Hannac (The Duellist Trilogy #2)

Chapter Twenty-Six: Underground

Hal's first thought was that they had buried her alive. She came to in absolute darkness, aware of nothing more than the smell of dank, wet air and the weight of iron on her wrists, her arms pinned together behind her back.

The walls were close. So close that she could touch them with her shoulders. When she stretched out her legs, her feet came up against solid rock.

A memory of the tunnel beneath Hannac plagued her thoughts. She was back there again, blindly tearing a path through falling debris and rubble.

Hal panicked. She twisted and turned and struggled. Dizziness set in, her pulse quickened, her breaths grew short and shallow. It was only when the fear had brought her to the brink of paralysis that she became aware of subtle changes in the light around her. Dull greyness filtered through an iron grille no more than a foot above her head. She tilted her face upwards and opened her mouth, hungrily drawing in the air. Somehow it tasted different: fresher, not so musky. Her breathing slowed, her pulse settled, she sank back against the wall.

Hal had no idea how she had landed in the pit, or how long she'd been there. The first leg of the journey to Dal Reniac came back to her with all the fragmented illogic of a nightmare: bound, gagged and blindfolded on the floor of a supply cart, with only the disembodied voices of her captors for company. They had stopped once. She'd caught the scent of heather, the singsong of curlews, and realised they were on the moors. They raised her head, pulled away the gag and poured water down her parched throat. She could remember nothing after that, but the throbbing of her right temple told its own story. They must have put her out with a single blow.

Blood beat a monotonous rhythm against her eardrums. She thought of Meracad, Leda and Franc and howled out her pain to the unfeeling walls. The sound of her voice came back to her ‒ mocking, defeated.

Muffled noises followed: a door swinging open, footsteps clipping on the stone floor above her head. A face peered down through the grate ‒ shrouded amongst the shadows, yet she knew who it was.

"How do you like my oubliette, Hannac? I reserve it for my most special guests." She could hear Nérac breathing, even caught the scent of wine on his breath.

"I'm honoured."

His laughter was hard and low. She shifted, so far as she could, chains biting into the flesh of her arms.

"You might take the irons off. I'm not going anywhere."

Again the harsh note of cold mirth. "I might. But I won't."

A few torches flickered into existence in the chamber above her, the light so intense it caused her to blink.

"Bring her up." Nérac's voice again. Bolts slid back, fingers pushed through breaks in the grille, wrenching it open. Hal flinched as hands reached down to haul her from the pit. For a few moments she was resting, disoriented, on her knees on the floor of the dungeon above, her eyes struggling to adjust to the contrast in light before they pulled her to her feet with a violent jerk.

It took her some time to discern between solid forms and shadows. The chamber was low of ceiling. Burning brands now hung from a few squat, robust pillars. Other than that, the room seemed to vanish into a void, and the prospect of what might be hidden from sight made her stomach churn.

Nérac stepped out of the gloom towards her. He had washed and shaved, but his eyes spoke of frustration and defeat: black holes in his face. Hal shuddered.

"You look the worse for wear, Hannac." His hand shot forward and he seized her by the hair, pulling her head backwards and forcing her to look at him. "You have taken so many things from me. My wife, my child, my reputation. But I will have your life."