Sark Ore - Tunnel Rat - 8

The left side of her face was a mass of scar tissue. Jagged ridges stood proud where Rix had sawed through her cheek. Time had robbed her hair of its blue tint, matching its colour to the cool silver of her irises. Where thick clumps of scar tissue did not lighten the tone, her skin was the bitter yellow of sulphur ore. She applied a green pigment to her lips, the makeup smeared across the jagged remains on the ravaged side of her face.

Mouth agape, Sark stared at the dwarf woman. Confusion knotted his heavy brow. Letting the chains take his weight, he struggled for words. Unable to find any, he licked his dry lips.

"I thought you'd be dead," he managed.

The dwarf woman shrugged. She threw a glance over her shoulder. Muscles stiffened in her back and shoulders, pulling the oversized robe tighter around her frame. Turning back, she pressed a finger to her uneven lips.

"Can you help me down?"

Silver eyes narrowed. She shook her head, dismay rather than a negative.

"Yes," she hissed, her voice a whisper.

"But keep quiet, will you?"

Sark relaxed his weight into the chains. Despite the situation, he allowed a smile to form on his mouth.

"After twenty years, I think I've grown tired of slavery. I think I preferred it when no one dared tell me what to do."

Silver eyes turned away from the assortment of torturous implements. He saw understanding in them, despite the hard line in her mouth.

"That must be nice," she said, rock-steady hand reaching for a needle-nosed bodkin and a small barbed hook.

"Cut me loose and you can find out."

She laughed through closed lips. Tools in hand, she approached Sark. Her tools clicked and tapped inside a lock binding his foot to the frame.

"The mighty Sark Ore," she chuckled, head bowed to her work.

"Scourge of Dunnholme. Puppet master lurking in the shadows." Her shoulders vibrated with mirth as she worked.

Brass tumblers fell into place. The lock snapped open, dragging a hefty length of chain to the ground. Sark froze at the sound, held his breath whilst his companion moved to attend his other foot. When the sound of booted feet failed to filter through the room's single entry, he aloowed himself to relax.

"What's so funny?"

"I don't understand your offer to help me now," she said, improvised picks clicking away inside the lock's barrels.

Her hands stopped. Only the sound of their breathing and the gentle grind of metal holding Sark's weight penetrated the room. He looked down into her eyes, saw tear-stroked confusion in her eyes. He swallowed, dragged his tongue across his lower lip.

"We're all raised in the orphanages," he said, unsure why the truth was falling so easily from his mouth.

"Our lot in life is determined by our first purchaser. A lone child is just another victim, be it of gangs or the masters. True friendship is rare in Dunnholme, but we all form alliances in the homes. When we are bought, those bonds vanish like spores on a breeze. I see no justification in the mistreatment of a slave just because they lost the draw when it came to their owner."

Confusion in her eyes twisted into something harder. Her ruined mouth curved into a vicious sneer. Picks scraped metal, etching faint lines in the lock as she dropped her hands to her sides.

"But you don't disagree with slavery, do you."

Sark's brow quirked at her accusation.

"It's necessary for Dunnholme's survival. The beatings and murders are not."

The female's eyes sprang wide before narrowing into deadly slits. Shoulders squared, scars twisted by the rage in her face, she jabbed a finger at Sark's chest.

"What of the souls you've bought over the decades? Hundreds of names flooded the orphanage ledgers, yet none were seen again. Did you sacrifice them to the demon gods for gold? Or maybe you murdered them in some twisted game of desire."

Sark hung for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitched, curled into a smile that exploded into a braying laugh. White foam flew from his lips, spattered the red mass of his beard. Gulping breath to control himself, he fixed his watering eyes on the angry little woman.

"I'm a killer," he said, snorting mucus.

"I've murdered, stolen, blackmailed and gained rediculous wealth because of it."

The last traces of mirth slipped from his frame. His face stern, he matched the female's stare, held it with fierce sincerity.

"Our people are not confined to this city. Our kin walk Topside, build families, forge friendships with other beings unknown in the darkness. They call the dwarfs of Dunnholme 'Petty Dwarfs'. They see us as twisted, ugly creatures of vice. They're right, of course. A half century in these tunnels will corrupt any child beyond repair. So I buy up the young and my contacts take them to live beneath the sky."

"Enough!"

Sark had not noticed when the woman had started to cry. Thick streams of silver trailed from red-rimmed eyes, cutting down the uneven planes of her cheeks.

"I am not one of your puppets and will not dance to your lies," she spat, hurling her tools to the ground.

She paused. Nimble fingers twisted together, her head dropped to her chest. Narrow shoulders rose and fell with a pained sigh. Eyes still fixed on the tavertine flooring, she crouched down and swept up the tools of torture.

"I owe you my life," she said, still avoiding his gaze.

"So it is my duty to set you free. After that..."

"After that," Sark cut in, his voice a neutral tone.

"I leave for the surface. I could use some company on the journey."

He paused, shifted in his chains, searching for an angle that would allow his gaze to meet hers.

"And a chance to prove I am not the monster you think."

The dwarf woman bent to her task. Nimble fingers worked tumblers into alignment. She dragged out a chest, climbed upon it to reach his manacled wrists. As the last lock snapped open, Sark dropped to the floor, massaging blood and life back into his hands.

"What do you say?"

She pulled her cowl over her head. An unfamiliar ripple passed through Sark's stomach.

"My name is Mara," she said, touching his shoulder in the traditional form of greeting.

"If I discover you've lied..."

"You'll cut my throat as I sleep?"

"No," she said, eyes firm.

"I'll hate you forever."

Sark snorted, shaking his head as he reached for her shoulder.

"That would be a terrible thing, Mara, but I know there will be no cause for it."

Moving quickly, he snatched a leather pouch from the herb cabinet and stuffed it with torture implenets. Next, he removed a short scourge from above a mirror. He made a couple of test swipes. He shook his head in disappointment.

"Shall we leave? I hear foot steps approaching."