“Do we split up?” enquired Narlen.
Elerik shook his head.
“That’s how people get killed.”
Alann nodded.
“The farmer’s right; we stick together. They might be the only Clansmen down here, but they may not. We don’t want to split into two groups then bump into a troupe of ten.” He looked side to side. “We go left.”
The corridor continued further, another hundred feet, dark, most of the torches in the recesses along the walls having spluttered out from lack of attention, till it opened out into a vast chamber. Cages of black iron hung, suspended by chains from the ceiling, a forest of them. The pungent aroma hit them, once more, as it had in the corridors about the Arena; the smell of death.
As their eyes adjusted, gasps of horror went up; pale, stiff limbs extended from the bars of every cage, sticky, half-dried tendrils of congealed blood hanging down in grotesque strings to mat on the floor. They walked closer. Naresh gagged, turning to run off, throwing up with violent spasms against a wall as the cheese and wine from before came back up. Arrows, Alann noted, dozens, scores, stuck out from every angle, the corpses of the hapless prisoners festooned with the missiles; they had not the luxury of running, he thought with sadness, not cramped up in such conditions.
Doomed fish in an iron barrel.
Nine of the ten set about the grim task of wandering the dangling den of death, searching for any that, by some miracle, had survived.
Naresh still leant against the wall, catching his breath, diaphragm throbbing with the ache of ejecting his stomach’s contents all over the floor. He pulled away from the wall, rubbing the tears that stung his eyes, noticing as he did a door set into the wall. He made his way to it, curious, pulling tentatively on the handle; the door opened easily. Another corridor, though small, with only one door at the end. He made his way down it, cautiously. The door at the end was shut, locked up with a chain, rusted and covered with dust from lack of use.
What lay inside that would be locked up, so? Provisions? More weapons?
He took his hammer, gripping it firm in his hand, bringing it down with a sharp crack on the padlock. The rusted mechanism parted easily, the chain falling to the floor, the sharp noise of metal on stone in the corridor causing him to jump, despite the fact that it was he that caused it. With a trembling hand, he reached for the handle, readying his hammer lest some horror jump out. He pulled the door open, coughing as a cloud of dust billowed out into the fresher air.
The room was dark, dusty, old. He stepped inside. The air was cold – colder than the warmth of the prison beyond – and the atmosphere had an unpleasant, tingling feel to it. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, as though he were being watched by someone behind his back, and Naresh turned, spinning this way and that, hammer raised to strike any that might surprise him. But there was no-one there. Manacles on one wall, he noticed, held in place with chains. This was a torture room, he suddenly realised, with a shiver. There was nothing here, save bad memories of evil deeds.
He turned to go, but stopped halfway, eyes squinting in the gloom as he regarded the walls to the sides. Symbols, shapes, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Dark, not painted on with a brush but looking almost as if… yes, almost as if burnt on. He moved closer, frowning, fingers outstretched to touch the flaky, charred residue that had endured for so long.
As he did, he winced slightly, as a soft, subtle, scraping noise began to claw, delicately yet insistently
Elerik shook his head.
“That’s how people get killed.”
Alann nodded.
“The farmer’s right; we stick together. They might be the only Clansmen down here, but they may not. We don’t want to split into two groups then bump into a troupe of ten.” He looked side to side. “We go left.”
The corridor continued further, another hundred feet, dark, most of the torches in the recesses along the walls having spluttered out from lack of attention, till it opened out into a vast chamber. Cages of black iron hung, suspended by chains from the ceiling, a forest of them. The pungent aroma hit them, once more, as it had in the corridors about the Arena; the smell of death.
As their eyes adjusted, gasps of horror went up; pale, stiff limbs extended from the bars of every cage, sticky, half-dried tendrils of congealed blood hanging down in grotesque strings to mat on the floor. They walked closer. Naresh gagged, turning to run off, throwing up with violent spasms against a wall as the cheese and wine from before came back up. Arrows, Alann noted, dozens, scores, stuck out from every angle, the corpses of the hapless prisoners festooned with the missiles; they had not the luxury of running, he thought with sadness, not cramped up in such conditions.
Doomed fish in an iron barrel.
Nine of the ten set about the grim task of wandering the dangling den of death, searching for any that, by some miracle, had survived.
Naresh still leant against the wall, catching his breath, diaphragm throbbing with the ache of ejecting his stomach’s contents all over the floor. He pulled away from the wall, rubbing the tears that stung his eyes, noticing as he did a door set into the wall. He made his way to it, curious, pulling tentatively on the handle; the door opened easily. Another corridor, though small, with only one door at the end. He made his way down it, cautiously. The door at the end was shut, locked up with a chain, rusted and covered with dust from lack of use.
What lay inside that would be locked up, so? Provisions? More weapons?
He took his hammer, gripping it firm in his hand, bringing it down with a sharp crack on the padlock. The rusted mechanism parted easily, the chain falling to the floor, the sharp noise of metal on stone in the corridor causing him to jump, despite the fact that it was he that caused it. With a trembling hand, he reached for the handle, readying his hammer lest some horror jump out. He pulled the door open, coughing as a cloud of dust billowed out into the fresher air.
The room was dark, dusty, old. He stepped inside. The air was cold – colder than the warmth of the prison beyond – and the atmosphere had an unpleasant, tingling feel to it. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, as though he were being watched by someone behind his back, and Naresh turned, spinning this way and that, hammer raised to strike any that might surprise him. But there was no-one there. Manacles on one wall, he noticed, held in place with chains. This was a torture room, he suddenly realised, with a shiver. There was nothing here, save bad memories of evil deeds.
He turned to go, but stopped halfway, eyes squinting in the gloom as he regarded the walls to the sides. Symbols, shapes, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Dark, not painted on with a brush but looking almost as if… yes, almost as if burnt on. He moved closer, frowning, fingers outstretched to touch the flaky, charred residue that had endured for so long.
As he did, he winced slightly, as a soft, subtle, scraping noise began to claw, delicately yet insistently
Similar Books
