Paladin's Prize

by Gaelen Foley

  “If you ask me, it’s probably his big mouth that got him into this. Oh, never mind. Just promise me you’ll be careful. I need you, you know.”

  “How sweet,” she murmured, turning to him. “Do try not to worry so. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “How can I not worry? Look at that place! You’re my wife! What kind of husband lets his lady enter such a hellhole?”

  “One who respects her abilities! Calm down,” Wrynne ordered, losing patience. She was already nervous enough about this, and his misgivings were starting to make her doubt herself. “You know the Daughters of the Rose regularly visit prisons as part of our good works. I’ve done this before—not here, but elsewhere. The point is, when the guards see me, it won’t seem strange to them at all. Your showing up on their doorstep would be another story entirely.”

  “But the sisters rarely go alone,” he pointed out.

  “I am honestly going to throttle you! Are you trying to make me lose my nerve?”

  He just looked at her, and, the dear man, she could see the genuine distress in his eyes. “Of course not.”

  Marriage and a couple of days of lovemaking before they’d had to leave had only strengthened their bond and deepened their engrossment in each other. If their love was merely a side effect of the Kiss of Life spell, it still showed no signs of wearing off.

  “Don’t you believe in me?” she asked.

  “I do. I just…want to keep you safe.”

  “Listen,” she said softly, “I’ll let you in on a little secret that should make you feel better about this. I know I’m not going to die in there, because the oracle informed me I have a destiny to fulfill further off in time.”

  “Wait, what? You didn’t tell me! Destiny? What did she prophesy about you?”

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  “Oh.” He paused, brow furrowed. “Was it good or bad, at least?”

  “Good. Very good. Now give me a kiss for luck, because I’m doing this. I have to go.”

  He bent down and brushed a quick kiss to her lips, though the scowl never left his face. She couldn’t help but smile dotingly. He was so amusing, her Clank.

  “This should do,” Piero said, nodding at the stack of a dozen pies the men had created out of thin air.

  “Excellent.” Pulling up the hood of her gray cloak, she rested her staff lengthwise across her shoulders like a yoke, then told them to tie one of the cloth bundles of stacked pies on each end.

  “Are you sure it’s not too heavy for you?” her new husband asked once they did so.

  “Thaydor!” she said in exasperation.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “Go.”

  With that, Wrynne left their hiding place and walked the mile up the dusty road. The hulking dungeon loomed before her, looking even more ominous as darkness descended. Her heart pounded, butterflies tickled in her stomach, and she felt very alone, but she refused to cower. The bundles of food swung gently with her every stride.

  It was somewhat reassuring to know that Thaydor and the others were watching over her with bows drawn to cover her if there was any sign of trouble, but she was soon out of range.

  At last, she reached the brooding stone barbican at the dungeon’s entrance, where the outer portcullis was raised. Half a dozen guards were already waiting for her there with narrowed eyes and bristling stances.

  They had seen her coming. A few took no interest, leaning casually here and there around the gatehouse, but she had seen a couple of them watching her approach for the past few minutes.

  It was too dark for them to tell from a distance who or what she was, so their wariness was understandable. When she stepped into the edge of their torches’ glow, however, they relaxed. One little woman on her own was clearly not enough to worry six big, armed men.

  “Greetings in the name of Father Ilios,” she called, loud enough for them all to hear as she walked up to the mouth of the building.

  “Mistress,” one of them greeted her warily.

  They allowed her to step past the raised outer portcullis under the archway and into the torch-lit shelter of the squat stone building that guarded the dungeon’s entrance.

  “What brings you out alone at this hour, lady?”

  She let out a large sigh. “The hour of my arrival was by accident, believe me. Getting here took longer than I thought.” She set her burden down with a weary smile. “I’ve come to offer the consolation of our god to the prisoners within.”

  The guard’s skeptical glance flicked to her packages. “What’s in the bundles?”

  “A donation of food from our chapter house.”

  “Captain?” the guard called to his superior, who then joined them.

  A lean, swarthy man in his thirties, the captain was distinguished by the brown leather armor shaped to his chest, with plain pewter rivets on his epaulets marking his rank. He looked her over with a businesslike nod. “You one of them Rose ladies?”

  “Yes, sir.” She lifted her chin and showed him the necklace around her throat, proof of her affiliation.

  He seemed satisfied, though suspicion of everyone and everything seemed bred into him after dealing with criminals all day. “We don’t see much of your kind around here.”

  She nodded. “That’s why I was sent. We realize we’ve been neglecting your establishment for too long. I was chosen to be sent here because I am also a healer. If I can be of service to any of your prisoners—or yourselves—please allow me to honor the Father by sharing the gift he has bestowed upon me with any of your people who are seriously injured or ill.”

  Some of the guards paid no attention, already digging into the food, but the first one still looked skeptical.

  “Why would you want to come to a godforsaken place like this, pretty thing like you?”

  “My god commands it,” she replied.

  He shrugged. “Why?”

  “The Creator loves all his children, even those who have sinned badly enough to end up here. My order operates our prison ministry because Father Ilios wishes those here to know they have not been forgotten. They can always repent, and He will still take them back.”

  The impatient flick of his eyebrows told her she had already bored him with such talk. “I prefer Fonja, myself. No offense.”

  I’ll bet you do, she thought. If you call going to a brothel a religion.

  The temple prostitutes, both male and female, promised they could help believers obtain their desires through the use of sex magick.

  “None taken,” she said pleasantly.

  “Right. Well, we’ll still have to search you.”

  “I understand.” She raised her hands and waited. “But I advise you to not make free with my person, or the god who protects me at all times may roast you where you stand.”

  And if he doesn’t, my husband will probably cut you in half.

  The captain merely smirked, ignoring both her warning and the rascally grins of his men. They watched him in lewd humor as he bent to skim his hands down her sides. Thankfully, however, he merely did his duty and did not insult her.

  “Go to the warden’s office and tell him she’s unarmed,” he confirmed to the others over his shoulder. “So, you really are a healer, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Maybe you could show us. Fix Gorland’s broken finger?”

  “I’d be glad to,” she said, well aware he was asking her to prove her status before they’d let her in.

  “Gorland, get over here!”

  Wrynne then got her first inkling of the true unpleasantness of the job she had set for herself. A large, lumbering prison guard came over to his captain. He had dull-witted eyes and a homely, brutish face, and though he was no threat to her, she sensed the cruel streak in him.

  Somehow she forced a smile, hiding her distaste. “Let me see it.”

  Gorland held up his right hand and stretched out his fingers. The pinkie was obviously broken.

  “Oh, that’s nasty. What happened?”

/>   He grunted. “Eh, busted it keeping some son of a bitch in line.”

  “Language, man!” the captain exclaimed. “She’s a bloody nun!”

  Not exactly, Wrynne thought as luscious memories of last night with Thaydor flashed in her mind.

  She cleared her throat and let them believe whatever they liked. But if the guard had come out with a broken finger, she wondered how much worse the prisoner might have fared. She hoped it hadn’t been the bard.

  “Well, this will only take a moment, then you’ll be right as rain.” And ready to bash more prisoners with that fist. “Close your eyes and try to clear your mind.”

  The big oaf glanced worriedly at his superior.

  “Do it. We’ll watch her,” the captain said.

  Gorland obeyed and shut his eyes. No doubt it made him jumpy to do so, given the nature of his post.

  Wrynne cupped her right hand a few inches above the man’s broken finger. It was swollen to twice its proper size and crooked at a wrong angle. Nervous as she was, it took her a little longer than usual to find the serenity in her core. But at last, she settled down into her gift and concentrated until she felt the Light flowing through her.

  “Ow!” Gorland mumbled in surprise as the bone shifted into place of its own accord and began knitting itself back together. His eyes popped open. “Hey! That actually feels better!” He lifted his hand up and wiggled his fingers. “How about that!”

  He laughed aloud, and his mates seemed impressed, nodding to one another.

  Wrynne smiled. The demonstration was enough to get her in.

  “We’ll watch these packages for you, mistress,” the other guards said, hording the baked goods on their rough wooden table while the captain rang a bell to summon the warden.

  “Save some of that for me!” Gorland hurried over to join his mates, taking a large chunk of pie that the men were already tearing apart.

  “That was supposed to be for the prisoners,” she chided gently.

  “Oh, we’ll make sure they get some,” one lied through a mouthful of saffron cake. Fortunately, they were all so excited about the unexpected treats that they never even thought about her walking staff.

  The warden joined them then and listened while the captain apprised him of the situation. Older and more grizzled than the others, the warden was a small man but seemed exceedingly tough—short, stocky, and balding, with a patch over one eye. He wore leather armor like the captain’s.

  “I’ll take her in,” the warden said. “I could use a break from doing figures for our monthly supplies. You searched her?”

  “She’s clean.”

  “This way, Sister!” He beckoned her over.

  As Wrynne hurried to join him by the closed inner portcullis, he shook his head at his men crowding around the table.

  “Hoy! Look lively!” he barked at Gorland, gesturing impatiently to the heavy metal grate barring their way into the prison.

  “Yes, sir!” The big guard, still chewing, hurried to crank the windlass, putting his brawn to good use. The razor-sharp portcullis slowly retracted upward.

  Wrynne followed the warden under it.

  “I’d hide my face if I was you,” he said, a ring of keys jangling at his side. “The scurvy rubbish in these cages ain’t seen a pretty lass in years, some of ’em. They got no manners on a good day as it is.”

  “Thank you for the reminder. I will.” She drew her light gray scarf across the lower half of her face, but even this concealment did nothing to deter the prisoners’ interest as she followed the warden down the dark, dank central aisle.

  He had unhooked the truncheon from his belt and gripped it in his hand as he marched ahead of her with a bellicose stride. With his good eye, he glanced over his shoulder every now and then, as though making sure none of the human flotsam and jetsam in the cells had grabbed her.

  The place made her skin crawl and her stomach turn. The hideous stench of human waste was overpowering. She had no idea how many patients awaited her in the prison’s infirmary, but she did not see how anyone could be healthy here. Rats scampered along the dripping stone walls, from which torches jutted here and there. Their dim, flickering illumination filled the corridor with writhing shadows, and the shadows, in turn, made the forlorn, mad, and hostile faces that peered out at her from behind the bars all the more frightening.

  The foul-mouthed prisoners filled the air with the deafening noise of their depravity, shouting such obscenities at her that Thaydor, had he heard it, would have surely unleashed the earthshaking magic bound up in Hallowsmite and rocked the whole prison to its foundations.

  She did her best to block out the taunts and disgusting, futile propositions.

  “Shut up!” the warden bellowed, but there was no way he could stop the indecent clamor swarming around her. “Just ignore them, mistress.”

  “I am.”

  Two prisoners tried to spit on her but missed. Not all of them were human. One aisle the warden led her down was reserved for inmates of other races. Here the bars were especially thick, doubly reinforced.

  Inside were monsters.

  She saw a couple of lumbering Urmugoths, a minotaur, and even a young cyclops nearly eight feet tall. She shuddered. Blackport Dungeon really was as notorious as its reputation.

  Poor bard.

  The warden knew the way well, marching through the dark labyrinth of his domain. She hurried after him, furtively scanning the cells for the famous redheaded Highlander as they passed.

  Her bald, stocky escort made a right ahead, returning to aisles lined with cells with human prisoners. The men’s reactions to her were the same here—if they could still be called men in their debased states.

  What have I got myself into? A chill ran along her spine. She was going to have to treat some of these creatures. Touch them.

  She tried not to recoil as they waggled their tongues at her, made obscene noises, and reached through the bars trying to stroke her. Though she managed to keep her panic at bay, she could not hide her distaste. How long did it take, she wondered, for such a place to warp a man beyond recognition? To think they wanted to put Thaydor in a dungeon like this …

  Of course, if he got caught, then she’d get caught, too. There were similar establishments for women. She could not bear to think about it right now.

  She suddenly shrieked when a bearded, rail-thin man with crazed eyes clawed at her with a garbled roar from behind the bars of his cell. Startled, she lurched away from him and tripped, inadvertently getting too close to the cells on the opposite side. The matted, dirty creature in the cage behind her grabbed the hood of her cloak and yanked her closer, trying to bite her face.

  The warden was there in a heartbeat, clobbering the wiry arm holding on to her shoulder. “Don’t you dare!”

  The prisoner let go, but only out of pain. While the warden screamed at him and swore to make an example of anyone who tried that sort of thing again, Wrynne stood trembling in the center of the aisle while they jeered at her from every direction.

  “Silence!” the warden insisted. “This woman is protected by the gods, and moreover, you stupid filth, she’s come to help you! Anyone who tries another trick of that sort will be put on the rack! Do you understand me? Maybe I’ll just put you there for fun!”

  For a moment, the whole row went silent.

  “Thank you,” Wrynne whispered, sounding as shaken as she felt.

  He snorted. “Your god’s mercy and your own is wasted on these vermin. You still want to do this, lady?”

  She pressed her lips shut to avoid saying how she really felt and nodded. “To be honest, though, I don’t know how long I might last, so please take me to only your most serious cases first.”

  He nodded. “We keep ’em in the infirmary. This way.” She heard him grumbling under his breath as he trudged ahead. “Never let no daughter o’ mine join the church if this is what they make ’em do…”

  Then the clamor started up again, but at least now, none of the prisone
rs tried to grab her. Yet, as Wrynne hurried after him, the warden’s mention of having daughters suddenly made her wonder what her springing Jonty Maguire from jail would mean for the warden himself. And the captain, and the other guards. They would probably be punished…

  Oh, Ilios. They had done nothing wrong, simply trusted her. Believed her lies.

  And for that matter, what about the Daughters of the Rose? Would there be consequences for her entire order because of what she was about to do, helping a high-profile prisoner escape?

  Just when she was on the verge of losing her nerve and aborting the rescue mission, she heard a song floating down the corridor.

  A rich male voice with a hint of a melancholy Highland brogue bounced off the stone walls, its strong, deep timbre weaving like the threads of a gorgeous magical tapestry, a note of beauty and sanity in a madhouse reaching out to steady her through the noisy assault of the other prisoners’ lustful obscenities.

  “As I dreamt upon a night,

  Forsooth I saw a seemly sight:

  I beheld a maid so bright,

  A rose she bore in hand…”

  Her heart instantly lightened at the sound, for she knew she had just found her target.

  The famous bard was in a cell ahead. Though she could not yet see his face, she saw his hands gripping the bars—somewhat cleaner than the other prisoners’ were, with the long, tapered fingers of a musician. He sang out in the darkness for all he was worth, and his music had its effect, stilling the savage foulness aimed at her by the other inmates.

  “Her eyes, they were so lovely!

  Her countenance so sweet.

  Of all my care and sorrow,

  She made my pain abate.”

  “Stop that!” the warden scolded, giving the bars of his singer’s cell a good whack as he strode ahead of her. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Never mind that one, mistress. Merely the latest addition to our mad zoo. Thinks he’s something special. I’m sure he just wants your attention.”

  “But I do! Verily! Pray you, sweet lady! Fair one! Angel of mercy, a moment of your time, I beseech you! Take pity on me…in the name of Ilios!”