“No escape?” muttered Haern. “I think you’re about to help me prove you wrong, Boris.”
Using the arm as a rope, he pulled himself up off the ground, not bothering to test the weight. The last thing he wanted to do was add any extra strain, even if for a moment. Up the arm he went, and when he reached the grate, he stretched to his limits, fingers searching for a hold. When he found one, a jut of stone the grate’s hinge was connected to, he wanted to cry. Now with something firm to hold onto, he pulled himself up and into the tunnel. The sides were cramped, the rock uneven, so when he pushed against one side with his feet, he was able to successfully wedge himself into the entrance.
Before he could ascend higher, he heard a rattling, a rolling, and then the most sickening popping sound.
“Haern …”
Just his imagination, he told himself. Haern reached down, grabbing Boris’s arm and wrenching it free. He might need it again on his climb, he decided. Still, he didn’t like the way it flopped over his back, suddenly not so rigid.
“Haern, don’t leave me.”
Not his imagination, then. He heard the scattering of bones, the groaning of leather straps and the rattle of armor.
“Don’t leave me down here!”
The arm vibrated across his back. Haern pulled it off him, and then it suddenly tugged hard down toward the chamber. He just barely released it in time before it could pull him back inside. The arm hit the ground, then rolled out of sight. Another sickening pop followed.
“Just climb,” Haern whispered, pushing away all thoughts of Boris reassembling himself, condemned to remain inside the blue-fire chamber, fed the scraps of Karak’s unfaithful. “Nothing else, just climb.”
Keeping his legs braced, his back pressed against the stone, he pushed himself upward with his arms, nice and slow. Once high enough, he took a step, one foot above the other. It was tedious work and put tremendous strain on his legs and back, but it was something he knew he could endure for hours if need be. He just had to be careful. One slip, one slacking of the pressure, and he’d be tumbling back down the tunnel.
He doubted Boris would be so polite and talkative the second time around.
“Haern …”
Boris’s voice followed him, a ragged, fading whisper. It took many steps, and at least ten minutes by his guess, but eventually, he was high enough in the darkness to be free of the man’s haunting cry. He prayed he never heard the cursed man’s voice ever again.
Inch by tedious inch he climbed. Occasionally, he found handholds in the stone, and he used them to rest his back. He tried not to think about how long he was down there, nor his escape. All he thought of was his father telling him “sorry” before sending him tumbling down into the pit. Whenever Haern felt his legs starting to wobble, or his back locking up from the strain, he thought of that “sorry” and used it to push on higher. The tunnel gradually shifted, the slight variations required to prevent someone from plummeting straight down to their death. Sometimes, they were just soft enough that he could sit for a moment and catch his breath before continuing. Sometimes, they forced him to twist and shift the way he climbed, lest he slide right back down.
At one point, he felt his foot slip into the air, and at first, he thought he’d missed, but then he realized it was a secondary tunnel connected to the first. It was somewhat perpendicular to the one he climbed, and he grabbed ahold of its sides with his fingers and pulled himself into it. Letting out a gasp, he lay on his back and willed his muscles to relax.
“Almost there,” he told himself, though he had no idea if it were true or not. “Almost there.”
The question now was where to go: up, or follow the other chute? In the end, he decided to continue his climb. His gut said the other direction led to wherever the dark paladins tended to dump their victims. The higher tunnel with the ladder? That one he had a feeling they knew nothing about. Well, no one but Luther, if the priest, or his father, were to be trusted.
As much as he hated the thought of doing so, he returned to a crouch, then extended so that he was leaning against the far side. Spinning about so his back was against it, he stepped one step to the left, a firm foot pushing against stone, and began his climb. More time. More inches by painful inches. When the pain in his back didn’t seem able to get any worse, he felt it strike something sharp. Despite the pain, despite the darkness, a laugh escaped his lips that took almost a minute to cease.
It was one of the rungs pounded into the stone that formed the ladder.
Once he had a firm grip and his weight was fully supported by the ladder, Haern hung there, once again debating. He could leave, he knew. The exit was just opposite him. He could crawl through the dark until reaching Delysia, and together they could flee the Stronghold, leaving as if they’d never been. But above him was where Luther should be, and where his father had gone. Leaving now, giving in … he couldn’t do it. He had to know. So, up the rungs he went, and after the tedious process earlier, the ladder felt like a gift from the heavens.
Multiple times he felt the soft blowing of cool air upon his neck, alerting him to side passages, but he never took them. Luther was supposed to be at the top, so to the top he would climb. As he did, he listened to the noises that came to him through the stone. They were distorted, of course, but he still found himself occasionally surprised by the proximity or clarity he heard. Much of it was soft discussion, deep voices talking about things he could only guess at. Once he swore he heard a man in prayer, and on another floor, two men arguing. Whenever he heard such sounds, he slowed his ascent, always fearful that somehow they might also hear him scurrying up the walls like a rat.
At last, he reached the end of the rungs. He reached out behind him, but the wall was solid. Steadying himself, he paused a moment, felt the softest flow of air from his left. Taking his foot off the rung, he tested, and sure enough, he found a tall tunnel. Slowly, he shifted his weight off the rungs and into the short tunnel, at the very end of which he saw the tiniest slivers of light, like cracks in a wooden door. To his eyes, though, they were blinding, and he blinked and kept his gaze to the side until he might recover.
It turned out his comparison wasn’t far off. It did seem to be a wooden door before him, slender and rectangular. He could only guess as to what it appeared to be from the other side, as well as how he might open it. Slowly, he ran his hands along it until he found a single bit of metal for him to grab. Gently, he pushed inward, then pulled toward him, and he found the door had far more give into the room than out.
Putting his ear to the side, he listened for signs of life, heard none. Double-checking his swords at his waist, he pulled his hood low over his face and took in a deep breath. This was it. Time to discover just where he was. He pushed against the metal knob, heard a crack, and then the rectangular slab of wood swung out. The light inside was blinding, even though it was only two separate lanterns on each side of the room with tall slender candles burning within them. Squinting against it, he dipped his head so his hood would block much of the light, and with what vision he had, he checked his surroundings.
Haern found himself inside what appeared to be a library, with four free-standing shelves of books before him. Turning about out of curiosity, he looked to see what it was he’d emerged from. Shutting the entrance, he saw that it was an enormous wooden carving that had been mounted upon the wall. Etched into the wood with amazing detail was a lion devouring a stag, with the carver having used heat to blacken wherever there was supposed to have been blood. Testing a corner, he found that pulling against it made the wall itself open up to grant him entrance back into the darkness.