Esek's face flushed. Achan pushed harder, furious this coward had tried to hurt Gren. Esek croaked.
A hand grabbed Achan's hair and lifted. Achan flailed for a decent foothold. His attacker threw him backwards.
He tumbled over the grate and met the eyes of a prisoner below. He flipped over in time to take Sir Kenton's boot to the chest. The kick knocked the air from his lungs. Another kick rolled him to his side.
Sir Kenton grabbed the back of Achan's tunic and lifted. His cut tunic ripped further, and he fell back to the grate. Sir Kenton snagged the back of Achan's belt and swung him forward.
Achan flew-inches over the grate floor-then sailed headfirst through the door of the pit.
The prisoners broke his fall. Several sets of hands caught him, set him on his feet in a dark, rank, chamber. Someone tackled him, knocking him onto the cold, sticky stone floor that reeked of human waste.
Hands grabbed his foot and wrenched. Achan's skidded over the floor on his rear. He put his hands down to balance himself and bent his knee, trying to free his foot. But his boot slowly slipped down his leg, under the loose shackle, and popped off.
Achan fell onto his back. "Hey!"
He could barely see the shape of a man step into his boot, then lunge forward and grab Achan's other foot.
Achan sat up and kicked the man with his bare foot, but the man held fast until the second boot tugged free. The boot knife clumped to the dark floor.
Achan dove for it, unwrapped it, and held it out. He pushed to his feet and turned in a circle, his bare feet tacky on the cold stone floor.
"Back away, all of you!" he yelled.
Several prisoners laughed.
"Home at last?" Esek's voice carried down into the pit. The open door in the grate above framed his pompous face.
"If you fight me alone, without the aid of your overgrown shadow, I'll kill you," Achan said. "But you know that, don't you? Which is why you're unwilling to give me that chance."
"You're not worth my effort." Esek pulled his head back, and the grate door slammed shut.
Achan trembled and lowered his gaze to those around him. A shadow shifted to his left and Achan jerked his knife that way. "Stay back!"
"What's your name, boy?" a deep voice asked.
Sir Gavin? What's happening?
We're going to fight Esek's men. The guards are freeing prisoners and giving them weapons to join us. Find my men. They'll protect you.
Shouts broke out above. Swords clashed and a dozen guards trampled over the grate. Achan cringed at the sound it made in the pit. The footsteps receded until there was silence.
Achan inched forward, knife ready, until the faint grid of torchlight fell over a group of haggard, hairy men. Most had beards as long as Sir Gavin's, many of them grey or white, though Achan spotted some dark hair in the bunch.
He swallowed and released a shaky breath. "I've come for the friends of Chion."
A man cackled, the sound a cross between a gowzal call and a woodpecker. Achan waved his knife and backed up.
"I wouldn't do that," the nasal voice said.
Achan sidestepped toward the wall. He didn't want anyone sneaking up behind him. But as he reached it, his right foot fell into a trench. He caught himself with his right hand and found the wall as moist and sticky as the floor. He pulled his foot up and it scraped the sides, coated with cold wetness.
Snickers rang out.
"He found the pot!" a man yelled. The cackler. He broke out into another jarring fit of laughter. Achan cringed.
"Privy's along the perimeter, it is," another man said. "Two-foot wide trench. No one knows how deep it goes before it drains out, eh?"
"'Cept those we've thrown in," the cackler said.
Achan scraped his foot over the floor, not that it probably made much difference. He faced the crowd, shaken at the squalor these men endured. "What crime does a man commit to end up here?"
"Murdering children," the cackler said. "Give me that knife and I'll show you."
"Murdering men."
"Stealing from the king."
"Destroying a temple."
"Forcing women to love me."
The cackler chittered long and loud at this confession.
"Arson."
"Perjury to Lord Levy."
"Poisoning my customers."
"Looking too long at the queen." A bearded version of Sir Kenton stepped out of the crowd. His ratty, black hair hung like twigs around his face. He'd tucked his braided beard into his tunic. "You look like him, you know. And a bit like her."
The crowd murmured.
"Bazmark's right," another man said. "That other one was a fake."
"You King Axel's son?" the deep voice asked.
"So I've been told," Achan said.
"You got the mark of the stray?"
"Yeah."
"And the birthmark?" Bazmark asked.
"Yeah."
"Let's see it, eh?"
"We can't see anything down here," the nasal voice said.
"If he moves to the center we can."
"Come into the light."
"Let us see."
"Why?" Achan asked. "My father put you all here. You want to kill me because of it?"
"Levy put me in here," the deep voice said.
A raspy voice came from behind the crowd. "Most who were sentenced by your father have long since died, boy."
"How many are still here?" Achan asked. "Speak up."
The cackler hooted.
"Oh, shut up, fool," the nasal voice said.
"There are five left whom your father imprisoned," the raspy voice said, well-spoken, formal. "The other twenty-seven were sent by the Council. Some deservedly so, some not."
"Who're you to say who deserves this place, Elk?"
"My pointing fingers does not change the truth."
Achan searched the crowd for the man called Elk, suspecting he must be Sir Eagan, but could find no face to match the raspy voice. He needed to get these men on his side before they hurt him.
"Believe what you will, but Arman, the One God, has spoken to me, appointed me king in Er'Rets. I've come to free my comrades, and though I've come to the Prodotez for two in particular, I'll pardon each of you, give you a second chance to serve your king. Darkness is growing as the corrupt Council and Esek rule. I must amass an army, quickly. Hundreds of men are escaping tonight to join us. I would welcome your service. Or you may rot here. The choice is yours."
The cackler chittered, but he was the only one.
Achan continued his plea, clueless what else he could do. "You saw the false prince. Help me stand against him. If my father wronged any of you, if the Council did, I beg your forgiveness. I cannot offer you more than an apology and your freedom."
"What if we did wrong?"
"You're pardoned. I leave your judgment to Arman. Join me and fight. Just know, if you go back to your old ways, I'll not be so forgiving next time."
"'Tis too late for me. Arman would never forgive."
"I cannot speak for Arman, but it's never too late to be noble."
"We can't get out."
"There's always a way," Achan said.
"Show us the birthmark."
Achan squeezed the knife. "I'd rather not turn my back to you. You stole my boots."
"You ask us to trust you," the nasal voice said. "Trust us."
*
Vrell sat alone at the table, staring into the flames in the hearth. She paced the room a few times, then lay on her pallet. Cobwebs had gathered where the timber ceiling slats met the wall. A broad-bellied spider wrapped a fly in pale web. Vrell's thoughts flashed back to the day Achan had been struck with arrows and she had used spider's webs to pack his wounds.