thrashed weakly and drew back, a moan came from the darkness. Three-leg moved on, hunting a more submissive meal.
Nub, a small gregarious rodent bereft of a tail, scurried quickly from cell to cell, as if knowing exactly what it was looking for and how to find it. Nub veered toward Rathe’s quarters, halted just out of reach and sat up, beady eyes giving him a curious once over.
“Nothing for you this day, friend,” Rathe croaked. “Of course, you know that, don’t you?”
Nub’s whiskers twitched, its head bobbed as if in answer.
“Like as not, I will be dead soon,” Rathe continued. “Then, little one, you can have all the meat you want. How would that be?”
Nub bobbed its head again, front paws held before its chest like a pleading supplicant.
“Off with you,” Rathe said. “I am not dead yet.”
Perhaps it was encroaching madness, perhaps imagination, but Rathe felt sure that Nub considered his words and, finding such an arrangement acceptable, it dropped to all fours and continued its rounds.
In watching Nub’s progression, Rathe spied Patches. The two regarded each other. A one-eyed rat dotted with snowy spots, Patches did not move around much, as though trying to blend in with the shadows and crumbling brick walls. When it deigned to explore, it did so with heightened caution.
“You have had a rough go of it, haven’t you?” Rathe said. Until coming awake the first day in the deep cells, he had never reflected on the conduct of vermin. He had discovered they had a hierarchy, and it seemed poor blemished Patches was at the bottom of its pack.
“You will have to find your stones, if you ever want to make something of yourself,” Rathe advised with a wry chuckle.
In answer, Patches lowered its head and slowly backed into the darkness of another cell.
Rathe sighed and leaned his head back against the rough brick wall. Other vermin squeaked and hunted in the gloom, pausing occasionally to nibble a toe or finger on the chance that the owner of that appendage had died in the night. If the prisoner yelped or groaned, the rats scurried on. If not, they feasted until one of the gaolers collected the corpses.
None of that bothered Rathe anymore. He supposed hunger made him lethargic, or maybe the lingering effects of whatever potion Girod had put into his wine. Or, perhaps I no longer care about anything?
With that thought came a jumble of visions and sensations from that night: wine and celebration, surrounded by highborn with no greater cares than who to bed; Lisana’s seductive smile and the blue of her eyes; after, the scarlet flood pouring from the gruesome tear across her throat, those beautiful eyes glazing in death; Girod sword in hand, readying to strike her again. Rathe’s fist clenched tightly, as if around a hilt. In his mind, he skewered Girod’s bowels anew, pinning the brute to the headboard. The longer he let the ghastly images cavort inside his skull, the more tangled they became, losing all connection to reality. Maybe I am losing my mind? Given that he counted vermin as companions, even named and spoke to them, he guessed that made sense.
Around him his fellow prisoners wept, moaned, or held silent vigil. Rathe closed his eyes which, improbable as it was, snuffed out the visions of his downfall. As he dozed, he saw Thushar’s severed head bouncing out of the stone basin in the executioner’s yard, the stump of the big Prythian’s neck spurting blood. He dared not allow himself any measure of self-pity, not with Thushar’s death cavorting his mind. Even as the executioner’s axe had fallen, with a smug Osaant and a chained Rathe looking on, Thushar had never lost his defiance or pride. Such a man as that did not deserve me for a friend.
The hardest thing for Rathe was that Thushar had not condemned him for falling so easily into the trap laid by Girod and Osaant, nor had he regretted guarding a stuporous Rathe until the end. His last words, spoken in the dark of their
Nub, a small gregarious rodent bereft of a tail, scurried quickly from cell to cell, as if knowing exactly what it was looking for and how to find it. Nub veered toward Rathe’s quarters, halted just out of reach and sat up, beady eyes giving him a curious once over.
“Nothing for you this day, friend,” Rathe croaked. “Of course, you know that, don’t you?”
Nub’s whiskers twitched, its head bobbed as if in answer.
“Like as not, I will be dead soon,” Rathe continued. “Then, little one, you can have all the meat you want. How would that be?”
Nub bobbed its head again, front paws held before its chest like a pleading supplicant.
“Off with you,” Rathe said. “I am not dead yet.”
Perhaps it was encroaching madness, perhaps imagination, but Rathe felt sure that Nub considered his words and, finding such an arrangement acceptable, it dropped to all fours and continued its rounds.
In watching Nub’s progression, Rathe spied Patches. The two regarded each other. A one-eyed rat dotted with snowy spots, Patches did not move around much, as though trying to blend in with the shadows and crumbling brick walls. When it deigned to explore, it did so with heightened caution.
“You have had a rough go of it, haven’t you?” Rathe said. Until coming awake the first day in the deep cells, he had never reflected on the conduct of vermin. He had discovered they had a hierarchy, and it seemed poor blemished Patches was at the bottom of its pack.
“You will have to find your stones, if you ever want to make something of yourself,” Rathe advised with a wry chuckle.
In answer, Patches lowered its head and slowly backed into the darkness of another cell.
Rathe sighed and leaned his head back against the rough brick wall. Other vermin squeaked and hunted in the gloom, pausing occasionally to nibble a toe or finger on the chance that the owner of that appendage had died in the night. If the prisoner yelped or groaned, the rats scurried on. If not, they feasted until one of the gaolers collected the corpses.
None of that bothered Rathe anymore. He supposed hunger made him lethargic, or maybe the lingering effects of whatever potion Girod had put into his wine. Or, perhaps I no longer care about anything?
With that thought came a jumble of visions and sensations from that night: wine and celebration, surrounded by highborn with no greater cares than who to bed; Lisana’s seductive smile and the blue of her eyes; after, the scarlet flood pouring from the gruesome tear across her throat, those beautiful eyes glazing in death; Girod sword in hand, readying to strike her again. Rathe’s fist clenched tightly, as if around a hilt. In his mind, he skewered Girod’s bowels anew, pinning the brute to the headboard. The longer he let the ghastly images cavort inside his skull, the more tangled they became, losing all connection to reality. Maybe I am losing my mind? Given that he counted vermin as companions, even named and spoke to them, he guessed that made sense.
Around him his fellow prisoners wept, moaned, or held silent vigil. Rathe closed his eyes which, improbable as it was, snuffed out the visions of his downfall. As he dozed, he saw Thushar’s severed head bouncing out of the stone basin in the executioner’s yard, the stump of the big Prythian’s neck spurting blood. He dared not allow himself any measure of self-pity, not with Thushar’s death cavorting his mind. Even as the executioner’s axe had fallen, with a smug Osaant and a chained Rathe looking on, Thushar had never lost his defiance or pride. Such a man as that did not deserve me for a friend.
The hardest thing for Rathe was that Thushar had not condemned him for falling so easily into the trap laid by Girod and Osaant, nor had he regretted guarding a stuporous Rathe until the end. His last words, spoken in the dark of their
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