1
Daylight
Near the village of Caria, province of Pavlis
“Blime! This durned hole ain’t e’er gonna end,” Maur the digger muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with a filthy hand. “Belendin!” he called up toward the light. “Send down my pick. I done hit rock agin.”
“Yes, Pa,” the boy said. Maur heard Belendin grunt as he dragged the pick toward the hole.
Belendin’s head peeked over the edge, sunlight filtering through his mop of curly black hair. “Ready, Pa?”
“Send ‘er on down.”
Maur rubbed his lower back while the boy lowered the pick with a length of rope. He muttered under his breath and fumbled with the cold, un-cooperative rope, cursing when the pick slipped loose and fell on his foot. Grumbling all the while, he lifted the pick and went back to work. He hated digging wells in the end of winter. The half-frozen dirt refused to budge, locking the water table behind ice, and when the water broke, it often broke fast and cold. A man could die digging a late winter well, drown in the ice and mud before he had a chance to scream for help. High summer was the best time to dig. The cool earth was a welcome respite from the heat, and summer water usually broke slow and steady.
He had slammed the pick against the frozen stones three times when he heard the sound.
He stopped, listened, and heard nothing but his own tired breathing and the boy whistling some ditty. He returned to trying to crack the rock.
The sound again. A giggle.
“What you laughing at, boy?” He lifted the pick again and swung.
The hard clang of steel against stone followed by a giggle as cold and heartless as the frost-ridden dirt around him.
“Nothin’, Pa. I ain’t laughin’, jus’ movin’ bricks from the wagon.”
Maur paused, shaking his head as he leaned on the pick, and let his mind wander for a moment. Maybe I been in holes too long and was hearing things. Maybe when the boy dinged me upside the head with the bucket awhile back it knocked a couple of pebbles loose. Hells, maybe I jus’ need to take a leak. Holes don’t laugh.
Sighing, he swung again. He had always been of the opinion that woolgathering had never done anyone a bit of good, especially when there was work to do. On the second swing, the rock split and laughter bubbled free.
He ignored the noise, insisting it was his imagination. About durned time that rock broke, though. “Lower the bucket, boy. I got ‘er broke.”
“Yessir, Pa.” Down came the bucket. For being only six summers old, the boy worked hard, hard enough to make a father proud.
With his shovel and his hands, Maur filled the bucket with rocks and dry, frozen dirt. Something moved at the edge of his vision and he paused, turning to look.
A pair of eyes, glowing dimly red, gleamed from near the rope.
“What the hells?” Maur gasped, scrambling away.
The red eyes blinked.
Maur squinted, peering into the darkness. Whatever it was, it was small. About the size of his closed fist, and a pale color, maybe yellow or white. “C’mere, lil feller,” he said, reaching toward it. “I ain’t a gonna hurt ye.”
The little thing skittered away, deeper into the dark.
“Somthin’ wrong, Pa?” the boy called down.
Maur looked up toward the light to see his son’s grimy face peering at him. “Got some critter down here.”
“Inna well hole?” Belendin asked. “Izzit a gopher ‘er a toad?”
“I dunno what it is,” Maur said, then he yelped. “Blime!”
“Pa!”
Maur snatched the little thing off his shoulder and threw it hard against the wall. It felt sleek and dry, like a snake, but full of heat, and it had bit him. He reached for his shovel. “I tried to be nice, ye lil blighter. Bite me, will ye?”
The dark giggled and Maur smacked his shovel over the glowing red eyes. The little beast skittered away, still giggling, and Maur smacked his shovel down again. I hit it, durned if I didn’t! How can it keep on giggling?
He heard another giggle, behind him, and he turned.
A second pair of red eyes blinked. Then a third. A fourth.
“Blime!” Maur muttered, backing toward the bucket rope. “I’m comin’ up, boy,” he said. “Hold the stand.”
He heard a chorus of giggles as he dumped the bucket and tied his tools to the rope. He needed to get out of the hole, at least until he figured out what to do about the little beasties, but he had no intention of leaving his best tools behind for them to piss on.
“I’m ready, Pa!” the boy hollered, and Maur kicked aside a tiny thing clawing at his boot. When he brought his foot back onto the ground, something squirmed and squealed beneath it, knocking him off balance.
He stumbled and tiny bodies leapt upon him, giggling and scratching. He shoved them away, scrambled to his feet, and snatched at the ones that had taken hold of his skin and clothes.
Snarling, he threw one against the wall of the well where it clung for a few moments. He winced as its little body shone in the sunlight.
All teeth and talon and wide, round eyes, it looked like a miniature monstrosity of lizard, like nothing he had ever seen before. Its scales were bright yellow and shiny, vicious nuggets of broken glass, and its teeth and claws were black needles. It chittered at him like a lunatic squirrel and let go, dropping into the dark again.
Maur grabbed the rope and hoisted himself up while the vicious beasties scrambled to pull him back. “Blime you beasties, get offa me!” he muttered. The few had become dozens and they chirped and tittered and tore at his clothes and the skin of his legs, his back, his arms, his head. Frantic, he climbed the rope as fast he could, but the beasties climbed him quicker—climbed toward the boy.
He looked at his son, his beautiful son, and stopped climbing. “Cut the rope, Belendin. Cut ‘er now!”
“But, Pa! You’ll fall!”
Two of the beasties skittered up the rope toward the boy, their needle claws sinking into the hemp.
“Cut the dad blasted rope!”
Belendin’s eyes grew wide as the beasties climbed into view. One of the beasts glistened new-leaf green in the afternoon sunlight, the other sky blue, and they chittered and flashed their nasty teeth back at Maur as if telling him to mind his own.
“Oh, Pa!” the boy said, pulling a knife. “Can’t ye make it?”
One beastie, bright and gleaming red, snatched out Maur’s left eye with a swipe of its little taloned hand. He screamed and flung the nasty chittering thing away, slipping down the rope as he struggled. “I’m done fer!” Maur cried, tasting his own blood flowing over his face and into his mouth. “Save yerself! Cut the rope!”
The green and blue beasties had almost reached the top when Belendin’s knife cut through.
Maur fell screaming to the bottom of the well, and the beasties chittered their indignation. Moments after landing, his screams stopped.
Castle Faldorrah
“Do it again,” Otlee commanded, torchlight from the gaol hall gleaming on his copper-colored hair as he leaned in a patch of dim light slanting through the barred door. He tried not to wrinkle his nose at the stench of death and piss, and hoped he would not sneeze. At just over twelve summers old, he gave his orders as if he had been giving them his whole life but was still amazed anyone listened.