Stowaway Slaves (3 page)

“They're both dark and they both stink to the heavens,” said Decimus. “Which way did those rats come from?”

“The passage on the left. Why?”

“Rats go to the surface for food.

We were always seeing them around the entrance, don't you remember?”

Olu nodded. “Left it is, then.”

The two slaves peered into the new passage, and then began to crawl into the gloom. They hadn't taken more than a few steps, however, when a pair of bright, demented eyes flashed in front of them. Pawing slowly out of the shadows, the dog snarled deeply, a low and guttural rasp that grew in pitch as it emerged into the meager light of the junction.

Decimus raised the sword and, to Olu's astonishment, started to growl back. He also, very carefully, turned the sword around so that the blade was facing down, toward his feet and away from the animal.

“What are you doing?” said the stunned slave, taking several steps toward the junction. “Have you gone mad? What—”

Decimus curled his lips so that his teeth and gums were bared. Then he drew in a deep breath and blew a powerful burst of air through his teeth, spraying saliva over the animal as the noise intensified.

“That will make it madder, you idiot!”

“Grrrrraaaaaaargh,” Decimus continued. “Grraaargghhh!”

Olu knew the dog was going to leap before it happened, but it soon became apparent that Decimus knew it, too. Instead of diving aside or attempting to dodge the enraged animal, the slave stood his ground and only made his move at the moment when Olu was sure he was doomed.

Gripping the sword tightly in both hands, Decimus brought the pommel up with such ferocity that Olu heard the sickening crack inside his head seconds before he actually heard it in reality.

The pommel slammed into the drooling animal's jaw and it dropped to the ground, hitting the water with a loud splash.

“Now we run,” Decimus whispered to Olu. “And we don't stop running until we both collapse.”

D
rin Hain strode along the corridor, his black robes billowing out behind him. Slavious Doom's shadowy apprentice reminded many of the guards who served him of a dark shadow, a hungry ghost who appeared on the battlements of abandoned castles, half demented and hungry for blood. An aura of icy calm surrounded him, and at times it seemed as though he could actually smell the fear in those he chose to question.

Today's unfortunate victim was a jailer named Truli. The man cowered before Hain, his eyes focused firmly on one of the figure's narrow shoulders. It was rumored in the arena that Hain had been horribly burned as a child, and the sight of his face was something that, once seen, no man could ever forget. Truli was incredibly grateful that the hood concealed much of what lay within.

“Your ineptitude has allowed these slaves to escape,” said the rasping voice. “Therefore, you will seek to avoid a painful death by following my every command WITHOUT question. Do you understand?”

Truli bowed his head.

“Anything you wish, I will do gladly,” he whispered. “In the name and glorious mercy of our lord and master, the great Slavious Doo—”

“Take me to the dungeons.”

Truli quickly leaped to his feet and plucked a ring of keys from his belt.

“This way, Master,” he said. “Where would you like to start? The cells are divided int—”

“Not the cells, Truli . . . the DUNGEONS. Beneath the arena.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Truli moved off in an awkward series of limps, but seemed almost hesitant to comply with the orders. “A v-very unusual request, Master. I was always told NEVER to take people down to the—”

“Your orders have changed.”

The jailer didn't say another word. Reaching the end of the corridor, he used his keys to open a vast iron portal that seemed to consist almost entirely of locks, bolts, and chains. Eventually, the door was opened and Truli disappeared into the smoky depths beyond. Drin Hain dismissed his personal guards and followed the jailer down. The corridors below were dank but extremely well lit, with mounted braziers positioned at regular intervals on the ancient walls.

The two men walked in silence for a time, as two flights of steep and dusty steps gave way to a long, sloping corridor that itself led into yet another subterranean stairwell. Eventually, the moans and wails of various tormented souls indicated that they were drawing near the dungeons.

Soon, the passage opened into a vast circular cave with several ropes hanging down from a pulley mechanism that sprouted from the ceiling. The ropes were attached to the floor, which itself appeared to be a giant disc of grated iron.

“Here we are, Master. The Oubliette. This is where the current crop of failures are.”

Hain folded his arms. “Open it.”

Several cries rang out from below as Truli moved over to a rusty-looking crank handle that stood in front of the wall and began to turn it in slow, deliberate circles. The ropes sprang to life, and the disc began, very slowly, to move.

Hain waited until the pit was half revealed before he made for the edge. There, glaring down at a horde of frightened, disturbed, and half-despairing faces, he reached into his robe and produced a roll of battered parchment. As he did so, several of the boys cried out for mercy.

“You will be silent or I will command my guards to pour boiling tar down onto you,” Hain snapped. “You will also listen to me VERY carefully. I am about to read out several names from this list. If your name is called out, you will prepare to climb up from the pit in your chains. Then you will follow me. Those whose names are not called will remain—any attempt to escape will be met with death dealt swiftly by my hand. Anyone who doesn't fully understand my words can KEEP ON SHOUTING.”

Silence descended on the Oubliette; scores of hopeful eyes turned upward.

Drin Hain unfurled the parchment and, to Truli's surprise, ordered a ladder to be lowered into the pit. Then he began to read out the names.

Several minutes later, a line of four boys was dragged through the dungeon catacombs. Each was connected to the others by a stout chain, so when one staggered and fell, they were all pulled to the ground.

Drin Hain marched along ahead of the slaves, occasionally barking orders or requesting directions from Jailer Truli, who knew the maze of tunnels better than anyone else.

When the group was finally clear of the dungeons and had emerged into the weak sunlight of the arena floor, Hain instructed his own guards to take over for Truli, and the boys found themselves led into a part of the arena they were not at all familiar with. Several flights of stairs dropped away beneath them and, finally, they arrived at a grand doorway that overlooked most of the arena's vast interior. Two sentry guards stood on duty outside.

Hain announced himself to one of the men, who nodded and led the group into a large and ornately decorated room. Plush, red curtains hung from golden rails and several statues occupied the floor space between the door and a raised dais that supported a great arched throne. Upon the throne sat a man the slaves recognized immediately.

Slavious Doom was an imposing figure, his dark hair and beard framing a face that never looked anything less than pure evil. He didn't get up from the throne when the slaves were paraded before him.

“Drin?” he said, an inquiring expression on his face. “What is the meaning of all this? Unless I am very much mistaken, these are NOT the escaped slaves I ordered you to find . . .”

Hain inclined his head slightly.

“Kicking down doors and raiding houses are jobs for brainless servants, my lord. Your guards have already been dispatched to search Avellino. In fact, I understand the slaves evaded them in the sewers beneath the town. They are faster and smarter than we suspected, and will be halfway across Campania in a matter of days. My time is better spent elsewhere . . .”