Then the Crag Trolls piled into him. He was hammered back — thrown from his feet with the force of the rush. His head struck the hard earth, and the air before him exploded instantly into blinding light. Then everything went dark.
He came awake a prisoner in Dante’s Inferno. He was chained to a post in the central holding pen, heavy bracelets and locks fastened to his wrists and ankles. He sat slumped against the post, the faces of dozens of furry gnomes peering at him through a haze of smoke. His head throbbed and his body was bathed in sweat and grime. The stench of the kilns and waste pits filled the air and made him instantly nauseous. The fires burned all about, crimson light falling like a mantle across the valley rock.
Ben blinked and turned his head slowly. Questor and Abernathy were chained to posts close by, awake and whispering together guardedly. The kobolds were trussed hand and foot by chains and bound to iron rings fixed to spikes driven into the stone floor. Neither appeared conscious.
Crag Trolls patrolled the perimeter of the compound, their misshapen forms little more than shadows drifting silently through the night.
“Are you awake. High Lord?”
“Are you unhurt, High Lord?”
Fillip and Sot edged forward out of the sea effaces peering at him. Ferret eyes regarded him solicitously, squinting. Ben wanted nothing so badly at that instant as to break free long enough to throttle them both. He felt like the prize exhibit at the zoo. He felt like a freak. Most of all, he felt like a failure. It was their fault that he felt like that. It was because of them that he was here in the first place. Damn it, all of this had happened because of them!
But that wasn’t true, and he knew it. He was here because it had been his choice to come, because this was where he had put himself.
“Are you all right. High Lord?” Fillip asked.
“Can you hear us, High Lord?” Sot asked.
Ben shoved his misplaced anger aside. “I can hear you. I’m all right. How long have I been unconscious?”
“Not long, High Lord,” Fillip said.
“Not more than a few minutes,” Sot said.
“They seized us all,” Fillip said.
“They threw us into this pen,” Sot said.
“No one escaped,” Fillip said.
“No one,” Sot echoed.
So tell me something I don’t know, Ben thought bitterly.
He glanced about the compound. They were caged by wire fences that were six foot high and barbed. The gates were of heavy wood lashed with chains. He tugged experimentally at the chains secured to his ankles and wrists. They were firmly locked and fixed in their rings. Escape was not going to be easy.
Escape? He laughed inwardly. What in the hell was he thinking about? How was he going to escape from this place?
“High Lord!” He turned at the sound of his name. Questor had discovered that he was awake. “Are you hurt, High Lord?”
He shook his head no. “How are you and Abernathy? And the kobolds?”
“Quite well, I think.” The owlish face was black with soot. “Bunion and Parsnip got the worst of it, I am afraid. They fought very hard for you. It took more than a dozen trolls to subdue them.”
The kobolds stirred in their chains, as if to substantiate the wizard’s claim. Ben glanced at them a moment, then turned again to Questor. “What will they do to us?” he asked.
Questor shook his head. “I really do not know. Nothing very pleasant, I would think.”
Ben could imagine. “Can you use the magic to free us?” he asked.
Questor shook his head once more. “The magic does not work when my hands are chained. It has no power when iron binds me.” He hesitated at moment, his long face twisting.
“High Lord, I am sorry that I have failed you so badly. I tried to do as you asked — to invoke the magic to aid us. It simply would not respond. I… cannot seem to master it… as I would wish.” He stopped, his voice breaking.
“It’s not your fault,” Ben interjected quickly. “I’m the one who got us into this mess — not you.”