Kellanved's Reach

The quarries? As a mason Gregar knew about the wretched lives of those sent to break rock in the quarries. It was no better than a death sentence.

‘Look – I recant. I’d been drinking, okay? Haven’t you ever had a little too much?’

‘Oh, yes,’ answered the hidden jailer. ‘Many times. But it’s not up to me. By the way – I say sorry, but I’m not. Not at all. I just say that to quieten you fellows down. Farewell!’

‘Wait!’ He banged on the door. ‘Wait, dammit to Hood!’

The heavy dragging steps diminished into the distance, accompanied by a mocking chuckle.

He slid down the door to the stone floor and lay there up against the wood, cursing. In time, he must have fallen asleep again, because he imagined himself clawing at the wall. He scratched, pulled, seemed even to be digging – as at the promised quarry, perhaps – pushing at the stones, desperate to escape.

And when he awoke once again the light was different. Flickering sallow lamplight illuminated a narrow stone hallway. He jumped to his feet, unbelieving. The fool of a jailer must’ve left the door unlocked! Gregar ran.

After numerous intersections and doors – always choosing the upwards path, be it stairs or a sloping hall – he found himself in the lower kitchens of the great stone fortress that was ancient Castle Gris. Fat cauldrons steamed over charcoal fires, and wide counters held fowl waiting to be plucked and butchered piglets awaiting dressing. The scent of food made him almost faint and he went to the nearest cast-iron pot. A wooden spoon rested nearby and he dunked it into the dark roiling fluid.

‘I wouldn’t eat that if I were you,’ warned an amused voice nearby, and Gregar jumped backwards.

What he’d taken for a pile of rags and bones now stirred, revealing a painfully skinny figure all angles and protruding joints. A pale skull limned by greasy lank hair rose as its owner regarded him.

‘Why?’ he demanded.

‘Because that’s lye in there.’

‘Lye? Doesn’t smell like it.’

‘Been boiling for days. Ready to treat the hides now.’

Gregar flinched away. ‘Isn’t there anything to eat here? Isn’t this a damned kitchen?’

The emaciated lad – if it was a lad; Gregar couldn’t really tell – chuckled.

‘This is the sub-sub-kitchen. If Castle Gris has a basement, this is the shithole beneath. Not much food here. Just the worst cast-offs and leavings.’

‘There’s a lot beneath here,’ Gregar answered. ‘I’ve seen it.’

The eyes, huge and luminous in the lean fleshless skull, somehow became brighter. ‘You’ve come from below? How?’

‘I escaped.’

‘Escaped?’ The figure repeated the word as if mouthing it for the first time. ‘Escaped … how?’

‘Never mind! I need food.’

‘No. How. Tell me how.’

Gregar eyed the three open approaches to the kitchen and the one locked door. ‘Fine. The jailer left the door to my cell unlocked and I escaped. There. Happy? Now – where’s something to eat?’

An etiolated hand rose and long crooked fingers extended to point to the far cauldron. ‘Ham hocks rendering. Try there.’

Gregar used the spoon to fish out a pig’s knuckle to gnaw on. ‘Who’re you?’ he asked, as he eyed the openings and considered his chances in the upper halls.

‘Never mind me. Escaped, you say? From the cells? What did you do?’

Gregar shrugged, rather self-consciously. ‘I had a fight with the guard.’

‘Last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah! So that was you the servants were talking about. They said you beat down an entire watch of the guard while armed only with sticks. And that you meant to join the Crimson Guard. Is that true?’

Gregar looked away. ‘I suppose so. Can’t really remember.’

‘Then how did they capture you?’

He sighed, spat the knuckle to the floor. ‘I passed out.’

The figure, who had been lying or crouching, now rose to stand, and Gregar was appalled by the state of its emaciation, and the filthy rags that hung from its skeletal frame. He was also rather unnerved by the brightness that flamed in its huge eyes. ‘What is your calling?’ the figure asked.

‘Calling?’

‘What do you do?’

‘Oh. I’m an apprentice mason.’

‘Mason.’ The figure nodded to itself, thinking. Gregar now noted a collar and chain that ran from the poor slave’s neck to a ring set in the wall nearby. ‘Have a way with stone, do you?’ it asked, suddenly, as if struck by a thought.

Gregar gave a curt jerk of his head. ‘Aye. Always. Comes natural to me. I can just see it.’

‘See it? See what?’

Gregar shrugged again. He fished out another pig’s knuckle. ‘Where to strike. The stresses and strains running through any rock. It’s all obvious to me. Plain as day. The north tower, for example – it needs shoring up. The foundations are eroding.’

The sickly lad smiled now – a corpse’s grin of yellowed teeth against sunken cheeks. He grabbed hold of the chain securing him to the wall and held it out. ‘Break this,’ he demanded.

Gregar waved him off. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m for the higher halls.’

‘You won’t make it ten paces.’ The lad’s fevered pale eyes were blazing with a new light. ‘I, however, know all the upper halls. I can get you out of Castle Gris.’