The Ring of Eman Vath

Samson watched the scrawny pale boy for long time, taking in his grimy face, the long, thin fingers of his hands that seemed graceful and dexterous even when still and unmoving, and tried to think through the pounding pain in his head. The headache was so intense that he had to fight back the urge to be sick.

After all he’d gone through, after everything he’d resolved to do on the morrow, was he being given a way out?

If he can pick the lock…

Almost without willing his head to do so, Samson nodded.

The boy shot him a frighteningly manic smile, and then motioned toward Samson’s wrist. Samson shot a glance down the cellblock, toward the guard he could just see around the curve of the hall. He shifted to the right hand side of his cell, toward the thicker patch of darkness there, and grabbed the manacles, trying to concentrate in spite of the throbbing pain that suffused his body and the ball of agony that was his head.

The iron cuffs were heavy and clinked when he touched them, but he muffled the sound with the flesh of his palm as best he could. He paused, and saw the boy watching him intently, but the guard made no sound from down the hall.

Samson held out his wrists to look at the metal. It was thick black iron, and there was no chance of breaking it.

A flash of movement caught his eye – he looked back at the scrawny boy with the blonde hair so dirty it was basically brown.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. He looks like he’s never eaten a full meal in his entire life.

The boy was making a strange twisting motion with his own wrists, which were free of restraints. Samson stared at the movement, feeling quite stupid as he tried to make his mind work through the haze of his recent beating, and then he realized what the boy was trying to tell him.

Quickly, careful not to clank the metal, Samson twisted the chain that connected the two manacles in just the way the boy was showing him. He looked back up. The boy was nodding eagerly, miming applause, and then he quickly hurried to the bars of his own cell and mimed another complicated motion that seemed to involve twisting the manacles against the metal rods.

Samson did as indicated, and twisted with a sharp jerk.

The links in the chain pulled against each other, and the right hand manacle flexed. The boy nodded vigorously, and Samson copied him as he performed yet another complicated movement – a twist and pull, and then a sideways lean –

The heavy iron bar that held together the manacle on his right hand slid out and fell to the floor, where it cracked loudly against a bare piece of rock.

For a long second, the sound vibrated through the room, and Samson and the boy stared at each other, waiting to see what would happen. Then there came the sound of a scraping boot and a grunt as the guard pushed himself to his feet. This was followed by the thud of quick footfalls rushing down the cellblock hall.

Samson bent, picked up the iron bolt, and in one easy underhand motion threw it to the boy.

The moment stretched out far too long as the bolt tumbled through the air, making it through the bars of Samson’s cell, flipping through the heavy, subterranean air of the hall, and just barely missing the bars of the boy’s cell as the guard rounded the curve. The boy caught the bolt and spun away; Samson slipped his hand back into the broken manacle and held it closed against his thigh.

The guard’s eyes locked onto him immediately, and his hand fell to the heavy cudgel hanging at his side.

“Get down away from the bars,” he said, his eyes alight with malicious intent. He was a heavy man – heavy from fat, not muscle – but he carried himself with dangerous self-possession. Samson did as he was told, but out of the corner of his eye he caught the boy shaking his head, just out of the guard’s line of sight.

What?

“Good,” the guard said, watching Samson. He looked crestfallen, and it was clear he’d been hoping Samson would give him a reason to use the thick, gruesome-looking club. “Stay there. Don’t give me any trouble.”

The boy’s motions were growing more violent, and though Samson kept his eyes glued to the guard, he thought he saw from the corner of his eye the boy miming something that looked like a fit.

The bolt will make noise when he puts it in the lock, Samson realized in a blindly flash of understanding. He needs a distraction.

He grabbed hold of the bars and spoke, loud and challenging.

“What happens if I do give you trouble?”

The guard paused, and then turned back to Samson. A gleam of excitement flared in his piggy eyes, and Samson smirked at him, even as his head throbbed horribly.

That’s right you dumb bastard, come and get me.

“You wouldn’t like it,” the man said with a sneer. He swung the cudgel eagerly and walked past the boy’s cell, focused the whole time on Samson. The boy immediately threw a hand through the bars and held the bolt over the lock. He was watching Samson expectantly, and this time Samson didn’t need to be prompted.

With a violent heave, he thrust his palms against the door of the cell, making it slam against the hinges. The resulting clang echoed up and down the corridor, and the guard jumped back, startled. Samson did it again, but the resulting rush of blood was too much, and his vision went sideways. He winced and staggered back, though he kept his feet, if only just.

The guard, fully provoked, strode forward with a sudden viciousness and slammed the cudgel against the bars, producing an even louder and somehow more bestial sound. He bellowed a wordless torrent of foreign words that shocked Samson into retreat: he took a hurried step back into his cell, staring with wide eyes at his antagonist, all thoughts of the boy suddenly forgotten.

“Yes!” the man snarled, taking in Samson’s fear, sucking it in like a long drink of water. His dark eyes were wide and mad, his face a snarling rictus of rage, and there was foam at the corners of his mouth. “Yes! Learn your place! You have too long known peace. Now you’ll learn how to succumb!”

He let out another roar and slammed the cudgel against the iron bars once more. The sound of it echoed up and down the corridor and only seemed to enrage him further. Samson could only watch in shock as the fit continued until the guard was red in the face and fully lathered. Breathing heavily but finally satisfied, he spat at Samson through the bars of the cage, and took a step back, sneering.

Samson’s shock turned to rage. Forgetting his injuries, he launched himself back at the bars and began shouting at the guard, roaring at the smirking face.

“I am a man of Gol! I succumb to no one!”

The guard only watched him as one might watch a disobedient pet.

“The very mark of your skin shows you inferior,” he said in a soft voice, his dark eyes gleaming in the light of the cell’s single flickering torch. “Your grasp of language too – your drawl, your pidgin accent. You have no idea where your tongue came from, nor the way it should be spoken. None of you. You’re a brute – good for nothing but work, and when you won’t work, good for nothing but dying. You and all this land are fit for nothing but life as slaves. You will learn your place.”

He turned his back and left.

Samson’s head throbbed with equal parts pain and indignation. His vision had narrowed in on the man’s back, and from deep inside him came the savage need to rip into it, to pull back the black leather and sink a blade into the man’s pale –

There was a soft clank, and the door of the boy’s cell opened just as the guard passed by.

Faster than the guard could follow, the boy grabbed the ring of iron keys attached to the man’s hip, ripped it free of its tie, and threw them to Samson. Shocked, Samson reached out and grabbed them on instinct as the guard turned and grabbed for the boy, shouting all the while.

But the boy was too quick: he ducked the man’s hands, slid back into his cell, and slammed the door. The lock clicked back into place.

The guard slammed himself against the door, shouting now and brandishing the cudgel, but there was nothing he could do. The boy took a step back, just out of range, and waved at him. This only enraged the guard further, and he threw a hand to his hip for the keys – found them missing…

Samson was at the door of his cell in seconds, hastily shoving the first key into the lock. By some miracle, he chose right on the first try, and the key turned. The door swung open as the guard continued shouting at the scrawny boy, demanding that he give back the keys. He never even heard Samson come up behind him.

The guard’s head slammed into the metal bars, and he was out cold before he hit the floor.

Samson slid the key into the boy’s cell lock and turned. There were shouts echoing up and down the corridor now; the other prisoners knew what was happening and were yelling to be released as well.

“Wren,” said the small boy, holding out his hand.

“Samson.”

“Great. At least now if we die, we’ve got the niceties out of the way.”

Samson turned away and moved down the hall, the boy following close behind him. He stopped along the way just long enough to pull a curved sword from a scabbard by the guard’s post. It wasn’t anything like the spears he was used to, but it was something, and he felt a lot better with solid steel in his hand than nothing at all. He glanced back at the cudgel, but left it where it was. It was a brute’s weapon, heavy and iron-tipped, and he could barely see straight. His chances of swinging that solid piece of wood hard enough to do damage were little to none. At least with a sword there was a pointy end.

Holding the sword ready, he pulled the door in and looked out. The earthen hall outside was deserted. With a low moan, he tried to push back the terrible throbbing in his head and the sharp sting of the various cuts and bruises accumulated from the beating he’d received barely an hour before. He motioned for Wren to follow him. They left, shutting the door behind them, but not before Samson threw the keys to the nearest of the captives. The man caught them, stunned, and then the boys were gone.

“We could have used those,” Wren said.

“They need a chance to get out too,” Samson retorted.

Wren muttered something under his breath but didn’t protest further.

They rounded the closest corner, and immediately ran into two Varanathi in the black and silver. One shouted, and the other drew a sword and rushed them.

Samson and Wren retreated, racing back past the door to the cellblock and taking the other turning, one that Samson had never been down before. They rounded another corner, and this time had a choice: left and up, or right and down.

Together they moved toward the left-hand passage, but just as they were about to take it, they heard the sound of echoing shouts above them. Samson spun and saw the first two guards rushing toward them from behind, still shouting.

“This way!” He grabbed the boy and pulled him down the right-hand passage.

They raced down into the earth, spurred on by fear. Shadows began to reach out and cling to them as the torches that lined the halls became fewer and farther between. They continued down, taking turns at random. The sounds of their pursuers faded with each turning, and Wren had the foresight to pull out random torches as they went and throw them down, darkening side passages and slowing the Varanathi as they tried to decide which way to go. Samson grabbed his own torch from a bracket to light their way, and when finally the shouts of alarm had faded to a distant clamor, they slowed to catch their breath. Neither of them was in any condition to keep running, but they pushed through their collective pain and exhaustion and continued their descent, knowing that the only way to go was forward.

There were no more doors or turnings. They’d left the last of the cellblocks far behind them, and the myriad tunnels had all coalesced into a single passageway. Their pace slowed; the air was freezing and damp here, so far underground.

“We need to make our way back up,” Wren gasped, clutching at a stitch in his side. “The way out is up there.”

“Guards are up there. Tunnels have to go somewhere. Let’s keep moving.”

They pushed on, and the sloping, curving passageway suddenly leveled out, continuing not down but straight ahead. It widened as well: it was larger than the tunnels they’d come from, and much straighter.

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know.”

Neither of them questioned the fact that they were both whispering.

A dreadful sense of foreboding began to fall on them. They shivered: the cold here was so intense that it would have pierced even heavy coats, and the two of them – Samson in his loincloth, Wren in his tattered rags – had no chance at warmth.

They came, in the end, to a door.

“Bloody hell of the old gods,” Wren cursed.

The double door was made of some kind of thick, indistinguishable wood. It was wide and carved with a runic language neither of them knew, and it seemed to pulse like a living thing. Their ears began to ring, and the stink of sulfur hung heavy in the air. They shivered and drew unconsciously closer together.

“We have to go back,” Wren said, still watching the door.

“Right,” Samson said slowly, holding the torch high.

Shouts came from behind them.

They tore their eyes away and spun back to look behind them. Through the dark shadows that cloaked the tunnel they could just see, far, far away, a spot of light, wavering and flickering as it raced toward them.

“Damn damn damn,” Wren whispered. “We’re bloody trapped!”

“We have to go through the door,” Samson said, forcing his voice to stay even. “It has to open – it wouldn’t be here if it didn’t open.”

He leaned against it, pushing on both sides as there were no handles with which to pull. An unnatural heat came from the carved symbols, but in his fear and desperation he ignored that. He pushed harder, throwing as much of his weight against the wood as possible, though his beaten body protested with growing vehemence. The doors wouldn’t budge. There was no evidence of a lock, nor of any other stopping mechanism, but the door was stuck fast.

“It won’t open,” he gasped, turning and leaning against it as he grabbed his side. The muscles over his ribs were crying out in agonizing counterpoint to his throbbing head, and he had begun to worry that something was broken.

Wren cursed and looked back up the tunnel. The light was brighter, and the shouts were easier to hear. Samson could almost make out individual words, and none of them sounded pleasant.

Frantic, he turned back to the door and once more threw his shoulder into it, ignoring the wave of sickness and the pounding in his head that threatened to make him retch. Still, the door wouldn’t budge.

“It has to open,” Wren insisted. “Try it again!”

“You try!” Samson snarled, losing his temper and pushing the smaller boy against the door. Surprised, Wren threw up both hands to keep from crashing into the solid wood, and in doing so slammed both forearms against the door. Mere seconds later, a song sprang up from nowhere, echoing all around them. It swept through them both and then seemed to pass into the door. There was a brilliant flash of light that seared their eyes, and Samson heard Wren gasp and clamp a hand over his wrist as though he’d been burned.

The wordless song cut off as abruptly as it had started. The carved runes disappeared from the wood and the door swung open, the two halves folding inward together. No light came from the room inside. The opening looked like nothing so much as a yawning mouth, waiting to swallow them whole.

The boys looked at each other for a beat, and then rushed inside.

The doors slammed shut behind them, and the torch guttered out.