by Mike Morris
The hole was only four feet across so Jack wedged himself in place with one arm pressing against either side. He held himself there, catching his breath, until he felt he could go on. Even so, it took everything he had to move one hand up an inch. His arms shook with the effort and he sucked in more cold air, trying to steady himself. He just had to get his feet out the water and then he could climb up. Just lift his leg ...
Something hit him. Something big. Something heavy. It wrapped around his legs and snatched Jack back into the water, into the tunnel, into the dark. He saw a face as he went down. Robert. It was Robert.
Jack wriggled free of his friend and then hooked an arm around his neck. With the big man secured, he kicked up and swam for the surface. They both needed air. Fast.
Robert was heavy in his arms. A dead weight, thought Jack, and immediately hated himself for thinking it. He kicked again, desperate. Whatever hope he had was now replaced by fear.
He surfaced once more. It was only a sliver of air, but it was enough. He hauled Robert up so his face was out of the water as well.
"Robert! Robert!" cried Jack. "Come one, big man. Open your eyes." He tapped his friend's face with his hand and went under himself for the trouble. The man was too damn heavy. He reached down and fumbled loose the priest's holsters, but it wasn't enough. He had to let his own sword go if the two of them were going to have a chance. Even knowing that, it still hurt to undo the clasp that connected his sheath to its strap, and when its weight dropped away, Jack felt like he'd lost part of his soul as well. He only hoped it would save their lives.
They bobbed up again and Jack got Robert's face out the water once more. "Robert! Come on!" There was still no response. No life. He let the current take them, clawing at the ceiling, praying for an opening. There had to be another way out, another opening.
On and on they went. Panic gripped Jack. They were both going to drown down there. Left to rot in a flooded tunnel. No — that couldn't be the way they died.
Light caught his eye. He looked over his shoulder, saw another shaft. Another chance. He readied himself, kicked against the current and dug his fingers into the stone ceiling. He had to slow their approach, otherwise they'd shoot past and he'd not have the strength to keep them both afloat. He didn't even want to think about what would happen then. Would he be able to let Robert go?
The opening was five yards away ... four ... three ... two ... Jack thrust his arm out the water and kicked as hard as he could, stretching his body up and out. He got into the opening, and hauled Robert up with him. The space was tight for both of them, but that was a good thing. They were wedged in tight, chest and shoulders above the water.
Jack was nose to nose with Robert. "Robert! Robert!" He screamed in his friend's face until he was hoarse but there wasn't so much as a flicker of a response. Please God, prayed Jack, let him live. Please, please, please.
He tilted Robert's face back and opened his mouth. Pinching his nose, Jack clamped his mouth over Robert's and breathed air straight into his lungs. He did it again and again. "Come on, you big dumb idiot. Don't you dare die on me," he hissed and breathed into his friend's mouth once more.
Jack felt a lurch in Robert's chest and pulled away in time for his friend to gag and cough and spew out water from his mouth.
"That's it," said Jack. "That's it. Breathe. Breathe."
Robert coughed again, threw up more water. "What? What's going—?" His eyes fluttered, trying to open, trying to focus.
"You're alive, that's all. You're bloody alive."
"Jack?" Robert's head rolled about as if he were drunk but he got his eyes open, tried to focus. "What the fuck happened?"
"They flooded the tunnel. We all got swept away."
"The others?"
"I've not seen anyone."
Robert looked up and saw the grate above. "We need to get out of this water. I'm freezing."
"You strong enough to hold yourself here while I climb up?"
"Of course I am," replied Robert, not sounding convinced himself.
"See that you do," said Jack. He pushed his back against the wall of the shaft, planted his hands on the opposite side and began to climb. He didn't think about how tired he was or what would happen if he fell. Once he could get his legs out the water, he used those to help keep himself wedged in place.
Ten feet felt like a thousand. Every part of him shook with the strain of it. Every bruise and cut did their best to weaken him. A small voice at the back of his head told him he was going to fall, that he was going to die, but he pushed on. He stared at the grate, willing it closer as he shuffled another inch, another foot up. His clothes were heavy with freezing water, chafing and pulling him back. It dripped off him, ran down his face and got in his eyes.
"Be quick, Jack," called Robert from below.
"I'm ... doing ... my ... best," he grunted back. The grate was two feet away. Almost close enough to touch. He resisted the urge to lunge for it. He didn't know if it'd open easily, so he needed to be in a good position from below.
He stopped to catch his breath. The pain in his arms and legs was getting worse as his muscles tightened up. He was so close. So close. He just needed to rest. His eyes fluttered and he had to shake his head to keep himself awake. He moved another inch up. It was all he could do — claw his way inch by inch. He had to concentrate on that. One more inch. One more.
It took Jack a moment or two to realize he'd reached the grate. It touched his face, the outside world beyond. He'd made it.
Jack wedged himself as tight as he could and took hold of the iron bars. He could barely feel the metal through his numb fingers. It was just more ice to hurt him.
He muttered a quick prayer and pushed. There was a groan of metal against stone but the grate didn't move.
"Hurry up," called Robert. "It's tiring watching you from down here." The big man sounded as exhausted as Jack felt.
Jack pushed again and nearly lost his footing on the wall. "Come on. Move," he urged the grate. He tried for the third time, his strength fading. This time the groan was louder as the grate moved. Jack put everything he had left into one final push. One end lifted up and he moved the grate up and over onto the road above, his feet slipping as he did so.
He held onto the grate as his legs swung into space. The grate slipped and slid half back into place, one edge threatening to tip down into the shaft as well.
Jack hung there, catching his breath, and thanked God for not letting him fall. His arms shook with the strain and he knew he didn't have much time left. His strength was all but gone. He glanced down, saw Robert watching, his face as white as death. There was no time left for either of them.
He swung his feet up, seeking a grip, some way to hold himself in place. Each second felt like an eternity as he hung above the shaft, fingers locked on the grate. Time and time again, his feet slipped the moment he thought he was secure. The pull on his arms grew and the tremors increased. Jack had the strength left for one more go. He brought his left foot up, pressed it against the wall, locking his back against the other wall. The cold clawed through his wet clothes as snow fell on his face from above. He moved his other foot up, ignoring how tired he was, and pressed that hard against the wall. Finally he was in position, safe to move the grate. He widened his grip and pushed.
Both feet slipped from the wall. Jack lost his grip and fell down the shaft, into the dark.
20
Lin
Lin watched the sun rise over Arbour, washing the snow-covered roofs in gold and scarlet. It all looked so peaceful, so beautiful, but to think that somewhere in the city a Master might be lurking? It was enough to get her stomach churning. No wonder she hadn't slept much. She'd jumped at every sound. She'd even drawn her sword twice, convinced the bastard demon was about to come through her door and get her.
In the end, she'd not slept much more than an hour or two at best. It hadn't helped that she found the room far from comfortable. It was as different from her old dormitory in
Grosnar as it could be, and a million miles from her cottage in Whitehaven. The walls were covered in some sort of gold brocade, with an elaborate mirror hanging on one wall and a portrait of someone important on the other. Lin had sunk into the four-poster bed, its heavy sheets and blankets crushing her to the point she felt like she was drowning. In the end, she'd slept on the floor with a single blanket over her.
Sleep had been fitful, and in the end she'd given up. As Lin dressed, she looked at herself in the mirror. There'd certainly not been any of those around when she'd been growing up, nor were the priests in Whitehaven that interested in their appearances. She found the sensation of looking at herself quite uncomfortable, especially since she could see the black marks under her eyes. When had she become so old?
And what was she doing in a gold-colored room? She'd never felt so out of place. Even Whitehaven was better than where she was. At least the priests lived in relative austerity. She looked around the room and couldn't see the point of any of it. It was all so unnecessary. It'd not do them much good when the Masters came.
There was a knock at the door.
A man stood waiting for her, a ruffled collar poking out the top of a gold doublet. His thin nose was tilted up so he had to look at Lin along its length. "Good. You're up."
"Yes. Yes, I am," replied Lin, trying not to laugh at how stupid he looked.
"His Excellency Lord Willingham would like you to join him for breakfast."
"Now?"
"The morning is considered the best time for breakfast," sniffed the man.
"I'll get my sword," said Lin.
"I don't think you'll need to carry a weapon in the palace. Certainly not to breakfast with His Excellency."
"If I can go a day without someone trying to kill me, I might consider it." Lin went back into her room and strapped on the sword, taking her time so the servant could watch. Smug little shit.
Willingham waited for her in the same room she'd been in the night before. He was sitting behind a table laid with plates of food but rose as she entered, the same cold smile on his face. "There you are. Did you have a good night's rest?"
"Yes," lied Lin. She looked down at the table. There was fresh bread, pastries, a plate with bacon, a bowl with eggs and some fruit. It all looked wonderful and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
Willingham pulled back a chair and offered it to her. "Please, sit. You must be starving after everything that happened on your way here."
"I am." She sat down and watched Willingham return to his own seat. Even though he was doing his best to make the situation as relaxed as possible, there was no mistaking the power in the man. In many ways, he reminded her of the Masters. She had no doubt he could be as ruthless as the Nostros if the occasion demanded it. "What do you want?"
Willingham looked down at the food. "The bacon looks rather nice."
"You know that's not what I mean. What do you want with me?"
"I heard you were rather direct. I like that."
"When you've spent most of your life as a slave who could die at any moment, it teaches you not to waste time with bullshit."
"I was curious to see what you are like in person."
"And now you've met me?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You seem quite combative. But that's understandable, as you say, considering where you've come from. It must've been quite hard living under the Nostros' rule."
"That's one way of putting it." Lin broke off some bread and smeared butter over it. She used too much, she knew that, but butter was a luxury she'd never get used to.
"I was told you were a worker in the castle at Grosnar."
"Yeah, that's right. Except we called ourselves Sweats." Lin bit into the bread, her mouth watering as she tasted the butter.
"What other types of slaves were there?" Willingham played with a pastry, tearing off a corner and then passing it from one hand to the other before putting it down and breaking off another piece.
"Grunts, Skins and Meats. The Grunts guarded us, protected the Masters. Right bastards they were. Skins were the Masters' playthings. Some thought it a good life, but not me. I'd not want one of them inside me. And no one wanted to be a Meat."
"Meat?"
"The Masters eat humans. We're their meat." Lin remembered the day her nursery was taken to be given their new designations. She remembered a little girl called Skra with a white dot, marked as Meat. She doubted she'd still be alive.
Willingham raised a finger. "That I knew."
"Yeah, everyone does. Even so, when you see it happen, you're not prepared for it. No one ever is. Simon told me on the way here that there are people in Abios who think they can come to some sort of arrangement with the Masters, but that's never going to happen. Whatever they say, whatever they promise, humans will always be cattle to them. No more than that."
"As you say, unless you've seen that for yourself, it's a lot easier to believe a sweet lie whispered in your ear."
"By the time you've seen it, it'll be too late. Most probably it'll be you they're feeding on."
"You managed to survive," said Willingham.
"I was so far down their food chain, I didn't matter. Not until they wanted some sport."
"I've read the stories of how you escaped Grosnar, but I'd like to hear it from you if I may."
Lin picked up a piece of bacon and ate half of it in one mouthful. "The Masters' king came to Grosnar and Lord Dorian — he ran Grosnar — organized a hunt. They took the young and fit humans from the work crews. Chased us down with dogs before coming after us on horseback." She paused, remembering it all too well. She could still hear Pet'r's screams as he died.
"But you got away," said Willingham. He'd still not eaten any of the food. He was a strange man.
"I got separated from everyone and fell down a slope into a river. The king's son found me. He wasn't much bigger than me but he still nearly killed me."
Willingham tilted his head to look at her neck. "Are those bite marks?"
Her hand went to her neck as the feeling of Julius' fangs piercing her neck flashed through her mind and made her shudder. The scars were faint, barely noticeable. Most times she forgot they were there. The marks were nothing like Jack's. "As I said, he nearly killed me."
"How did you get away?"
"I stabbed him in the face about twenty times, stole his horse and rode it off a waterfall. Then the Black Dogs found me."
Willingham smiled. "Resourceful."
Lin shook her head. "Lucky."
"Even better."
"Why's that?"
Willingham tilted his head at her. "Give me a lucky soldier any day."
"I'm not your soldier. I'm not anyone's anything."
He sat back, held up his hands. "I meant no—"
"Excuse me." The servant entered, red-faced at having to interrupt Willingham.
"What is it?" said Willingham with an edge that made it clear he was less than happy.
The servant went up and whispered in his ear.
"And?" snapped Willingham, getting to his feet.
"They brought something with them," said the servant. He glanced at Lin. "A creature."
Willingham stepped back. "The Nostros?"
"No, Your Excellency. It's smaller than that." The servant stopped himself. "I don't know what it is. To say otherwise would be to guess."
"And you know I don't like guessing," replied Willingham.
The servant bowed his head. "No, Your Excellency."
Willingham turned to Lin. "My apologies. We must continue our conversation later. There is a matter I must attend to."
"Is it to do with the Masters?"
"In a way." He looked down at her. "You know Brother Nial, don't you?"
"Yes. He led the raid on Grosnar. I helped save him from the Masters."
"Then perhaps you should come with me. He's here now and he's brought something with him."
21
Nial
Nial marched toward the council chamber.
He knew they weren't going to like what he proposed, but he could see no other way. They'd have to understand. He was the expert when it came to the Nostros, not them. They should be bloody grateful that he was willing to put his life and the lives of his men on the line to keep them all safe, not try and hinder him.
He glanced back. His men followed on his heels. The wrapped body of the girl Jack had killed was over one man's shoulder. If only she were the last they'd have to face, but he knew that wasn't going to be the case. His only hope now was to limit the deaths. Stop them spreading past Brixteth. He needed to show the council what they faced. He'd put the fear in them.
Two guards stood outside the chamber. One was foolish enough to try and stop Nial from entering. He held out a hand. "You can't come in here. The council is in session."
"That's exactly why I'm here," snarled Nial.
God bless him, the guard stood his ground and lowered his spear. Nial had to admire him for that. In the days ahead, they'd need brave men like him. When the blood flowed across the land, his courage would be what they all needed.
The guard's companion was a different matter. He tapped his friend on the shoulder. He'd seen the hard looks of Nial and the Black Dogs with him and knew a fight was a fight they were going to lose. "Let them pass, John."
The two men stepped to one side. Nial stopped with one hand on the door handle, turned to his men and pointed to the man with the corpse and the man next to him. "You two, with me. The rest of you stay out here and make sure we're not disturbed. As the lad here said, the council is in session."
And Nial opened the door. The same stupid faces stared at him as he marched in. They were all there, around the long table, watched over by a portrait of the queen. No wonder she wasn't there in person. Probably as sick to death of the politicians as Nial was.
The Duke of Westland stood up, already red in the face with indignation. "What's the meaning of this?"