Down Station

18

Pigface came for Dalip sooner than he’d thought. Three days of merciless physical training had left him aching in places he didn’t know he could ache. He felt all but boneless, loose and unconnected. He’d had extra food◦– for all he knew it was Pigface’s own rations, and Stanislav had bullied them out of him◦– but nowhere near enough time for anything to make a difference.

The older man’s demeanour had changed in captivity: he was now all sharp edges and abrupt actions, as if he knew exactly what would put their gaolers on the back foot. And Dalip was afraid to ask where he’d got that knowledge.

‘On your feet, little lion man. She wants you.’

Dalip raised himself from the stone floor. He’d been stretching, feet out in front of him and bending from the hips, trying to get his head as close to his knees as he could. He was, as Stanislav had told him, stiff like an old man, and he needed to be supple in order to fight.

Despite the hours of knife-work, of slow, deliberate blocks, slices and stabs, he was certain that he didn’t know enough to defend himself yet.

‘No. I’m not ready.’ He stood at the back of his cell, so that Pigface would have to come all the way in and drag him out.

‘She doesn’t care, and I don’t care. To the pit with you.’

‘Where’s Stanislav? I want Stanislav.’

‘The Slav’s not been called for. You have.’ Pigface had armed himself with a club, as well as his knife.

‘I need to talk to him before I fight.’

‘No. Get to the pit. She’s waiting, and you don’t keep her waiting.’

‘Then go and get Stanislav, and you won’t keep her waiting.’ Dalip put his hands behind his back and planted his feet, and they stared at each other, both in shadow, one silhouetted by the door, the other limned with light from the window.

Pigface took a step towards Dalip, but it was hesitant and betrayed his weakness. It would come down to whether he wanted a fight with Dalip, risking the fight he was supposed to be putting on for the geomancer, or whether he thought he’d be able to get his work done quicker by letting the prisoners dictate the terms of their imprisonment.

He muttered something under his breath, and left, heading up the corridor to Stanislav’s cell, leaving Dalip’s door open. He wasn’t a very good gaoler at all: either that, or he was a coward and a bully, and didn’t know how to take being challenged.

He heard voices. He hadn’t been allowed to mix with the others at all, only Stanislav. He knew from him that Mama was diagonally opposite. Elena and Luiza were further on. The women had been put to work in the kitchen gardens he’d seen on his abortive bid for freedom. As far as Stanislav could tell, they were being treated tolerably.

Grace? No one knew where she was. She didn’t appear to be a prisoner with them, though she could have been somewhere else in the castle. Perhaps she never made it this far: taken by some creature with sharp teeth, or fallen by accident and he’d passed her by within shouting distance.

Perhaps she was dead. It was impossible to know. Pigface seemed to not only know nothing, but also lack the curiosity to find out.

The cell doors were barred with a plank of wood that fitted into hasps on the far side, preventing them from opening. Dalip took the bar from where Pigface had laid it against the wall and took it back into his cell. It was too wide to be useful as a weapon, difficult to grip and swing.

He lifted it up and offered it to the window slit. It would just about fit through, and if there was a time when he’d need to conveniently lose the bar◦– and free the other prisoners◦– then he could just slide them all outside.

He returned it, just before Pigface came back around the corner, walking behind Stanislav and tapping his cosh into the palm of his hand.

‘You are to fight?’

‘Apparently.’

‘What?’

‘He hasn’t said.’

Stanislav idly turned around, and in one fluid move, pinned Pigface’s throat and club hand to the wall. When the guard tried for his knife with his off-hand, Stanislav pushed his forearm harder against the man’s Adam’s apple.

‘We need to know before he goes in the pit.’

Pigface couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t speak. He just made a little gasping noise from somewhere inside.

‘What animal does the boy have to fight?’

Pigface’s lips moved, but they were starting to turn blue.

‘If you kill him,’ said Dalip, ‘Actually I don’t know what’ll happen if you kill him.’

‘We might get someone with some balls. That would make things more difficult for us.’ Stanislav released his hold and Pigface staggered away, wheezing and cupping his neck with his hand.

‘You’re crazy,’ he gasped. ‘You’re mad.’

‘Yes, all of us,’ said Dalip. ‘We’re more trouble than we’re worth.’

Pigface coughed and leant against the wall. ‘She’s waiting. You’re late.’

‘What does the boy have to fight?’ said Stanislav again. ‘Are you going to tell me, or do I beat it out of you?’

Pigface held up his hand to ward him off. ‘Boar. There’s a boar.’

‘A… what?’ Dalip looked askance.

‘Pig. Wild pig. Strong. Dangerous.’

‘I know what it is. But I’m fighting a pig?’

‘No, a boar.’ Stanislav ignored Pigface and walked slowly back to Dalip. ‘They are difficult opponents. Their vital organs are deep in their bodies, under many layers of fat and muscle. A knife will not be enough to kill it.’

‘But a pig?’

‘It will open your belly and root around in your guts if you let it. It has teeth like razors and is angry, always angry. It is your opponent and you must treat it with respect.’

Dalip conceded the point. ‘Okay. But if a knife’s too short, what do I use?’

‘In old times, a spear. Big one, broad. With something to stop the boar pushing down the shaft and attacking you, even as it dies.’ Stanislav raised his eyebrows. ‘You see?’

‘Right.’ It wasn’t a pig, then, all pink and squealy.

‘A knife is all you get, lion man,’ said Pigface, pushing past.

He ended up pressed against the wall again.

‘Find him something longer,’ said Stanislav.

‘I’m not allowed,’ he grunted. ‘She said so.’

‘What else did she say?’ Stanislav tightened his grip. He had no hesitation in inflicting pain on the man. ‘Tell us.’

The confusion that washed through Pigface’s little button eyes almost provoked sympathy from Dalip. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, with prisoners assaulting their guards with impunity.

‘The knife is all he gets. Ever. She wants him to be afraid. Terrified. That’s what she wants.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know why. “Make him afraid,” she told me. “Make him think he’s going to die,” she said. She’s not going to tell me her plans, is she?’

Stanislav let go, and deliberately wiped his hands on his boilersuit.

‘The man that is with her. The one with the silver cane. Who is he?’

‘He’s…’ Then Pigface checked himself. ‘I don’t answer to you.’

All it took was for Stanislav to take step closer, and the guard brought up his club to defend himself.

‘Who is he?’

‘He does everything for her.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘He’s the steward. We just call him “sir”.’

Stanislav sighed. ‘I expect you do, you worthless pig-faced coward. Go. Go and do what you have to do.’

Pigface shuffled away, and they watched him go to the end of the corridor, turn right towards the guard room.

‘Why does she want you scared?’ asked Stanislav.

‘Because I stood up to her. Now she wants to break me.’ Dalip squared his shoulders. ‘I…’

‘All men break, eventually. There is no shame in that. All men: there is no one who ever lived who could not be taken beyond what they could endure. Now, this boar. It will try to knock you down and gore you. Stay on your feet and away from its head. The front end is very dangerous. When you get the chance you must stab it in the arse.’

Dalip blinked. ‘I have to do what?’

‘Stab it in the arse. It will bleed to death quickly. It may even take just one blow.’ He shrugged. ‘It is what wolves do. Attack from behind, rip out its arse.’

‘You have got to be joking.’

‘No,’ said Stanislav. ‘This is no joke. Wild boar can kill people. If you do not wish to be one of them, then you must—’

‘Stab it in the arse. I get it.’

‘Do not hesitate.’ He put a hand on Dalip’s back and began to guide him down towards the pit. ‘Show no fear. Now we know that is what she wants, the less she gets of it, the more you will hurt her.’

‘Right.’ Dalip’s mouth had gone dry, and his palms sweaty. He waved them down by his sides to dry them. He could hear a commotion from the guard room: raised voices, something banging against heavy wood, and a most awful, high-pitched shrieking that cut straight through his resolve and left it in tatters.

‘Remember: it is nothing but a brute animal. It will act on instinct, while you can out-think it.’

Dalip wasn’t so sure. The dog had been one thing, sprung on him almost before he’d had time to work out what he was going to do. This was different◦– this was deliberate, planned, and he was a willing participant, no matter how much his situation had forced him into it. He was growing almost light-headed.

‘Breathe, boy. Breathe slow and deep.’

That was it. He was hyperventilating. He caught himself and put his hand to his chest so he could count the space between inhaling and exhaling.

He was in the drum-shaped pit, and the geomancer and her steward were looking keenly at him, trying to gauge just how close he was to begging. He wasn’t going to do that. Not today. He breathed in, counted to five, breathed out. Stanislav was with him, staring belligerently up through narrowed eyes at the woman.

She leaned over to confer with the steward, their voices too quiet to hear. He nodded and scratched at his chin thoughtfully. Dalip wondered what was more important than his fight, and possible death.

Pigface came into the pit and threw his knife down on the ground at Dalip’s feet. He was sweating as much as Dalip was.

‘This one’s a bit lively, if you take my meaning. We’ll be having pork one way or another tonight.’ He was more confident now, with others behind him, backing him up.

Dalip scooped up the knife, even though he could barely hold on to the haft. He clenched his fist over and over.

‘If the boy kills it,’ said Stanislav, ‘it should be his to give to whoever he wants. His risk, his reward.’

‘His reward is that he lives, Slav.’

‘And what is your reward, Pigface? The chance to be a bully?’ Stanislav spat at him, the gobbet of saliva arcing through the air and landing squarely on Pigface’s boots.

‘I should—’

‘Make me lick it off? Yes. You should. But you are powerless.’ He jerked his head at the geomancer. ‘She is the only reason we are still here.’

‘Stanislav?’ said Dalip.

He ended his confrontation with the guard with a dismissive gesture, and turned to Dalip.

‘You will be fine.’ He slapped his big hands on Dalip’s shoulders, nearly causing him to drop the knife. ‘Remember to move, to strike, to finish it quickly. It will charge you: when it is past, then it is vulnerable.’

‘I can’t do this.’

‘You can and you will.’ Stanislav grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him close so that their foreheads were touching. ‘This will be over in less than a minute. Then we can continue to plan our escape.’

Dalip nodded, and watched the man’s broad back disappear through the door. Pigface was directing two other men, shoving a rickety crate towards the pit. The crate was shuddering and jerking side to side with each lunge of the dark shape within: the shrieks of the boar and the taunts and slaps of the men combined to create an unholy cacophony.

The crate was pushed through the door. One of the men took a crowbar to the planks, while his mate stood outside the door, hand poised on the latch.

Dalip took one last opportunity to wipe his hands, and resumed his grip on the knife. He bent his knees slightly, readying himself for the onslaught.

The geomancer raised her hand, glanced at the door, and it slammed shut, just as the crate began to disintegrate. A black snout jammed through the slats, forcing them apart. When it pulled back, the wood cracked and splintered.

The guard turned for the door, and if he hadn’t realised it was now barred to him before, he did in that moment. He threw himself at it, scrabbling for purchase that just wasn’t there and wailing to be let out.

The geomancer leaned forward, as if it was the most interesting thing she’d seen all day, and the boar, with a frenzied energy, reduced the rest of the crate to shards. It stood there for a second, quivering with rage, while it took in its new surroundings, and charged the nearest enemy.

Which wasn’t Dalip.

He shouted a warning, but the man wasn’t even looking in his direction. The crowbar, the only weapon the man might have feasibly used, lay forgotten on the ground, while the man banged uselessly against the thick door. He was trapped in a short tunnel with a beast that filled it widthways.

It took him down by slashing its tusks through his calves, then just kept on going, shaking its head left and right, cutting and cutting him into bloody ruin.

Dalip ran forward, over the broken remains of the crate, and just like he’d been told, rammed the knife blade up to the hilt under the boar’s squirming tail. Just like he’d been told, he twisted the blade, and just like he’d been told, dragged it out sideways with as much force as he could muster.

From rooting around in the still-screaming guard’s body, to turning on Dalip, was almost instantaneous. Its sheer bulk belied a speed and agility of an animal half its size. Its head went down and it rushed him. Dalip jumped clear, springing back and sideways. It was dripping blood from its snout, but it was pumping it from the other end.

They were in the pit proper now, Dalip balanced on the balls of his feet, hand and knifeblade shining wetly red, the boar, bristles caked in gore, its deep-set eyes murderous. But nothing could disguise the thick trail of spatters and splashes that marked the stone floor.

It came at him again, slower, misstepping, uneven, and Dalip spun away again, leaping aside and letting the beast ram the wall with its thick skull.

He could have stabbed it again, in the time it took it to recover, but he backed away, carefully avoiding the sticky ribbons of blood on the ground.

The boar limped around, breathing heavily, trembling with effort now, not with anger. It staggered, its forelegs slipping underneath it. It rose and made a drunkard’s walk towards Dalip, who circled away, forcing it to follow.

Halfway around, it sagged to the floor, shivered all over, and didn’t move again, save for the slight rise and fall of its ribs. Once. Twice. Then nothing.

Dalip kept a wary distance, and closed on it from the rear. There wasn’t much blood left to pool, but what there was shone thickly around its hindquarters. He prodded it with the outstretched knife, pushing the point into its hairy back, through the skin and into the fat below.

The boar didn’t move, and he thought it safe to assume it was dead.

The guard, on the other hand, was weeping as he tried to hold his wounds together. In the shadow of the tunnel, Dalip found it impossible to tell where clothing finished and flesh started. Both were bloodied rags.

‘Why? Why?’ the guard sobbed.

Dalip didn’t know, beyond naked barbarism and utter contempt for life. The man couldn’t be moved◦– he screamed in agony when Dalip tried◦– and perhaps with modern medicine and a team of doctors, he might have survived. Scarred inside and out for certain, but alive nevertheless.

He died too, slowly, sadly, knowing he was going, sliding inexorably into darkness and terrified of it. He died clutching at Dalip’s forearm, and only let go when he slid to one side, awkwardly trapping his head in the angle between the wall and the door. Not that he cared any more about comfort.

Dalip walked back out into the pit and stood centre stage. He threw the knife down and looked up at the geomancer, dressed in her finery.

‘Are we done here now?’ he shouted at her. ‘Are we?’

‘Yes,’ she said, and stood, adjusting her skirts, readying herself to leave. The steward tapped his silver-tipped cane against the balcony, in annoyance or impatience or just out of habit, and scowled at Dalip.

Who bent down and caught up as much blood as he could off the floor, before flinging it up at his captors.

Most of it either fell back or flecked the high walls of the pit. But one or two drops reached their targets. The steward stiffened as something touched his cheek, and the geomancer saw it without knowing her back had its own darkly shining jewel clinging to the fine fabric.

‘There. That’s your share of this butchery.’

He stared up, his bloody hands raised to them, while they stared down. Whatever they were expecting, they got defiance, not supplication. They got his red palms and drying scabs instead of his fear.

They still left, and he had to drop his arms by his side at some point. He hung his head, and went to pull the body out of the way of the blocked door.