The Cuckoo, page 43
There he lay, ears ringing like struck flint, every thought knocked from his skull.
“He’d better not die,” said Cold Voice from somewhere in the high distance.
The yellow light of a lamp filtered down to Ormur, warming the cavity in which he had come to rest. He lay exposed in the middle of a floor, a stone passageway arching overhead.
The heavy tread of a pair of boots began to thump deliberately down the stairs. Ormur contracted slowly into a knot. No… please. Please, please, please.
The footsteps came to a halt immediately behind his head, and there came the creak of leather as someone bent low over him.
“Welcome, Son of Kynortas.” It was Cold Voice. Ormur bit down on the gag, bracing himself.
Just do it. Whatever you’re going to do, get it over with.
“It may surprise you to learn that you are now in a very privileged position. Very, very few have seen this place. Winners of the Prize of Valour number in multitudes compared to those who’ve seen these passages. Here,” he added suddenly.
Rough fingers groped at the back of Ormur’s head and he flinched, trying to writhe away before he realised that his gag was being unknotted. It was pulled free, the sudden ease of his breathing a brief treasure.
“Sorry about that,” said Cold Voice. “A necessary precaution I’m afraid. We didn’t want your companion coming to find you. It is Captain Gray, isn’t it? And you are his protégé, Ormur Kynortasson?” He waited for a response, but Ormur just lay still, his back to Cold Voice, tensed and waiting for another attack. “Well, never mind. I expect you’re tired.”
There came the sound of another pair of footsteps descending the stairs. Somebody gripped beneath his arms and lifted him, this time quite gently. He was not tossed over a shoulder but held in front of his captor like a babe in arms, as the skeletal figure of Cold Voice led them down the passageway, lamp in hand.
Ormur tried to focus on his surroundings. He had to know the way out if there was to be any hope of escape, but the walls were unadorned and seemed to slip by in a gleam of damp yellow. They came to a fork and turned left, then left again, right, left again… Or perhaps right. And then he had missed another turn, and he was utterly lost in a labyrinth of pitch-black.
“Here,” said Cold Voice presently. They had come to a low wooden door: thick oak, reinforced with heavy iron rivets. It was no more than waist height, Cold Voice reduced to hands and knees to accommodate his spindly frame. Ormur was posted gently through the entrance behind him. The chamber beyond was low and domed, like a bread oven. Between them, Cold Voice and The Other shuffled Ormur inside and helped him to sit up.
“There,” said Cold Voice, setting the lamp on the floor. “You can rest here for a moment and we’ll get you some water. Oh, I nearly forgot.” And he leaned forward and untied Ormur’s hands. “There. Is there anything else you need?” He waited for a moment, but Ormur did not reply. “Never mind. There’s just one more thing.”
And he lunged across the chamber, knocking Ormur onto his back. A knee crushed down on his chest, and fists hammered down again and again at Ormur’s teeth, his nose, his eyes. His vision burst into stars, his nose crunched beneath the onslaught and the fourth blow knocked a tooth into the back of Ormur’s throat. Cold Voice was wearing a feral snarl, making a strange, desperate whimpering that echoed around the chamber.
Just faint, Ormur thought. Please, please lose consciousness.
But he would not. His brain clung to the waves of agony sweeping the length of him. There was still that odd helpless whimpering, and Ormur realised with a shock that it was coming not from Cold Voice, but his own mouth.
There came a heartbeat’s pause in the onslaught, Cold Voice lifting his knee from Ormur’s chest. He dared hope it was over. Then the knee came back down, hard on his belly, then again on his groin.
Just die, thought Ormur. Please, please let me die.
He could not take the pain, the complete vulnerability, or the shame of being made to whimper like a child. The character he had spent his life building and aspiring towards was obliterated, and Ormur was left in shame. He doubted they could ever have made Gray wail like this, or Roper, or Pryce. He was broken, beaten down to the child he had tried so hard to leave behind, and it had taken mere hours.
Cold Voice took his left little finger then and wrenched it aside with a crack. At last, Ormur’s awareness seemed to slip. He did not notice Cold Voice get off him, but he could feel himself trembling. He heard a noise of weak outrage escape his mouth, appalled and disbelieving that even enemies—whoever they were—should have reduced him to this.
Cold Voice was panting. “This is the rest of your life, Guard Dog. I’m getting you water because it’ll prolong your suffering. There is no end to it. There’s nothing I want from you, nothing you can give me to stop it. Just know that this is it, until you give in and take the coward’s way out.”
“Who…” Ormur tried to speak but the words came out in a thick mumble. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
“You know all you need to. If I hear another noise from you that isn’t a scream, I’ll douse your clothes in oil and let you burn.”
Cold Voice had the lamp in his hand and held it over Ormur for a moment. Ormur stared up at his captor, trying for defiance but knowing only terror. The eyes of a predator stared down at him from Cold Voice’s gaunt face. Then he gave a smirk of contempt and backed out of the chamber, taking with him the only source of light. The door slammed, and Ormur was swallowed by the darkness.
40
The Tomb
Ormur fell in and out of consciousness, though without light or sound, it was hard to know when he had been asleep and when he had not. The man Ormur thought of as The Other—the one who had borne him into this place—came to deliver a pitcher of water and then left without a word. Ormur tried to improve what he could, gulping down half the water at once and then using the rest to clean his wounds. When that distraction had passed, all he was left with was the memory of how easily they had broken him. Without other stimulus, those thoughts swooped nauseatingly about his head.
Time stretched.
When the outside locking bar clunked, Ormur felt a stab of terror. He felt like a rabbit flattened at the bottom of a warren, nets over each run and two slavering dogs waiting for him to break cover. A wedge of light cracked the dark and Cold Voice stooped through the door, taking a knee before Ormur, who had backed against the wall before he could stop himself.
Cold Voice looked him over with disdain and then inspected his water pitcher. “Finished already? That was for the whole day, you’ve only been here three hours.”
Three hours? It had felt days.
“Never mind, we’ll get you another. Just this once though.” Cold Voice wrinkled his nose and smiled horribly. “And a pot to piss in, you animal. You couldn’t hold on for three hours?”
Ormur flushed. “Who are you?” he croaked. “Why are you doing this?”
Cold Voice sighed and set the lamp on the floor. Then like a lunging snake, he latched onto Ormur’s ankle and dragged him close. Ormur clamped his mouth shut, his first instinct to stop himself screaming. Cold Voice set upon him again and though Ormur tried to fight back, he was too feeble and shaking too badly, and his blows were dismissed by a ruthless tormentor. When he was finished and Ormur had surrendered, lying limp on the floor, Cold Voice picked up the lamp once more. He pinned Ormur’s right arm beneath his knees and poured five drips of oil from the front of the lamp. Each caught as it passed the wick, so that five splashes of liquid fire landed on Ormur’s arm. Ormur thrashed, screaming at last as a vicious constellation blazed on his skin.
“You know why I did that, Guard Dog? You know why you’ve just had that beating? I told you. I told you to make no noise that wasn’t a scream. You don’t get to ask questions. You are here as our guest, and I haven’t brought you for your company. I’ve brought you to watch you suffer.” He lifted his knees from Ormur’s arm, who was then able to clutch it to his chest and smother the last burning remnants of the oil.
“But I enjoyed that, Guard Dog. We’ll be back soon.” Cold Voice smirked at him again, and backed out of the room. The Other was crouched in the doorway behind him and pushed in a pot and a fresh pitcher of water, before the light went out again.
The waiting began anew. At first Ormur was simply relieved to have been left alone, to curl up and regather himself. Then his thoughts began picking at him once more. If that had been just three hours, what an eternity would the rest of his life feel? Unbearable. And where was Gray? Had he abandoned him to this underground prison? Fled and saved himself? Ormur would have died for the captain. Or he thought he would have. But now that he had seen his own reaction to this torture: his childish screams and struggles, he was not sure any more.
When Cold Voice next arrived, a wave of horrid despair such as Ormur had never known swept up him. But he was not beaten on this occasion. Cold Voice just sat and talked. He sneered at Ormur, he laughed at him, he expressed his astonishment that anyone so feeble could have won the Prize of Valour, that it must be his noble blood that led Keturah to give him this tin bauble undeserved, and appoint him to the Sacred Guard.
“Well, Ormur,” he said as he prepared to leave, “you’ve nearly lasted a whole day here. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I.”
Ormur shuddered involuntarily at that. Just one day. He was starving. He was broken and he felt a constant ticking dread worse than anything he had known before. And it was just one day.
“We’ll get you some bread. I daresay you’re hungry.” Cold Voice nodded and shuffled out. When the bread arrived, Ormur tried to resist. He wanted to die: it would be better than this. Anything was better than this. But he was too hungry and despising himself more than ever, he fell upon the bread and devoured it.
Cold Voice visited regularly the next day too. Sometimes he beat Ormur, sometimes not. But the third occasion was the worst. That hateful sound: the locking bar scraping back. The sliver of light which grew so slowly, and triggered nothing but terror. Then that skeletal figure, crouched in the doorway, leering at him.
“I have some news for you, Ormur. You’re not our only prisoner any more.” He watched Ormur, nearly licking his lips at the horror he saw there. “We’ve got Gray. Gave us the slip for a bit, but we caught him trying to skulk out of the fortress. Do you hear me? We’ve got him, and now he’s going to suffer the same as you. I suppose you’ll just be pleased that he’ll be punished for trying to leave you in this mess. But now we have you both. The only person who knows what happened to you is trapped. We’re doing to him what we’ve done to you, though he’s resisting much better, I have to say.”
No, thought Ormur. He found he did not care that Gray had tried to save himself. All he cared was that his mentor was now suffering this hell too. He considered lunging at Cold Voice, trying to fight his way out. But he found he was frozen. No matter how hard he tried, there seemed to be some barrier between his thoughts and his actions.
Over just two days, he had learned helplessness. However he behaved, he was punished. If he acted, he would certainly be punished. If he did not, he sometimes escaped. He just desperately wanted to comply, even to please Cold Voice, who was smiling as Ormur folded in on himself.
“You will never see daylight again.”
Ormur stared, aghast. He wanted to ask again who these people were, why they were so cruel and seemed to despise all that he loved, but he now feared to say anything at all. He knew what would happen if he did.
“That was all I had to tell you.” Cold Voice set down fresh bread and left without another word. Ormur watched as the light crept from his cell and the door clunked shut.
41
Why?
The instant Bellamus had left the tent, the embroidered favour of a queen left behind him, he regretted it. He was not halfway down the hill before cold sweat was prickling his back and forehead. He turned to stare back at the tent, but the canvas roof was deflating already, efficient Black Legionaries whipping the supports away and the whole structure settling to earth. The die was cast and it was too late to turn back now.
But it had been in his pocket so long! What if his scent were stronger than hers? Bellamus felt sick to the point of retching. He feared it must show on his face, but if it did then Aramilla, when he found her, was too angry to notice.
“How dare she?” The queen was striding back and forth across her tent, shooting him an enraged look when he edged through the canvas. “That poisonous bitch! How dare she! I entertain her as an equal, offering to preserve her rotten society, and she turns her back on me! Who is she to reject any offer I make? She should be thanking me on bended knee, that I gave her the opportunity to retain even half of the land she’s wrecked!”
“Just so, Majesty,” said Bellamus.
“No respect,” the queen fumed, still pacing. “From start to finish, capable of displaying none of the deference due a queen, still less the sisterly conduct that is only right between fellow monarchs. Well now I know why. She is no queen! Just a barbarous war-woman: some pathetic savage chieftain who knows nothing of sense, of judgement, of propriety!” The queen was nearly out of words.
“I fear it is as I warned, Majesty,” said Bellamus. “The Black Kingdom do not discuss peace, and they do not take prisoners. Compromise is not on their minds.”
“Yes, yes, you were right, Safinim,” she said, stopping in her tracks. “Of course. I should not have doubted you. But did even you suspect she would be so impudent?”
“No, Majesty. I never knew her well, and by all accounts she has changed significantly.”
“What would you do, Safinim? From here, I mean.”
“As—excuse me—” his voice cracked and he coughed delicately, trying to suppress the turbulence in his stomach—“As you have directed, Majesty, now is the chance to defeat them forever.”
“You will command the army?”
“I will do whatever serves Your Majesty.”
She gave him a wry look. “Whatever?”
“Of course.”
“Then share my pavilion again tonight.”
Bellamus hesitated then. He wanted to be nowhere near the queen, or her scent.
“Tonight, Majesty? I fear… With your leave, I had not intended to sleep tonight. I must set an example to the men. Show them how seriously we must take the Anakim threat after the Sacred Guard crept up on us last night.”
The queen narrowed her eyes. “Nonsense, Safinim. The men will be just fine. You will share my tent.”
Bellamus bowed: he could hardly refuse. He would probably be safe enough tonight—even if the handkerchief had been found, he doubted one of the blind assassins would locate Aramilla so fast. But he must be prepared for the next time she asked. “I would be honoured, Your Majesty. Now if you’ll excuse me, the time to harry the Anakim is now.”
“Go, Lord Safinim.”
To the blaring of trumpets, they marched.
As far as Bellamus was aware, this was the largest army ever assembled in Erebos; so large that many had said it would be too unwieldy to function. The narrow tracks in Blacklaw could not accommodate the surge of wagons, oxen, sheep and sundries that would be required to keep it supplied. The logistics of shifting such a huge column into motion might take a whole day, and severely limit its mobility. And so many men inhabiting the same land would surely succumb to disease in short order.
Bellamus’s solution was to divide the army into three columns, each taking a different road. The northernmost was commanded by Widukind, the southernmost by Ruden, and the central one under Bellamus himself. Three columns allowed three different supply lines. It also made them faster, but their paths ran close enough together that if one were engaged, the others would soon be able to come to their aid.
The Anakim were badly outmatched. If they turned to face one of the Suthern columns, the other two would simply encircle their flanks and they would find themselves attacked from all sides. If Keturah wished to make a stand, she would have to find somewhere they could not be flanked. Riding at the van on the first day, all Bellamus saw of his vaunted enemy was the dust raised by their retreating boots.
“I suppose they don’t much value this land anyway,” Diethaad observed gloomily. “They can keep withdrawing until they find somewhere to make a stand.”
It was the day’s end, the low sun warming their backs and casting long shadows from the trees that lined the road. He and Bellamus trotted together with a group of Thingalith, each peeling an orange sent forward by Aramilla.
“I’ve left them no choice,” said Bellamus. “They have to retreat, but I doubt they’re happy about it. Legate Tekoa commands them, and he’s used to operating with the scouts. He’ll know exactly what I’m doing.”
“And what are you doing?”
Bellamus threw the orange-rind into a hedgerow and wiped a hand on his hose. “Widukind, in the north, has the best road; one of the old paved ones that cuts straight through. His column is on the double, marching out in front of our column and Ruden’s. In fact, they’ve been on the double since before we parlayed with the Black Lady…”
“Naughty,” said Diethaad.
“And they now block the Anakim road north. Tekoa’s two choices are retreat south, or east. Go south, and we will block his supply lines coming from the north. If he keeps going east, he hits the Tywys. Unless he slows to cross it—and if he does I intend to ensure that ends in disaster—then he is even more comprehensively cut off from his main supply line. We’ll keep harrying them until they’ve got their backs to the sea, where our fleet is unchallenged. We won’t let them unspool so much as a fishing line. Let them find the site of their last stand; it’ll be the place they starve.”
Diethaad made a face of frank agreement, nodding thoughtfully. “So you’ll weaken them before you fight them. But you told me once that the way to beat the enemy is to think: What would I do, if I were them? And then plan for that. So what would you do if you were Tekoa? How do they escape starvation?”
