by David Angelo
“Th-th-this is the one,” Huac said. “I’m positive of it.”
“Yes, but how sure can we be?” Scaljon said. “For all we know, this is just some ruse. Perhaps he’s a decoy, sent by the real one to throw us off-kilter.”
“Who are you talking about?” Fin asked.
“Im-im-impossible,” Huac said. “Look at him. D-d-does it look like he knows wh-wh-what’s going on? H-h-he looks like he’s genuinely confused to me.”
“I am confused.”
“You have a point,” Scaljon said, acting as if Fin had not spoken. “Either he is a really good actor, or he truly is oblivious to the situation.”
“Then wh-wh-what do we d-d-do?” Huac asked. Scaljon paused and ran his fingers through his mane. His eyes traveled from Fin to the diagram to the open palm in front of him. After a moment of silence, Scaljon came to a conclusion.
“Everything matches perfectly,” Scaljon said. “The ordeal he endured matches the Prophet’s Song to a T, and the burn looks exactly as it’s supposed to. If we’re being fooled, then congrats to them, but I’d say we’ve found him.”
Scaljon turned to the guards.
“Take him to the gallows,” Scaljon said, “and hang him.”
“What?!” Fin gasped. Hark and his comrade pulled Fin’s arms behind his back and began to bind his wrists together with rope.
“When it’s finished,” Scaljon continued, “prepare his body for transport. I want his corpse in the Diet by nightfall.”
“Wait a second,” Fin protested. “Do you mind telling me what I’m being executed for?”
“My dear boy,” Scaljon said, “there are things in this world that you will never be able to fathom. The complexities of your death sentence are far too vast for you to understand. You should ask the Elder about it when you see her face-to-face.” Scaljon looked back up at the guards.
“Take him away,” he ordered.
“No…” Fin said, struggling to break free, but Hark’s grip was too strong. Fin barely had time to look back before he was pulled from the table and forced to march through a long, dark corridor to his right.
This cellblock was not like the others. It was longer, darker, and quieter. The plaster on the walls was painted black, and only a few torches were lit. What little light existed was choked by an oppressive darkness. There was a sickness in the air permeating from every empty cell Fin passed on his way. Only one place in Triticon could be so dank and foreboding, a location that Fin had learned of thanks to rumor: death row. The few prisoners who were incarcerated in this hellish sanctuary looked out from their cells as Fin passed. It was strange, Fin imagined them thinking, that he had not been locked up in death row prior to his execution. What had he done to deserve a sentence like this? It must have been something quite hideous, or perhaps he’d stepped on the wrong person’s toes. The thoughts and predictions of the condemned bounced off of Fin’s consciousness as he came closer and closer to his judgment.
For a second Fin wanted to cry, not for himself, but for the people in his life and the life he would never live. It would not have made a difference if he died or not. All he wanted was to say goodbye to those he loved before he was sent to the gallows. How he longed to see them again, just one final time. Was that too much to ask for? His eyes burned with images of all his friends and family, but especially of Scarlet. Fin’s mind became saturated with the plans for the future he’d made with her, the family they would raise, the simple lives they would live. Each memory, each plan, each hope settled into Fin’s gut, poisoned his blood, pained him with every step forward. His future, everything he had hoped would happen, everything he dreamed about, was dying with him.
Fin’s lament for his doomed future was briefly interrupted by the sound of a scurry somewhere in the hallway behind him, prompting his frills to perk up. It was probably a mouse, or a prisoner moving around in his cell. The guards did not seem to give it any mind as they marched Fin to the top of a flight of stairs, then descended into another dark hallway. Still, Fin felt the sensation that they were being followed; perhaps the specter of death was trailing close behind, ready to take Fin’s soul when the rope tightened. The heavy boots on the Cullidons’ feet created a loud, almost metallic sound on the steps, ricocheting off the low ceiling of the new hallway. There were no cells in this corridor, just a set of sealed oak doors on each side. Fin had a feeling in his gut that they were torture chambers, likely soundproofed from the inside so that the screams of prisoners would not be heard from beyond their thresholds. Fin was not being led into one of these chambers but to a large room at the end of the hallway.
As Fin came closer, he saw on the ceiling what looked like a rope with a loop tied at the end hanging over a massive stone platform. Crossing over the threshold to the chamber, Fin was greeted by an icy chill accompanied by a tingling sensation through every nerve of his being. Taking in his final sights, he saw his noose swaying softly in the air, its ominous shadow reflecting off the wall behind it in the torchlight. There were several Cullidon guards in the room, all of them dressed in black shrouds and black cloaks. They took Fin from his captors and led him to the platform and forced him to stand on the trapdoor. Fin’s heart thumped out of his chest, and he breathed the last breaths he would ever take. He did not resist when the noose was lowered, placed around his head, and tightened around his neck. For a brief second, he thought about Dorval, swinging on the end of his noose like a fish out of water. Hopefully, the guards here would be a little more thoughtful, would allow him to have a quick, mostly painless death. Fin stared blankly ahead, ready for the drop.
“Any last words?” one of the guards asked, but Fin said nothing.
“Very well,” the guard responded. A black hood was placed over Fin’s head, immersing his eyes in complete darkness. Now there were just a few seconds left. Fin closed his eyes and waited…
7
FROM DEEP WITHIN THE confines of the chamber, there came a slight scuffle, like the one Fin heard earlier. No one paid it any mind, since it was probably the mouse again, continuing its quest for food on the prison floor. But as the executioner was tightening his grasp on the lever that controlled the trapdoor beneath Fin’s feet, there was another slight, unassuming noise. It was a snap, like a quiet whiplash, echoing from just beyond the opening of the chamber. Still, no one turned to look, oblivious to the black-and-white Faranchie who stood in the threshold with an arm-mounted crossbow aiming directly at the noose around Fin’s neck. They did not see the arrow fly into the room, the point of its metal head spinning like a top in midair, zooming toward the rope that tightened under Fin’s weight. Nor did they see the metal head of the arrow tear into the rope, shredding through the fibers, breaking Fin free and causing him to drop through the trapdoor.
The sensation of weightlessness embraced Fin, and butterflies danced around in his gut. It all came to an end, however, when Fin landed with a thud on a dirt floor. Fin gasped, the wind knocked out of his chest, as he lay on his stomach at the bottom of what felt like a cold, dank cave. It was much darker than the chamber upstairs and smelled of damp, mossy stone. Fin had no idea where he was, what had happened, or whether he was even still alive. If he was actually dead, then the afterlife was much darker than he imagined. Suddenly, there was a rustle in the darkness.
“Aw, crap!” a voice said. Fin felt a hand grab his head and yank the hood off his eyes. Realizing that he was still alive, Fin looked up and, in the dim light emanating from the trapdoor above, saw a Faranchie standing over him. His skin was gold, with markings of white on his face, arms, and back. His crest was made of two large spikes, which protruded from the rear of his head and pointed sideways in opposite directions. Judging by his physical appearance, he looked to be around his mid-to-late twenties.
“You wasn’t supposed to land there,” he said, his voice laced with a rural drawl. “I laid down those mattresses, but it looks like I placed ’em in the wrong spot.” The gold Faranchie pointed over Fin’s left shoulder, wher
e, sure enough, lay a pile of straw-filled mattresses, like the ones the prisoners slept on in their cells. Fin had missed them by nearly a foot.
“You landed pretty hard,” he said. He placed his hand in front Fin’s eyes, with three fingers exposed. “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?”
“Three,” Fin replied wearily. “What is this, and who are you?”
“Oh, pardon me,” the gold Faranchie replied, drawing his hand away. “My name is Chok, and I’m part of a small gang of Faranchies who are here to rescue you. The leader of our little band is up there”—Chok pointed to the hole in the ceiling—“dealin’ with your captors.”
From above Fin heard the muffled noises of guards yelping and the sound of fists hitting flesh.
“Also, your name is Fin, right?” Chok asked.
“Yeah,” Fin said. “How do you know?”
“’Cuz your foster daddy told us,” Chok replied.
Fin’s eyes widened, and he sprang to his feet.
“You know my family?” Fin asked.
Chok nodded. “Yep,” he said. “Ever’one there is worried ’bout you, specially that pretty little yellow belle of yours…Rosy?”
“Scarlet,” Fin replied. “She must be dying of fright right now. How long have I been in here?”
“About twelve hours,” Chok said. “Dawn broke not long ago, but we’ve been waitin’ in here since before the sun came up, preppin’ to make our escape with you. Now, I suggest we get out from under the hole in the ceiling, ’cuz our leader might be comin’ down any minute, and I doubt he’ll want to land on you.”
Fin got out of the way while Chok adjusted the mattresses, placing them directly under the trapdoor. Looking around, Fin guessed that he was in a type of dungeon, or perhaps a cellar, somewhere underneath Triticon. There was no other light aside from the hole in the ceiling, which acted like a spotlight.
“How did you know I was in here, anyway?” Fin asked, pulling and tugging at the twine that held his hands together.
“Our leader saw you in the bar you work at,” Chok replied. He walked over to where Fin stood, and from a utility belt at his waist, he took out one of a pair of farmer’s sickles.
“Hold still,” Chok said, inserting the tip of the sickle between Fin’s wrists. Slowly, he cut the rope.
“He saw you on the night of that fight you got into,” Chok continued, “with that Cullidon executioner and all. Anyway, he was coming to see you yesterday evenin’ at the pub, but they told him that you had been arrested.”
“Why did he want to see me?” Fin asked.
“That’s a bit of a long story,” Chok said. “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when we have the chance.”
The rope holding Fin’s wrists broke, freeing his hands.
“Thanks a lot,” Fin said, rubbing his wrists where the rope had chafed his skin.
“No problem,” Chok said. “Now, you’re gonna want to hold even stiller for this.” Chok turned his attention to the broken noose, inserting the blade of his sickle between the rope and the back of Fin’s neck.
“That young’un you was teachin’,” Chok continued as he cut. “He saw you get arrested and told us all about it. That’s when we figured you’d been taken here, and fortunately I know a few ways around the security of this joint, considerin’ I was held here myself for almost seven years.”
There was a snap as Chok pulled the sickle through what was left of the noose, and the rope to fell off Fin’s shoulders.
“Who is your leader?” Fin asked, turning around to face Chok.
Before Chok could answer, there was a thud on the mattress behind them. Lying on the floor underneath the opening in the ceiling was none other than Hark. He groaned in excruciating pain while he rolled off the mattresses and staggered to his feet.
“Our leader goes by Black-Tooth,” Chok replied, “and you’re about to meet him.”
Sure enough, there was a second thud on the mattresses, signaling the arrival of the leader known as Black-Tooth. Black-Tooth’s back was turned to Fin when he dropped through the hole, landing with the agility and grace of a cheetah. When Black-Tooth regained his full height, Fin saw that he nearly dwarfed his adversary in comparison.
Hark readied his baton and swung it at Black-Tooth, but Black-Tooth knocked it out of the way with his right arm. Before Hark had time to retaliate, Black-Tooth grabbed the arm holding the baton and drove his free fist into Hark’s nose. Hark’s stumbled backward and let go of his baton, which Black-Tooth grabbed in the nick of time. As Hark cradled his nose, Black-Tooth whacked his kneecaps with the baton. There was a snap, and Hark yelped and fell to his knees. Before he could get up, Black-Tooth came up from behind and with both hands placed the baton under Hark’s neck. He then planted his knee against the base of Hark’s head and pressed down while pulling up on the baton in a sudden jolt. Hark gargled as his airway was cut off, leaving him little to do but grab at his neck and hope Black-Tooth would lighten his grasp. But the more Hark struggled, the harder Black-Tooth squeezed. Finally, Black-Tooth twisted rapidly to one side. There was a crack, Hark’s arms fell to his sides, and his head hung limp. Black-Tooth let Hark’s body fall to the floor and turned his attention to Fin and Chok.
There was something familiar about Black-Tooth that Fin could not pinpoint. He thought for a second, straining his memory to try to remember where he had seen him before. It was not until Black-Tooth passed under the light from above, revealing his platelike crests, which formed a V shape on the top of his head, that Fin remembered. This was the same Faranchie he had seen in the pub three weeks before, the one who’d acted so queer on the evening of the fight. Black-Tooth was the same one who’d ordered the kiddie wine and sat alone, looking awkward and uneasy. This time, however, Black-Tooth looked like he was in his element. He stood tall, without an ounce of fear in his face, and an air of confidence seemed to fill the entire chamber with hope.
“You all right?” Black-Tooth asked.
Fin almost forgot to nod, trapped in a state of disbelief.
“No need for alarm, Fin,” Black-Tooth said. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Wahsmit, but everyone calls me Black-Tooth. As Chok may have told you, I am the leader of this operation, and we are going to get you out of here. Now, you probably have a few questions about what’s happened to you over the last few hours. Unfortunately, your questions will need to wait until we can get to safety. As for now, take this”—Black-Tooth handed Fin Hark’s baton—“in case things get ugly.”
“Okay,” Fin said, taking the baton by the handle. Every fiber in Fin’s being told him to just take it and shut up, lest he impede his own escape plan.
“Where’s our transport?” Black-Tooth asked Chok.
“Just down the tunnel,” Chok replied. “Kaw-Ki’s been doin’ rounds in her wagon since you went upstairs.”
“That was at least two and a half hours ago,” Black-Tooth said. “I hope she hasn’t attracted any negative attention.”
“If she has, I would know by now,” Chok said. “And as far as I know, our cover hasn’t been blown yet.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Black-Tooth said. He reached behind him and drew an arrow from a quiver that hung over his shoulder. He loaded it into a crossbow that, to Fin’s surprise, was strapped to his right arm. Its trigger was modified into a forward-facing handgrip that Black-Tooth was able to fire by simply squeezing it. He pulled the arrow back along the top of the crossbow, stretching the drawstring out to its maximum, and locked it into place with a click.
“You ready, Fin?” Black-Tooth asked.
Fin nodded.
“Stay close,” Black-Tooth said. “Stick to the shadows, and we should get out of here without alarm.”
Black-Tooth took the lead, with Fin in the middle and Chok taking up the rear. Leaving the small sanctuary of light behind them, the trio ventured down a long tunnel completely devoid of light. Torches were scattered here and there, but their light was smothered by the tunnel’s thick,
soup-like blackness. This darkness was so bold and obtrusive, it appeared to have a mind of its own. To combat the dark, the trio hugged the side of the passage and used the stone wall as a guide to freedom.
“What is this place?” Fin asked, suddenly feeling the urge to whisper.
“We’re in the death chute,” Black-Tooth whispered back. “It’s a network of tunnels built underneath Triticon, used for the storage and transport of dead prisoners. Thanks to Chok, we were able to use it to sneak in here, and we’ve also found a route that can lead us back outside.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” Fin asked.
“By playing possum,” Black-Tooth said. Before he could elaborate further, the voices of two guards talking to each other in the passage ahead caused Black-Tooth to stop abruptly.
“Slowly…” Black-Tooth said. They inched forward, walking on the tips of their toes, trying their hardest not to make a potentially fatal sound. They turned a bend in the passage and spotted two Cullidon guards huddled by the light of a torch, deep in conversation.
“We can’t get by without alerting them,” Black-Tooth said.
“Looky here,” Chok said. “I’ll sneak up and take one of ’em out from behind, and you shoot the other.”
“All right,” Black-Tooth said, readying his crossbow. “Make it quick.”
Fin watched as Chok prowled across the floor, crouched low with his sickle at the ready. Black-Tooth took aim at one of the guards, lined up his shot, and squeezed his trigger. The arrow flew into the back of one of the guards’ necks, killing him instantly. Before the second guard had time to react, Chok hooked the tip of his sickle into the back of the guard’s head, near the top of his spine. Chok slowly lowered his victim to the floor, his hand clamped over his mouth. When the Cullidon finally expired, Chok pulled the sickle out and, in a move that turned Fin’s stomach, ran his tongue across the top of the blood-soaked blade.
“Hmm…not bad,” Chok said, smacking his lips.
“You haven’t changed a bit since the old times,” Black-Tooth said.