Read Online The Dark Flight Down by Marcus Sedgwick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marcus Sedgwick
Tags: Fiction, Family & Relationships, Family, Horror, Juvenile Fiction, Magic, Fantasy & Magic, Horror & Ghost Stories, Magicians, Parents, Parenting, Royalty, Kings; queens; rulers; etc., Identity, Fatherhood, Fathers, Horror stories
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on the highest side was the door through which Maxim had left.
Boy made for the door quickly, and tried the handle. It was locked, of course, and there was no keyhole on the inside.
Boy’s heart began to pound, and he shook the handle violently. It was no use. He sat down on the floor with his back to the door, trying to decide what to do.
He sat still, thinking about how he might escape at first, but as he failed to find any solution other thoughts came to mind. He thought of Willow, of where she was and what she was doing. He wondered what she might be thinking after he had not turned up by the fountain.
His brooding was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. He got up and as quickly as he could skipped back to his cell, locking the door behind him. If he was going to be stuck, then he reasoned it was a good idea not to let his captors know he could pick locks, and that he could at least get out of the inner cell. Just as Boy hid the lockpick in his pocket once more, the far door banged open.
Boy was surprised and also somewhat relieved to see that it was not Maxim who entered the room, but a small, crooked man, bald, in shabby clothes. That at least meant that one other person knew where Boy was, that his life was not solely dependent on Maxim’s interests in him.
The man carried a tray on which were two bowls. He came over to Boy’s cell, and put the tray on the floor. Only now could Boy see that the man was blind. His eyes were open but stared blankly, focusing on nothing. Boy wondered how he was able to move across the chamber to the one cell where Boy was without hesitating. It must mean he had done it many, many times before.
The blind jailer picked one of the bowls up and slid it between the bars.
“There you go,” he said. “Make it last.”
Boy looked in the wooden bowl and saw a slop of gray sludge. There was no spoon.
The man got to his feet and picked up the tray once more, taking the other bowl with it.
“Wait!” Boy cried. “Don’t go! Tell me what’s going on! What are they going to do with me?”
The man didn’t stop.
“I’ve no idea,” he said as he went. “I just bring the food.”
“Wait! Please come back!” Boy called, but the jailer was already away on the far side of the chamber, and paid Boy no more attention.
He got up, and paced around the cell, trying not to think about anything other than how to get out of the foul hole in which he found himself.
After a while he stopped, having failed to come up with anything, though it occurred to him that there was something significant he had learnt.
He had learnt that there was someone in one of the other cells—the second bowl of food must have been for another prisoner.
Boy looked at his own food.
He determined to eat it, then go to find out who else was locked up in the dungeon, but he had taken no more than a mouthful before the oil lamp began to flicker and die.
Very soon it gave up the ghost entirely, and Boy finished his food in darkness. Unable to see, he dared not venture out, and lay down.
Some time later, he heard, or at least thought he heard, a sound. The sound of someone singing. It was so faint that he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it, and very soon he could hear nothing more at all, though he strained to do so.
Since then he had heard nothing else, nor seen anything else. With no stimulus to his senses, all that lay before his eyes was a ghost image—the image of a stone staircase dropping down to the dark unknown.
7
For two days Willow had hung around near the palace walls, trying to find some way into the vast complex of buildings. Despite its size, the palace had relatively few entrances, to make its defense easier. In fact the palace had never been attacked by any invading force or local uprising. Long before, when the power of the empire still existed, its strength had been so great that no army would have ever dared to invade. These days, the empire was long gone, the palace was a
Boy made for the door quickly, and tried the handle. It was locked, of course, and there was no keyhole on the inside.
Boy’s heart began to pound, and he shook the handle violently. It was no use. He sat down on the floor with his back to the door, trying to decide what to do.
He sat still, thinking about how he might escape at first, but as he failed to find any solution other thoughts came to mind. He thought of Willow, of where she was and what she was doing. He wondered what she might be thinking after he had not turned up by the fountain.
His brooding was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. He got up and as quickly as he could skipped back to his cell, locking the door behind him. If he was going to be stuck, then he reasoned it was a good idea not to let his captors know he could pick locks, and that he could at least get out of the inner cell. Just as Boy hid the lockpick in his pocket once more, the far door banged open.
Boy was surprised and also somewhat relieved to see that it was not Maxim who entered the room, but a small, crooked man, bald, in shabby clothes. That at least meant that one other person knew where Boy was, that his life was not solely dependent on Maxim’s interests in him.
The man carried a tray on which were two bowls. He came over to Boy’s cell, and put the tray on the floor. Only now could Boy see that the man was blind. His eyes were open but stared blankly, focusing on nothing. Boy wondered how he was able to move across the chamber to the one cell where Boy was without hesitating. It must mean he had done it many, many times before.
The blind jailer picked one of the bowls up and slid it between the bars.
“There you go,” he said. “Make it last.”
Boy looked in the wooden bowl and saw a slop of gray sludge. There was no spoon.
The man got to his feet and picked up the tray once more, taking the other bowl with it.
“Wait!” Boy cried. “Don’t go! Tell me what’s going on! What are they going to do with me?”
The man didn’t stop.
“I’ve no idea,” he said as he went. “I just bring the food.”
“Wait! Please come back!” Boy called, but the jailer was already away on the far side of the chamber, and paid Boy no more attention.
He got up, and paced around the cell, trying not to think about anything other than how to get out of the foul hole in which he found himself.
After a while he stopped, having failed to come up with anything, though it occurred to him that there was something significant he had learnt.
He had learnt that there was someone in one of the other cells—the second bowl of food must have been for another prisoner.
Boy looked at his own food.
He determined to eat it, then go to find out who else was locked up in the dungeon, but he had taken no more than a mouthful before the oil lamp began to flicker and die.
Very soon it gave up the ghost entirely, and Boy finished his food in darkness. Unable to see, he dared not venture out, and lay down.
Some time later, he heard, or at least thought he heard, a sound. The sound of someone singing. It was so faint that he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it, and very soon he could hear nothing more at all, though he strained to do so.
Since then he had heard nothing else, nor seen anything else. With no stimulus to his senses, all that lay before his eyes was a ghost image—the image of a stone staircase dropping down to the dark unknown.
7
For two days Willow had hung around near the palace walls, trying to find some way into the vast complex of buildings. Despite its size, the palace had relatively few entrances, to make its defense easier. In fact the palace had never been attacked by any invading force or local uprising. Long before, when the power of the empire still existed, its strength had been so great that no army would have ever dared to invade. These days, the empire was long gone, the palace was a
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