Confused and frustrated, Theel rattled the bars again, cursed and kicked them. He drew his sword and smashed the blade against the unrelenting iron, over and over again, throwing sparks into the tunnel. His father would have been embarrassed for him. He would have chastised his squire for acting like a child. He would have told Theel to stop his antics, relax, and think.
The portcullis wasn’t raising. So what was the purpose of that wheel?
Yenia splashed into the water at Theel’s side, holding her torch high. “You can’t bash your way through, brother,” she said.
“I’ve discovered that already,” Theel replied. “You’re welcome to try something yourself.”
“Pitch is turning the wheel,” Yenia said. “It must accomplish something.”
And then Theel saw. With the added light provided by Yenia’s torch, he could see the large passageway beyond the portcullis much clearer. He could see the torchlight flickering on moss-covered bricks, the black water rippling in the canal. And beyond all this, he could see the portcullis on the far side of the passageway, rising slowly, inch by inch.
Yenia pointed. “Look, across the canal.”
“I see it,” Theel said. “So we’ve determined the wheel raises that portcullis. How do we raise this one?” For emphasis, he banged the bars with his sword again.
“There must be another wheel over there, just like this one,” Yenia suggested. “We have to turn that wheel somehow. That will raise these bars.”
“That is clearly the answer, sister,” Theel replied. “But how do we turn that wheel when our path is blocked?”
“I don’t know,” Yenia said.
“Who would design such a pointless mechanism?” Theel asked. “No one coming from the eastern side may cross the canal unless someone on the west side turns the wheel. It means no one can pass these bars without aid from the other side. It makes no sense at all.”
The noise of the mechanism ceased. On the other side of the canal, the portcullis hung in the air, wide open. The tunnel quieted, and again, there was only the constant whispering of the canal water.
Actually, it made perfect sense. Theel realized it just as the words were leaving his lips.
“The Overlies and Ducharmes,” he whispered. “They built this.”
“You’re right,” Yenia said. “It is commonly known how much mistrust there was between the two noble families who ruled the Narrows. Each of them had claim to one tunnel. They clearly would not allow any men loyal to the other family free access to their side.”
“So they built this,” Theel added.
“No one was allowed to enter the other tunnel without permission,” Yenia said. “There must be Overlie and Ducharme men turning both wheels, or no one could pass.”
“Which means we cannot pass. Damn them!” Theel cursed.
“We have to find another way,” Yenia said.
Theel sighed heavily, then turned up the tunnel. “Pitch!” he yelled. “Come down here!”
The songman’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Leave the wheel?”
“Leave the wheel!” Theel yelled. “Let it drop!”
The resulting noise was even more ear-splitting than before. The portcullis fell unchecked, and splashed down into the water with enough thunder to shake the walls.
“What can we do?” Theel asked. “How do we raise these bars?”
“Perhaps there is no need,” Yenia said. “If we can’t raise them, the children certainly couldn’t. Perhaps they didn’t come this way.”
“Yes, they did,” Theel insisted. “I know they were here.”
Then Pitch arrived, holding his torch and spear. “I live to serve you, my liege,” he said. “Is there another enormous and cumbersome wheel you wish me to break my back upon?”
“The children were here,” Theel said. “And they passed through these bars. We must find a way to follow.”
“How did they pass through?” Yenia asked. “Two little children wouldn’t have the strength to turn that wheel.”
“There was no need for them to turn the wheel,” Theel answered. “They were small enough to squeeze between the bars.”
“You’re right,” Yenia said, looking at the portcullis, nodding. “That would work for them. But not for us. No man is that skinny.”
“I am,” Pitch said softly. “I can fit through. I think.”
Theel and Yenia looked at each other. Then they looked at Pitch.
The songman was naturally narrow of frame, and his time in the crow cage had shrunk him further. Theel remembered how the songman appeared without his tunic, dangerously thin, his shriveled skin stretched tightly over each of his bones. Theel could see that Pitch was more skeleton than man.
“I might fit,” Pitch said again. “Allow me to try, my liege.”
“It could work,” Yenia admitted.
“It will work,” Theel agreed. “Pitch, you can do it. Squeeze through, and turn the wheel on the other side. Raise this portcullis.”
“As you wish, my liege.” Pitch saluted. “I live to serve you.”
“Don’t serve me,” Theel ordered. “Serve those children. Raise this portcullis, and we might spare them from the Crowlord.”
“Then it is clearly my duty to raise this portcullis,” Pitch said. “So we might save those two wonderful sweetlings.”
The songman handed his torch and spear to Theel.
“This will make a splendid verse in some future epic ballad,” Pitch said. “The one about the son of a whore whose heroic deeds lifted the once great house of Wicker from a place of ruin back to prominence.”
“And who will tell this splendid tale?” Theel asked.
Pitch stuck his head between the bars. “Me, of course,” he said with a smile. “Who else?”
“Of course.” Theel smiled. “Who else?”
The songman fit one shoulder between the bars, then began to push his chest through. He grimaced as the cold iron scraped painfully across his ribs.
“I never thought I’d be thankful for so many missed meals,” he said. “This will surely be the only instance in my life where being starved will prove beneficial—oof!”
He stopped, apparently unable to move any further.
“I seem to have found a tight spot, my liege,” he groaned. “Very tight indeed.”
He was stuck fast, his body only halfway through, hanging sideways with the iron gripping his hips.
“This is very uncomfortable,” he said. “I won’t fit. Help me back out.”
“Yenia, take a leg,” Theel said. “Push him through.”
The songman’s eyes widened. “I’m not sure that is a good idea, my liege.”
But no one was listening. Theel and Yenia each took a leg and pushed.
“Oh, God, please stop. That is painful,” Pitch whined. “Please stop!”
They didn’t stop. They made no progress, so they pushed harder.
“Oh, God, help me! Mercy! Mercy!” Pitch screamed. “You are killing me. Please, God, save me from these two unmerciful, soulless beasts!”
“Shut up, Pitch,” Theel grunted.
“Please, my liege,” Pitch said. “Take me back to Widow Hatch and throw me in the cage for a few more days. I swear I can starve some more and fit through these bars. Just spare me from this—”
And then he popped through. He tore his hose and left a good deal of skin behind. But he fell through the portcullis and splashed facedown into the water.
“You see?” Theel said when the songman emerged, shivering and dripping. “There is no need for further starvation.”
“What a relief that is, my liege,” Pitch said, hugging himself for warmth. “I think I’ve grown quite weary of starvation.”
“Pitch, if you raise this portcullis, I will make certain you get a proper meal,” Theel promised.
“How exciting,” Pitch said. “And a new tunic? Clean and dry?”
“Clean and dry.”
“Might you be able to grant me a King’s Pardon?
” Pitch asked.
“No.”
“How unfortunate,” Pitch said.
“But do I promise I won’t kill you,” Theel added.
“That’s the most exciting news of all,” Pitch said, smiling.
“Now move,” Theel ordered. “You have one more portcullis to get past. Those children are waiting.”
“Yes, my liege,” Pitch said, taking his spear and torch as Yenia handed them through the bars. “One more portcullis to get past, and this nightmare can finally be over.”
“You can do it,” Theel said.
Pitch gave another sloppy salute, turned, and began to wade across the canal. He walked slowly, poking at the water with his spear, testing his footing before each step. The water wasn’t flowing swiftly, but it was enough to keep him off balance. He fell twice, but managed to keep his torch above water.
As Pitch reached the other side of the canal, Theel rushed up the stairs to turn the wheel and open the portcullis that would grant the songman passage. He didn’t have a staff or pole to insert into the wheel so he used his sword, inserting the blade and rotating it by pushing on the hilt. Theel gritted his teeth, first at the strain of the labor, then at the screeching and grinding of the mechanism. He could feel the wheel vibrating beneath his hands and the stones rumbling beneath his feet. He pushed until he heard the voice of his sister.
“He is through!” Yenia shouted. “Let it drop!”
Theel pulled his sword free and watched as the wheel spun unchecked. The sound was deafening as the mechanism unwound. The portcullis slammed down so loudly that the walls shook. Then he descended the stairs, where he found Yenia looking through the bars. Across the canal, Pitch looked back from behind the closed portcullis.
“I won’t be long, my liege!” the songman shouted, waving his torch.
“See that you aren’t!” Theel shouted back. “Hurry!”
The songman saluted again, then promptly fell into the water again. But he quickly emerged, smearing his hair back from his face and rubbing his eyes. Once he could see again, he flashed a quick smile, picked up his spear, and disappeared up the tunnel. Moments later, the light from his torch faded and the tunnel fell into darkness.
Theel stood for many moments of anxious silence, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. He couldn’t help but grip the bars of the portcullis with white knuckles, grinding his teeth impatiently. What was taking so long?
“We may never see him again,” Yenia said.
“I know,” Theel answered.
“He may be running up the eastern tunnel right now,” Yenia added. “Making his way back to Widow Hatch.”
“Perhaps,” Theel said. “But he won’t get far. If he runs, the Crowlord will take him.”
Just then, Theel felt the portcullis shudder beneath his fingers. The tunnel was filled with the sounds of screeching metal and the grinding of gears. The floor rumbled and the portcullis began to rise, inch by laborious inch. Theel listened to the distant clanking of the great chain, watching as the spikes on the bottom-most bars slowly emerged from the inky water. He marveled at the mechanism, but marveled more at the cacophony of noise it made. Down in the tunnels it was somewhat muffled, but in the open air it would be heard a mile away.
“It’s a wonder the zoths haven’t heard this and come down here,” Yenia said.
That was when they saw the light appear in the tunnel across the canal. Theel’s blood froze. He feared it was zoths, but he quickly remembered that zoths didn’t commonly use light sources because they can see in the dark. Besides, it wasn’t weak and fluttering like the flame of a lantern or a torch. It was strong and constant. And where a flame would cast orange light, this was pale and bright like…
Sunlight.
“Oh, no,” Theel heard Yenia say.
The portcullis stopped moving and the great mechanism fell silent. For a moment, all that could be heard was the rushing water and the crackling of their torches. The portcullis remained half-open, its bottom spikes dripping just inches above the waterline.
“Pitch!” Theel shouted, his voice echoing in the tunnel.
The response was a scream, distant but unmistakable. It was a zoth.
Then the portcullis began to fall.
“Stop it!” Theel shouted.
Both siblings grabbed onto the bars, trying to hold the gate open, but it would have required ten men to bear the weight. All they accomplished was to slow its descent, and only barely. It was a losing battle; the portcullis would fall shut in mere seconds and there was no stopping it.
Theel gave up the struggle and smashed his face into the water, trying to scramble under the portcullis before it closed fully. He was halfway through when he became stuck, with one of his sword belts hooked on the bars as the spikes descended, about to tear him in half. He screamed a stream of bubbles as he felt himself dying right then and there, kicking his legs and tearing at his sword belt. Then the buckle released and he squirmed through just as the portcullis fell into place.
He burst from the water, gulping in air and stumbling across the canal.
“Open it again!” he shouted to his sister as he splashed toward the other portcullis and the pale light beyond. When he reached the bars, they hadn’t moved, but he was certain Yenia would raise them. She had never failed him and she would not now. While he waited, Theel listened. He could hear more zoths shouting. Then he heard Pitch.
“Oh, God help me! Mercy! Mercy!”
Those words were swallowed by the grinding of the mechanism. The chain clanked, the gears ground together, and the portcullis began to inch upward. Theel pounded the bars anxiously, frustrated that they didn’t raise faster. Without a torch, he could barely see anything, but gripping the bars, he could feel how slowly they were moving. Not fast enough.
He could just make out some movement in the tunnel ahead, shadows distorting the sunlight at the top of the staircase. It was zoths, he knew, and Pitch, probably fighting for his life. Or being eaten.
Theel felt under the water, finding the spikes with his fingers. As soon he felt they were high enough, he dove back in and kicked his way under the portcullis. It was much quicker this time, the gap wider than before, providing enough extra wiggle room to allow him to swim through. He emerged from the water stumbling, and scrambled up the wet stairs on his hands and knees. There was very little light here, forcing him to feel his way forward, upward, toward the pale light above. But the higher he climbed, the more sunlight spilled down around him, until he could see the outline of each stone step beneath his hands.
Now he sprang to his feet and ran as fast as he could, taking the stairs three at a time. He ran through the archway at the top of the stairs, bursting into the room containing the donkey wheel. Pitch’s torch still flickered in a sconce above the wheel, casting just enough light to see that the room was empty. The butt of the songman’s spear could be seen protruding from a hole in the side of the wheel.
Through another archway and up the tunnel Theel ran, the white sunlight becoming stronger with each step. Just as he’d surmised, these tunnels were a mirror image of those on the other side of the canal. And when he ran through the next archway, he wasn’t surprised to see a rectangular hole in the ceiling, with pale sunlight streaming down upon rusty iron rings set into the wall. And there was Pitch’s limp body, hanging upside down, being hoisted up through the hole by two zoths. One of the creatures was above, lifting him by the ankles, while the other was below, pushing up on his shoulders.
The zoth on the bottom didn’t stand a chance, hanging from the iron rungs, exposed and unprotected as Theel drew his sword and plunged the blade into the creature’s spine. It screamed and fell, hitting the stones with a limp splat. Theel jumped over it and scrambled up the rungs, grabbing Pitch by the wrist and pulling, but the zoth above held onto his ankles, refusing to give up the prize. Theel swiped at the creature with his sword but it was too far away, so he dropped the weapon and used both hands to grip Pitch’s wrists. He jumped off the lad
der, adding all of his weight to Pitch’s, ripping the zoth’s fingers off the iron rung.
The creature screamed and so did Theel as the three of them fell, Theel hitting the ground first, then Pitch on top of him, and finally the zoth. Theel’s breath was punched out of his lungs by the impact and when he tried to suck in more air, nothing happened. He couldn’t move with the weight of Pitch’s body on him, and the zoth on top of Pitch. The creature’s shriek was joyous, knowing its enemy was pinned down as it pulled a spear from its back. Theel couldn’t reach his sword but he still had his father’s knife somewhere at his side. He scratched with frantic fingers, searching for its handle.
He couldn’t see the zoth’s face, only the outline of its head as sunlight shone down from the hole above. The streams of white light formed a halo for the black silhouette of the creature above him. It was lifting its spear, pointing the tip down at Theel’s face. And in that moment of doom, the squire found the hilt of his father’s knife, bearing the blade just as the zoth brought its spear down. Theel twisted his neck to avoid the attack but could not—not fully. The point of the spear hit the left side of this head, tearing a groove into his flesh just above the ear. A second later, the blade of his knife slammed into the side of the creature’s neck.
The zoth reeled back, choking and gurgling, raising the spear for another strike. It was dying, but not dead, and a dying zoth could be more fearsome than a healthy one. But again, its aim was imprecise, and the spear sliced through the bottom of Theel’s ear. The squire could feel the warmth of his own blood spraying against his neck and shoulder as he jerked his knife free of the creature’s neck and jammed it in again, this time into the zoth’s ear. That was enough to end the fight and the zoth slumped forward, the spear falling from its limp fingers.
The Cawing of Crows
Theel tried to crawl out from under the bodies, but quickly realized he didn’t have the strength. So he decided to take a rest, just a moment of lying on his back, staring up at the white rectangle above him. But that one moment became many, and as he lay there, the vision in his left eye slowly grew unfocused and fluttery, as if his eyelid was blinking uncontrollably. He pulled his glove off and felt the side of his head, surprised at the jagged groove he found there and the hot blood that flowed forth. It was long and deep, his flesh torn rather than cut, almost down to the bone. He was confused by the severity of the wound, confused by the lack of pain. His fingers felt around his left ear and found that a large chunk of it was missing. And still, no pain. In fact, the entire left side of his face and scalp had gone numb, giving him the impression that half his head was missing. But he knew it was there because he could feel it with his hand. And he could feel the hot blood squirting onto his fingers.
Warrior Baptism Chapter 4 Page 9