by Philip Smith
They wound through the hallway, going deeper and deeper into the mountainside. The dim green light provided an eerie glow on the walls. It shadowed every crack and crevice in the stone, every splinter in the creaky joists spanning the ceiling.
“Do you think this is the right tunnel?” Dinendale asked the wizard. A huge iron door stood around the next bend. It was thick, with a single-barred window revealing torch light from the room within.
“I’d wager a guess,” Woodcarver whispered as he quietly approached the window. He peered in, and a moment later, looked at Dinendale.
“Dungeon,” he whispered.
“Guards?” Dinendale asked.
“One jailer. Sleeping. Could be more down the other corridors.”
“All this and it comes down to one jailer?”
“I don’t like it. It’s almost too easy.”
“What should we do?” Dinendale queried.
“Oh, I don’t know, get the bloody princess?” Woodcarver whispered, bending down to the cast iron lock. He paused for a moment.
“Poor choice of words. I apologize.”
“Do you have a spell that could open this?” Dinendale asked.
Woodcarver sniffed. “You can’t solve every problem with a wand and a spell, Dinendale. Or did you not keep your magic long enough to learn that?”
“You’re really going to talk about this now?” Dinendale glared at Woodcarver for a long uncomfortable moment.
The magician rolled his eyes and pulled a small set of lockpicks from his belt. He placed them into the oversized keyhole, twisting it gently. Following several attempts, the lock clicked open. They slipped in, careful not to let the damp, hinges squeak.
The jailer passed gas in his snore-laden sleep, and Dinendale felt himself gag. The man was a gristly fellow, thin as a stalk of corn. A several-day old beard adorned his grimy face, and he breathed through greyish teeth. An empty liquor bottle leaned against his bare torso. His skin was covered in smudges, greasy dirt, and twisted tattoos. He rested with his chair propped against the left entrance where he sat snoring as comfortably as a babe in a cradle.
Dinendale and Woodcarver entered under the arched roof. A cave spread forward as long as they could see, splitting into a T-shaped hall at the end. Thick oak doors covered cells on each side of the cave dotted with small, barred windows that allowed the prisoners to see into the hallway. Dinendale heaved at the stench filling the air. He knew the scent of death and imagined it clawing at his chest. The walls of this wretched place may have gotten taller since he was last here, but that smell hadn’t changed a bit.
Dinendale knelt next to the jailer, looking for the man’s keys. He saw them attached to the man’s belt by a thin iron hoop. Though he did not count, the ring held at least several dozen. He began to reach for them, when the man snorted and his eyes flickered open. The elf held absolutely still, while the drunk’s bloodshot eyes tried to focus on him. Then the jailer’s eyes squinted at Woodcarver. The drunken man almost gathered enough of his wits to see them, but his head slumped back to his boney bosom with a snort and a shuffle.
Dinendale breathed a sigh and took the keys.
“We should dispatch him,” Woodcarver hissed.
Din’s eyes snapped over to the magician in disbelief. “Kill him?”
“We can hardly risk him waking and sounding the alarm.”
“We’re not going to stab an unarmed man in his sleep,” Dinendale snapped. The jailer let out another loud snore and both warriors tensed.
“Don’t be a fool,” Woodcarver whispered again, squeezing his fist and releasing one of the blades out of his gloves.
“Don’t be like one of them,” Dinendale snapped back. Woodcarver glared at the elf for a moment, then shrugged.
“Fine. It’s your hide. Let’s find her and get out as quick as we can,” Woodcarver urged softly. Dinendale nodded, then walked down the corridor; the elf looked in the left side, the wizard on the right. The first few cells were empty, but the farther ones were all filled. The pitiful sight of emaciated men, chained to the solid stone walls made Dinendale shudder. The prisoners slept, not noticing their seeking eyes. The duo gazed with increasing anger at these poor souls locked in the cells. Occasionally, the inmates moaned or squirmed in their sleep.
At the end of the row of prisoners, Dinendale stopped abruptly. The inmate in the third cell from the split-hallway caught his attention.
“Woodcarver!” Dinendale hissed. The magician immediately stopped and came to his side.
In the cell lay the shape of a female figure. She was thin and frail, dressed in rags. Her ankles and wrists were red and chaffed with the thrall rings that encircled them. She had ratted long hair, and her body was as thin as a dessert tree in a draught.
“Princess?” Dinendale hissed. There was no answer. The figure was still, unmoving. Dinendale searched the keychain till he found the skeleton key in the center; the one key that could open all the cells, and he inserted it into the lock.
The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and the two warriors entered quickly. Woodcarver bent down to the motionless form and took a finger below the woman’s neck. He looked up and his eyes held a sadness that made Dinendale’s heart skip.
“No,” Dinendale whispered. “No, not…”
“Dead,” Woodcarver finished. “Her body is stone cold. She’s been gone at least a day.”
“No,” Dinendale hissed through clenched teeth, turning his back to the wizard. He knew he couldn’t cry out aloud because of the jailer, so he pounded his fist over and over again into the solid rock, making a dull, thudding noise with the soft part of his hand.
“No, no, NO,” he hissed. “Not again.” Dinendale slumped onto the ground by Olivian’s lifeless figure. He cradled her head in his hands for a long moment.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Woodcarver consoled.
Dinendale lifted bloodshot eyes to behold the magician.
“Olivian is dead. I made a promise to save her. What am I going to tell Paige?”
“You tell her the truth. You can’t fix everything, Dinendale.” Woodcarver placed his hand on Dinendale’s shoulder.
“We could have been here sooner!” he spat. “I promised.”
“Promises mean nothing if they aren’t in your power to guarantee.”
“But I failed her.” Hot, angry tears poured down his cheekbones. “I failed Paige.”
“Shut up,” Woodcarver thrust a hand over the elf’s mouth to cease his self-loathing. “Don’t talk to me about failing. I failed her father. I wasn’t there for him. But you don’t see me blubbering on about it do you? Only thing to do is to get her body and get out of here.”
“I don’t-”
“Shhh. Did you hear that?” Woodcarver hissed.
“Hear what?” the elf asked.
“Listen,” the man hushed. Dinendale was quiet but heard nothing at first. But then heard the faintest wisp of a whisper from outside the cold stone room. It was soft, but not inaudible. The sound then broke into hushed sobs, and Dinendale backed out of the cell. They were coming from two cells down, the chambers they hadn’t yet searched.
Dinendale looked into the cell, and found the source of the noise. It was a young lady, dressed in rags that would have been white at one time. She peered out through dirty, matted hair.
The girl looked up and saw Dinendale in the moonlight. He stared, her red-rimmed eyes bloodshot with sobbing and fear. Her cheekbones stood out on her thin face, and dark circles ran under her eyes. The same blue crystal eyes Dinendale had seen many times before, only not on her.
“Just kill me!” she sobbed. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I would rather be dead than endure another single night in this pit.”
“What is your name, girl?” Dinendale hurriedly found the skeleton key.
“Why would any of you care? You animals are all the same. Now just get it over with,” she nearly screamed.
“Shut her up!” Woodcarver hissed.
“But what is your name?” Dinendale whispered.
“Olivian.”
Dinendale looked at Woodcarver in disbelief. Had he heard her correctly? This couldn’t be.
“Meya Cara, nofayne en emategh,” Dinendale whispered.
I am a friend, not an enemy.
The girl’s head snapped up. She looked at the elf with a dawning realization.
“Are you… are you here to take me to heaven?” She whispered.
“No, Princess. Not yet. My name is Dinendale, and we’re here to rescue you.”
She stared in wild disbelief, then her eyes rolled back in their sockets, and she slumped to the floor. Dinendale shoved the key into the lock and wiggled it, but the lock did not open.
“What’s wrong? This is supposed to open every door,” Dinendale snapped.
“It must need a different key,” Woodcarver cursed tartly.
“Which one?” Dinendale said, looking through the plethora of keys on the ring and finding nothing.
“This one?” a voice growled from behind. The duo spun around to see the jailer, standing with a drawn scimitar in his right hand and a cast iron key in his left.
Dinendale immediately drew his sword while Woodcarver backed up to the wall. The jailer stood tall. His muscles swelled as he grinned, showing off more gold teeth than Dinendale had fingers.
“Going somewhere, gents? Trying to make off with my prized pigeon?” His voice was deep like a roll of thunder, and he jingled the lone key in a mocking manner.
“Smart for a human,” Dinendale said, his brown eyes narrowed to mere slits. “You had a special lock made.”
“What can I say? My lord is a brilliant man.” The jailer spat, chewed tar raining down on the stone floor. He tucked the key ring on his belt and held the scimitar with both hands.
“Get the princess out of here,” Dinendale whispered behind to Woodcarver. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the wizard nod in acknowledgement.
“How fortunate for me. Now I can give my lord two more bodies this morning,” the soldier sneered. Dinendale gripped his sword with both hands, ready for battle.
“If you want us, come and get us, Raven-head,” he called.
The the jailer rushed toward them. Dinendale ground his left boot into the floor for traction. The jailer charged like a lion leaping at a gazelle. But this particular gazelle was actually a panther, and Dinendale bared his teeth, ready to battle.
The clash of steel resounded in the dim light. Sparks flew as the blades connected and slid on impact. A series of harsh blows and attacks followed, the jailer hacking like a madman as the elf met each blow with parries. Dinendale blocked overhead, then thrust outwards at the mans stomach. He missed.
Dinendale blocked as the jailer slid his blade down to the elf’s hand guard. It glanced off the hilt and cut Din’s upper arm through the leather vambrace. Dinendale cried out in pain, but managed to block the next blow as they circled in the hallway.
“I’m cutting you up into ribbons for jerky, you elfin scum!” the man shouted. Dinendale felt his strength leaving him. His body wouldn’t handle the fight much longer with so many wounds already endured through the journey. He felt the hot blood dripping down his arm and off his elbow. The weariness and pain made it nearly impossible to do much more than parry. There had to be another way.
The jailer stabbed with the scimitar blade wrenching Dinendale’s sword free. The metal clanked on the ground out of reach. The Shaud kicked the elf in the stomach so hard, Dinendale flew through the door of an empty cell and felt his shoulder dislocate as he slammed into the solid wood.
“Goodnight, elf.” The jailer picked up Dinendale’s sword and backed him farther into the cell. The man raised his own sword to stab the defenceless elf in the heart.
Dinendale’s eyes caught a movement behind the man and gave the jailer a mirthless smile. “Say goodnight yourself,” he said.
The jailer laughed. Abruptly the laugh turned to gutteral coughs as two thin blades flashed through his bosom. They disappeared just as quick with a sickening shlick. The jailer gave a creaking gasp and fell face first to the stone floor, lifeless as the granite he landed upon.
Woodcarver stood behind the now lifeless corpse with two bloodstained saber blades protruding from his gloves. He was breathing hard, looking at the Shaud’s motionless body. Dinendale stood up, wiping the sweat and blood off his face.
“Say hello to Locamnen for me,” Dinendale spat at the body, wrenching his shoulder back into place. He looked up at Woodcarver. “I told you to get her out of here!”
“He had the key, remember?” Woodcarver chuckled.
Dinendale rolled his eyes.
“In that case, help a few moments sooner might have been nice, old one!”
“You seemed to be handling it, but I figured it would do neither I nor the princess good to see you dead,” the magician said.
Dinendale nodded. “You’re right. Olivian needs to get out of here,” he said, glancing at the cell. A burst of Woodcarver’s obnoxious laughter caught him off guard.
“What?” Dinendale demanded.
“Oh, no. I meant the other princess. You’d be no good to Paige dead, now would you?”
Dinendale scoffed as he bent down to the jailer’s body and took the key from his belt. It entered the lock smoothly, attesting to it’s newness. Feridar obviously protected his prizes.
Woodcarver picked the locks of Olivian’s chains. Then the magician checked her over for any major, immediate injuries and broken bones. While the magician did that, Dinendale tore a bit of his sleeve and bound the wound on his arm.
“You’re no good to carry anything with your arm like that. I’ll get her out,” Woodcarver said. “Duelmaster and those two asinine dunces will be needing all the help they can get, I suspect. You go get the others, and try not to get into any fights, you’re in no condition and I can’t heal you.”
“You shouldn’t take her without backup,” Dinendale pushed, pulling the knot of the bandage tight with his teeth. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Woodcarver said. “You’ll slow me down faster than you will the others.”
Dinendale bit his lip as Woodcarver picked up the frail princess. He took a long look at the poor girl, and brushed back the matted hair from out of her face. Even in her frail state, she was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen.
“Take care of her,” Dinendale said, and the wizard nodded.
“Sirs?”
The two looked to the left and noticed that several of the other prisoners had come to the barred windows of their cells. One in particular addressed them with smokey, hollow eyes.
“Please help us,” he begged, his eyes welled up with tears that streamed into his white beard. “Please!”
Dinendale worked his jaw in frustration. They didn’t have time for this, yet they could not just leave these men to their cruel doom.
“What is your name, friend?” Dinendale approached the cell.
“Hamish the Cooper, sir,” he said.
“Why are you in here, Hamish the Cooper?” Dinendale searched the man’s haggard face.
“Stole a loaf of bread,” Hamish stared at the the floor, refusing to look the elf in the eyes. “To feed my sweet Eufrasia. We were starving.”
Dinendale scanned the man’s face for any sign of deception but saw only sincerity. He quickly inserted the skeleton key on the jailer’s key ring and opened the door. It swung out with a loud creaking noise that echoed down the chamber. Several other prisoners sleepily poked their noses through their windows.
“I have little time, so pay attention,” the elf hissed. “This is a Skeleton key. Free yourself and anyone of the others. Do you know how to escape this wretched place?”
“I’ve been planning an escape from here for weeks. I think we can manage.”
“How will you get out?”
“We’ll go through the ash shuttle on the south side of the palace,” he said, qui
te confident. “I know the guardhouse on that side is hardly ever attentive.”
“There’s an ash shuttle?” Dinendale felt the interest burning in his chest. Hamish nodded, rubbing his chafed wrists where the shackles had held him captive.