Beneath the Forsaken City by C. E. Laureano Read Free Book Online

chasing away some of the fever, and his shaking gradually subsided.
    Just let me die , he begged, but again and again he drank the water that was offered to him before lapsing into unconsciousness.
    Then one day, Conor became aware of the soft drip-drip of water somewhere above him. He opened his eyes, surprised they obeyed his bidding. He focused on the small space of gray that indicated a gap in the thatched roof and followed the drip to where it fell on his bare chest.
    He didn’t feel it land.
    Panic surged through his veins as he commanded his body to move, but it remained heavy and unresponsive. He cast about with his eyes, the only part of him that seemed to obey his bidding. He was in a goat pen, lying naked on a bed of hay. Had they simply cast him here to die?
    Then a blurry face surfaced in his vision. He blinked until it resolved into a clear image: angular and fine-boned, light eyes, dark hair. A scruffy beard covered the bottom half of the man’s face.
    “Calm yourself.” Conor recognized the man’s peculiar accent as belonging to the slave who had translated his words when he was captured. The man pressed a cup to Conor’s lips, and cool liquid slid over his tongue.
    “Why can’t I move?” Conor whispered, hating the tremor in his voice.
    “Don’t worry. It’s just the all-heal. You were thrashing so much while you were unconscious, I thought you might puncture your lung. Your ribs are broken, I think.”
    The man spoke with knowledge and authority, but Conor still stared. “Who are you?”
    “My name is Talfryn. I’m a prisoner here, like you.”
    Talfryn. The man was Gwynn. That explained the accent. Conor closed his eyes. “You should have let me die.”
    “I couldn’t. Haldor’s orders.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. You should be dead already. It wasn’t as if they didn’t try.”
    Conor turned his head away, determined not to take any more food or water. What was the point of living when he would only languish in a Sofarende prison? What was the point of enduring any more suffering when the only person who mattered to him was gone?
    To his chagrin, sleep eluded him, even though he couldn’t move from his position on the floor. Guards retrieved Talfryn at midday, leaving Conor alone in the shed with nothing to do but stare. His Fíréin training had not deserted him: his heart said he wanted to die, but his mind still surveyed his surroundings, considering avenues of escape.
    The structure itself was not a problem. From the breeze and the movement of animals in and out, he guessed that one entire side was open. But the scuff of feet and occasional low voicesoutside told him he was being guarded. It hardly mattered when the all-heal kept him immobilized on the filthy ground.
    Then one morning, he reached up to scratch his neck and froze. He flexed his hand and then wiggled his toes, triumph rushing through him. Apparently Talfryn had backed off the herbs. Conor pushed himself upright on his elbows and then just as quickly collapsed back onto the hay.
    Sweat broke out on his forehead. Who would have known broken ribs could hurt so much? Gingerly he palpated his body, looking for other injuries. Bruises covered him from head to toe, and the cuts in his scalp still felt swollen and raw, but the ribs seemed to be the worst of his injuries.
    He waited until his breathing steadied and then gathered all his energy to push himself into a sitting position against the wall. Another bolt of pain ripped through him. This time he welcomed it. Didn’t he deserve this, for his failure? He’d had one task: to protect Aine and take her to safety in Aron, and he hadn’t even managed to do that right. All the lives taken, all the bloodshed, for naught.
    Conor leaned his head back against the wall. How had he come to this? He’d wanted to be a musician, not a warrior. Even Aine had once told him there was enough fighting in this world without him contributing to it. Yet everything he had done