by Paul Collins
Of course there was no one to operate the windlass, which had probably been disused for long years. There was, however, a series of metal ladder rungs set in the wall behind the cage. These also disappeared up into darkness. Hoping that he wasn’t too far from the surface, Zimak started to climb.
Before long his arms ached almost as badly as when he had hung from the rope in the ventilation shaft. His fingers, flayed from the ordeal of crossing the chasm, started to bleed again, making his grip on the rungs even more difficult. Evidently Zimak was not the first person to have problems with the climb, however. Every hundred feet there were resting platforms, and he took full advantage of these. At last he reached what he believed to be the top of the shaft. Here there was a large area scooped out of the shaft’s side, like the mouth of a new tunnel. It went back some thirty feet, at which point there was a wide set of wooden stairs that stretched beyond the range of his pendant light. He mounted these cautiously, testing them for strength. They creaked, but held. He must be careful now for he had no idea what he might find above. Nor was he sure of what time of day it was. He had planned to emerge at night, then spend some time reconnoitring.
When Zimak reached the top of the stairs there was one last obstacle facing him: the way was blocked by great wooden slabs through which tree roots poked and clods of black soil showed. He sat down and put his head on his arms, too tired even to weep with frustration. He had expected to find the top of the old mine covered over, even barricaded in some fashion. It had never occurred to him that it might be buried beneath the ground. Knowing his luck, twenty feet of earth was piled on top of the old entrance, perhaps with a building on top of that.
This thought made him feel claustrophobic. ‘Gah,’ he groaned, resting his head against the wall. He desperately wanted to suck in a lungful of clean, cool air and feel the wind on his face.
Instead, utterly exhausted and in a kind of numb despair, he lay down and went to sleep.
Daretor was in mind-wrenching agony.
The breaks were worse. When they had brought him in, he had had a plan, something to do with Jelindel. But the pain had driven it out, as if the knife had eviscerated his thoughts, surgically removing his one faint hope.
Now he was alone again. The Farvenu had gone out. Every twenty minutes, like clockwork, it had stopped, left for exactly ten minutes, then returned. Daretor could see a clock from where he lay. Though the first few minutes of each reprieve were a godsend, the last were a hellish nightmare: knowing his torturer would return, that the pain would continue, that he was utterly powerless to stop it.
He sought raggedly for the idea, the idea that had escaped. Had there really been some possibility, some hope –?
There was no sound in the room, other than the slow hypnotic drip of his blood into one of the buckets that drained the table, and the click-clack of the clock. At first he had thought the drip-drip-drip was the sound of another clock ticking but time had become entangled with his blood, and both dripped away, counting down to some moment of blessed oblivion.
The idea … I had it before … Daretor struggled to concentrate.
It had been simple, had even taken advantage of the fact that he had known the Farvenu would work alone, either from choice or because ordinary men and women could hardly bear to be in the same room as the creature, despite whatever alliance they had.
What could he have done? Alone, clamped to the table, unable to move, weaponless, what could he have done?
Something.
The word nagged at him. You could have done something, said his outraged brain. You still could if you weren’t so stupid!
A drip/click. He shot a fearful glance at the clock. Two minutes left. He felt himself begin to tense, felt the cold, clenched feeling of fear spread outwards from his stomach, further immobilising limbs already deadened …
Something.
Think, dammit! What could he have possibly done to a Farvenu, even if he had been armed? Armed. That word interested him. Armed. What was it about that word? Was he armed? Did he have a weapon he wasn’t aware of, one the pain had made him forget?
But what did it matter if he did? He could not use it. His arms and legs were clamped in place. All that he could move were his eyes and his mouth. Was he to hurl lethal abuse at the creature? Curse it as a beast from hell? Was that it? He might have laughed, but felt like weeping instead. Words would not make a dent in the beast’s armour-plated hide.
‘Words.’
Daretor said it aloud, so that it echoed through the silence, through the clicking and dripping. It still hung in the air when the door opened and the Farvenu swept in.
Words. ‘We will continue,’ said the Farvenu, picking up an instrument that curved to form a vicious hook; a small sharp blade whose tip glinted. It looked as if it had been designed to slice from the inside, to reach hard to get at places. Daretor felt saliva flood his mouth.
Mouth … Words …
The Farvenu stepped up beside him and stared down, its cadaverous face expressionless. ‘Do you wish to say something to me?’
Say something? In words?
Yes, words!
Daretor saw the idea that had eluded him. He nodded feebly at the creature and it bent low over his face, turning one of its pointed ears towards him, knowing that by now the prisoner could speak only weakly.
Daretor moistened his lips. ‘Vec-takine!’
Blue light flickered, leapt across to the Farvenu, and immediately enveloped it in a sizzling web of blue, feathery lightning. The binding spell was only as powerful as the mage who cast it, but Jelindel had taught Daretor well, taught him to call upon a place deep inside him that was detached from earthly things such as exhaustion and pain.
The spell worked.
The Farvenu collapsed, writhing as it struggled against the magical bindings. Its lungs also heaved as it gasped for a breath that wasn’t there. Soon, it lapsed into a stupor.
Daretor concentrated on the clamps. He summoned up the words taught to him when he had been caged on board a vessel called the Sargasso. He spoke them as clearly as he could. There must be no mistakes; he was growing weaker by the second.
For a moment nothing happened. He repeated the words with subtle changes to the intonation. This time the clamps sprang open one by one with satisfying little snicking noises. Daretor lay there for a moment, thanking White Quell for her deliverance, then eased himself up, gasping.
He lowered his feet to the floor. For some reason an odd stray thought of Zimak came to him. How he would be annoyed when he saw what he, Daretor, had done to his body. He snorted but that only hurt his chest more and he desisted.
‘You can hear me, can you not?’ Daretor whispered. ‘Notice that I do not call you warrior. Warriors do not clamp fellow warriors to a table before taking a knife to them. Warriors have honour.’
‘Heathen,’ wheezed the Farvenu.
Despite the pain that had been inflicted on him by this creature, Daretor could no more kill a hapless being than he could idly watch an enemy drown. Light-headed from loss of blood, he knew that the spell binding the Farvenu would soon dispel. If he left the creature unharmed, it would sweep after him the moment it was free.
On sudden inspiration, Daretor knelt down and with a scalpel cut the tendons at the Farvenu’s ankles and knees. Then he did the same to its wings. The creature hissed quietly, but did not struggle against the binding spell.
‘Kill,’ it wheezed.
‘No. You must live to suffer. Wherever you go you must be known for what you are. A failure.’
Daretor stood back, unaccustomed to inflicting pain on a captive. He bore the Farvenu no malice, indeed, he thought of it as no more than he might a huge and evil cockroach that needed to be exterminated. It was the Farvenu’s nature to do what it had done. He did not even believe that the creature had enjoyed its handiwork.
Then Daretor’s binding spell evaporated.
The Farvenu reared up. Caught by surprise, Daretor flung the tray
of surgical instruments at the creature. It flinched back, unable to retaliate.
Daretor looked down at the Farvenu. It glared back, making mewling sounds.
‘Well then, I’m going,’ Daretor said. Feeling woozy, he stiffly bound his chest to staunch the bleeding. Other cuts had been made to deliberately miss the major arteries, but these too he bound. Combined, they were fast draining him of blood.
Daretor took the creature’s weapons, moved unsteadily to the door, and peered out. The way was clear. He remembered passing three chambers on the way here. One had been a small pantry and he quickly made his way there. He ate and drank, then stashed more food and a waterskin in a pack and started hunting for a way out.
Instead, he found Obsol.
The man stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before fear hit him. He turned to run and opened his mouth to scream but did neither. A bloody arm, rigid like a stave, snapped against his neck and cut off his windpipe.
‘If you want to live, Captain Obsol, you will cooperate,’ Daretor said. ‘If you give me your word that you will do as you’re told I’ll release you. Betray me and you will die. Choose.’
‘You have my word,’ Obsol gasped hoarsely.
Daretor released him.
‘Which way out?’
‘Are you crazy? The only way out is down and the place is full of merchantmen and a few of, well, them. A big meeting is to be held tonight.’
‘Is there a way down from the roof?’
‘Aside from jumping, you mean?’ Obsol thought for a moment, trying hard to ignore the blood spreading across Daretor’s chest. ‘It’s possible, for one as fit and daring as yourself.’
‘You mean as fit and daring as I used to be.’
‘Er, ah, well, I could not manage it.’
‘So take me to the roof.’
‘I know you are an honourable man,’ Obsol fawned. ‘If you spare me, I will do whatever you say.’
‘No deals. Take me to the roof and put trust in my honour.’
Obsol clearly took his role of loyalty-for-life to heart. He led Daretor by the most circuitous backroom paths and corridors one could imagine. The upshot was that they met no person or creature. Within fifteen minutes they stood on the windy and chilled rooftop looking down on a scene of icy slopes and towering mountain peaks.
As Obsol had said, there was a way down from the outside. The walls were built from great slabs of stone with deep morticing. Every three or four storeys ornate ledges ran around each section of the outside of the castle, if that was what it was. It would be tiring and dangerous climbing down all that, especially in the cold and with the sun going down, but Daretor preferred the risk of plunging to his death than returning to that chamber of torture.
‘I’m going to tie you up, Obsol. Not that I don’t trust you.’
Obsol shrugged philosophically. ‘I would do the same.’
Daretor bound the merchantman hand and foot, then for good measure, tied him to an iron ring that he found fixed to one of the walls.
‘You may not freeze to death before they find you,’ Daretor remarked.
‘I hope you make good your escape, Daretor. I do not find it in my heart to consider you an enemy.’
‘You are little better than the Farvenu,’ Daretor said. ‘You simply leave the dirty work to others.’
Daretor climbed up onto the parapet and prepared to lower himself over the side. A gravelly voice spoke from the shadows.
‘Where do you go, slayer of my brethren?’
Daretor froze, and had to force himself to lift his eyes. Standing on the far side of the rooftop were two Farvenu and a dozen heavily armed merchantmen. The only reason the merchantmen had not already rushed forward to seize him was that clearly they feared to pre-empt the rights of the Farvenu.
Daretor slowly stood up on the parapet. Behind him was a blood-chilling drop into darkness. He felt oddly calm, though, even at peace. He smiled, despite his wounds, at the daemon creatures.
‘I am Daretor, son of Benthor. I have slain several Farvenu in honourable battle, and I crippled one of your number for binding me down and slicing my flesh. He was without honour. Are you too without honour?’
The Farvenu spoke to each other in their own language. All the while they watched Daretor.
‘We have honour. You will not be returned to that torture room. Nor will we permit further desecration of your flesh. You are a warrior. You are Farvenu.’
An angry buzz started in the ranks of the merchantmen and one stepped forward. From his clothes and manner he was clearly one of the most senior present.
‘That is not possible,’ he said to the Farvenu. ‘This man has information we require. It must be obtained, no matter what.’
‘He will not be tortured further. We have spoken.’
‘I don’t care if you –’
There was a blur of movement as the Farvenu’s wings folded back. The officer looked around in utter surprise as a rent in his stomach spewed blood and entrails. He collapsed like a wet sack of flour. The other merchantmen tried to scatter, but they did not last long against the Farvenu.
‘We have spoken and we have acted, warrior,’ said the Farvenu. ‘You may come down.’
Despite being hardened to sudden death, the merchantmen’s demise shocked Daretor. He stared blankly at the two Farvenu, then gave a slight bow.
‘Sometimes honour is found in places least expected,’ he said.
‘It is as you say,’ said one of the Farvenu. ‘Why do you not come down?’
‘Because I shall go soon,’ said Daretor. He glanced over the heads of the Farvenu at the sky, frowning.
‘As you wish,’ said the other Farvenu.
The Farvenu that had tortured Daretor crawled through a door at that point, then raised itself to its knees. One of the other Farvenu tossed it a sword, while another walked over and freed Obsol. It handed him a sword as well.
‘My brother will permit a duel with you,’ it informed the terrified man. ‘You must comply – it is a matter of honour.’
‘Daretor, speak for me!’ pleaded Obsol.
‘You have a fighting chance,’ said Daretor. ‘Which is more than you gave me.’
‘Will you stay to watch?’ asked the Farvenu.
‘Thank you, but no,’ said Daretor, looking briefly up at the clouds.
‘As you wish,’ said the other Farvenu. ‘To choose the time of one’s own death is rightful.’
Abruptly, a great shadow-shape swept across the rooftop and plucked Daretor from the parapet. The Farvenu spared the departing dragon no more than a glance before turning their attention back to the conduct of the duel.
Chapter 12
Fa’red Keeps His Word
Zimak woke, yawned, and sat up, looking about. When he realised he wasn’t safely curled up in a tavern bed – with a warm body next to him – he scowled and slumped back on the floor. From this position he could see the underside of the wooden slabs that closed off the entrance of the shaft.
The heavy mood that had descended on him before he slept oozed back. Then he noticed something he hadn’t seen earlier: wooden grilles set high in the wall – one of them letting in the faintest splash of light. Zimak dragged rubble and cast-off beams across the floor, piling them beneath the lattice. When he had enough he scrambled up the pile and prised off the grille, scrambling into the narrow shaft with difficulty. It was barely big enough to move on hands and knees. If he came to a dead end he would have to crawl backwards.
But he did not come to a dead end.
Instead, he came to another grille, this one opening out onto a park from a height of about forty feet. Even better, it was night. The three moons shone weakly in a sky streaked with clouds. As he watched, the moons went behind a cloud bank. If they had stayed that way he would never have seen the hidden opening.
Zimak forced off the outer grille and poked his head out, sucking in a great lungful of air. He had never tasted air so sweet, or for that matter thought t
he sounds of a large town full of sleeping people to be so wonderful.
For a long time he lay with his head sticking out of the shaft, basking in the space and freedom. He supposed that this was what prisoners felt after years of confinement. He wanted to shout for joy.
Thirty minutes later he stood near the fallen grille halfway up an artificial hill covered with lush bushes and trees. The hill was artificial because, as Zimak realised, it was originally a pile of slag from the mine which had been dumped right outside the entrance. Eventually they must have found other dumping sites, but in the interim nature had taken its course and blanketed the hill with soft grasses, ferns and spreading fir trees. What had once been ugly was now one of the landmarks of Argentia. In recent times less attractive landmarks had been added to the town. One of them loomed opposite.
Zimak fixed the grille back in place. The shaft emerged into a little bay that had been scooped from the side of the hill. Above it was an overhanging rock that projected out for seven feet while immediately below the bay there was a drop of at least twenty feet to a steep, grassy slope. No doubt this was why the entrance to the mine had been left intact: it was inaccessible without a ladder, or a rope conjuror.
And that applied not just to climbing up but also to climbing down.
Zimak wished he had brought more than one rope or had somehow managed to retrieve the one still hanging in the ventilation shaft. Still, twenty feet wasn’t really a big drop, especially not onto soft-looking grass and a bit of a slope. Then again, he was in Daretor’s somewhat overweight body …
Sighing, he removed his pack, checked that the area below was clear, and dropped it over the edge. It landed with a soft thud and rolled down the hill. Then Zimak sat down on the lip with his legs dangling over the edge. He twisted round, levered himself over, and hung by his fingertips. The drop now was only about fourteen feet, not high enough to break anything. Nothing important, anyway.