The swelling on the back of Denver’s head throbbed and made him feel sick. He looked around the prison cell in which he was thrown. For what seemed like an hour he’d been left there to stew about how stupid he was in letting someone come up behind him like that.
He wondered if it wasn’t because of the lack of root dulling his senses, taking the edge off his mind. He sat back on the filthy mattress, leaning his back against the cold stone. The walls were rough-hewn lumps piled on top of each other to make a room no larger than three meters in any direction.
Raw, damp dirt lay beneath his feet. He coughed, the stench of carrion wafting through the bars of the door from somewhere off down the corridor. The groans of other prisoners echoed down the narrow passage.
At least he wasn’t the only one here. Maybe one of the other cells contained his father. Looking at the door, he wished he still had his weapons on him. The bastards had even found the bush knife strapped to his calf. With that, he could have hacked away the wooden frame and door and got to the hinges, but with nothing but his clothes and bare hands, he was stuck.
Checking the mattress and the dark corners of the room, Denver sought anything at all that could prove useful, but he came up blank. Nothing but dirt and worms and the frayed fragments of someone’s old clothes.
They probably died in here, he thought.
Through the cracks where the wooden beams of the ceiling were crudely cemented into the stone walls, a beam of light filtered through, shining against the iron bars within the door.
No way of telling what the exact time was or how long he had been out. Could have been an hour, could’ve been a day. Without the root in his system, the unconsciousness mixed with his general tiredness could have lasted a lot longer than usual.
Either way, it didn’t help him out much.
Standing to stretch his legs and help clear his head, he paced the small cell, walking off the cramp that had set in to his calves and thighs. The swelling on the back of his head felt like a tennis ball.
Whoever it was, human or croatoan, really went to town with the blow.
Remembering the others, he searched the pockets of his fatigues in vain to find the communicator, but as was expected, they, whoever his captors were, had already taken it. That probably spelled danger to Layla and the others if they gave anything away over the comm line before they realized who was on the other end.
But nothing he could do about that.
At least they had Gregor with them. As despicable as he was, he afforded them a certain level of protection. Assuming he hadn’t got them to do anything stupid like storm the settlement.
Of course! The settlement… Denver moved to the far end of the cell and, on tiptoes, lifted his face to the crack. Although the aperture only gave him a narrow angle of view, he could see the rooftops of other buildings and in the distance a building on top of a landmass.
Beyond that, and surrounding his view, he saw the steps cut into the high sides of the town. He wondered if this wasn’t once a quarry or a lake given the bowl shape of it with the high sides. A shadow cut the beam of light. A man, or woman perhaps, in robes walked across his vision. He made to shout out, but something about it made him stop. Something familiar…
The way they walked and held themselves prickled at the edge of his recognition, but with his head throbbing with pain he couldn’t quite place it. He did, however, recall seeing the group of robed people through his scope before he was knocked out, but that wasn’t what was ringing bells for him, there was something more fundamental with their body language that screamed at him to remember.
He’d have to leave it for when his head cleared a little.
Whenever that might be. His captors hadn’t even provided him with any water or food. Even an interrogation would be better than nothing. At least then he’d have an opportunity to gather some information on what was happening.
Frustrated, he strode across the cell and battered the flats of his fists against the door and bellowed through the bars, “Hey, anyone out there? What the hell is this? You want to just leave me here for nothing? Hey! Answer me, you bastards.”
No response apart from a derisive howl from what sounded like a croatoan somewhere at the end of the passageway. He carried on yelling until, finally, his throat became sore. He turned his back, resigned to rotting in the cell with no answers, when a metallic noise rattled from the darkness.
A screech of a hinge sounded, followed by soft footsteps and the jangle of keys. Weak light glowed in the corridor and grew brighter as it came closer. A silhouette of a heavyset human from behind the light blocked out Denver’s view completely.
“Stand back. Don’t try anything, or it will be your last action,” came the voice, deep and gravelly. Definitely a male human with an accent he couldn’t quite make out due to its almost tonal neutrality.
Denver did as he was asked and stepped back, but bounced on his haunches and balled his fists, ready to attack the person as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
The door opened.
Denver tensed, ready to pounce.
A barrel of a gun pressed against his chest, freezing him in place.
“Turn around,” the voice commanded. “You say a thing and I empty this magazine into you, do you understand?”
“I understand,” Denver said, turning around slowly. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“Shut up,” the voice said. “You’ll know everything later if you don’t do anything stupid. Hands behind your back and get on your knees.”
For a brief moment, Denver considered hitting a crouch and spinning, driving into the guard, but he couldn’t be entirely sure he didn’t have backup. Not wanting to risk anything, he did as he suggested. His time would come; he just needed to be patient and wait it out.
A pair of cold iron shackles bound his wrists. The guard pulled a sack over his head, obscuring his vision. It stank of rotting vegetables and sweat. How many other prisoners had this thing been stuck on? How many people’s last breaths had coated the inside of the material? However many there were, Denver didn’t intend to add his to them.
“Get up. We’re going for a walk. Same rules apply. You do anything stupid, I gun you down. Pretty easy rules to follow unless you’re a suicidal maniac. Are you?”
“I wasn’t,” Denver said. “Can’t guarantee anything now, though. Where are we going?”
No response, just the press of the barrel into the back of his head. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward, imagining the violence he would enact on this asshole if and when he got his chance. He stood up and waited for further instruction. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and aimed him toward the door.
“You just keep walking. I’ll tell you when to stop,” the voice said.
Denver gingerly stepped forward, trying to get his balance. He initially made to dart away, but he soon realized that his shackles were tethered to a chain. The guard yanked him back as a subtle reminder.
“Go on,” the guard said, and Denver did as he was told, stepping forward, trying to analyze this location from the surface of the ground. So far all he could tell was that he was still in the prison with its soft dirt floor. After a few minutes of doors opening and closing, he felt chilled air on his hands. His clothes flapped against his skin as a gentle wind breezed against him.
Through the sackcloth, the lightness of day bled through, but he couldn’t make out any detail. The surface underfoot had changed to gravel. And then back to dirt, but harder this time, compacted like a well-trodden path.
Probing him in the back with the gun barrel, the guard urged Denver on through a number of twisting, turning roads and pathways until finally they came to a section of stone steps. One by one, Denver climbed. He counted twenty-three steps in total as they reached the top.