Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts by Dalglish David

Author:Dalglish, David [Dalglish, David]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2014-11-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

18

Haern didn’t fall very far, or for very long, before he landed on stone. It was sharply curved and perfectly smooth. He grabbed at it, searching for handholds, but there were none to be found. Down into the darkness he slid, unable to slow his descent. Haern tried kicking to one side, hoping to wedge himself in whatever chute he was sliding down, but he only succeeded in turning himself a different direction, and headfirst he flew.

The stone vanished, he was falling, and then he landed upon uneven ground. He heard the rattle of bones, felt pieces of something sharp digging into him. Letting out a groan from the pain, he rolled over and felt at what he’d landed on, for he had no hope of seeing it in the pitch black.

They were the bones of a man or woman, long since deceased. It did little to improve Haern’s opinion of his situation.

“Left to starve,” he muttered. “Gods damn it, is this how it all ends, starving in the darkness?”

“Not quite,” said a voice, and the surprise nearly stopped his heart. He rolled to his knees and turned to face the direction the voice had come from. At first, he thought his mind played tricks on him, but he saw the faintest hint of blue light twinkling in the distance. As he watched, it grew stronger, larger, until he could see clearly the blue flame of a torch, only it burned on nothing, merely floated in the air like a bizarre sun. With its light, he could better see the reaches of his room, though it was less of a room and more of a cave. There appeared no doors or further passages, just a circular dome with a ceiling covered with stalactites, maybe a hundred feet from one side to the other. Covering the floor were bones, and sitting beneath the magical torchlight, his face an ashen gray and his rustic armor covered with dust, was a man with a long scar on his cheek.

“Welcome to my home,” said the man. “It has been a very, very long time since I had company.”

Haern stood, both hands falling to the swords at his belt.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Where am I?”

“Beneath the Stronghold,” said the man. “In a place forgotten by most, though I would guess you knew that. As for who I am, well…”

He rose to his feet, dust billowing off of him. His armor groaned with each movement, and the way he moved, the way his joints cracked, made it seem as if he were a statue come to life. When at his full height, he stood at attention and saluted.

“Boris Marchant, at your service,” he said, his deep voice scratchy and frightening in the enclosed space.

“Well, Boris,” said Haern, trying not to panic, “care to tell me how to get out of here?”

Boris laughed.

“Look at me,” he said. “If there were a way out, do you think I would still be down here?”

It was hardly what Haern wanted to hear, not that he could deny the logic.

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