Beyond the Hanging Wall

  Now Morton and Gustus had caught them up. The guards they had gently herded along the tunnel slipped gently to the floor to dream undisturbed among the gloam dust.

  Vorstus caught Garth’s eyes again. “You know where to find us?”

  Garth nodded.

  “Good.” He adjusted Maximilian’s weight a little as Morton opened the doors of the cage. “Join us when you can.”

  Then he dragged an unresisting Maximilian into the cage, Morton and Gustus stepping in after him. The cage door slammed, and the next instant chains rattled and cogs whirred as the cage began its crazy ascent to the world beyond the hanging wall.

  The last thing Garth heard was Maximilian’s frightened cry as the cage began to move.

  He stared at the blackness of the shaft for a moment, then felt his father’s firm hand on his shoulder.

  “Garth. I think you have some explaining to do.” Ravenna paced back and forth, back and forth, her cloak now clutched tightly about her in whiteknuckled hands, her teeth anxiously nibbling her lip. Below her she could hear the cage rushing its way to the surface.

  She felt almost nauseous with worry. Had all gone well? The brief touch of Vorstus’ mind indicated that all was well, but so much could still go wrong.

  Was Maximilian well? Would they be caught? Would they manage to finally escape this cursed place?

  “Skip, trip, my pretty man,” she murmured, her eyes darkening now back to their original grey, and the cage rattled its way into the overhead framework.

  Almost before it had stopped Morton had the cage door open and was helping Vorstus with Maximilian. Ravenna stepped forward, one hand to her mouth, one stretched towards Maximilian, trembling with her emotion.

  “Is he…?”

  “He’ll be fine, Ravenna,” Vorstus said, his mouth open to say yet more, when Maximilian raised his head.

  His eyes widened in complete shock and his entire body spasmed in horror.

  What was this netherworld that he had been dragged into?

  Most of the fog had dissipated by now, and Maximilian could not comprehend the open spaces and the feel of the air moving against his body; he had completely forgotten the touch, let alone the name, of wind. As Maximilian looked wildly about, the clouds cleared momentarily and he caught a glimpse of the open sky.

  The unending vastness was too much—where was the security of the hanging wall?

  “Noooo!” he screamed, and tried to twist free from Vorstus’ grip.

  “Morton! Gustus! Help me!” Vorstus cried, grunting with the effort of keeping Maximilian locked in his arms.

  It took the three of them to subdue the man, Ravenna looking on helplessly, crying as she finally perceived the depth of the prince’s pain.

  “Come,” Vorstus said eventually, once Maximilian had quietened down. “I had not thought he would react this badly. We’ll have to move fast. Ravenna, is the way clear?”

  She nodded, took a deep breath then turned on her heel and led them away from the poppet head.

  They walked as fast yet as silently as they could, knowing that time was passing, yet not knowing how much had been lost. When would the complex wake about them? Both fog and clouds had entirely gone, although the fog’s effects would linger for some time, and the sun shone clear and bright above them. If the complex woke from its magical sleep while they were still outside they would be caught within minutes.

  Ravenna led them down a long, disused track. The monks of the Order of Persimius had kept watch on the Veins for almost two years now, and they had established several hiding places on the outskirts of the complex. Now Ravenna led them towards the most secret of them.

  She glanced anxiously over her shoulder as they walked. Was that a faint noise in the distance? Voices? The cage in the main shaft rattling? The fall of pursuing feet? She locked eyes with Vorstus for a moment.

  “Courage, girl,” he grunted, and she turned back to the path ahead.

  Finally they reached a small hillock and Ravenna’s shoulders slumped in relief. They were beyond the perimeter of the Veins, but even here the ground was lightly dusted with gloam dust, and Ravenna, and those who followed behind her, were careful where they trod lest they leave footprints. Morton, who came last, carefully erased the slightest suggestion of any footprints with a loosely held sack.

  “Here,” she muttered, and crouched down by a large rock that jutted out from the hillside. Without hesitating, Ravenna knocked on the rock once, then four times, paused, then twice again.

  Instantly the rock rolled to one side and a worried face peered out at them.

  “Thank the gods that you’re here!” the waiting monk exclaimed, and then they were all slipping below the level of the earth again, and the rock rolled silently closed to hide their secrets.

  They were only just in time, for as the rock rolled closed eyes fluttered awake around the Veins, and Jack muttered and stirred as Garth and Joseph stood watching them silently.

  “What?” Jack grumbled as he slowly rose to his feet. The other two guards and the sentry were also stumbling and yawning their way to their feet.

  “We’re waiting for you to take us to Section 205,” Joseph said pleasantly. Garth had related an amazing tale in the two hours since the three monks had left with Maximilian, and Joseph had questioned his son closely. Joseph was proud of his son, although that pride was mixed with lingering resentment that Garth had not told him earlier, but he wondered if they would all live to enjoy the fruits of their adventure. Whoever had incarcerated Maximilian down here was not going to be pleased when he found out that the prince had escaped.

  “Section 205?” Jack frowned, then his face cleared. “Oh, yes, of course. The fungus. Come on, then.”

  And without another word he marched down the tunnel.

  Joseph and Garth hurried after him, trying to look as if this was not the second time they had hurried down this tunnel today, and behind them came the two guards still rubbing sleep and confusion out of their eyes.

  Apparently, none of the guards remembered that an extra three guards had come down in the cage with them.

  Part-way back to Section 205 they met one of the gang’s guards, his face alive with alarm.

  “One of the prisoners has escaped!” he gasped, and Jack turned and bellowed down the tunnel.

  “Sound the alarm!”

  Above, warned by some guilty instinct, Furst’s head leaped from his desk in mid-snore and he stared wildly about his office.

  Maximilian had relaxed once they were beneath the level of the earth again, although the well-lit chamber into which the monk led them made him blink and turn his head aside.

  The interior of the hill had been hollowed out and lined with the rock that had been excavated so that it made a great and airy chamber. There were narrow shafts that led to the outer world for air—their mouths well hidden with shrubs—and lamps that flared from eight or nine brackets on the stone walls. Scanty but comfortable furniture stood about, enlivened here and there with the lively colours of cushions and rugs.

  Ravenna helped Vorstus lay Maximilian on a bed, and pulled a blanket over him. He rolled away without a word so that he faced the wall, his eyes closed tightly.

  “I’ll get some water,” she said softly, “so that we can see what the prince looks like underneath his grime.”

  Then she tipped her head back and laughed, the sound so startling that Maximilian rolled back and stared at her.

  She dropped her eyes. “And once we have that grime off you, Prince Maximilian, you will doubtless be able to walk about a free man, for no-one will recognise you as the escaped Lot No. 859.”

  Her grin faded, and she reached out a gentle hand. “Lot No. 859 will disappear with that grime, Maximilian. Believe it.”

  Men rushed about from building to poppet head, then back again. Guards rushed to form into units, then rushed for the cage. Orders were relayed that no ships were to leave the loading pier, and no new ships were to berth. Within the Veins themselves,
gangs were chained to walls and hurriedly counted.

  Furst rushed from his office to the shaft head. He seized the first guard who emerged from the cage. “Which one?”

  “From Section 205,” the guard gasped, and Furst paled. “Lot No. 859.”

  “Find him!” Furst seethed as the alarm bells pealed about the complex. “Find him!”

  Then, releasing the guard, he turned and looked due south for a moment, as if he could see into the heart of Ruen itself.

  Deep in his red-walled palace, Cavor writhed amid the silken sheets of his bed. He’d laid down after his noon meal, seeking some relief from the cursed festering of his arm, but now the dreams that claimed him were far worse than the waking nightmare of the mark.

  He murmured and twisted some more. “No!” he cried, and his hands gripped the silk until it tore. “No!”

  He was in a dark place, welcoming, familiar, but then cruel hands seized him and hauled him towards the sky in a basket woven of iron. A witch amid the clouds bared her teeth at him and the sun pierced his eyes.

  “No!”

  Now the hands of his tormentors were wrapped about his leg, sliding down, further and further, and nothing Cavor could do could dislodge their hold. One held a pick and the other a hammer, and they chortled with laughter as they raised their implements and crashed them down into his ankle.

  “Noooo!” Cavor screamed into his chamber, and lurched out of his dream.

  He scrambled into a sitting position, his chest still heaving with the terror of his dream, and stared at his ankle.

  It had a red and festering mark about it, as if it had been scored with hot iron.

  Then the mark on his arm flared into white-hot agony, and Cavor screamed again, and this time the sound was enough to bring his servants running.

  SIXTEEN

  INSIDE THE HOLLOW HILL

  They broke the iron band from his ankle with a hammer and pick, and threw it and its remaining length of chain as far away as they could. He refused to talk, lying still and with his head turned away, as Ravenna and Vorstus washed him and rolled him into a soft linen robe.

  Instantly his hands began to pluck at it, as if it itched his skin.

  Ravenna looked at Vorstus. “I can hardly believe that there was a man underneath that grime.” Maximilian’s skin had proved soft but pale, and his body lean but tightly muscled. Scars occasionally marred the beauty of his skin, reminders of the dangers of working so close to the hanging wall, and an ugly and thick burn scar rippled across his upper right biceps, but Ravenna and Vorstus found it hard to believe his obvious vitality after so long trapped within the Veins.

  Vorstus sighed and beckoned her away from the bed. “Leave him be for a while, Ravenna. The others have prepared a meal for us. Maximilian,” he leaned close to the man’s head turned to the wall. “We will not be far away. Turn your head and you will see us.”

  He received no reply but the plucking of the man’s fingers across the cloth of the tunic. Vorstus pulled a blanket over him and joined Ravenna and the other three monks as they sat at a table. Silently, they began to share a simple meal of bread and cheese and olives.

  Maximilian lay for some time, his hands gradually stilling, listening to the silence. He was disorientated, unsure. Was this a dream? Would he wake any moment, wake to the security of the hanging wall and the labour of the eight men to his left?

  His hand crept down his body and felt about his left ankle. It felt weightless…almost unclean without the comfort of the thick iron band that had been there.

  And they had called him Maximilian.

  Maximilian. He had not thought of that name for a very long time. When he lived in the darkness of the gloam it would have been to slide into madness to think that name and to remember that life, but here he allowed himself to first embrace the name, exploring all its nuances as he ran it silently about his mind, and then to…ever so gradually…embrace the idea that the name belonged to him.

  His hands stilled.

  Maximilian. Was he Maximilian? Was he?

  “Maximilian?”

  A soft voice sounded, and, startled, he turned without thinking. A young girl stood there, to his right, where before had only been silence and stillness and privacy. What was she doing there?

  “Maximilian? I have something for you to drink. Here, take it, it must have been many hours since you last drank.”

  Drink? Yes, he did feel thirsty. Warily, lest she trap him with some hidden device, he rose on one elbow and took the mug from her hand, careful not to touch her fingers with his own. It was warm, and his eyes widened in surprise. Could drinks be warm? Had there ever been a time in his life when drinks had been heated for his comfort?

  He raised the mug warily to his lips, careful to keep one eye on the girl. But she kept her distance, even taking a step back as soon as he had accepted the mug, and he relaxed and allowed a tiny portion of the fluid to slip into his mouth.

  He almost dropped the mug in surprise. The fluid was sweet! And had a peculiar tang…and a milkiness.

  Milk. Milk?

  The girl smiled at him, her hands laced across her white gown. “Drink,” she said.

  He took another sip, and then one more, larger, allowing himself the luxury of a swallow. He frowned, wondering if he should know this taste, wondering if he should be able to assign a name to it. He drank again, then again, until he had finished the mug.

  Hesitating, he held it out to the girl.

  What was that fluid called? His brow furrowed a little more, and he did not notice when her fingers brushed his as she lifted the mug from his grasp. Maximilian would have known the name of that drink, he was sure of it. He looked up to ask the girl, but she had returned to the table.

  She felt his eyes, however, and she turned a little as she sat down. “When you are ready,” she said quietly, “there is food waiting for you.” And she indicated a bench that sat between hers and the man next to her.

  But he was not yet ready for that, and so he lay down again and turned back to the wall, wondering where his companions were, wondering how he was to put his shoulders into the rock-face when they had taken the pick away from him. He traced his fingers lightly over the rock wall before him. This rock was pale and smooth, and he did not think it needed to be fractured and cursed and stacked into piles that made the small of his back flare in white-hot agony.

  His hand dropped from the rock as he realised that he was comfortable lying here. Comfortable. That was a concept that he had not thought about for a long time. A very long time.

  Not since he had been Maximilian.

  He drew in a long, silent breath. Yes, he had been this Maximilian. Again he rolled the name around his mind and then, ever so softly, about his mouth.

  Maximilian. A good name. A name that was meant to be laughed and shouted and a name that had sometimes—often?—been spoken with the nuances of love.

  Maximilian. It belonged to a time long ago. A time before the darkness. A time he could not remember. Softly, silently, he began to cry.

  They sat at the table for many hours, listening to the silence across the room. They ate, then talked in soft tones, then sat listening. Finally, as the day outside darkened into night, they laid the table for food again—more for something to do than out of hunger.

  “What can we do?” Ravenna asked softly as Vorstus sat down beside her. Of the other monks, Gustus had crept outside to spy out the activities about the Veins and keep watch for Joseph and Garth, while both Morton and Isus, the monk who had let them into the hollow hill, had laid down to rest themselves. Rial still laboured at his deception in the physicians’ quarters.

  “Nothing.” Vorstus cut himself some bread, then fastidiously cut a thin slice of cheese to top it. “He must accept himself.”

  Ravenna’s eyes flared with bright anger. “Who could have done this, Vorstus? Who could have been so…so…pitiless as to imprison a young boy to such horror?”

  Vorstus raised his eyes to hers. ??
?If he remembers, then he can tell us. Until then…well, until then we must be careful.”

  Ravenna’s eyes blurred as they filled with tears. “Vorstus, I want to help him.”

  “I know, girl, I know. But for now all we can do is—”

  A shadow fell across the table, and both their hearts clenched as Maximilian calmly sat down on Ravenna’s bench. The bench was reasonably large, but he sat close so that she could feel his warmth reach the distance between them…and he sat so that she was on his left.

  If Maximilian was aware of the reaction his appearance had caused, then he ignored it. He sat silently for a moment, his eyes on the table, his hands resting flat on its surface.

  Then he raised his gaze and looked at Ravenna. “Tea,” he said. “You gave me tea soothed with milk and sweetened with honey to drink.” He said each word carefully, as if he enunciated words foreign to him, but he said them with the pride of a man who had conquered some fearful enemy on the battlefield.

  Ravenna battled with her own emotions, finally managing to smile for him. “Yes, Maximilian. I gave you tea to drink.”

  He stared at her then, stunningly, he smiled back, and both Ravenna and Vorstus took sharp breaths of utter astonishment.

  Maximilian’s face, plain although well-featured and pleasant when in repose, was transformed when he smiled. His dark blue eyes danced with merriment, and the wideness of his smile invited all onlookers to laugh with him at whatever joke he had discovered on the world.

  It was not the smile one would expect from a man trapped for seventeen years in a living dungeon.

  But it faded almost as quickly as it appeared. “There was a youth.” Maximilian paused, his voice faltering, and his hands trembling where they rested on the table. “He appeared several times asking questions…demanding.”

  “Yes,” Vorstus’ voice was soft. “His name is Garth Baxtor.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He will be here as soon as it is fully night.”