Young Sherlock Holmes_ Fire Storm - Andrew Lane [91]
The noise made by the horse’s hoofs changed. They weren’t riding on earth any more; they were riding on stone. He heard echoes, as if they were surrounded by hundreds of horses. They were inside some kind of stone courtyard. The horse slowed to a halt. Sherlock was thrown forward, and the rear of the saddle hit him in his side, knocking the breath from him.
Hands grabbed him. A knife cut through the ropes holding him on to the horse. He was carried again, face down this time, too weak and nauseous even to lift his head. All he saw were cobbles, and the occasional edge of a stone wall.
And flickering shadows. The whole place appeared to be lit by torches.
Where was he? He remembered the granite shape of Edinburgh Castle, looming above the town. Surely they hadn’t ridden far enough to be back in Edinburgh? Were there other castles around?
Sherlock was carried down a corridor and into a room. He heard barking and growling. On the far side of the room was a fenced-off area. Men were looking into it with avid interest, some of them exchanging money. Through gaps in the fence Sherlock could see two dogs – big ones – fighting. They leaped at each other, tearing at ears with their teeth and scratching at eyes and skin with their claws. In the flickering torchlight he could see blood spattered across the floor. Some of it was fresh, but some of it was dried. Dogs – and maybe other things – had been fighting there for a while.
He was carried out of that room and into another one. There was no fenced-off area here – instead, men and women were gathered around a rough circle that had been chalked on the flagstones. In the centre of the circle, two men warily stalked each other. They were stripped to the waist, and their chests gleamed as if they had been oiled. One of them had fingernail marks ripped down his torso. The second man suddenly stepped forward. He crouched, grabbing the first around the waist, lifted him in the air and threw him to the ground. The crowd went wild, yelling and cheering.
Moments later Sherlock was being carried out of that room as well. The next had a walkway round the edge and a rectangular pit in the middle, like a swimming pool. Except that there was no water, and a waist-high fence made of wide wooden panels ran all the way round the edge of the pit. Sherlock could smell a rank, feral odour.
Something made a snarling sound. Sherlock realized that there was an animal corralled in there. It had obviously heard the men carrying Sherlock, because it threw itself against the fence. The wooden panels shook. What was in there?
The men scurried for the far door, obviously terrified of whatever the beast was.
Sherlock was taken into a large room and dumped on the ground.
He lay there for a while, staring upward. His arms and legs felt three inches longer than they had been. He could feel bruises all over his body. All in all, he thought, he wasn’t really in a position to do any damage to anyone.
The ceiling was white plaster separated into squares by wooden beams. It looked old, and it looked impressive, but there were massive strands of cobwebs in each corner, hanging like grey rags.
Sherlock closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the crackling of a fire – logs splitting in the heat – and a background murmur that sounded like a whole group of people waiting for something – whispers, giggles, the shuffling of feet. The sound of an audience waiting for a show to start. He could smell sweat, and food, and underneath it all the rank odour of the animal in the pit in the previous room.
Eventually Sherlock pushed himself to a sitting position and looked around.
He was in a stone hall. Flaming torches hung from the walls, illuminating everything with a flickering red-tinged light. Tapestries hung between the torches, looking like old moth-eaten bits of carpet. Interspersed between the tapestries and the torches were the stuffed heads of animals, mounted on shield-like plaques. Most of them were stags with spread antlers,