Revolt of Blood and Stone Read online

  “What? Why not?”

  “It’s still too early. The less you know the better,” Jarod said sternly. “The most important thing is to build up our strength. Work at a speed that does not draw attention, but does not exhaust us. The kitchen has been giving double portions to certain individuals, but we have to be careful not to let the guards notice the food supplies are going down faster.”

  Sebastian remembered the girl behind the pot. The girl with the brown eyes.

  “The girl is in on this too?” he asked.

  Jarod nodded.

  “And here I thought she liked me,” Sebastian muttered, unexpectedly hurt.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  Jarod looked at him before dismissing it with a small shake of his head.

  “Anyway, we have a plan, but we’re still waiting for things to fall into place. Once we have all the information, I’ll let you know how we’ll move forward.”

  A loud squeak of metal on metal followed by a thump drew their attention. They knew the sound. At the top of the stone-carved stairs the door to the lower palace levels had swung open, providing entry to a small delegation. Apart from the ventilation shafts, that door was the only way leading directly to the palace. Sebastian had not been near it since his arrival a long time ago. Briefly, he wondered how long it had been. Three, four years? Anyone who set foot on those stairs without permission was cut down without hesitation. He had seen it happen. People too broken to go on. They would charge the stairs, ignore shouts of warning from their friends and guards alike, mind so twisted that all they cared about was this hell coming to an end.

  The stairs provided an easy defensible point. Plenty of stone steps up which to slowly retreat in case of an attempt to escape. And once they got higher, all the soldiers had to do was push the weaker slaves off with their shields. Since the stairs were only wide enough for two people to pass, there was little chance the soldiers could be overwhelmed.

  But it was not the only way out of the mines. There was another set of doors. Metal and big. Large enough to bring the wagons through on which the finished ghol’ms were transported out. But that route was guarded by a company of fifty to a hundred soldiers, depending on how many were patrolling the mine.

  There were more than ten times that number of slaves, but they would need time to defeat so many men—if it could be done at all. Not everyone would be willing to fight. And it was likely that the losses would be so great that those who did fight would quickly lose the will to do so. If by some miracle they were able to press on and win the fight, it would likely take so long that reinforcements would arrive before they could open the doors.

  And still Jarod and the others believe they have found a way. Sebastian’s gaze moved up the stairs toward the door at the top. What he saw made his heart bleed.

  The cries of infants washed down toward them. Those in the hall fell silent as they stared at the hooded figures descending the stairs. Each carried a newborn, barely a few weeks old. The last man carried a long, straight, cross-headed dagger ceremoniously in two hands. The Roc’turr was one of the most hated items in the mine. It represented everything that was wrong with their lives. It was an insult, a constant reminder how meaningless their existence there below the mountain was. How futile it was to believe that one day it would be better.

  A woman let out a sob she could not repress. A man close to her put his arm around her and scowled at the stairs and the hooded men.

  “You bastards,” he called out. “You’ll die a thousand deaths and a thousand more for what you do.”

  Two or three shouts in support rose from the hall, but a guard nearby rushed over and thrust the butt of his spear into the man’s stomach. The man slumped to the ground, gasping for air. The guard took a step back and kicked the man hard in the kidneys. After that, the voices of defiance quickly subsided.

  The hooded figures showed no sign of acknowledging what happened below them in the hall. They simply strode down the stairs, one step at a time, until they reached the Door of Wails. The small wooden door halfway down the stairs was a mystery to most. None knew precisely what happened to the children who were carried in, but the sounds were enough to guess. This time was no different.

  The door closed softly behind the six hooded men. The heavy door muffled the infants’ cries. It was not long before those horrible chants started. Sebastian stomach turned.

  “Don’t look at it,” said Jarod.

  He tried, but Sebastian could not help it. The humming chant was hard to ignore as it grew in intensity. It burrowed into his head with cruel claws, refusing to let go. Through it all the tiny children’s voices wailed for their mothers; called for those who would show them love and warmth. A crackle of blue light illuminated the contour of the door as one by one the infants’ cries disappeared from the world. A few other slaves in the hall cried softly; for the hurt they had seen, and for the memories of their own tiny loved ones, torn from their arms to be taken into that very room.

  His father had always said to him that monsters were not real, but Sebastian knew better now. The world was full of monsters. Monsters and horrible things that one could not always avoid—or escape. The knot in his stomach had transformed into a stone that lay heavy with disgust. And just when he thought it could not get any worse, the palace door at the top of the stairs slammed open once more as several men entered the space.

  “No, not him,” he heard Jarod whisper.

  A man in black, shiny leather armor descended the steps. He wore an air of authority with his tall frame and long face. Next to him was the overseer, trying to keep up whilst ordering the guards behind them to do the same.

  Sebastian recognized the black-clad man immediately. He felt his back muscles tighten from stress and fear. Monsters were real, and here was one of the worst coming down the stairs.

  “Black Death Setra,” he gasped.

  “Keep your voice down,” rumbled Jarod. “If the general ever hears you say that he’ll string you up above the smith’s fire pit until your skin peels off.”

  “Jarod, look,” Sebastian whispered, ignoring the warning. “Behind the guards.”

  The light in the main hall was dim to say the least. A few larger fire pits provided most of the light, but it was not nearly enough to reach every corner. Still, Sebastian was certain, even from this distance. It was all in the way he walked.

  “Marek,” said Jarod. His voice wavered, unable to hide his emotion.

  “Who’s that next to him?” asked Sebastian.

  “By the gods, that’s Tom. He’s still alive.”

  As the party arrived at the bottom of the stairs, those closest averted their eyes. They knew better than to look upon the Black Death. This man was responsible for so many ruined lives it was said the number of his victims rivaled that of the plague.

  Out of nowhere, Svetka appeared next to them.

  “What is Corza Setra doing here?” she asked Jarod. “We haven’t seen him for months.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But we need to speak to Tom,” was his reply. “We need to know if things are ready.”

  In the meantime, High General Setra was deep in conversation with the overseer as the guards roughly gathered several of the women who had arrived a few days before. The scream of one was cut short by a guard’s fist.

  “What are they planning to do to them?” asked Sebastian.

  Had this happened to all the women in the mine?

  “He treats them like cattle,” said Svetka bitterly, clearly unwilling to provide details.

  At that moment, Marek spotted them. The boy’s face broke out in a smile and he quickly pulled Old Tom’s arm, pointing at them. The old man had enough courage to interrupt the general’s discussion; the large overseer snarled at Old Tom for infringing on their conversation, but the high general impatiently waved a hand to dismiss it, too focused on the women in front of him to care. His eyes were those of a viper, ready to strike.


  Having received permission from the general, Old Tom nudged Marek on his way. The young boy wasted no time approaching them.

  “Marek, you’re alive,” said Sebastian and Jarod at the same time, before the boy could say anything.

  “Where have you been?” added Sebastian quickly.

  “The castle, the city,” Marek blabbered excitedly. “You have no idea how big it is up there!”

  But Sebastian did know. He remembered from their time arriving in the city. How scared he was by this massive place hidden deep within the Dark Continent. He had only been fourteen, and Marek probably only eight, maybe younger. It was always hard to tell with water rats; the little stowaways hid on merchants’ ships in the hope of becoming part of the crew and earning some money. It was how the young boy had ended up on Sebastian’s father’s ship before they were captured off the Doskovian coast. Water rats were often orphans, chewed up by the streets, with no family to return to. It had been the same with Marek.

  “We were worried sick,” said Jarod, but the boy just grinned like he had a secret he was dying to tell.

  “Sorry for this,” the boy whispered with a twinkle in his eye as he ignored Jarod’s concerns.

  “Sorry? For what?” asked Sebastian.

  Marek laughed loudly. “I’m so glad to be out of this place. Old Tom is so nice and the food is the best up there.”

  The boy pointed to the door at the top of the stairs.

  Sebastian frowned. It was not a very nice thing to say, but it was the way Marek said it that struck him as odd. It was ridiculously over the top.

  “What’s gotten into you, Marek?” he said, but his friend did not react.

  “All the meat and cheese I can eat,” the boy continued. “I bet I can’t even keep this stuff down anymore.”

  And with those words, Marek snatched Sebastian’s bowl out of his hands and dug his fingers through the stew. A big scoop disappeared into Marek’s mouth, at which point he immediately started to heave and gag.

  Before Sebastian could react, Marek threw up the stew and let it dribble out of his mouth back into the bowl. Several pairs of eyes following the conversation averted their attention, trying to keep their appetite. Sebastian was about to say something angry, but Marek continued to make sounds of throwing up. The boy put his hand in his mouth and pulled out a small string. Quickly, he pulled on it further, now truly retching as the tiny cord made its way up his throat. With a final gag, a small package dropped in the bowl and disappeared in the stew.

  “What the—” exclaimed Sebastian in hushed voice.

  “Goat bladder,” whispered Marek.

  The boy pushed the bowl back into Sebastian’s hands and straightened up.

  “See? Uneatable,” he announced loudly.

  Confused, Sebastian stared at the boy, who shrugged. Marek looked back at the debating men near the now-sobbing women and hesitated. The same worried stare Sebastian had seen in the collapsed tunnel flashed across Marek’s face.

  How foolish I was telling him everything would be alright, thought Sebastian, ashamed. He grabbed Marek’s hand.

  “Are you truly okay up there?” asked Sebastian.

  Marek gave a sad little smile and nodded.

  “I’ll see you again later,” said the boy, before turning his attention to Jarod and adding. “Soon, said old man Tom.”

  Jarod gave the tiniest of nods, after which Marek made his way back to Old Tom, his shoulders drooping slightly as he approached the feared high general. Black Death Setra had concluded matters with the women, it seemed; he now stood with Old Tom near the smith’s pit. The general did not look too pleased with what Old Tom said and snarled something incomprehensible. When the boy reached them, Tom grabbed Marek’s hand and pointed at it. The Doskovian general grabbed the other arm, as if to examine it himself.

  Sebastian felt his shoulders tense, afraid Marek was about to get hurt, but Setra sighed and briskly pushed the boy’s arm away. The general looked at one of the smiths and the fire pit. He spoke a few words that spurred the man into action, then abruptly turned and headed toward the stairs. The guards coerced the women to start moving and followed the clearly displeased man up the stairs. After a moment, Old Tom and Marek followed too, reluctantly and at a distance.

  Hundreds of eyes followed the delegation back up the stone-cut stairs, past the Door of Wails, all the way to the top where they disappeared back into the castle and slammed the door shut. The entire mine let out its breath, including some of the guards. Sebastian had often seen Black Death Setra’s punishment directed at his own men. Those who did not properly listen risked losing an ear if the high general was in a bad mood—which, Sebastian had to admit, seemed to be the man’s normal state of mind.

  It took a moment before Sebastian remembered the bowl in his hand. He was about to pull out the small package when Jarod stopped him.

  “Not here.”

  One by one, they left the main hall, careful not to draw any unneeded attention. They reconvened back in the barracks, where one of Jarod’s larger trusted helpers politely but firmly cleared the last part of the tunnel. Under the dim light of a small candle, they wiped the sour-smelling package clean and opened it.

  “A map?” said Sebastian.

  “Of the city and palace above,” said Jarod, his voice wavering slightly with repressed excitement. “He did it. Tom came through. This brings us one step closer to getting out of here. You'd better learn this by heart, and fast. If we get caught with it, they’ll have our heads on pikes before we can scream.”

  Chapter 4

  Failure

  “What’s going on?” Sebastian asked the nearest worker as he walked into the main hall.

  All he got in reply was a shrug.

  The call to gather had rung through the entire mine, which meant the main hall was packed with people. Everywhere he looked, people sat on the ridges and scaffolding. Those who could not sit were forced to stand nearly shoulder to shoulder. In the middle of it all sat two men on their knees, hands tied together in their lap. Several guards surrounded them, forming a barrier to keep the other workers at a distance. The overseer paced back and forth, grimacing in anger.

  Sebastian looked around but did not see any of his group. It seemed he was one of the last to arrive, which did not surprise him. It had taken a while for him to get there; his job that morning was in one of the deepest shafts.

  Those remote areas did not suit everyone. It was a place of shadows, and some of the workers said the earth there spoke to them. But Sebastian had never heard any voices from deep down. He might even have liked it if the work was not so dangerous. Digging new tunnels, looking for the best rock to excavate; collapses like the one that nearly got him were not uncommon.

  Sebastian had learned not to think about where he was. He had seen men go insane from the thought of the mountain weighing on top of them. And he had to admit, that was a lot of weight.

  At last, he spotted Jarod and Shaun in the crowd and made his way over. As he came closer, they noticed him too.

  “Seb, come here. Quickly,” Shaun urged him.

  “What’s happening?” Sebastian asked Jarod.

  “They got Ezac and Troy,” answered Shaun.

  “What? How?”

  “Today was the day,” said Jarod gloomily.

  Sebastian’s face turned white as the meaning of that set in. The two men had been part of a group of three recruited to make the breakout happen, all of them privileged to travel up to the palace for infrequent, special deliveries.

  Normally, the soldiers were the only ones acting as messengers, but on rare occasions a guard would be too lazy to carry something himself and would command one of the slaves to do it. The overseer tolerated it to a point where only those he selected were allowed to go.

  But not everyone vetted by the overseer had been approachable. Most were men of doubtful character; often doing the overseer’s dirty work and providing him with information on what was going on in the mines. These
were the men who kept the groups that formed naturally among the slaves in unbalance. Through harassment, threats or intimidation, they made sure nobody grouped together to overwhelm the guards—until now. Jarod, Svetka and the others had spent more than a year approaching the leaders of the separate groups. Secret meetings, staged fights to fake broken alliances and let conspirators move between loyalty groups. Sebastian had no idea how they kept it all hidden, but they had clearly succeeded. Had their conversations reached the overseer’s pets, they would have put an end to their plans very quickly.

  Ezac, Troy and…

  What was the name of the third? Boas?

  —Boas. Those three had been the exception. It had taken months to convince each of them to risk their life for an escape and just as long for them to get noticed by the overseer to work their way into position—and now they were caught.

  Both men were in bad shape. They had cuts and bruises on their face. Trails of dried blood showed under their noses and on their chins. Ezac swayed softly on his knees, but Sebastian noticed Troy was aware enough that he surveyed those around him, perhaps looking for them.

  “Where’s Boas?” whispered Sebastian.

  “We don’t kn—”

  A murmur rose from the crowd as Black Death Setra descended the stairs. Hastily, people split apart to let him through. As he entered the circle the overseer rolled out his whip and lashed it across Ezac’s back. Ezac yelped. The entire hall fell dead silent as another slash cut across Troy’s back. It resulted in a stifled grunt through clenched teeth. At this point, the high general held up his hand.

  “Overseer,” he began, letting the Doskovian word hang in the air. “I understand we have had a bit of trouble?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the man. “My apologies for bringing you all the way down here.”

  Setra held up his hand again.

  “No need. I’m certain you had a good reason for doing so.”

  His black leather boots clacked on the stone floor as he walked past the first row of people.

  “What did they do?”

  It was hard for Sebastian to hear from the back of the crowd, but he got the gist of it even with his limited understanding of the Doskovian language. Around him, people started to whisper, passing on what was said. The noise in the hall rose as more people spoke, translating for those who did not understand.