“Try me and I’ll gut you like a pig,” Oren said. The man must have seen the anger in Ren’s eye, the desperation.
“There’s the next passage,” said the young prior, pointing to a passageway that was so narrow they had to turn sideways to make the journey, and Ren felt his chest tighten, fear climbing up his throat. If they were attacked here, combat would be nearly impossible. The tight space made his heartbeat audible, his breath loud. A gray-cloaked form huddled against the passage wall. Thrako struck without hesitation, forcing his sword into the spindly silhouette. He pushed the body forward until they came into the light, where Ren saw that it was no soldier. The body belonged to a bone-thin beggar, a man too weak to move or cry out. Thrako pulled back his blade and the man sunk to the ground. A life ended for no reason.
On the other end of the gooseneck passage, beyond the lamp that sat high above the archway, the cave was completely black. They stumbled into walls, stepping on things in the dark, living things that moved.
“There are people here,” said Ren. “I can feel them, but I can’t see them.” Knobby elbows and lumpy ribs pushed against Ren as he made his way forward. The young prior held up his torch, but the cramped space, even when lit, was too cluttered by bodies, posts, and other obstructions to allow them to see much. “Move aside! Move!” Oren called, and the mob parted, but only slightly.
Ren spied a handful of tall, gray-cloaked men at the edge of the crowd. “There!” he cried as he tugged at the young prior’s robes, pointing toward the men, but they were gone when the prior turned, and the next gate was upon them.
A cool draft wafted through from the other side, but it was dark there, the lamps burned out. The hair on his arms danced painfully.
“Can you see anything?” Thrako asked.
The prior wiggled his torch and it came back alive, he thrust it at Ren. “Here,” he said. “You look.”
Ren would not move.
Thrako scoffed. “Put your eyes on that gate, boy,” he said, pointing with the tip of his sword. “Or I’ll cut them out and do it myself.”
Ren knew it was a false threat, that the Prior Master wouldn’t hurt him, he feared Suten too much, but nevertheless he leaned forward, pressing his face against the bars. Dimly he saw a guard dead on the ground, an arrow through his gut.
“We should go back. It’s not safe here.”
“I didn’t ask you if it was safe. I asked what you could see,” Thrako said.
Frustrated, Ren threw the torch through the gate so it fell on the ground, illuminating the narrow passage, the body, and a pool of blood spreading across the stone floor. “There,” he said. “Now we can all take a good long look.”
Thrako grabbed him by his tunic and smashed him against the bars so hard the room went white. “Do that again,” he said, “and the kingdom of Harkana will be short one heir.”
Footsteps beat in the distance; Ren looked beyond Thrako and his man to see gray-cloaks trembling in the dark. The men who pursued him were not part of the city guard nor were they imperial soldiers—they wore long cloaks and heavy robes, gray and brown homespun like crofters or shepherds. No armor, though their weapons were heavy, well made, and well honed like soldiers’ weapons. Their skin was dark, tanned almost, as if they were not from the underground city but someplace above. Not slaves, then, but likely soldiers as Thrako had guessed. But whose soldiers? Who wanted him dead? Thrako let Ren go and opened the gate with his key, pushing him through the gooseneck and following close behind.
“Who are they?” Ren asked, picking up the torch he had thrown into the passage.
Thrako did not reply, he was too busy cursing. “Hold them off!” he ordered the young prior. He moved to lock the gate behind them, but the men were already pushing at the bars, shoving them open. Armed men were approaching from the front as well, from the dim passageway, like wraiths in the darkness. Behind him Ren heard blades collide. A cry, and the young prior fell in the entrance to the passage. The torch slipped from Ren’s grip, the fire died, and the corridor went black. Ren had no weapon, no torch, and nowhere to run.
A cloaked man approached, his form like a shadow, a black outline accented by the swift movements of a curving dagger. His attackers had chosen their weapons carefully, the short blade would be easier to wield than a long sword in the tight space of the gooseneck. Ren scrambled for the extinguished torch, lifted it from the ground, swung it at his attacker, but missed—dust filled the air. The gray-cloak struck the torch, missing the flesh of Ren’s arm by a narrow width. The man swung again, his blade slashing at Ren’s cheek, drawing a slender stream of blood.
Angry and desperate, Ren swung again, sweat pouring down his forehead, stinging his eyes. Thrako defended their rear. His back pressed Ren’s, inadvertently pushing Ren toward his attacker’s blade. Trapped between what felt like two foes, Ren roared as he swung again, hitting only the corridor wall. His attacker’s blade slashed Ren once across the shoulder, the cut stinging wildly. It was too dark to see his attacker’s movements, to parry or dodge; he sensed only the whistling of a blade, the rippling of a cloak. Thrako knocked into him once more and Ren stumbled, tilting his torch like a cripple extending his cane. The torch’s iron shaft made contact, its smoldering tip swallowed into the darkness of his attacker’s cloak. Thrako forced Ren toward his attacker, they fell, iron pierced flesh, and Ren’s attacker cried out. The corridor brightened, a distant light appearing behind the man.
Ren stood, his chest heavy, his breath like fire. In the slim passage, there was not space enough to run past the fallen man, so Ren trampled him and Thrako followed, the air loud with the cries of the dying man.
Blood pounded in his ears. I’m alive. Still alive. Ren had likely killed a man, though not by choice. It was an accident. If Thrako hadn’t pushed me, if I hadn’t fallen into the gray-cloak, he’d have killed me instead. Ren crashed into the gate at the far side of the passage.
The Prior Master shoved him aside, knocking him hard against the stone as he opened the lock, flinging up the large wood bolt and tossing it at him. When the door was open he pushed Ren through, grabbed the bolt from him, and barred the gate once more from the outside. Their attackers beat their shields against the gate, but the barrier held. Through the bars, Ren caught glimpses of their faces: stern jaws, long black hair, and skin the color of old leather. Who are they? Who’s trying to kill me?
Gasping for breath, shaking with adrenaline and fear, Ren found himself standing at the base of a winding staircase. Faintly, dusty light came down from above.