The Runner (Part I of the Runner Series)

Chapter 38

A shiver runs down my spine. I blame it on the cold floor I am forced to kneel upon. I thrust up my chin and stare the King directly in the eye, twisting my wrists behind my back to test my bonds. The rope bites into my still-bruised skin and I flinch, cursing myself for showing my discomfort in front of the courtiers.

"Welcome back." The King speaks louder than necessary, his deep voice projecting across the cavernous space. His meaty hands move to stroke his beard and he leans closer, his lip curling. "I have anticipated a formal meeting between us for quite some time now."

"Whatever do you mean, Sire? We've already met." I roll my shoulders back. "I've enjoyed the fruits of your hospitality for several weeks." Tilting my head, I raise my eyebrows at him in mock surprise. "How embarrassing that someone as wise as yourself could fail to notice my presence."

Someone cuffs the back of my head and I wince, shutting my eyes tight as my sore muscles spasm in reaction.

The King raises a lazy hand, calling off his lieutenant. The hatred is clear behind his dark eyes as he glares down at me from atop his throne.

"I would strongly advise that you watch your tongue, Runner." He fairly spits out the nickname. "Your position is not a favourable one."

"Neither is yours," I reply.

Something dangerous crosses his face. The King leans back in his seat, sweeping his gaze over the gathered courtiers. My knee throbs angrily from my uncomfortable kneeling position and I shift, causing Griss to reach for the hilt of his sword in warning.

I wait for the King to speak, bracing myself for the inevitable question.

"Where is she?" His voice is low but still manages to carry to the back of the Hall, eliciting murmurs and a restless shuffling from the crowd.

I hold his gaze, remaining silent as I stare at him in challenge. From the corner of my eye I can see Griss unsheathe his sword and level it at my neck. My gaze flickers down the silvery point and back to the King, taking note of the flushed hue his face has taken.

"Forgive my ignorance, Majesty. Have you misplaced someone?" I ask, allowing the fake concern to drip into my voice. Despite my predicament, there is something marvellously freeing about dropping all pretences. I might be inches from death, but at least I am no longer pretending to be someone I'm not.

The end of Griss' sword presses against the soft flesh at the side of my neck but I don't waver, knowing they won't kill me. Not yet.

"Insolent gutter filth. How dare you defy your King." The mask begins to crack as the King's face turns to thunder. His hands clench into tight fists, the knuckles blazing white.

"You are no king of mine." Fury courses through me. "I owe you nothing, do you hear me? I told you once: you can't control us with fear. Change is coming. Your reign is over. I suggest that you step down now and save yourself a good deal of time and trouble."

There is the mighty sound of metal slamming against wood as his jewelled knuckles connect with the arms of throne, eliciting more than one startled gasp from the crowd. Even Griss jumps and I manage to avoid being stabbed only by jerking my head away at the last instant.

The spacious Hall is dead silent as the King slowly stands, straightening to his full, impressive height. I twist in my bonds again while he steps down toward me, clenching and unclenching his fists.

I shut my eyes as the back of his hand connects with my face, feeling my lip split open from the force of the blow.

A high-pitched ringing fills my ears and I struggle to keep from falling over. I shake my head to clear it, glaring up at the King as he leers over me, his teeth bared. I wrinkle my nose at him in disgust, then lean forward and spit an impressive gob of blood onto his beautiful, shiny boots.

An inhuman cry of rage tears from his throat and in the next instant I am keeled over on the floor, drawing my knees up to my chest and retching from the painful kick directly to my gut. I am vaguely aware of the King shouting angrily as I am hauled up, a hand gripping each of my forearms as I'm dragged backward out of the Hall.

I kick against the guards holding me, an icy panic taking hold as they march me out a side entrance and toward the gaol. I twist my head back and forth wildly, watching the scenery rush by me, much too fast. We cross the yard and past the barracks, entering the gaol. When the gate guard admits us, I notice a yellow bruise still colouring his temple. He shoots me a hate-filled grimace as he rattles his ring of heavy keys, then unlocks the door to the stairs.

Darkness coats us as we descend, the sun long forgotten. My protestations turn feeble and my feet drag against the worn stone steps. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, my head jerks over to the table pushed against the far wall. The two guards I incapacitated the night of the ball stand next to it, barely visible in the flickering torchlight. The men wear identical looks of satisfaction, clearly revelling in my arrest.

Griss leads us past the large front cells and I dig my heels in harder, feeling half crazed at the prospect of moving toward the rooms hidden at the very back of the prison. The hands gripping my arms dig in tightly, forcing me onward.

I nearly shake with relief when we stop in front of an isolation cell; the prospect of containment in a dark, dingy room seems like a small measure of consolation compared to the torture chambers. The rope binding my wrists is cut and I am shoved forward into the gaping hole; I fall to my hands and knees as my rubbery legs give out.

I keep my head down, breathing in the dry, musty air and listening to the sound of the door behind me swinging shut and the heavy bolt locking securely.

"Sleep tight," someone mocks to a cacophony of low chuckles.

I wait until their footsteps have receded before I drag myself upright, holding my hands out to the wall for balance.

Now that I'm finally alone, the adrenalin slowly ebbs from my body and I once again become aware of the various injuries crying out from my broken body. If my rib wasn't cracked before, the King's boot most certainly completed the job. I wince as I straighten, my fingers scraping the cold stone wall. Gingerly, I trace the perimeter of the cell, walking along the wall and returning to the door within a dismally small number of steps.

My eyes gradually adjust to the darkness and I am able to take in my surroundings. The only source of light stems from a distant torch flickering weakly through the barred window of the door. My cell has no bed, only four solid walls and a rusty bucket—I shudder at the thought of using it.

I lower myself into a far corner, holding an arm around my sore ribs and drawing my legs to my chest. I pick at the grungy bit of emerald fabric I wrapped around my bad knee, marvelling distantly how something so beautiful can be ruined so irreparably.

I strain my ears but hear nothing: no cough of fellow prisoners or shuffling steps of the guards. I wrap my arms around my legs and lower my forehead onto my knees, choking on the threat of tears.

Lara. How could she? I blink forcefully, willing the sadness away and replacing it with the icy grasp of rage. Since I was a child, I have looked up to her, always so glamorous on the arm of my brother. How many times have we shared confidences, talked long into the night about everything under the sun, held and supported one another? It was her door that I knocked on five years ago, reeking of soot and clutching my father's bloodstained dagger. We all grieved when news of my brother came from the Wastelands, but only Lara truly understood the hole left in lieu of Frye's life.

I took advantage of her kindness, believing it to be as solid and dependable as the great wall surrounding our city. I curse myself for thinking that I could save her; that I could save anyone.

You did it for yourself. For the glory.

The mouldy walls of my cell appear to press in closer. Every fibre of my being aches for flight and I bury my head in my hands, willing my thoughts away from the reality of the locked door, the low ceiling and the miles of earth over my head.

Run.

I can't.

Run.

I can't.

The old darkness creeps in. I feel the damp chill worm its way around my heart, shielding and confining me, readying me for what's to come.