Heir of Iron

Chapter 14

(The picture above is of the dungeon in the Golconda Fort in the Indian state of Telangana)

Navran awoke screaming. His legs thrashed against wet stone. His hands flailed wildly, beating on slime-covered walls and bloodying his knuckles. His voice echoed back at him in a cacophonous howl. He blinked. He saw nothing. He blinked again. And then he remembered.

He was in the dungeon beneath the imperial palace. He saw nothing because there was nothing to see except darkness. If he did see something, it would mean he was going mad. Was he going mad yet? It would be a relief if he were.

He looked up. Still nothing.

He was alone. He was never getting away.

His cage had originally been a cistern in the lowest keeps of the palace, or so he inferred. The cistern was mostly empty, but water still condensed on the stones and trickled to the bottom, where a few inches of foul water stank around his ankles. The walls were damp and slick with grime. The bottom was mud, which churned up a bilious, sulfurous odor when he stepped. He had screamed and kicked when the Red Men brought him, but they had forced him into the hole, and when they let him go he slid shredding fingernails and the flesh of his toes all the way to the bottom. A wooden cover sealed the top. When they first put the cover over the hole, he could still see a rind of torchlight around its edges, but in a few minutes it shriveled away. Then the darkness was total.

He had yelled and beaten the walls until he was hoarse. No one answered. Eventually he slept. He had no idea how much time passed. Waking was like sleeping, full of nothing but darkness and nightmares.

Many-legged things crawled over his hands. He shook them off, sputtering curses. He pissed and shit in the muck of the cistern. He knocked his head against the stone, hoping to knock himself out, fall into the water, and drown. When he failed at that, he fell into the water and sobbed and licked at the hot blood that dribbled down from his forehead.

Time passed. He lapped at the trickles of water on the wall to slake his thirst. He thought of trying to catch and eat the many-legged things crawling on the walls and mucking up the water, but failed to lay a hand on them. He rested his head against the wall and waited to die.

He slept.

He dreamed.

#

"Navran!" Father shouted. "You piece of goat shit. Where are you?"

The pile of firewood beside the house hid him from Father's view. He crouched and peeked through the gaps between the sticks to see if Father was getting close. The man's face was red and inflamed with rice beer, and he held the halves of the sickle handle in his hands.

"You keep hiding, boy, and I'll break your bones like you broke this sickle."

Navran pressed himself closer to the mud wall of their house. On the far side of the wood pile, he heard Father stumble in his drunkenness and fall to the ground. He swore loudly and smacked the halves of the handle against the ground, then rumbled to his feet, cursing and yelling down the road. Navran let out his breath.

An insect ran over his hand. He reached suddenly to scratch it, but his movement made the sticks rattle. With a monstrous groan Father turned towards the sound and rumbled around the corner. Stealth had expired---Navran jumped to his feet and ran.

He didn't get far. Father's long arms snagged him by the wrist, then jerked him around to stare into Father's spittle-flecked face. He grabbed Navran by the throat and began to squeeze.

"Do you have any idea how much a sickle handle costs to fix?" He shook Navran violently, then threw him to the ground.

Navran choked and gasped for air. Father began to beat him with the splintered halves of the handle, screaming incoherently. Navran curled into a ball and covered his face. The blows battered the top of his head and ribs. He did not cry, though. He never cried.