Riddle in Stone (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book One) (22 page)

At least three weeks had passed since Edmund stole armloads of dried jerky from the guards’ chamber. However, all of those supplies were now gone and he was as hungry as before, and just as desperate.

Since his near-escape, an eerie quiet had fallen over the mines. He rarely saw guards patrolling the major passageways anymore. When he did, they didn’t appear particularly alert. They chatted to each other, weapons sheathed at their sides or leaning up against their shoulders. He hadn’t even heard the rhythmic ringing of metal on stone as Pit Dwellers labored for their paltry rations. Day after day everything was completely silent, except for the constant dripping of distant water and the squeaking of the white rats fighting over the remains of biscuits that Edmund threw at them.

He tried catching a rat once, hoping to have something new to eat. But when he grabbed it behind its head like Pond Scum had said, the rat swiveled around like viper and bit deep into Edmund’s hand. Its black, scythe-like claws dug into his skin, shredding his flesh. Edmund had to beat it against a stone to kill it and even in death the rat didn’t let go. He had to peel away its broken limbs and pry its locked jaws off his thumb. Now the rats kept their distance, watching him with their pink, untrusting eyes.

Edmund’s stomach rumbled.

If I have to eat another damn biscuit—

He sniffed and sat up, puzzled.

Venison?

It’s your imagination.

No, it isn’t! It’s real. I can smell it!

Who would be cooking venison in the mines?

Maybe there’s another guards’ chamber around here. Maybe there’s another way out!

He sniffed each tunnel around him.

The scent was irresistible. He’d had nothing to eat but his bland biscuits for more than a fortnight. He could barely swallow them anymore.

His stomach rumbled again.

He slid sideways into a fissure and sniffed. The smell got stronger.

The fissure narrowed into a crawlway. Writhing forward on his elbows and knees, Edmund followed the wonderful scent.

Murmurs and grunts—the sounds of somebody gorging himself, perhaps several people—floated from one of the intersecting passages. Edmund slid behind a block of stone that he had positioned in the crawlway, just in case the goblin hunters reappeared, and slithered closer to the heavenly odor. The passage turned sharply to the left.

A faint red light wavered on the wall in front of him.

He stopped.

There was definitely more than one person eating something just around the corner.

Kravel? Gurding?

He hadn’t heard from either of his captors since shortly after the massacre when they and fifty other goblins swarmed down the column-lined passageway toward the guard chamber. Kravel cursed the dead guards and shouted for the forest to be searched. Since then, all had been quiet.

Why would Kravel and Gurding be eating in the mines?

Why would anybody?

Edmund approached the red light and the unmistakable smell of roasting meat. Someone smacked their lips. Edmund’s stomach grumbled again.

I can’t stand this any longer!

With excruciatingly slow movements, he peeked around the turn in the crawlway and stifled a gasp. In the middle of a huge cavern sat two distant figures, huddling around a pile of blazing torches, devouring a slab of meat the size of a moose’s hind leg. Through the deep shadows, Edmund could only see the back of the hulking figure closest to him, silhouetted by the torches’ bright crimson glow. But the figure’s muscles were as identifiable as any face.

Turd?

He escaped? But how?

Edmund squinted. It was undeniably Turd. Somebody else was with him, directly across from the fire, a smaller figure with a black beard a foot long.

Pond Scum?

Glancing around, the smaller figure ripped into the slab of partially cooked meat.

Edmund pulled back.

They both escaped! I wonder what happened to Vomit.

He couldn’t run with that leg. You can guess what happened to him.

Edmund’s stomach rumbled louder.

He rubbed his sunken belly.

How did they get the meat? This doesn’t make any sense.

You better hurry before they eat it all!

Edmund propped himself on his elbows, listening. He could hear the chomping of his former pit mates, the crackling of the pile of torches, and the periodic dripping from stalactites echoing in the cavern, but nothing else.

He rubbed his temples, hoping his headache would go away. His stomach churned as he peered around the corner again, careful not to expose himself. He hissed through the opening.

“Psssst! Turd. Pond Scum.”

They didn’t respond. Staring intently at the meat as they dangled it over the crackling flames, they licked their fingers.

Edmund retreated.

What are you waiting for? It’s Turd and Pond Scum. They have meat!

Something isn’t right about this. Where would they get that?

Maybe from a storage room. The goblins made that jerky, didn’t they? They must have smoke houses somewhere. Or maybe Turd killed some hunters that were bringing in a deer carcass from the forest. The goblins obviously have to hunt for their food. Turd probably stole it.

Maybe . . .

He rolled a small stone between his dirty fingers as he watched Turd consume another hunk of venison.

Think how much easier it would be to have two other people. You could actually get some sleep while one of them kept watch and prevented the rats from biting you. You wouldn’t have to jump at every echo. Get another couple of swords and you could start killing goblins at will. Turd could do all the fighting. You could free more slaves. Maybe start an armed uprising in the mines! You can make them pay for your eye. You can make them pay for everything . . .

Edmund weighed the stone in his hand for a moment and then flicked it on the ground. He touched the Star of Iliandor on his brow. The gem was cold.

Crawling closer to the opening, he stuck his head into the cavern and glanced around. Other than Turd and Pond Scum, the cavern seemed empty. But the shadows were black and hiding spots were many.

He pulled his knees up to his chin, rotated, and slipped his legs out of the tunnel. The rest of his body followed.

“Turd,” he whispered. “Pond Scum.”

Again, there was no response.

He stalked closer through the smoke and meat-scented darkness, his mouth watering, his stomach jumping over itself.

“Turd,” he said louder. “Pond Scum.”

There was a rustle.

Turd hunched over the torches, shoving fistfuls of meat into his mouth at an even faster rate.

Pond Scum’s head snapped up. Springing to his feet, he yelled. “Filth! Trap! It’s a trap! Run!”

From the surrounding shadows, countless figures flew at Edmund.

“There he is! There he is!” Turd shouted, getting up and inching backwards toward the cavern’s main exit, his retreat quickening with every jab of his finger, his hands clutching long hunks of venison. “Get him! Get him!”

As soon as Pond Scum had screamed “trap” the second time, Edmund realized what was happening. Spinning, he bolted back to the opening. But there were goblins blocking his way. Lowering his shoulders, he drove through them. They grappled his chest and arms, their fingers sliding off his grimy skin. Somebody threw a net, but it fell short.

“Remember,” Kravel announced from somewhere in the cavern, “don’t kill him.”

“And take the other one to the wet cells,” Gurding commanded. “The miserable screamer. Take him away. We’ll deal with him later.”

Edmund dove into the crawlway.

Somebody grabbed his ankle and pulled.

Edmund slid backwards to the cavern. He kicked and twisted, his ankle breaking free. He propelled himself forward, bloodying his knees as they thrust against jagged stone. Somebody shot into the crawlway after him.

“Come here, you little rat,” a goblin said.

He grabbed at Edmund’s left calf. Edmund’s heel connected with the goblin’s jaw. The goblin swore.

Edmund pulled himself around the corner.

Stay and fight? Only one can come in here at a time.

No! Get out of here, now!

Hands clawed at Edmund’s right foot.

Thrashing, Edmund scrambled deeper into the crawlway.

The goblin cursed again. “Damn you!”

Edmund lunged over the block of stone that he had rolled into the middle of the tunnel. He was almost over it when a rope snagged his left foot. It tightened around his ankle. The goblin yanked.

“Gotcha!”

Edmund braced himself against the sides of the crawlway and drove forward. He made progress, but the rope suddenly jerked taut. With his free leg, he pushed in vain against the floor. His fingernails tore at the walls. A head appeared over the block of stone behind him as the goblin crawled deeper into the tunnel. Edmund started sliding backwards toward the cavern.

“I’ll drag you out of here piece by piece, if I have to,” the goblin said, crawling over the stone.

Sliding back toward the goblin, his leg feeling as if it were coming out of its socket, Edmund grimaced. “I don’t think so.”

Reaching behind him, Edmund touched the rock beneath the goblin. “
Forstørre nå
!”

In a flash, the stone doubled its size, filling the crawlway. There was a crushing sound, like an elephant stepping on a coconut. The blood-soaked rope went slack. Slipping his ankle free, Edmund scrambled further into the darkness, the shouts of Kravel and the goblin hunters fading behind him as he fled deeper and deeper into the mines.

Well, that was certainly close!

Too close. Had it not been for Pond Scum—

Edmund stopped crawling.

What are you doing? Don’t . . .

He backtracked to a different passage.

You’re making a big mistake!

Maybe. But the goblins won’t be expecting it.

You’re falling out of the pan and into the fire.

Either way I’m cooked. Better to die trying to help somebody.

But who would know?

I’d know. I’m not going to die a fat, stuttering coward.

You’re not fat anymore . . .

But Edmund wasn’t listening. He jumped out of a crevice, dropped to the floor below, and trotted up a wide passageway, sword in his right hand, the jagged knife from the dead guards in his left. Deeper in the mines, turmoil raged, but it was moving away from him, and he from it. He increased his speed, knowing the passage as well in the darkness as he did in the light.

Faintly, a red glow appeared, streaking through the cracks in the broken door that he had ripped off its hinges countless months earlier.

Somebody screamed in pain.

Goblins shouted.

There was the sound of a body hitting stone.

The screaming stopped.

Edmund flattened himself alongside the doorway leading to the guardroom.

“He’ll be punished all right,” a goblin grumbled.

“The Games?” another goblin asked.

“Something far more painful, I’d think, after what he’s done,” the first goblin replied.

“Just don’t let this one get away,” a third goblin said. “The Torturers will want to tickle him from the inside out, if you get me. Nice and slow like.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” the second goblin assured them.

“If he does,” the third warned, “you best just kill yourself. We’ll be back to fetch him after we go report.”

Multiple footsteps faded away.

A chair screeched as if pushed against a floor.

Somebody coughed.

In the darkness outside the guardroom, Edmund slipped his knife into his belt and gripped the scimitar with both hands.

Make it quick. No screaming this time.

He nodded to himself.

Taking a deep breath, he bounded into the guardroom, his sword held high. The chain mail-clad goblin sitting in the chair vaulted to his feet, drawing his own scimitar in one expert motion.

“You!” he said, raising his sword above his head to parry Edmund’s blow.

But Edmund swung low, clipping the goblin’s knee. The guard fell to the ground.

“Me,” Edmund replied, thrusting the tip of his sword deep into the guard’s neck between the guard’s mail shirt and helm. Gurgling, the guard thrashed on the floor. Edmund’s sword hit him across the side of the head. The guard didn’t move.

Take everything! Take his mail and clothing!

No time! Get Vorn and Pond Scum and get the hell out of here.

Grabbing a ring of keys from the nearby table, Edmund ran down the damp corridor housing the wet cells.

“Pond Scum!” he called, covering his nose. “Vorn!”

“Edmund?” Vorn replied from a cell somewhere in the darkness. “What are you—?”

“No time to explain! Where did they put the new prisoner?”

“In one of the first cells. On your right, judging from the sound. But—”

“Pond Scum?” Edmund called. He opened a visor and peered into a cell. But without a light source, he couldn’t see what it contained.

Should’ve taken the torch….

Too late now. Hurry!

He fumbled with the keys, attempting to slide each into the lock. One fit. He turned it and tugged open the cell door.

It was empty.

He tried the next cell.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Vorn said to him from the malodorous blackness.

“We’re getting out of here,” Edmund replied. “All of us. I should have gotten you out of here before. I’m sorry.”

He wrenched open the next door and found a shriveled body huddled in the corner. White rats leapt from the corpse and stampeded out of the cell, scurrying over Edmund’s feet as he kicked at them.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Vorn replied. “They’ll be anticipating that. They’ll be waiting.”

“They think I’m somewhere else.”

He heaved open another door. There, crumpled on the grated floor, was Pond Scum, his head bloody, his hands bound behind his back. Edmund shook him.