By day the streets of the Hybourg are grim and depressing and seem only mildly less dangerous than the previous night. Watery sunlight struggles through the knitted roofs of houses built so close together, the residents have hung washing lines from windows on one side of the street to the other. Though it has not yet warmed above water freezing temperatures, the snow has long gone from the dirty walkways, pushed into enormous piles. The Pit looms in the distance, a black mountain with its head chopped off.
Tug holds tight to the top of my arm. His other hand rests over the knife sheath on his belt. Brin and Kel walk ahead, Kel dressed in deerskin trousers, a dark blue tunic and a cloak with the hood pulled well over his downturned head. So far, we have attracted no untoward attention.
We pass an open square where manacled men and women with bony, mud-streaked faces build a wall from a mountain of cut black rock. A covered water well stands in the middle of the square. A wooden pen holds a dozen wild fowl with red jowls and bright blue feathers. I have seen this bird in my mother's memories. They're popular for their eggs and meat, though they look too skinny to bother choking.
Apart from those chained, there are no women on the street. I go unnoticed because Tug did not make me change from my sturdy boots, trousers and parka. Still, I pull my hood further over my forehead and I'm grateful that our captors are not stupid enough to make me wear the dress in public.
We are now so close to the Pit I have to tilt back my head to the gray sky to see the top of it. From this distance, slit windows high in the framework have become visible, like small scars or pointy teeth. Unlike the Hybourg houses and inns cobbled from the black rock, the Pit walls are not decorated with broken colored glass and reflective metals. The rock is smooth and appears seamless.
Before we turn the corner, I sense the storm up ahead. Hundreds of men choke up the mind-world. The scraps of memory create muddy, swirling layers upon layers. Inwardly, I shrink from the mayhem. Kel, who up until five days ago had never met a living soul other than our family, must be horrified.
A dark, arched tunnel where men swarm, distinguishes the Pit entrance. I count eight guards patrolling the crowds, marked by the strange metal bands laced up their bare arms, the black armour, the metal around their necks and their size. Each one of them is huge, as though they've crossed species with giants. Not the sort of men even Tug could scrap with and walk away from uninjured.
The crowd ebbs and sways with a tidal push as the swell grows on one side, then builds from the other. Even the men with slave women and children struggle to reach the guards and get inside. Men carry crystal and stone wares around their necks, crates of goods they wish to trade, animals in cages. Tug and I, tight against Brin and Kel, surf forward on a wave of movement. Once we are deep in the throng there is a lull, and we are hemmed in with nowhere to go.
Brin elbows left and right, forcing tiny gaps. We weave one way, then the other, getting no closer to the tunnel. A pulse of energy in the mind-world hooks my attention. Not the Hybourg's usual, ominous violence, but something I sense is connected to Kel. Someone has taken an interest in him.
Tug keeps elbowing left. I scan faces, searching for someone who doesn't fit the crowd. Small spaces open, drawing us towards a man who does not argue with his neighbour, who is not carrying goods, or pushing and shoving. And there is another like him further clockwise, waiting patiently. I shudder, realising we have been guided into a wide circle of men that do not observe one another, but their shaved heads and a square tattoo above the ear unites them.
Brin thrusts forward as a crack appears in the crowd, pulling us closer to the heart of the gang. I grasp his arm. He jerks, eyes flicking to me with repulsion. But he understands at once I have discerned something. Tug scrupulously studies the crowd.
"South-east," I call to him over the rumble of men jeering, laughing, holding up their wares and shouting at the guards what they have to sell. Tug's gaze swoops over the gang. He nods at Brin and we retreat in the other direction towards a weak link in their circle.
There is a flurry of movement. Four men, like arrows from a multi-crossbow, shaft towards us, ploughing down anyone in their way. Brin yanks Kel behind him. Tug dives to his side. I draw my brother close and pull him to the ground. Realising I am not breathing, I force myself to suck in air.
Tug and Brin swivel their knives, taking up fighting stances. A slim man to my left with a long, whiskery beard holds a chinking crate. His occupied arms leave the knife on his belt clear for the taking. The blade is possibly frozen in the pouch because of the cold. The wooden knife handle looks battered and old. I glance at the two gang members Tug and Brin cannot see—the ones heading us off from behind. Neither pays me the slightest attention.
I grab the rusty knife. The whiskery man doesn't even notice as I take it from his belt. He is too busy trying to back away and save whatever he is carrying.
There is a loud shout. The four men in front besiege Tug and Brin. They begin fighting close quarters. One of the gang falls to his knees bleeding. Those nearby start pushing out, clearing a ring around the fight, but Kel and I are still penned in from behind.
My stomach heaves, and no amount of deep breathing can calm the pounding in my chest. Eyes glued to the fight, I automatically estimate the weight of the blade I have stolen. I may detest my captors, but naivety is not possible when you have the sight. There are worse fates than Beast-face and Fishnet-head. This gang is one of those.
Brin punches and parries the blows of a skilled adversary. The two others, recognising Tug's strength, prise him away from Brin's side. Knives slash at Tug's shoulders, thrust towards his legs. Tug's defence is unassailable, but he has no time to strike back.
On one side of the crowd, two more gang members close in. On the other, three guards, a head taller than everyone, plunge forward. Men scatter around them. But they have a fifteen-feet wall to get through before they reach us, and while the crowd tries to keep their distance, excitement over the fight means people further behind are shoving forward for a better look.
I search for an opening, an escape. But if we tried tunnelling through the crowd, Kel would get crushed, possibly knocked to the floor. I am too small to hold the surging masses off him. And if anyone saw his eyes, we would be stampeded.
Shouts of encouragement fill the air. One man hollers numbers. I think he is taking bets on who will win or die. The nippiest of Tug's assailants retreats as the two newest comers join the fight. Tug seizes the opportunity to attack. But it's a mistake. A set-up. As he head-butts one man and elbows the other in the throat, the nippiest gang member uses the distraction, to leap in for a fatal strike.
Me. Gang man. Tug. If the gang takes Kel, it's over.
My mind empties. I breathe in, zoning out the shouts of the crowd. Exhaling, I flex my wrist and flip the knife. A gesture I've made a hundred thousand times. A gesture more natural to me than laughter.
The rusty blade spins once through the air. A fraction of a second before the man plunges his knife into Tug, my rusty blade catches his shoulder. He cries out, losing the force of his strike. As his blade jabs into Tug, Tug leaps back. The knife slashes Tug's furs, but gets no purchase between his ribs.
The man I've struck turns furiously, searching for the knife thrower. Tug executes the fastest punch I've ever seen, and his assailant falls to the ground unconscious.
As the guards reach us, the remaining gang members back away. I pull Kel beneath me. The one who has knocked down Brin, slithers into a sea of people. Three men sprawl at Tug's feet, winded and struggling for breath. I've lost sight of the other two.
"What's the reason for this?" a guard enquires. I am sheltering Kel with my arm, but I can't hide him altogether. The guard yanks him up. Kel raises his eyes, fear and shock in his blue and golden irises. People see. A whisper faster than the wind blows across the crowd. "Better bring him through then. Before there are any more accidents."
Tug helps Brin to his feet. The three guards surround us, one on each side, one behind. As we are wrangled forward, Tug raises the hem of his fur to inspect his side. There's a line of blood dripping like a claw scratch. As I raise my eyes from the wound, he looks at me. There is something new in his expression, but only the Gods know what he is thinking, because I don't understand Beast-face's emotions. Nor do I want to.
We enter a dank, putrid-smelling tunnel. It stinks of sweat, dirt and animal dung. It stinks of fear, depravity and the end.