by Michael Karr
Skylar didn’t know why. But for some reason, he felt a momentary surge of pride in the fact that their group only needed a single taskmaster. Then the implication of that fact struck him, and he wished for an entire squadron of taskmasters as their guard.
A short time later, a pair of trumpets sounded, the ancient double doors were thrown open, and a great procession flowed in. Warriors, lords, and noblemen marched solemnly to the base of the throne. Two tall men with dark features and powerful strides led the procession. When these two figures came to the base of the throne, they halted, and the procession fell still. The two men turned about abruptly to face the throne room’s entrance. In perfect unison, the warriors turned inward and stepped back a pace, so that one must pass between the two rows of warriors to attain the throne.
The trumpets sounded again.
Skylar turned to the entrance.
A fierce-looking woman wearing an iron crown and sable robe darkened the threshold.
“Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Roshetta Corvêna Minka,” cried a herald standing near the doors.
In response, the entire assemblage bowed low, taking to one knee. For fear of whipping, Skylar and the other slaves immediately did the same.
Thus they stayed, faces pointed to the ground, as the empress crossed the gap that spanned the distance between the entrance and the throne. Skylar heard her proud footfall as she passed, saw her shadow glide across the stone floor. He could scarcely keep from glancing up as she passed, to catch a glimpse of she who ruled the nation that plotted against his parents; the nation whose name was no better than a curse on Ahlderon. Despite his curiosity, he managed to keep his eyes trained on the floor. No doubt failure to bow one's head in the empress’ presence—especially by a slave—represented a capital offense. A punishment, which from the looks of her, the empress herself might relish carrying out.
After several minutes, the murmur of cloth and the stamp of feet told him that it was safe to resume standing.
The empress now sat upon her throne, perched high above the assemblage.
“The Princess Shahra Hira Minka,” came the voice of the herald through the hall.
Skylar turned to find a girl, little older than himself, now standing at the threshold.
The princess?
Never had he heard of a princess of the Tors. He watched her intently as she strode into the hall. Her face was as cold as the empress, yet undeniably beautiful. Her complexion fairer, her hair a deep brown, her cheeks softer. It gave him an odd sensation to see her. Perhaps it was her unexpected beauty, or the fact that she was essentially his same age, but by birth his mortal enemy. She made him think of Kendyl. And his heart ached at the thought of her.
The princess took her place at the base of the throne, near the tall figures who led the procession.
“We are here to witness the royal antenuptial ceremony between the Princess Shahra Hira Minka and Krell Domocrov, son of Count Kratin Domocrov, anticipatory to their matrimonial union a fortnight hence,” announced the empress. “As our fathers have prescribed in the law, a mutual sacrifice must be offered by both houses. This to be a symbol of their devotion to the union, a dissolution of the self.
“As dictated, the princess will offer the first sacrifice.”
The empress extended her hand toward the princess, who nodded slowly in reply. Without a word, the princess turned and walked resolutely toward the line of slaves in which Skylar stood. One by one, she inspected each slave with her eyes.
Skylar stood wondering what this all meant. Mutual sacrifice? He didn’t know what kind of sacrifice they intended, but he liked neither the name nor the way the princess scrutinizing each slave. When the princess finally reached Skylar, she paused to look him straight in the eyes. Her eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly.
Skylar’s heart frantically pounded against the inside of his chest. Yet it wasn’t merely from fear. Something about her made him feel…uncertain.
At last, she broke off her stare, her expression inscrutable, and continued on. Skylar didn’t know if he should still feel frightened, but he exhaled quietly with relief.
A few slaves down from him, the princes snapped her fingers, then returned to her place next to Krell Domocrov. Apparently in response to the princess’ snap, a pair of guards detached themselves from the wall, grabbed the chosen slave by the arms, and moved him in front of the princess and Krell. They continued to hold him as a man dressed in gray robes came forward bearing an iron coffer. This he held out to the princess.
Opening the lid of the coffer, the princess drew out a dagger with a red hilt and narrow blade. With the blade pointed downward, she held it up to her betrothed, who kissed it. Then she repeated the gesture.
“With this blood that I do sacrifice, I seal my heart and bind it to thee.”
The princess said the words whilst raising the dagger above her head. The slave, still bound by the guards, trembled and shook his head. A pitiful plea escaped his lips, voice quivering.
“Please!”
And then with a swift downward stroke, the princess plunged the dagger into his heart with a sickening thud.
A constricted cry rang through the hall before the poor soul collapsed to the floor in a heap.
Skylar gaped in horror. His stomach churned, threatening to retch every last morsel of the breakfast he’d eaten. She killed him…just like that. No hesitation. No look of remorse. How could someone murder like…like she was no more than dealing with an unwelcome fly?
The body lay on the floor, blood pooling around it. He had been young, perhaps in his early twenties. A whole life yet to live. Now, never to be lived.
One senseless death did not suffice. Skylar watched as Krell Domocrov selected one of his one slaves, recited the words the princess had uttered, and drove the blade of his dagger into the slave’s heart.
Two bodies lay on the floor.
Whatever remained of that accursed ceremony after that, Skylar did not know. He felt sick and dazed by the scene. Not until he once again heard the empress’ voice ringing through the hall, did he break free of his trance. And only then did he comprehend parts of it.
“In honor of this occasion, there is to be a feast, next eventide” she declared, “at the house of General Rekkin Karíknof. But for now, we shall adjourn to the arena where we shall watch the slave fights. Our own Rizain Du Kava has promised an exhibition.”
Du Kava.
The name hit Skylar like a punch in the gut. He had almost entirely forgotten about the name they found on the back of the note. Kava. Could this man hold the secret to his sister’s fate?
Twenty-two
Rizain Du Kava. The name resonated with meaning, of hidden secrets. General Karíknof, too. After taxing his brain for several hours, he had finally remembered that Karíknof’s head chef was the one who purchased Grüny. The general was to have a feast the next eventide. His stomach churned as he realized Grüny might be on the menu.
Skylar had to escape. He understood that now. If he was to help Grüny. If he would learn of this man, Du Kava, and what he knew, he must escape the Inferno. And he must do it soon—tonight. The chance to operate with a full stomach and clear mind would not return. His one-time trip from that dark pit would not come again. Death would come for him before any savior, unless he took his salvation into his own hands. But how?
Almost immediately after the ceremony of the mutual sacrifice, Skylar and the other nine slaves had been sent back to the lowers depths, back to their pitiless taskmasters. They returned in time to perform the bulk of a day’s work. Skylar laid down on his bed of moldy hay that night fully exhausted but still fortified enough to keep his mind alert. He must escape. Since being dragged back down to the pit, Skylar’s brain had not ceased to think of a plan to achieve that purpose.
As far as he knew, only one way existed to get out of the Inferno. He had descended its stairway twice now. Deeper down, another chamber, which slaves and taskmast
ers streamed in and out of during their work hours, might harbor some secret portal. He doubted it. Though he didn’t know what kind of production went on in this lower sector, he saw no reason why it should need special access to the upper region of the castle. A single way in and out meant less chance of anyone stealing away undetected.
No, however he escaped, it would have to involve taking the stairs which had brought him here.
Which exit to take troubled him less than his largest obstacle: the iron bars of his cell. With no implements but his hands and teeth, he possessed no means of breaking free of those bars. He contemplated feigning sickness when the guards came for them in the morning. What would they do with an ill slave? Send him to the infirmary? Doubtful. Dispatch him without blinking an eye and feed his remains to the other slaves, more than likely. Could he escape during working hours, create confusion by spilling one of the crucible’s contents onto the floor? His own taskmasters would certainly be distracted by it. The others though...would the confusion spread to them, possibly ensuing in a riot? Then he remembered the lifeless, vacuous state from which he had just awaken. This same spell held the other slaves bound. The spell of extreme fatigue and hunger controlled those men more than any enchantment. They were incapable of rioting. Throw open the gates and let them run free. How many of them would have sense enough to leave? It was too risky.
Why were his wits not about him when they were taken to the kitchen? A stolen knife, a fork even, could have served him now. Regretfully, he had been too consumed with devouring the food to even think about doing so. It amazed him how easily men transformed to beasts—void of thought and reason—when deprived of food and rest.
So, he lay there contemplating his plight, staring up at the ceiling of his dungeon. Only the faint orange glow of a dying torch provided any light. He stared at the iron bars, their crisscross pattern, feeling the lids of his eyes grow heavy with sleep. No. He mustn’t fall asleep. Fall asleep, and die, he told himself. He forced his eyes open wider. Think, Skylar. His eyes darted back and forth keeping time with the frantic pace of his thoughts.
Then he noticed something he’d never noticed before. Or if he had, his mind was too leaden to process it. Maybe now his eyes were deceiving him, feeding him false hope. What he saw looked like an extra wide gap between two of the bars, just where cage and stone ceiling met. It looked as if one of the vertical pieces had been cut away or broken free. If this were indeed true, the gap might be wide enough for him to squeeze through.
Slowly lifting his head, Skylar glanced around for any sign of a guard. He knew they must be about somewhere. Whether snoozing at their post or lurking in a dark corner of the dungeon room, he couldn’t be sure. Any other night, and he would be fitfully sleeping, unaware of the dark world around him.
He listened. But for the grunts and whines of his cellmates as they slept, all was quiet.
He raised himself onto his hands and knees.
One of the slaves next to him stirred, pawing at the air with one of his hands, before falling still once more.
Freezing, Skylar waited with bated breath until the man seemed fully asleep again. Then he started to work his way toward the corner of the cell where the gap was. One of the slaves lay in the corner, his arms splayed out to the side, face plastered to the floor, mouth hung open. He wasn’t about to try his luck stepping over this slave. Instead, he grabbed onto the bars of the cell, placed his feet on the horizontal members, and climbed half-way up.
Once off the ground, he started to work sideways, closer to the spot with the gap. He managed to reach this spot without waking the slave lying just beneath him. Climbing the rest of the way up, he stopped when his head touched the ceiling. Beneath his blistered hands, the iron bars felt rough and biting. He ignored the pain. All that interested him was the chink it the dungeon’s armor. It was directly in front of his face now. Unconvinced, he felt around the gap with his hand just to make sure there really was no middle bar.
The bar was truly missing. A fresh wave of hope surged inside him.
The gap was smaller than it had looked from the cell floor. Wide enough for his head to squeeze through. His shoulders and hips? It would be tight, at best. Whatever he had to do, he would make them fit.
Angling his head to the side, he began to poke it through the gap. Other than his ears getting scratched, it went through without difficulty. His head through, he started to work on his shoulders. This proved more challenging than he anticipated. With his shoulders trying to squeeze through the gap, he had virtually no use of his arms. He felt like a plump worm trying to extrude itself through a tiny hole. Except Skylar didn’t have the benefit of a smooth, slimy body. He pressed and wriggled the best he could, but it was no good. His shoulders were too wide.
He backed his head out of the gap, and took a few deep breaths, assessing the situation. Perhaps if he got an arm through first he would have more room. Taking his left hand, he reached through the gap as far as he could, almost until his armpit touched the cold iron. Now for his head again. It did not go through so easily this time. With the space occupied by his arm, the gap was appreciably smaller. Not as tight as with his shoulders, though.
Slowly, he forced his head through the gap. He felt the abrasive surface of the bars gouge his skin as his face grated against it. A hot stream of blood trickled down his chin. Ignoring it, he kept pushing. After what felt like hours of struggling, his head finally pushed through. He gasped and panted. Despite the coldness of the dungeon room, he was now sweating as though he had been running through the Haladrian desert.
One arm and his head free, blood and sweat dripping from his face. If he failed now to get the rest of his body free, he didn’t believe he possessed the strength or the willpower to extricate himself again.
So, he pressed on.
The only way to get his right arm through now was with it pinned against the side of his body.
His right shoulder met with heavy resistance. Gritting his teeth against the pain and taking hold of one of the lower bars for leverage with his free hand, he gradually worked his shoulder through. Then his upper arm. The bars scraped against and compressed his chest, his lungs. He held his breath and squirmed forward until the bottom of his ribcage and elbow were pinned between the bars.
Now his position was awkward. Nearly half-way through, doubled over, one arm pinned, the other only able to grab one of the lower bars, his legs about to lose their footing. He paused to catch his breath. But breathing only made him more uncomfortable.
A sudden noise made him freeze midbreath. It was the unmistakable sound of footfall.
He craned his neck and discovered a guard walking toward him, lantern in hand. It was all he could do to keep himself from crying out in despair. His chance to escape had come and he had permitted it to slip from his grasp. All was lost.
Then he realized that the guard was not walking swiftly, as you’d expect a guard watching an attempted escape to do. He walked leisurely. Maybe the guard had not yet seen Skylar dangling from the top of the iron cage. Wanting to make himself as unnoticeable as possible, Skylar bent his legs back toward the ceiling and slowly worked his left hand up closer to his body. In the end, nearly his entire weight rested on a single bar. The pain of that bar as it threatened to crack his ribs made his eyes water. Yet he willed himself to remain motionless.
Skylar did not look at the guard again, for fear that the whites of his eyes would betray him. He heard the guard drawing nearer, though. Footstep after footstep, always louder than the first. The lantern light grew brighter. Eventually, the guard entered Skylar’s peripheral.
A few more steps and the guard stopped, turned inward toward the cell, and held up his lantern as he peered in.
Skylar checked his breath and prayed the guard would not look up. He also feared the guard would notice a missing slave in the cell. Did the guards count each slave?
He was so close, Skylar could have reached down and grabbed the guard’s
greasy hair. If he had a cudgel, he could have struck the guard on the side of the head.
The guard took his time inspecting the cell. Skylar gritted his teeth against the biting pain in his ribs. Part of him didn’t care what happened to him, so long as he was free of the bars. Maybe he could fall on the guard and knock him unconscious.
At last, the guard turned and slowly walked away. Skylar listened intently to the footsteps, counting until he couldn’t hear them anymore. He finally decided to risk moving again. His ribs simply refused to bear his weight any longer.
Writhing and pulling with renewed intensity, he worked his way through the gap. Within minutes, his right arm pulled free, and he started lowering himself down. It was tricky getting himself righted so that he didn’t have to finish climbing down upside-down. But once he did, his whole body sighed with relief. He dropped quietly to the floor.
For several minutes he didn’t move. His body demanded rest. He could have fallen asleep right there on the floor, with his head propped against the iron bars. It would happen if he didn’t make himself move again. He lifted himself from the floor. Hunching low, he dashed toward the next cell. His unshod feet crossed the distance with only a whisper of a sound. There was still a guard nearby, maybe more. Silence was his ally. Peering through the bars, he spied the guard who had stood within an arm’s length of him wandering from cell to cell, his back still turned to Skylar.
Sweeping the room with his eyes, and finding no trace of other guards, he made a dash for the next cell. Pausing only momentarily to check on his unobservant guard, he raced to the next. Then the next. The guard still unaware. Two more cells. The stairwell entrance beckoned to him, standing openmouthed a few meters away.
Glancing hurriedly in all directions, and finding it clear, he darted straight for the stairway. He slipped into the welcoming embrace of its almost complete darkness, and ascended the stairs. Though the darkness slowed his going and made him stub his toes more than once, he felt relieved that no torchlight illuminated his way. No torch, no guard.