The Mechanical Crown

Harbinger

There were voices now, more distinct than when he'd been walking through the tunnel and no longer confused by the running stream. Hammering on the bars with the palm of his hand, he started shouting, timid at first but then becoming louder with each cry. He didn't know who was up there - it could well be more guards - but the alternative was remaining in the stinking tunnels and starving to death, or being consumed by the rats.

The sound of his palm hitting against the bars reverberated down the ladder and into the tunnel, echoing its metallic clang back. After an age he finally caught the attention of someone above, who knelt down next to the hatch and peered in. Tarn could only see their dark silhouette against the bright white halo of light.

"There's someone down here!" the man said, startled and mostly to himself, then, louder: "There's a lad down here! A boy!"

More silhouettes appeared beside him, leaning over to see down into the tunnel.

"You working down there, lad?"

Tarn shook his head. "Help me," he gasped, realising suddenly how parched his throat was, the words croaking their way out.

Hands grasped at the bars and yanked at it, but the hatch refused to open, the latch straining against its bracket. There was conferring above, most of which Tarn didn't pick up, not being used to so many voices all talking at once.

"Listen," came the voice of the first man, "we're going to break the lock, but you'll need to go back down that ladder first. We don't want to break your head open as well as this sewer, now, do we?"

Tarn descended a couple of rungs, then held on and watched as best he could. For several minutes there was chatter and movement, then a moment of silence before a deafening clang rang out, rebounding off the walls and into Tarn's ears.

"Again!" came the shout.

Another booming, hard impact and the sound of metal splintering.

"Again!" This time it was more than one voice.

The cover shook with another impact and there was the sharp tinkling of metal breaking apart, some pieces of which fell through the bars, bouncing off Tarn's head and shoulders and hands on its way past. A moment later and the bars were lifted up and away, Tarn's way out thrown wide open.

He stared at the opening.

"Come on," came the voice of the man, "up you come."

Tarn clutched at the rungs of the ladder, his arm looped tightly through, aware that his life was about to change. There was a fear growing inside, an apprehension of what lay above. What new confusions awaited? His plan had always been so unlikely to succeed that he'd never put much thought into what happened afterwards.

One rung at a time, he climbed. The glow of light from above grew bigger and filled his vision, and then arms were grabbing at him and pulling him up and out, where he collapsed onto the ground, his eyes burning from the glare. He scrunched his eyelids shut and held a hand to his forehead, blinking away tears as he tried to adjust. Everything was so bright that he began to think his eyes would burn away in their sockets.

"He's filth-ridden!"

"That smell, I've never known anything like it."

"Look at his clothes!"

"I need to wash my hands."

"Was he working down there?"

"How old is he?"

The voices rang out all around, as people surrounded him where he lay. The noises baffled his ears and left him disoriented, his senses overwhelmed. All he wanted was to find a small, dark hole to hide inside. He craved the security of his dusty, rough sleeping hole. The cruelties of the guards at least had felt familiar, rather than this cacophany of blinding, deafening confusion.