Chapter 21 - Stained Soul

  I have never been here before…Nira, my beloved, if you are still alive somewhere, please stay safe, and please keep the children safe with you.

  The tunnels were still and quiet, so quiet that their footsteps came back to them in perfect mimicry, as though the tunnel were repeating every sound it was given. Even the clink of metal against armor returned in faint, delayed echoes.

  Aem led the line, a tall older man with a broad blond beard swallowing his chin and a balding head where a few stubborn strands of hair still clung on. A lantern hung in his hand, its flame wobbling, and every prisoner behind him carried the same glass sphere of dim light, because the guards had forbidden them even a pickaxe. Ten guards did not truly need protection from five prisoners, yet Erhart took no chances, not after losing one boy, not while the count of missing prisoners kept creeping upward.

  “Aem,” a whisper came from behind him.

  He turned his head just enough to see Baude, his face pale and tight, eyes darting into the dark beyond the lantern’s reach. “I think they are here, Aem.”

  “Quiet!” a guard snapped from the rear, the shout cracking through the passage like a whip.

  Baude flinched, then dipped his head toward the guard and murmured an apology before hurrying up closer to Aem’s shoulder. The prisoners were made to walk in front, close enough together that they could not bolt, far enough ahead that they would take the first blow if an ambush came, and behind them the guards followed with drawn swords, letting steel speak for their confidence.

  “What makes you say that?” Aem whispered, keeping his pace steady, refusing to let fear show in the set of his shoulders.

  “I…I don’t know, Aem,” Baude whispered, his voice trembling despite himself. “I just feel it. The air down here…it feels wrong somehow.”

  Aem had been chosen to lead, though lead only meant he would be the first to step into whatever waited for them in the dark. When Erhart had gathered them and spoken in that measured, reassuring tone, it had sounded almost like mercy, a month of lighter quotas, longer sleep, and for the one who walked first, freedom from the tally altogether. Aem had needed that promise more than any of them, especially now that his hands had begun to tremble without rest, the endless labor grinding through bone and sinew alike.

  But that had been before the tunnels closed in around him, before the shadows felt so watchful. Now, with every step echoing too loudly, he wondered how he had ever thought it worth it, yet there was no turning back, not when refusing Erhart meant a worse fate than what he had before.

  “Do you smell that?” another voice whispered.

  Aem glanced sideways and saw Chalse lifting his lantern and sniffing the air with quick, sharp breaths. Diggory, short and round, nodded uneasily, while Everard, bringing up the rear, echoed the question a heartbeat later as though he had only just caught up to it. “Does anyone smell something…off?”

  Thud.

  All five prisoners turned at once, the sound dull and final, only to find the darkness behind them empty, as if the guards had been swallowed whole.

  “W-where did they go!?” Baude cried, panic cracking his voice.

  Everard took a step forward into the dark, where the guards were standing a moment earlier.

  “Don’t go back, you fool!” Diggory barked, reaching out but not daring to follow.

  “I see something,” Everard said, his voice thin.

  Fear tightening their chests as they watched Everard disappear around the corner.

  “By the gods!” came Everard’s voice from the darkness.

  “Let’s go after him,” Aem said, already moving. The lanterns shook in their grips as they rushed forward, light jumping wildly across the walls.

  “Hold right there, Everard!” shouted Diggory. “We’re coming!”

  They stopped as one. Their mouths hung open, as the sight before them stole whatever sound they might have made.

  The guards lay strewn across the stone, all ten of them, each bearing a clean, precise cut across the throat, as though death had passed among them with deliberate efficiency.

  “Where’s Everard!?” Diggory shouted suddenly, voice breaking as he spun around.

  The grotesque ruin of the guards had been so overwhelming that for a moment none of them remembered Everard had stepped away, and when the silence where his voice should have been finally registered, it felt less like a surprise and more like the last piece of dread falling into place. They glanced around, the lantern light wobbling across the stone, but Everard was nowhere to be seen.

  “Oh, for the mercy of the gods,” Baude stammered, his words tumbling over one another as panic clawed its way out. “Please deliver us from this hell. I will work the mines for the rest of my life, I swear it, just please, please don’t hurt me—”

  “Shut up, Baude!” Diggory snapped, the sharpness in his voice barely masking his own fear.

  Only Aem and Chalse kept their silence, the weight of the moment pressing their words back down their throats.

  This is an ambush, Aem thought, forcing reason over terror. They only attacked the guards. They were prisoners too. They would not hurt us…they shouldn’t.

  “Do you hear that?” Chalse murmured, his head tilting, eyes narrowing into the dark.

  They held their breath and listened.

  “It’s Everard!” Diggory cried, recognition breaking through the fear. “That’s his voice!”

  All of them surged forward at once, drawn by the sound, lanterns bobbing wildly as their feet splashed through a thin, dark trail on the stone. Aem felt dread curl in his stomach as the stain thickened the farther they went, but he forced the thought away, clinging to the fragile certainty that whoever had done this was on their side. They would not hurt us. They would not—

  Gasps tore from their throats as the light finally reached what waited ahead.

  They froze at the end of the blood trail, the lantern light quivering against the stone. Everard lay slumped against the wall, a deep, ruinous gash carved across his neck, his body barely moving except for the faint, stubborn flicker of life in his eyes as they found Aem.

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  His lips parted, mouthing the word: “Run.”

  Like startled animals, they broke at once, instinct tearing through them faster than thought. No one reached for Everard, no one even looked back, they simply fled, boots slipping on the stone as their aching legs strained for speed.

  A shout cut the air.

  Aem glanced over his shoulder mid stride and saw the space where Diggory should have been, empty as if he had never existed.

  “Please, please don’t kill us!” Baude sobbed behind him, his voice unraveling into panic.

  A heavy grunt sounded from the darkness, and this time Aem did not turn, because he knew Chalse was gone, leaving only Baude’s ragged crying to mark the living.

  A crash echoed ahead as Baude stumbled and pitched forward, striking the ground hard, blood spilling from his nose in a bright, sudden stream.

  “Come on, Baude, get up!” Aem barked, grabbing for him.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Baude babbled, his words looping senselessly as he lay there trembling, refusing to rise.

  Aem seized his arm and tried to haul him up, but Baude’s body sagged uselessly, his trousers dark with urine. “Aem, I can’t move,” he whimpered. “M-my legs won’t move. P-please.”

  Footsteps sounded behind them, slow and heavy, each one pressing dread deeper into Aem’s chest. He looked down at Baude, then back into the dark, and the choice carved itself into him.

  “I’m sorry, Baude,” he said, and let go.

  I have to survive! Nira is waiting for me—I must survive, whatever it takes!

  Baude’s screams chased him for only a few heartbeats before they were cut off, leaving a silence so thick it felt like it pressed against the lungs.

  Aem ran, breath tearing in and out of his chest, the lantern clutched so tightly his knuckles burned. Ahead, a small figure stood in the passage, barely more than a silhouette.

  A boy.

  Relief surged, fragile and desperate. Thank the heavens. I must be close to the others.

  “Boy!” Aem called, stumbling closer. “Call the guards, we’ve found—”

  The words died as the light touched the face before him, recognition creeping in with a sickening certainty.

  "You're—that boy!" Aem said, disbelief hollowing his voice.

  He looks different somehow. Aem studied him, trying to place it. Broader, maybe. Fuller. The muscles were barely there, but the veins running beneath his skin sat larger than they should have on a frame like his. For a moment Aem wondered if the boy had always looked that way and he simply hadn't noticed.

  Then the other thought crept in.

  Did he do this? He pushed it away. No. Impossible. He is but a child.

  But the eyes looking back at him were wrong, empty in a way that spoke of too much seen and too much done, as if death had brushed past and left its mark behind.

  He’s injured. The thought cut through Aem’s panic as his eyes caught the wound on the boy’s thigh, the crusted blood at his temple.

  “I’m sorry,” said the boy. The words came out barely above a breath.

  “It’s alright.” Aem’s voice shook despite himself. “We all make mistakes.” He forced his eyes to the thigh wound, anywhere but that face. “We can help you. Just—come with me. Erhart will make sure you get treatment, I promise.”

  “I didn’t want this to happen to you,” the boy went on as he took a step forward.

  “No—” Aem stumbled back, hands rising instinctively. “Don’t. Don’t come closer. I’ll leave—please. I won’t say a word, I swear it, not to anyone—you won’t see me ever again—”

  “I’m sorry,” repeated the boy.

  For a breath, Aem just stared. Then he understood, he wasn’t going to be allowed to leave. “You wretched brat!” It came out quiet at first. Then louder. “You’ve brought us nothing but misery! Everything we went through was because of you!” He lunged forward, swinging the lantern in a wild arc, the flame guttering violently with the force of it.

  The boy slipped past the swinging lantern, the flame brushing heat across his cheek. In the same motion, he surged forward and crashed into Aem, both hands snapping around the man’s throat.

  “Get off me!” Aem shouted, thrashing. “You’re a plague on our lives, die already!”

  The boy’s hands locked around Aem’s throat, fingers digging in until Aem felt his neck was about to break.

  He’s too strong!

  The man thrashed, throwing wild punches that cracked against the boy’s jaw, his cheekbone, splitting the skin above his eye. Blood ran warm down his face. Yet the pain seemed to not have much of an effect on him, his expression seemed indifferent, as though he was well acquainted with the feeling, and didn’t bother flinching. The boy held on. Tightened his grip. Aem felt his strength leaving his body, his sight dimming slowly.

  Nira, my beloved…if you are still alive, be safe. Take care of the children. It seems I’m not coming back.

  The thought faded as his vision darkened, his face burning red before the strength left him entirely, his body sagging into stillness.

  Elrin remained there a moment longer, then slowly withdrew his arm and stood over the fallen man, tears streaming soundlessly down his face.

  From the shadows, Tova and Dravan stepped forward as if they had been there all along. Tova was untouched, clothes unmarked, calm as ever only his spear’s blade dripping blood, while Dravan looked like something dragged out of a nightmare, blood and viscera smeared across him, his hands painted to the elbows, dark drops slipping from his chin to the stone below.

  They watched him in silence. Elrin knelt over the limp body, and for a heartbeat it looked as though he drew in something invisible, swallowing more than breath, and then a tremor ran through his frame, like a shiver of relief he despised even as his body welcomed it.

  When he rose, his eyes were empty, stripped of everything that might have once lived there, as if the world had dimmed and taken his reactions with it. Tova felt a quiet sting of pity for the burden the boy carried and the shape it was carving into him.

  They followed as he moved from body to body, repeating the same grim ritual each time, the motion practiced now, almost mechanical, as if he were afraid to hesitate long enough to feel it.

  Dravan strode up and clapped a heavy hand against Elrin’s back. “Breathe,” he said with a solemn look of understanding. “You did what you had to…it’ll get easier with time.” He wandered off to the wall and drove his fist into the stone, the impact grinding rock to powder, then smeared the dust over himself where blood still clung, dulling the crimson into gray. “Time to clean up, lads.”

  Tova’s gaze lingered on Elrin a heartbeat longer before he spoke. “Come, Elrin. Help me move them.”

  Elrin followed without protest, and together they dragged the bodies one by one into their narrow tunnel while Dravan carved out a deep pit, stone and dirt breaking apart under his blows. They lowered the corpses in.

  Some guards had food on them, mostly bread, but it was good enough. They made sure to remove it before lowering them in the pit.

  Tova glanced back and saw Elrin standing at the edge of the hole, staring down at the twisted bodies, his lips moving faintly as if offering words meant only for the dead. Then, with slow deliberation, he reached up, slipped the lace from around his neck, and dropped it into the grave among them.

  After that, he picked up the shovel and began to cover the hole.

  When it was done, the three of them walked back to their chamber. Tova had noticed something unusual about Elrin. It seemed the boy no longer limped.

  They all sat in the chamber and ate in an uncomfortable silence, mouths working, hands moving, but not a single word offered, the air between them heavy with what none of them wanted to speak aloud.

  Tova kept his ears open, and sat closer to the entryway, in case any more footsteps sounded in the tunnels, in case reinforcements were sent to find the missing party. Although he doubted they’d react this fast, but caution had saved him before, and he saw no reason to stop now. His eyes drifted to Elrin, who was trying to feed Lancelot a piece of bread, but the cat turned away until Elrin dampened it, softening the texture into something it would accept. Only then did Lancelot take it, small bites, stubborn as ever.

  “You seem to be doing better, Elrin,” Tova muttered at last, voice low. “Did it help?”

  Elrin didn’t look up, didn’t answer, and when he finished eating he rose with a quiet finality that made Tova’s attention sharpen.

  His thigh…the wound is gone! thought Tova. But he hadn’t slept!

  “I’m ready to train,” Elrin said.