Part 26 (2/2)

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 G.o.ds 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 pa.s.sed 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 repet.i.tion, 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 G.o.ds 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 ma.s.sive 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 ma.s.sive 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 G.o.ds 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.ds 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 c.o.c.ked 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 c.u.mbersome 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 c.o.c.ked 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?”

”Just around the bend.”

”Remember, hand me the crossbows and then run.” He did not wait for an answer. Rounding the bend, he heard voices, men laughing at a ribald joke. The door to the guardroom gaped open. He crept toward the door and then stared at the girl. She eased the bows off her shoulders and nodded, her face set in stone. He gripped his crossbows, his thumbs near the ticklers. Taking a deep breath, he raised both bows and stepped into the doorway.

Five men and a Taal sat at a table...the big Taal had his back to the door.

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