His laughter dried up. This tunnel could collapse at any moment. He inched back again, muscles throbbing, and then rested on his forearms. What I wouldn’t give for a pint right now.
He had to press on. Oswald was still somewhere in the Iron Tower, suffering God-knew-what. At least that twat Asmodeus had given him a useful nugget of information when he’d gleefully informed Thomas his companion remained imprisoned.
He rolled onto his back, sucking in his chest before squeezing his arms over his head. Using his feet, he pressed himself through the narrow gap, hands first. The rocks scraped at his skin, tearing his clothes. His body felt hot and cold at the same time, and the rough tunnel walls were like nails on his exposed flesh.
Creeping forward, his fingertips grazed something smooth and flat in his path. A marble flagstone. He’d come to the end of the escape route. Now he only had to hope that no one would see him crawl out. He twisted back onto his stomach, and then edged further toward the stone. He flattened his palms and, with all his remaining strength, pushed it forward. It landed with a cracking sound—rock hitting rock. He froze. Did anyone hear? How could they not hear that?
He waited, listening for guards. But he heard only the wind whistling against the tower walls outside. No light shone into the tunnel from the opening.
He crawled forward, extending his arms to feel around outside the tunnel as he emerged. A stone floor lay a foot below the opening. Pulling himself out on aching arms, he tumbled onto the floor. He inhaled deeply. The air was free from dust here, but there was a stale smell, as if the space had been unused for a long time. He smiled and threw back his head. Still on his knees, he mouthed the words, “Thank you, Eirenaeus.”
He stood, stretching his hand into the darkness to feel a cold stone wall. He stumbled as the floor disappeared below his foot for a moment. He gripped the wall, steadying himself as his foot landed lower. He was in the dark landing of a stairwell.
Up or down? He still had to find Oswald in this tower. And torture chambers were rarely in the penthouse suites. He ran his hands along the dusty walls as he descended. The stairwell must be the forgotten architecture left over from before they’d built the portals. He shambled down over the uneven stairs, one story after another. The wind must have picked up outside, and it howled against the tower walls. It seemed to grow louder the further he descended.
How many sea creatures could he name? He gritted his teeth. I don’t need to do that now. I need to stay focused on finding Oswald.
There was something unnatural about the sound of the wind. It sounded—almost human. A cold sweat beaded his forehead. It was human. It was Oswald.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Thomas
Oswald’s cries pierced through a heavy wooden door to the stairwell, and the sound made his knees buckle. In the darkness, he grappled around for a doorknob. He found none, only a locked metal latch on the door. He slid the latch across—slowly, so no one would hear—and pushed on the door. There were no windows here, only a few guttering candles that cast flickering shadows over the grimy walls. As his eyes adjusted, Thomas saw a figure standing in a bare stone room.
The man wore black robes, and he gripped something in his hand, pointing it at a table. Thomas’s heart stumbled when he moved closer. Oswald lay on the table, his back arched in agony. His wrists and feet were bound with iron manacles, and his anguished groans echoed off the stone ceiling.
Thomas tiptoed closer, eyeing Oswald’s torturer. It was Asmodeus, using some kind of knife on his flesh. He held it in the coals of a brazier before bringing it back to Oswald. Jesus Christ.
“It’s interesting to do this without magic,” the Theurgeon cooed. “Most Theurgeons don’t like to get their hands dirty, but I thought it would be a bit of fun.”
An anguished cry tore from Oswald, and the candlelight wavered over his contorted features. He wrenched his eyes open wide, staring at the ceiling. To do this without magic… That meant even Asmodeus’s magic didn’t work here, which gave Thomas a fighting chance.
A wooden rack of sharp metal instruments lay on the floor near the Theurgeon. Among them were long iron rods, pointed at the end. I don’t even want to know what those are for. Thomas crouched, his breath catching in his throat as he stooped to pick one of them up, taking care not to rattle the rack.
Asmodeus’s attention remained riveted on his victim. He tutted. “I’ve fouled up the N.”