yell and running footsteps below. Another cry, even as he raced up. It was the gaoler after him. Toby took them two at a time. The gaoler had reached the bottom stairs and knew the prince was ahead from the spilling light. There was no point putting it out now.

  ‘Come back ‘ere! I’ll get you, you dog!’

  The screech rang round the walls as Toby raced upwards. If anyone was ahead – he’d race straight into their arms. The gaoler had reached the stairs. Toby could hear his heavy tread behind him.

  ‘I’ll strangle you when I catch yer! I’ll put your eyes out!’

  Toby ran in terror. There were no tiptoes now. Up and round as fast as he could manage. He hoped the man was very drunk. But what had woken him? His own snoring perhaps…

  Ahead was the door. Toby put down the lamp. Which key was it? There were only two but they looked so alike. Why hadn’t he remembered when he’d locked his cell?

  His sweaty fingers fumbled. Which? He put one in the lock. It wouldn’t turn. Was it the wrong one or was it just difficult? He tried twisting it again. And once again. And then pulled it out.

  The footsteps were clattering up.

  ‘I’ll tie you in knots. I’ll turn you inside out like a sack!’

  The other key was in the lock. He twisted. It worked. The night air hit him as he pulled the door open. Toby took the key out and was out into the courtyard. He turned, he could see the gaoler with just about eight steps to go. Breathless, cursing, his great hands reaching out for him.

  ‘I’ll twist your bleedin’ head off!’

  Toby slammed the door shut. He rammed the key in the lock and turned it. At the same time there was a thump against the door. But he had locked it.

  Toby took the key out. He could hear yelling and thumping. The door though was thick. The sound wouldn’t carry too far.

  This was no time to stick around.

  Chapter 7

  He edged around the courtyard of the castle, keeping tight to the wall. It was very dark; there were few stars, no moon and a lot of cloud. The wind was icy. There was always a guard in the courtyard, he knew. The guard would patrol the courtyard and then take a break in his cubbyhole. Toby could hear nothing. Perhaps this was his break. Or the wind was keeping him longer.

  He must get out of the castle. The obvious way was across the drawbridge. That might be down, sometimes it was at night. They weren’t at war and often supplies came late. But there were always two guards at the drawbridge, and others sleeping in the guardhouse. He’d never get out that way.

  This, though, was his castle. He had lived here all his life and he knew a way down the castle wall. He and his cousin Kev used to use it to escape from lessons. It was dangerous. And when his father heard about it, he’d had them both thrashed.

  He needed to get up to the battlements. There were five ways up, not counting the two at the drawbridge which he ruled out. Too close to the guard and the guardhouse.

  Footsteps clinked on the cobblestones. The guard had begun his pat
rol. Toby couldn’t see him and the echo of the sound made it difficult to know where he was. If he’d just left his base, it would be perhaps a minute before he was round here.

  A few steps ahead was a way up to the battlement. But he found it barred by a stout wooden door. He pushed at with his shoulder. Locked. Toby groaned. The others would be locked too.

  The footsteps were closer.

  The keys of course. It was possible one might work. He tried one. It didn’t turn and didn’t want to come out. No-one oiled these damn things. The guard was whistling and closer still. The key came out. There was not time for the second. He would be caught.

  But the guard had stopped. Why? The reason didn’t matter, the fact was enough. Toby put the other key in. It wouldn’t turn. The guard would be on him. Why had he stopped?

  The dungeon of course. The gaoler’s thumping.

  The key turned stiffly. He pulled the door open, took out the key and stepped into the stairwell. At the other side, he locked the door behind him.

  With some relief, he took the stone steps two at a time. There were perhaps twenty which led him up to the battlement. From the top, kneeling down, he looked below into the courtyard. He couldn’t make out the guard, but if he was at the dungeon – how long would it take him to get a key and find out what was happening?

  Not long. Not long enough.

  The battlements were about ten feet wide, with a low wall on the outside with rectangular cutouts for archers to shoot through. There would be two guards up here, he knew; they walked in opposite directions patrolling the wall. Toby could easily be caught by either of them or by both in a scissors.

  He listened.

  There were footsteps, but only in one direction. Two sets. They were together. Naughty, naughty. Some other time he might report them for that – but now he was grateful they’d got together for a chat.

  Toby was ahead of them. He knew where he had to go. And, if he stayed ahead, would be there in perhaps a minute. He stepped along as speedily as silence would allow. He was aware of every sound of the night, the intense cold and the danger he was in. An escaped prisoner could be killed. Rarely were they brought back alive.

  Toby had reached the section of the wall where he and his cousin used to climb down to the moat. That was in daylight of course. Well, he couldn’t wait. He was over the top and hanging by his fingertips. His feet had to find the ledge. There it was, above a long narrow window. Now he had to lower a foot, low as he could get it, extend the toe, hanging by the very tips of his fingers. Where was it? Got it. Then find a crack for one hand. Feeling along the wall. Got it. Now take the other hand down. This was the awful bit. One foot on the ledge, the other stretched down to the bottom of the window. One set of fingers in the tiniest of grooves, the other searching… His legs began to shake. Not now please. His fingers found a cleft. And he lowered his other leg into the safety of the window.

  He could now bring his hands down, one at a time, to the ledge about the window. This bit was easier. Now, he drew his hands into the window, pushing on either sides to keep a grip, and lowered his feet to the next ledge above the middle window. There were three in all, and then a short drop to the outcrop above the moat.

  A voice came from courtyard, just heard by Toby hanging from the outside wall.

  ‘Oi! Guard on the rampart!’

  A reply came from the top quite close to Toby. ‘Yes? What’s up?’

  ‘Something’s going on in the dungeon. There’s thumping on the door.’

  ‘The silly sod has lost his keys again. Drunk I bet.’

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Hang about. We’ll come down…’

  Toby thought, they must have keys to open the door at the bottom. And those keys would fit the dungeon door. And the gaoler, once free, would tell them soon enough what was going on.

  He was down to the mid window. Time was short. The rampart guard must be already in the courtyard. Could he drop into the moat? He’d make a splash but they probably wouldn’t hear – and he was quite a way from the drawbridge guard.

  Toby lowered himself into a crouch in the window. Then, with his hands on the ledge, let his feet and body down. His legs were dangling in space. Now was the time to drop, but he was afraid he’d hit the edge of the moat.

  He couldn’t hang much longer. He let go and pushed off the wall with one foot. It tumbled him half backwards. In a second, he was in the icy water. It closed over his head, and then he hit bottom. He pushed himself up and struck out for the far side, not waiting to hear whether he had been heard or not. Too late for that. Toby was not the best of swimmers – but he was freezing and time was desperately short. He splashed hands and feet until he bumped into the bank.

  The sides were muddy. He had to grasp tufts of grass to get any leverage. He slipped back, grabbed ahead and dug his fingers into the mud and pulled himself out.

  He stood up and looked back at the castle gasping. He could hear no alarm. Not yet. But it couldn’t be long.

  He began to run.

  Chapter 8

  ‘This key’s useless.’

  The three guards were at the door down to the dungeon. One of them was trying to turn the key, another holding a lantern over him, the third watching.

  ‘Let me have a go.’

  The first shrugged and shifted aside. The second took the key.

  ‘Hell, it’s stiff. I keep telling them about these keys. That new blacksmith is a heap of manure. Half the doors won’t open.’ He tried twisting with both hands. ‘Useless.’

  ‘Let me have a go,’ said the third.

  ‘It’s a waste of time,’ said the one at the door.

  ‘Let me have a go then,’ insisted the third.

  ‘What d’you think you’ve got? Magic fingers? Go on then – show us how it’s done.’

  ‘What could be going on down there?’ said the courtyard guard who was holding the lamp.

  ‘The gaoler’s a drunken sot. He’s lost his keys before. Why should we help him out?’

  ‘Hopeless flaming key,’ said the man at the door. ‘You sure this is the right one?’

  ‘Must be. I think,’ said his mate.

  ‘That makes me feel confident.’ He stopped trying to twist it. ‘We’ve all three tried it. It’s a dud. So we’d better get another…’

  ‘We could leave him,’ said his mate.

  ‘What, leave him locked in?’

  ‘We’re off watch in an hour – ain’t we? Let dawn watch handle it.’

  ‘And how d’you know what’s going on down there? Could be a riot.’

  His mate put a hand on his shoulder. ‘The sod’s locked in right? So they’re all locked in. What’s the problem?’

  ‘I know that but…’

  ‘D’you want to wake the Captain of the Guard at this hour?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I bet you don’t. But how else do we get another key?’

  ‘They could hold us responsible. What’s going on down there. We could’ve stopped it… We’ve gotta get the key. Then they can’t blame us.’

  ‘Who’s it going to be then?’

  ‘You, mate. This is your pitch. We’re battlements.’

  ‘And it’s your junk key…’

  Before the guard could reply a call came across the courtyard.

  ‘What’s going on there?’

  They looked over. Three men were coming over, two with lanterns slightly behind the third. As they drew in, they recognised the one in the centre. Prince Zeke. And lowered their heads respectfully as he approached.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ said Zeke. His sword was drawn.

  ‘We can’t open this door, Your Highness,’ said a guard. ‘And someone’s banging…’

  ‘Is that all?’ said Zeke.

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Does it take three of you?’

  ‘We came to help, Your Highness.’

  ‘Go back on patrol, all three of you. Report to the Captain of the Guard
when you go off duty.’ He swung his sword. ‘Now. Off. Go!’

  The three left. Two crossed the courtyard to go up to the battlement, the third continued round the courtyard.

  Zeke watched them away. Then he thumped on the door. There came an answering thump. Zeke turned to one of his guards. ‘Get me a dozen men. Here.’

  ‘Your Highness.’ And he rushed off.

  Zeke turned to the other. ‘Wake the torturer. I want him here at once.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ And he strode off.

  They had left their lamps. Zeke fought his shadow on the wall in swordplay. When he had killed it, he thumped again on the door, three times.

  Three thumps came back.

  The gaoler was sitting on the top step with the jug he’d brought from below. Might as well finish it while the guard sorted themselves out. There was going to be hell to pay. Someone had escaped. He’d thought at first it was the young Prince. He’d only caught a glimpse before the door slammed. But then he’d gone down and checked; the Prince’s cell door was locked. Someone else then. He wondered who it might be. He shrugged, took a swig and sniggered: Quickest way out of the dungeon, this.

  In five minutes he was asleep.

  He woke quickly enough when Prince Zeke burst in with twelve guards and the torturer.

  Chapter 9

  Toby had reached the forest. Already, there was a streak of reddish light from the east. Hoarfrost hung from the trees and traced the undergrowth. His teeth chattered. How long had he got? They must have opened the dungeon by now. Surely? He could imagine them saddling horses, the dogs straining at their leashes. He must get far away, deep into the forest, to stand any chance.

  It was so cold. His clothes were soaking in icy water from his swim in the moat. It was like being rolled naked in snow. Still on the move, he took off his top and undershirt. His chest and arms were wet and the cold stung. He wrung the undershirt. Water gushed from it. He twisted it and twisted it, until the drips stopped. He put it back on. Damp as it was, it felt better. His body would have some chance at drying it now. He wrung his top, working from the sleeve ends, to the middle, down to the bottom, the icy water numbing his fingers. And then again, wringing. At last he put it back on.