“The distortion—”
“Just calm yourself down and do it.” Kesyn’s firm voice and steady words were those of a veteran teacher of hotheaded young mages-in-training.
Tam’s breathing slowed in response, and his eyes grew distant, his magic working feverishly to locate his father.
I didn’t know how long it would take, but it was time I could put to good use. I ran back to where I’d thrown my crossbow pistols and quickly reloaded both of them, looking down the stairs leading to the second level what felt like every split second, expecting more guards to come charging up at us swinging swords, spikes, axes, and anything else that’d introduce us to our insides with one slice. Not that I wanted that to happen, but at least it’d be normal, and a hell of a lot less creepy than a dungeon that was quiet as a crypt.
“Mychael,” I barely whispered, trying not to disturb Tam’s work. “This isn’t right. This isn’t good.”
He was scowling down the stairs, unblinking. “No, it’s not.”
“Somebody had to have hit the alarm down there. We couldn’t have taken out all of them.”
Mychael gave me a tight nod, still staring down the stairs into the near darkness.
I’d have preferred if he’d have disagreed with me, but I needed the truth.
I tried for a smile; it came off more like a grimace. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it? Though somehow I don’t think this truth is going to set us free.”
Mychael, bless him, gave me a wink.
I think my heart started beating again. I rotated my bandoleers so I had plenty of bolts within quick reach.
“Got him,” Tam whispered, not moving, his eyes staring at an empty place on the wall. “Father’s still here,” he told Imala.
“Where?”
Tam nodded toward the stairs. “Down there. He’s with others.”
Down in the silent dark.
Kesyn silently appeared from around the corner. “You’re sure of your tracking?”
“Yes, sir.” Tam resisted the urge to snap.
“Well, then, go get him,” Kesyn said. “We made this trip; let’s not waste it. I’ll keep the escape route open here.”
“Your Majesty, you should stay here,” Tam told Chigaru.
“No. These men and women need to see me. I have to prove myself worthy to be their king. I’m going with you.”
Tam could have argued with that. He didn’t. One, we were way past being out of time. And two, Chigaru was right. Having the Mal’Salin name wasn’t enough, not anymore. The name needed to be attached to a man whom these prisoners would see as worthy of it. I was glad no one had to tell Chigaru that; he knew it for himself. At least one thing boded well for the future of the goblin people. That is, if Chigaru and this particular group of goblin people made it out of here alive.
Kesyn had gone back up the stairs to the temple door, and turned his back to us, focusing on guarding that door and maintaining his spell. I’d known Kesyn Badru for only a few hours, but I had no doubt the old goblin could make anyone who thought about keeping us from leaving the dungeon permanently regret that decision.
“If someone gets curious and decides to come down here,” Kesyn said over his shoulder, “what I’ll do won’t be pretty and it sure as hell won’t be quiet—so move your asses.”
We didn’t need to be told twice. In fact, like Chigaru, we didn’t need to be told at all; we were already halfway down the stairs to the second level. When we got there, we found something almost as panic inducing as a couple dozen guards running at you.
No guards at all.
My nose told me there were plenty of prisoners down here—at least there had been. Problem was there were no guards or wards down here making sure they stayed.
No one said it. We all knew it.
This had trap written all over it.
Just because armed-to-the-teeth guards weren’t there to meet us didn’t mean something worse wasn’t about to jump us if we so much as twitched. I shot a glance at Mychael. There had to be defenses and they had to be magic ones. It had to be magic, the bad kind. I couldn’t sense it, but I knew he’d be able to.
He shook his head once. Slowly.
Crap.
I looked to Tam. His lips were pulled back from his fangs in a snarl. That was answer enough. He knew there was something here, but he couldn’t see, sense, or smell it.
No sounds from any potential occupants of the cells. A dozen doors stretched down the corridor on either side of us. No hands were between the bars; no shouting came from inside the cells. It wasn’t like any dungeon I’d ever been in. Then again, Sarad Nukpana wasn’t just any jailer. Silence meant surprises awaited anyone who came down here with the intent of breaking anyone out.
I’d been in a warded cell recently. It had been blocked with Level Twelve wards, which were the strongest that could be conjured. The soldier who had been standing guard outside didn’t dare get closer than arm’s length from the red wards that crackled only an inch beyond the bars. Anyone could see Level Twelve wards, mage or mundane. There’d be a lot of fried mundane guards otherwise. If there were wards in front of those dozen cells, I couldn’t see them. And if neither Mychael or nor Tam could tell what was out there, then Sarad Nukpana had planned it that way.
The silence was absolute. Whatever kept the prisoners in those cells also kept any sound from getting out.
Imala’s voice came from directly behind me. “A plan?”
“You’ve never seen anything like this?” Mychael asked her.
“Never.”
“Tam?”
“No.”
About half of the cells were solid iron doors with a barred window at eye level and a slot at the foot of the door for passing food to prisoners. The rest were iron bars. I looked in the one closest to me. Pitch-dark and seemingly empty. While I waited for something to lunge out of that darkness, tear through those bars, and start killing us, my stomach entertained itself by tying itself in knots.
Normally any place where people were regularly held prisoner had odors. None pleasant and all were easily identifiable. I could easily identify them now. There were people down here—a lot of them. A ward that kept prisoners away from the iron bars, smothered sound, but smells made it through. Nasty work.
Torches were mounted in the wall between each cell and the next.
No lightglobes.
The guards had used fire to light the corridor, not magic. Interesting, and not in a good way. Why wouldn’t they use lightglobes down here?
Tam strode to the first cell door that was only bars, then quickly went to the next.
And froze.
We didn’t know the reason for it, but he did. We ran to Tam and stopped.
It was Cyran Nathrach. He’d been beaten, he was bloody, and he was also holding out both hands, eyes wide with terror, silently screaming, “Stop!” and pointing desperately at the floor. Behind him, the cell was packed with goblin prisoners, men and women. The cell appeared to be huge, and it was full. It looked like all the prisoners had been crammed into one cell. But why?
There was only a pair of torches burning in the cell. When Tam had taken a step closer, the torches had dimmed, and the prisoners had started to panic. Only one thing dimmed fire.
Air. Or, more precisely, a lack of air.
When Tam came close to the cell, the air was somehow taken out of the cell. The torches in the hall didn’t flicker one bit, so the hall wasn’t booby-trapped, but the cell was. And the prisoners in that cell were emphatic that trap had something to do with the floor.
Tam growled, a full-throated snarl.
“Step back,” Mychael told him.
Tam didn’t like it, but he did it.
The torches resumed flickering as if they had all the air in the world. Cyran and the other prisoners took relieved gulps of air. Mychael took one step forward, and the torches flickered. Mychael immediately stepped back and they resumed burning normally.