The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) (25 page)

32

Duncan

Duncan reached the central mineshaft, the
fearsome clatter assaulting his ears. Like a metal monster ravenous for ore,
the massive chain rattled up and down the central shaft, enormous metal scoops
spaced along its length. Never in his life had Duncan seen such a thing. It seemed almost
evil, a strange metal beast, yet he’d made up his mind to ride it to the
surface. Desperate to glimpse the top, he stared aloft, but even his golden
cat-eye saw only gloom.

One of the hunchbacks emerged from
the gallery, struggling to pull a sledge loaded with ore. Covered in red dust
and bent to his burden, Simeon looked like a gargoyle sprung from the
underworld. Duncan
joined the hunchback, pushing the sledge from behind. Simeon threw a questioning
glance his way, clearly surprised by the aid, but he did not protest. They
muscled the sledge toward the bucket-chain. The great chain rounded a wheel
fixed to the bottom of the shaft, massive metal buckets gaping for ore. Three
buckets passed before the chain rattled to a sudden halt.

Simeon said, “Hurry.”

They grabbed lumps of ore and
heaved them into the bucket.

Simeon stared wide-eyed at Duncan’s sundered
shackles. “You’re marked for death.”

Duncan flashed a grin and spread his arms
wide. “No, for freedom.”

“It’s today then.”

The bent-back man was not stupid. Duncan nodded, “Spread the
word, we rise tonight, attacking Grack as he climbs the ladder.”

“But not you,” Simeon heaved a lump
into the bucket. “If you climb the ladder like that, Grack will kill you.”

They worked to fill the bucket.
“I’ll not be climbing the ladder. I’m riding the bucket-chain aloft.”

Simeon gaped. “You’re mad!”

Duncan grinned. “A surprise for our jailors.”

The bucket jerked and the two men
jumped back. The great chain rattled to life like a metal monster suddenly
wakened, hauling the ore aloft. Other buckets descended, waiting to be fed.

Simeon stared at Duncan. “It’s madness to ride the chain.”

“I have to try.”

“You’re a dead man.” The hunchback made
a strange warding sign with his left hand and then shrugged into the harness affixed
to the sledge. Turning without a word, he trudged back into the gallery,
dragging the empty sledge behind him.

Duncan remained in the throat of the mine. He
waited for the chain to come to a stop and then climbed into the massive
bucket. Rock dust covered the bottom, the dented sides rising to his waist.
Spreading his feet wide, he gripped the chain, his heart thundering.

The chain clattered to life,
lifting him as easily as a load of ore. He clung to the sides, enduring the
jerking motion. Thirty feet up, the chain shuddered to a sudden halt. From
below, he heard loud thumps as ore was dumped into a bucket. Two hundred
heartbeats later, the chain lurched upwards again.

Lift and stop, he rode the bucket
up through the mineshaft. It was a strange sensation, moving without effort,
like riding the back of a giant metal beast. He watched the ladder rungs as
they passed, a measure of his passage up the shaft. Abandoned galleries began
to appear, dark mouths gaping in the rough rock wall. For the first time, he
noticed subtle colors striping the mineshaft, bands of ocher, rust, and umber,
proving the deep depths had their own strange beauty. Duncan shivered, longing for leaf and bark
and honest sky, hoping the bucket-chain reached all the way to the surface. He
stared aloft but saw only gloom. Once he looked down, but the view made him
queasy, a sheer drop into hell. He’d always been callous to heights, but
somehow this was different.

The slow ascent gave him time to
ponder his chances. He yearned for his longbow. With a single quiver he’d cut a
swath through the guards but his only weapon was a crude iron wedge. He barked
a laugh at the folly of his plan. Surprise was his only advantage, a slender
hope. He’d have to find a way to distract the guards. Wielding chaos like a
sword, he’d look for the chance to free other prisoners. With luck he might even
live to glimpse the sky again.

The chain quaked and shuddered,
nearing the ladder top. Duncan
crouched, hiding in the bucket, hoping Grack did not wait for the prisoners
below. His luck held, for the threshold stood empty. Just to be safe, he stayed
crouched till he was a good twenty feet past the ladder top. Standing, he
peered up through the gloom, but even his cat-eye was of no help. Only the gods
knew what waited above.

Rattle and groan, the bucket-chain
slowly strained upwards. Just when he thought there was no end to the shaft,
details began to appear. A wooden platform with holes cut for the bucket-chain
covered the mineshaft. Yellow torchlight flickered through the holes, a bitter
disappointment. Either it was night above or the platform was still below
ground. Sounds filtered from overhead, the crack of whips and the creak of
wood. Duncan
leaned out of the bucket, needing to find another way up. Wooden beams angled
out from the mineshaft, supporting the underside of the platform, but it seemed
a risky jump. He scanned the darkness, but he found no other way.

The chain jerked upwards like a
fisherman’s line, pulling him ever closer to the platform. Only one bucket
remained above him, time had run out. His heart racing, he gripped the chain
and balanced on the lip of the bucket. Refusing to look down, he launched
himself across the void. Arms stretched to their limits, he seemed to leap forever.
His fingernails scraped against wood. One hand found a hold. He fell hard,
dangling from the beam. The iron wedge slipped from his belt, tumbling into the
void. Cursing his ill luck, he struggled for purchase. He gained a second
handhold and pulled up. Breathing hard, he straddled the beam. He listened for
the falling wedge, but heard nothing. Hugging the wood beam, he stared down
into the murky depths, shuddering at the fall.

The chain rattled to life and his bucket
passed beyond the platform. Footsteps shuffled overhead but there was no cry of
alarm. He hugged the beam, waiting for a chance at surprise. Full buckets
continued to rise, empty buckets descending. Lulled by the dull repetition, Duncan lost count, every
third or fourth bucket filled with ore. His legs cramped and still he waited.

The bucket-chain clattered to a
stop…and this time it remained still.

Spiked alert, Duncan held his breath and listened. The sounds
from above slowly dimmed, signaling the end to the toil in the depths. By now,
the others would be making the long climb back up the ladder. He wondered who
would die tonight, Grack or his friends. If the gods cared for justice, then
one-armed Taal was doomed to die. Either way, Duncan would find a way to
bleed the enemy.

He stretched his muscles, needing
to be limber and then crawled along the angled beam till his head touched the
underside of the platform. Leaning out, he stretched for the opening but it was
beyond his reach. Coiling into a crouch, he leaped for the opening. He caught
the edge, dangling below the platform. His hold was awkward, but his strength
prevailed. Slowly pulling up, he raised his head through the hole.

Torchlight glinted on rough rock
walls. A massive winch loomed overhead like a wooden dragon, but he saw no
guards. He swung up through the opening and rolled towards the shadows.
Crouching low, he breathed deep. The air was cooler than the mines but it held
the same cloying stench of sweat and fear and oppression, proving he’d find
allies on this level. Duncan
grinned; oppression was such a fertile ground for revolt.

His gaze swept the cavern,
searching for a weapon. Torches lined the walls, the only source of light. On
the far side, a mound of ore rose like a pyramid, a monument to slavery.
Overhead, the winch was built of massive timbers. Old and dry, the wood was
desiccated by the mine’s stale air.
Old
and dry
…a grin spread across his face. If not a weapon, at least he could
wreck havoc. Chaos might compensate for numbers.

He collected five torches. Thrusting
them deep into the winch, he prayed for the wood to catch. As if the gods
approved, the fire embraced the old timbers. A belch of black smoke billowed to
the ceiling. Duncan
grinned, a distraction for the guards…and a stop to the Mordant’s iron ore.

Knowing time was against him, he
raced to the exit. The cavern narrowed to a long corridor, the floor worn
smooth by countless footsteps. Torches lined the walls, casting islands of
light in the dim gloom. Duncan
stretched his senses, alert to danger, but the corridor proved empty.

A short run brought him to a
three-way fork. Pausing at each opening, he breathed deep, questing for clues.
The air to the left seemed less stale, as if the mine’s stench was diluted.
Perhaps the left led to the surface, an alluring choice…but he’d promised Brock
and the others. He chose the right, satisfied when the floor began to angle
downward.

Footsteps
ahead!
But there was nowhere to hide. Duncan
retreated to the darkness between two torches, crouched to flee or fight.

The footsteps came closer, only one
set, but the tread was soft, not the tramp of hobnailed boots. Puzzled, he
waited, a lump of iron ore clenched in his fist. A figure rounded the bend, a
young woman, blond-haired and slender, with a basket perched on her head.
A woman
, Duncan took a chance and stepped into the
light. “Greetings.”

She startled but she did not
scream. Wide-eyed, her gaze traveled the length of him, from his
leather-wrapped feet, to the broken shackles lashed to his forearms, to his
naked chest, finally fixing on his mismatched stare. “You bear the mark of the
Pit. If it’s escape you seek, you’ve run the wrong way.”

Duncan had to smile; for once his cat-eye
gained him an ally instead of enmity. “I’ve come to set the prisoners free.”

Her eyes widened while her left
hand sketched a strange sign.

“Do you have a name?”

“Mara.” She gestured to the basket
perched on her head. “I bring supper to the winch guards every night.”
Something dark flitted behind her pale green eyes.

“How many guards?”

“Six including Mardak, the Taal.” She gestured back up the corridor. “First door on
the right. They were eating when I left.”

“And the prisoners?”

“Two doors beyond but you’ll need
the keys. Mardak keeps them on his belt.”

A bloody Taal.
“I need weapons.”

She stared at him, as if peering
into his very soul, but then she nodded, her voice firm. “My brothers died in
the mine. I’ll help you. Come.” She took his hand, and led him back up the
corridor to the fork. A faint whiff of smoke rode the air, confirming the fire
still burned but he heard no cry of alarm. Mara took the central passage,
leading him to an iron-studded door. “In here.”

He pressed his ear to the door…and
heard nothing yet he hesitated, without weapons, a room full of guards would be
a deathtrap.

The tramp of boots echoed up the
corridor.

Out of time, Duncan shouldered the door open. He plunged
into darkness, pulling the girl with him. Easing the door shut, he held his breath,
listening. The tramp of boots passed them by. Duncan leaned against the door and took a
deep breath.

Light slivered beneath the door,
more than enough for his golden eye. Weapons lined the walls, racks of spears
and bundles of short swords, enough for a hundred men. He moved to the wall and
reached for a scabbard, buckling a sword around his waist, a warrior once more.

“How can you see?”

He’d almost forgotten the girl. “I
see well enough.”

“Oh.” She stayed by the door,
setting her basket on the floor.

He found some daggers and stuck two
through his belt. Circling the room, he prayed for a bow, but the gods were not
that good. Axes and whips lined another wall, but then he found a rack of
crossbows. Duncan
grinned; not as elegant as a longbow, but it would serve. Beneath the
crossbows, he found a pile of small canvas sacks bulging with quarrels. Tying
two to his belt, he took down a crossbow. Setting his foot in the stirrup, he
cocked the bowstring, loading an armor-piercing quarrel. One shot was all he’d
get, but it might be enough to bring down a Taal.
He stared at the other crossbows, wondering if he could wield two of the
cumbersome weapons.

“I can help.”

“What?”

The girl had come halfway across
the room, lifting a dagger from a shelf. “If you’re going to kill the guards, I
can help.”

“You’re no warrior.” He picked up a
second crossbow and cocked the string.

“If you load it, I can shoot it.”

“And once you’ve shot it, you’re
dead.” He shook his head at her folly. “Six against one, the odds are grim.”

“Six against two would be better.”
She lifted her chin and stared at him. “You don’t understand, I want them
dead.” Her voice held a hard edge.

She reminded him a bit of Kath…just
a bit. And another crossbow would help, a chance to improve the odds. “Can you
hold this?” He handed her a crossbow. “Careful, it’s loaded.” The weapon looked
awkward in her hands, but she held it steady enough. “You loose the quarrel by
lifting the tickler here.” He pointed to the mechanism. “Aim low because most
crossbows kick high. Aim for the groin and you’ll likely hit the chest.”

“And if I want to hit the groin?”

So that was the way of it. “The chest
makes a better target. But if all goes well, I’ll do the shooting.” He loaded a
fourth crossbow. “I’ll kick open the door and loose the first two and then drop
them. You hand me the other crossbows and then run. I don’t want your blood on
my hands.”

She nodded, a bitter smile on her
face.

Duncan shook his head, another stubborn
woman…but he did not have time to argue. He looped the strap of the crossbow
over her shoulder. “Can you carry two?” She nodded and he gave her the second.
“Careful, they’re armed.” He picked up the other two and moved to the door.
Easing the door open, he checked the corridor, relieved to find it empty.
“Come.” Holding a crossbow in each hand, he retraced his steps to the place
where he’d first found her. “How much further?”