A swish of fabric against stone caught his attention, and a cough echoed through his hearing. Aching, Tae had to force his thoughts toward his usually instinctive animal alertness. A thickness befuddled his mind, like too much drink, though he knew he had tasted nothing alcoholic in days. He forced his lids open only with conscious effort. His lashes parted, leaving stripes of gummy discharge tinged red with blood. Through the gaps, he saw ragged, scrawny men of varying sizes, all watching him suspiciously. One stood out from the others. He lounged on a grimy straw pallet while the others huddled in corners of their mutual cage. Standing, the stranger would have towered over even Ra-khir. His flesh sagged, betraying a previously rotund frame; but his muscles had not withered. His skin bore the neutral tone of a native Pudarian, marred by the pallor of long captivity. Brown hair covered his head, arms, and torso and swept into an unkempt beard. His expression was unrevealing, but his eyes measured Tae.
Trained to hide weakness, Tae scurried to a crouch. Movement brutally incited pain, and his consciousness wavered. He fought the telltale wince or gritted teeth. He was in the presence of vermin and wolves. Any sign of frailty might goad them to attack. That they had not done so already, while he lay unconscious and vulnerable on the floor, seemed nothing short of miraculous. He guessed it stemmed more from inertia than mercy.
“Hello,” Tae said, trying to sound casual. A hint of pain sneaked into his tone, minuscule enough that he hoped no one but him had noticed it.
No one responded to the greeting. Every one of Tae’s six cell mates remained ominously silent. Twelve eyes studied him with an intensity rarely broken even to blink, eight brown, two blue, and two gray-green. All bore the hunted, hungry look of those whose pasts had betrayed them. Street-raised, most if not all, Tae guessed. Lawless and trustless.
For a few moments, Tae returned their scrutiny. Despite dire circumstances, probably lifelong, only one stood shorter than himself. That one, however, proved a remarkable exception. Tiny, small-boned, and gaunt, he seemed nearly little enough to slip through the bars. They ranged in age from mid-twenties to late forties, all unshaven and smeared with filth. The odor of unwashed flesh balled into a stench that seemed almost solid. Their cautious stances and flat expressions revealed little. Contempt, hatred, and hopelessness radiated from those few eyes that still maintained a spark of life.
Tae ignored the others to concentrate on the construction of the cell. Bars composed all four walls, though three lay recessed against stone. Tae guessed the architect had built the cage and its crevice separately, sliding the former into the latter. The remaining barred side left him a clear view of a dingy, damp room lit by a single torch, inadequate to keep more than a modest semicircle of darkness at bay. Grooves held the remains of spent torches and puddles of ancient wax. Two doors disrupted the cage’s face, the first a small, high one barely within Tae’s longest reach and obviously constructed for passing food or other necessities to the prisoners. The other was broad enough for people to pass through. It sported three locks: the first near the ground, the second at a standard height but shielded by jutting plates, and the third well above Tae’s reach.
The other prisoners continued to stare. Tae could feel their gazes riveted on his back, but he chose to ignore them. With predators, fearlessness always worked best.
The largest prisoner broke the silence. “You’re standing in my place.”
Tae continued his examination without glancing toward the other man. He kept each action precise and slow while his mind raced, comparing his brief survey of the other to his voice, his words, and previous experience. Tae knew his life depended on an accurate assessment of his cell mate’s power. He chose his reply with caution. “No need to rile yourself. I won’t be here long.”
The other prisoners shifted restlessly. Tae followed the largest’s movements by the rustle of straw and the swish of his tattered pants legs. He seemed unusually quick for a man of his bulk. “You misunderstood me, Eastlander. You are standing in my place.” He lunged.
Instinctively, Tae leaped aside. The other’s thick fingers swept the air where he had stood.
The other prisoners shifted out of the way, their motions deliberate with practice. They, too, knew the ways of the streets.
Tae’s heart hammered. Consciously, he moderated his breathing to a circular pattern of inhalation through his nose and out his mouth. He knew he could not play the dodging game long in closed quarters. Eventually, the huge Pudarian would catch him; and the consequences after that would depend upon how badly Tae humiliated his opponent prior to that moment. Play him carefully, Tae reminded himself. If I demean him, I force him to kill me. Locking his gaze on his opponent’s hands, Tae suppressed his natural urge to dodge.
The larger man struck, quick and solid. Each hand caught a corner of Tae’s collar. Tae remained still, neither flinching nor blinking, even when the other crossed his wrists and effectively closed Tae’s windpipe. “Nobody stands in my place, Eastern lizard. Do you understand?”
Though unable to speak, Tae met the man’s glare with forced defiance. The cell seemed to spin around him. The words of the prisoner spectators lost meaning, something about life and death and food. He learned the big man’s name, Danamelio, though the knowledge could not serve him now. Tae fought rising panic, trusting whatever reason had kept him alive so far to remain valid now.
Gradually, the large man’s grip relaxed. Though grateful for air, Tae resisted the urge to gasp and normalized each breath. He remained still until the last wave of dizziness passed and he felt comfortable enough to speak at his regular octave. “Danamelio, if you kill me, I can’t help you escape.”
Surprise twisted Danamelio’s features. For some time, he neither moved nor spoke. Then, his mouth gaped open, and he laughed. “Escape. Escape?” He emitted a second deep rumble of laughter. “I’ve been here ten years. Me. Danamelio.” He released Tae, shoving him away from the disputed position and toward the other prisoners. “Pudar’s greatest criminal rots in a cage, and you propose escape?” He laughed again.
Tae caught his balance gracefully, smoothed his clothes with feigned casualness, and shrugged. “Good as you claim, Dano, you can’t be Pudar’s greatest. He or she is a rogue of such stealth we’d never find him in a prison.”
If Danamelio noticed the shortening of his name, the gravest of insults in the East, he took no notice. “And you think you can prove yourself better by escaping?” The anger that flashed through his dark eyes clearly arose from this concern rather than Tae’s intentional affront.
“Not at all. I’ve already proven my clumsiness by getting caught.” Tae rubbed crusted blood from his nose and cheeks, and it fell in flakes to the stone floor. “I didn’t promise anything. I only mentioned I couldn’t help you escape if you killed me.” He smiled. “You can’t argue with that logic.”
Danamelio glared. He made a broad gesture of dismissal to indicate he believed Tae beneath contempt. “You’re alive because you mean more food for the rest of us. Don’t ever forget that.” With that warning, he returned to his pallet, ignoring Tae and the others.
Tae glanced toward his cell mates, and every one avoided his stare. He shrugged and sat in a neutral area, beyond the natural, private circle every person preferred to keep empty. So long as no one violated his space, he could not be bothering theirs either. Except Danamelio, whose territory seemed too broad and arbitrary to attempt definition.
Tae watched the boring routine of the cell, which seemed to consist exclusively of minor movements of its occupants. He attempted to talk with each of his cell mates in turn, without success. Each ignored him with a glare that warned him even words did not and should not cross the boundary. Tae could not suppress a shiver as one bad experience turned into unanimity. His father had warned him about people who lacked even the basic foundation of love they needed to believe in anyone except themselves. Early, then later, experiences converted them into conscienceless automatons lacking all morality but an all-consuming
will to perform anything that directly gained them power, wealth, or selfish satisfaction. To them, murder became nothing more difficult than the physical action of raising a weapon. No ethical struggle accompanied it.
Weile Kahn had spent long hours teaching others to distinguish between that type of personality and those more salvageable. A hopeless situation, Tae knew, could create a similar picture. Though he hated giving his father credit for anything, he appreciated the training in subtleties he had learned, both from directed lessons and details overheard. Without it, he would not have found a crack in the defenses of the slender, green-eyed blond among the others. Given reason, Tae believed, that one might talk. Once he did, others might reveal a less vicious, more vulnerable side of themselves as well. Alone in this hell hole, Tae doubted he would last long. He would need allies just to stay alive. And, with assistance, he might make good on the aforementioned escape.
Tae could only guess at the time, when a trio of guards finally wound into the room outside the group cell. They wore the tan shirts and britches of Pudar, a contrastingly simple color for a bustling city of myriad hues. One carried a halberd, another a crossbow, and they all wore short swords at their hips. Tae had noted longer blades on the belts of guards on the streets, and he guessed the prison guards found smaller ones more useful in the dungeon’s corridors. The guard without a second weapon wheeled a cart carrying plates of food scraps, apparently left over from a dinner in the palace.
Wordlessly, the prisoners shifted toward the back of the cage as the guards took their positions, and Tae followed their lead. The crossbowman trained his weapon on Danamelio, though whether because he considered the largest most dangerous, from previous difficulties, or simply because he stood nearest the front of the cell, Tae could only surmise. The halberdier crouched near enough to jab for the source of any trouble, but not enough to place himself in danger. Nearly as tall as Danamelio, the third Pudarian guardsman propped the hatch. Dish by dish, he poured the scraps inside, chunks of vegetables and meat pelting the stone floor. Placing the empty plates back in a pile on the cart, he let the door swing shut. Then, he shoved a trough of water through the lower bars with one foot. All three guards left the room.
The prisoners waited only until the crossbowman and halberdier removed their respective threats before launching themselves at the food. Most raked up scattered pieces that had bounced or rolled from the main pile. Danamelio seized the lion’s share without challenge, leaving his pile unprotected to snatch a few more choice tidbits. Like Tae, the smallest of the prisoners did not participate in the scramble, though Tae suspected their reasons were different. Tae had not yet reached the stage of hunger where he could stomach other people’s cast-offs, some partially-chewed. He noted with quiet satisfaction that the green-eyed one passed near enough to Danamelio’s pile to plunder it. Tae did not witness an actual theft, but he guessed such had occurred. Shortly, the green-eyed one’s chewing revealed him. Tae smiled at him, rewarded by a mild twitch of the corners of the other’s lips before he looked hurriedly away.
Tae noticed one other thing about the dynamics of the feeding frenzy. Danamelio deliberately gave parts of his meal to the smallest of the men, sharing with the tenderness of a parent. Tae wondered if they might not be father and son, although it seemed ludicrous to imagine one so tiny could spring from such a huge man’s seed. Their coloring, however, seemed near enough; and Tae wondered if circumstances might have severely stunted the little man.
The smallest took the first drink from the water trough, followed by Danamelio, then the others in pairs. Tae observed the pecking order with a critical eye. The green-eyed one drank third, at the same time as one of the others. The last two took their fill soon after. Though all seemed content, a significant amount of water remained. Tae could drink, but the idea of sharing spit with this bunch repulsed him. At times, he had slurped from muddy livestock tanks and cherished the opportunity. The current situation bothered him more. He watched as the others settled down to sleep, each in his own space.
Tae found an empty edge and settled there, though he could not sleep. The same battering that had thrown him into oblivion now kept him wired and desperately awake. Pain jabbed, jerked, and hammered through every part of him, especially his head. Fear enfolded him like an icy blanket, all the more intense for the long need to hold it at bay. Questions accompanied it. He had awakened here without explanation, left to wonder about location, consequences, and reasons. His cell mates’ interactions had become wordless pattern, a sure sign that it had been going on for a lengthy period of time. Despite their suspicious natures and rigid individualism, they worked together better than any of them would have admitted. What did I do to deserve this? Tae wondered, forcing his thoughts from contemplation of something far worse: Could he become a part of their horrible routine? Would he have need to do so?
Wonder slipped through despite his best effort, and he appreciated that night stole some of his need to maintain a brave and dangerous front. He followed a mild slope in the floor on hands and knees, correctly guessing it probably led to a drain hole. On occasion, he surmised, the guards dumped water into the cell, and probably over the prisoners, to wash it. As he drew closer, the reek of urine and feces grew stronger over the stink of stale sweat and body odor. The stench threw Tae over the edge. He barely managed to reach the hole before his stomach lurched up its contents. Vomit, stained brown with old blood, spewed forth. The sight and smell of it only worsened the situation, and he threw up repeatedly until his guts heaved dry and his muscles screamed in agony.
Eventually, Tae sank to the floor. The blood, he believed, was swallowed rather than from any deep internal injury. To the credit of his assailants, they had used only blunt weapons, mostly boots and fists. Bruises surely stamped his flesh, inside and out; yet he had no reason to believe they had torn anything vital. He had suffered a broken nose and a possible skull fracture; but, as long as head trauma did not kill him, he doubted any of his other injuries would. Finding it difficult to concentrate around the pain, he pulled himself back toward his sleeping spot, forcing a teeth-gritted look of defiance and pretending his low-crawl position was chosen. No one needed to know he would never willingly drag his body across such filth.
The pain dulled with time, fusing into a throbbing ache, mostly localized to his nose. He clambered back to his position at a steady pace, and nearly placed his hand on another’s leg. Someone had shifted into his spot.
Tae looked up swiftly, jerking back his fingers. The green-eyed one studied him in the dank darkness, brows raised in question, body sprawled in the location Tae had chosen.
Tae’s mind raced as he measured the situation. The other had caught him in a moment of absolute weakness. Having no strength for confrontation, he wished nothing more than to apologize and move on. Still, doing so might relegate him to a low position in the hierarchy, one for which he might pay for eternity. He gathered breath for bluff.
The green-eyed man saved him the need. “Hello.” He shifted to a sitting position.
Tae lowered himself into a crouch, surprised by the civility. He nodded a careful acknowledgment. “I’m Tae.”
“Lador,” the other said, running a hand through greasy, overgrown curls. “Are you really going to escape?”
Tae shrugged, wishing every movement did not spark so much pain. “What are my options?”
Lador held his hair back from a solemn, blank face used to hiding emotion. As always, the eyes betrayed him, flashing the cautious interest he did not dare let his features assume. “After killing the heir to Pudar’s throne?”
Tae stiffened, shocked by the accusation, mind slipping back to the battle in the alleyway. He remembered a pack of Easterners battering him, youngsters on the rooftop, and the prince’s entourage nearby. He recalled scrabbling madly with his dagger, desperately fighting for his life. The rest seemed a blur devoid of details. Surely the heir to Pudar would not have joined bullies pummeling a stranger in the street. Tae’s knif
e had struck home at least twice, yet he could not imagine Pudar’s guardsmen allowing the prince to draw close enough to die, even should he prove foolish enough to try. Nothing about the situation made sense, and his mind could not separate the details necessary to place any picture, proper or misinterpreted, together.
Oblivious to Tae’s introspection, Lador continued. “You’ll get kept here for a while, at least. Then, there’s no doubt they’ll find some horrible death for you.” He pursed his lips until they became nearly lost in his beard. “That’s why I thought maybe you really meant it when you said you’d escape. A man doesn’t commit a doozandazzy of a crime without some plan to get himself out of it.” He paused a moment in consideration, then continued in a harsher tone. “Unless he’s incredibly stupid.”
Tae studied Lador in silence a long time, mostly gathering his wits and his composure.
Lador let go of his hair, and it fell in a wild cascade to his neck. He tensed to rise.
“I’m not stupid,” Tae finally said.
Lador remained in place, feet gathered under him to leave but postponing attempts to stand.
“I’ll find a way out.”
Lador stayed still, waiting for something more concrete that would elevate Tae’s claim above idle boasting.
Tae waded through the distractions of agony, desperation, and confusion. No ideas came. Even a single, well-made lock might thwart his expertise; and, what he now knew was Pudar’s dungeon would certainly have the finest. The oddness of the locks’ positioning and shielding would only add to the problem. Tae settled to his haunches, deep in thought. He glanced around the cell, searching for some object or detail that might help him. He found only the metal water trough and the clothes on his companions’ backs. They lay in various stages of repose, from sprawled and snoring to bolt upright and an instant from action.
Beyond Ragnarok Page 47