by J. P. Ashman
‘We’re in Wesson Prison, Fal. You were knocked unconscious, but I was dragged here fighting. Not much good it did me; bruised ribs and a flattened nose. Lost my pretty looks I suppose. Oh well, still have my charm.’
Although it was as black as pitch, Fal could hear the mirth in Sav’s voice.
‘Prison? Why the hell are we in prison? I’ve never even seen the inside of this place as a guardsman and now we’re in a damned cell… not that I can see it.’ Fal’s eyes had started to adjust ever so slightly to the dark, but all he could make out was a hazy figure opposite him from where Sav’s voice came.
‘Well I think that’s down to me, Fal,’ Sav said, his tone dropping. ‘I’m sorry, I just couldn’t take it. I’ve seen executions before, hangings, but that… that was horrific. I couldn’t watch it, especially after hearing about him at the palace, about his parents, his fears.’
Gods above, the fire… Severun… Fal’s heart lurched.
‘I strung my bow and tried to end it for him,’ Sav continued, ‘to stop him roasting alive, but I was dragged from the saddle and beaten. Next thing I know one of the King’s retinue smashed you from your horse. It’s been a fair few hours now, not sure exactly how long. I was worried you were going to sleep forever. Bet your head hurts, eh?’
Like you wouldn’t believe, Sav, but more from what I’m starting to remember than the pain. Fal nodded, then realised it was pointless. ‘Yeah, it’s hammering a beat not too different from the drummers in the square. What’s been said then? When’re we getting out?’ It was so quiet in the cell that Sav’s gulp was audible.
Oh shit. ‘Sav?’
‘Well, that’s just it isn’t it? They haven’t said anything about getting us out, as of yet anyway. They threw us in and all Sir Bullen told us was we’d be fed twice daily, and there’s a small latrine hole in the corner. He also said to be careful it doesn’t fill up and flood before it flows away.
‘Great.’ Fal let out a long, slow breath. ‘What about Lord Strickland? He was there; did he say nothing at all to help us?’
‘No, he had his eyes tight shut and kept mumbling to himself. I guess he couldn’t stand the sight of his old friend burning. I wish he’d tried something though, I know it’s the King’s law, Fal, but come on, that’s barbaric. Lord Severun only meant to do good.’
‘I know, Sav, and I didn’t like it either, but what could the King do?’ Fal prodded tentatively at the lump on his head again as he spoke. ‘There’s been arcane mages burnt before in that square, not to mention witches and warlocks throughout Altoln, so how could he have one rule for one and one for another? The city is in a panic and rioting left right and centre… I guess as horrific as it is, Lord Severun’s execution might calm them down; seeing the one who was responsible executed.’
Who am I trying to convince, Sav or myself? No matter what someone’s done…death by fire? No. I’ve seen enough of that and I’ve seen its pain and the pain it leaves in those who’ve witnessed it. I don’t care how they cheered in that square, their dreams won’t let them forget what we all witnessed.
Sav went quiet and the cold, black room fell silent. Fal couldn’t see, but sensed the cell was small.
I feel exactly the same as you, my friend. Perhaps I’ve tried to justify it to you to make myself feel better. To make up for the fact I took Severun to the palace, that maybe it’s because of me he died like that… that perhaps I could have done more earlier on, opened my damned mouth and asked more about what I’d been ordered to do instead of blindly following those orders. One thing I know is that the horror of what I… no, what we all saw out there, will be our punishment for the rest of our days, a punishment for me that only adds to that I already suffer for what happened all those years ago. A punishment I well deserve…
‘I admire you for trying to stop it, Sav, more than you know.’ Part of me wishes I’d had the balls to try myself. ‘And no matter what comes from it mate, you tried to do the right thing and I should’ve supported you, not tried to stop you.’
‘I guess,’ Sav said sullenly. ‘I’ve a bad feeling about all of this though, Fal. I think we could be made examples of. Attempting what I did in front of the King, undermining him, me as one of his soldiers standing against his law in front of the whole city, it doesn’t bode well. You should be fine. I’m sure they’ll let you go, but me? What will become of me?’
Fal shook his head again. ‘I don’t honestly know, Sav. People have tried, gangers mainly, to cut people from the gallows before they choke, but you’re no ganger, you’re an Altolnan border scout and a good one at that. I’m sure you’ll get a slap on the wrist, a few lashes maybe and sent back out… your leave forfeit maybe?’ But in all honesty, I haven’t a clue, Sav, and gods, if I’m honest, I’m a little fearful for you, for us both. But telling you that’ll do us no good.
‘Great, my leave cancelled, no more ale or women for months, they may as well hang me.’ Sav laughed, although it sounded forced.
Both men fell silent again then, escaping into their heads, thinking about what had happened and feeling their eyes slowly close, which hardly made a difference. After what seemed like hours, both men fell asleep on the straw covered, cold stone floor of their cell.
***
The tall, vaulted ceilings of the Samorlian Cathedral offered superb harmonics to the dozens of voices reaching up and out from the choir of monks and boys below. The sound was eerie as it slowly built from a low hum to a stirring crescendo that leant weight to the finale of Archbishop Corlen’s sermon, a sermon that had followed on from the burning of Lord Severun and lasted hours.
‘When’s this shitting bollocks gonna end?’ Biviano said, rubbing his chin and staring down to the pew in between Sears and himself, where they sat at the very back of the cathedral.
‘Quit complaining and make yer move, we can’t make our move until the King and his lords have left, can we?’
Biviano slowly reached down and moved his small, black stone into one of the twenty four half holes carved into the pew itself. He then picked up a white stone and passed it to Sears, grinning all the while.
‘Bastard,’ Sears said, as he realised he was now losing stones from his mills.
‘Shit!’ Biviano froze, and Sears looked up to him from the game.
‘What?’
‘The sermon’s finished, they’re walking past us to get out of the cathedral!’
Sears didn’t dare turn, for fear of the King’s own eyes upon him. ‘Where’s the King?’
‘He left already. Don’t think he looked this way though, although one of his high lords has…’ Biviano trailed off and held his breath.
‘Who?’ Sears asked, his tone hushed as he too froze in place, not wanting to turn around and take a look for himself.
Biviano stopped talking and smiled meekly to someone behind Sears. Taking a deep breath, the big man slowly turned around to see who Biviano was looking at. He saw a crowd of richly dressed people moving down the aisle to the main doors, and an angry looking Duke staring at them both, his gnarled left hand tapping on the back of their pew further down the row and his right gripping the ornate hilt of his bastard-sword.
Will Morton nodded towards the white stone in Sears’ hand and then to the pew in between the two men as he spoke. ‘Enjoy the sermon, gentlemen? Or was your game of nine men’s morris more entertaining? Looks freshly carved that board… on that pew?’
‘Erm, the sermon, milord. Arousing it was, milord,’ Sears said, nodding, whilst Biviano closed his eyes.
Morton moved a step closer and leaned in to Sears. ‘Arousing eh? Didn’t know the Archbishop did it for you, Sears? He certainly doesn’t do it for me I can tell you. In fact, I’d rather have been back here myself, watching Biviano here take your stones.’
Biviano dared a grin as the Lord High Constable stood back from Sears.
‘Now, when you’re done being beaten, get that bloody hole in your maille fixed, it looks awful, and no, I don’t want to know how it hap
pened… although I’ll no doubt hear it from Stowold at some point.’
Sears brought his hand up to where the crossbow bolt had struck him and winced at the memory of the impact.
‘Ha, arousing, classic!’ Morton continued to laugh as he turned and walked back down the row, turning onto the aisle. Two knights wearing the Duke’s colours awaited him. All three moved off with the crowd to leave the cathedral through the large, main doors.
‘Ye dick,’ Biviano said.
‘I don’t get what’s so funny,’ Sears said, picking up and placing all of his white stones into a pouch on his belt.
‘And that’s what makes it all the more funny ye fool.
‘Speaking of fools,’ Biviano said, nodding to the front of the cathedral. ‘Let’s us go speak to that fat fool up there, before he scuttles off into chambers beyond.’
Both men stood then and moved down the row to the centre aisle. Once there, they walked with menacing confidence towards the Archbishop at the front of the cathedral; a man who, until noticing the two experienced warriors – for surely by their stride alone, he knew that’s what they were – had been feeling fairly confident himself. Not now, alas, for now it was all he could do not to void his bowels as the two approaching men drew their short-swords and locked eyes with him.
***
Fal woke with a start. There was a crash of steel on steel in the corridor outside the cell door and a man yelped, before hobnailed boots echoed as they scraped on stone away into the distance.
Fal felt the air in the small chamber shift then as Sav stood up next to him. He was so close Fal had no problem finding and using Sav’s arm to pull himself up.
A loud thud immediately outside the door was followed by a groan and a jingle of metal on metal.
Keys? Fal held his breath and listened. What The Three’s going on out there?
Both Fal and Sav clenched their fists and squinted in anticipation of the light that would surely spill through the door about to be opened. Several keys could be heard jingling and scraping on the door, one after another being tried in the lock.
Not the guards then, Fal thought, but who? Witchunters back for more? Surely they wouldn’t be so bold as to attack the prison? Fal clenched his fists tighter still and widened his stance.
A loud metallic click signalled the release of the locking mechanism, and unoiled hinges screeched as the heavy reinforced door swung inwards. Both Fal and Sav had to raise their hands to shade their eyes from the bright star-like light that shone directly into their eyes from the doorway, and Sav laughed aloud as the light flicked from Fal to Sav and back.
‘Errolas!’ Sav announced in delight. Fal lowered his hands just enough to see the illuminated, grinning face of the elf, curved sword in one hand and a small glowing stone in the other.
‘Greetings, gentlemen,’ Errolas said, his brilliant white teeth shining in the star stone’s light, and from behind him two more heads appeared at his shoulders. It was Godsiff Starks and a rather stern looking woman with short black hair and a scar running down her left cheek. Despite her hard appearance, she had a subtle attractiveness that Fal and Sav could hardly take their eyes off.
Fal spoke next, clearly confused. ‘What’s going on?’
‘No time to explain,’ Errolas replied hurriedly, as he looked back down the corridor to his left. ‘We have to move, now!’
Errolas disappeared then, along with Starks and their female companion, who was dressed in fitted black leather armour and openly carrying two curved swords. Before leaving, she hesitated just long enough to gesture for the two captives to follow.
Fal and Sav looked at each other and Sav shrugged and then grinned. ‘Better than swinging from a rope,’ he said, before running from the room, Fal hard on his heels.
Chapter 21: Knockers
A bell rang in the distance. It echoed eerily through the prison’s maze of passageways cut into the northern cliffs of Wesson. The group had been running for just a few minutes, but Fal’s head was spinning from the blow he’d received in Execution Square, and Sav kept hauling him roughly along every time he stumbled in the dim light. Errolas was just in front of the two friends, shining his star stone ahead, just enough for the unknown woman to lead the way. Godsiff Starks brought up the rear, his crossbow slung across his back and a short-sword in his right hand. He kept stopping and looking back every so often, listening for following footsteps.
Fal was surprised at how well Starks’ leg had healed, but not as surprised as he was to see the lad there, in the prison… not as surprised as he was to see any of them there in the prison.
As the group followed the woman around a corner and into an extremely narrow corridor lined with cage-like cells, a dozen grubby and boil infested hands burst through the bars to grab at the passers-by. Despite keeping quite a pace, the woman managed to shrug away the one hand that took hold of her arm. Another man tried to grab her behind, but cried out in pain as she turned without stopping to slice his forearm with her sword. As the man cried out, so did his cell mates, screeching like animals as they threw mud, stones and worse through the bars of the cells. A stone flew towards Errolas, which he batted away with his closed left hand, briefly causing the star stone’s beam of light to cast across the cell.
Fal almost retched at the sight of the bearded men hunched over with wild unkempt hair, filthy boil marked faces and dead-looking eyes. The stench contributed to Fal’s nausea; in the brief glimpse he caught, he saw piles of excrement mixed in with what looked like a rotting corpse.
‘Keep moving. Hurry,’ the woman shouted, and Fal realised he'd unwittingly slowed to take in the horrid scene. More arms reached for him from the other side of the corridor and he batted them away, as prisoners spat and threw more makeshift missiles his way. Fal didn’t want to know what it was that hit his knee, for it was far from solid, and so he moved on as fast as he could in the dim light provided by the elf just ahead.
‘Stay with us, Starks, don’t drop too far back,’ Fal shouted, as they turned another corner and left the grasping hands and screeching wastes of men behind.
‘Right with you, Sarge. Glad to have you back,’ Starks said, and Fal could hear the sincerity in the young crossbowman’s voice.
Glad to be back lad, whatever ‘back’ means now we’re fleeing the prison.
Fal quickly turned to look at the crossbowman, and as he did, he ran into Errolas in front, who managed to stay on his feet whilst Fal crashed hard to the ground.
Sav picked a cursing Fal up and they both realised the woman had stopped. She pulled Errolas forward and asked him to cast a beam of light down the corridor. None of the three men behind the front two could see anything but a dead end.
They took the opportunity – in what might only be a brief respite – to catch their breaths. Fal rested his hands on his knees and Sav leant against the stone wall. As he did, he jumped and pulled away from it. ‘Eeuw… it’s wet,’ he said. ‘We’re not in carved corridors now, this tunnel’s natural rock.’
Fal straightened and ran his hands across the cold surface of the wall, which was uneven and jagged in some places, yet smooth and wet in others. The floor, however, had been flattened, and Fal guessed the tunnel had been started but never finished.
‘What now?’ Fal wiped his wet hands on his woollen hose and looked to the group’s leaders. Receiving no reply, he looked to Sav, who shrugged.
Errolas and the woman muttered to each other before she edged ever so slowly forward, guided by Errolas’ light. She moved down the tunnel towards the far end – the dead end.
A bell rang again in the distance and although the crazed prisoners in the caged cells had quietened down, Fal could still hear the odd shriek and manic laugh, which sent a shiver down his spine.
Fal, along with Sav and Starks, stared past Errolas, following the elf’s light and the woman’s progress.
Not one of them dared speak until, with a loud crack and rumble, a section of stone ceiling gave way. Dust filled the t
unnel as rocks crashed down between the woman and the rest of them. Fal and Sav looked at each other after ducking instinctively, whilst Starks spun round to face the way they'd come, a bolt now resting on the groove of his crossbow – which he’d taken hold of and made ready when they'd stopped.
‘Don’t panic,’ Errolas said, his voice as calm as ever.
‘But the lass?’ Sav shouted, ‘what if she’s—’
‘Boo!’
Fal and Sav both jumped.
The female voice came from beside Sav’s head and he almost crashed into the low ceiling as he jumped. Errolas laughed and walked through what looked like a solid rock wall. Fal gazed mouth open, but before he could say anything, a female hand emerged through the liquid-like rock and took hold of his arm. He felt himself being pulled hard, and through the wall he went.
Sav looked to Starks and tried to compose himself, although his expression gave away his shock and embarrassment.
Starks turned, took the bolt off his crossbow, placed it in a pouch on his belt and relaxed the string. He strapped the weapon onto his back and laughed as he shoved Sav into the fluidic rock, before following him through.
Once through the liquid wall, Fal and Sav realised they were in what looked like an ancient mine shaft. Thick wooden beams held the ceiling and walls back, and Sav shuddered at the thought of how deep they must be. Only then did he realised they'd been running down slight gradients most of the way from the cell; constantly travelling deeper into the cliffs and the depths beneath the prison. The tunnel they now stood in seemed to continue where the other had ended, although it ran parallel to the other tunnel, as if the whole thing had shifted across to the side before it continued.
‘An illusion barrier,’ Errolas announced. ‘It hides the true way from the last tunnel into this one.’
Fal and Sav still looked confused and so Errolas said, ‘My explanation wouldn’t do it justice, but the ceiling didn’t really collapse… I’m sure you get the idea.’