Scars of Silver (2 page)

One second he’d been in a summer wood. The next
second Malcolm found himself in the shadowed depths of a cave.
Luminescent moss glowed with ambient light as if by some
enchantment. The weak light glinted off the wet cave walls. The
place stank like molded socks and over-used cat litter. Malcolm
brought the back of his hand up to his nose, as if that might
prevent the onslaught to his nasal passages.

“Dark Rot! Get your filthy arse out here!” Rand
shouted into the depths of the cave.

Disoriented, Malcolm dropped to his knees, which hurt
like heck on the uneven stony ground, but that pain didn’t
completely cut through the confusion frying his brain. His
questions gasped out so fast they almost tumbled over each other.
“What happened? How’d we get here? What is this place?”

The guy only sneered at Malcolm.

Not good.

A scuttling sound echoed from the deep. Malcolm
scrambled to his feet and ducked behind Rand.

A platoon of green-skinned creatures scurried up the
cave, filling it from wall to wall with their leathery, naked
bodies. Goblins? Huge eyes reflected evilly. Sharp irregular teeth
protruded from their opened mouths, like their teeth were too big
to wrap their lips closed over them. They hissed and snarled, but
Rand didn’t appear the least bothered by it. Between the slurping
and guttural mumblings one word kept repeating. “Sidhe.”

So not good.

“This one’s gonna cost you. Full blooded Sidhe.” Rand
reached around and hooked his hand tight around Malcolm’s neck
again. He shoved him forward, tossing him to the cave floor.

The goblins descended on Malcolm like hyenas,
laughing and growling. Clutching at him. Hands everywhere. “No!”
Malcolm fought against them, only to have more rush in to replace
the ones he shoved away.

Twisting and punching, Malcolm broke free. He raced
past Rand, who just laughed and called out, “There he goes, lads!
He’s a wily one! Better catch ‘im!”

With no clue where he was or how to get out of there,
he just raced away. He came to a fork, chose the one heading “up”
and kept running. The laughing and chattering flew on his heels.
When he slipped, he scrambled on all fours until he got his feet
under him again. His mind screamed, ‘Run! Run! Run!’

The putrid air tore at his lungs with each gasp. His
heart pounded like a furious rabbit trying to kick its way out of
his chest.

A freaky whistle echoed about him just before a bolas
wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his body. Malcolm
stumbled. Fear jolted him to his feet again.

Shifting and wiggling, he loosened the rope enough to
wedge the bolas over his head. Up ahead two goblins raced toward
him. He swung the bolas and cracked one upside the head with it.
The other jabbed at Malcolm with a crude spear, but missed.
Spinning away from them, Malcolm finally caught a glimpse
behind.

The horde flooded up the tunnel in a sea of
bodies.

With a gasping cry Malcolm fled, legs pumping faster
than ever before in his life.

The next bolas wrapped about his calves. Momentum
brought Malcolm down hard on the slimy stone floor. The knee of his
jeans tore on a jagged rock. He kicked and rolled, struggling to
unwrap himself. The horde swarmed over him. Malcolm’s screaming and
flailing accomplished nothing. The goblins jerked his arms together
before him. Shackles clamped onto his wrists, binding them.
Immediately, the itching burn of silver gnawed at his flesh. They
lashed ropes about him, binding Malcolm bodily like in a spider’s
cocooning web.

The gleeful beasts laughed and poked spindly fingers
at Malcolm, tormenting him. Their rotted breath and pungent body
funk choked him. No amount of struggling helped as they hoisted him
into the air and carried him back down into the belly of their
nest.

As they passed Rand, Malcolm shouted “How can you do
this? You are fey! I am fey!”

“Goblins are fey, Sidhe boy!” Rand laughed, counting
his gold coins.

Deeper and deeper into the ground they carried him.
Down into the dark guts of the earth. Continuing through an arched
stone doorway and into a wide chamber within. A wall of prison bars
cut off the side of the cavern where the ceiling slung low. The
goblins dumped Malcolm inside. The sound of the lock rolling into
place squealed with rusted metal.

Malcolm wiggled and rolled to the far wall, fighting
to crawl as far away as he could. The goblins lined up outside the
cell reaching through the bars to prod and poke and laugh at him
like cruel children with a caged pet.

“Get away!” Malcolm screamed. “Let me out of here!
Somebody help!”

The more he screamed and struggled the more gleefully
they laughed and jabbed at him, mercilessly entertained by his
distress.

Malcolm screamed himself raw. Screamed himself to
exhaustion. Struggled with every ounce of fear induced strength he
could muster against the bonds. And still they laughed and hopped
with wretched mirth, until he could scream or move no more.

To some, ‘The War Room’ might sound like a misnomer,
but to Donovan the name seemed apt. A map of the surface world
curled along one wall of the round room, the arbitrary delineations
of human kingdoms blocked out and named for his convenience. The
European continent commanded center stage as the home to the
highest concentration of fey.

On the opposite side, books lined the shelves from
floor to ceiling, almost all of them donated by the Scribes.
Leather furniture arranged in conversation groupings occupied the
floor space on that side.

Donovan remained focused on the massive table in the
center of the room. Papers from his personal files scattered over
the entire surface in the early stage of organization. As the head
of the Unseelie Elite, Donovan periodically had to run down various
exiles hiding on the surface. Though the exiles tended to relocate
frequently, his files provided a starting place. He shifted through
the slips of paper. Just paper, and yet the only clues to what
remained of the Sidhe in the wake of the Collapse.

The scattered earthborn offspring of the exiles,
mostly untrained, often orphaned or abandoned, likely outnumbered
what Sidhe escaped the Mounds. They held so much potential and yet
were so vulnerable. The last hope for survival of his race teetered
on the brink. The predators already tasted blood in the water.
Circling in, they picked off any unwary and unprotected Sidhe they
could run to ground.

A war this was. A war for survival. A war with more
lost battles than victories, but he would never surrender.

With no way to track night and day, Malcolm couldn’t
figure how long he’d been locked up. If they fed him once a day,
like he guessed, it had been about four days. No one came into his
cell in all that time. He’d managed to struggle out of the ropes.
Now Malcolm used those coils as his pillow.

The cell was nothing but a crag where the cave
ceiling hung low and bars separated him from the large, main
chamber. No furniture. No toilet. A bowl of kinda clean water in a
metal dish and an armful of leftovers were pushed through the bars
periodically. The food was picked over. Leftover meat on bones
already gnawed on. Always meat. Never anything else.

While his cell was cramped, the chamber beyond his
wall of bars could have held a feast. Leastwise it was big enough
for it. A big stone table sat right in the middle. Metal rings were
screwed in it at random places along the perimeter. More rings were
in the walls at various heights and from the ceiling. Not much else
out there except a couple random piles of chains and ropes.

After the first couple of days, Malcolm gave up
shouting for help. No one heard him. No one who cared, anyway. No
one who would help him. The goblins just laughed and jabbed sticks
through the bars or threw rocks at him. So he shut up. Since then,
they mostly ignored him.

The silver shackles were the worst part. Couldn’t
shimmy out of them like the ropes. They burned constantly. Blood
seeped out from under the metal and dripped lazily from his
fingertips. He could jam a few bits of cloth torn from his shirt
under the tight bonds, but just on the soft insides of his wrists,
not over the back or sides.

So when the goblins escorted a young woman into the
chamber after four days, Malcolm just stared at her. They didn’t
restrain her. She’d come under her own power, not dragged there
like he had been. Her arms crossed over her middle, as if the
stench of the place made her sick. Probably a few years older than
him, he guessed she was early twenties. Nothing fancy about the
dress. Reddish hair falling out of a haphazard ponytail. Not
unattractive, but worn out looking. Dark smudges under her eyes.
Kinda gaunt in her cheeks. Hungry looking.

She just watched as the goblins opened Malcolm’s
cage. Though he remained outwardly still, Malcolm’s muscles
tensed.

The goblins scuttled along toward him. No rush. No
worry. Malcolm didn’t resist as they lifted up the chain between
his shackles. Didn’t even risk breathing as they unlocked first one
and then the other.

Like giant broken blisters the shriveled skin around
his wrists had a shiny wetness to them. Malcolm shivered, but not
from the pain or the chill of the exposed wounds. The urge to run
shuddered through his impatient body. The second the shackles
clanged to the stone floor all the pent up panic burst free.
Malcolm vaulted over one of the shorter goblins and bolted for the
exit.

Outside the chamber dozens more goblins loitered
about. Malcolm shoved through them, knocking them aside and
trampling a couple. With a burst of excited shouts they tackled
him. One on one he could kick a goblin’s ass, but not so much with
a rugby pile of them. Too joyfully the little monsters dragged him
back into the chamber.

They tossed him onto the table as he kicked and
screamed. The cold of the stone cut into his back muscles. The
goblins yanked his arms over his head. Loops of heavy rope twisted
around his damaged wrists. Malcolm shouted and struggled with every
ounce of animal determination he could muster, every bit of it
wasted. Ropes were lashed to his ankles and jerked through the
rings at the foot of the table, stretching him and keeping him from
kicking.

The woman leaned over him. Her cool hands cradled his
face. “Shh… It’s ok. It’s ok.”

“How is this remotely ok?” Malcolm snapped.

She shook her head. “Shh… Listen to me. Just listen.
Please? This won’t hurt. I’m not here to hurt you. Trust me.”

“Bite me! Who the hell are you? Let me go!” Malcolm
twisted against the clench of the rope, gnashing his teeth and not
caring about the tears stinging his eyes and face.

“Be still, please!” She stroked his face, staring at
his mouth, leaning so close that strands of her hair tickled his
forehead. She kissed him. Hard. Forcing her tongue between his lips
until Malcolm jerked his head to the side. She drew back, but
nothing changed in her urgent expression. “All you have to do is
Touch me, okay? That’s all.”

Malcolm yanked against the ropes. “How can I touch
you like this?”

Her hand curled around his. She kissed him again
quick, before he could flinch away. Her words tumbled out fast.
Desperate. “Just Touch me. Touch me now.”

“You are already touching me,” Malcolm protested.

“No. You have to Touch me, Sidhe,” she insisted,
breathless with urgency. “Touch me. Touch me. Just Touch me.”

He tugged against the ropes again. “I can’t touch you
like this.”

“Let his hands up,” she told the goblins.

They didn’t release his wrists, just let a couple
feet of slack into the ropes. A goblin, one on either side, forced
Malcolm’s hands into the woman’s.

“Touch. Touch.” The goblins chanted.

“Now, Touch me.” She curled her fingers into his
dirty palms.

“I am touching you.”

“Touch me, damn you!” She gripped his hands until her
nails stabbed into his palms.

“I am touching you!”

“He’s not doing it!” She snapped at the goblins. “You
promise he would Touch me!”

“Touch… Touch…” The goblins chorused louder.
Viciousness dripped like venom from their snarls.

“But I am touching you!” Malcolm searched her face,
and then the goblins’, for some kind of clue. Any hint at all. They
weren’t making any sense!

“Liar!”

The goblins unbound his feet. They flipped him face
down. Always so damn many goblins. Fighting always useless, but
Malcolm fought against them still. With his arms and legs
stretched, they bound him to the table once more.

The woman snatched a fistful of Malcolm’s hair and
yanked his head back. What had been pretty about her before was
gone with her red-faced fury. Her lips curled back with hatred.
“You have to Touch me now!”

“But I did!”

The first strike of the whip sliced across his back.
The thin material of his t-shirt shredded. Malcolm screamed.

“Touch!” The goblins spit at him.

“Touch me, Sidhe!” The woman yelled, clutching his
hand.

“I am!”

“Again!” she snapped.

The whip cracked again. The white hot burn of it
lanced across his flesh. Malcolm trembled, unable to process the
fullness of the pain. His own agonized outcry a foreign sound. Over
and over they demanded the ‘Touch’. Over and over they beat him.
Malcolm lost count how many times. His throat screamed raw until it
closed up and he couldn’t make any sound. Teeth clenched. Tongue
swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth. Pain beyond his ability
to support it. Until… mercifully… he blacked out.

“We’re not interested, Jhaer.” Seamus dug his hands
into the metal guts of some rusted contraption on wheels. A
ridiculously tattered straw hat shielded his face from the sun. Oil
might stain his denim overalls, but the very humanness of the
outfit and the shabby shack of a farmhouse stained the Sidhe
wallowing in them.