My mother has to attempt the throw twice more before she manages to complete her objective. The first throw, slightly off to the left, thankfully comes to a stop within Tharrin’s reach who manages to return it with some difficulty. The third attempt is more successful, bone snapping against rock as the ignited torch is separated from its lower half.
Black soot explodes onto the path, a night sky for the many brief shooting stars that follow before burning away. Fragments of charred wood scatter at our feet whilst the last flames die out.
Tribespeople and other prisoners alike roar triumphantly at my mother’s strike. She smiles sheepishly as her deserved praise is cheered throughout the hall. Rhythmic victory is slammed against the iron bars.
It is a small win, but a win nevertheless. For the first time since being led down here, we are actually doing something about it. We are no longer merely waiting idly by in the muck and wreckage. Finally, we have hope, a plan against our oppressors. I try to keep my head level, attempting to retain the miniscule position of our accomplishment in perspective, but still I join in the celebrations. I enter the others in the fight as we battle away the accumulated despair of the last few days.
Only a matter of minutes pass before metal grates somewhere above and the warden enters through the tunnel at the far end of the cells. Everyone has immediately drowned their chatter. I only now realise how long ago it has been since we last ate, I have almost made peace with the animal growling in my stomach and clawing at my throat. I silently thank whatever gods may be that he didn’t come down here just a few moments ago. No doubt, had he caught my mother’s attempts at damaging the torch, he would have certainly punished us all, targeting her specifically.
The scraping of boots on pavestone stops abruptly. Halden complains with several choice expletives as I presume he is made aware of the mess before him. Luckily, Orrian had the sense to retrieve the bone one last time, chucking it back into the corner of our cell. Had the warden found it among the ashes he would have undoubtedly questioned the lot of us.
Halden goes about his business as usual, supplying each cell with its usual meagre supply of stale bread and whatever other old scraps that have been deemed worthy of throwing out. He gingerly skirts the blackened floor when reaching our end and we all mask the new-found adrenaline in our veins as he slides our portion of gruel and leftovers towards us.
Shortly after he leaves, footsteps begin to emerge once again. Orrian had told the others to be quiet and subtle but still the murmurs pick up in excitement as our new arrival approaches. Sure enough, a hooded figure makes his way towards the debris on the floor.
Now that I know to expect him, I instantly recognise Avlym’s lost son despite his face being almost entirely covered. He is equipped with a broom and a small crate which appears to hold a replacement torch and means to light it.
“Damion,” I hiss, we have all agreed that I should be the one do try and get through to him.
He ignores me, sweeping around the outer edges to compact the problem at his feet.
“Damion,” I repeat, slightly harsher.
“Don’t talk to me,” says Damion, His tone is much deeper than I remember, not that it should be a surprise, gone is the high-pitched shrill cackle that used to torment me. His words are husky, dropping out in places as his voice fails him. They make me wonder when he last spoke, is he ever required to communicate with others or is he just expected to maintain his silence in his work?
“Damion. Listen, please,” I say desperately. I lower myself and try to force him into making eye contact.
Damion turns away, bringing his back towards me. Around us, the prisoners begin cursing him.
“Stop,” Damion says quietly, softer than before. I know he speaks to me alone as even I can barely hear him over the other’s gripes. He sounds almost like he’s pleading, begging not to be dragged back into a past life dictated by more wholesome loyalties.
“You can help us, we can help each other-” I start, ignoring his objections.
As soon as I open my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake, I’ve pushed him too hard. Before I finish my sentence, his shoes are slipping on the dusty floor as he scrabbles away from our cells. He hastily retrieves the small crate in his free hand, dragging his broom through the mess behind him in the other. He leaves his unfinished task behind him.
Several long lines of charcoal are carried by his broom’s bristles as he hurries back towards the exit, I futilely try to call after him, but I am lost in the furious shouts of the other inmates. Orrian moves to stand next to me, arms crossed as together we stare outwards from our cell.
“Do you really think you’ll be able to bring him around in time?” he asks, doubt lacing his words.
“It’s not looking good is it,” I admit. I had always expected it to take some convincing to get Damion to hear us out, but I hadn’t anticipated that he wouldn’t even allow himself to hear any of my attempts at all. I sure hope that at the very least he hasn’t gone running to the warden to inform him of our efforts.
“Today and tomorrow, after that I’m going to have to go to Breyden,” says Orrian, confirming my deadline.
Click.
The sound has the care of someone trying to go unnoticed but in my constant half-awake state it well as may be an explosion.
Orrian ordered everyone to
