The Gathering Storm
Page 332

“We’re attacked!”
“Beasts! Fire! Run!”
Many scattered into the forest. Others barricaded themselves into the log house. His men swarmed the open ground, which was a carpet of ash and dust and chipped, wrinkled, rutted earth from the tread of feet, the dragging of chains, and the press of wheels. Twenty surrounded the log house, using the dips and levels of the uneven ground as cover; his human archers shot at any sign of movement within the house. Others spread out to stand sentry along the woodland’s edge or to stand guard over the shafts, not knowing if men might clamber up from the depths.
Yet the scene of this swift victory gave him no pleasure. The stench of the workings stung like poison on his skin. The land had been stripped to bare earth, and even that soil had been mauled into an ugly facade. To steal treasure out of the earth they had created a wasteland.
The slaves, chopped free, ran for the trees, but his soldiers captured about a dozen, driving them forward in a herd. The hounds loped up to the lip of a big shaft and yipped and whined at its edge.
“I’m looking for a man known as Alain,” he said to the slaves cowering before him. “I’ll give a handsome reward to any man who leads me to him.”
They responded with frightened silence.
“He is so tall, more or less. Black hair, fair skin. He may have been blind or mute when you saw him. The hounds belong to him. Perhaps you recognize them.”
From the crowd a low voice murmured. “What kind of reward?”
Stronghand grinned, showing the jewels studding his teeth. “Your life. Is that not enough? Your freedom, which I grant you regardless. If you will have more, I must have more. I deal fairly with those who serve me faithfully, but I also punish those who believe they can cheat me.”
A stocky young man stepped forward out of the crowd, trailed by a second, taller companion. They wore rags that shed dirt with each step; they were themselves so filthy it was difficult to make out their features. But he liked the look in their eyes: although they feared him, they each had a keen gaze and an intelligent expression. Their captivity had not beaten them down. They hadn’t given up yet.
“We came here with a fellow we called Silent, for he couldn’t speak or see,” said the stocky one. “They took him into the shafts to walk the wheel. He might live yet, or he might not. The slaves who tread the wheels don’t live long.”
The taller one nodded. “He was a decent fellow, poor lad. But the Captain would know if he still lives. I heard a rumor that the Captain had him cast into the pit in exchange for a pair of gold nomias.”
“The pit?”
“Only dead men are cast into the pit.”
The slaves shuddered, hearing these words; the pit scared them more even than he did.
“I don’t know who would have wanted him dead, though,” added the taller one, “a blind mute as he was.”
His stocky companion nodded. “He wasn’t just an ordinary prisoner. Someone was trying to get him out of the way. He knew something, I’d wager.”
“Where is this wheel? Where is the pit?”
But he already knew. The hounds whined and scratched at the lip of one of the shafts. They knew where their master had gone.
The ones who had made Alain suffer would suffer in their turn. With cold fury in his heart he turned to Last Son. “Kill every man here except the slaves we have freed. They may go free, as they wish. Burn the rest alive.”
Last Son nodded and called out to the archers. By the time Stronghand reached the shaft and turned to clamber down the ladder into the workings, the log house was already ablaze and he heard the shouts and screams of the men inside as they made their final charge, out the door, in a vain attempt to escape.
As he descended, darkness swallowed him. He had his men bring torches such as the miners used, and with rather more difficulty the hounds were lowered after him, down each level and farther down until they reached the lowest wheel. Here, by the wavering, stinking light of pitchblende torches, Sorrow and Rage snuffled all around the wheel and up a low tunnel to a cold, damp hollow worn into the stone where rags and leavings and waste had collected.
Their tails beat the walls, wagging. They stuck their noses into the garbage and whined. Alain wasn’t here, although by the testimony of the hounds he once had been.
“Hsst!” Yeshu stood beside him, head cocked. “Listen!”
They heard the clamor of metal striking stone. A shout, followed by a harsh scream. A few moments later two of his soldiers padded out of the blackness dragging an injured man with a third soldier holding a torch to light their way.