Izaryle's Prison

by Levi Samuel

  Moonlight reflected off the glazed window illuminating the room in a pale white. The wooden door slowly creaked open revealing a cloaked figure. It stepped into the room and closed the door. Cautiously making its way toward the bed it stared at the gently rising and falling blanket made of thick, green-dyed wool.

  Ravion heard the floorboards creak. Gathering his senses he listened to the footsteps, slowly making their way closer to him. He could feel the warmth of a body hovering over him. Waiting for the perfect moment, he cracked his eyes just enough to see the figure. “Senaria?”

  “Shhh, you should be sleeping. You've had a rough day. You need to rest.”

  “What are you doing here? It's not safe for you yet.”

  Senaria gently caressed his cheek. Smiling, she took in his sight. He was one of a kind. A noble warrior unlike any she'd met before. “I had to see you. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  A smile came to his face. Throwing the blanket to the side, Ravion reached out and pulled her beside him, kissing her deeply. His ribs argued in protest, but it was worth it.

  Lost in his embrace Senaria cuddled beside him, forgetting herself for the briefest of moments. Memories rushing back, she pushed him away hearing him wince in pain. “You need to rest. We can be together once you've healed.”

  “It's not that bad. Just a few bruises and scrapes.” He lied.

  She sighed and unwrapped her cloak. Tossing it on the table she pulled off her armor and weapons, laying them on top of it. Crawling into bed beside him, she kissed his forehead. “Tonight we sleep. You don't know what tomorrow's challenges will bring and I don't want to risk losing you do to some foolish exertion.”

  Ravion chuckled and pulled the blanket over them. “Yes, ma'am.” Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled tight feeling a bond he'd never experienced before.

  Hours passed and Ravion awoke seeing a figure standing in the shadows a few feet from the bed. He could feel Senaria's head lying against his chest. Glancing at the table, their weapons were too far out of reach. And he couldn't readily get to the dagger stuffed under the pillow, having not expected Senaria to join him.

  The figure stepped forward brandishing a rusty dagger. “I— I'm sorry!”

  The voice sounded like that of a child. The words shot fear through him. He ripped the blanket away, searching Senaria for a wound.

  She awoke, jumping from his sudden outburst. Finding the intruder she reached over and grabbed her sword. The blade was unsheathed and at the figure's throat in the blink of an eye.

  “Wait!” Ravion called out.

  Senaria froze, keeping the blade outstretched and ready to strike.

  “Lower you hood.” Ravion sat up and kicked his bare feet off the bed, pressing them against the chilled floorboards. He wore a pair of loose fitting gray pants and no shirt. The figure slowly reached up, keeping the dagger in view. Grabbing hold of the hood it fell, revealing a young girl maybe twelve years in age.

  Senaria looked from the girl to Ravion unsure what to do. She lowered her sword. “You're— You're just a girl.”

  “You said you were sorry. What have you done to be sorry for?” Ravion couldn't explain why, but none of this felt right. He was just happy Senaria was okay. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she came to harm because of him.

  “I— I was supposed to kill you while you slept, but I couldn't do it. Not when I saw her with you.”

  “Who told you to kill me?”

  “Wal— Wallace Thurmoau. He said if I did it, he'd forgive my ma’ and pa's debt. I didn't want to, but I didn't have much other choice.” The girl broke into tears unsure what she was going to do. “Since I couldn't do it. I don’t know what's gonna happen to my folks now.”

  Senaria sheathed her sword and laid it back on the table. “You're welcome to stay with me, you and your parents, until this whole thing blows over.”

  Ravion laid his hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure that's a wise decision? I understand the reasoning. Just— Are you ready for that already?”

  She smiled at him, placing her hand atop of his. “It'll be fine. If this is to be our new home we have to set an example. Besides, what other options are there?”

  “I could send a missive to Marbayne and have a unit of border wardens sent this way. They could act as peace keepers until I'm able to deal with Wallace.”

  “And what would these people do in the meantime? It's obvious he's not going to stop until he has no choice. None of them are safe until he'd been dealt with.”

  Ravion smiled and kissed her forehead. She was a natural tactician. “You have a point.”

  “You'd really take care of us?” The girl was visibly shaken, though it was difficult to tell if it was due to fear or relief.

  “It's the least I can do. You didn't kill the man I love. I can show kindness in turn.” Senaria reassured the girl. “Gather your parents. We'll leave before the sun rises.”

  “Love, huh?” Ravion smiled, hearing the word.

  “Shut up. We'll talk about it later.” Senaria lightly punched his arm. Standing up, she quickly threw her armor and weapons into place and wrapped the cloak around herself. Leaning in, she kissed him once again. “Be careful. I don't want to lose you to something foolish.”

  Chapter IX

  To Know Thyself

  “Wake up! It's time to move.”

  Gareth opened his eye, staring into the darkened bag over his head. His back side was numb from the compact clay floor. His arms were sore from being bound. He felt someone grab him, pulling him to his feet.

  “Hope you've got your rest. We've got a long way to go.”

  Stretching as best he could in his immobilized state, Gareth felt his spine pop several times, soothing the built-up tension. Extending his hands, he signaled he was ready.

  The guard grabbed the bindings, guiding him through the underground corridors.

  “Gniog er'ew kniht uoy od raf woh?”

  “Taht rof ecnatsid yna levart d'i. Emoh a su dnuof Senaria. Rettam t'nseod.”

  “Hush up back there. Be on your guard. We're passing through dreu territory.”

  Gareth perked up hearing the name. If those bastards showed it'd give him the strength he needed to break free and slaughter every last one of them. Listening to the hushed voices he couldn't help but feel like he knew what they were saying. Clearing his mind he waited, listening to his surroundings.

  “I really hope this place is as grand as she said it was. It'd suck to walk all this way only to find a shithole no better than these damned tunnels.”

  “Just a little further now. They should be lying in wait just around the corner. Come on! Remember, stab and back away. Don't want to get caught in the ambush.”

  What the hell? Why would he openly talk about an ambush? Why isn't anyone doing anything about it? Surely, he said it loud enough. Gareth felt a trickle of liquid drip from his nose. Raising his arm he pressed it against the thick sack, trying to wipe it way.

  “They're just on the other side of that bend. Be ready!”

  Gareth tensed unsure of what was about to happen. Bracing himself for anything, he listened intently. The familiar sound of an arrow's thud rang out in his head. He heard the death throes of one of the men around him.

  “We're under attack!”

  The clank of swords echoed off the cavern walls around him. He couldn't tell where anybody was, friend or foe. Struggling against the bindings Gareth shook his head in all directions, trying to dislodge his cover to no avail. His excitement and anger grew. He could feel it inside, threatening to spill forth. He had to channel it. He had to control it! Focusing rage toward desire, his senses expanded revealing his surroundings. He could see the walls and people. They weren't as he'd expected. They were cloudy, like figured in the fog. It wasn't much, but it was more than he had before. Glancing at the ropes he traced their shadowed form, locating the end. Marching toward the battle, gaining as much slack as he could, Gareth spotted one of the dreualfar hidden behind a
rock. It had a short bow in hand and an arrow nocked, ready to fire. Focusing on the creature, a heat unlike any other engulfed him. It was as if he were holding flame, though it didn't burn.

  Screams echoed around the bend. One of the dreualfar charged out, his clothing aflame. Desperately seeking anything to save him, he ran straight into a wall, dislodging one of the loose stones. It crashed down, crushing him in an instant.

  “They're falling back. Regroup and find out how many we’ve lost!”

  The ropes pulled taut, recalling Gareth to the group. “Wan ol eis otls th oa thawar. Ol ilw oon ol oar eeol oln ooh owte wa anwol!”

  “What'd he say?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You think we should remove his gag and find out?”

  “You really want to risk him using that magic against us again?”

  “What if it's important? It's not like Aerol's around to give the order. He didn't survive the fight.”

  “Rangar, what do you think? You were second in command. Should we let him speak?”

  “Go for it, but he walks in front. If he flips his shit again it'll give us time to put a blade in his back.”

  The cloth tighten against his face for the briefest moment. Gareth recognized they were untying the cinched cord around his neck. His vision was blurry in the underdark, but it felt good being able to see again. Feeling the cool cavern breeze on his skin he glanced at the men before him. They truly were enemies of his enemy. Only one question remained, was that enough to excuse them for holding him prisoner?

  “What the hell? You been headbutting the wall?” The mul'daron untied the gag, pulling it from his mouth.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your face is covered in blood.”

  Gareth wiped his face on sleeve covering his shoulder. It was difficult to reach, but perhaps he could remove enough to keep it from being sticky. “No clue why.”

  “Whatever. You better not have the plague or nothin’ like that. I've been through too much shit to die from something as ugly as that.”

  One of the other mul'daron spoke. He had a commanding tone about him and stood ahead of the rest. “You had something you wanted to say?”

  Gareth glanced around, uncertain which one was guilty. Ready to defend himself, he repeated his previous statement. “One of you is a traitor. You knew about the ambush and stabbed your commander in the back.” He searched their eyes looking for any sign of guilt.

  “I highly doubt that. How would you even know? You've been in that sack too long. It's starting to mess with your head.”

  “I'm serious. I can prove it!”

  “How?” The commanding mul’daron asked.

  “Give me a moment.” Gareth closed his eyes, focusing on the lingering rage inside him. Channeling it, he listened to everything and nothing at the same time. Voices flowed into his head revealing the darkest secrets imaginable. One in particular caught his interest.

  “This guy can't prove nothin’. He didn't see me stab him. There's no way he could have.”

  Opening his eyes, Gareth continued listening, searching their faces for the owner of the voice. “Him!” The subdued dreuslayer nodded to the one that questioned his appearance.

  “What! I didn't do nothin’! You can't prove it!”

  “Check his dagger. I bet the wound will match that of the one in your commander's back.”

  Rangar approached the accused mul'daron. “Secure him.”

  Two of the others grabbed his arms to keep him stationary.

  Rangar reached for the dagger at the mul'daron's waist. Snatching it, he could see the fresh blood clinging to the blade.

  “What's this going to prove? What is this guy, a mind reader? You can't prove anything other than you're escorting a lunatic!”

  Carrying the blade to the body of their fallen commander, Rangar carefully inserted the blade into the wound, making sure he didn't alter it in any way. “It's a perfect fit. Even the color of the blood matches.”

  “Oh come on! You're buying this shit? For all I know, you just stabbed him yourself to make it look like a match! You can't do this to me. I've got—”

  Rangar flung the small blade, burying it into the captive mul'daron's throat. He choked on his own blood and went limp. The other mul'daron released him, letting his body fall to the cavern floor. Turning to Gareth, Rangar gave a light bow. “I thank you for exposing him and revealing who truly murdered Aerol. He was a good man and an even better friend.”

  “I only met him the once, but he seemed—.” Gareth paused, selecting a fitting word. “— Trustworthy.”

  “Nonetheless, you have my gratitude. In return, I'm going to release you of your binding for the remainder of our trip. When we get close I'll have to blindfold you again, but I promise it won't last long.”

  “Understood. Just know, if we run into any more dreu I want first blood!”

  Rangar chuckled. “I believe I can agree to those terms.” Turning to his men, he gestured toward the bodies. “Quickly check them for anything of value. There's no sense of leaving anything behind for the dreu to lay claim.”

  The inn was bustling with patrons. Everybody wanted to get a look at the man on track to become their new lord. Despite the early morning, a band was on stage playing their newest tune in celebration of their savior.

  “He walked into town, not a hero or a gent. He made his stand and claimed the Rite of Godrick. But look at him now, unmarred, nor in pain. Ravion's our savior, the savior of slaves. He took a stand against a tyrant. A man that weaseled his wealth. The people of Krondar were shaken. Bruised and beaten, and left to bad health. He said, 'Hey, your business is done here. I'll face every goon that you've got. A week full of trials is nothing. I may as well give it a shot.’

  He walked into town, not a hero or a gent. He made his stand and claimed the Rite of Godrick. But look at him now, unmarred, nor in pain. Ravion's our savior, the savior of slaves.

  The weasel wouldn't turn tail so easy. He had to put in his two cents. He hired every thug this side of Shadgull, and even hired a sickly old wench. But Ravion saw it all coming. He stared them all in the eye. In doing so empty handed, he still hasn't taken a life.

  Went on to fight a brute, a bard, a scholar, and a mage. His strength of will defies the very dawn of this dark age. But look at him now, unmarred, nor in pain. Ravion's our savior, the savior of slaves.

  But look at him now, unmarred, nor in pain, Ravion's our savior, the savior of slaves!”

  Ravion chuckled at the song. It was a bit embellished he thought, but such was the nature of bards. No tale was good enough as it truly happened. Grabbing his tankard he tipped it back, tasting the final drops of broth. It had an unusual taste to it, but it was probably just the spices of this region. They all seemed different than the one's he'd grown accustomed to.

  The room was nearing capacity. Everyone wanted to be near him, as if somehow his proximity brought them hope. The band started another song, drowning out the constant roar of conversation.

  Ravion felt the beads of sweat clinging his forehead. He wasn't sure if it was the constant clutter of people or something else. Whatever it was, he didn’t feel well. Exhaling, he closed his eyes, trying to focus. Dizziness claimed him, as if his insides were churning. Staggering from his seat, Ravion balanced against the thick, wooden table. Finding his resolve, he pressed through the crowd he made for the door.

  The cool outside air assaulted him, chilling his flesh. It was both a comfort and torture. On one hand it soothed and dulled the nausea. It was the sweat clinging to him that was the problem. The breeze sent a chill straight into him, freezing beneath the surface. Ravion shivered, rubbing his arms in hopes it would warm him. Something wasn't right. He was growing weak. Was it the food? The spices? Involuntarily, he heaved, expelling the acidic contents of his stomach. It splattered in the dusty ground outside the tavern’s door. He felt better, but it was far from over.

  Stepping from the wooden ramp at the entrance, Ravio
n noticed a strange scent in the air. There was a familiarity to it, one he couldn't recall. But he knew he’d smelt it before. An unseen force slammed into him, knocking him from his feet. Rolling from his back, Ravion searched the street in hopes of finding his assailant.

  “I'm glad you came outside. I was worried I'd have to blast you through the wall of the inn. There's no telling how many innocent bystanders would have been caught in the crossfire.”

  Ravion glanced at the approaching figure, his vision blurry from the blast. Details slowly took form, revealing a man in his late twenties. He wore brown robes and had the look of a mage. He clearly wasn't of the Tower, if such a thing was of importance since its disappearance. “It's nice to see that you had the decency to blindside me when I was alone. Are you one of Wallace's people?”

  The man chuckled at the question. “Let's just say that I know of him. And his money is greatly appreciated, but no. I have my own reasons for being here. Who could pass up the chance to put Ravion Santail in his place? Though I must say, you haven't aged a day.”

  What? “I apologize, you have me at an impasse. Have we met before?” Ravion push himself from the ground, finding his feet. It took every ounce of strength he had, but the illness was letting up since he’d vomited.

  “I wouldn't expect you to remember me. It was a long time ago. Just know that I've spent years searching you out. I can't begin to express my excitement when I learned that the infamous Ravion Santail had landed in a place called Krondar and he was fair game to anyone who wished to face him. I want you to know that when I kill you this day, my father will have finally been avenged.”

  His skin was cold despite the pouring sweat seeping from his body. His clothes were drenched, clinging to him. Each chilled gust of wind, cut to the bone. Ravion wanted to vomit again, but such an action would present opportunity for this man to strike. Closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the cramping pain, he found his words. “I'm afraid I have no clue who you are or what you're talking about. If I killed your father, I offer my apologies. But you must understand if I'm responsible for his death, I had good reason.”