“Find a kitchen rag,” the captain said. “Use it to bind the wound.”
When that was done, they escorted Argus past the debtors, some of whom had just begun to find their courage now that the danger was gone.
“Coward!” a woman screamed.
“Murderer!” called another.
An old man spat onto his robe. “You'll get your justice in the end. Lord Syrio always gets his due.”
Argus bit his lip. He could hardly restrain himself from smacking the old sap across the jaw, broken knuckles be damned. Justice? he thought. For killing the man who killed my mother and turned my sister into a slave and me into an exile? I'll tell you about justice…
“Make way!” said the captain.
They marched him out of the kitchen to the sound of growing applause. Men and women both cheered as the Olive Cloaks escorted him out into the corridor, around a corner, and down another stairway, this one even narrower than the last.
They didn't stop until the torches were gone and he was shoved into a cell.
On his knees, groaning, Argus turned back.
He found nothing there but metal bars, still clanging.
He caught his breath and waited. Shut his eyes, opened them again, and noticed little difference.
Then came another sound. It was faint, but unmistakable.
The Eldwhisper.
Once the chiming stopped, First Artificer Shanaz's drunken slurring piped through the dungeon, admitting her claim to the Comet Tail Isles was illegitimate. Argus knew many were hearing the magical relic for the first time, scattered throughout the kingdoms.
The message repeated twice more, then fizzled out. All that remained were the shocked murmurs of the other prisoners.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At first he wondered about Nasira and the others, but soon his thoughts deteriorated to his cramped legs and wondering when he'd get his next meal.
Days and nights became one. With only faint torchlight to guide him, Argus couldn't tell them apart. Not that it really mattered.
Each second brought him that much closer to his execution. There might be a trial, but with so many witnesses, it would just be a formality before they dragged him to the gallows.
When the jailer, a gaunt, sickly fellow brought more cold porridge, Argus glared at the man and smashed the bowl against the cell wall.
The jailer smiled, the boils on his face glistening. He disappeared down the corridor, then came back with some of his friends. Argus listened to their boots slap across the dank stone.
One of them unlocked the cell, and the others poured in wielding cudgels. They gave Argus a mighty beating, hitting him and kicking him once he fell down. Finally, when he was on the verge of passing out from the pain, the sickly jailer said, “That's enough, lads. Don't want to kill him before the hangman gets his due.”
“It can't happen soon enough,” said one of his friends, trying to catch his breath. “Damned fool ruined everything. Now every nation is pointing the finger at the other trying to figure out who put him up to it.”
The sickly man hacked up a wet cough. “He don't look like a trained killer. That's for certain.”
“The hangman don't mind,” said the third man. “Did you spy the size of the gallows they're building? I bet Lord Syrio wants to make an example outta him. Show all the other criminals what happens when they foul up.”
The sickly man shrugged. “That don't matter much to me. All I know is it'll be a damn good show.”
The others voiced their agreement. They backed out of the cell and locked it before disappearing down the corridor. One of them whistled while they walked away, a sad tune Argus had heard long ago. It grew fainter and fainter until he heard it no more.
He tried to move. Winced. He lay on his back with his hair dipped in a small puddle. His entire torso felt like one giant bruise. The thought of sitting up was unimaginable, so he did his best to remain still.
“Hey!” he called. “Why don't you bastards come back here and finish the job?”
No one replied.
Gods…
He couldn't even move, much less think of an escape plan. The gallows would be ready soon. Besides, he'd already checked every crevice of his cell. Those metal bars were strong.
A low grunt interrupted his thoughts.
It came from somewhere across the corridor. He heard a large body shifting, then start to pace across the stone.
“Argus? The lost son of Leith? Is that you?”
He crawled over to the bars and peeked out. He couldn't see much in the dim torchlight, but he made out a hulking figure in the cell across from him. That man had his back turned every time Argus looked before; this time he found a giant pair of blue eyes.
“Who's asking?”
“An old friend.”
The giant looked right at him. He had a thick brown beard that covered most of his face like a winter cloak. His beard blended seamlessly with his long brown hair, which fell over his shoulders.
The man was shirtless. He wore what he was most comfortable wearing—what Argus had seen him wear countless times—a thick sheet of muscle.
“Brenn?”
The man took a step back from the bars and did his sarcastic impression of a bow. “It's been a long time, brother. Sorry we have to meet in these… circumstances.”
For a moment all of Argus's pain was bearable. He laughed and laughed, ignoring the sharp sensations in his ribs.
Brenndall the Bold wasn't one for laughing (the same went for most Nalavacians), yet he managed a gap-toothed grin. “Is it true?” he asked.
“Is what true?”
“That they're going to string you up for killing some Duke?”
“He was a king, Brenn. A king. At least give me credit when I'm due.”
“Bah! Since when do you care about titles?”
“I don't. But I cared about that one.” Argus leaned against the bars. “I had my reasons.”
Brenn nodded. “I'm sure. I know pouncing on the defenseless leaves a bad taste in your mouth.” Like all the others who'd served in the Legion of the Wind, he wasn't one for asking prying questions. They put the past behind them on the battlefield.
“Belen wasn't supposed to be there,” Argus said. “Leith is a pacifist kingdom; I was born there, I should know. Why go to a feast when they haven't declared sides for centuries?”
“Who the blazes knows? Hey—at least he's dead. Took him an entire night to do it, according to the guards who gossip like stable girls. He got better for a while. You almost didn't get him.”
Argus cocked his head. He could have sworn he'd left King Belen dead on the dais. The fact that he'd endured hours of agony made it even sweeter. “What brings you to this lovely place?”
Brenn raised a fist and smashed the wall. He smiled while he did it, relishing the pain, showering himself in a layer of dust.
“A bard might call it fate or poor luck. But it was a club to my skull that did it. One moment I was reaving with my company down in Garvahn. Ambushing a merchant's caravan who'd managed to piss off the wrong people. So we swoop down and surround them at dawn. Easy enough. Except when I go for the merchant in back the driver leans over and cracks me on the head. When I woke up, I was in shackles with hordes of soldiers all around. I suppose we were the ones walking into an ambush.”
“You were captured?”
Brenn lowered his head. “To my lasting shame. You know I'd rather die than become another man's chattel. Yet here we are.”
“Why'd they take you all the way to Azmar?”
“Because the man with all the dragons is the man who gets what he wants. As soon as Syrio heard that Brenndall the Bold had been captured, he bought me off the merchant.”
Argus slumped into the corner of his cell, weak from the beating. “I don't understand. Seems like a lot of trouble just to take on another man's prisoner.”
“Not just any prisoner. Brenndall the Bold. You see, his lordship Syrio collects the worst of t
he worst down here. Like a menagerie of exotic pets.” He spat on the floor. “For a couple of dragons anyone can take a tour and see us themselves.”
“You're shitting me,” Argus said.
“I'm not. You should have seen it before you got down here. Weak men and women and children traipsing down here, smiling, laughing, in and out, in and out. I wanted to rip out their throats. The guards'll beat you if you don't act like the perfect show pony, though.”
Argus covered his face with his hands. If Brenn, rumored to be the strongest man in all the kingdoms, couldn't escape this dungeon, how would he?
“It's sick,” Brenn continued. “Be glad you killed that man, Argus. An execution is the only way Syrio can save face. Otherwise he might have kept you down here too.”
“What happened to your company? The Bonebreakers?”
Brenn spat again. “Bugger them. I knew they were scoundrels. But not a single one of them came to get me out.”
“They're probably too busy arguing about who gets to be commander next.”
“Let 'em. When I get out of here, I'll hunt them day and night. Say what you want about the Legion of the Wind, but they never would have left their leader like that. Can you imagine them abandoning Old Man River Stones?”
Argus said nothing. He could list quite a few mercenary brothers whom he would have let wither in a dungeon without a second thought. Not Brenn or Siggi or Harun, but many others. Commander Gaspar, who'd earned the nickname due to his habit of stuffing his stockings with river rocks to toughen his feet, was dead and gone, though. And so was the Legion of the Wind.
“Is this how it ends?” he asked. “With you a show pony and me in a hangman's noose?”
“No,” said Brenn. “I think not.” With that, he grabbed one of the cell bars with both hands and began to pull.
Argus heard a faint, low-pitched groan.
He squinted into the dim light.
He watched that bar closely—and swore he saw it move.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brenn stopped pulling. With a grunt, he pushed the bar back into place.
Argus gaped at him. “Did you just—”
“Shh.” The Nalavacian put a finger to his lips. He made a wide circle with his other arm to remind his mercenary brother about the other prisoners.
Argus nodded. During his travels he'd encountered an endless slew of renegades and outlaws. Some were more honorable than others. But if they were in here—in Lord Syrio's prized collection of infamy—they'd bleat like lambs to foil an escape plot, if it meant better treatment or a shorter sentence.
“What took you so long?” Argus asked.
“I've been watching. Waiting. Building my body after the journey. Figuring out how things work down here.”
Argus shuddered. Brenn was a friend. Sometimes he had to remind himself of that. Last time he'd seen the man he was whirling an ax through a line of archers, screaming and shirtless, without a single piece of armor unless you counted the severed heads he'd braided together by the hair and draped over his shoulders.
Those jailers were in for quite a surprise.
“I would have done it sooner,” said Brenn, “but I have to do it right. I only get one chance.”
Argus nodded. Or you end up on the gallows beside me.
The Nalavacian peered through the bars, eying the corridor up and down. He stroked his beard and said, “Now that you mention it, I've grown impatient.”
Argus grinned. With his arms crossed in the shape of an X, he raised his fists. The salute of the Legion of the Wind.
Brenn returned the salute and said, “Soon.”
Argus whiled away the next few hours pacing his cell. His limbs were stiff, his body battered, but he had to stay limber. His sword hand was still throbbing. Useless. It had swollen up to triple its normal size after he reset the finger bones the Olive Cloak had broken.
The single bright spot: his calf was healing nicely. They'd sent a mender down to scrub the wound and apply a poultice. Every step was agony, but at least he could take steps now instead of crawling like a cripple.
Another shift of jailers came down, this trio stern and quiet, and served more porridge. This time Argus ate with abandon. He listened as the other prisoners were handed their food, and heard nothing suspicious. All the while he watched the Nalavacian, who regarded his empty bowl of porridge with a smile.
“I'd kill for a roast chicken,” Brenn said, patting his belly. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Soon.”
After the jailers took the porridge away, Argus stretched his limbs and watched. He was beyond exhausted. But sleep was a fantasy. He had to be ready.
What's Brenn waiting for?
The guards paced the corridor a few times, jangling keys and lighting fresh torches. The trio of Rivannans spoke to each other in their own tongue, which was meaningless to Argus.
Finally, when his feet were asleep and his face sore from pressing against the bars, the guards climbed the stairs at the end of the corridor and disappeared.
He looked at Brenn and cocked his head.
Brenn just held up a finger.
They waited.
Most of the prisoners slept; their snores echoed throughout the dungeon.
Argus shut his eyes as a wave of exhaustion washed over him. A part of him wondered if Brenn was waiting until the last possible moment before the execution just to make him sweat. Nalavacians were known for their… unusual sense of humor.
He must have fallen asleep on his feet because footsteps woke him some time later. They echoed down the stairs.
Argus looked at Brenn, who nodded.
Heart racing, he watched the jailers come. These were the same men who'd beaten him earlier. They carried cudgels and wore swords strapped across their backs. They rattled the bars of every cell as they passed, laughing.
They didn't stride as much as stumble, and twice Argus saw the man in front—the pock-faced man he planned to kill first—clutch his friend's shoulder.
In the forest of Brenn's beard appeared a thin smile.
Closer they came, closer. Slurring their words. Taunting prisoners and speaking too loud.
Then, when Argus could smell the cheap wine sullying their clothes, Brenn's cell bars began to move.
The men didn't hear the metal groaning above their drunken revelry. By the time the pock-faced man saw what was happening, two bars had yielded to Brenn's efforts.
“Hey!” he shouted, fumbling for his cudgel. “What in the blazes is that?”
The two others might have heard, but they were laughing too hard to reply. They kept laughing, doubled over, and didn't stop until the pock-faced man whacked them on the shoulders.
“Look, you dolts! The bars!”
They studied the maw leading into Brenn's cell. He was gone, slipped away in a corner beyond the torchlight.
Argus smiled.
Suddenly the jailers were as sober as the Sculptor zealots who'd preached to him throughout Calladon.
“Think he… escaped?” asked the man in the rear.
“I-I don't know about that, Gerold,” said the man huddled in the middle, trembling. “How does one just lose a Nalavacian? And not just any Nalavacian—Brenndall the Bold, at that.”
The pock-faced man didn't answer. He dropped his cudgel and reached for one of the torches hanging between the cells. He pulled his sword clumsily from its scabbard, drawing laughter from some of the prisoners.
“Shut up!” he roared. “Lord Syrio said I have to keep you alive, but no one forbade me from slicing out your tongues!”
The laughter only grew louder. Then the prisoners began to taunt them.
“You hold that blade like a blind crone!”
“Careful, Pip. Wouldn't wanna soil your smallclothes!”
“Brenndall will give 'em what's comin' to 'em. Go on, Brenn!”
The jailers huddled together in the corridor. Their swords were drawn, but one glance told Argus they hardly used them. Their eyes fluttered about
the dungeon, glossy and wide.
“What's the matter, Hugh?” one of the prisoners asked. “Did you lose your highness's favorite pet?”
“Silence!” the pock-faced man said. “There'll be hell to pay for this.” He puffed up his chest and turned to the jailers behind him. “Let's go, lads. Only one way to get to the bottom of this.”
“Y-y-you first,” Gerold said. Clearly he hadn't had enough liquid courage.
“I don't think so,” said Pip, grabbing his arm. “If we go, we all go together.”
They shuffled forward with torches and swords, slower with each step. Meaty hands pounded the cell bars all around them, and a few grinning faces flashed in the torchlight, filling the dungeon with hoots and whistles.
“That's enough,” said pock-faced Hugh. “I said…” His words trailed off when they reached the edge of the cell. He stopped, pulled back his shoulders, and lunged into the opening.
Then came a sick, slapping sound.
A sword clattering onto stone.
Argus winced. The two surviving jailers blocked his view of the gore; but he knew without a doubt that Brenn had shattered Hugh's bones into powder.
Probably just picked him up and slammed him right into the wall.
A moment later there was a scraping sound, and a shadow loomed all the way across the corridor into Argus's cell. Brenn stood as high as the low ceiling allowed. He was angry.
He was holding the dead man's sword.
“Now, now,” he said, “Don't be scared, lads. I'm just his lordship's favorite show pony. Come see what happens when you give me a pet.” His twisted grin was the stuff of nightmares.
The jailers trembled there. The only sounds they made were senseless gurgles. They looked at each other, dropped their torches, and ran.
Brenn burst out of the cell and sprinted after them.
The jailers screamed, calling for Olive Cloaks, calling for mercy, calling for gods to save them. They'd have none of those things. Not with the dungeon lying this deep in the bowels of Syrio's palace. Not with Brenn after them.
“Don't turn your back on me!” he yelled, his voice reverberating all around. The prisoners cheered. The jailers kept running. Brenn let out a sigh of disgust as he plunged the sword through Pip's back.
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