The castle was asleep, and Morgan Hearst was ready to move. His cell was pitch black, as the torch they had left with him had long since expired. But by now he knew this prison intimately. He had tested the door for weaknesses, finding none. Climbing up onto the heavy lintel above the door, he had probed the stonework. Again he had been disappointed. But the floor and the walls had yielded up interesting secrets.
Now, moving in the dark, he remove the loose flagstone and took out the items he had earlier discovered beneath it. There was a length of rope, a knife and half a horseshoe, which had been ground down at one end to make a kind of chisel. Hearst explored the wall, once more finding the loose stone. Using the horseshoe chisel, he levered it out, exposing a steel tunnel descending from unknown heights. It was wet, but it was not a sewer; it smelt dank, but was not unclean.
Hearst had feared to leave earlier in the night, thinking that the turnkey might come and check on him, and raise the alarm. But there had been no checks, so he doubted that anyone would come for him before dawn. Now he would escape. And if escape proved impossible, then he would kill himself to deny his enemies the pleasure of sacrificing him.
Silently, Hearst eased himself into the tunnel. It was a tight squeeze to get through the hole made by removing a block of stone, but once in the tunnel he had room enough to go on all fours or to waddle. He went downward, hoping the tunnel would exit somewhere near the base of the castle. Once he was clear of the castle, there would be no holding him.
As he worked his way down the tunnel, it started to get steeper. He went cautiously through the dark, wary in case he encountered a drop-hole. He was reminded of the time when he had retreated through darkened tunnels exiting from a dragon's lair on the mountain of Maf; these memories of times past were unwelcome, and he suppressed them.
As the tunnel got steeper, it became drier. And warm. Then hot. Then Hearst saw a flicker of fire up ahead. He paused, unable to keep himself from recalling past encounters with dragons. Was it possible that his Collosnon enemies were holding such a monster in their dungeons? It was unlikely, but not impossible.
Hearst doubted that he could tackle a dragon with a bit of rope, a knife and an improvised chisel. Yet he crept forward. The flames grew brighter. He could see his own hands now; he could see the stone blocks the tunnel was made from. He saw a drop of his own sweat fall to make a small damp patch on the hot dry stone. It faded rapidly.
A little further, and Hearst found himself on the edge of a chasm, looking down into a pit of seething fire. There was no dragon to contend with: but this inferno was impassable. The chasm was a remnant of the fire dyke which had once moated the ancient stronghold of wizards, Castle Vaunting.
Hearst studied his surroundings carefully. He leaned out and peered to right and to left. There was no escape from this end of the tunnel. Still, if escape ultimately proved impossible, he had an easy way out…
So he thought for a moment. Then his old fear of heights claimed him, and he withdrew from the edge of the chasm, shuddering. If in the end he was forced to suicide to escape being sacrificed, then he would not jump into that pit. Instead, he would slash his carotids, allowing him to bleed to death swiftly without excessive pain.
But it was not yet time for that.
Hearst turned round and followed the tunnel upward. Soon it grew too dark for him to see, but his questing, testing fingertips found the hole marking the place where he had removed a block of stone from his cell wall. He paused, resting. Not for the first time, he wondered about the prisoner who had actually chipped away the mortar to loosen that stone, and who had secreted rope, knife and chisel under a loose flagstone. Had that prisoner been taken away and executed just before escaping? Or had the prisoner perhaps fallen ill, escape again being prevented by death?
What Hearst was trying to avoid was the thought that maybe there was no escape via this tunnel.
After a short rest, he continued on up the tunnel. Again it grew steeper. Finally it became vertical. He worked his way upward, bracing his back against one wall of the shaft and his knees against the opposite wall, using hand, hook, forearms and elbows in his struggle.
He was halted at length by a metal grating. He pushed it with his head. It refused to shift. Bracing himself with back and knees, jamming himself in the shaft so he could not slip and fall, he heaved upwards, using head, hand and forearm. Sweating and straining, he managed to lift the metal grate. He pushed it aside. It made a hideous sound as it scraped over stone.
Swiftly, Hearst hauled himself up and sat on the edge of the shaft. He snapped his fingers and listened for echoes. Something was deadening the sound. He was in a room of indeterminate size, possibly a room clad with soft furnishings.
Moving round in the dark, Hearst found bundles of linen. Then a clothes horse. Behind that, a fireplace. He raked through the ashes with his knife, uncovering a few-dying embers. He found a woodbox to one side of the fireplace, trimmed shavings from a log to use as kindling, and before long had a fire going.
By the firelight, he saw that he was in a laundry. He had guessed as much already. Some poor unfortunates must have the job of carting water up from the river; once dirty, it was tipped away down the shaft, riding the tunnel down to the fire chasm. In Garabatoon, faced with the threat of the Swarms, a lot of effort had gone into putting as many people and services as possible behind the protection of stone walls.
Hearst looked for the door leading out of the laundry. To his surprise, it was barred from the outside. He could not shift it. It was a massive, hulking door made out of baulks of timber. Even with an axe, he would have been some time smashing a way through it; without an axe, any such effort would be futile. The weakest point of a door is often its hinges, but in this case the hinges were on the far side.
The windows were narrow slits which would not even admit his head. Looking out, he saw a dark night sky and darker countryside. He hunted all through the laundry, but found only one way of escape – up the chimney. Heat fanned his face as he leaned over the fire. He peered up the dubious black shaft then withdrew, and sat down to think.
He was very comfortable there by the fire. The blue flames talked to the red and the gold, murmuring quietly. Occasional sparks ascended. Some were wafted on upwards, while others clung to the blackened walls of the chimney, glowed momentarily then died, adding their own weight to the thick coating of soot.
Hearst was tired; he was more than ready for sleep. Could he hide in the laundry and escape when the workers came? No. He would either be caught sleeping, or else he would die fighting his way out of castle. To survive, he had to escape from Castle Celadric tonight, and get away under cover of darkness. He got to his feet.
Hearst sorted out three hooded cloaks and donned all three. Once he escaped, he would discard them, since travelling the countryside covered in soot would draw unnecessary attention to him – to put it mildly. He drew dirty water from a tub which had not yet been emptied down the disposal chute. The fire hissed and spluttered when he threw on the water. The flames died, but he used more water to kill the fire entirely, not wanting any smoke in the chimney while he was climbing it.
Belatedly, he realized it might be a good idea to protect his hand – best to take good care of it, as he only had the one. Working in the dark, he tore cloth into strips and bandaged it. Then he started up the chimney, which was warm, though he had not had the fire burning for long; with three cloaks over his other clothing, he was soon uncomfortably hot.
He climbed past a junction where another chimney joined the one he was ascending. He forced his way on upward, and then, to his dismay, found that the chimney narrowed to a chokepoint too small for him to get through. Looking up, he saw a span of stars. His hand reached up, counted one, two, three bricks, then found an open space which he supposed was the roof. He made a tentative effort to chip away at the mortar holding the bricks, then abandoned it. Speed was essential. He might be half the night removing the bricks – and even then, having gained the roof, he might find no easy way to exit from it.
He decided to climb back to where the chimney branched. If he could not find an escape route, he could always return to attack the bricks barring him from the roof. He descended carefully, reached the junction, and followed the unexplored shaft.
He found it strangely clean – there seemed to be no soot in it at all. As it went down, it began to widen. Soon it was almost too wide for him to brace his back against one side and his knees against the other. Hearst found himself getting nervous, fearing a fall. If it got much wider, he would have to give up and climb back again.
Then he found a wooden ladder pegged into the side of the shaft. He accepted its assistance gratefully, and climbed down it. All around-him, the shaft opened out. He wondered what on earth could be below. He paused, linking his right arm through the ladder, and scraped the soot out of his nose. Now he could smell something curiously foul – a compound stench of wet and rot, of bad meat and maggots, of stinking potatoes, of sewage. He peered downwards into the darkness, but found himself unable to see anything.
He had rested long enough. He climbed on down.
Suddenly, without a moment's notice, the ladder tore free from the wall. Hearst fell. Falling, he shrieked. His scream of terror echoed from the walls. Then he smashed home into-
He was buried in it.
He forced his head out, spat, breathed, gagged, then forced himself to breathe again. He had fallen into a pit filled with everything he had been smelling earlier. He spat repeatedly, fighting nausea. He dared not open his eyes. His clothes, his face, his hair – everything was covered in evil-smelling slime. He was neck-deep in the stuff.
Hearst struggled to the wall. It curved overhead. Working his way right round the pit, he found it the same all the way round. It was as if he stood in the bottom of an hourglass. It was impossible to climb that curving wall. There was only one way out: a slimy round pipe set in the wall at neck height.
Hearst struggled into the pipe and began to crawl. It was narrow, and it stank. After a long, hard struggle the smell got worse, as it was joined by the stink of something scorching. The pipe was getting warm; he guessed it emptied into another fire chasm.
He felt his way carefully, stopping when the heat grew intense. The muck coating his eyelids had dried by now; he flaked away the crust and opened his eyes. As he expected, he saw firelight reflecting from the walls ahead. So this was the end! He was going to die in a sewer. He was, he realized, already very thirsty. How long would he last? A day? Two days? Maybe longer.
Unless there was a way past the fire.
He crawled forward, and found himself confronted by a man-wide chasm. It went down a long, long way, widening as it went; below was a veritable lake of fire. On the other side of the chasm was a rock ledge, one horse-length wide, studded with stone bollards. In the rock wall behind the ledge there was a door, revealed by the glowering, shadowy light of hellfire.
Hearst, crouched in the sewer pipe, could not jump across the chasm, even though it was only man-wide. However, he still had the length of rope he had found under the loose flagstone in his prison cell. He could make a noose and throw it so it landed on one of the stone bollards. Then he could swing across the chasm, open the door and-
And what if the door refused to open?
Hearst declined to think about that. Swiftly, he made a lasso out of his bit of rope. On the third try, he managed to drop it over the nearest bollard. He hauled on the rope to tighten the noose. The bollard toppled over and fell into the chasm. As it fell, the rope snapped taut and was wrenched from his hand. He gave a small, involuntary cry – and then was ashamed of himself for doing so.
Hearst backed into the sewer, until he was in the cooler sections, away from the fire. By means of long and involved contortions, he managed to strip off the three cloaks he wore over his other clothing. He cut the cloaks into strips and tied the strips into ropes. Each cloak made a rope long enough to bridge the chasm even after he had fashioned a loop at one end.
He was ready to try again.
He was very tired now. His body was weary from crawling, scrambling and climbing, and from the shock of his plunge into the pit. He was starting to suffer occasional muscle cramps. He crawled back to the fire chasm and tried again.
The first time he threw a rope, the loop at the end dropped neatly over a bollard. He pulled on it. The bollard did not move. But would it hold firm when it supported his full weight? For that matter, would the rope hold? He would soon find out. He wrapped the end of the rope round his right forearm, careful to keep it clear of his razor-sharp hook. He gripped the rope in his hand, pulled it taut then advanced.
As he hauled himself out of the pipe, a blast of heat flushed his face, neck and belly. When he was out of the pipe as far as his navel, he felt his body starting to sag in the middle. He paused, winding the slack of the rope round his right forearm. He wriggled forward. Soon the rope was taking half his weight, with his feet supporting the rest. He was now suspended over the fire chasm; he felt as if he was cooking. The far side was just out of reach.
His toes worked their way to the edge of the sewer. He lifted one foot, and explored the edge of the sewer with his boot. Then he kicked off, jerking his knees in to his chest.
He swung across the chasm. Knees tucked in to his chest, he slammed into the far side. His feet took the brunt of the impact. There was a ripping sound: his cloth rope was tearing. Desperately he reached up with his left hand, took the full weight of his body in that hand, wound in the slack with his right forearm, then repeated the process.
His hand slammed home on level rock. He had gained a purchase on the top! In a few seconds, he had hauled himself up onto the rock ledge. He rolled away from the heat and lay panting. His body was wringing wet with sweat; his mouth was a desert. Slowly, he gathered his strength and got to his knees. He stood up. He felt the blood swoon from his head; dizzy, he collapsed to his knees. He crawled to the door, one horse-length from the chasm.
He rested by the door for a while, then, when he had recovered somewhat, he got up and inspected it. There was no handle on the inside. He tried to lever it open, and failed. The hinges were on the far side. When he threw his weight against it, it did not even creak. It was a solid door. He would have to cut a hole in it. Either that, or die.
He decided to work in the middle, cutting a hole he could reach through to lift whatever bar secured the door. Of course, if the door was bolted shut, the bolt would be to one side, out of reach. With that happy thought, he set to work with knife, hook and chisel.
Morgan Hearst had by now entirely lost track of time. He worked methodically, without thought, pausing only when his arms cramped, and he had to straighten them to ease the muscle spasms. He was very tired now; as he worked, he had occasional hallucinatory dreams for two or three breaths at a time.
At last he managed to make a small hole which he could poke his chisel through. Peering through the hole, he made out the dim outlines of a small, bare room. Or was it a section of a corridor? He could see very little of it. But what he could see was a slit window admitting grey dawniight.
He had run out of darkness.
Hearst worked harder. Every time he stopped to look at his steadily widening hole, the light on the far side was brighter. Eventually, brilliant daylight was streaming in through the slit window. Panting, sweating, swearing occasionally – silently, for it hurt his throat to speak – he hacked, gouged, jabbed and scraped, splintering the wood and ripping it away.
The first time he tried to force his hand through the hole, it got stuck. Splinters jagged into it as he wrenched it back. He attacked the door in a vicious frenzy, expending the last of his energy. When he halted, gasping, the hole was large enough. He reached through and groped around, searching for a bar which he could lift to open the door.
Someone grabbed his hand.
Hearst hauled with all his strength, trying to retrieve his hand. It was impossible. He swore aloud. His voice was a croak. He swore again. He had been caught in a trap. After all that effort, he had been caught. His rage overmastered him. He slammed his head against the door in frustration.
The door began to open.
As the door opened, Hearst was dragged into the daylight. Then his hand was released, suddenly. He fell backwards onto the floor. He lay there, exhausted, half-blinded by the light. A small group of people gathered round and stared down at him. His vision blurred then focused. He recognized the Lord Emperor Celadric, dressed in lightweight silks; the emperor's brother, Meddon, wearing chain mail and bearing weapons; the Ondrask of Noth, in his ceremonial regalia; the pirate chief Draven, and, standing beside him and looking very pale, the Princess Quenerain.
'You took longer than I expected,' said Celadric. 'Yes,' said Meddon. 'Still, you're lucky to have made it. Half our prisoners die in the attempt.’
Hearst managed a few words in a wretched, rusty voice. 'Am I free then?’
'Oh no,' said Meddon, laughing. 'Not that lucky. The Ondrask has sharpened a knife for you.' 'Any last requests?' said Celadric. 'You can have my woman, if you like,' said Draven. The Princess Quenerain flinched. 'Water,' said Hearst.
'The prisoner is to be denied all water,' said Celadric, then turned and walked away.
'If it's any consolation,' said Meddon, 'you're going to be in good company. General Chonjara is going to be executed today. That's part of the deal with our friend Draven. He doesn't want the general escaping then coming looking for his woman.’
'Watashi?' croaked Hearst.
'He goes into the stocks in the market place at noon,' said Meddon, 'along with your other friends. They'll be stoned to death by the mob.’
And Meddon smiled, produced a wilted flower and dropped it on Hearst's chest. This was a subtle insult, reminding him of how easily he had been taken the day before. Then Meddon too turned and walked away.
Hearst jerked his hook up to his throat, intending to slash his carotids then and there. But the Ondrask stepped on his right arm before he could do himself any injury. The Ondrask gave a curt order in a language Hearst could not understand.
And guards seized hold of the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst, and carried him away.