Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2)

by Seth Skorkowsky

  “He’s not as tall as I expected,” said one of the guards.

  The older one that had taken his boots grunted. “They never are.”

  Ahren didn’t listen to the guards’ prattle. A door opened, and they turned to the right and started down stone stairs. Thirty steps to the door.

  Forty-six steps later, they stopped. Keys rattled, and a lock clicked. Hinges squeaked, and Ahren was once again pushed down a narrow passage. The sudden stench of filth and soured urine invaded his senses with a moment of dizziness. Thick torches adorned the walls. Gritty dirt caked the cold stone floor under his bare feet. Shouts and bubbling sobs echoed down the hall from all sides.

  “Water,” someone croaked. “Please.”

  “Shut your mouth,” shouted one of the guards.

  They walked twenty-seven steps, turned left, and followed the passage another twenty more before turning left again. Six steps, right, four steps, and they stopped. Keys jingled, and another door groaned open.

  “Here you are,” the older guard sneered as the bag was ripped from Ahren’s head.

  A shallow, stone room faced him. A blade nicked Ahren’s back as it slipped between his bonds, slicing them free. Blood rushed into his hands, returning sensation. A hard boot kicked him into the cell.

  Staggering, he caught himself on the filthy stone floor, scraping his knees. The door slammed shut behind him. Looking back, he saw his side of the door had been plated in rusted iron with a small hatch at the floor. Ahren jumped for the door, holding his ear to the cold metal. The lock snapped shut. He put his finger where he best guessed the lock’s location. Three finger-widths from the rivet. Four finger-widths down.

  “Sleep well, Black Raven,” the guard snickered through the barred window to the hallway on the left side of the cell. He laughed, and the men walked away, leaving Ahren alone.

  Rubbing his knee, he surveyed the tiny cell by the flickering torch light from outside the window. Hundreds of carvings coated the walls of the seven by five foot room. Most were names or scriptures overlaying one another on a web-work extending even up onto the seven-foot, arched ceiling. Other images decorated the walls as well. A crude soldier’s insignia adorned the corner. Someone had carved an almost perfect likeness of a woman on the flat stone of the windowsill. A vulgar comment had been scratched in beside it.

  Probably no one knew how many men had lived and died in the room before him, each leaving a mark for the world to remember. The carvings helped relieve the solitude, as if the ghosts of the past all had something to say. But not Ahren’s. His mark wouldn’t be on the walls. His visit wouldn’t be that long.

  Volker had taken his daggers. The guards had stolen his boots with the lock picks stitched in between the layers of leather. There was a hooked blade nestled in his belt buckle, but they’d taken that as well. The only things they’d missed were the two simple beads hanging from the braid in his hair.

  Carefully, he removed them. The blue and purple wax beads were still undamaged. He set them in a corner where they wouldn’t be stepped on and unwound the braid, finding the long strand of sinew woven inside. He’d hoped that he would never have to use the crude garrote, but now, it was his only weapon.

  It was too early to begin his work. He needed at least two days to watch the guards’ routine. Two weeks would be ideal. But even though it would take weeks for the warden’s letters declaring Ahren’s capture to reach their destinations, and maybe a month more before someone bought him, Ahren didn’t have that much time. Hopefully, he wasn’t already too late.

  He laid his head on the stone floor, preparing for the long days ahead, and slept.

  #

  Screeching metal roused Ahren from his sleep. A wooden bucket and clay pitcher were shoved quickly through the small opening at the bottom of the door before the metal hatch slammed shut. A latch clicked on the other side.

  Hopping to his feet, Ahren pressed his face to the barred window inside the cell, trying to see down the hallway beyond. A man dressed in simple clothes and a green cap wheeled a barrel down the passage carrying several buckets. He stopped at each door, opened the hatch, and removed a bucket, emptied it, and tossed it back inside. The man continued his work down the hall, eventually vanishing from sight.

  Ahren stayed by the window and waited. Time was immeasurable without any window to the outside. At a guess, it was before dawn.

  He estimated two hours when a guard, dressed in a dingy tabard, sauntered down the hall.

  His bored eyes widened as he spotted Ahren leaning against the window bars. “What ya lookin’ for?” he sneered, his hand sliding to the rapier handle at his waist. “Trying to escape?”

  Ahren said nothing.

  Grinning, the guard stepped closer. “Maybe you’re thinkin’ of grabbin’ me as I passed. Take my keys. That what you’re thinkin’?” He pulled his blade a few inches out of its sheath. “Answer.”

  Ahren stepped back as the guard closed in.

  The guard gave a toothless leer through the window. “That’s what I thought.” With a triumphant snort, he continued down the passage.

  It was over four hours before the next patrol. This time, a fat, smooth-faced guard gave Ahren a disinterested glance as he passed. Ahren studied the cherub-like guard meandering down the hall. A ring of keys jangled off his hip. Lifting them wouldn’t be hard, providing he was quiet about it. But it was pointless. The prison builders had been smart enough not to have a keyhole anywhere accessible to inmates with nothing but time.

  Hours later, a bowl of watery soup was slipped through the door. Ravenously, Ahren ate it. The tasteless stew did little to satisfy his stomach. After licking the bowl clean, he washed it down with the remnants of the stale water left in the pitcher and returned to his post by the window.

  He could only assume it was past midnight when the guard from earlier that day made his patrol.

  His eyes narrowed when he spied Ahren by his window. “You still up?”

  Ahren shrugged. “Can’t sleep.”

  The guard grinned, exposing the patch of missing teeth on his left side. “You’ll learn.” His hand moved toward the sword at his belt.

  Ahren inched away from the bars as the guard neared.

  “That’s what I thought.” He laughed, spraying spittle from his gapped mouth. “Go to sleep.”

  “What time is it?” Ahren asked, ignoring the order.

  “Why? You got somethin’ better to do?” he asked, his face contorting with anger. Shadows from the flickering torchlight gave him the appearance of an enraged boar. “Go to sleep!”

  Staying clear of the window, Ahren laid down on the stone floor.

  The guard snorted and continued down the hall.

  Ahren waited several minutes to be sure he didn’t return before he got up. He checked the window to be sure. Nothing.

  He had completed his first day. At a guess, it’d be eight hours before the bucket carrier’s shift. The two beads still lay in the corner. He picked them up and pressed them together. The hard wax cracked, spilling their powdery contents over his fingers. Careful not to lose any, Ahren kneaded the beads together. The wax softened as he worked it.

  Ahren tried to press any spilled powder back into the little ball. It grew warmer.

  He continued to massage the ball with one hand while counting finger widths along the rust-pitted door from the middle rivet. He spat on the spot he judged was behind the keyhole and rubbed it to make sure it was wet.

  Ahren pressed the wax against the wet metal. Instantly, it grew hot, then burning. Ignoring it, he worked it into the iron, making sure it had a good stick. A light hiss sizzled from the iron, and Ahren stopped.

  The alchemist had said it could take six hours for the acid to work, assuming the plate wasn’t too thick. Even if not, it still required Ahren’s estimate of the mechanism’s location to be correct. Otherwise, there was little hope for escape.

  Leaning back against the far wall, Ahren watched the thumb-sized spot fizz and s
putter. The acrid smell filled the tiny chamber, quickly dissolving in the already putrid dungeon stench. A spilled toilet bucket would easily mask what odor remained by morning.

  Shadows swelled inside the tiny chamber as the torch outside began to wane. There was little more he could do, and tomorrow would be a busy day. Ahren closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.

  He awoke to the slam of a distant door. Someone had replaced the torch outside while Ahren had slept.

  Hurrying to the window, he saw the green-capped man saunter down the hall, pushing a wheeled barrel. Stooping at a door, the man opened the floor-level hatch and emptied the prisoner’s bucket. There were two cells before Ahren’s.

  Quickly, Ahren surveyed his door. Even in the dim light, silver metal glinted around the edges of the tiny hole burned behind the lock. The acid no longer bubbled, but he couldn’t be sure of its remaining potency. Covering it with dirt or filth now risked diluting it before the acid was done.

  Another door slammed. One left.

  The acrid stink still dominated the cell. Grabbing his toilet bucket, Ahren spilled some of its contents near the window to the hall. With luck, it would mask the smell.

  He dropped the bucket in front of the hatch, slinging some of remaining contents onto the floor. Hopefully, that might cover what smell lingered around the lock.

  The hatch on the neighboring cell clanged shut.

  Ahren hopped next to the window as the bucket carrier moved past, blocking the line of sight to the broken lock. The man paid little attention as he wheeled by and turned the corner to Ahren’s door.

  The hatch swung open, and a dirty hand grabbed his pail. A second later, the bucket clattered back into the room, and the door banged closed.

  Ahren let out a sigh. Finding a small, inch-long piece of broken mortar in the corner, he tied it around one end of his sinew garrote. The weapon was crude, and the chances of failure with it were too high to think about. But it was all he had. Two guard patrols and the meal rounds were all that remained before he could escape.

  Hours passed. After the toothless guard made his mid-day round, Ahren inspected the door. The acid had dissolved, leaving a tiny, jagged-edged opening. He licked his little finger to lubricate it and tried to slip it inside.

  The serrated iron bit into his flesh, catching him around the knuckle. Gritting his teeth, Ahren pushed harder. With a sharp sting, he drove his finger through the hole. He felt the lock’s mechanism. Looking past the pain, Ahren fumbled in the space inside the door until he found the latch. Hooking his nail against it, he twisted his finger around, lifting the metal over the catch and sliding it back. The tight, saw-like hole sliced around his finger. Blood dribbled down his hand. Hissing in pain, he drove his weight through his finger, and with a hard click, the door unlocked.

  Carefully, he worked his mangled finger from the door. The slick blood helped, but the iron teeth still chewed his skin, leaving long cuts down its length. Once free, he squeezed his stinging hand and let out a long breath to quell his instinct to cry out. Small bits of red-stained skin clung to the inner edge of the jagged hole.

  Ripping off a strip of shirt cloth, Ahren bandaged the minor, but painful, wounds. He checked the window again to make sure the hall was clear. Once satisfied, he gently pushed the cell door. The rusty hinge squeaked but moved with little resistance. He pulled it shut and waited.

  Hours later, the fat evening guard made his rounds, giving Ahren no more than a casual glance. Ahren watched through the barred window as the sentry waddled down the hall. The unlocked door fed his growing impatience. Time was critical. But making his move now, during daylight, was pointless if not suicidal. Until the time was right, there was nothing more he could do.

  #

  A plain-dressed man replaced the torches lining the walls as the soup-carrier made his rounds. Ahren held his breath as the hatch on his door squealed open. If the unlocked door so much as moved, it was over. A wooden ladle thrust through the little opening and dumped its contents into his bowl. A grubby hand snatched his empty water pitcher only to return it full moments later.

  The hatch closed.

  Ahren sighed. The door hadn’t betrayed him. He patted the garrote still hidden in his waist band. Almost time. With a smile, he ate his cold stew and readied himself for what he had to do.

  Time crawled. The moans of prisoners echoing down the passages dwindled as the hour grew later. Finally, a metallic creak and groan resonated through the hall. The late-night guard had arrived.

  Ahren wound a length of sinew tightly around his right hand. The rest, still tied to the chunk of mortar, he held in his palm. Excitement tinged with fear pumped through his veins as he spotted the toothless guard. Quickly, he hid below the window and grabbed a small stone he had found in his cell.

  The guard’s slow boot steps grew louder. Ahren held his breath.

  He heard the man take the slight turn as he came to the intersection outside the cell. Hoping to miss the guard, Ahren flung the tiny pebble up through the bars as the guard reached the window. The small rock skittered across the stone floor.

  There was no time to check. Ahren stood up. As he’d hoped, the guard had turned his back to see what made the noise. Driving his arms through the bars, Ahren reached around the guard’s neck and flung the weighted garrote. He caught the end with his other hand and yanked back.

  A wheeze escaped the guard’s lips as the sinew cord drew taut, jerking him against the barred window. Holding the garrote with all his weight, Ahren wound the slender line around his left hand for a better hold.

  The struggling man’s fingers fumbled blindly at the cord around his neck. Ahren pulled harder. The tight garrote dug into Ahren hands, but he kept his hold. He couldn’t afford the man a breath, not a cry to alert anyone.

  Metal rasped as the man wrangled his rapier from its sheath. Bracing his foot against the wall, Ahren kicked back with all his strength. The back of the man’s head slammed into the bars. With another yank, Ahren managed to get his other foot against the wall. He jerked the man’s head into the bars again and again. The blade clattered to the floor.

  The man’s struggles slowed and lost strength. Ahren held tight, his entire body held up only by the line about the guard’s throat. Blood oozed from his hands, mingling with his sweaty palms.

  Seconds felt like minutes, but eventually, the guard’s fighting ceased, and his body became limp.

  Ahren held the cord for several more breaths before allowing himself to relax. He had to ensure the guard was unconscious but not dead. If he held the garrote too long, the man would soil his uniform upon death. He lowered the man’s body to the floor and unwound the cord buried into the sides of his own hands.

  He nudged the cell door open to look outside. The dim halls were empty. He squeezed outside and hurried to the guard’s fallen body. He was still alive but barely. Grabbing the man by the wrists, he dragged the body back into his room and removed its clothes.

  Stripping off his own shirt and breeches, he switched clothes with the guard and laid his limp body in the corner, facing the wall as if he were sleeping. The dingy uniform reeked of sweat and sour ale. It wasn’t a perfect fit. His arms were longer than the guard’s, and his waist smaller. Not that it mattered. Anyone getting a good enough look to notice the ill-fitted uniform would spot him. The biggest problem was the boots. Aside from foul, the hard, leather toes were painfully small.

  Pulling the man’s hat low over his face, Ahren slipped out of the room and locked the door with the guard’s keys. Twenty steps, turn right, then twenty-seven more to the door. Up forty-six steps, then thirty down the hall to the warden’s office. He grabbed the rapier still lying on the floor, slid it into his sheath, and headed down the passage.

  Whispers between cells abruptly ended as Ahren’s boot steps echoed down the hall. Bearded inmates lay in their dark cells. The few not feigning sleep looked away, trying not to be noticed. Smaller passages and niches lined with numbered doors branched off th
e hallway. From their windows, they couldn’t have seen Ahren’s scuffle with the guard. Any noises heard could be assumed to be a guard beating an inmate.

  Forty-seven steps later, Ahren reached a wide, iron-bound door. Sorting through his ring of keys, he tried the one that seemed best.

  It didn’t fit.

  He tried another. Again, it was wrong.

  Ahren felt inmates’ eyes on his back, silently watching him from their cells. It just took one to figure out he had escaped. Then, they’d all beg and hoot for release. They might threaten him. Let them go, or they’d cause a ruckus and alert the guards.

  Scanning the half-dozen remaining keys, Ahren noticed one had more wear than the others. He slipped it into the lock and turned. With a heavy click, it opened. He stepped through the door, locked it behind him, and headed up the stone staircase.

  The tight boots bit painfully into Ahren’s feet. He wanted to remove them, but there was no time, and he still might be seen. Someone might notice the toothless guard hadn’t finished his round. Ignoring the pain, he hurried faster up the winding steps.

  Stopping at the door, he took a moment to peer through the keyhole. The passage appeared empty. Gently, he pushed it. Hinges groaned as the door opened.

  Ahren hurried through. Counting steps, he glanced out the barred windows down the left side of the hall. Two guards played cards at a table beside a stone well in the prison’s central courtyard. A third chair was empty. It wouldn’t be long before they’d notice their companion’s absence.

  Thirty-two steps. Stopping at a simple door decorated with a brass handle, he checked the halls again to be sure he was alone and then spied through the keyhole. The warden’s office was dark. He pushed it.

  Locked.

  Cursing to himself, he wished he still had his boots with the picks sewn inside. A patrol guard wouldn’t have the warden’s key. Examining the lock closer, it appeared more decorative than functional. Any pick would do.

  Quickly, Ahren inventoried his belongings. There was nothing useful in the guard’s pouch. He had no hat pin. Then, he noticed his belt buckle. Its long, metal tongue sticking through the leather seemed slender enough.