Free Mark Lawrence_The Broken Empire 01 by Prince of Thorns Page B

objections after “but.”
    â€œHe cheated.” Young Stod found the words for all of them.
    Lundist had already started walking. I turned to follow him, then looked back.
    â€œIt’s not a game, Sir Makin. You teach these boys to play by the rules, and they’re going to lose. It’s not a game.”
    And when we make a mistake, we can’t buy our way out of it. Not with horses, not with gold.
    We reached the Red Gate on the far side of the courtyard.
    â€œThat boy could die,” Lundist said.
    â€œI know,” I said. “Take me to see these prisoners that Father’s to have killed.”

12
    Four years earlier
    More of the Tall Castle lies below the ground than above. It should be called the Deep Castle, really. It took us a while to reach the dungeons. We heard the shrieks from a level up, through walls of Builder-stone.
    â€œThis visit is, perhaps, a bad idea,” Lundist said, pausing before an iron door.
    â€œIt’s my idea, Tutor,” I said. “I thought you wanted me to learn by my mistakes?”
    Another scream reached us, guttural with a hoarse edge to it, an animal sound.
    â€œYour father wouldn’t approve of this visit,” Lundist said. He pressed his lips in a tight line, troubled.
    â€œThat’s the first time you’ve called on Father’s wisdom to resolve an issue. Shame on you, Tutor Lundist.” Nothing would turn me back now.
    â€œThere are things that children—”
    â€œToo late, that horse already bolted. Stable burned.” I brushed past him and rapped on the door with the hilt of my dagger. “Open up.”
    A rattle of keys, and the door slid inward on oiled hinges. The wave of stench that hit me nearly took my breath. A warty old fellow in warder’s leathers leaned into view and opened his mouth to speak.
    â€œDon’t,” I said, holding the business end of my dagger toward his tongue.
    I walked on, Lundist at my heels.
    â€œYou always told me to look and make my own judgement, Lundist,” I said. I respected him for that. “No time to get squeamish.”
    â€œJorg . . .” He was torn, I could hear it in his voice, wracked between emotions I couldn’t understand, and logic that I could. “Prince—”
    The cry rang out again, much louder now. I’d heard the sound before. It pushed at me, trying to force me away. The first time I heard that kind of pain, my mother’s pain, something held me back. I’ll tell you it was the hook-briar which held me fast. I’ll show you the scars. But in the night, before the dreams come, a voice whispers to me that it was fear that held me back, terror that rooted me in the briar, safe while I watched them die.
    Another scream, more terrible and more desperate than any before. I felt the hooks in my flesh.
    â€œJorg!”
    I shook Lundist’s hands from me, and ran toward the sound.
    I didn’t have far to run. I pulled up short at the entrance to a wide room, torch-lit, with cell doors lining three sides. At the centre, two men stood on opposite sides of a table, to which a third man had been secured with chains. The larger of the two warders held an iron poker, one end in a basket of glowing coals.
    None of the three noted my arrival, nor did any of the faces pressed to the barred windows in the cell doors turn my way. I walked in. I heard Lundist arrive at the entrance and stop to take in the scene, as I had.
    I drew close and the warder without the iron glanced my way. He jumped as if stung. “What in the—” He shook his head to clear his vision. “Who? I mean . . .”
    I’d imagined the torturers would be terrifying men with cruel faces, thin lips, hooked noses, the eyes of soulless demons. I think I found their ordinariness more of a shock. The shorter of the two looked a touch simple, but in a friendly way. Mild I’d call him.
    â€œWho’re you?” This one had a more