Inside the doorway, they encountered a somewhat steeply pitched stone ramp leading down, flanked on either side by alcoves occupied by additional guards. The guards eyed the prisoners impassively as they trotted past, and Kovrim could see that a large portcullis could be dropped near the guard post, preventing anyone from descending deeper into the route-or trying to escape, he understood.
The ramp turned a little farther on so that it doubled back. At the bottom, Kovrim and the other prisoners found themselves in the middle of a large, low-ceilinged chamber that was dimly lit by a handful of torches. It smelled strongly of sweat, human waste, and staleness, and the old priest knew they had arrived in the prison.
The prisoners' guards began to rapidly separate their charges into smaller groups again, sorting them into sets of four. Kovrim wound up in the same group with Hort and the two druids. Their guards pushed them off to one side and stood nearby while the rest of the soldiers were similarly sorted. Once the process was finished, they were marched through a narrow doorway and down a hall that Kovrim saw was lined with cells. The lighting in that area was even dimmer than out in the main room, but as far as he could see, the cells in that wing of the prison were empty, for none of the wooden doors had been pulled shut at the moment.
Making sure no one else sees us here, he thought, or talks to us.
That notion was ominous in Kovrim's mind, but he shunted it away for the time being and allowed himself to be led into one of the cells, along with Hort and the two woodsmen. As their guard stepped back and prepared to shut the thick wooden door with the tiny, barred window, Kovrim mumphed at the man and made a gulping noise while he tipped his head back slowly, miming drinking. The two druids closed ranks with him and began nodding their heads, obviously agreeing with his plea.
"What?" the guard said, staring at the gagged men with no recognition in his face whatsoever.
"I think they're trying to tell you that we haven't had any blasted water since dawn," Hort said, "and they need a drink, lad. What do you say?"
The guard eyed Kovrim suspiciously then nodded once and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a resounding thud.
"I don't know if it got through his thick skull or not," Old Bloagy complained, sitting down in the straw that was strewn across the stone floor. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll try again when he comes back."
It turned out that the guard did come back, only a short time later, accompanied by two other guards and a sergeant. One of them was carrying a waterskin. They all entered the small cell and arrayed themselves in front of Kovrim where he and the two woodsmen sat.
"I have orders not to let you three speak," the sergeant said, gesturing at the harness strapped onto Kovrim's head, "but I'm not one to give a prisoner more than he's due in punishment, if I can help it. They say you are all dangerous sorcerers and will try to ensnare our minds with your devilish tongues, and that we can't listen to you speak."
Off to one side, Hort snorted in disgust. "He's no more a stinking sorcerer than I am a flying pig, son. As for them other two, I can't say, but if you don't give them water, they'll die, sure as the sky is blue."
The sergeant glared at Hort for a moment then turned back to face Kovrim and the other two. "If I have one of my men here release you long enough to drink, I have to have a promise from you that you won't say anything." Kovrim began to nod, and the other two sitting near him did, too, and just as eagerly. "Now, Thak and Jervis are going to keep their blades ready, and if you try anything, they'll run you through in a heartbeat. Is that clear?" Again, all three gagged men nodded.
With that, the sergeant nodded to his men and stood back while one of the guards produced a key and unlocked the harness of the man to Kovrim's left. The other two held their short swords out, each one standing to one side, ready to ram the blades into his neck or gut if he should try anything untoward. Once the druid had managed to work the thick bit out of his mouth with his tongue, he sighed in relief but said nothing, then took the proffered skin in his mouth and drank deeply. After he had gotten his fill, the guard shoved the bit back in his mouth. The prisoner groaned in frustration, but he did not fight as the guard rebuckled the harness and locked it.
Then it was Kovrim's turn, and he waited patiently for the soldier to remove the hated bit. When the nasty leather came out of his mouth, he sighed, working his jaw a few times to get some feeling back into the aching muscles. With his hands still locked inside the steel balls, he leaned forward toward the waterskin and sucked great mouthfuls of cool water in, letting some of it spill over and run down his chin. He even managed to splash some on his head, letting it dampen his hair, before the guard yanked it away again in exasperation and put the bit back against his lips. Kovrim hated the thought of allowing the soldier to restrain him again, but he knew there was no way he could convince them otherwise without getting skewered, so he grudgingly acquiesced, hating the sensation all the more after the bit was back in place.
Once his drinking privileges were over, Kovrim moved off to a corner of the cell and settled down to think. The soldiers let the second woodsman have his drink, and Hort got to finish off the skin.
"We'll be back to try that again with some food," the sergeant said. "As long as you mind your manners, we'll keep this up. But any funny business, and those harnesses stay on." Kovrim nodded and slumped even further against the wall as the quartet of guards departed, locking the cell door behind them.
Hort moved over beside Kovrim. "This isn't right," he said, shaking his head. "They've got no cause to keep us locked up in here."
Kovrim shrugged, unable to speak and explain to the man that he was the victim of political maneuvering, even if he were inclined to reveal such.
The man's been a soldier for forty years, the priest realized. He wouldn't deal well with the idea of a high priest letting him be killed just to rid himself of a few rivals, Kovrim thought. Why disillusion him now? Kovrim considered the possibility of escape again, wondering if he could verbalize his transportation spell fast enough for the magic to take effect before he was run through by the guards. He decided that it might be possible in a few days, once he showed sufficient compliance, for them to let down some of their wariness. Of course, it would all depend on the two druids, he realized. If they tried anything, it could ruin it for all of them.
Kovrim wanted desperately to make it clear to the two woodsmen that they had to wait, to bide their time and not ruin the chance, but he had no way to communicate with them. He didn't even see any way to act through Hort as an intermediary.
Filled with despair, Kovrim sighed and tried to stretch himself out on the stone floor, wondering if he could get comfortable enough to sleep. Hort, sensing that the old priest wished to be left alone, wandered to the far side of the cell and sat. The two woodsmen had done likewise. In the quiet, Kovrim could hear other soldiers talking, and he felt somewhat sorry for Hort, who had been unlucky enough to draw three cellmates who couldn't converse.
The old priest drifted off to a troubled sleep, interrupted once for a feeding. The process went similarly to the drinking, except that it took longer, and he was last in line in that particular case. He was surprised at how demeaning it felt to have someone else place bits of food in his mouth, but with his hands imprisoned, he had no choice. Afterward, he returned to his napping.
A long time later, Kovrim was awakened by the soft sound of his name being called. He looked up and saw a face staring at him through the bars of the door.