She laid her head against the boards and stared into the gloom. Soon she would know.
34
Simon sat in the corner of his prison cell, his back wedged between the cold stone wall and the iron bars. Past the bars was a cavernous room. Four other prison cells circled this room. In the middle of the room was a thick, black stone column, as wide as an old oak tree. Four brackets hung from the column, each one facing a point on a compass. Blazing torches hung from the brackets, the only light in this dark pit of Hades.
The drip, drip of water and the moans coming from the other cells echoed across the room. Light reflected off the wet, uneven stone floor. Mold stained the walls like a perverted fresco of death. Steam rose from buckets filled with waste, infusing the prison with a smell so revolting that most who entered for the first time retched immediately.
Simon hardly noticed the stench. Neither did any of the others who had been here since the beginning, since the day the Shadonae had taken over Thyra.
He looked through the bars. There were fewer prisoners now. Death or the Shadonae had taken many of them. Those who were left could hardly be called human anymore. Gaunt faces stared out from the other cells, eyes so withdrawn that they looked more like skulls.
Simon lifted his hand and felt his own face. His cheekbones protruded sharply, and the bit of fat he used to carry around his jaw was gone, replaced by a scruffy beard. He drew his hand away and looked at it in the torchlight. His nails were long and cracked, with dirt and filth caught beneath. The edges of his monastery robes were frayed, and there was a tear along the left sleeve.
He wrapped his arms around his knees and looked back into his own cell. A more putrid scent mixed with the contents of the nearby bucket. Father Cris had died four days ago, and the soldiers had yet to come and take away his body.
His gaze came to rest on Father Cris’s corpse. Father Karl had taken his outer robe and wrapped him in it. All Simon could see was the faint outline of Father Cris’s body beneath the brown robes. But the robes did not seal in the decaying smell.
Simon shifted his gaze. Father Karl sat back in the farthest corner, a scarecrow of a man. Tiny pricks of light reflected off his eyes. He didn’t move, didn’t shift. As if he were made of stone. The occasional blinks were all that proved he was still alive.
He wondered how much longer Father Karl would hold on before joining Father Cris in the afterlife. Was it a race between him and Father Karl? A race to the death? The thought was depressing.
For months, he had shared this cell with Father Cris and Father Karl. He and Father Karl had been caught while trying to save the people fleeing the city of Thyra. Father Cris had joined them a short while later. He had been caught during the breakout. Deep down, Simon did not understand why Father Cris had come back. He wouldn’t have. He would have run as far from this city as possible. He knew Father Karl shared the same thought. The two fathers had gotten into an argument the first night Father Cris had arrived. And the look on Father Karl’s face when he’d learned Father Cris had given Nierne the key to the catacombs…
Nierne. The only woman scribe, and perhaps the only scribe more dedicated to the order than he was. They had arrived at the Monastery at about the same time, as young children. Father Reth had taught them to read and write about the history and tradition of the scribes and about what it meant to follow the Word.
Simon sat back and stared at the prison wall. He had never seen anyone with hair like hers: red, like one of Father Karl’s roses. His own hair was brown, dull, and straight. Sometimes when they’d worked together he’d stare at her hair, until she’d looked up and glare at him.
Where was she now? Had she escaped? Had she been able to use the key and leave the city? Or had she been noble like Father Cris and led others to safety? He laid his head down on his knees. What did it matter? He would never see her again.
A long, screeching sound echoed across the prison cells. Simon sat up and turned. The thick wooden door nearby slowly opened. Simon scooted to the back of his cell, near Father Cris’s body, and waited.
Two soldiers entered. Simon ignored them. They were nothing to be afraid of. Then a tall man entered, with hair the color of moonlight pulled back into a short tail at the base of his head. His face was flawless, each feature in place, the perfect specimen of a man. Long, dark robes draped his body, and a silver cord was wrapped around his middle.
But this was no man. Simon shrank back. This was the one he feared. Malchus, one of the Shadonae.
Malchus looked around, his face looking almost feral in the torchlight. There was a hunger in his eyes. The soldiers stood near the thick black column in the middle of the room, waiting for Malchus’s command.
Simon curled into a ball, hoping the shadows would hide him. Not me. Word, please don’t let him choose me!
Malchus sniffed the air and smiled. Simon looked away, sick. What could that being possibly smell here that brought him pleasure? He glanced out of the corner of his eye and watched Malchus circle the thick stone column. Then he stopped. He raised his hand and said something and pointed at the cell two doors away.
Simon sagged against the wall, his body tingling as the adrenaline washed away. He would not be consumed today.
As the soldiers walked toward the cell door, a piercing shriek filled the room. Over and over it sounded, like the howl of a dog. One of the soldiers drew out a ring of keys and stuck one inside the keyhole. The shriek grew shriller. The soldier opened the door, and the other entered.
“No, no, No!”
The soldier dragged a stick of a man out of the cell. His clothes were tattered, and a thick beard grew along his jaw. His eyes and dark hair looked wild in the torchlight. He wriggled and twisted, but the soldier held his wrist with an iron grip. The man looked up at Malchus and screamed again.
Malchus smiled. He slowly pulled off his black glove, seeming to savor the moment.
Simon hid his head between his knees. He already knew what was going to happen and had no desire to watch.
There was scuttling across the floor, and another shriek. Then came that moment of silence. Simon knew without looking what the man’s expression was: that look of absolute shock. Eyes so wide the whites were visible all around. Mouth open in a large “O.” The tendons bulging along the neck. The arch of his back.
Then the scream.
Simon covered his ears. It was unlike any other sound. The last cry of the living. It started low, then rolled up in pitch until it echoed across the room. As if Malchus were pulling the man’s very soul out of his body through his lips.
Maybe he was. Simon didn’t know. No one really knew what the Shadonae did in that moment.
The scream tapered off until all was silent. There was a thud. Simon peeked up and saw the man’s body sprawled on the floor. Malchus clenched and unclenched his hand. Simon frowned. That was odd. He had never seen Malchus or the other Shadonae, Valin, do that before.
Was something happening to their power?
Oh, Word, he hoped so.
The soldiers walked past Malchus and grabbed the man beneath his arms and lifted him.
Malchus looked around one more time. He paused when he came to Simon’s cell.
Simon held his breath. Malchus stared back. For one moment, Simon wondered if perhaps it would be better to die. Then he would no longer be in this filthy place, no longer afraid of being consumed.
But something inside him fought that thought. He wanted to see the sun again, to breathe in fresh air, to feel safe. He wanted to live.
Malchus blinked and looked away. He turned and headed toward the door. His soldiers dutifully followed, pulling the dead man between them. The prison held its breath. Malchus disappeared, then the soldiers. The last Simon saw was the bare feet of the dead man as he was dragged away. Then the door closed.
The first few times this had happened, months ago, the room had broken out in conversation as the prisoners tried to understand what was happening and how they might escap
e. Now, everyone sat silently. There was nothing to discuss anymore.
Simon crept toward the cell door and sat down in the corner, his back once again wedged between the wall and the bars. Something wet trickled down his cheek, disappearing into his beard. With a growl, he turned and grabbed the bars. He sat up on his knees and looked up at the ceiling “Word, when will You rescue us? When?”
Father Karl coughed behind him.
Simon waited. He listened to the drip, drip of water and the quiet shifting of the others in the cell next to his. Finally, he sank back onto his heels. His hands slid down the bars, the rust and sharp little points cutting into his palms. But he kept his gaze on the ceiling.
“Or have You have already forgotten us?”
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Information
Dedication
Map
Journal
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Morgan L. Busse
Marcher Lord Press
Son of Truth (Follower of the Word) Page 35