In Service Of The King (Book 2) by Steven Styles Read Free Book Online Page A

scroll onto the table. Joseph removed his vest and shirt, wondering if his fellow Shamar had heard him shouting. One of the guards wadded up Joseph’s clothes and stowed them away in the trunk.
    Chamberlain brought a set of iron shackles from his pouch and clasped them around Joseph’s wrists. The guard at the table addressed him again.
    “Does this prisoner have a name?” The grizzled man held a pen, poised above the dingy scroll.
    “Joseph of Rishown,” Joseph answered. The guard wrote it down and nodded toward the far wall.
    “Down with him, then.”
    The Magistrate’s guards led their prisoner forward. An opening had been carved out of the rock wall, and a stone door fitted almost precisely into it. As they neared it Joseph beheld a strange symbol, carved into the rock above the door. As he gazed at it, a feeling of foreboding struck him... like an arrow sinking into his flesh. Taking hold of two, large metal rings embedded in the door, two of the guards strained as they pulled back. Slowly the stone shifted and groaned, scraping as it swung open.
    A rush of hot, foul air came through the door like wind. The unmistakable acrid odor of death met Joseph as he was pushed forward, through the door. A circular stair leading downward lay beyond, one cut directly out of the rock.
    “Never get used to the smell,” Chamberlain said to one of his men. “Well, down with him. Gazal will be happy to see fresh blood.” Taking a lit torch from the wall the magistrate led the way, down the winding stair.
    Joseph eyes and nose stung from the pungent smell of rot in the air; he felt it settling on his face and arms. His stomach turned within him. With an effort, he kept his face set. The group descended the stair a long time. Joseph lost count of the times they’d gone around before the stairs ended at a small landing, and a wooden door.
    Winded, Chamberlain caught his breath for a moment then rapped on the door. After some time it opened slightly; a man in a crimson, hooded cloak spoke quietly with Chamberlain for several moments. Joseph could not make out what they were saying. The cloaked man stepped back and moved out of sight.
    Chamberlain turned to Joseph.
    “Bring him forward,” he ordered. His sickly smile made Joseph want to smack him. The point of a dagger pressed slightly into Joseph’s back. He unwillingly walked forward--through the open doorway--into a dimly-lit room. The door closed with a thud behind him. No longer feeling the dagger, Joseph glanced behind him. Neither Chamberlain--nor the guards--were anywhere to be seen. The air around him felt completely still and silent.
    Turning back around Joseph found himself in the midst of a small, underground cavern. In the center of the room--some thirty feet away--stood a priest. He stood shorter than Joseph, and looked considerably older. The man’s graying beard was meticulously cut; his spotless crimson robe flowed out onto the stone floor. His attendant in the cloak stood agains the far wall, watching the new prisoner in silence.
    The priest stood next to brilliantly-white attar filled with clear water, quietly washing his hands. He didn’t seem to notice Joseph but continued his ablutions. Joseph studied him, and the cloaked man warily for a moment before glancing around for his bearings. The cavern he stood in appeared to be about fifty feet across, from his reckoning. Stalactites studded the rock ceiling overhead, pointing down like the teeth of some huge beast. At the far end of the space--opposite the wooden door--stood an open, dark archway, leading into some other room. Light, heat and noise emanated through the archway; in the swirl of muted sounds Joseph detected clinking of hammers, metal, steam and crackling fires... the sound of industry. Under the heavy odor of death lay more familiar things: wisps of smoke and the sharp, mineral scent of metal smelting.
    As he stood motionless and waiting, other sounds reached his ears. Between the bustle of