The rumors Hall had heard about the Mort dungeons were not exaggerated. It was bone-cold down here, even to a soldier who had slept rough in the outdoor winter on several campaigns. Many of the cells they passed contained not even the standard pallet of the New London Jail. Most of the torches on the walls had long since burned out, and there were long stretches during which the torches carried by Levieux and Coryn provided the only light.
No guards, no jailors, Hall thought. What in holy hell happened here?
Whatever it was, it was clear that no one cared whether these prisoners lived or died. Only some of them appeared to have blankets, and many were coughing, hollow chesty coughs that Hall judged symptomatic of pneumonia. Some of them cried for water, displaying empty buckets through the bars as Hall went by.
“We’ll find a key,” the Mace told them, but even Hall heard the unease in his voice. They had expected to fight their way through the dungeons, to break the Queen out or die trying; a grueling bit of combat, to be sure, but at least it would be a known hazard. They had been prepared to lose some of their number, but none of them had anticipated this. In one cell, a heavily pregnant woman begged them to let her out. Behind Hall, one of the Queen’s Guards uttered a low curse. All the combat in the world seemed preferable to Hall, and he was not alone. Several turns into the dungeon, Blaser silently began to retch.
“How much farther?” the Mace asked Levieux.
“Two turns right and down.”
As they approached the second turn, all of them slowed, and Hall doubled his grip on his sword. A moment ago, he had been thinking that he would relish an open battle, but now his flesh had begun to crawl. Ahead of them, a staircase descended into darkness, and Hall could feel freezing air emanating from below. The blood trail led down the stairs.
“Quietly,” Levieux cautioned them, and began to step silently down the staircase. They were forced to go single file now, and Hall took a position behind the great, bearlike form of one of Levieux’s men. The staircase wedged them tight, and for a moment Hall was beset by claustrophobia, with the walls closing in and people ahead and behind. The walls reverberated with the thud of many feet above as Levieux’s people tore the upper levels of the Palais apart.
At the bottom of the stairwell, the line halted. The entire corridor was dark, but the stench of blood seemed to have deepened and refined down here, almost precipitant, a low, sickening throb of rusting copper each time Hall took a breath.
“Torches up front,” the Mace murmured, and Coryn passed his torch forward. It was enough to illuminate the corridor, but Hall could not see past the shoulder of the enormous man in front of him.
“What is that?” the Mace demanded.
“Don’t move,” said Levieux, but Hall, able to bear the wait no longer, pushed his way around the giant until he could see as well.
Far down at the end of the corridor, perhaps fifty feet away, lay a body in front of a cell. The cell door hung wide open. Hall could not identify the body, for there were two figures hunched over it, so small that at first he mistook them for vultures. But then one turned, and Hall saw that it was a child, a little boy.
“Get back!” Levieux shouted. “Morgan, Howell, Lear, up here now!”
But it was too tight in the corridor, Levieux’s men pushing up toward the front while the rest tried to shove their way back toward the stairs. The Mace did not retreat, and so neither did Hall, shoving his way forward until he stood beside the Captain.
“What are they?” the Mace asked Levieux.
“The plague on the new world.”
“They’re only children!” Hall objected.
“Keep thinking that, General, right up until they bleed you dry.” Levieux raised his sword, for now the little boy had clambered to his feet and begun moving forward.
“Who is that?” Pen demanded, his voice rising. “Who’s dead down there?”
“It’s her cell,” Levieux replied quietly. “Stay here.”
He and his four men headed down the corridor, leaving the Mace and Hall standing there. Blaser had moved forward to stand at Hall’s shoulder, but the rest of the group still crouched near the stairwell.
“The plague,” Hall repeated. “The attacks in the north?”
The Mace didn’t answer, but Hall was already filling in the blanks for himself. He had heard of the destruction in the Reddick and northern Almont; had Hall still commanded an army, he might already have been sent to get the situation under control. As it was, the force that assailed the Tearling remained unchecked, moving steadily south. There were almost no survivors. The few rumors Hall had heard spoke of animals with incredible strength. But children?
The little boy lunged forward, with a hiss that made Hall’s skin prickle, and knocked the Cadarese flying. The other child—a girl, Hall saw now—darted into the fray, wrapped herself around Levieux’s leg, and sunk her teeth into his thigh.
“Five men might not be enough,” the Mace said, and ran forward, Hall and Blaser on his heels.