Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (34 page)

Relief flooded through Taziar. Maintaining a regal stance that implied he expected no other reaction, Taziar followed the leading guard. He heard the second guard fall into step behind him but did not bother to turn.

Closed doors of oak broke the wall to Taziar’s right at irregular intervals, some emblazoned with the baron’s crest. Another corridor halved the path. Ten uniformed guards with swords and bows milled about this crossway, watching Taziar and his escort as they passed. Aside from memorizing their location, Taziar paid them little heed. At length, the eastern corridor ended at a familiar window and a sharp bend to the right. Through the opening, Taziar watched the colors of dawn disperse as the sun crowned the horizon. An image from the past came, unbidden. Again, Taziar crouched on this sill, the hall guards fanned into a semicircle of drawn bows. The remembrance raised sweat on his temples, and a breeze from the window touched him, drying the moisture with chill air.

Taziar banished the memory as the guards led him around the corner and the window disappeared behind him. From here, Taziar knew the corridor led directly to the dungeon.

A trio of guards met Taziar and his guides at the steel-barred outer doorway to the prison. “What’s going on?” one asked.

The sentry who had ushered Taziar through the passageways removed the keys from his belt. “Baron wants him to question the new prisoner.”

The sentries moved aside to allow their companion to unlock the outer door, nudging one another in silent conspiracy. At length, the same man spoke again. “New one’s ... um ... ‘asleep.’ ”

The guard’s emphasis on the last word speared dread through Taziar, and he hoped the guard used sleep as a euphemism for unconsciousness rather than death. He forced contempt into his voice. “So I wake him up. The weasel’s a criminal, not a boarder.”

The sentry pushed open the door and gestured Taziar through. “Go on.”

Taziar stepped inside, just far enough that the sentries could not close it behind him. Turning, he extended a hand, palm up. “The keys, please.”

The guard hesitated, two digits looped protectively through the ring.

Taziar wriggled his fingers, impatiently. He raised the baron’s symbol with a curt gesture. “I found my first visit here unpleasant. I’m not going in there without assurance I can get back out. If you wish to delay the baron’s business ...”

With a wordless growl of contempt, the sentry dropped the keys into Taziar’s palm. He waited only until Taziar pocketed the sigil and keys before slamming and locking the door behind him.

Aware the guards might try to confirm his story and word of the baron’s stolen medallion would reach them eventually, Taziar trotted down the pathway. Cells lined the walls; those nearest the outer door lay empty. In the center stood a row of six cages the size of dog kennels. A man occupied each of the smaller cells, their faces blurred by distance.

As Taziar drew closer, he realized two of the larger cells also held prisoners. One was sitting, though all the other occupants of the baron’s dungeon sprawled on the granite floor. Taziar approached cautiously, footsteps making raspy echoes through the tomblike interior. The prisoners’ silence did not surprise him. Noise carried oddly amidst the metal and stone construction of the baron’s dungeon; someone had built it to contain the prisoners’ screams and cries, the guards’ taunts and curses, and the brutality of torture.

But when Taziar arrived at the first of the middle row of cells, he realized none of the prisoners were moving. He scarcely recognized the man in the closest cage. Fridurik lay on his stomach, face buried in the granite floor of his cell. Sweat spangled his naked torso. In the past, if not for a gentle temperament, Fridurik’s robust form would have assured him a warrior’s life. Now, tangled red hair tumbled over his shoulders, brittle from starvation. Taziar saw bony prominences through sagging flesh mottled with scars and bruises of varying hues.

Taziar knew the pain of every slash. He recalled the clank of shackles, wrists and ankles rubbed raw from the steel, the malicious smirk of those guards who dared to find pleasure in another man’s suffering. His stomach ached in sympathy; and, as he silently paced the cell row, he felt tears press his vision, a hot mix of sorrow, pity, and anger. Beside Fridurik, Amalric lay supine with eyes closed. Excrement stained the remaining tatters of his britches. Even in sleep, he found no peace. He kept his arms tucked defensively across his chest. His breathing remained rapid and uneven, occasionally punctuated by a whimper.

From the next cell, Waldhram’s eyes watched Taziar, but they swiveled, dull and lifeless, in gaunt sockets. Taziar returned the stare without expression, awaiting some reaction that would cue him as to how to approach these friends turned prisoners. But Waldhram said nothing. He lay still, giving no sign to indicate he had recognized Taziar. It seemed almost as if his body had died, and his eyes merely followed any movement mechanically.

Taziar shivered, rubbing moisture from his eyes with his fists.
If they’ve grown weak, I must become strong enough for all of them. I have little enough time to turn them into a fighting force.
The thought seemed ludicrous. Taziar passed Odwulf and Mandel, found them in the same hopeless silence.
Battered, broken, useless.
Taziar shook his head in bleak defeat.
They’ve been here too long, suffered too much. What chance do I have to rouse them? Do they even know I’m not responsible?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, a scratchy voice wafted from the final cell. “Did you come to gloat?”

Taziar whirled, met the strange, violet eyes of Asril the Procurer, and found a faint spark of emotion in their depths. Thrilled at this first trace of vitality, Taziar smiled. A moment later, he recognized the gleam in Asril’s eyes as hatred and realized his grin of joy must seem unduly cruel. He immediately suppressed it. A glance at the outer cages revealed the last two prisoners as Shylar and Larson. Seeing no other occupied cells, Taziar suspected that Wald-munt had succumbed to the guard’s tortures. The sadness that spiraled through Taziar became lost in the mire of his friends’ tragedies. Moments passed in aching quiet before Taziar felt compelled to answer Asril’s accusations. “I’ve come to rescue you.” He flashed the keys. “You can’t really believe I betrayed you.”

Taziar turned toward Shylar as he spoke. She sat with her legs folded. Her dress spread in dirty, rumpled waves around her. Aside from the impression of the fabric’s weave on one cheekbone, she seemed untouched by the guards’ oppression. Still, her wrinkles had deepened. Shylar’s gray-tinged curls appeared to have spread; now the white hairs outnumbered the brown. She had aged ten years in the months since Taziar last saw her. Certain she would defend him, Taziar waited. But, though Shylar met his gaze with crisp, dark eyes, she said nothing. In the cell beside her, Larson sprawled in an awkward heap, unmoving.

Taziar started toward Larson, but Asril’s challenge jarred his attention back to the violet-eyed thief. “Even the guards know you informed on us. You conniving, little bastard! Admit it, you came to gloat.”

Taziar stared, watched anger restore life to Asril’s features, and suddenly Shylar’s strategy became clear.
All the “proof” in the world wouldn’t turn her against me. But she can’t afford to league with me while the others truly believe I informed on them. Her silence leaves me free to use any tactic I need.
He bit his lip. Asril’s mistrust hurt like physical pain, but he knew he would have to exploit that hatred to rally his friends. “Gloat?” Taziar forced a sneer. “What the hell do I have to gloat over? All I see here are some half-dead, has-been criminals.”

Asril’s gaze fell to the floor, but Taziar saw interest spark in Mandel’s pale eyes. Encouraged, he pressed on, his voice pitched to slander and incite. “People gloat in triumph, but there’s no one here worth besting. I have nothing to gloat over, just pieces of jail room furniture cluttering kennels.”

Waldhram climbed to the highest crouch the abnormally low ceiling of his cell allowed. “You snake! You have nothing to gain by insulting us. Go away and leave us alone.”

“People have left you alone too long,” Taziar shot back. He banged a fist against Odwulf s bars, pleased to see Odwulf and Mandel tense in response. “You’re all weak. You’ve degenerated into garbage. Do you think you’re the only people ever thrown in the baron’s dungeon? I was here! I got free. Am I that much better than you pitiful pack of whining dogs?”

Asril swept to his knees, eyes blazing. “You had help.”

“Sure, a lot of help.” Taziar downplayed Moonbear’s role out of necessity. “I had a big, stupid barbarian who couldn’t spell his own name, let alone pronounce mine. And you’re hardly by yourself. Look around, Asril. There’re eight of you. Are you waiting for your mother to get you out?”

Scarlet swept Asril’s cheeks. He made a grab for Taziar through the bars.

Taziar danced aside with a disdainful laugh. “If you had shown that much fire before, you might not be trapped here now.” Suddenly Amalric rolled over to join the argument. Now, only Fridurik and Larson lay still, and Taziar found himself growing more concerned about the latter with every passing second.

Asril growled. “If I was free, I’d rip your evil head off!”

“You want the opportunity?” Taziar played through an array of emotions.
I’ve roused them. Now all I have to do is keep them from killing me before Astryd arrives.
“I’ll let you out. All of you.”

“Why?” Waldhram demanded. He sprang forward, but the passion of fury made him careless. His head smacked the cell roof. He hunched back, the pain apparently fueling his rage. “A hanging this evening isn’t soon enough for you? You want us killed by guards instead?”

Taziar hesitated. It was too late to change tactics now without losing the ground he had gained. So far, he had managed to incite without confessing to the crime, without destroying that small shadow of doubt each man must hold within him. The thought of lying to convince his friends he actually did betray them dried Taziar’s mouth until he felt incapable of speech.
I can regain their trust but not their lives.
He jabbed a finger at Waldhram, licked his lips, and forced the lie. “Do you really think I got you in here alone? I need to rid myself of my accomplice. I can help you, and you need my help. Later, we can settle scores. But right now, we need each other.” Taziar glanced toward the farthest end of the cell row, noticed Fridurik still had not stirred.
He’s the biggest and strongest. We need him most of all.

Asril’s fingers curled around the bars. “Who helped?”

Taziar snickered patronizingly. “Oh, you know. Think. Who had most to gain from your imprisonment? Who’s in control of the underground now? You don’t need a brain to figure it out.” He shrugged in dismissal. “Then again, you got caught, so maybe I do have to explain.”

From behind Taziar, Shylar’s voice sounded calculating. “Of course. It was Harriman, wasn’t it? He made me instruct my girls to serve him. He threatened to kill them all if I didn’t obey.”

Rage caught Taziar. He knew there must be more to Harriman’s trickery, but the gist of the story was there. Self-control vanished and, with it, the glib ease with which he taunted and lied to his friends.
Easy
, Taziar cautioned himself.
Shylar’s figured out what I’m doing, and she’s playing along with my game.
He spun toward her, fathomed the message in her stance warning him not to ruin her cover. He winked for her alone, the gesture betraying the mockery of his words. “Ah, Shylar. So, you’re not quite as stupid as the others.”

“Not quite,” Shylar returned with venom.

“And on the topic of the girls, Harriman’s rule hasn’t proved pleasant for them.” Taziar addressed his next comment for Fridurik’s benefit, aware the shambling redhead felt a strong attachment to the one called Galiana. “He’s chosen Galiana as his personal ‘favorite.’ ”

Fridurik stirred.

Encouraged, Taziar continued the lie. “He’s with her every night, and the cruelties he’s inflicted rival anything I’ve seen from the guards. I ...”

The squeak of the outer door resounded through the prison, and six guards filled the entryway.

I’ve delayed too long.
Taziar bounded around the corner, unlocked Larson’s cage, and jammed the keys into Shylar’s startled grip. “Quick,” he whispered. “Free them all. It’s too complicated to explain, but if I don’t get Allerum up, we’re all dead.”

Shylar rushed to obey. Taziar jarred open the cell door, caught Larson by the shoulders and yanked. The elf rolled limply to his opposite side, revealing a dark puddle on the stone floor. Blood crusted a gash in Larson’s temple, surrounded by a dark halo of bruise.
Dead? Oh, please, not dead.

“Get them!” The guard’s screamed command rose above the click of opening locks.

“Wake up. Allerum, wake up!” Desperately, Taziar jostled Larson, but the elf lolled, dead weight in his arms.

Impatiently, Astryd waited in Cullinsberg’s main street while Silme attempted to access Larson’s thoughts for what seemed like the thousandth time. A secreted dagger poked at Astryd’s forearm, and she plucked at her sleeve to reposition it. The movement earned her a prod from another blade wrapped against her opposite arm. Astryd swore. She lowered her arms. The fabric of her dress and cloak slid over her wrists, and she shook until the four knives along her arms fell into a comfortable alignment. She let her arms dangle, glad for the respite, but unable to shake a feeling that someone was following them.

I’m thinking irrationally. There’re few enough people on the streets, so we ought to notice someone spying on us.
The scanty traffic in Cullinsberg’s streets pleased Astryd, providing fewer people to stare or giggle at her awkward dances. Of course, the absence of merchants caused the problem in the first place. The wares displayed on Aga’arin’s holiday consisted almost entirely of necessities: food, firewood, and bottled remedies. Attaining the name of a weaponer had required a bribe. Another payment had convinced the man to open his shop, but Silme’s and Astryd’s desperation doubled his prices. A rope, twelve daggers, and one sword of dubious quality had depleted their resources beyond even the ability to purchase a bag to carry the supplies. The sight of a woman armed with two swords, Taziar’s and the purchased one, drew odd looks from the few people they passed. Astryd had hidden the daggers on her person so as not to alarm the guards on Cullinsberg’s market thoroughfares.