Realm of Light - Deborah Chester [159]
Orlo’s own gaze turned sober. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Hurts.”
Orlo grunted, peering at Caelan’s back. “I’ll wager it hurts like bloody hell. Can you breathe all right?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’ve been spitting a little blood. If you can’t breathe right, it’s likely you have blood in your lung.”
“Hurts.”
Orlo nodded and squeezed his shoulder gently. “All right. I figure it just reached your lung. Maybe tore it a little, but it’s not a bad puncture. I tried to draw it straight out at the same angle it went in. Less damage that way, provided you don’t bleed to death.”
Caelan shut his eyes, feeling tired.
Orlo patted his cheek. “Stay with me, Giant. I’m going to put you on your feet. No, don’t help me. I’ll do the lifting. But it’s time we got you out of here. The smell of blood will draw things you don’t want to meet.”
Caelan nodded, then grimaced as Orlo pulled him to his feet. A wave of clammy misery swept through him, and the room spun violently. Desperate not to faint again, Caelan struggled to find severance. Shakily he pulled it around him, closing off the pain, and slowly straightened.
Orlo watched him, looking a little awed, a little frightened, a little admiring. “You’re a tough brute,” he said. “Always were. Even if you haven’t any sense.”
Caelan looked over at Pob, who was wrapping a bloody object in a rag while his fellow ruffians watched. “Gladiators?”
“Aye,” Orlo said proudly. “Trained every man of them. Did you really think you could take on five guards by yourself?”
Caelan grinned at him and nodded his thanks to the men. “Four,” he said, still struggling to find enough breath to talk. “Just four, but thanks for coming in time.”
A rumble passed through the room, and the walls shook ominously. Caelan glanced up in alarm. “Earthquake?”
“Aye. Men, clear out!”
Lifting Caelan’s arm over his shoulders, Orlo guided Caelan out into the passageway. Another rumble came, longer than the first, and this tremor was stronger. Dust rained down on them. Someone called out a breathless prayer. Someone else cursed the world, the gods, and the shadows. Pob tucked the wrapped heart inside his jerkin and ran ahead of them out of sight.
“We’re too far down,” Orlo said, breathing hard. He pushed Caelan forward. “Too close to—”
An unearthly cry uttered by no mortal throat came rising from below them. Caelan looked back. In the torchlight, he could see another flight of steps leading down. He pulled free of Orlo’s arm.
“What are you doing?” Orlo asked in alarm. “You can’t go that way. There’s Haggai and worse down there.”
The shout rose again, uttering words this time that seemed almost understandable. Caelan listened, feeling his skin crawl. “I should know that voice,” he said thoughtfully.
Orlo gripped his arm. “Are you mad? Don’t listen to it. If hell spills its jaws tonight, I don’t intend to be standing down here to meet what comes out.”
More howls, louder than before, echoed through the passageways. A swarm of rats came boiling up the steps toward them. The men turned and ran. Orlo ran too, urging Caelan along with him.
“Run, you big fool!” he said hoarsely. “Forget how much you hurt, and let’s get out of here!”
Fear coursed through Caelan in waves. He could smell a terrible dank, decayed stench like the fetid breath of a predator. A shrieking, skittering, squeaking noise came, swelling in volume as the rats caught up with them and fled on ahead of them, both angry and panicked, their red eyes glinting in the torchlight.
“We can’t let it out,” Caelan whispered, feeling himself choking up. He coughed blood, and his knees tried to buckle under him. “Have to stop it.”
Orlo kept him moving. “Come on! This is no place to fight, you idiot. Mender, come back here and help me. If he swoons, I can’t carry him by myself.”
The gladiator turned back to shoulder Caelan’s weight on the other side. Caught between Orlo and Mender, Caelan ran awkwardly, trying to hold severance and consciousness at the same time.
He looked back once to see four-footed