“Decades?” Haern asked. “Then the paladins must bring you food and drink.”
Boris shook his head.
“I do not require food to live, nor drink. Not here, not in this prison the prophet made for me.”
Haern felt all the more certain something was amiss. The man looked to be in his thirties, a far cry from a man who had spent decades in isolation. And what man alive could survive without food and drink? He looked at the pale skin, the body covered with dust.
Unless he wasn’t alive …
“My name is Haern,” he said, deciding to introduce himself. Until he knew what was going on down there in that blue cavern, he’d try to play along. “And forgive me, but I still do not understand. You say you’ve lived here for decades without food and drink … I do not see how that is possible.”
Boris sat back down on the smooth floor, and it was as if he were settling into a throne of bones, judging from how many were piled on either side of him.
“Sit,” Boris said. “There is nowhere to go, and we have all the time in the world.”
Haern did so, but only after ensuring he sat on no bones.
“When I say there is no escape, you must believe me,” said Boris. He pointed to the blue light above him. “It lights only when the night is deep and the moon shining. I have used it to count the days as they pass, and those days have passed into years, and years into decades. For over five hundred years I have dwelt underneath the Stronghold, for that is my curse.”
“They will not let you die?” Haern asked.
“Oh, I am already dead, but they will not let me pass on. I am bound here, forever bound until the curse is broken.”
Haern shuddered at the thought of such torture. To be alive yet alone, locked in solitude with no hope of escape as the years rolled on and on, with no promise of relief?
He glanced at the bones around him. Well, not quite alone …
“What did you do to deserve such punishment?” he asked.
“I stole from him,” Boris said. “Jacob Eveningstar, Karak’s special little chosen servant. I never thought he’d find me, that he’d know I took it … but he did, oh, yes, he did, Haern. He found me, and he dragged me here, back when the Stronghold was first built. They flung me into the depths of this cave, sealed me in, but not before he used his magic. The prophet is powerful, so very powerful. ‘You will not die,’ he told me. ‘Not until Karak once more walks the land.’”
Boris gestured about his prison.
“And so I wait.” He grinned. “Tell me, Haern, does Karak walk the land?”
“No,” Haern said, the very thought of it unnerving. “No, he does not.”
“Of course not. I doubt he ever will. And so it goes. I’d ask you what transpires above ground, but after the first two centuries, I learned nothing changes. The names of rulers shift and dance, a few wars move the boundaries of lords like pieces in a game, but nothing ever truly changes.”
“Used to ask … the bones, they throw prisoners down here to starve with you?”
“Only the most disloyal,” Boris said. “Only the ones the paladins feel are truly deserving of such punishment. I am sent the heretics, the doubters, the men who turn from Karak and seek another way. When they are found, they are cast into the pit, where I wait like a monster from stories they tell their children.”
Boris settled in, throwing more of his weight against the wall. It sent up a cloud of dust, and it shimmered a pale blue in the ethereal torchlight.
“What does change,” he said, his voice quieting, “is the reason I find men and women thrown down to join me in this pit. So, tell me, Haern, what crime have you committed against the Stronghold? You hardly look like one of their paladins. Did you steal from them, perhaps, or get caught blaspheming a bit too loudly in a tavern?”
Haern normally would have been amused at how wrong his guess was, but there was no room for humor in that dark void. Returning to a stand, he walked toward the wall opposite Boris, his eyes scanning the ceiling. He knew he’d fallen down from somewhere, a chute or hole, and it had to have remained. Yet despite how well the phantom torch lit the walls and the floor, it seemed powerless to light the ceiling. Was it because of how high it stretched up, Haern wondered, or were tricks in play, games messing with the heads of their prisoners?
“What is it you’re looking for?” Boris asked. “I told you, there’s no way out.”
“I wasn’t thrown in here by the paladins,” Haern said, ignoring him. It seemed best that way. “My … friend and I were breaking into the Stronghold, and we used a secret path to climb to the top. I slipped, fell, and landed in here.”
On the other side, Boris broke out into creaking laughter, his voice as pleasant as rust.
“Breaking into the Stronghold? You must have balls the size of cantaloupes, boy. Did someone fill your head with wild stories of Karak’s treasure stored in its depths? I’ve had my fair share of fools and blasphemers, but I think you might be the first treasure seeker to stumble down the pit without them knowing it.”
Haern grinned despite himself.
“Always happy to be a first,” he said, grabbing a bone and flinging it at the dark of the ceiling. Instead of continuing on, he heard an immediate clack.
Ten feet up, maybe eight, he thought, feeling a glimmer of hope. The shadows were there to hide the size. Perhaps if Boris could boost him, or he could use his cloak and swords to form some sort of grappling hook …
“But treasure is not why I’m here,” Haern said, grabbing a few more bones, small pieces that looked like parts to a finger, and methodically walking in a circle from where he thought he’d landed, throwing them straight up to hear the clack of the bone hitting hard stone above, followed by another as it landed.
“Then why are you here?” Boris asked. He watched Haern work, clearly curious but saying nothing about it.
“I sought an audience with a priest,” Haern said, scooping up more bones. “A man named Luther who was supposedly imprisoned here.”
“Luther?” asked Boris, and the recognition was enough to bring Haern’s attention back his way. The gray-skinned man worked his jaw as if chewing something in his mouth, and the slopping noise he made was stomach-turning.
“You know him?” Haern asked.
“I do,” Boris said. “He’s the first of Karak’s order to come down to speak with me in over a century. An intelligent man, perhaps too intelligent for his own good. It’s going to cost him his life.”
Well, thought Haern, at least there was a silver lining to his fun little drop. Perhaps he could learn a bit more about Luther and what he was hoping to accomplish in Veldaren. Tossing a few more bones into the air, all three hitting stone, he returned once more to the light of Boris’s ethereal torch.
“What did he want from you?” Haern asked.
“I knew the prophet,” Boris said. “Not well, but I was there when he was alive. Before he changed his name and became the thing with many faces he is now. Luther wanted to know what he was like, what he wanted, what he’d be willing to sacrifice…” Boris laughed. “And so I told him. A man who would imprison me for centuries, all for stealing a stupid book? He’d sacrifice everything, do anything, to achieve what he wanted. And no matter how loyal you think those pieces of shit upstairs are, Velixar makes them look like fair-weather faithful.”
Haern saw Boris had begun to breathe heavily, and both his hands were trembling.
“Is something the matter?” Haern asked, taking a step backward. With another round of creaks and groans, Boris rose to his feet. His sword remained sheathed at his side, but Haern did not wait to draw his own blades and settle into a comfortable combat stance.
“I’m sorry, Haern,” said Boris. “I’ve waited as long as I can.”
“The bones,” Haern said. “All the victims. You’re their executioner, aren’t you? Why, if you hate Karak so much?”