by CJ Whrite
“Thou shall not touch one lock on thy maiden’s fair head, demon! Molest this – the sword of holy fire!”
Jeklor chuckled. His future looked bright.
*
Torchlight flared into the room as the cell door opened and Jeklor covered his eyes against the glare. After two months in perpetual gloom, they were sensitive to light.
He peeked through his fingers at the two guards who entered the room. They dragged a figure between them. Tears streamed from Jeklor’s eyes, but if he ever wanted to escape, he should first get used to the light again. He forced himself to look at the torches hanging in the hallway.
The guards dropped the man on the cell floor. They threw a blanket next to him. The man did not make a sound.
“Why bother locking up an already dead man?” said Jeklor, rapidly blinking his eyes.
“He’d wish he was dead. He was given a sleeping Potion.”
“How thoughtful,” commented Jeklor. “So he’s the molesting Demon?”
“You mean the one who killed and raped the girl? It’s him right.”
Jeklor threw his head back and laughed. “I see the City Watch is incompetent as always!”
“What do you mean?” asked the guard, hesitating inside the doorway.
“Did you not see the state of his face? Who was he suppose to rape, a bear?”
“You won’t be clever for much longer,” said the guard and slammed the door shut.
Jeklor stood up and walked over to his new cellmate, his blanket in one hand. He kneeled by the prisoner’s head, inspecting his face. He whistled softly.
“So, after you raped the behemoth woman who gave you a heroic thrashing, you somehow made it to a Healer, got stitched up and then somehow got caught?”
He laid his own blanket over the sleeping man, then took the fresh blanket and returned to his corner. “Don’t think badly of me, old horse. But you won’t even notice what I’ve done.”
*
Another meal came and went, but still his new cellmate slept. During the night he had thrashed around, growling in a voice that made the fine hairs on Jeklor’s neck stood upright.
Jeklor sat with his back propped against the cell wall, watching the sleeping man. The man was lying on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. What in heavens name happened to you, wondered Jeklor.
The sleeping man suddenly sat upright, his dark hair falling over his face. He looked around and then fixed a dark gaze on Jeklor. “Where am I?” he said and stood up with unsteady legs.
Jeklor stopped his mouth from blurting out a nonsensical reply. This was not the time to jest. “You are in a holding cell at the City Watch Guard House,” he said sincerely.
“A holding cell?” He stumbled toward Jeklor. “Why am I in a holding cell?”
Jeklor moved along the wall. “They say you raped and killed a girl,” he said, creating distance between them. The dark haired man stopped in his tracks, his eyes bulging in his head. “Now calm down,” said Jeklor, lifting his hands. “I saved you a meal. Let’s eat.”
“It can’t be.” He swung his head around, his hands gripping his hair. “That bastard!” He ran to the cell door and struck it with his shoulder. The heavy thud reverberated through the room.
“Where is Sirol? It was he! I will kill him!” he screamed, kicking and punching the door, the dull thuds shaking the oak in its frame.
“What the devil!” a shout came from outside and the top hatch in the door slammed open. “Stop this at once!”
The dark haired man leaned against the door, panting for breath. “It was he,” he said, gasping. “Sirol Vanderman. He killed her! WHERE IS HE?”
“Hold your tongue, scum,” said the guard and spat through the hatch. “If you want to place blame you should seek someone more believable than the great Lord Sirol.”
“No! It was he. He beat her to death! He, he...” He slammed against the door with his shoulder. “Get me out, I have to find him!”
“Oh you will get out alright.” The guard grinned, his eyes narrowed. “We have a place for scum like you – the mines to the north. You have two weeks left. Better sit quietly and enjoy your life while you can.”
“The mines! You don’t mean The Tomb?” asked Jeklor, his eyes wide.
“Fitting name don’t you think,” laughed the guard.
“You should know I have nothing to do with him,” said Jeklor, turning pale. “He just appeared here yesterday. Never saw him before.”
“Keep him calm or I’ll add you to the list,” said the guard and slammed the hatch shut.
“For the love of seven gods, stop that,” said Jeklor and sprinted to the door, grabbing the man from behind. “Please stop! You won’t achieve anything behaving like this!”
The man dropped his arms, his shoulders sagging. Jeklor carefully loosened his grip. “That’s right. Come, let us eat. No point in starving yourself.”
He led the man to the back of the cell where he had stored his share of the previous meal. He handed him a bowl with watery soup and a piece of bread. To his surprise, the man sat down, devouring the food.
“Good, good. Just like that,” said Jeklor, letting out a sigh of relief. He watched in silence as the man ate, ready to dive on top of him if he suddenly moved.
“What are you called?” the man asked, wiping the bottom of the bowl clean with the last bit of bread.
“Jeklor the handsome. Some say Jeklor the brave.”
“Well Jeklor. Tell me what you know of Sirol Vanderman.”
Jeklor shrugged. “What’s to tell? He’s handsome and rich, the ladies love him – and he’s the nephew of the Duke of Darma.” The man stiffened as Jeklor spoke. Then he relaxed and leaned back against the wall, touching the stitches on his cheek and above his eye, a frown on his face.
“Have you calmed down now? What is your name?”
“Roland.”
“It seems you have a powerful enemy, Roland.”
“It does not matter. He will die.”
Jeklor snorted. “Better give up on that, my good man. You might as well try and kill the Duke.”
“What do you know of these mines? What did you call it – The Tomb?”
“Well,’ started Jeklor, and took a seat next to Roland. “The worst of all criminals gets send to work the mines. It is in a desolate part of Calvana to the north, and once you go in, you don’t come out – hence The Tomb.”
“Has anyone ever escaped from there?”
“I just told you that you don’t come out,” Jeklor started and Roland fixed his dark eyes on him. He sighed. “Sure, sure. Don’t mind me. I’ve heard tales of prisoners escaping, but because of the mines location there is nowhere to run to – unless you count on Drifters’ Hell.” He shuddered. “And if you manage to reach that hell hole, it’s over. You are dead. The place is a wooden city build over a swamp, the outcasts of society forging their empires there. Pirates, Assassins, Politicians, Slavers – the worst kind of scum you can imagine.”
Roland leaned his head against the wall, staring intently at the stone ceiling. After a few moments he said, “Does Drifters’ Hell have access to the ocean?”
“Yes, a broad river leads up to ... What? Don’t even think of it. Believe me, that place is a death trap.”
“You said the same thing about The Tomb.” Roland stood and stretched. His muscles ached and a dull pain thudded behind his left eye. The stitches felt tight and they itched. He was glad, it was a sign that the wounds were healing.
Carla flashed in his mind and bitterness welled up from his heart .He stuck his hand inside his pocket, his fingers curling around the silver brooch. They did not even bother to search him before locking him up. To eager to protect Sirol’s name, Roland thought bitterly. He bit his lip, his mouth filling with blood. He did not notice.
“I swear I will avenge you,” he promised silently. “I swear I will destroy them and their power.”
He looked down on Jeklor who sat staring up at him. Jeklor had a mo
p of matted fair hair and a light brown beard covered his face. His eyes held a constant, mischievous gleam.
“Why are you here?” Roland asked him.
“I am sometimes called the Nimble Thief. Ladies swoon when I steal their hearts, and not gold nor virtue is safe from me. One day, while I was walking in the forest –”
“– the short version, please.”
Jeklor sighed. “I stole the wrong horse.”
Chapter 7
Altmoor’s fist struck the top of the table, making the guard jump in fright. “Why is he locked up?” he demanded, his piercing eyes boring into the hapless guard.
“I don’t know, Lord. They say he murdered a girl.”
“Preposterous!” Altmoor paced in front of the table, his fists clenched by his sides. He turned his eyes on the guard who withered under the stare. “Where did he murder this girl? What witnesses do you have?” He slammed his hands on the table and leaned forward, his face mere inches from the guard’s. “What evidence do you hold?” he said, his voice promising a coming winter storm.
The guard backed away. “It came down straight from Vanderman, Lord,” he cried. His captain could go and take a piss on his secret order for all he cared. This old man was crazy, and he meant business.
Altmoor straightened. “Vanderman? What has he got to do with this?”
“I don’t know, Lord. I’m just a lowly guard. They did not tell me!”
Altmoor’s lip curled in disgust. “Thank the gods your type was not in the war. We would have lost before we reached the battle.” He pointed his bony finger at the guard’s face. “You will take me to his cell immediately.”
“Yes, Lord.” The guard bowed gratefully and hurried to the end of the room, disappearing down a set of stairs. Altmoor lifted the hem of his robes off the floor and followed the guard down the steps. What did Vanderman have to do with it, he wondered as his sandals clapped down the stone steps. The steps led to a hallway, torches flickering inside iron-brackets lining the blackened walls. The father or the son? The father, he decided as he passed by the different cell doors. The son did not have the authority, yet. Was it to protect his son?
“Over here, Lord,” said the guard.
“Open the door.”
“Lord?”
Altmoor narrowed his eyes at the nervous man. “Open the door and let me in. You can lock it behind me. I will call you when I’m done.”
The guard hesitated. It went completely against procedure. Altmoor prodded him in the chest.
“Now,” he commanded.
“Yes, Lord,” the guard said miserably and unlocked the door. Altmoor stepped inside, the stench of the room hitting him like a physical blow. The door slammed shut behind him.
“Call me when you are done, Lord,” the guard said from behind the door. Altmoor ignored him. He closed his eyes, waiting for his sight to get used to the gloom. A hand gripped him by the shoulder.
Roland must have read the shock on Altmoor’s face as he opened his eyes, because he said self-consciously, “I’ve known better times,” scratching a scab on his cheek. The swelling of his face had gone down, but his left side was nearly black from blood coagulating underneath the skin.
“Tell me everything that happened,” said Altmoor, a vein pulsing in his neck.
Roland dreaded reliving the event, but Altmoor had helped him since his arrival in Darma, and he owed the old man the truth, so he told him starting with how he had met Carla on the Swallow. Jeklor sat in the corner, listening as the tale unfolded, feeling ill as Roland relived what had happened in the park. Jeklor spat next to him, his pulse quickening in anger.
Altmoor broke the oppressive silence that followed first. “You have been through hard times, lad,” he said, “but it is over now. I will appeal your case. I will take it before the Duke if I have to.”
“For a noble you don’t know nobles at all, do you?” said Roland, patting the old man on the shoulder. “Forgive my frankness, but having one old Educator disappearing in the night is not a difficult thing to do.”
“You think they will go that far?”
Jeklor snorted in the corner. “Unless you have more authority than Vanderman, you’re just a sack of old bones, my good man,” he said.
“You just expect me to let it go! This is not why we went to war. We are talking about someone’s life here. This is justice!”
“And justice there will be,” said Roland softly, his eyes burning into Altmoor’s. “But you will promise to leave this alone. I already have one soul to carry on my shoulders and I will not add yours to it.”
“It was not your fault, lad,” said Altmoor.
Roland shook his head. “It was my naivety that caused this. I trusted that we would be protected in the city. I sensed that there was something wrong with those three, but instead of acting, I did nothing. I could have stopped it from happening, was I prepared.”
“No man can be prepared for something like that,” Altmoor said, his voice gentle.
“Promise me that you will stay out of this.”
“I can not, Roland. This is not right.”
Roland dropped his head, his hands still resting on the old man’s shoulders. “Three years,” he said, lifting his head. “Give me three years. If I am not free then, you can do what you will.”
“You will give up three years of your life?”
“It will be a just punishment for my negligence if it comes to that, but no, I don’t plan on being a prisoner for all that time, but I need three years to prepare. Now swear it to me. Swear it!”
“I swear,” said Altmoor, the words as bitter as bile on his tongue.
“Good, now what is the news outside. Who knows of it?”
“That’s what is so peculiar. Not a soul knows of it. If the Healer who treated you did not mention it to me, I would not have known either. I have told Oldon, but apart from us two, no one in the city knows what happened.”
“Keep it like that. No one must know of it. The truth will come out when the time is right.” Roland relaxed his grip on Altmoor’s shoulders.
“That fool Oldon was ready to march down here and cut the guards down when I told him,” said Altmoor. “Grabbed his sword and almost took my arm off in the process.”
Roland smiled, and Altmoor was glad to see it. “Make sure he does not do anything foolish. And also, I need to write four letters. Can you bring me writing tools, wax and a knife?”
“I will. When do you need it?”
“Today,’ said Roland. “I need to set things in motion as soon as possible.”
*
“It seems you have it all planned out, old horse,” said Jeklor as Altmoor left the cell. “The dark hero standing against injustice, triumphing over the odds, defeating the dragon and rescuing the princess.” He scratched his head and then smelled his hand, grimacing. “I will give ten years of my life for a hot bath!”
Roland ignored his cellmate, pacing the room as he waited for Altmoor’s return. There were only a few days left until he was send to The Tomb. If Altmoor had not arrived today, things would have been far more complicated. He was grateful toward the old man.
“So how do you plan on escaping from here?” asked Jeklor, wiping his hand on his trousers.
Roland stopped his pacing. “I don’t plan to.”
“Have you lost your head? You go to the mines in a few days. This is my best chance to get out of here!”
“Your best chance?”
“Well,” he studied his nails intently. “I had thought to slip out in your wake. Sort of disappearing during the chaos.”
“Just wait it out. You can’t have long left for stealing a horse.”
“I still have a year left.”
“Just what kind of horse did you steal?”
“The more handsome looking one that fitted my image better. Unfortunately it belonged to the Captain of the Guard.”
Roland shook his head and continued his pacing. There were all sorts in this world, it seem
ed.
“No words of condolences?”
“No.”
Jeklor sighed and continued to study his nails. “Sit down already,” he told Roland. “The cell is small enough without you stepping over me.”
Roland stopped and sat down. “I was nowhere near you,” he grunted.
“But it felt like it. So how will you escape The Tomb?” he asked innocently.
“I will see when I get there, but there will be a way,” said Roland, closing his eyes. He wished for Altmoor to hurry up.
“And what will you do after?”
“You ask too many questions,” said Roland, watching Jeklor from underneath half-closed eyelids.
“Just making conversation, my good man,” he said and shrugged. “You have near spoke no word since you got here. I was interested in hearing what you have to say.”
*
Altmoor rushed from the guardhouse. He blinked his eyes a few times once he stepped into the brilliant sunlight.
“Innocently locked away in the dark to protect appearances,” he said, and cursed loudly. A passer-by looked up as he swore, but looked down again quickly once he recognised Altmoor’s robes. Altmoor shook his head. He, also, was part of the problem. Too used to command respect, to have those of common blood obeying him; it was an open sore on the city.
As a young man in the war, he had had no such illusions, fighting side by side with his blood brothers, men with no claim to noble blood. He had sat around the fire with them, sharing meals and swapping tales. But, as an old man, the only friend he had left was Oldon. Without him noticing, as the years had passed, he had moved along with the assuming vision of noble-blood grandeur. No, he did notice – he had ignored it.
He ran into the street, his robes lifted high as he took wide strides, his bony, white legs near reflecting the sun light. He stepped in front of a donkey cart, holding his hands out in front of him. The driver pulled back on the reins, cursing.
“Whoreson, what in the –” he started, and then bit his tongue as he noted the robes. “What is the problem, Lord?” he said, red-faced.