Lynn Flewelling - Shadows Return

While Alec changed, Seregil started to help Ilar roughly into Alec’s discarded robe, but stopped at the sound of the man’s strangled whimper. The stripes on his back weren’t deep, but they were bloody, and still crusted with salt. Every movement must be agony.

A water bucket stood by the athanor and Seregil used it to rinse away what he could from the wounds. Ilar trembled but stayed silent.

Seregil pulled the loose robe over the man’s head, keeping the fabric from pulling at the wounds as best he could, and handed him the worn pair of shoes Alec had discarded. “Now, where’s this escape route?”

Ilar went to one of the smaller anvils near the forge. “Here. Underneath.”

Seregil grabbed it by the horn and heel, and strained to lift it. It tilted slightly, and a crack of darkness appeared under the section of floor it was bolted to. Alec joined him, pushing from the other side and together they tilted the trapdoor back until the edge of the anvil was resting on the floor. The underside was sheathed crossways with wooden planks, with a large iron ring in the middle. A small, timber-braced shaft led straight down into darkness. A wooden ladder was bolted to one side.

“I overheard Ilban telling the children about it,” Ilar explained. “It goes down to a tunnel leading away from the house, in case of invaders.”

Seregil turned to look for something useful to take, but Alec held up a bundle of his own. “We’re ready.”

Alec had also fashioned a cloth sling like the ones northland farmwomen used to carry their small children on their backs as they worked the fields. He hoisted the child into it and showed Seregil how it left both his hands free. The boy clutched the back of his coat, skinny bare legs dangling against Alec’s hips.

Seregil sighed. Sling or no sling, sooner or later the little one would be a hindrance. But at least he was quiet; he hadn’t made a sound.

Seregil pushed Ilar toward the trapdoor. “You first.”

The man gave him a shaky nod, then grasped the top of the ladder and slowly began the climb down, pain clear in every move. Little spots of fresh blood had already soaked through the back of his robe.

Alec went next, moving as if the child weighed nothing at all. The child didn’t so much as whimper as Alec started down.

When the others were out of sight, Seregil slung his own sword belt over his shoulder, tucked the neck of his bundle through his belt, and set his feet on the ladder. It took both hands and all his weight to pull the heavy door down, and then he narrowly missed being brained as it fell heavily back into place. He ended up hanging by one hand from the iron ring in total darkness. He found the ladder with his foot and quickly made his way down by feel.

The shaft was very deep. He had splinters in both hands by the time he saw a faint light below.

Ilar stood at the bottom with the others, holding up a candle. The space here was not much bigger than the shaft itself, but just behind him was a sturdy-looking oak door.

“It’s locked,” Alec told him, yanking at the iron handle above a keyhole.

“Give me your pick.”

“I tried it. It won’t budge.”

Seregil held out his hand and Alec shrugged and gave him the metal pin.

Kneeling, Seregil probed the wards inside. “Tricky.”

“You cut your hair,” Alec noted, running his fingers through the uneven fringe at the nape of Seregil’s neck.

Seregil’s skin tingled at the touch but he kept his mind on the business at hand. “Assuming I get this open, where does it lead?”

“I don’t know,” Ilar replied.

“Bastard!” Seregil growled, still grinding away. “Why am I even listening to you?”

“Because I’m the only bastard you have?” Ilar replied with just a hint of his old smugness.

Seregil’s fingers clenched on the pick. “Hold the light over this way.”

“Well, it must lead away from the house,” Ilar offered weakly as Seregil went back to work on the lock. “Alec, I think you should leave that behind. Master Yhakobin will stop at nothing to get it back.”

“Shut up!”

Seregil looked sharply over his shoulder. “Stop at nothing to get what back?”

Just then the muffled sounds of footsteps and shouting echoed down the shaft from the workshop. Seregil gave the lock a last careful tweak and the door swung inward on what looked like the promised passageway.

Seregil stood back and made Ilar a mocking bow. “After you.”

Alec gave them both a confused look as he followed with his candle.

When the others were safely through Seregil fastened the door again and turned to follow Alec. As he did, the light fell across the child’s upper face, and his slanted, silver eyes.

Seregil caught Alec by the elbow. “This is what Yhakobin wants, isn’t it? What the hell is it?”

“A rhekaro,” Alec answered quietly, pulling his arm free.

The pick slipped from Seregil’s fingers. “This is what I saw in that cellar, under the dirt?”

“No, that was the first one Ilban made,” Ilar replied.

“You were there?” asked Alec, turning to face Seregil full on.

“Yes.” Because Ilar wanted me to see you like that, damn it! “Why are you dragging it along?”

“Yhakobin tortured the first one he made to death,” Alec told him, clutching the straps of the sling. “If I leave him, he’ll die!”

“Let it.”

The shouting above was getting louder.

“He comes, or I stay,” Alec said flatly. “I’ll explain later. We need to go!”

Seregil snatched up the fallen pick. “Come on then, before someone figures out which way we went.”

Alec slipped past him to follow Ilar. “Thank you, talí.”

Don’t thank me yet, Seregil thought darkly, sword in one hand, the poniard in the other.

The passageway was shored with timber and brick-paved. Nothing moved around them but their shadows, and there was no sound but the whisper of shoe leather against the bricks and Ilar’s labored breathing.

Seregil had ample time to study the rhekaro as they went, or at least the back of it. Its thin legs looked bone white in the candle’s wavering glow. A lock of hair had escaped from the scarf; it hung below the thing’s waist and shimmered like silver.

What in Bilairy’s name are you? he wondered, thinking of the writhing pile of dirt, stained with Alec’s blood. No good could come of that! Why was Alec so adamant on having it?

Because it looks like a child, of course. And Alec had seen one tortured to death. No wonder he’d refused to abandon this one. Trust me, he’d said. And Alec had never given him reason not to. Ilar was a different matter, and Seregil kept a close eye on him.

The way ran more or less level for some time, and then began to slant up sharply. Seregil guessed they’d gone nearly a mile by the time the passage ended at a door similar to the one they’d left behind. The lock was the same and Seregil soon tickled it open.

“Put out your light.”

When it was dark, he softly opened the door a crack and peered through. It was just as dark beyond, but a slight breeze carried the smell of horses.

A shaft like the one in the workshop led up to a trap door. Seregil pushed it up just enough to see. It was heavy, and the smell was much stronger now.

They were in a large stable. A flyspecked lantern on a nail illuminated the glossy haunches of several horses in stalls. Shit apples and straw covered the floor and the trapdoor. Bits of muck fell down the shaft, eliciting mutters of protest from below.

He lifted the trapdoor up a little further, braced for an outcry, but heard nothing but the night sounds of the horses.

“Stay down,” he whispered to the others, then pushed the trap all the way back and climbed up.