The Pleasure of Memory (52 page)

He pulled out a pair of leather britches, some cotton shirts, and woolen hats, even a pair of leather boots, but tossed them all out into the room behind him. Nothing seemed suitable. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t focus on the task at hand. He kept thinking about Beam up there, alone and desperate for a breath of fresh air. Regardless of the efficacy of his tonics, a Vaemyn could never be completely comfortable down here beneath the earth, and it couldn’t be any less miserable for a half-breed.

Perhaps he should go help the poor bastard. After all, the sorry fool had been through nine levels of pain these past days. And don’t forget, Beam had rescued him from certain death at a time when he could just as easily have gone on his merry way and left him to his own misfortune.

Then again, the bastard was misery incarnate. He was an ethereal burr in the saddle of life. He argued simply for the enjoyment of it, and was more than adept at finding the smallest chink in the most complicated armor. He deserved to suffer a bit, didn’t he? Just a bit? He deserved to broil in the aggravation he so relished imposing on others. The man may be the savior, the Caeyllth Bearer, but he was also a studied and committed pain in the ass.

Despite the perfect logic of his arguments, he found himself standing. He grabbed his staff. He couldn’t do it. It just felt wrong. He had to go up there. He had to intervene before Beam threw his back out trying to open the damned hatch.

He cursed and shook his head, and then he crossed to the sentry and laid his hand on its brow. Just as he was about to activate it, a deafening clang split the silence. Chance froze and listened. It was impossible! There was simply no way he could have managed it. The monkey could never have opened the damned hatch alone, not in a thousand years!

Then he heard Beam yell.

Well, there it was, exactly as he’d predicted. The fool probably wrenched his back or caught a hand in the hinge. He was probably up there bleeding all over the place, and now Chance would have to sacrifice his own comfort and run up there to the rescue. For just a moment, he considered letting the monkey lay up there and suffer for a bit before going to his rescue.

Then Beam yelled again.

This time, Chance heard someone yell back.

XXVI

CROSSROADS

HE PASSAGE TERMINATED IN A NARROW, CYLINDRICAL ROOM LIKE A SHORT TURRET.

Barely six feet across, the black ceiling floated ten feet above him. A serious iron ladder climbed up the stone to the hatch above, bolted seriously to the stone wall with rivets as big as his fist. On its way, it passed through an iron platform hugging one side of the circular wall. This platform was a landing that looked like a grate from beneath, and it filled half the turret in a semi-circle. A wide crawl space cut through the landing at the wall where the ladder ran through it. The turret terminated at a round metal hatch about four feet above him. It was as wide as the landing itself. There were no runes, no decorations, no scrolled edges, just a practical tube of metal and stone. It seemed a bit anticlimactic.

Still, Beam felt so giddy, he could barely contain himself. There, but for ten feet of rusty ladder and an iron lid, waited the real world, the world of warmth and air and sun, the world of life.

He scrambled up the ladder and onto the platform. The sound of his footsteps against the grated iron reverberated clumsily in the tight chamber. The clearance up here was low enough that he had to bend his legs to stand beneath the hatch. Squatting, he placed an open hand against it. The rusted iron was warm to the touch. It felt as solid as a mountain.

Despite his enthusiasm, he suffered a pang of doubt as he assessed the hatch. What if Chance was right? What if he couldn’t open it alone? This was Baeldonian design, after all. If the iron was built to their scale, it could easily be several inches thick and impossible for him to move it alone.

He scolded the thoughts from his mind. There was no room for doubt. Not now. Not after such a long and burdensome journey. Now, he only had to focus on the strength he’d need to breech this final gate. He only had to envision the freedom waiting for him just beyond that iron door. That hopeful image would give him the strength he needed, he was certain of it.

He laid the torch to the side on the grated platform, and then scooted out to the edge at the center of the turret where he probed the lid above with his fingers. A tight seam divided it into two semi-circles. He stood as high as he could and pressed a shoulder into the metal. On a count of three, he heaved against it. The hatch didn’t budge.

He fell back to his knees and looked up at it. It was likely just improper positioning on his part. All he had to do was achieve the correct leverage, and then maintain it. He stood up and again pressed a shoulder into the half lid, and again heaved against it. He leaned all his weight into it. He pushed until his legs ached, until his head was throbbing, until it felt like his eyes would burst. The hatch didn’t even think about moving. Breathless, he collapsed back into the ladder. His head was spinning as he waited for his wind to return.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible! Not after all he’d suffered to get to this point. The goddamned thing would open! It had to open. He was certain it would open!

When he’d collected his wind, he returned to the task. This time he took a different approach and positioned his upper back against the rusty metal, bracing his hands solidly against his bent knees. Channeling all his energy into a single, determined assault, he crushed himself against it. He pushed like a man possessed. He pushed past the pain. He pushed hard enough to bust a tooth.

Then he felt it. The hatch gave! It gave just a bit. It wasn’t much, only enough to spur his hope, but it did give, he was certain of it.

He dropped to his knees and collected his breath. A minute later, he pushed himself up to one knee and psyched himself for the task. Then he rose and reassumed his position, knees bent and locked, upper back braced against the metal, hands tight against his knees. He redoubled his previous effort. He pushed against it like the world depended on it. He pushed past the pain.

The hatch gave again. It gave more than before. The hinges spoke. He pressed harder, pressed until it felt like the pressure would tear his skull apart. The hatch eased upward at an agonizing pace, moving a quarter inch, a half an inch, an inch. And then it stopped. He couldn’t move it any further. The pain was unbearable. The damned thing was coming back! He willed all his strength against it, commanded it to stop, but it wouldn’t stop! The goddamned iron was crushing back down on him!

He was about to retreat and regroup when the pressure simply ceased. The weight disappeared completely. The hinges screamed. The hatch rushed open above him. Water pelted his back. Before he could react, something snagged his arms. The platform disappeared beneath his feet as he was dragged up into the rain.

He landed on his hands and knees in the wet, muddy grass.

It was dark. Shadowy figures encircled him, but he couldn’t make out the details through the pouring rain and cloak of night. He tried to stand up, but the pressure of a sharp point in the back of his neck convinced him to stay where he was.

He settled back on his knees and gave a silent curse. He didn’t need to see anything. He knew exactly where he was. The bastards finally had him.

He squinted up through the hammering rain. A clap of thunder rocked the night, followed by a several brief pulses of light. He couldn’t make out their faces, but the shimmer of their mail against the distant lightning was unmistakable.

He dropped forward and slapped the wet grass. “Stinking savages!” he cursed into the rain.

“Stand up, skeechka!” someone called over the crackling roar of the downpour. The voice was female, but there was nothing feminine in its tenor.

Beam spit some water back into the grass and again squinted up into the rain, aiming in the direction of the voice. “I’m comfortable right here, thanks,” he called back, though he could barely see her.

“I told you to stand up!” she yelled, “I’m not inclined to tell you twice!”

The sword point twisted viciously against his neck. Beam disappointed himself by wincing. He was confident it’d drawn blood. His mind drifted back to his own sword nestled snugly in its scabbard on the stone floor behind the gargoyle five minutes below him. He should have listened to Chance!

Another peal of thunder and a lingering flash of lightning briefly unveiled the silhouette of the Vaemyd standing directly before him. She was illuminated only long enough to see her sleeveless armor and her bare, muscular arms glistening against the rain. Her face remained hidden in the night. He tried to look off to the sides, but the sword in his neck convincingly dissuaded him. Still, he counted at least three others.

He again slapped the wet grass. “Bad bloody luck!” he cursed.

“Nay, you’re wrong there,” she called through the rain, “Luck isn’t even in the equation.”

“Get that damned blade out of my neck. I'm unarmed.”

An explosion rocked the night. Beam flinched. It was too loud to be thunder. Despite the swords, he managed a peek back. The savages had opened the other half of the lid. The open round hatch gaped up into the rain like a radiant, mocking laugh.

A second sword found his right flank and a third dug into his left. The blade on the right twisted a little harder than it had to.

“Easy!” he yelled up at the offending Vaemyn, “Do that again, and I’ll slap you back into diapers!”

Something struck him in the back of the head. He landed hard on his belly. He wasn’t sure if he was hearing another peal of thunder or just the ringing in his ears. The warriors dragged him up to his feet. His skull was throbbing. His legs felt weak as wind.

The Vaemyd pressed in close to him. “You’re damned mouthy for a man with three blades against his flesh,” she said to him, “You’re either fearless or brainless. Which is it?”

She was nearly his height and as solid as an oak. Another rip of lightning threw her wet face into light. Her features were chiseled and commanding, betraying neither compassion nor humor. She wore her hair bound back in the severe Vaemysh tradition, laced up so tight even the rain seemed unable to penetrate it. Water streamed down her face, but it did nothing to diminish the malice in her eyes, which were as blue and cold as ice.

“Strange,” she said to him, “I’d expected you to be bigger. All this fuss about such a little man. I find it rather disappointing.” Her eyes looked almost serpentine in the greenish light radiating from the open hatch.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Beam said back, “A Parhronii dandy could’ve evaded your girls.”

“Have your laugh, skeechka. It’ll be your last pleasure.”

Beam shook the rain from his face. “I’ve heard that from your kind before,” he said, “You threaten and threaten but never seem to follow up. I was beginning to think you weren’t really trying.” He spit more water into the grass.

“Well, aren’t you a regular dancing minstrel.”

“Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

The blade on his right twisted into his ribs again. This time it stole his breath away. He tried to turn on the man, but was quickly subdued. The bastards had a solid lock on his arms, cocking them mercilessly behind him.

“Keep it up, you savage prick!” he snarled over his shoulder, “I’ll feed your jewels to you before we’re done!”

“You’ll have to excuse their zeal,” the Vaemyd said, “My trackers are thirsty for your blood. You’ve been a monumental irritation to them these past months, jh’ven?”

Beam again flipped the rain from his face, but said nothing.

“However, I do have an offer for you,” she continued, “I give you my word that if you answer my questions directly I’ll make your death quick and painless.”

“And if I’m stubborn?” he said through the rain.

“I let my warriors have their way with you. You look strong enough that you might last a week or more before their fires.”

He steadied himself against that. “Do you really think I’m intimidated by you?”

She smiled at that. “I’m confident of it.”

“Go to hell,” he said. Sadly, she was right.

She stepped in closer to him. “Where’s your friend, the mage?”

Before he could respond, he felt a new pressure. It was the serious end of a short sword pressed convincingly into his belly. Her hand was at the other end of it.

“What a cute little sword,” he said, looking up at her, “Did your daddy give you that?”

Her slap nearly knocked a tooth loose. He shook his head as the restraining warriors steadied him. If not for the pressure of the rain, he might’ve slipped out.

He spit some blood into the grass, and then looked straight at her. “Keep it up,” he said to her, “I can do this all night.”

Another sword hilt struck his head. He started to fall, but the arms restraining him wouldn’t allow it. His head was spinning. His stomach wasn’t faring much better. They had his arms twisted back so severely, his shoulders were screaming. He wasn’t sure his legs were bearing any of his weight.

She grabbed a fistful of his beard and pulled his face into hers. “I’m going to give you another chance,” she pressed, “Where’s your friend, the mage?”

“I don’t remember!” he yelled back.

She slapped him. Hard. “Don’t you lie to me, skeechka! It’ll be the biggest mistake you ever made. Where is the mage?”

“I don’t know!”

Still holding him by the beard, she studied him for a minute. The rain was streaming down her face, but she seemed incognizant of it. Then she flashed him a smile immediately before burying her fist in his gut. Beam doubled forward, but the arms again kept him upright. He couldn’t draw any air. Thunder pealed in celebration of his defeat

“Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, skeechka,” she said as he struggled to breathe, “Perhaps the threat of our fires don’t intimidate you. Perhaps you’re not afraid of me after all. Well, no matter. You will be.”