With a shout, he threw himself past the iron railing and over the edge of the Pit. For a second he plunged downward, then abruptly stopped short. Above, Beady-Eyes shrieked in pain as he struck the iron railing. Arms above his head, Artek dangled in midair, suspended by the chain attached to the corpulent captain's wrist.
'My arm!' Beady-Eyes squealed, his pudgy face bright red. With his free hand he clutched the iron rail to keep from being dragged over the edge. 'He's going to pull my arm out of its socket! Break the chain!'
The other guards stared at him.
'Break it!' Beady-Eyes wailed.
Dog-Face hurried forward, raising his sword. The blade flashed downward in a whistling arc. At the same moment, Artek swung his body toward the wall. Another shrill scream sounded above just as the chain gave way. Artek's momentum carried him forward, and he landed in a crouch on the catwalk bordering the highest row of cells. Glancing at the chain around his wrists, he saw that Dog-Face's blow had missed. The chain was unbroken, but at its center, still in the iron wristlet, was a severed hand. No wonder Beady-Eyes had screamed, Artek thought with grim mirth. He plucked the hand from the iron ring and tossed it aside.
Shouts of alarm rang out across the Pit. Jerking his head up, Artek saw guards racing along the catwalk from either direction. There was no way past them without a fight, which left only one way to go. Gripping the edge of the catwalk, he lowered himself down, grunting with effort. His body was no longer accustomed to such rigors. Drumming footfalls approached. Gritting his teeth, he swung himself forward and dropped to the catwalk bordering the fourth level. At least his body had not forgotten everything.
Angry curses drifted downward. A moment later, a pair of black boots dangled over the edge of the catwalk above. A guard was climbing down after him. Artek grabbed the man's boots and pulled. With a scream, the guard lost his grip and plunged downward. A second later, he struck the hard stone floor forty feet below, and blood sprayed outward in a crimson starburst. The remaining guards above swore again but did not attempt to follow their companion;
Artek looked up. Across the Pit, guards on each of the five cell levels raced in his direction. He leaned against the railing of the catwalk, his breath rattling in his gaunt chest.
You may not have changed, Artek, he thought. But you're certainly not the man you used to be.
Exhausted though he was, this was not the time to rest. He lowered himself over the edge of the catwalk and swung onto the third level. Emaciated arms reached out from iron-barred cells, but he ignored them. They would have to find their own way out. Arms aching, he lowered himself to the second level, then finally dropped to the main floor of the Pit.
He staggered, then gained his feet. A few feet away, a grimy old man pushing a wheelbarrow looked up in surprise. The cart was filled with gray, lumpy slop, and the old fellow gripped a dripping wooden ladle in his hand. He had been making the rounds, flinging a ladleful of the fetid slop into every cell for the prisoners to eat off the floor.
'That looks appetizing,' Artek said wryly.
The old man only gaped at him.
A dozen guards poured out of a nearby stairwell and rushed toward Artek. He glanced at the door of the Pit. Another dozen guards stood before it. Now where?
A good thief is imaginative, my son. If something seems impossible, consider it. The unexpected action is the hardest of all to counter.
His black eyes drifted upward. A thrill coursed through him as he spied a way out. There was no time to consider it; the guards were almost upon him.
'Excuse me,' Artek said, pushing the stunned old man aside. He gripped the handles of the cart and, with a grunt, heaved it over. Putrid, gray gruel spilled across the stone floor, and the guards were running too fast to avoid it. Their boots skidded on the slimy swill, and they went down in a swearing tangle of arms, legs, and swords.
Artek did not hesitate. He took the sword from the body of the guard who had fallen to his death, then raced to a corner of the Pit. A massive iron ball was tied with a rope to a ring in the wall. The ball was, in turn, attached to a long chain dangling from above- the counterweight to the door.
Artek snaked his arm around the chain, then swung the sword, severing the rope from the ring. Instantly the counterweight rose into the air, taking Artek with it. Across the Pit, the guards before the door dove forward to avoid being crushed by the ponderous slab of stone as it descended. The counterweight came to an abrupt halt as the door crashed to the ground.
Artek kicked his legs, swinging at the end of the chain in wider and wider arcs. At the end of the widest arc, he let go, tucking himself into a ball. He sailed through the air, landing inside the open mouth of the ventilation shaft he had glimpsed from below.
Leaving behind the angry shouts echoing in the Pit, Artek crawled as quickly as he could through the narrow shaft. Though he couldn't be certain, he felt that it was gradually heading upward. The shaft had to lead to the surface at some point. He crawled on.
Just when he thought his cramped limbs could go no farther, he glimpsed a square of golden light ahead-an opening. His heart pounded rapidly. Was that sunlight pouring through the hole? Artek couldn't remember what the rays of the sun looked like, and now freedom was mere yards away. In excitement, he pulled himself through the golden opening, and suddenly felt himself tumble end over end through cold mists, no longer sure of where he was. After a moment of dizzying disorientation, Artek landed with a thud on a softly cushioned surface.
'I see that you're right on time, Artek Ar'talen.'
Artek blinked away the fog in his head and saw that he was lying on a thick, expensive-looking rug. A sharp stench of lightning hung in the air.
Artek jumped up, but the action was never completed. Brilliant energy crackled through the air, and a blood- red aura sprang up around him, pinning his limbs to his sides and rooting his feet to the floor. He was not outside at all, but in a small chamber filled with rich tapestries, gilded wood, and many other ostentatious displays of wealth and taste. Artek choked for air, feeling as if the breath were being squeezed out of him. Struggling, he lifted his head to gaze upon the faces of his new captors.
They were a curious duo: a nobleman and a wizard. Effort racked the wizard's face as he concentrated on the spell of binding. Between his dark robe, hooked nose, and bald head, he looked like a great vulture. In contrast, the nobleman was strikingly handsome, with sharp green eyes and dark hair tied back from his high brow with a black ribbon. He was clad all in purple velvet and silver silk and, in a sophisticated affectation, had tucked his right hand beneath the breast of his long coat. He regarded Artek with calm but keen interest.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' the nobleman said in a smooth voice. 'I am Lord Darien, scion of House Thai, high advisor to the Circle of Nobles.' He inclined his head ever so slightly.
Artek stared at the man as his thief's intuition made a sudden leap. 'You,' he spat between clenched teeth. 'You're the one they were taking me to see.'
Darien nodded, drawing a step closer. 'That is correct. You see, I have a bargain to offer you, Ar’talen. It would be a simple transaction-freedom from this prison in exchange for your services. Are you interested to hear more? If not, don't hesitate to say so, and I will be happy to deliver you back into the hands of the guards…'
Artek swore inwardly. Why did nobles always enjoy playing such games, manipulating common people as if they were merely pieces on a lanceboard?
'Calling the guards won't be necessary,' he said. 'And you can tell your hired vulture to call off his spell. I won't be going anywhere. You have my word.'
Darien turned to the wizard. 'You heard him, Melthis. Remove the spell of binding.'
The wizard gaped at him. 'But my lord, surely it is unwise to trust this scoundrel.'
Sparks of ire flashed in Darien's eyes. 'Do you question my orders, Melthis?'
The wizard's face blanched. 'Of course not, my lord,' he said fawningly.
Hastily, Melthis weaved his thin hands in an intricate gesture, and the shimmering aura surrounding Artek vanished. He staggered, then caught his balance, drawing in a deep breath of relief.
Darien led the way to a table in the center of the small chamber. He sat in a cushioned chair and motioned for Artek to take the chair opposite him. Melthis hovered two paces behind his master, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe.
'I imagine you are wondering how I brought you here,' Darien began.
Artek only gazed at him silently. That was exactly what he was wondering, but he did not want to give the lord the satisfaction of hearing it.
