Achan sat up and kicked the man with his bare foot, but the man held fast until the second boot tugged free. The boot knife clumped to the dark floor.
Achan dove for it, unwrapped it, and held it out. He pushed to his feet and turned in a circle, his bare feet tacky on the cold stone floor.
"Back away, all of you!" he yelled.
Several prisoners laughed.
"Home at last?" Esek's voice carried down into the pit. The open door in the grate above framed his pompous face.
"If you fight me alone, without the aid of your overgrown shadow, I'll kill you," Achan said. "But you know that, don't you? Which is why you're unwilling to give me that chance."
"You're not worth my effort." Esek pulled his head back, and the grate door slammed shut.
Achan trembled and lowered his gaze to those around him. A shadow shifted to his left and Achan jerked his knife that way. "Stay back!"
"What's your name, boy?" a deep voice asked.
Sir Gavin? What's happening?
We're going to fight Esek's men. The guards are freeing prisoners and giving them weapons to join us. Find my men. They'll protect you.
Shouts broke out above. Swords clashed and a dozen guards trampled over the grate. Achan cringed at the sound it made in the pit. The footsteps receded until there was silence.
Achan inched forward, knife ready, until the faint grid of torchlight fell over a group of haggard, hairy men. Most had beards as long as Sir Gavin's, many of them grey or white, though Achan spotted some dark hair in the bunch.
He swallowed and released a shaky breath. "I've come for the friends of Chion."
A man cackled, the sound a cross between a gowzal call and a woodpecker. Achan waved his knife and backed up.
"I wouldn't do that," the nasal voice said.
Achan sidestepped toward the wall. He didn't want anyone sneaking up behind him. But as he reached it, his right foot fell into a trench. He caught himself with his right hand and found the wall as moist and sticky as the floor. He pulled his foot up and it scraped the sides, coated with cold wetness.
Snickers rang out.
"He found the pot!" a man yelled. The cackler. He broke out into another jarring fit of laughter. Achan cringed.
"Privy's along the perimeter, it is," another man said. "Two-foot wide trench. No one knows how deep it goes before it drains out, eh?"
"'Cept those we've thrown in," the cackler said.
Achan scraped his foot over the floor, not that it probably made much difference. He faced the crowd, shaken at the squalor these men endured. "What crime does a man commit to end up here?"
"Murdering children," the cackler said. "Give me that knife and I'll show you."
"Murdering men."
"Stealing from the king."
"Destroying a temple."
"Forcing women to love me."
The cackler chittered long and loud at this confession.
"Arson."
"Perjury to Lord Levy."
"Poisoning my customers."
"Looking too long at the queen." A bearded version of Sir Kenton stepped out of the crowd. His ratty, black hair hung like twigs around his face. He'd tucked his braided beard into his tunic. "You look like him, you know. And a bit like her."
The crowd murmured.
"Bazmark's right," another man said. "That other one was a fake."
"You King Axel's son?" the deep voice asked.
"So I've been told," Achan said.
"You got the mark of the stray?"
"Yeah."
"And the birthmark?" Bazmark asked.
"Yeah."
"Let's see it, eh?"
"We can't see anything down here," the nasal voice said.
"If he moves to the center we can."
"Come into the light."
"Let us see."
"Why?" Achan asked. "My father put you all here. You want to kill me because of it?"
"Levy put me in here," the deep voice said.
A raspy voice came from behind the crowd. "Most who were sentenced by your father have long since died, boy."
"How many are still here?" Achan asked. "Speak up."
The cackler hooted.
"Oh, shut up, fool," the nasal voice said.
"There are five left whom your father imprisoned," the raspy voice said, well-spoken, formal. "The other twenty-seven were sent by the Council. Some deservedly so, some not."
"Who're you to say who deserves this place, Elk?"
"My pointing fingers does not change the truth."
Achan searched the crowd for the man called Elk, suspecting he must be Sir Eagan, but could find no face to match the raspy voice. He needed to get these men on his side before they hurt him.
"Believe what you will, but Arman, the One God, has spoken to me, appointed me king in Er'Rets. I've come to free my comrades, and though I've come to the Prodotez for two in particular, I'll pardon each of you, give you a second chance to serve your king. Darkness is growing as the corrupt Council and Esek rule. I must amass an army, quickly. Hundreds of men are escaping tonight to join us. I would welcome your service. Or you may rot here. The choice is yours."
The cackler chittered, but he was the only one.
Achan continued his plea, clueless what else he could do. "You saw the false prince. Help me stand against him. If my father wronged any of you, if the Council did, I beg your forgiveness. I cannot offer you more than an apology and your freedom."
"What if we did wrong?"
"You're pardoned. I leave your judgment to Arman. Join me and fight. Just know, if you go back to your old ways, I'll not be so forgiving next time."
"'Tis too late for me. Arman would never forgive."
"I cannot speak for Arman, but it's never too late to be noble."
"We can't get out."
"There's always a way," Achan said.
"Show us the birthmark."
Achan squeezed the knife. "I'd rather not turn my back to you. You stole my boots."
"You ask us to trust you," the nasal voice said. "Trust us."
* * *
Vrell sat alone at the table, staring into the flames in the hearth. She paced the room a few times, then lay on her pallet. Cobwebs had gathered where the timber ceiling slats met the wall. A broad-bellied spider wrapped a fly in pale web. Vrell's thoughts flashed back to the day Achan had been struck with arrows and she had used spider's webs to pack his wounds.
Please, Arman, keep him safe.
No need to dwell. She forced her thoughts to Bran. It had been too long since they'd spoken. It wouldn't hurt to look on him, would it? If she passed out, at least she was in bed.
Closing her eyes, she focused on Bran Rennan.
It's not my fault! Bran stood outside a cottage. Vineyards filled the landscape behind him, green and lush. What would you have me do? She must have protection. This is not the first attack. I'm ashamed to be a Carminian. The people have been merciless.
Sir Rigil stood before a small garden in the cottage's yard, arms crossed, his demeanor calm yet reproachful. Regardless, it is inappropriate for you to continue to be her protector.
Could we move her elsewhere?
Her father does not want to relocate again. I fear I must move you.
Bran's posture slumped. He had served beside Sir Rigil since his eleventh year. He did not want to be dismissed before he became a knight. Where will I go?
The stronghold. The duchess desires more guards in the manor since Esek's last infiltration. I will tell Madam Hoff you have been reassigned and will watch her myself until I can find an old, married replacement.
Bran sighed, relief stretching through his veins. He would not lose his position with Sir Rigil. Can I at least bid her farewell?
That is unwise, Bran.
I'm her only friend. If I were to vanish without a word...it's cruel.
Very well, but I will accompany you.
Bran nodded and entered the cottage. Sir Rigil followed.
Sir Rigil glared at him.
She asked me to call her Gren, Bran whispered.
Gren entered the room from the bedroom doorway. The right side of her face was bruised, purple and grey. When she met Bran's eyes, her face lit up. Hello.
Bran's heart tightened. If only he could protect her. His failure boasted every time he looked on her beautiful face.
Vrell tensed. Beautiful face?
Madame Hoff, Sir Rigil said. We must discuss an unfortunate matter. I apologize that you have become a target here in Carmine. I feel Master Rennan is part of the problem, since people seem to think there is something clandestine between you two.
Gren's face flushed and she wrung her hands. I assure you, sir, Bran has always treated me real nice.
I do not doubt Master Rennan's character, or yours. I simply must do what I can to protect both your reputations. Ideally, it would be best if you did not go out for a while, but--
You intend to cage me? All I've done is lose my husband. How's this fair?
Please, you misunderstand me. I only suggest keeping to the cottage as an extra precaution, but if you do go out, you must have a female companion.
I only have my mother.
She will do perfectly.
But she has her own work.
Then I will speak to the duchess about finding you a companion.
Gren bowed her head. Thank you, sir.
Master Rennan will be taking a new post in the stronghold. I will take over his position here until we can find a suitable replacement.
Gren's brown eyes shot to Bran's, glistening. She straightened and held her head high. Thank you for telling me about this change. I know Master Rennan has to think about his reputation and betrothal. I never meant to harm either.
I thank you for your understanding, madam. Sir Rigil nodded at Bran, then walked to the door.
Bran crossed the room. Gren, I'm sorry.
She shook her head and a single tear dropped to her chin. Don't apologize. I appreciate all you've done for me.
Bran glanced back at Sir Rigil, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. I'll miss talking to you, Gren. This isn't my idea, you know. I only want to do what's best, and Sir Rigil says--
She pressed a finger to his lips. I forgive you, Bran.
He gripped her hand, held it to his cheek, then kissed her fingertips. Thank you.
Vrell's throat stung.
Sir Rigil cleared his throat.
Bran let go. I'll see you around.
Gren smiled. I hope so.
Sir Rigil opened the door and Bran exited.
I'll be outside, madam, should you need anything, Sir Rigil said. He closed the door behind him and slapped the back of Bran's head. What was that?
Bran shrank back. I don't know.
You don't know. Well, you'd better start thinking before you act.
You're always kissing maiden's hands. At least four or five a day.
I am not betrothed to the duchess's eldest daughter and heir.
Nor am I. Bran blew a gust of air out his nose. The duchess never gave her blessing.
The villagers believe it. Your attention to Miss Fenny fuels their hatred of her. They feel you betray Lady Averella in her absence.
I miss Averella terribly, but what if she never returns? What if Arman sent Gren to me because he knew I'd lost Averella? I've never been worthy of her, anyway. And Gren needs someone. She's all alone.
Sir Rigil set his jaw. Lady Averella is coming back.
Then why has she not sent word?
Jax tells me she is in Tsaftown, so it won't be long now.
She sends word to everyone but me. Either her messages aren't genuine and she is truly lost, or she cares too little to send word to me.
Regardless, you will remain faithful until her return. Then if you must, break your engagement in person, like a man. I will not employ a coward.
Vrell blinked away from Bran's mind, taking deep, calming breaths. In over eight months she had never send word to Bran. Why had it not occurred to her? She focused on the spider in the web. Had Gren caught Bran in her web? Or could it be that Bran and Vrell had never truly loved one another as much as they had claimed?
And why did this realization not bother Vrell more?
28
Turning his back to these criminals could get Achan killed. Sir Gavin's men hadn't come forward. Who could he trust? He still held them all at knifepoint, rotating slowly.
TRUST ME. I WILL PROTECT YOU.
Achan gasped at the swell of heat that accompanied conversation with Arman. It's been awhile since I've heard from you.
YOU HAVE BEEN TOO FOCUSED ON YOU TO HEAR ME.
Achan supposed he had been busy, but surely he couldn't have missed it if Arman had spoken. A lot has been going on.
TRUST ME. I WILL PROTECT YOU.
Okay... "This is hardly a shirt anymore anyway." He pulled out the cord from around his neck and unlocked the shackles on his wrists. He tossed them against the wall. They clattered down the privy trench. Silence reigned a long time before a soft clink echoed from below. "Blazes."
Achan unlocked the shackles on his ankles. He tugged his scrap of a shirt over his head and dropped it. Gripping the knife tightly, he stepped to the center of the pit and turned.
Bare feet shuffled over the sticky stone floor. Achan cringed inwardly as stale breath wafted over his neck and clammy fingers pawed at him. The crowd murmured.
"It's on the wrong side," the nasal voice said.
"Lord Nathak branded me over my birthmark in an effort to hide it."
"Lord Nathak's a snake."
"Won't argue with you there," Achan said.
The prisoners were silent a moment. Whispers rose to murmurs. Achan turned to see them hashing it out, grappling with the facts, deciding whether they agreed with one another.
Finally, a man in the back said, "I'll stand with you."
"And I."
"I will."
"Me too, eh?"
A chorus of affirmatives rose out of the darkness. Achan held back his smile, determined to look the part of a leader. He thrust the knife above his head. "For Arman!"
"Arman!" the crowd yelled.
Achan lowered the blade. "Now, who is my master thief? I have a knife and a lock to pick."
Bazmark, the big man who'd been imprisoned for looking too long at the queen, became the designated booster. He hoisted Brien, a sliver of a man, to stand on his shoulders and gripped the man's ankles. Brien made quick work of the lock. He silently flipped back the grate door and climbed out. The men cheered. Then several mobbed Bazmark, trying to climb up his body. He growled and threw one man to the floor.
"Quiet!" Achan said. "We must not call attention to ourselves or none of us will get free."
Brien's thin face peered down through the open grate. "I don't see no guards."
Bazmark waved Achan over.
It went against instinct to say it, but he forced himself. "I'll go last." He needed to look out for his people, after all.
Liquid dripped against stone. Every eye stared. Achan pushed a man toward Bazmark. "Go. Let's go."
"I can help too, I can." A broad-shouldered, blond man, who was as hairy as Shung, stepped forward.
"What's your name, man?" Achan asked.
"I'm called Kurtz, I am. I'm a friend of Chion, eh?" Kurtz grinned, his cheeks dimpling under his bushy beard.
Excellent. Hopefully Sir Gavin's other man would come forward soon. Kurtz started hoisting men alongside Bazmark. For over forty in the pit, they made quick time of it.
Achan checked in with Sir Gavin. What's happening?
Insurrection. Our men, along with most of the other prisoners and the guards who released them, are fighting Esek's men with us. We're on the roof. It may be awhile until we can get back down to you. How do you fare?
We're coming up but have no weapons. Am I leading these men to their deaths?
My Kingsguard
smen know how to fight with their fists.
Sir Gavin, these men are rail thin. Yours have been here thirteen years. Some others not as long, but I doubt many will have the strength.
Others?
I freed all the men from the Pit.
Eben's breath, lad. Be careful.
You as well.
Bazmark hoisted up Kurtz, which left only him and Achan in the pit. "I doubt you can lift me, Your Highness."
"Perhaps we can lower that other fellow down or..." Achan scanned the dark floor for his leg shackles, thankful he hadn't tossed them down the trench. He draped them around his neck and gasped as the cold chain fell against his skin.
Bazmark bent down, fingers interlaced. Achan stepped into his hands and jumped at the same time Bazmark lifted. He flew up through the air, barely managing to get his other foot on Bazmark's shoulder. He would have fallen back, but a hand from above grasped his and pulled him up. More hands grabbed his arms and torso and set him on his feet.
A man with a weathered face and deep, brown eyes set Achan's boots at his feet. "Forgive me, Your Majesty."
Achan set a hand on the back of the man's head. "You're forgiven. Now stand and help me lift Bazmark."
They lowered the chain to Bazmark and pulled him out. When all stood in the center hold, Achan slipped the grate door closed. The cackling man, tall and red-haired, loped along the cells, banging on the doors and laughing.
Achan groaned. "Someone stop him."
Bazmark took off after the cackler.
Achan peered up the tower and found the corridors empty. "Strange no guards stayed behind."
"There are usually only two in the center hold, Your Majesty," a raspy voice said from behind him. "And it appears they have gone elsewhere."
Achan turned to a dark-haired man with lazy, blue eyes. He might have been Achan's height if not for his hunched posture. His once-white shirt was so thin Achan could see his chest hair through the weave. A tattered black beard covered his round face. He had a hooked nose--once broken, perhaps?
"My fellow Kinsman," Achan said, "you are called?"
"The prisoners call me Elk. Kurtz and I are friends of Chion. The false prince spoke Gavin Lukos' name. Is he here?"
Elk. Of course. This must be Eagan Elk, the owner of the sword. "We came together and will hopefully leave together."
To Darkness Fled--Kindle Page 32