Read Online A Company of Heroes Book Three: The Princess by Ron Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ron Miller
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enemies? What if they do not even care enough to look inside the cell to see for certain? The last food delivery may very well have been the last one forever.
The water has made him ill. He suffers from severe abdominal cramps, fever and, horror of horrors, diarrhea. He has become dehydrated, but there is no longer even the stale water that had been provided, and the thought of consuming more of the greenish tricklings from the cell’s stone walls literally nauseates him. The pangs of hunger have long since passed; in any case they would have been indistinguishable from the cramps from which he is now suffering.
Another day or two go by, at least so far as the baron can tell. What a stupid way to commit suicide.
The rattling of keys is scarcely sufficient to rouse him from his stupor. Something of his poor brain remains sentient enough to ask the question: Wouldn’t it be a waste to have gone through all this for nothing? The remaining part of his brain replies , So what? Let’s eat! But that part is not as influential as it is merely argumentative and the baron finds himself rising to his knees and dragging himself alongside the door. Just in time, too, for at that moment the massive slab swings open like a vault.
“Musrum’s holy boogers!” comes a high-pitched voice, such as a man assumes when he thinks he is imitating a woman. “Ah, gee ! He must’ve been dead for days! Ahhh, man, they oughta just wall this cell off! Phoowee! ”
There is not another sound for a minute or two, obviously to allow time for a little oxygen to penetrate the chamber
“You gonna leave it open like that?” asks a second, barely audible voice. “You wanna stink up the whole palace?”
“I’m not goin’ in there ‘til some of th’ stink is gone. He’s sure not goin’ anywhere.”
“I guess not. Least not in one piece, anyway.”
“Yeah! Snk! Snk! Snk!” the first replies with what must have been a laugh.
“You’re gonna need a coupla buckets, man!”
“I ain’t in no hurry to mess ‘round with a stiff that smells like that either. Why don’t you go an’ get me some sacks?”
“Where do I get sacks?”
“How’m I s’posed to know? Use your ‘magination.”
“What’s that?”
“Try the kitchen, stupid, they’re always gettin’ sacks o’ potatoes an’ things.”
“All right. And I’ll ask if they got any magnation while I’m there. Is it any good? Sounds foreign and I’m not too partial to foreign food.”
The baron hears shuffling and scraping footsteps begin to move off.
“Better bring a more’n a couple,” calls out the first voice, still near the door.
For several minutes there are only faint, indecipherable sounds of movement. Would he not come into the cell until the other returns? The baron begins to forget his physical agony in his anxiety. He wants to make some sound to attract the warder and has to force himself to remain silent and motionless. Gradually the shuffling sounds grow closer and the baron holds his breath (for which he hardly needs any inducement). A shadow appears, lapping over the threshold. There are muffled sounds of disgust but the shadow does not recede. Instead it lengthens, an odd misshapen thing.
At last its creator appears framed in the doorway. The baron silently flattens himself against the wall. The warder, he sees, is a dwarfish, lumpy individual, whose face is not much further above the floor than the second button up from the baron’s belt buckle (when he still had one). The arms are disproportionately long, however; had they not been grasping the handle of a broom, the familiar hairy knuckles would have rested on the floor. The arms are massive and, in themselves, well developed . . . just misplaced, as though they have been transplanted from a wrestler or prizefighter. The remainder of the warder is disappointing: a shapelessly miscreated creature, just shy of being a full-fledged hunchback, but then again just shy of being fully human as well.
The water has made him ill. He suffers from severe abdominal cramps, fever and, horror of horrors, diarrhea. He has become dehydrated, but there is no longer even the stale water that had been provided, and the thought of consuming more of the greenish tricklings from the cell’s stone walls literally nauseates him. The pangs of hunger have long since passed; in any case they would have been indistinguishable from the cramps from which he is now suffering.
Another day or two go by, at least so far as the baron can tell. What a stupid way to commit suicide.
The rattling of keys is scarcely sufficient to rouse him from his stupor. Something of his poor brain remains sentient enough to ask the question: Wouldn’t it be a waste to have gone through all this for nothing? The remaining part of his brain replies , So what? Let’s eat! But that part is not as influential as it is merely argumentative and the baron finds himself rising to his knees and dragging himself alongside the door. Just in time, too, for at that moment the massive slab swings open like a vault.
“Musrum’s holy boogers!” comes a high-pitched voice, such as a man assumes when he thinks he is imitating a woman. “Ah, gee ! He must’ve been dead for days! Ahhh, man, they oughta just wall this cell off! Phoowee! ”
There is not another sound for a minute or two, obviously to allow time for a little oxygen to penetrate the chamber
“You gonna leave it open like that?” asks a second, barely audible voice. “You wanna stink up the whole palace?”
“I’m not goin’ in there ‘til some of th’ stink is gone. He’s sure not goin’ anywhere.”
“I guess not. Least not in one piece, anyway.”
“Yeah! Snk! Snk! Snk!” the first replies with what must have been a laugh.
“You’re gonna need a coupla buckets, man!”
“I ain’t in no hurry to mess ‘round with a stiff that smells like that either. Why don’t you go an’ get me some sacks?”
“Where do I get sacks?”
“How’m I s’posed to know? Use your ‘magination.”
“What’s that?”
“Try the kitchen, stupid, they’re always gettin’ sacks o’ potatoes an’ things.”
“All right. And I’ll ask if they got any magnation while I’m there. Is it any good? Sounds foreign and I’m not too partial to foreign food.”
The baron hears shuffling and scraping footsteps begin to move off.
“Better bring a more’n a couple,” calls out the first voice, still near the door.
For several minutes there are only faint, indecipherable sounds of movement. Would he not come into the cell until the other returns? The baron begins to forget his physical agony in his anxiety. He wants to make some sound to attract the warder and has to force himself to remain silent and motionless. Gradually the shuffling sounds grow closer and the baron holds his breath (for which he hardly needs any inducement). A shadow appears, lapping over the threshold. There are muffled sounds of disgust but the shadow does not recede. Instead it lengthens, an odd misshapen thing.
At last its creator appears framed in the doorway. The baron silently flattens himself against the wall. The warder, he sees, is a dwarfish, lumpy individual, whose face is not much further above the floor than the second button up from the baron’s belt buckle (when he still had one). The arms are disproportionately long, however; had they not been grasping the handle of a broom, the familiar hairy knuckles would have rested on the floor. The arms are massive and, in themselves, well developed . . . just misplaced, as though they have been transplanted from a wrestler or prizefighter. The remainder of the warder is disappointing: a shapelessly miscreated creature, just shy of being a full-fledged hunchback, but then again just shy of being fully human as well.
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