“Alisiya.”
“Russ.” She mocked his angry tone.
“Leave. Me. Alone.”
“I was going. I’ve spent too long chatting with you anyway, it’s not really seemly for a goddess to be hanging about in a prison. I will be seeing you.” With that flippant goodbye, to match the smugness of all her words, she was gone.
Russ went back to staring at the wall. So. Apparently the guards had been wanting to see a different kind of show. Bastards. He thought about that, instead of his upcoming death. It was a little easier. He allowed himself to feel outrage on behalf of the female captives. Thinking about that was better than the gibbering fear of being bled like a pig. Cracked like an egg . . . squeezed like a lemon . . . or . . . . He wondered if the younger bird-girl was going to be carted around to Ricallyn criminals, too. As if they weren’t all a bunch of lowlifes. It was disgusting. It was all disgusting. The people and the place and the lights in the wall and the pits and the straw . . . it was all so damn disgusting . . . .
The grate opened again, and he scrambled back to the wall, fearing they were going to try beating on him with the pole. He looked up and saw that instead they lowered a bucket down by a rope, a hook on the end of the rope holding the handle of the bucket. The bucket clunked against the floor and the handle dropped to the side. The bird-girl suddenly lunged forward, grabbing for the rope and the hook, but the guard was too fast again. Russ was almost glad. He didn’t like the idea of the bird-girl with a hook.
The grate slammed shut again, and the girl gave him a sneer, taking the bucket and scooting back to her side of the pit. My side, her side. Funny how they had territories in this miserable little dungeon.
He watched her as she rooted around in the bucket. She took out bread and gnawed on it like a wolverine, making unappetizing noises as she scarfed it down. There was dried meat and cheese too, which she shoved into her mouth so fast Russ could hardly believe she didn’t choke. Apparently, it was his last meal. She didn’t seem interested in sharing. His last woman was eating his last meal. He almost laughed.
Russ thought about trying to get some food away from her. He didn’t want to give up and cry like a baby, not like last time, and he was already promising himself he wouldn’t go quietly when they came for him. If he expected to fight against the Ricallyn he’d need some strength. He was starving. He watched as the girl took a flask out of the bucket and uncapped it, gurgling down what he assumed must be water. He was thirsty, too.
This is misery, he thought. But he didn’t move. Frustrated, he told himself that if he couldn’t stand up to a girl he couldn’t fight against the guards. But he didn’t want to go near her. She was more frightening than the guards . . . they all looked the same to him. She was like some wild, ferocious animal. A crow. A vulture . . . . Were vultures ferocious? They ate dead things, so maybe not. Ugly as a vulture, loud and mean as a crow. Skinny, feisty women, indeed. Ha and ha.
He turned toward the wall and sulked, crossing his arms. He wondered if Alisiya was telling the truth about the sex slave bit. She had probably convinced the Ricallyn to send this harpy down to torture him and then made up the story to mock him. She knew he only wanted Liseli. Liseli. He’d like to see what Liseli would do with this girl. Yeah. She wouldn’t let her eat her food and spit at her and stab her. She’d turn the girl into a quivering little chickadee. That’s what Liseli would do.
He shook his head again, hugging himself. I’m sorry, Liseli. I’ll come back. Soon. I’ll do better with the guards. I’ll kick their asses. I’ll get out of here. I will.
Chapter 27 ~ Key Blood
Russ drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour. The bird-girl remained quiet across from him, burping and wiping her mouth with her sleeve after she’d finished the last of his food. She still clutched the bucket, and for a little while eyed him as if she was thinking of beating him over the head with it. Even that lurking danger wasn’t enough to keep him awake the whole time. He thought that he should be staying alert, but his fatigue overruled his anxiety. Even if you can get out of here, you’re never gonna be strong enough to go through the Gate again. Face it Markson, you’ve made yourself into an invalid.
At the end of the hour, he heard the lock rattling above him. He pushed up to his feet and pressed himself against the wall, squinting at the light above. Weak as a sick puppy or not, there was no way in hell he was gonna go with them willingly.
The grate opened, and bodies blocked the light. The rope ladder slithered down, the bottom hitting the floor with a soft thump. It dangled down in the middle of the room, and he wondered if he should try to attack whoever came down while they were busy climbing. Only, he didn’t have anything to attack with besides his fists, and that didn’t seem like a lot at the moment.
He glanced at the bird-girl, whose thin white face was turned up toward the light, fierce and tense. Then he saw a guard swing himself onto the ladder and begin climbing down. Russ pushed away from the wall, edging to his left around the wall of the pit, toward the bird-girl. She saw him coming and sneered, but he ignored her, placing himself on the side of the ladder the guard was climbing down. The man stopped, twisting around to look at Russ. The bird-girl seemed to grasp what his plan was, too, and she inched closer to him so they were both glaring up at the man, waiting for him.
The man slowly drew a knife from his belt and held it so the light from above glinted on it. He spoke a couple words, warning them not to try anything, Russ guessed. The bird-girl just spat at the ladder and hissed out one defiant word. Russ remained silent, hoping his own face looked defiant, not scared shitless.
The man looked up, speaking to the others above him, and suddenly a ring of light exploded on around the wall of the pit, like a camera flash going off. In an instant everything was shockingly bright. The bucket fell with a clatter as the bird-girl yelped, covering her eyes.
Russ blinked, eyes watering, squinting up at the sudden flurry of movement as the guard quickened his descent down the rope.
The bird-girl grabbed Russ’s ankles briefly as she blindly, frantically, searched for the bucket that had rolled away.
The guard let go of the ladder and landed on the floor, and Russ flung himself at the man, wrapping his arms around his neck and jerking backwards. The man swung his knife up and jabbed it back, trying to stab Russ, but all he managed was to graze Russ’s leg. They stumbled backwards and Russ’s head smacked into the wall, but he didn’t let go. He shut his eyes and could still see the ring of light burned into his vision.
The man stabbed backwards again and his knife skittered against the wall. He was making wheezing, gurgling noises now and Russ’s heart pounded faster, fear feeding adrenaline into his arms and squeezing them tighter, tighter, tighter around the guard’s throat. The man angled his knife to the side and swung out to stab in again, with the intent of digging it deep into Russ’s thigh. But just as Russ realized what was coming for him there was a thwak of wood on arm, and the guard dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor and the bird-girl screeched triumphantly, grabbing for it. But she still couldn’t see well. She fell to her knees and felt over the floor blindly. The guard shot out a leg, kicking her in the side, sending her to the floor.
More guards were coming down the ladder, now, blades drawn. Russ could see them clearly even though the bird-girl was blinded — after the Gate the sudden light in the pit seemed nothing more than a momentary flash, a mosquito bite. The guard in his grip tried to twist away, beating on Russ’s arms as his choking noises became more desperate. Russ fought to keep his hold tight, and keep the man between him and the other guards.
Two of the new arrivals came at him, a third went for the bird-girl, grabbing her skinny body and throwing her against the wall like one of Leeton’s dogs tossing aside the rag doll. Russ couldn’t spare enough attention to watch them, though, with the other two intent on freeing their comrade. The man was thrashing violently now, and he knew his strength wouldn’t last if the man didn’t pass out soo
n. Die, a tiny voice corrected him. Die soon. You’re killing him.
The realization sent a shock of new, different fear through him. He almost let go, horrified at the thought of holding a dead body in his arms, but he didn’t let go, didn’t loosen his grip, he snarled back at his conscience and shut out the thoughts, tried to shut out all thoughts. He had nothing left in him but the surge of adrenaline and he let it tell him to hold on and hold tighter and don’t think don’t think don’t fuckin think just squeeze till the thrashing stops . . . .
More hands were grabbing at his arms now, strong hands that clamped on and twisted at him, pulling away. He couldn’t fight against all those hands, he realized with sick fear, even as their digging fingers finally loosened his grip enough for the man to slide out, gasping for air. A blade was suddenly up against Russ’s throat and he became very still, flattening himself up against the wall. One of the “rescuers” got up close to his face and sneered something at him, warning him again to behave.
“You don’t wanna cut my throat down here,” Russ said cautiously, feeling his adam’s apple move against the blade. “Defeat the whole damn point, won’t it?”
The guard moved away as if he understood, but Russ saw that it was just to let the others get close with their manacles and chains.
No way. Russ darted to the side, trying to get out of their trap, but the two with the cuffs (whatever the other had been doing to the bird-girl he was done now) blocked him, throwing him back against the wall. The one with his knife out came at him again, but Russ rolled away to the other side, stumbling free. He saw the inert form of the bird-girl lying against the opposite wall.
He threw himself toward the ladder, even knowing that it was useless to run. There were more men waiting up above him, and the guards below grabbed at him again. He turned to face them, trying to back around in circles so he didn’t get pinned against the wall again. But there were too many to escape, the pit seemed crowded with the four guards, and two of them circled around behind him. There was no way to retreat.
So he did the only other thing he could think of. As they grabbed he kicked and punched blindly, sloppily, making himself as hard to get ahold of as he could. Just as he’d thought, they didn’t dare use their blades on him, didn’t want to spill that precious Key blood, oh no, no no no, not just yet. They put their hands on him instead, coming from all sides as they tried to drag him down. He felt the cold metal go around his wrists as some hands held his arms out and other hands slapped on the manacles. He flailed his arms in tandem, getting only vague satisfaction from hearing the painful curses as hard metal met heads and bodies. They kicked him down and the light spun around in his head as he fell and hit the ground, but he didn’t pass out and he didn’t stop kicking at whatever was near enough to get kicked.
He thought of himself as a rabid dog or wild animal being caged up to be killed; they fought and they snarled even though the end was inevitable. When they were dead and gone their killers would be left with wounds and memories of the bloody beast that wouldn’t go quietly. And that would be him. Dying like a crazy animal. Not like a sheep. The guard he’d almost killed stood above him, rubbing his throat ruefully, then he looked down at Russ and grimaced. He kicked Russ in the ribs and sent a hard boot-toe of pain ripping up and down his side. Russ gasped, but kicked back, striking the man’s shin.
Then suddenly he felt a stab in his arm. It went deep and he jerked in shock, looking at the man who’d snuck up on him and jabbed him with a knife. But no, it wasn’t a knife he was holding, it was a needle. The messy stab tore at his arm and now blood dripped from the needle. Russ felt all the adrenaline, all the strength, drain out of him as something else took its place . . . like pollution spreading through water he felt weakness creep through his body, crawling toward his heart till he felt as if even that slowed to a crawl. He couldn’t thrash anymore. He couldn’t lift his head. When he blinked, his eyelids crept slowly down over his eyes and wanted desperately to stay shut. He had to force them back up with all the willpower it seemed he had left. He slowly looked from side to side, first to the left, then to the right, then agonizingly down at the rest of his body. His chained hands rested heavily on his chest, but he couldn’t shift them away, and his lungs didn’t seem to want to respond.
He felt them lifting him up, grumbling to each other in words that were amazingly fast and clipped to his tired mind. Russ felt panic. It was a trapped, chained, caged panic, with no way to express itself beyond the choking thoughts of death. This was how they took care of the crazy animal. Stick a dart in it and watch it slow and fall to sleep, unable to lash out anymore. In a matter of seconds his mind was the only thing left to him, his whole body seemed like a heavy sack of flour. A sack of blood. Precious Key blood. Useless Key blood.
They tied a rope around him and pulled him up out of the pit, not bothering to try making him climb up the ladder or carry him up themselves. His neck lolled back painfully as the rope cut into his chest. Upside down he looked back at the bird-girl. She wasn’t dead, or even hurt bad it seemed . . . she sat up and huddled against the wall with her skinny arms wrapped around her bony knees, watching him as he was drawn up toward the opening. Her eyes said, Better you than me.
Chapter 27 ~ Key Blood, part 2
This just sucks, he thought. So much for going down fighting. They couldn’t even do him the favor of knocking him out or giving him a drug to put him to sleep completely. He felt pain but it was delayed. He saw himself knock up against the grate before he felt the cold metal dig into his skin. Even then it wasn’t something he could get worked up about. So on the upside . . . it won’t feel that bad when they start cutting me up. I have become . . . comfortably numb. He felt a laugh welling up at his bad pun, and a moment later a weak sound came from him, like a senile old man gibbering to himself. Nice.
Once he was out of the pit, four of the Ricallyn picked him up, one holding onto each limb, and carried him out of the basement room, up the steps. He stared unblinking at the strip of light on the wall as he went up. I’m not giving up, he told himself. Not giving up, not giving in. Nope. He pictured himself busting loose and kicking them all down the stairs, and liked the idea, and kept playing it over in his head. He’d knock ’em down and kick ’em in the balls and watch them tumble down the stairs like Humpty Dumpty falling off his damn wall. And then he’d run away.
They came out into the front hall and turned to the left. His head was hanging loosely down toward the floor and he watched where they were going from an upside down angle. There were three more Ricallyn waiting for him up ahead, dressed in robes of black and gray, but the robes had no hoods and their heads were shaved and glistened in the light. The two in gray opened a pair of huge doors that had the crescent moon emblazoned on them. The third, the one in the black robe, smiled and spoke a few words, motioning to the doorway. The men carrying him put Russ down where Black-Robe indicated, right across the threshold, and then stepped back. Russ rolled his head to the side and looked at the hem of the gray robe next to him. Killed by men in dresses. Yep. Figured it’d end that way. He didn’t know where this bitter sense of humor about the whole damn mess was coming from, maybe whatever tranquilizer they’d stuck in him made the body sleep and the mind snarky, but he didn’t really care.
More men in gray robes came out of the room beyond, and bent to pick him up. He was surrounded by the material, as their long sleeves dangled above him and their skirts swished beside him. They carried him into the pitch dark room, and he heard the doors closing behind him. How do they fucking see in here? he thought, trying to pretend that he really wondered, that he really cared, that he wasn’t scared yet.
They lifted him up and placed him on a hard table. It felt like stone. His hands were unclamped, and they began to take his clothes off. He was still wearing the travel garb Currun had assigned to him, his fishing-boy-from-the-Northern-villages disguise, and as they pulled off first the woolen jacket, then the cotton shirt, he felt like a fish being scaled.
Once his upper body was bare, they pulled his arms out away from him, flattening them against the table. There was some kind of mount on the surface, some kind of . . . clamps. Snick. Now he was pinned down to the table by manacles again. Like Frankenstein’s monster in the old movie, he thought. He watched in dread as they began to remove his boots. Next went the pants, to his increasing alarm and embarrassment. They were pawing at him and moving him around like a baby getting his diaper changed, but he couldn’t even get out a good curse much less fight back. He thought he should feel cold now that he was almost completely naked, but even that sense was dulled. His body wasn’t his own anymore, he felt them moving his limbs and peeling off his clothes, baring his flesh for their twisted ritual, but he could only feel a detached shame, as if that body they were undressing wasn’t even his. Not his anymore but still the body of an old friend he didn’t want to see humiliated. Or killed.
They didn’t leave him one shred of dignity, removing every last garment. He tried to look on the upside, again; at least he couldn’t really feel them touching him down there. And it was dark, anyway, who could really see him? Then he wondered if castration would be part of the ceremony. Does it really matter? Dead man, dead eunuch, dead dead dead. Eunuch, now there was a word Liseli would probably be surprised he even knew. It was uncommon, and hard to spell. But it wasn’t the kind of word whose meaning you forget.
The Ricallyn, no doubt wearing their comfortable gray robes in the dark, moved his legs into restraints and snick those were shut too. Now he lay spread out, patterning an X on the table, staring up into the impossible black of the chamber.
Not scared yet, he insisted. Too drugged to be scared. Won’t really feel a thing. Won’t even know what they’re doing ’cause I can’t fucking feel it. Hell they could be carving me up now I don’t even feel it ’cause my whole damn body’s gone dead already. The thought made him want to vomit and scream at the same time, but all that came was a delayed little moan.
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