Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (8 page)

“I-I-I want, I want you, I want you to run. Run. Go. Go now. Run!”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Kravel said. “We can’t allow that to happen. Mr. Gurding, if you please.”

“Right.” Before Edmund could say anything, Gurding spun and threw his knife into the blackness behind him. Thorax cried out, a pain-ridden howl that tore into Edmund’s heart.

Edmund screamed. “Run! Run! Go. Run. Get out of here!”

“Did you succeed, Mr. Gurding?”

“Well enough, I suspect. Solid thigh strike. She won’t go very far. We can track her after we finish up here, if you wish. Or we can let her die on her own in an hour or so.”

“Splendid. We’ll decide later. First things are, as they say, first.”

“You bastards,” Edmund said, tears pooling in his eyes. “You, you . . . bastards.”

“It’s just a dog,” Gurding said.

Edmund’s hands were shaking even more, a combination of fear and rage propelling them in spastic circles. He took a half step toward the closest goblin, Kravel. “B-b-b-bastards!”

“Yes, I suppose we are all bastards in our own little ways, now aren’t we? At any rate, let’s refocus on the question at hand. Have you made a decision? Am I to have the honor of dismembering you?”

“You bastards,” Edmund repeated in a weakening voice.

“I don’t think he has much fight in him,” Gurding said, drawing forth a coil of rope from his pocket. “Fat humans never do. Too soft. No discipline.”

“I believe you are right. I say he’ll give up. Shall we wager?”

Gurding formed the rope into a noose. “No. I concur. He’ll say bastards a few more times, start sobbing, and then beg for his life.”

“Bastards,” Edmund muttered, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Shall we wager on how many times he says that? I say one more time.”

“That was going to be my approximation.”

They waited for Edmund to say something else, but he only cried.

“Our skills are a bit off today, Mr. Gurding,” Kravel said as he strolled forward, his hands outstretched. “Here, let us move thing along a bit quicker, shall we? Be so kind as to hand over your weaponry.” He put his fingers on the blade of Edmund’s short sword. “It’s always better to die another day. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Gurding?”

“Absolutely. Like you said, he may successfully escape someday. Or perhaps die in his sleep, smothered by the pit dwellers.”

Fight! Kill them!

There are two of them.

Then run!

“You are a hopeless optimist, my dear Mr. Gurding,” Kravel said, plucking the sword out of Edmund’s hands. “It’s one of the many things that I like about you.”

“Please,” Edmund said, his voice cracking.

“And you have a nice way with words,” Gurding replied. “I have always appreciated that about you.”

Kravel hesitated. “Mr. Gurding. Take a look at what our new friend has given me.”

Gurding examined the sword over his colleague’s shoulder. “Very interesting.”

“Very interesting, indeed. Why, I haven’t seen anything like this before.”

“It looks sharp. He might have done you some damage if he had the mind.”

“Quite possibly. Sharp and light. Feel this.” Kravel handed Gurding the short sword. Gurding balanced it in his pallid hand. His bony fingers squeezed the sword’s black hilt.

“Impressive. It looks like it’s never been used.”

They examined the sobbing Edmund and then the weapon.

“Quite possibly,” Kravel said, examining the sword’s blade.

“Dibs on the sword,” Gurding said.

Kravel sputtered. “What? You can’t, you can’t call dibs, my dear Mr. Gurding.”

“Why? I just did.”

“Yes, but you did so improperly, as I’m sure you are undoubtedly aware.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters, our prisoner gave it to me, hence it is technically mine.”

“He would have handed it over to a dead man if we had one with us.”

“Yes, but that is hardly the point that I am making.” Kravel said, anger creeping into his voice. He took a deep breath through his crooked nose. “All right, Mr. Gurding. I see the point you are making. So to settle the matter, I’ll propose a deal. I wager that our chubby friend here doesn’t live more than, say, twenty days in the mines. If he does, you get the sword and everything in his pack. That’s a potentially very lucrative arrangement, as I’m sure you’d agree.”

Mines?

“You’re kidding me, aren’t you? After I agree, you could simply kill him right now and get everything for yourself.”

“Very well, Mr. Gurding. Very well. You are quite the suspicious one today, aren’t you? I shall amend my terms. I say that, barring the merry fellow trying to escape and forcing my hand in any way, he will die within twenty days of today with no intervention from myself—”

Gurding interjected, “But . . . ”

“Or anybody acting on my behalf.”

Edmund whimpered. “P-p-please . . . ”

Gurding thought about this for a moment. “Show me your hands,” he said to Edmund.

“P-p-p-pl—”

Gurding seized Edmund’s wrists and twisted his palms up. Edmund sank to the floor, sniveling.

“Look at these,” Gurding said, disgusted. “Not a mark on them.”

“No, indeed.” Kravel nodded. “They are soft as a baby’s liver.”

“He isn’t going to last a week in the mines, if you ask me.”

“Very well then, Mr. Gurding. Shall we reverse our positions? I think you are not giving our stout friend here much credit. He’s a crafty one. I can see it in his cold brown eyes.”

“What? Behind the tears?”

“Exactly, my dear Mr. Gurding. Why, I would stipulate that this fellow here is actually a seasoned warrior, back from some big battle way to the south. He has undoubtedly killed many of our kin’s finest heroes. His tears and endless stuttering are merely a skillful ruse to lure us into a false sense of security. Why, I wouldn’t get too close to the old fellow, if I were you. He may reach up and rip out your throat with his own, admittedly tender, bare hands.”

“P-p-p-please . . . ”

Gurding examined the weeping Edmund and then his companion’s face. “You’re putting me on. I can tell.”

“It’s difficult to fool you, my friend. Do we have a deal? I say he will last at least seven days, provided that we apply the aforementioned stipulations to you as well.”

Scratching his chin, Gurding examined the smoky steel of the short sword’s blade. “Deal. What about what he has on him?”

“Perhaps we can incorporate his belongings into another wager. The length of his intestines, perhaps?

“Which intestines? The large or small?”

“Your choice, Gurding . . . your choice.”

“What’s your name, filth?” the Questioner demanded.

Someone yanked the foul-smelling hood from Edmund’s head. He blinked.

Lying face down, hands tied behind his back, he was in some sort of underground complex an eleven days’ march from Tol Helen. More than thirty goblins were standing around him, including his captors, Gurding and Kravel. Others were rushing into the room with small pouches in their hands. Still bewildered, Edmund noted a variety of knives, pliers, hammers, and other instruments of torture gleaming in the wavering firelight. His gaze came to rest upon a copper bowl filled with a sizable pile of coins.

“Your name?” the lead goblin repeated louder. “What is your name, filth?”

Edmund blinked several more times.

A boot kicked him in the ribs. Edmund grunted, the air driven from his lungs. He wheezed. “E-e-e-e-Ed-Ed—”

Another boot pummeled Edmund’s side, propelling him closer to the crackling fire pit in the center of the room. He could feel the scalding heat on his back. Another couple of kicks and he would be in the coals with several glowing pokers and branding irons. Edmund gasped for breath. The cords binding his wrists sliced into his skin.

“What is your name, filth?”

Edmund forced himself to inhale, despite the sharp pain shooting throughout his ribcage. “M-m-my name, my name is . . . Ed-Ed-Edmund—”

His head snapped to one side, snot and blood flying from his nose, the dirty imprint of a boot across his cheekbone. Somebody cheered; the other goblins hushed him.

“P-p-please,” Edmund begged. “Please! I-I-I—”

“What is your name, filth?”

In between sobs, more blood slid out of Edmund’s mouth. A long trail of it already connected his swelling bottom lip to the stone floor. His panicked gaze scurried frantically over the faces in the crowd, hoping to find help, any help at all. The goblins standing around him in a circle waited in silent anticipation. The Questioner nodded at one of the guards standing over Edmund.

Edmund’s head cracked back again, pain exploding throughout his face. Fluid, whether tears or blood he could not tell, flowed from his left eye. No longer able to open it, he could feel it pulsate and bulge. Through his tattered shirt, the dancing red flames began to burn his back.

“What is your name, filth?”

Remember the tale of Markus of Anberry? Remember what happened to him? Remember?

The Questioner looked at the guard again.

Edmund girded himself for another blow.

Hurry!

“M-m-m-my, my name . . . ” Edmund said, blood pooling in his mouth. He spit, hoping to buy himself some time while his head cleared. Several of the goblins leaned forward eagerly. “My, my n-name is, is . . . y-your, your . . . h-h-humble s-s-servant.”

There was silence. Then the goblins around him howled. Most were cursing, throwing small pieces of paper on the ground. Kravel, however, laughed.

“See what I mean?” he said. “See what I mean? Exactly what I was telling you all. There is more to this plump fellow than meets the eye, if I am not mistaken. He’s an extraordinarily quick learner for his kind, I dare say.” Kravel reached for the coins, but two of the cursing goblins moved the bowl out of his reach.

“Shut up,” the Questioner hollered, “or you’ll all find yourself playing the Games.” The crowd settled into energetic silence. The Questioner glowered down at Edmund. “Now, filth, what is your name?”

Edmund coughed, sending a spray of crimson spit across the floor. He thought about wiggling further away from the fire pit to relieve the burning on his back, but decided not to risk the repercussions. The goblins in the circle leaned forward even closer.

Use your stutter to buy time. Buy time and think!

“My, my, my n-n-name, s-s-sir, my, my, my n-n-n-name is, is . . . ” And then, through the fog in his mind, the answer seemed to appear. “F-F-F-Filth. M-m-my, my . . . my name is F-F-Filth . . . sir.”

Another eruption of cussing filled the room. Disappointed, somebody shoved the bowl of coins into Kravel’s hands.

“Thank you all for doubting me,” he said, pouring the coins into a large pouch. “It truly has been a wonderful, not to mention exceedingly profitable, episode.”

“Can we measure his intestines now?” somebody from the growing crowd called out.

“Patience,” the Questioner replied. “First I have some questions for Filth here. Where are you from and what were you doing in the tower of Gara’ Zen?”

Grovel. Show weakness. Buy time. Do anything to appease them. Use your stuttering to make them think you are stupid!

“M-m-master,” Edmund began, wincing just in case he made the wrong decision in his choice of words. Feeling no additional infliction of pain, he continued. “I-I-I-I . . . I am, I am, I am f-f-from, from . . . a t-t-town, a, a, vil-vil-vil-vil-village really, a vil-vil-vil-vil . . . village a-a-a-about, about, about a . . . ”

The goblins began shifting uneasily around him. Several started grumbling.

“Told you he was going to be frustrating to interrogate,” Gurding said to Kravel.

“What the hell is this?” The Questioner said, gesturing to Edmund quivering on the ground.

“He’s been speaking like that ever since our initial encounter,” Kravel replied. “It seems to be simply his way of conversing, I’m afraid.”

“Probably was dropped as a child,” added Gurding, touching his temple for emphasis.

“At any rate,” Kravel went on, “we have found him to be more than willing to answer questions; though it takes Filth here time to answer to any degree of satisfaction or clarity.”

“An excruciatingly long period of time,” Gurding added.

The Questioner put his head in hands.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance in making this ordeal less painful for all of us who have to listen to the chatty fellow,” Kravel said. “During the splendid days that we have spent with Master Filth, transporting him to his lovely new home here, we have had the time and disposition to extract a good deal of information from him, though the quality of said information may not be as stellar as what you would eventually glean from him yourself had you been with us. Perhaps you would like us to restate what he has revealed?”

The Questioner exhaled heavily. “If you can do it with fewer words than Filth.”

Several goblins laughed. Most were exiting the chamber. Some were inquiring about other betting opportunities.

“Very well. And, perhaps my esteemed colleague Mr. Gurding could add his own particular insights should any occur to him during the course of my recounting—”

“Brevity, Kravel,” the Questioner said, rubbing his forehead. “Brevity.”

“Of course. To begin with Filth and his canine—”

“Thorax,” Gurding interrupted. “Her name was Thorax. It was a female.”

A knot formed in Edmund’s stomach at the mention of his companion’s name.

Poor Thorax.

The Questioner groaned. “Please, just tell me what I need to know. Where is he from? Is he a threat?”

“He says he’s from a small settlement approximately three week’s journey on foot west of Gara’ Zen,” Kravel answered, “in the old realm of the fallen northern kingdom of the humans, it would seem.”

“Three weeks?” the Questioner replied in disbelief. “What was he doing in the tower? And how did he find the passage you mentioned in your report?”

“From what the articulate Master Filth has revealed to us, he was attempting to become a famous adventurer. Evidently, he was hoping to find something of value in order to buy the respect of his people.”

“An adventurer? Him?” The questioner shook his head in disgust. “Never mind. Continue.”

“So he and his dog, whose name was Thorax as Mr. Gurding has astutely indicated, began traveling eastward aimlessly, without any degree of thought or planning, hoping to find some self-respect.”

“Tell me, what does he do?” the Questioner asked. “Back in his village, what is his occupation?”

Kravel and Gurding exchanged comments.

“From the sounds of it,” Kravel replied, “he was a librarian of sorts. Read too many books and became enamored with faerie tales, it seems.”

“What about the tower? What was his interest there?”

“The day before we took him under our nurturing wing, a thunderstorm struck from the west. He took refuge in a cave where a hill trog lived. In the trog’s lair, it seems Filth came across this.” Kravel gestured to the short sword in Gurding’s hands. “The unnamed trog chased him to the tower, where he—”

“All right! All right! Just answer me this. Is he a danger to us?” They all looked at Edmund as he lay bound at their feet, snot and blood flowing freely from his nose. “What I mean is . . . does he have any knowledge of us that could put us in peril?”

“None that we could ascertain,” Kravel replied. “He’s merely a foolish human who is entirely out of his element, ignorant to what is happening around him, as are most of his kind.”

“Fine. Then I’ll order the Executioners to put the pig out of his misery. At least the wolves will have a good meal from him.”

Lifting his battered head, Edmund cried out. “P-p-please!”

Somebody kicked him in the ribs.

This is what you get for adventuring. You should’ve stayed home. You were happy enough there. You just didn’t realize it!

“Actually,” Kravel said, “Mr. Gurding and I have a bit of a wager on the eventual termination of Master Filth’s existence. We’d be most obliged if you would sentence him to work in the mines. I’m quite sure they could use his skillful assistance.”

“The mines?” The Questioner snorted. “You’re joking. Look at him! It’d be more humane to just kill him outright or throw him in the Arena. Why, he wouldn’t last two days in the mines.”

Massaging his pouch of coins, Kravel grinned. “Care to make a wager on that?”