For nearly two hours Colton raced through the tunnels, forgetful of his wounds and the stabbing pain in his ankle, certain only that somewhere in the darkness Tyran was deeply in danger. He had followed Valdis through the tunnels, being careful to mark the place in his mind as he watched them leave—though there was nothing but doubt in his mind as to whether he could again find it. Hoping to find the messenger, perhaps to be led to Tyran, he searched the tunnels endlessly, but minute after minute passed agonizingly into hours, and still he found nothing.
Finally, when he had no more than a shred of hope to keep himself going, a faint orange glow became visible far ahead in the corridor. Colton, unsure at first of what he was seeing, ran towards the light and turned down an adjoining passageway, finding himself staring down a narrow, torchlit corridor. At its end stood double doors, arched and made of wood, forbidding in the flickering light.
Colton hesitated for only a moment, staring apprehensively at the doors before him. He wished he had a sword—that would at least provide him some confidence. Suddenly annoyed at this thought—that he had not confidence enough apart from some means of protection—he strode down the passage and hurled the doors open. His first thought was mild shock that the doors were unlocked, but the scene awaiting him was nothing compared to that first stroke of surprise.
Before him, in the center of a long rectangular room, lay a man shackled to a heavy stone table. It was Tyran, his breath coming raggedly, his hair matted with blood, unable to face Colton but aware of a newcomer. A little apart from him was an old hag, hunched and cloaked in black.
Presumably this woman was Mazhura, and Colton now understood the lord’s fear of her. She was wrinkled and unbelievably pale beneath her rags, offering an uncanny resemblance to a ghost. The woman was very short, or perhaps it was only that many years had bent her beneath their strain. In her hand—most disturbing of all—was clutched a stone knife. As Colton entered the room a young guard, the only other person in the room, unsheathed a sword and held it to his neck in an instant.
“Who are you?” the guard, barely more than a boy, questioned.
Colton forced an unenthused laugh, lightly pushing away the sword.
“Valdis sent me,” he said. “Don’t go pointing your sword in men’s faces.”
“Valdis?” the boy repeated.
“That would be Lord Valdis to you, would it not?”
“Why—why are you here?”
“Quite simply because you are about to kill the wrong man. There was a misunderstanding.” It was a stupid excuse, he knew, and he instantly regretted it, but the guard lowered his sword.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The guards seized the wrong man,” Colton continued.
The boy glanced from Colton to the old woman, who was raising her chin to croak back at him.
“The Spirits do not make mistakes,” she said. “This is the victor, and he shall go to be with those who have won before him. It is an honor that he die tonight.”
“An honor?” Tyran exclaimed. “I have no wish to die! Let all the Spirits die a miserable death, if they ever existed at all.”
“You incur wrath for yourself! It is my duty to free your warrior spirit from a deceived mind. I have done so for well beyond fifty years, and so shall I continue with you.”
“I say you’re a mad old woman,” Tyran said, and even Colton winced. “I was deceived. Deceived to believe I had achieved something for myself by winning! I was deceived by my own king, and now I wonder if he is even a warrior at all, to murder the greatest men in the kingdom year after year.”
Mazhura’s wrinkled brow lowered further, and her bony fingers wrapped tighter around the knife.
“The great Spirit of Odamir will take your spirit once you are dead,” she said, “and you shall be freed from such venomous thought.”
Tyran was breathing heavily now, his hands in fists, but he was powerless beneath the shackles that secured him to the table.
“Take this man away,” Mazhura beckoned to the soldier, listening dumbly to the conversation from the corner.
At her words he jumped from his position and held his sword, quivering, to Colton’s neck once again. Colton scowled at his poor form and then leapt away from its point and seized the hilt of the sword, twisting it from the hands of the soldier.
“Whoever chose you as guard made a poor decision,” he muttered, and struck him on the head. The boy fell limp to the ground.
“He would have been killed anyway,” Mazhura sighed.
“He’s not dead.” Colton moved the sword steadily toward her, remembering as he did so that it was a death sentence to so much as draw a sword in front of a woman. “Where’s the key?” he demanded.
“Key?”
“For the chains! Hurry.”
Mazhura sighed again and fumbled for a necklace, her yellow eyes piercing Colton’s. “The spirits will kill you for this,” she said.
“I’m sure they will. Against the wall, now.”
She backed away.
“Drop the knife, too.”
It clanged against the stone, and she said, “You will die if you touch that knife.”
“Will I?” Colton reached for it and tossed it across the room. Sword still in hand, he unlocked the shackles quickly.
Tyran sat up with a groan, his hand going to his head, and then he slid off the table.
“You’re going to show us the way out of here,” Colton said to Mazhura.
She laughed, sounding like a frog. “Am I, really?”
“Do you want to live?”
“You wouldn’t kill a woman,” she said, wheezing.
“Don’t push me,” Colton muttered, but she was stubborn.
Tyran walked across the room and kicked the soldier. “Wake up,” he said. The boy groaned and sat up uneasily. “Do you know the way out of here?” Tyran demanded.
He glanced uncertainly at Mazhura. “No,” he stammered.
Tyran grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him to his feet, pushing him against the wall. “Don’t lie to me. You’ll be killed if you stay here.”
“I—I don’t know.”
Tyran shook him. “Do you want to die?”
“I…”
“Be quiet, fool!” Mazhura said. “Odamir himself will see to your death if you speak a word to his enemies.”
“Be silent,” Colton said, keeping the sword at her shrunken throat. He glanced back at the guard.
Faltering between the gazes of Tyran and Mazhura, the boy found Tyran’s to be more threatening.
“I think I can remember,” he mumbled finally.
“Good.” Tyran pushed him out of the door ahead of him, and Colton backed out behind them.
Outside, Colton slammed the doors and as he turned Tyran clasped him on the shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said.
Colton gave a half-hearted smile. “Don’t mention it,” he said.
Tyran turned back to the guard. “Well?”
The boy set off down the corridor, and Colton and Tyran followed warily, speaking in low voices.
“What happened back there, anyway?” Colton asked.
“The last thing I remembered, I was being hit over the head by one of Alastor’s lords. I woke up shackled to that table with a wicked old woman standing over men, spewing something about ancient laws and spirits.”
Colton grunted.
“What about you?” Tyran continued. “Shouldn’t you be back at the training center now?”
Colton smiled, but it wasn’t visible in the dark. “I suppose I just thought I’d say goodbye.”
“You didn’t think I’d forget about you, did you?”
Colton shrugged, even though the question came out half-joking. “You had a new life,” he said.
“Some life that’s turning out to be.”
Colton was silent for a moment. “I suppose the next question is where to go now.”
“The city’s not safe,” Tyran said shortly, but Colton didn’t follow.
“With or without us?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The king has everyone deceived, doesn’t he? And I heard three of the lords speaking about it in the passageway.”
Tyran was silent, and Colton went on with his voice lowered.
“All of the lords could be involved,” he said.
“That’s not possible,” Tyran said sharply.
“We were all deceived. The lords are the king’s right-hand men—how could he have kept it from them?”
“Aiza would have known. Aiza would have told me.”
“What if she didn’t know? What if her father—”
“Lord Adoceyn is an honorable man, and he adores his daughter. He is honest with her.”
“But how could they keep this a secret from him? Wouldn’t he know if the victor disappeared every year?”
“Alastor is king. He can make his excuses, and his power prohibits any man from questioning him.”
Silence fell once more, and then Colton asked, “Did Mazhura say what the king’s intentions were?”
“Mazhura?”
“The old woman.”
“No. In her mind, it’s just an ancient ritual, the disturbance of which results in the wrath of the spirits.”
“Then what is it really?”
“It could be caused by anything—fear, jealousy, revenge. But whatever the cause is, it’s enough to keep the king—and those before him—at it for years. The Games are the perfect opportunity. The entire system and world of Vellatha allows his murdering schemes no opposition whatsoever.”
“But don’t you see?” Colton asked.
“What?”
“The Games aren’t set up by chance. Everything’s been put in place for a purpose—for the safety of Alastor and every king before him. Any other man’s rank really doesn’t matter; that’s why every boy is put in the same rank when he becomes a man. It’s their skill that he really cares about—the threat they pose to him.”
As clever as Tyran was, he stopped short in shock at this.
“But that would make our king a lowly coward—a measly scoundrel—a weakling,” he said, not daring to believe such truths about the king he had served for so many years.
“Not our king,” Colton said. “We are outlaws now. By morning there will be a price on our heads.”
Tyran continued walking, muttering, “It may already be morning. How long has it been since nightfall?”
Colton glanced at Tyran, realizing that he had no idea what it had been like for Colton to search for him through those endless passages. “I couldn’t say if both our lives depended on it,” he answered. “I was lost. I wandered these tunnels for hours before I ever came across Valdis and the other lords. And even after that it might as well have been eternity before I found you.”
Tyran stopped suddenly, the guard having halted in front of them.
“What is it?” Colton asked.
“I… I may have lost the way.”
“You what?” Colton cried.
The guard cowered beneath the flare of Tyran’s torch.
“I—I was never really certain of the path,” he stumbled. “It was so confusing when they led me to the room… I didn’t want to be killed…”
The rest of the guards’ stammered words were lost on Colton’s ears. They were lost—again! But he couldn’t stand the darkness any longer. He would go mad, he was certain, if he stayed there any longer. And his ankle was aching and his throat parched, and this guard… this boy who had promised them the way out! Their only hope had lain in him—and what had he proven himself to be but a liar!
Colton seized the boy and slammed him against the wall, sword sharply at his throat.
“You fool! You promised us the way out. And what are you but a filthy liar?”
“Please—please don’t kill me. I tried… I wanted to…”
The boy’s words fell on unheeding ears. Colton’s grip tightened around the sword.
“Colton!” The cry from Tyran was very dim at first, sounding beneath a raging storm in Colton’s tired mind. “Colton!” There it was again, and this time he heard, feeling Tyran’s hand on his shoulder.
Colton stumbled back, suddenly aware of reality again. He dropped his sword arm.
“Go,” Tyran said sharply to the guard. “We part ways here.”
The guard disappeared, running back the way they had come. Tyran’s hand was still on Colton’s shoulder, calming him.
“We’ll find another way out,” he said, and if Colton had not been distracted still he would have heard the lack of conviction in Tyran’s voice.
Loving where this is going!
So, on the word 'forgetful'...
>>For nearly two hours Colton raced through the tunnels, forgetful of his wounds and the stabbing pain in his ankle,
I think what is meant here is 'ignoring'. The impression I get is that he was very much aware of his wounds, including the ankle (which kept reminding him. Hard to forget. Especially when nothing it happening'.
And I find 'raced' and 'the tunnels' a bit bland and unhelpful. I am forced to choose between one long tunnel, through which one can 'race' (altho not on that ankle) for two hours... or a frustrating series of short tunnels, dead end, turn around, go back, choose another tunnel, rinse and repeat.
And is this while wading hip deep in sewage? Well, no, because of 'raced'. Scaring the occasional rat which one ignores because one is 'racing'? Do the tunnels go up and down, or are they boringly flat....
Inquiring minds want to imagine.