Removing his belt, he slipped the tongue into the keyhole and searched for the mechanism. Paranoia of a passing guard danced in the back of his mind as he fumbled inside the lock. It wasn’t working.
Bracing the tip of the tongue on the inner side of the keyhole, he bent the tip. He maneuvered the crude pick back inside and found the catch. Careful not to let the tongue slip, he twisted the buckle around and unlocked the door.
Quickly, he nudged it open, grabbed his rapier and belt pouch off the floor, and slipped inside.
Dim light filtered in through the narrow windows. Outside, lamps and candles glowed in the open windows of the city. Horse hooves on cobblestone, mingled with the pedestrian voices, rose from the streets below.
Ahren slid behind the warden’s desk and picked up the thick registry of prisoners. Holding it up to catch the light, he flipped the pages and ran his finger down the seemingly endless list of names.
The scrawled writing was difficult to read, but Ahren found the name he was looking for. Cell one hundred and nine. A short surge of relief swept through his body. The prisoner was still here. A note beside the cell number read, Box fifty-nine.
Ahren returned the log to the table and began scanning a wide case on the side wall filled with small drawers. Tiny brass plaques, engraved with different numbers, marked each one. He stopped at fifty-nine and removed the short drawer.
Inside, he found a silver pendant, transfer papers still waiting their signature, and a detailed journal of confessions. Thumbing through it, he smiled. Lies. The prisoner hadn’t told them a single truth in over three interrogations.
Pocketing the pendant, he laid the journal and papers on the warden’s desk beside the prisoner log. He tore a large corner off one of the pages and slipped it into his mouth to chew. A glass lamp rested on a nearby shelf. Ahren pulled the oily wick from the top and poured its contents onto the log, splashing it onto the desk, the worn rug covering the floor, and the book case.
Removing a pair of candles from the desk, he laid one between the journal pages, its wick-end sticking out a hand’s length. Closing the leather-bound book over the candle, he slid it across the oily table so the candle hung out over the floor.
He checked the door to the hall then crept outside and lit his second candle of one off the wall lamps. Shielding its flame so the guards outside wouldn’t see the moving light, he carried it back into the room.
Crossing the oil-soaked rug, he lit the candle jutting from the log book. He returned the other candle to its holder and was about to turn away when something else on the desk caught his eye. The long raven quill still rested beside the closed inkwell. Smiling, he slipped it into his pouch and hurried out of the room.
Using his mangled buckle, he re-locked the warden’s door behind him. Removing the thick wad of chewed paper from his mouth, he shoved it into the lock and drove it down into the mechanism with the buckle tongue. Even if the proper key was used, no one would be able to open the jammed door until it was too late.
Keeping to the shadows away from the hall windows, Ahren hurried down the passage and back to the stairwell. He descended the stone steps as fast as silence and his painful boots would allow. The tipped candle would burn quick. He only had a few minutes before the fuse would ignite the warden’s office.
Passing the door to the floor his cell had been on, Ahren continued down the steps toward the lowest level. A parrot-nosed guard sat in a wooden chair in front if a barred door.
His bored eyes furrowed as they met Ahren. “Who are you?”
Smiling, Ahren stepped closer. “I’m new. Just assigned.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “That’s Yerik’s hat,” he growled, his hand flying to his rapier as he jumped from his seat.
Before the man’s sword was fully drawn, Ahren ripped his from its sheath and punched him with the wrought-iron basket hilt. The man staggered back, his eyes glazed. Ahren brought the round pommel down on the man’s head, and the guard collapsed.
Removing the man’s keys, he unlocked the gate door. Smoking torches lit the narrow passage lined with numbered doors. The cells of the lowest level lacked the inmate windows into the hall.
Dragging the unconscious guard, Ahren hurried down the hall until coming to cell one hundred and nine. Wiping sweat from his brow, he glanced down the passage one last time before unlocking the door.
Hinges squeaked as he pulled it open. The dark cell reeked of sour sweat and filth. Near the top of the far wall, a tiny window spilled faint light into the room. Empty shackles hung against from the ceiling and the walls.
He whispered, “Kaz—.”
A shadow sprung from the corner, knocking him to the floor. Ahren caught his attacker’s hand just as a sharp point dug into his throat. Rolling to the side, he kicked the man off him and jumped to his feet.
An old man in tattered rags, stained brown with dried blood, lay panting in the corner. Bruises and lash marks crisscrossed over his pale arms and under the torn clothes. His battered hands weakly fumbled for the sharpened stone wedge that had fallen from his grasp.
“Kazimir,” Ahren hissed, drawing his sword.
The mad fury faded from the old man’s eyes. “Ahren?” The crude weapon fell to the floor as he hoarsely laughed. “I knew the Tyenee would send an assassin to kill me. Thank the saints it was you. Wouldn’t want a stranger to be the one to do it.”
“Can you walk?” Ahren asked.
Kazimir nodded.
“Then as long as you can walk, I’m not going to kill you.” He slid his blade back into its sheath. “I came to get you out.”
The old man’s dark eyes widened. “What?”
“I read your confessions. You didn’t betray the Tyenee, and you’re far too important to kill.”
“You were always my favorite pupil, Black Raven,” he chuckled, weakly pulling himself to his feet. “Again, you prove me right.”
Ahren couldn’t help but smile at his mentor’s praise. “Hurry. We haven’t much time. Put guard’s clothes on.”
They dragged the unconscious guard into the cell and stripped him. With stiff fingers, Kazimir unlaced the man’s clothes and pulled them on.
“Your boots don’t fit,” the old man nodded, slipping his own small feet into the guard’s.
Ahren shrugged. “It’s all I could find. They took the ones you had sent me.”
“Looks as though I’ll have to make you more.” He strapped on the guard’s belt and pulled it tight around his waist. “I’ll make the best shoes you’ve ever worn.”
Far above, a bell rang followed by shouts and clomping boots. The warden’s office was burning.
“You already did that. You spoiled my feet. I can barely stand these. Now hurry. The guards are occupied.”
The old man smiled. “That’s the sign of a great cobbler. You’re my patron forever now. Besides,” he said, pulling on his hat and limping from the cell, “new boots are the least I can repay you with.”
“We’ll have enough time for that once we get out of here.” Ahren removed the raven quill from his pouch and dropped on the cell floor. With a grin, he locked the thick door.
They hurried back to the stair well. Shouts from guards echoed down from above. As they raced up the stairs, multiple boot steps hurried down toward them.
“Fire,” someone yelled. “The warden’s office is on fire!”
Ahren stopped and squeezed the sword at his hip. He peeked around the corner to see four guards rushing out of the stairwell onto the landing outside the burning room.
“It’s locked,” one of them cried.
“Break it down!”
Ahren signaled Kazimir, and the two men hurried up the steps. Black smoke flowed up the stair shaft. Glancing through the open door, he spied the panicked guards shouldering the office door.
“Get the water ready,” one of them shouted.
Rushing past the open doorway, the two men continued up the steps. The smoke grew thicker, stinging Ahren’s watery eyes.
The stairs circled around again, finally ending at the roof.
Coughing, Ahren ran out onto the rooftop. As he’d hoped, the sentry guards were gone.
“What are we doing up here?” Kazimir asked.
“Trust me.” He ran down the narrow walkway circling the prison roof. Cries rang from the courtyard below as guards hurried to fill buckets from the stone well. A billowing plume of smoke belched out from the warden’s window, sending screams of alarm through the streets.
Even in the midst of the great city, the prison stood alone. The closest rooftop was too far to jump. From their vantage point, Ahren could clearly see the bells tolling inside the cathedral tower blocks away.
A crowd gathered at the front gates directly below the burning window. Orange flames licked higher, even reaching the roof’s wooden eaves.
Making his way around to the far side of the building, Ahren peered over the side. Three stories below, a large, hay-heaped wagon sat beside the wall. The sturdy, four-wheeled vehicle was the kind used for transporting stone blocks rather than the rickety variety normally reserved such mundane cargo.
“Can you make that?” Ahren asked.
“I didn’t become a general in the Tyenee for making shoes,” the old man snorted. Grabbing the edge, Kazimir pulled himself over the small wall and dropped. He landed in the thick straw and rolled to the edge, making room for Ahren.
Following his lead, Ahren swung out over the side. The wind ripped away his hat as he fell. With a creak of wagon wheels, he landed hard in the thick hay, bending his sword and driving the pommel into his side.
He groaned, trying to reclaim his breath, when Volker stepped out from the shadows.
“I knew you’d get out of there.”
“Where were you?” he hissed, still clutching his side.
The bald man shrugged and hopped onto the driver’s bench. “I was getting worried. I pulled up when the fire started and didn’t want to draw too much attention just sitting here.” He popped the leather reins, and the wagon pulled slowly away. “Now, cover yourselves. We’re not out of this yet.”
Ignoring the pain, Ahren buried himself under the hay as the wagon shambled down the cobbled streets away from the prison.
Several blocks later, they stopped.
“Okay,” Volker hissed. “Get out.”
Ahren crawled out from under the straw to find himself in an alley. Several large barrels rested against the wall. “Hurry,” he said to Kazimir. “We’ll need to be far away before they notice we’ve escaped.
“What’s the plan?” Kazimir asked.
“Remember how you smuggled me out of the city years ago?”
The old man smiled, watching Volker lift the barrels into the wagon. “Ale cart.”
“Time for me to return the favor.” He motioned to an empty one. “There’s your seat. Get in.”
With a shake of his head, the old man folded himself inside the tight barrel. “Where’s your seat?”
“Me?” Ahren replied. “I’ll be in the one beside you. Volker will let us out when we’re far from here. We’ve already made arrangements for you to set up business in Nadjancia. No one will find you there. You’ll have to change your name of course.”
“Of course.”
Ahren picked up the lid and was about to put it on Kazimir’s barrel when he stopped. “One more thing,” he said, pulling the silver pendant out from his pouch. The cast insignia of a mountain made of upturned daggers glinted even in the dim light. He dropped it into Kazimir’s hands. “Welcome back to the Tyenee.”
About the Author
Raised in the swamps and pine forests of East Texas, Seth Skorkowsky always dreamed of being a writer. He gravitated to the darker sides of fantasy, preferring horror and pulp heroes over knights in shining armor. His debut novel, Dämoren, released in 2014. When not writing, Seth enjoys tabletop role-playing games, shooting sports, and traveling the world with his wife.
You can find out more about Seth at www.skorkowsky.com
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For more information about the Tales of the Black Raven series, go to www.ragnarokpub.com
Sea of Quills (Tales of the Black Raven Book 2) Page 23