Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (12 page)

Home . . . What a wonderful word.

“But it’s the surviving in the mines that’s the trick,” Pond Scum said. “Like I mentioned before, without food we’d die in a week’s time. Maybe ten days.”

“We’ll also need water,” Edmund said, wondering how long he could keep up his charade.

“There’s plenty of water in the mines,” Turd replied in a tone implying that Edmund was an idiot.

“Yes, yes,” Edmund said, flummoxed. “Yes, of course. There always is, I suppose. But we need something to carry it in, you know? Otherwise, we’d be confined to hiding only where water was available . . . which is just what the gob . . . they, it is just what they would be thinking. But . . . if we could get something to store water in, we could hide where they wouldn’t be looking for us. Away from water, I mean. See my logic?”

Turd appeared to agree. “So we’ll need to grab the barrel they keep the water in as we are running. That’ll slow one of us down.”

“Perhaps. Or we can find another way to carry water for periods of time.”

“Okay, okay,” Pond Scum said. “What else do you need?”

“Well, again, the water and food are critical.” Edmund thought. His stomach grumbled. His head was clouding with hunger and fatigue.

End this conversation so they’ll go to sleep. Then you can cast your spell.

“Of course, weapons, weapons would be handy. After all, eventually we’ll need to fight our way out, as Turd said. That’ll take some time for us—”

As soon as Edmund said “weapons,” Pond Scum began digging. After digging down a couple feet, he pulled from the dirt two items that looked like curved white sticks with sharpened ends. He handed them to Edmund.

“What are they?”

“Ribs,” Pond Scum said. “Courtesy of Excrement.”

Realizing that he was holding human remains, Edmund shuddered and pushed them back at Pond Scum.

“We would’ve made more,” Pond said, regretfully. “I wish we could’ve made something out of his big leg bones, but the guards examined the remains every day. We didn’t think they would miss a couple of ribs, which they didn’t.”

“Nice work,” Edmund found himself saying, wiping his filthy hands on his filthy chest. “Those, those are a start at any rate.”

“What else do you need?” Vomit asked.

Buy time. Think!

“I need . . . I need to get a feel for how the gob . . . they . . . how they react and everything. I need to see the pattern of their behaviors, which guards do what, and so forth. For instance, perhaps there are some guards who are more relaxed or distractible than the others . . . or slower.”

“D’arco,” Pond Scum and Vomit said in unison.

“He’s older than most of the guards,” Vomit added. “He’s slow on his feet.”

“Don’t underestimate D’arco,” Turd replied, massaging his hands. “Don’t underestimate any of them.”

“True,” Edmund said, trying to think of ways to sound knowledgeable. “We’ll also need a few things to increase our chances. And I, I don’t like the idea of only one or two of us making it out alive. I’d like to make sure that we can all survive.” They looked at him, doubtful. “Or, or at, at least reduce the number of the casualties.”

Everyone but Turd appeared to agree.

“Look,” Edmund said. “I think we just need to wait and watch for a while, until they don’t suspect anything. B-but, but right now . . . I really need to sleep.” His stomach rumbled again.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Vomit said, hobbling back to his area. “We probably only have six hours before they come and get us.”

“Six?” Edmund said, shocked. “We . . . we worked for, for maybe twelve, thirteen hours. We’ve only been talking for an hour, maybe two. We should, we should have . . . ”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Pond Scum asked. “They keep us on a twenty-hour schedule. Sometimes shorter. Sometimes longer. It’s another way they mess with our minds.”

“Six hours before we start again?” Edmund replied.

“More like five now,” Vomit said. “So get some rest. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.”

Everyone returned to their areas and lay down. Even Crazy Bastard, who had been silent throughout the entire discussion, curled on the ground like a kitten. He giggled. “Magic!”

Edmund stretched his back, staring up into the darkness, listening to the tired breathing of his pit mates.

They’re going to kill you once they realize you’re a fake. They’re going to kill you, eat your fat carcass, and then use your bones for weapons. It’s just a matter of time.

Maybe. But if I’m going to die, it’s going to be trying to escape. I’m not going to get injured like Turd or go insane like Crazy Bastard. And I’m sure as hell not going to let those bastard goblins slice my leg and make me a cripple.

Do you really believe that you can get out of here?

If I can use them . . . if I can get them to do what I need them to do . . . then, when an opportunity presents itself, I think there is a good chance that I can be the one who makes it deeper into the mines. But the others have to believe. They have to believe and do what I want them to do, whatever that’s going to be. I need time.

Edmund listened. He could hear the clinking armor of the guards strolling around the cavern above. He could also hear the rhythmic breathing of at least three of his pit mates as they slept.

You might as well try now. They can’t see you in this darkness anyway.

Rolling his aching body onto its side, Edmund faced the wall, using his back to shield his hands from the view of the others. He concentrated on the spell his father taught him long ago. He rarely had cast it. In fact, since his father was poisoned to death, he probably had cast it no more than three times. He never had had the need to; that is, not until now.

He whispered the words.

“
Mat av nå
.”

It appeared briefly in his tired mind and then slipped in a fog. He tried again.

“
Mat av nå
.”

His head grew light. Pinpricks of cold sweat stabbed at his face. A dark, swirling sensation filled his consciousness. His breath faltered. He was falling into blackness. Then his fingers twitched and he felt it. With an effort, his trembling arms brought the biscuit to his mouth. He bit into it, his stomach singing.

I don’t remember these tasting this good.

Shut up. Just make sure you don’t leave any crumbs. If they knew you could create food, they’d demand that you make some for them. And you can’t make enough to go around!

“Still alive eh, Filth?” one of the guards said, in mock disappointment. “A lot of people are going to be mighty upset to hear you’re still with us. I suspect a few of them will be paying you a little visit while you’re sleeping tonight. But don’t worry. As long as you make it past midnight, I’ll be happy.”

Edmund, his head down, his aching shoulders hunched, hobbled into line. Like a corpse, his body had stiffened during the night. He couldn’t turn his head or bend his spine without feeling pain. He couldn’t raise his arms above his waist. Even breathing made him wince.

This isn’t going to work. I can’t even lift a pick, let alone swing it over my head for twelve hours. This is it. I won’t be able to do a thing today. The guards are going to kill me. Cast the healing spell. Cast it now!

Calm down. You can’t cast anything with everybody watching. And you’ll need to save your strength. I don’t expect that you’ll be earning much food today. So you’ll have to make it yourself. Just wait and watch.

“Ready?” a goblin with a torch called to the other guard. “All right. Move the vermin out. Double time. Let’s go. There’s work to be done.”

A whip cracked above Edmund’s head, but he was too drained to flinch. Following the guard with the torch, the line of slaves jogged out of the cavern and into a dark side passage. For an indeterminable length of time, they ran through countless tunnels that wound steadily downward to the mountains’ roots.

Sweat trickled into Edmund’s eyes. He attempted to brush it away, but ended up wiping more grime in them. Unable to see, he stumbled forward, compelling his rubbery legs to keep moving as he sucked in air.

I can’t . . . I can’t do this. I can’t keep up. I have to . . . I have to stop.

You stop and you’ll feel more than wind from that guard’s whip. Keep going! Try not to think about it. Don’t think about anything.

I can’t! I can’t . . . go on.

Edmund’s feet tripped over themselves. Pain flashed though his body with every huffing breath. He began to cry.

“Shut your sniveling,” one of the guards told him. “We’re here and you better thank me for it.”

Bending over, his hands on his knees, Edmund gulped in air. The guard shoved an iron club under his chin and forced his head up.

“What did I tell you?” he asked, cocking the whip over his shoulder.

“Thank . . . thank you.” Edmund coughed. “Thank you.”

“Know how many other vermin would kill to have this job? Get to work or I’ll find something less pleasant for you to do.”

The guard shoved Edmund into the cavern.

He fell headlong onto smooth pebbles blanketing the wet ground. For a moment, he laid there, catching his breath and sobbing, his tightening body refusing to move. A hand appeared.

“You better get up,” Pond Scum said. “Things will go poorly for you if you don’t.”

Against his body’s wishes, Edmund clasped Pond Scum’s hand and willed himself to his feet. Knocking away the pebbles that clung to him like leaches, he peered around.

They were at the bottom of a wide subterranean gorge deep beneath the mountains. In front of them was a swift-moving stream, perhaps ten feet wide. Clear water a couple of feet deep swooshed and shimmered in the torchlight as it raced over millions of polished stones. The stream appeared out of the blackness to their right and flowed into a cavern to their left. Cliffs, honeycombed with tunnels, holes, niches, and crawlways of varying sizes, faded into the impenetrable shadows high above them.

Next to the waiting slaves were three mountains of grey stone—debris from the previous day’s mining. Standing in line behind Pond Scum, Edmund eyed the clear water, its soft burbling making him feel even more exhausted.

That’s the most beautiful stream I’ve ever seen.

I just want to sleep . . .

Don’t rivers flow out of mountains?

Rivers do. Streams like this one might not. It might end in some underground lake or abyss.

Still . . .

“All right,” Vomit said, limping up to them. “This is what they want. They want us to take these rocks here and dam up the stream where it exits over there.” He waved a hand to the opening through which the stream left the gorge. “We need to take the larger slabs and boulders and place them down first. Then we can shovel the rest of the stones in front of it. We keep going until everything is gone. Got it?”

There was a listless murmur as everybody shambled to the piles of quarried stone. Pond Scum lifted an end of a slab and told Edmund to grab the other side. Edmund nodded and tried to bend down to pick it up.

“Use your legs,” Pond Scum said. “Keep your back straight.”

“I can’t move my back,” said Edmund, lifting his end.

“Stiff?”

Edmund groaned. “M-m-more than stiff. I feel like I’m about to break in two. I feel, I feel . . . ” He trailed off.

Use your spell!

I can’t. Everybody is around us. The guards keep staring in this direction.

Step by step, he and Pond Scum inched sideways toward the stream.

“Are we allowed to, you know, drink the water?” Edmund asked, the stone getting heavier in his blistered hands with the passing of every second. “Or wash?”

“After we’re finished. But you might not want to do that even then.”

“Why—?” Edmund stopped, pain shooting up his legs. It felt like they were on fire. He cried out.

“Because water here is damn cold,” Pond Scum said, wading into the knee-high stream. “They say that if you fall in up to your neck, you’ll freeze to death in a couple of minutes.”

He guided the whimpering Edmund where he wanted to go, and set his end of the slab into the water. When he pulled his hands out of the stream, they were a pinkish shade of blue. Edmund followed suit and then lumbered back to dry land as fast as his tormented body would allow.

“At least you have boots,” Pond Scum lamented. “Then again, my feet are so callused I probably could stand on flaming nails and not feel it.”

“They don’t keep the water out.” Then seeing Pond Scum’s bruised and swollen feet, he added, “B-b-but I suppose they’re better than nothing.”

“Don’t worry. Pretty soon you’ll be completely numb. You won’t feel a thing below your knees.”

That would be a pleasant change. Shame it isn’t everything below my hair.

He staggered to one of the piles of stone waiting to be moved, passing Turd, Vomit, and Crazy Bastard as they struggled with an eight-foot-long block of granite resembling a coffin. Turd’s face twisted in pain.

“H-hold,” Edmund said to Pond Scum, breathless. “Hold on.” Bending over with several fitful groans, he began tearing the seam at the bottom of one of his pant legs. He ripped it up to his thigh and then tore the pant leg off. He did the same with the other side.

“What are you doing?” Pond Scum asked.

Both of the guards were watching him. One cocked his crossbow.

Having dropped their load into the stream, the rest of the slaves approached. Turd appeared as if he were about to snatch Edmund by the neck and snap it.

Tearing the two pant legs lengthwise, Edmund produced four long strips of fabric. “Here.” He handed a strip to the perplexed Pond Scum, Vomit, and Turd. “Wrap . . . wrap each end around your hands. Then slip the loop underneath the stone. It’ll be easier to carry them.”

“Wonderful idea,” Vomit said, with no hint of emotion. “I’ll keep this in mind when I allocate food.”

“Get to work!” the guard with the loaded crossbow shouted. “Or you’ll not like what happens.”

The other guard cracked his whip.

Turd wrapped the ends of the strip around his bloated hands. He flexed his fingers.

“Thanks,” he grumbled and went back to work.

Pond Scum slid his cloth loop underneath a slab of stone and waited for Edmund to do likewise on the other side. “That was good of you.” He lifted his end off the ground. “And you’re right. This is much easier. Hopefully the guards won’t up our quota for the day. They hate it when we do something smart.”

Like two crabs tied together, Pond Scum and Edmund carried their slab into the burning cold water and let it drop next to the rest of the rubble. The splash sent water leaping at them, biting their chest and face. Edmund stumbled backwards out of the stream.

I’ll be frozen soon.

At least you’ll be clean. You haven’t had a bath in weeks. You stink to high heaven.

“So, tell me about yourself,” Pond Scum said. “Last time I did all the talking. Which is fine, but I’d like to listen for awhile. Gets my mind off the work and all.”

“I’m sorry. In, in . . . in all honesty, I’m really not in the mood.”

Pond Scum selected another stone from one of the piles. He lifted an end. Edmund lifted the other. They waddled toward the surging stream, the stone suspended on the straps of cloth dangling from their fatigued arms.

Pond Scum said, “Do you think you’ll ever be in the mood? I mean, take it from somebody who has been here a while . . . ” They lurched into the water and lowered the stone next to the previous one. “Take it from me. There’s nothing about this place that instills the desire to communicate.”

There’s nothing about this place that instills a desire to live . . .

“It’s just that I’m . . . I’m dead tired,” Edmund said. “And I hurt . . . everywhere.”

“Hey, get used to it. You won’t have many days as easy as this.”

Easy?

“You should be positive,” Pond Scum said.

Positive?

“If you want to know what pain is, wait until you get to work in the forges where they smelt the ore. It’s so hot your eyes sizzle, and that’s not an exaggeration. Your skin actually cooks. I worked there once and I have to say, it makes me thankful for days like these.”

He tapped the stone he wanted next.

“That’s how I got all of these burn marks. Working in the forges, I mean.” Edmund didn’t look. “At the very least, you won’t go thirsty here. And, like I said, pretty soon, your legs won’t feel a thing. That’s nicer than it sounds, believe me.”

They waddled to the stream, waded in, and set the slab into place.

“And, like I said before, you know. Talking helps. It gets you out of your head. That’s where all the pain really is. A man can will himself to death with too many dark thoughts.”

If only that were true . . .

With his good eye, Edmund studied the great mounds of stone that towered above them. Even if they were all as strong as Turd, it would take them several days to move it all. He moaned.

We’ll never get to all of this. Never. I don’t know why we’re even pretending this is possible.

Pond Scum exhaled, disappointed. “Okay, suit yourself. But trust me, you don’t know what it’s really like yet. And you would do yourself well to listen to the advice that people give you freely.”

Edmund pointed to a stone that looked light enough to carry. “You’re right. You, you, you got me through yesterday. If you can get me through today, I’d appreciate it. What do you want to know?”

“Anything, actually. How did they catch you? What was your profession? You don’t appear to be a soldier, or have things gone poorly for your people?”

Your people?

“Where are you from?” Edmund asked.

They deposited another block along the growing wall. The frigid water raced over it. Edmund slapped his bare calves, trying to get the feeling back into his blue skin.

“I’m from Mogador,” Pond Scum said. “Ever hear of it?”

“The island? Yes. Yes, I have. I’ve read—”

“Calm down,” Pond Scum whispered, looking sidelong toward the guards. “Perhaps we should talk about something else. Something that’s less enjoyable for you.” He tilted a boulder so that Edmund could slip his strap under it. “Are you married?”

“N-n-no,” Edmund replied, regretfully. “No, not really. Not at all actually.”

Straightening their legs in unison, they lifted the large rock.

“But there’s a woman, am I right?” Pond asked.

Edmund fumbled over some words, none of which made any particular sense.

“Molly?” Pond Scum suggested.

Looking up at him, Edmund nearly let go of the strap of fabric wrapped around the stone.

“You talk a lot in your sleep,” Pond Scum explained.

They dropped the boulder in the stream and rolled it into position.

“So tell me about her. Is she pretty?”

Edmund smiled for the first time since being captured. “I think so.”

“Well, you won’t ever see her again. Just keep that in mind. She’s probably with some other guy right now, perfectly happy. She probably doesn’t ever think about you!”

Edmund stopped, mortified. “Wh-wh-why, why would you say such a—?”

“To get that grin off your face. You can’t go around smiling like that or the guards will knock it off with their clubs. Trust me. Be happy, but don’t let it show.”

Edmund nodded. Certainly picturing Molly with another man made him feel broken. It also made him forget about the freezing water, numb legs, and his aching arms as they strained to carry rock after rock to the dam site.

They carried three more boulders to the stream without so much as exchanging glances.

“So,” Pond Scum said, waiting for Edmund to catch his breath, “how did they catch you? Like I said, you don’t seem like a soldier. No offense. You look more like a cook, if you ask me. Do your armies have cooks? If not, I’m guessing you were a traveling merchant.”

Edmund didn’t particularly feel like talking anymore. Images of Molly touching the backs of strange young men, stroking their broad shoulders, playing with their clean, neatly-combed hair wouldn’t leave his mind.

“Filth?” Pond Scum persisted.

“No. I was, I was just . . . traveling.”

“So you weren’t a merchant. But you were away from home traveling. Seeing relatives? Friends?”

Struggling to lift the next stone, Edmund shook his head.

“Okay, so you were away from home, but you weren’t a merchant or a soldier. You weren’t on holiday visiting anybody. You don’t look like a tax collector. Are you some other sort of government official?”