Chapter 22
Szárcza woke him before the bell. He stood where the light cut thin along the floor, waiting. Fitzwilliam dressed under that watch. The boots went on. The shirt closed. He reached towards his coat. Szárcza shook his head. He held up his fists, bare, turned them slightly as a pugilist would.
“Der Graben.”
He did not offer more. He waited until Fitzwilliam stood ready. Only then did he move.
The building sat offset from the stables, close enough to smell horse and oil, far enough to deny comfort.
Inside, the floor fell away—dug down a man’s height, four stalls wide.
Hard-packed earth held the centre. A ladder rose from one corner.
Along three sides, the perimeter climbed to a narrow walk.
Men filled it. Dozens. They leaned and shifted and watched.
Short and tall. Broad and spare. Skin dark and pale. Old scars beside new ones.
Fitzwilliam descended. The ladder thudded once behind him. The space closed.
The first man rushed without measure. Fitzwilliam planted and drove a straight punch through the centre of him. Feet lifted. The body struck the dirt hard enough to shake the floor.
The second descended at once and took the space left open. He came slow. Wary. Fitzwilliam stepped in late, corrected, and struck the throat. Hands flew up too late. The man dropped to his knees, gagging, head bowed as breath failed him.
The third pushed past the fallen body and crowded close, chest forward, weight committed. Fitzwilliam shifted and took the knee. The joint failed. The man pitched forward and stayed down, clutching at what would not answer.
The fourth waited for stillness. He edged in, guard tight. Fitzwilliam stepped inside and turned the head with his palm. The body went slack and fell where it stood.
The ladder creaked. Another man descended.
It continued. One body replaced another. Down. Away. Down. Away. His hands moved before the eyes finished registering shape. Distance closed. Balance taken. Breath stolen. The sequence repeated until faces ceased to differ. Weight registered. Nothing else.
The blow came from behind—through the space he had stopped checking.
It landed across the shoulder and spine together. Air burst from him. His foot slid. The ground tilted. Sound returned at once—shouts, boots, the scrape of bodies moving too close.
Two men stood now.
The one ahead feinted high. Fitzwilliam read it late. The second struck low. A boot clipped his calf. His leg buckled half an inch, then corrected.
He turned on instinct and drove forward, took the nearer body and rammed it into the other. Bone met bone. Breath burst loose. They tangled and went down together. Fitzwilliam did not follow them. He rose at once.
A fist crashed into the side of his head. The world slid sideways. The line of bodies above the pit lurched out of alignment. The ladder doubled, then drifted.
Another blow came from behind. Not clean. Desperate. Knuckles scraped his shoulder. He spun and caught a wrist, twisted until the joint failed. The man screamed. Fitzwilliam shoved him away and stepped clear.
They circled now. Two shapes. One advancing. One cutting angle. Their edges smeared when they moved. Fitzwilliam backed toward the ladder without knowing he did it. His heel struck wood. He shifted off it and lunged.
A fist caught his ribs. Breath expelled involuntarily. He answered without thought—head driven forward, teeth striking cheek. The man staggered. Fitzwilliam followed and took the knee again. The leg folded. The body dropped.
The other came in hard. Too close. Fitzwilliam felt breath hot against his ear. An arm locked his chest. He drove back, slammed the man into the packed wall, once, twice, until the grip failed. He turned and struck. The body slid down and stayed.
Noise filled the pit now. The rhythm had changed. Men leant forward. Keller did not move.
The ladder creaked. Two more descended.
He felled them with a heel to the knee and a rigid strike to the throat.
Weight struck his back mid-turn. Knees drove into his hips. An arm slid across his throat and locked. Pressure crushed in. Breath vanished at once.
He reached back on reflex and caught nothing useful. The grip tightened. His feet scraped for purchase and found none. The ground tilted. The tilt did not correct. He staggered forward two steps and dropped to one knee. Pressure increased. Sound narrowed to pulse and strain.
He drove an elbow back. It struck meat. The arm did not loosen. Fingers clawed for the wrist and slipped. His chest burned. The edge of the pit crept inward.
He surged to his feet and ran blind for the wall. Packed earth met his shoulder. He slammed back again. Nothing broke. The choke held. Light fractured. Stars burst and faded.
His hand went up, not to pull, but to wedge. Two fingers forced space where space should not exist. He turned his chin hard into the crook and bit down on breath as it returned in scraps. He stamped back, heel finding a foot. Bone answered. The grip faltered but did not fail.
He dropped suddenly and rolled. The man flew over him and struck the dirt. Fitzwilliam was on him before the body finished landing.
A hand gripped his throat. He pressed his thumb into the eye. The hand did not relent. He pressed harder. The hand tightened. Fingers dug in. The pit swam; the edges narrowed.
He put his weight behind his thumb and pressed through.
* * *
Fitzwilliam opened his eyes to a room that had lost its edge.
Air lay heavy upon his tongue. Linen clung where it ought not.
The scent of his own skin rose, sharp and old, mingled with cooled wax and the faint sourness of a fire long dead.
Light pressed thin through the curtains and failed to reach the bed.
This is not morning, he thought. His mouth held the taste of hours.
A light exhale—almost a snore—sounded to his right.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes found the chair without haste. Albrecht sat there, head tipped, hands folded, a blanket pooled over his legs. The sight settled him. He turned to his side. The bed creaked.
Albrecht opened his eyes. “You are awake.”
“How long?”
“Five days.”
Fitzwilliam narrowed his eyes. “You kept me asleep.”
“They—we—did.”
“With draughts.”
“At first. Then less,” Albrecht said.
“Necessary?”
Albrecht nodded once. “Entirely.”
“Any fractures.”
“None. A strong concussion, though.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. Rolled back. Looked at the ceiling.
Closed his eyes.
* * *
He opened his eyes. The room corrected itself before he moved.
Fitzwilliam lay still and waited until the ceiling held fast. When it did, he drew a breath and let it go. His shoulder did not answer the way it should when he shifted it. The delay registered. He adjusted once and the range returned enough to proceed.
Albrecht sat in a chair, hands folded.
Fitzwilliam brought his feet to the floor in one motion and held there. The boards steadied. The line of the wall did not bend. He stood. Stared at the line where the curtain failed to meet the wall.
A chair scraped back an inch. “Not yet,” Albrecht said.
Fitzwilliam did not look at him. He straightened fully and waited for the room to object. It did not. He took one step. Then another. Each landed where intended.
“How many,” he said.
Albrecht’s mouth opened, then closed.
“Answer the question.”
“Twelve confirmed. Possibly more.”
“Possibly?”
“Yes.”
Fitzwilliam nodded once. He reached for the water without being offered it, drank, and set the cup back nearly where it had stood. His hand corrected at the last inch. The cup did not sound.
“Do you remember leaving the pit?” Albrecht asked.
Fitzwilliam closed his eyes. He did not search. The answer stood or it did not.
“No.”
Albrecht said nothing.
Fitzwilliam opened his eyes. “Any dead?”
Albrecht lowered his eyes.
Fitzwilliam drew a deep breath. “Did Keller remain.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Did he intervene.”
“No.”
Another pause. Shorter.
“When did I stop?”
Albrecht turned away. “Szárcza pulled you off.”
“Why?”
Albrecht did not answer at once. Then, quietly, “You were choking a corpse.”