by Jenner, M
“Dig, you pigdogs!” an orc guard snarled, cracking the whip above Nuran’s head. They grabbed pickaxes from the ground around them and started to work. They looked around at the other prisoners for clues as to what they should be doing, and tried to blend in as quickly as possible. The guard moved on, cracking his whip at another human further down the line.
“This is hell! We need to get out of here, and fast,” Galandrik shouted across to the others, raising his voice to be heard above all the other noises surrounding them.
“How do you intend on doing that, exactly?” Kern answered, swinging his pickaxe half-heartedly.
“There must be over fifty guards down here, and they all have big sharp weapons. Furthermore, we are shackled to each other; I think the odds are in their favour, don’t you?” Nuran said sarcastically.
“I don’t care! Even if I have to chew through my own leg and fight a hundred and one of them, I am not staying here!” Galandrik smashed his pickaxe into the rock.
“They will have to let us out for air and food, surely?” Nuran said, thrashing the ground with his own pickaxe.
“Yes. We will have to see how the land lies later and work out an escape plan,” Kern replied. “And at least they didn’t separate us – that improves our chances considerably.”
The three captives fell silent and bent resentfully to their work. After an hour or two a tall elven male approached them. A short chain between his ankles limited his stride, and he was carrying an empty sack. “Hello,” he said cheerfully, “I haven’t seen you three before. Just been caught?”
Nuran grunted. “Yes, they caught us a couple of days ago at the Norse Keep. We arrived today.”
“A little tip from me – keep working when you’re talking, otherwise a guard will belt you,” the man said as he opened the sack.
“I’m Kern. How long have you been here?”
“About two months. You need to be strong, so eat whatever they give you. A weak slave is a dead slave. Keep your spirit and strength up the best you can. Do as you’re told and one day you might get a chance to escape. Personally, I have only heard of five attempts – but that doesn’t mean any succeeded.” He nodded meaningfully to the side of the slope near the entrance. Five poles stood there, each bearing a head speared onto its upper end.
“I see.” Kern gave Galandrik a meaningful nod. The dwarf scowled and turned away.
“I am Nuran,” the paladin said, “and our dwarven friend here is Galandrik. He’s in a bad mood. He hates orcs.” Galandrik’s pick thudded into the rock floor, and he didn’t look up.
“We all hate them. Wearing yourself out hitting the ground like that will only get you whipped once you’re too tired to work anymore. And don’t think breaking your tools will help,” the elf said as Galandrik rained violent blows on the rocky earth. “They’ll just punish you for that too! Remember – a weak slave is a dead slave. Keep working steadily, but conserve as much energy as you can. I’m Jarrow,” the elf added as he filled his sack with coal.
“When do they feed us?” Kern asked.
“Three times a day. The first two are down here and the last one is when you finish and they take you out of here. They swap you out for the night shift. The food is terrible and we dread to think what it is, but they need to keep us fit enough to work. Our beds are in the little huts at the base of the big tower,” Jarrow explained.
“Heavily guarded?” Kern continued with his line of questioning.
“Not really. Where you going to run to? If you haven’t noticed, there’s mountain on three sides; the only open side is a marsh that leads to the sea. Mix that with the fact that you’re shackled to two other prisoners, I’d say the chance of actually escaping is slim.” Jarrow smiled to soften the words a bit as he put the last of the coal into his sack.
“Even so, we can’t stay here like this. I’d rather take my chances in the marsh shackled to these two,” Kern snapped.
“Good luck then! Here comes a guard, speak again soon,” Jarrow answered as he dragged the sack of coal away towards a furnace, getting a kick from the guard as he walked past.
“I hate to say it, but we really need Ty and his lock-picks,” Galandrik admitted.
“Would be handy, I agree, but these shackles look rusty,” Kern said. “Maybe we could smash them open.”
“I wonder why they took Sol and Ty away,” Nuran pondered.
“Not exactly the burliest of people, were they? Maybe they’ve set them doing something else,” Galandrik muttered. “Cooking our dinner or something.”
“Maybe they are our dinner!” Kern grinned, trying to lift their spirits.
“Don’t even think that! I hate the taste of rat,” Nuran laughed half-heartedly, but Galandrik only scowled more fiercely.
“I’m kidding,” Kern said. “They’re probably cooking or doing something less physically demanding, but just as horrid as this.”
“I doubt that very much,” Galandrik grumbled.
“Look out, another guard,” Kern warned the others.
The orc guard stopped behind the trio. Dressed in filthy dark brown leather armour, he was a fearsome sight. His fangs protruded from his mouth, curling upward towards his crooked nose, which was adorned with a ring. The light green skin of his hefty arms and legs bulged with oversized muscle. The whip he carried in his hand dragged along the ground.
“A little dwarf, how sweet,” he grunted in broken Human. Kern glanced over at Galandrik, who ignored the comment and slammed his pickaxe into the stone.
“Rubbish at digging, dwarves,” the guard continued conversationally. Galandrik carried on, trying not to let the guard bother him. “Even the elves put more into it.” At this, Galandrik stood up straight and took a deep breath.
“Easy, Galandrik,” Nuran said.
“Shut it, human filth!” The orc’s whip cracked inches away from Nuran’s head.
“Dig, dwarf!” the orc jeered. “We had a girl dwarf here last week. She was fun,” the orc goaded Galandrik. “We all liked her!”
With that Galandrik turned and charged towards the orc. Before he was even close, his chains tightened and he fell face-first into the dirt and stones. Nuran’s ankle shackle was yanked by Galandrik’s fall, and Nuran toppled over too. The orc placed his foot in the centre of Galandrik’s back, and the dwarf writhed under the pressure.
“She screamed when I gutted her, too,” the orc continued, then stepped away from the three of them as he shouted, “DIG!” His whip cracked once more, and Galandrik felt it rip across his back. He and Nuran got clumsily to their feet, and picking up his pickaxe, Galandrik struck blindly down into the dirt as the orc watched. He could feel blood trickling down his arm from the sharp rocks the orc’s foot had ground him into.
“Don’t stop again, or I’ll gut you like I did her,” the orc finished, and walked on to the next line of captives.
When he was a safe distance away, Galandrik spoke without breaking his rhythm. “Sorry, Nuran. He knew what buttons to push.”
“That’s okay. Just try to take it easy – they can make our life even more of a hell than it already is.”
“Yes, it won’t happen again. Fucking orcs.”
The guards did their rounds every thirty minutes or so, and the time passed without further commotion. The whip cracked a few times, but it was more a gesture of power than an attempt to actually cause any damage. Even orcs knew an injured man couldn’t dig.
They were given three water breaks, which seemed to come in roughly two-hour intervals. As the time approached for what they thought should be the fourth water break, anticipation made them feel even thirstier – but the fourth water break never came. Instead, after what seemed like hours, the day-shift slaves were lined up and led out of the pit, up the slope toward the huts. Lines of slaves, all shackled in threes, trundled up into the cold open air of the night. The sweat that had formed during their hours of labour was instantly chilled nearly to freezing, and they shivered in the moonlight. The silvery
light shone down on them, revealing the massive black tower and the hundreds of smaller structures all around its base. The prisoners were herded to various different huts as other slaves were led past them in the opposite direction – down into the pit, to continue the night’s work.
The three prisoners were led to a small hut, barely large enough to accommodate four slaves. Their guard shoved them into the single cramped room. Four straw beds lined the floor, and in the middle of the hut a metal cauldron hung over a smoking fire. Smoke rose towards the hole in the tapered ceiling, wafting away into the night.
The chain between them was long enough to let them each occupy a bed. Four battered tin bowls were scattered on the floor; Kern dished out the stew. It was the first meal they’d had since before their capture, and their hunger far outweighed their concerns about the taste or who had prepared the food. Against one wall rested a jug of water and four wooden cups; green leaves floated on top of the water.
They were about to wash the horrid taste of the stew out of their mouths with the equally horrid-tasting water, when the iron-barred door of the hut opened and Jarrow was pushed into the room.
“Well, we meet again. Saved any for me?” Jarrow picked up the last bowl and spooned out his share.
“Have you ever thought about escaping?” Nuran asked Jarrow, not wasting time with any small talk.
“Nope, not yet – but I am up for a try,” Jarrow answered. “I won’t do suicide runs like some have, though.”
Kern poured himself a cup of water and picked out a floating leaf, throwing it onto the floor. “What are the leaves for, in the water?”
“We don’t really know. Some people say it’s to make you work harder; some say it makes them sleep. I think it’s just to disguise the taste of the crap water,” Jarrow said, finishing off his meagre bowl of stew.
Nuran lay back onto a straw bed and drifted off into a much-needed sleep.
“He has the right idea,” Jarrow said, nodding at the slumbering paladin. “You’ll need to sleep hard to work hard, trust me.” He scraped the last spoonful of stew from the bottom of the cauldron.
“I agree. We’ll talk again tomorrow and work out a way to leave this prison,” Kern said, lying back and shutting his eyes. Galandrik lay awake, cursing the orcs and all they stood for as he listened to the steady breathing of the others; then his eyes, too, slowly closed.
Hodash and Grig marched Solomon and Ty to the main door of the Sanorgk Tower. The tower guards nodded at Grig as the four climbed the staircase leading up to the door. There was a guard standing at either end of every fifth step, each with a tall spear and large tower shield. Ty counted at least six pairs of guards as they climbed, their armour brighter and cleaner than the armour worn by the orc troops. This tower was clearly home to someone or something powerful, he mused.
The massive tower doors swung open and the prisoners were pushed in, their hands still tied behind their backs. The room they found themselves in was bigger than they might have imagined. In the centre, standing some thirty feet tall, was a statue of a tall, slim orc woman. A crown rested upon her head and her right hand bore a massive staff capped with a crystal orb. Her gown was regal and clung to her curves, a golden belt around her waist, golden tassels dangling. Gold and silver leaf covered her shoulders and arms. In the privacy of their own minds, Ty and Solomon both thought, This must be Queen Valla.
On the far side of the statue were doors – and lots of them. Orcs buzzed about everywhere. Opposite the captives, a set of stairs led up to a second-floor balcony; how high these steps went they couldn’t tell, but they seemed to go up forever. Ty could smell food cooking; a glance at Solomon showed that the guide was clearly just as hungry as he was. To either side of the stairs sat two great wooden lifts. Thick ropes descended from the dizzy heights of the tower to attach to the tops of the lifts, and the walls of each were made of no more than wooden slats and iron bars.
The orcs pushed their captives towards the lift on the right. Their rope restraints were cut away, replaced by locked metal wrist bands, joined by a chain. As they entered the rickety-looking lift, they each received a blow to the back, sending them sprawling down to the floor.
“No need!” Ty winced through gritted teeth, his eyes squinting with the sudden pain. The orcs stood above them, swords drawn. Just outside the lift, a massive orc pulled down the lift gate, then turned to the side, nodding to someone they couldn’t see. Slowly the lift began to move upwards, rocking and swaying as it did. As they ascended through the heart of the tapering tower, the levels got smaller and smaller. Some levels revealed four or five doors going round in a circle; some had a lone set of double doors. Other levels seemed to have no rooms or doors at all, only an open circular walkway with small slits for windows, probably used by archers many moons gone by. The lift eventually creaked to a halt, and Ty thought they must be near the top.
A burly orc guard opened the lift door from the other side. Ty and Solomon were hauled to their feet and ushered across onto the walkway. Once the lift was empty, the big guard closed the lift door and shut the handrail; the lift then started moving slowly downwards. Ty glanced over the handrail and watched as the lift slowly descended, until a slightly less enormous guard prodded him roughly forward.
Solomon looked around the level and counted five iron-barred gates locking the rooms beyond. Prison cells, he thought immediately. The rooms spanned one half of the circular level, and an enormous set of wooden double-doors occupied most of the opposite half.
As the rising lift approached eye level, Ty was able to see all their possessions stacked inside it, along with two more orc guards. The lift carried on upwards and out of sight. He looked at his wrists, where his daggers used to be, and bit his lip. Grig and Hodash prodded them to within a few feet of an iron-barred door, and they all waited as another orc fumbled for his ring of keys. Eventually he found the correct key and unlocked the door, and the prisoners were pushed inside.
The prison cell was spartan. Two wooden beds sat opposite each other against the walls, three or four thin blankets heaped on each with a couple of stuffed hempen sacks acting as pillows; Ty didn’t like to think about what the stuffing might consist of. Completing the room’s décor, a wooden bucket sat against the far wall, and a sparse layer of straw covered the floor.
As they looked around, they heard the door lock shut behind them.
Hodash and Grig moved along to the next door, followed by the other two orcs. Ty and Solomon could hear the door being opened and some words being exchanged; they watched as a human prisoner was led out with hands chained together in front of him. He was led around to the far side of the level and through the double doors. One of the orcs stood guard outside, while the other made his rounds of the cells, inspecting all the rooms and their prisoners.
The sounds of screaming and shouting came from behind the double doors. Ty waited for the guard to pass by their cell before looking to Solomon. “When do you think we’ll be dragged in there?” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I don’t know, but let’s hope we’re not. By the sounds of that, it doesn’t bode well.”
“Tonight we escape,” Ty said, looking around the cell as if looking for another way out.
“I admire your enthusiasm, dear friend, but how do think you can do that? We’re at the top of a tower with hundreds of orc guards all around us, locked in a cell – oh! and shackled!” Solomon’s sense of defeat was clear in his voice.
Ty glanced around discreetly, making sure the guard was well clear before pulling a small leather pouch from his boot. “Well, this is a start,” he said, slipping the pouch under the hemp-sack pillow.
“Your thief’s picks?” Solomon whispered, hopeful enthusiasm tinging his voice.
“No, these are my tools, dear friend. No prison can hold me, which is why they call me The Rat,” Ty said arrogantly.
They both fell silent as one of the orc guards made another sweep of the landing. When he had passed by, Ty retrie
ved the pouch and unrolled it.
“What do you intend to do, exactly?” Solomon asked, keeping a watchful eye on the guard.
“For now, I’m just going to practice unlocking these,” Ty said, working on the wrist restraints. “It’s difficult with one hand. Then we have to hope he doesn’t drag us in there tonight.”
After a couple of hours, the double doors on the far side opened and the two guards entered the room beyond. They reappeared in a few moments, dragging the human back to his cell. One orc held him up on either side; his head sagged as his feet slid across the stone floor. They heard the cell door open and a groan as the human was thrown in forcefully, then the sound of the door being slammed shut and the key locking it.
The guards resumed their patrol as Hodash and Grig emerged from the far room, closing the double doors behind them. Grig patted one of the patrolling orcs on the shoulder as their paths crossed, and joined Hodash to wait at the lift gate. When the lift arrived, the larger guard secured the lift door behind them, then resumed his watch.
“So what’s the plan? I don’t think we are getting dragged into that room tonight,” Solomon whispered.
“I think you’re right. We must act tonight. If we wait, we risk getting butchered by those monsters tomorrow.”
“So what is The Rat’s master plan, then?”
“You see the lift rope? That’s my way up.”
“And then what?” Solomon kept his voice low, one watchful eye on the patrolling guards.
“Hopefully find a window or some other way to leave this foul tower.”
“What about me?” Solomon added to Ty’s ever-increasing list of problems.
“Well, I saw our equipment go up in the other lift. If I can find it and retrieve some weapons, we could fight these two down here – then we both go up and escape.”
“Grab my backpack if you see it. I have something in there that could get us down safely if we need to jump from a height,” Solomon said.