Worldbinder

DARK WATERS

Daylight came to the privy, the softest blush of light shining through the holes up above. With the dawn came an unwholesome rain as hundreds of soldiers relieved themselves of the waste from last night’s feast.

Daylan Hammer stood stoically, head bowed, mouth tightly shut, and endured.

He had been standing so long that once in the night, all of the blood had rushed to his feet, and he had staggered and fallen in the mire.

So he had learned, and now he raised his feet every now and then, stamping them in the filth, so that he made sure to keep blood pumping to his head.

It will end soon, he thought. The warriors will be leaving at dawn.

And after an hour, they seemed to be gone. No more foul rains hurtled down, no crude jests or harsh laughter assailed him.

He waded to the far end, then reached up and began trying to climb out of the privy.

There was little to hold onto. The walls were wet and slimy. Mold and unhealthy funguses grew upon them, making them slick. There was no brickwork or mortar here, with crevices that he might slip his fingers into, just solid rock worn smooth over the ages.

Still, he had to try.

He pressed his fingernails into a sheet of mold, hoping that it might give him some purchase.

He was wet, soggy, and that added extra pounds.

He pulled himself up slowly, and let the urine drip off of him a little, hoping to reduce his weight. But the sheet of mold broke free, and he slid back.

I would weigh less if I were naked, he decided.

He did not want to suffer that indignity. He didn’t want to risk having someone see him squirming as he struggled up out of the privy.

On the other hand, I doubt whether I ever want to wear these clothes again, he told himself.

With grim determination, he shucked off his pants, ripped off his tunic, and began the climb.

It took him nearly an hour to get ten feet up the wall. But from there, the slope suddenly got steeper. By then, his fingernails and toenails bled, and he was straining every muscle.

He dared not rest. He was too wet and slimy. Each time he laid against the wall, he merely slid back into the cesspool.

If I were dry, he thought, perhaps I could get more friction, perhaps I could make it.

And so he clung in one spot, sweat streaming down his forehead and from his armpits and chest, hoping to get dry enough so that he might find some purchase.

All of his endowments of strength and grace could not suffice to get him one foot farther up the wall. Only superhuman effort had gotten him this far at all.

Suddenly, he heard a soft thud, and a coil of rope came twisting down out of the darkness.

Who? he wondered. Daylan had seen the grief-stricken look on Alun’s face when he’d been arrested. He wondered, Is he trying to make amends?

But it wasn’t Alun who spoke. It was the High King himself, his mournful voice echoing in the small chamber.

“Daylan Hammer, the troops are assembled at the gate, and soon they will be gone. The guard will be light. There are those who would thwart you, if they knew of your purpose. But I wish you well. By the Powers that preserve us I beg you, save my son.”