trying to grab at Piran with his good hand. Piran stayed just out of reach.
“Not really,” Piran replied. “But he had it coming. And it’s not like we were going to get out early for good behavior.”
Running footsteps echoed in the rock tunnels. Blaine heard guards shouting as they barged their way through the miners, alerted if not by the sound of the fight itself then by one of Prokief’s many informants among the prisoners.
“Get him up!” a guard ordered, regarding Ford with disdain. “Or we’ll haul him up ourselves.” Blaine muttered an apology as he lifted Ford as gently as he could, wincing as the young man cried out in pain and doubled over.
“Rowse! Should have figured you were causing trouble. Tell your tale to the commander,” the second guard said. “Out with you.”
Two more of Prokief’s soldiers came to help the downed guard, who let out a bleat of pain as one of them jostled his broken shoulder.
“Not so tough now,” Piran mocked, then cursed as one of the soldiers gave him a shove toward the mine exit hard enough to drag Blaine off balance.
“Shut up, Piran,” Blaine muttered. But it was far too late for that to matter. Fights between the convicts and the guards were common, and when the guards won—which was often—the matter went unnoticed by the prison’s commander, even when convicts turned up dead. Blaine was under no illusion that their transgression would go unpunished, especially since Velant’s commander seemed to have taken a particular, personal dislike for both Blaine and Piran.
Ford was barely conscious as they made their way up the narrow rock tunnels toward the mine entrance. Blaine was supporting most of the boy’s weight. Normally, a healer could put an injury right most of the time. But Prokief rarely wasted healers on convicts, unless he was short on labor for a needed task. Blaine doubted that the little bit of healing magic and hedge witch cures the prisoners provided for each other could save Ford if the guard’s attack had damaged his innards. Then again, that particular guard wouldn’t be damaging anyone else for a long while. The satisfaction of that knowledge was almost enough to temper Blaine’s fear of the punishment that awaited him. Almost.
Other prisoners glanced up as the guards hustled them out of the mine. Some gave bored stares, and Blaine guessed they were glad that this time, the guards were focused on someone other than them. Others eyed them with anger, certain that Blaine and Piran’s misdeeds would lead to harsher conditions for all of them.
A few looked at them with grudging respect. It was rare to win against the guards, all the sweeter for being a fleeting victory. But if the time ever came that Prokief’s warden mages lost their ability to enforce the commander’s harsh discipline, Blaine doubted there were enough guards to hold off the inmates’ pent-up rage.
A blast of frigid air hit them as they stepped out into the perpetual twilight of the Long Dark, the half of the year when the sun barely rose above the horizon. Edgeland’s temperatures barely rose enough during the ‘summer’ months to enable the colonists and inmates to go outside without heavy cloaks and hats. The dark winter months felt interminable, and the temperatures plunged to bone-chilling cold that even the thickest furs would not warm.
Piran continued to hum the bawdy tavern song, a small show of defiance. Still, Blaine could see a glint of fear in Piran’s eyes. Blaine felt his gut tighten at the prospect of Prokief’s revenge. They might have saved Ford, or perhaps merely avenged him, but there was a good chance that they would die for their efforts.
“Unlock the boy,” one of the guards ordered. “Take him back to the barracks,” he said to two of the other guards. It would be useless to request a healer, since the guards would only laugh. Maybe one of Blaine’s barracks mates could help Ford, or at least ease his passing if there was
“Not really,” Piran replied. “But he had it coming. And it’s not like we were going to get out early for good behavior.”
Running footsteps echoed in the rock tunnels. Blaine heard guards shouting as they barged their way through the miners, alerted if not by the sound of the fight itself then by one of Prokief’s many informants among the prisoners.
“Get him up!” a guard ordered, regarding Ford with disdain. “Or we’ll haul him up ourselves.” Blaine muttered an apology as he lifted Ford as gently as he could, wincing as the young man cried out in pain and doubled over.
“Rowse! Should have figured you were causing trouble. Tell your tale to the commander,” the second guard said. “Out with you.”
Two more of Prokief’s soldiers came to help the downed guard, who let out a bleat of pain as one of them jostled his broken shoulder.
“Not so tough now,” Piran mocked, then cursed as one of the soldiers gave him a shove toward the mine exit hard enough to drag Blaine off balance.
“Shut up, Piran,” Blaine muttered. But it was far too late for that to matter. Fights between the convicts and the guards were common, and when the guards won—which was often—the matter went unnoticed by the prison’s commander, even when convicts turned up dead. Blaine was under no illusion that their transgression would go unpunished, especially since Velant’s commander seemed to have taken a particular, personal dislike for both Blaine and Piran.
Ford was barely conscious as they made their way up the narrow rock tunnels toward the mine entrance. Blaine was supporting most of the boy’s weight. Normally, a healer could put an injury right most of the time. But Prokief rarely wasted healers on convicts, unless he was short on labor for a needed task. Blaine doubted that the little bit of healing magic and hedge witch cures the prisoners provided for each other could save Ford if the guard’s attack had damaged his innards. Then again, that particular guard wouldn’t be damaging anyone else for a long while. The satisfaction of that knowledge was almost enough to temper Blaine’s fear of the punishment that awaited him. Almost.
Other prisoners glanced up as the guards hustled them out of the mine. Some gave bored stares, and Blaine guessed they were glad that this time, the guards were focused on someone other than them. Others eyed them with anger, certain that Blaine and Piran’s misdeeds would lead to harsher conditions for all of them.
A few looked at them with grudging respect. It was rare to win against the guards, all the sweeter for being a fleeting victory. But if the time ever came that Prokief’s warden mages lost their ability to enforce the commander’s harsh discipline, Blaine doubted there were enough guards to hold off the inmates’ pent-up rage.
A blast of frigid air hit them as they stepped out into the perpetual twilight of the Long Dark, the half of the year when the sun barely rose above the horizon. Edgeland’s temperatures barely rose enough during the ‘summer’ months to enable the colonists and inmates to go outside without heavy cloaks and hats. The dark winter months felt interminable, and the temperatures plunged to bone-chilling cold that even the thickest furs would not warm.
Piran continued to hum the bawdy tavern song, a small show of defiance. Still, Blaine could see a glint of fear in Piran’s eyes. Blaine felt his gut tighten at the prospect of Prokief’s revenge. They might have saved Ford, or perhaps merely avenged him, but there was a good chance that they would die for their efforts.
“Unlock the boy,” one of the guards ordered. “Take him back to the barracks,” he said to two of the other guards. It would be useless to request a healer, since the guards would only laugh. Maybe one of Blaine’s barracks mates could help Ford, or at least ease his passing if there was
Similar Books
