Daygo's Fury (38 page)

They walked through the open stone doorway. The gaoler stopped to pull the large metal door and lock it shut, Liam stumbled on without him, trailing the swordsman. Outside the door was a corridor perpendicular to the one they had left and much like it, except on one side were doors such as the one he had come from. Liam lurched up and down as he tried to keep up with the swordsman, his stride shaky and erratic, his stance hunched over. They walked for about thirty yards, past door after door, before they reached the concrete stairs at the end of the tunnel, leaving Liam wondering at the numbers detained there.

The steps proved too much for his weakened legs. He was forced to use his hands as a support as he half crawled up.

The general damp feel lifted as he reached the room above, and it was only then, with the fresher air, did he realise how fetid it was below. It was a small, square, whitewashed room with no furnishings. The paint was smudged and peeling, the stone beneath it showing through as often as not. There was one small window of warped glass and a single door that swung ajar. The room was scattered with loose weaponry, broken and discarded pieces of wood and furnishings, some unpleasant-looking tools—Liam could guess at their use—and spare sets of manacles and keys along with odds and ends that Liam could not place. A burst of laughter exploded suddenly from the next room, and the jokester was applauded by the curse-filled praise of rough men.

Liam looked up at the man garbed in black before him. As he stopped, Liam allowed himself to sink to the floor just past the top of the stairs. The gaoler’s grumbling and heavy footsteps could be heard through the hole as he followed in their wake.

“Where’s the bath?” asked the swordsman as soon as the gaoler’s head appeared above the floor.

“The next room,” he growled, head down as he climbed into the room. The swordsman’s eyes fixed him steadily. The gaoler looked up, caught his gaze and dropped his head once more and started to fidget with his hands. “Follow me,” he said in a more polite tone.

They walked into the next room, which was lying empty. It lay directly above the cells below. It was sparsely furnished. There was a table and some chairs to the left side as they entered. The door to the outside was straight in front of them in the middle of the wall. There was a window to the right side of the door but not the left. Everything was sturdily built with stone. The floor was all hard dirt. There was an open ledger, a pot of ink and a feather quill on the table. Alongside the ink was a collection of strange-looking stones. Further manacles were stacked in the corner behind the table. There was another door down from the one they had come, leading to the room adjacent.

Liam looked across at the central door as the gaoler led them to the next room. He knew the swordsman was glancing back at him, an eyebrow half raised that he ignored. Five yards from freedom, five yards from the slums. Why would he ever want to go back? He thought back to Lana. Would she look after him, give him a place to stay, a bed to sleep on? It was something that he had never had, something he had only daydreamed about. He wondered how nice it might be, how soft. He could sleep there the rest of his days, curl up into a ball.

Lana would not do it. He was not even allowed to die in that cell, roused and forced onwards. He wanted it no more. Suddenly, he envied the bums, the homeless who lay like waste at street corners.

The swordsman’s eyes remained on him as he walked into the next room after the gaoler. There were three men within, lounging languidly across their chairs, playing a game of cards on the hardwood table between them. They were the source of the earlier laughter. There was a rusted metal bath in the corner about half the length of a man, showing signs of dust along its corners from lack of use. It was filled with dubious-looking water. There was a rope dangling above it looped around an iron pulley that was fastened into the ceiling, again showing signs of decay and lack of use.

The men looked up as they entered before returning to their game disinterestedly. The gaoler stood to one side awkwardly and folded his hands. The swordsman did a quick sweep of the room with his eyes.

“Clear the room,” he said. The brown-haired man sitting closest to the door looked up and around at him, an eyebrow half-raised. Then he turned to the gaoler. The two at the other side of the table put down their cards and sat back, eyeing the swordsman with equal incredulity.

“How about you keep that fuckin’ mouth of yours shut, and we’ll continue with our game,” said the black-haired man across the table to the right. A scar trailed from his forehead over his eyebrow to the cheek below the left eye. The eye gave a slight twitch every few seconds as he stared malevolently across the table at the swordsman.

The man before them grunted and turned back to his cards. “Clear the room?” he muttered disdainfully. “Yer in our fuckin’ room now!”

The slow, silvery ring of a sword exiting its scabbard seemed amplified in the immediate silence that it caused. The man nearest the door shot up from his chair and turned around.

“Hey, hey!” came the shouts of the gaoler as he turned. The swordsman ignored them all, lifting his sword free. He dropped its end on the table with a thump, the sound alone telling of the weight of steel and the strength of the man who drew it, one-armed, with such ease. A few tendrils of dust rose from the table top with the thud and stuck to the shiny exterior of the blade, drawing extra attention to the well-polished gleam of a blade impeccably kept. It was as though it shone brightly and everything else was dulled as a result. Even Liam’s eyes were drawn to it, a slight gasp escaping his lips unknown.

“I told your men to leave.” His voice was the same tone, unchanged, as it had been the first time. The casual nature of his movement, the absence of change of tone, expression or stance, the nonchalant way that he had dropped his sword tip onto the table, seemed all to add to the danger that suddenly emanated from the man. He seemed to dwarf the other four men, as though he were a colossus, as though they were mice to tread on.

“Y—ye can’t …” the third man stuttered. “The king’s rules … the king would have ye out …”

“The king doesn’t know I’m here,” replied the swordsman calmly, his eyes boring holes into the other man’s. It was enough; all of a sudden, chairs were drawn and the men stumbled over themselves to get clear of the room and the domineering figure within it. The third man had to walk around the table, and around the swordsman, to get out of the room. The swordsman followed him with his gaze the whole way, as he shuffled past as quickly as he could, virtually pressing himself against the far wall to keep as much distance as possible between them.

“Dunk him into the bath,” he said to the gaoler, indicating Liam, as the door swung shut behind the men. Liam stood still for a moment, glancing over at the bath and then at the swordsman who had walked away and was pulling up a chair beside the bath to sit on. He walked towards the bath, deciding to get in himself since it was inevitable, but before he could, the gaoler grabbed his filthy tunic from behind, lifted him up and dunked him into the bath. Liam, his hands manacled together, could offer little resistance.

The cool water was a welcome shock to his system. His eyes opened in the murky water, his hair fizzed in front of him and bubbles cascaded from his mouth and nose, massaging his face as they crawled upwards. In a strange moment of clarity, as the last of his breath left him and he could feel the gaoler’s hands holding him down roughly, he opened his mouth wide and inhaled with all the might he could muster. Water flooded into his lungs and instinct took over. His body started to convulse wildly as he coughed and inhaled and coughed again. His body struggled even as his mind didn’t want to.

Then he was out, coughing and choking violently, water, combined with saliva, hanging in long elastic drops from his mouth and pouring from his nose. His chest burned and his eyes felt as though they would pop. His heart thumped desperately in his chest, as though it could burst clear. His whole torso seemed to act with a mind of its own, convulsing uncontrollably, all the while Liam wishing that he had been held down just a little bit longer.

The swordbearer looked at him curiously. The gaoler held him up, his expression angry. He left Liam go and he dropped against the back railing. Liam rattled a cough and ducked his head underwater again, hearing the curse from the gaoler as he was grabbed and pulled back out, another lungful of water inhaled.

His vision had gone black. He could feel himself retching and coughing, his head hanging loosely as he did so, but it seemed far away, as though he were looking down on himself from above.

“Take him out,” he heard, the sound entering his ears but not quite reaching his mind. He was in a bright fog, sound thumped in like a painful banging at the edges, causing vibrations outwards as it did. Sight entered ahead, brief outlines of the swordbearer and gaoler as his head rocked from side to side. Then his breathing filled his ears until it was all he could hear and his coughing, a loud, desperate panting, as though there was an exhausted dog within his head. His vision cleared and he was back in the room, staring at the concrete floor. For a moment, he thought he was back in the cell, staring back up at that crumbling ceiling above him, and there was a moment of panic before he realised that it was too bright, too dry and he was the other way round. And he remembered where he was again.

“Why did you do that?” It was the deep, rumbling voice of the swordbearer. Liam started retching, preventing him from answering, though he hadn’t intended to, then he sat back against the iron bath. He coughed uncomfortably every time he breathed too deeply, so he started to take short, panting breaths. The man seemed to be waiting, but Liam saw no reason to oblige him. Eventually he looked across at the gaoler.

“Leave us,” he said.

“The money. We agreed!”

“It is as I said. I want to speak with him first.”

“What if you just walk out the back …”

“A swordbearer's word is sacrosanct. Don’t make me remind you of that again.” The gaoler swallowed and nodded, leaving the room. The swordbearer turned back to Liam and found his gaze matched. He took off his gloves casually, tucking them into his belt.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Liam was still coughing sporadically. He looked to the side and didn’t answer.

The man slapped him across the face. “I don’t have all day,” he said simply as Liam’s cheek burned. He had seen it coming but it was too fast for him to move.

“Liam,” he answered hoarsely.

“Ensio.”

Liam glanced at him.

“How did you get here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Then what did you do to be put here?”

Liam shrugged.

The man sighed. “I’ve come out of my way to find you. Believe me when I tell you it’s in your interest to answer me.”

Liam simply looked across at the door to the next room. There were muffled sounds of arguments and angry protests coming from there.

“Let me tell you what I heard. I heard that you slaughtered six grown, armed men. Matis men. I heard that you then set about dismembering them …”

Liam glanced up at that. Finding the swordsman’s steady gaze on him, he returned his eyes to the door.

“… and tortured them for a time before they died. Is this what happened?”

Liam took a deep breath. He knew there was no point in refusing to answer. He shrugged again. “I don’t really know …”

“Answer me.” There was a command in his voice and a hint of impatience.

“I killed them …”

“And the torture?”

“I don’t know …”

“That’s not good enough.”

Liam barked a laugh and looked at the swordsman. His mouth curled in the slightest of grins.

“Did you torture them?” he asked again. Liam shrugged. The man’s eyes furrowed. “Shrug once more …” he warned.

Liam’s sardonic laugh cut him off. “And what?” he asked, looking him in the eyes.

The man clenched his jaw. “Why were they after you?”

Liam dropped his eyes. “I was … stealing from them.”

“How?”

“From merchants trading with them.”

“Merchants have guards with them in the slums, no?” Liam didn’t answer. “How did you steal from them?”

Liam’s anger was building with the line of questioning. Who was this man?

“I killed them.” 

“The guards?”

“Both.”

The swordsman looked at him hard. His expression seemed a mix between disgust and disbelief. “How many?”

“A lot.”

“Give me a number.”

“No.”

“How did you kill them?”

“With my knife.”

The man suppressed a sigh and clenched his fist. “But these are trained guards.”

“Not well trained.”

“Nevertheless.” Liam simply looked at him. He shook his head. “How did you manage to kill six armed men from the gang?”

“Five.”

“What?”

“Five. One ran away.”

The swordsman raised an eyebrow. “Five, then. How?”

“I was faster than them.”

“How? How does a boy kill five men?”