Paul Kemp: Shadowbred

"Well met," Riven said, as disarmingly as he could manage. He prodded Phraig and the boy said, "Birg, Nilmon, this is-"

Shadem and Vyrhas stepped out from behind the men. Each grabbed a man in an armhold around the throat and leaned back to lift them off the ground. The guards did not so much as gag. Their legs kicked, and their eyes went wide as the shadowwalkers choked them into unconsciousness.

"Well done," Riven said.

"Gods," Phraig said softly.

Riven knew the guards would not remain unconscious for long. He left Phraig for a moment and smacked each man in the temple with the hilt of his dagger. That would keep them down for a time.

"How many at the bottom?" he asked Phraig.

Skelan and Dynd looked down the shaft.

"Uh, another two, at least," Phraig said. "And…"

Riven heard the hesitation in the boy's tone and knew Phraig had not told them everything. He stalked over to Phraig and held the punch dagger before his face.

"Speak it, boy."

"I may have… misspoken when I said there were only thirty guards."

Riven's eye narrowed. "How many?"

"Twice that," Phraig said, and winced as if he expected a blow.

Riven almost gave it to him. Instead, he looked to Shadem, Vyrhas, Dynd, and Skelan. None of them looked concerned. They were in it all the way. He liked them more and more.

Riven turned back to Phraig. "Sixty men? Even at this hour?"

"At all hours," Phraig answered. "The Nessarch is well paid to ensure that no one escapes. This duty pays the guards double their usual draw. We choose lots to see who'll get it each month. I'm lucky to have the work."

Riven's anger rose and he could not keep it from his face. Phraig blanched.

"You feel good about being part of this, boy?" Riven said. "Enslaving these men? Working them until they die?"

Phraig's eyes looked everywhere but Riven's face. "Slaves? No. I am… I mean, I'm just doing my job."

Riven sneered and pricked Phraig's cheek with the dagger. The boy recoiled, bleeding. "Me, too. Is this lift the only way in or out?"

The boy nodded, dabbing at his cheek. "There used to be others, but they were sealed off."

Riven said, "Guards at the bottom, what else?"

Phraig answered so fast Riven knew he was not lying. "The barracks, mess, and supply rooms are in the large, finished tunnel to the right. The cells arc to the left. They will not be guarded at this hour. The prisoners are chained within them. The rest of the tunnels are for mining."

"How many prisoners?" Riven asked.

"A dozen, maybe," Phraig said. "They don't last long. Every tenday some new ones walk in and some old ones are carried out."

Riven glared at him. "Just doing your job, right?"

Phraig looked away and made no answer.

Riven considered having his team scale the shaft but felt it unwise to put his whole team at risk for a fall. He said to Dynd and Skelan, "We need the lift."

The two shadowwalkers nodded in understanding. Both stepped atop the low wall, leaped out to take hold of the ropes, and shinnied down. Vyrhas and Shadem stepped up and looked over the edge of the platform. Riven and Phraig joined them.

Dynd and Skelan slid rapidly, silently, little more than black smears in the darkness.

Dim light from the bottom showed that the shaft descended perhaps two bowshots straight down. Riven had no idea how the original miners had sunk such a shaft. The ropes fell like plumb lines to a winch inset into the wooden lift that sat at the shaft's bottom.

About three-quarters of the way down, Dynd and Skelan swung toward the wall, released the rope, and fell. Phraig gasped. Riven cursed. But both used their hands and feet against the wall to control their otherwise precipitous descent. They landed atop the platform with a hollow thump.

Riven heard a curse from below and the two shadowwalkers bounded out of sight.

A shout of alarm was cut short and the light trickling up the shaft flickered as men fought in the torchlight. The dull thud of fists and elbows finding flesh and the chink of armor sounded up the shaft.

Silence.

Vyrhas and Shadem shared a look and started over the edge of the shaft, but Dynd reappeared on the lift. He examined the winch for a moment and started to crank. The mechanism clinked with every turn of the crank arm. Riven winced at the sound.

It seemed to take a lifetime before Dynd got the lift up the shaft. The winch cylinder was geared to allow even a single man to lift a heavily loaded platform.

"Well done," Riven said to Dynd. "Skelan?"

"Below. He lives," answered Dynd.

Riven, Phraig, and the three shadowwalkers climbed onto the lift and Dynd cranked them downward. When they reached the bottom, they found Skelan crouched over three guards. He was bleeding from a wound on his arm and a scratch on his face. The guards' helms and blades lay scattered on the ground. From the angles of their necks, Riven knew the guards were dead. Skelan held a finger to his lips for silence and pointed past them down the tunnel.

Riven turned to see a long, wide corridor, well lit with torches, extending into the distance. He could hear snatches of conversation coming from down the hall. He leaned in close to Phraig and said, "Even a croak I don't like and you die. Take me to Endren."

The guard nodded, fearful, and led them down the damp, cramped corridor. There was no light, so Riven removed a bronze sunrod from his pack and struck it on the ground. Its tip, treated with an alchemical substance, burst into light as bright as a candle.

The damp air got in his lungs and tickled his throat but he held down the cough. "Same as above," he said to the shadowwalkers. "Get on the walls ahead of us. Move, boy."

The shadowwalkers vanished as they hustled through low, timber-reinforced passages that stank of loam, stagnant water, and some pungent indefinable odor. Phraig led them first left, then right. They reached a corridor that looked newer and less meticulous than the rest of the mine.

A score or more wooden doors with small barred windows dotted the corridor. The stink of vomit, piss, waste, and rot hung in the air.

Two hulking half-orcs with axes lunged from a side corridor with a snarl. They wore leather jacks and skullcaps.

Riven shoved Phraig to the ground, sidestepped a downward chop that would have severed his arm at the shoulder, and slashed open the half-orc's throat. Blood sprayed but the creature kept his feet and swung backhand at Riven's head. He ducked under the blow and stabbed the half-orc through the chest with his saber. The creature expired on his blade, snorting blood. Riven drove his punch dagger into the creature's temple, just to be sure.

Meanwhile, Dynd, Vyrhas, and Skelan emerged from the darkness and unleashed a flurry of kicks, elbows, fists, and throws that disarmed the half-orc, broke his jaw, shattered a rib, and finally crushed his windpipe.

Riven grabbed Phraig by the scruff of his neck and jerked him to his feet.

"I don't give second chances, boy," he said, and raised the punch dagger.

"No! I didn't know! The half-orcs are jailors. I assumed they stayed with the guards at night, not near the cells. I didn't know."

Riven gritted his teeth and controlled his desire to kill the boy. None of his team had been hurt. He let Phraig go.

Coughs sounded from behind the cell doors, and a few moans.

"Which is Endren's?" Riven asked.

Phraig pointed at a door about halfway down the corridor.

"Get the keys off those," Riven said to Vyrhas, pointing at the dead half-orcs, each of whom bore a large ring of keys at his belt.

They hurried to Endren's cell, tried a few keys until they found the right one, and opened the door.

Endren Corrinthal looked up at them, bleary-eyed, blinking in the light of Riven's sunrod. Filth covered him. He wore only a frayed tunic and leather breeches. Sores and bruises covered his exposed skin. Circles shadowed his eyes. An unkempt gray beard sprouted from his cheeks. A rusty iron manacle ringed his left wrist and a thick chain attached the manacle to a ring in the wall. A tin plate lay near his feet. A puddle of rancid water was near enough that he could drink from it.