by Stephen Wolf
The group pushed ahead to the end, where the hallway ballooned outward into sleeping quarters for the guards. Dariak’s sedative had almost completely worn off, and he strained to focus on the room, in case there was anything of use there. He could see eight cots neatly arranged, each with a small footlocker. To the left was what he assumed were relief quarters, which probably included a bathtub of sorts. He could see three closet doors along the back wall, one of which was slightly ajar, revealing foodstuffs. It seemed that a number of the prison guards were forced to dwell here. He wondered if it was a punishment of its own for them. Off to the right was a heavily locked door, and Dariak assumed that it contained confiscated wares or weapons and armor for the guards.
Also in the room were four other guards, whose grim faces lit with the arrival of new prisoners. The burliest among them cast appraising looks over the two of them, and Dariak preferred not knowing what he was actually appraising. Two of the others pulled Dariak aside while the burly man and the fourth guard tended to Gabrion. Having handed over the charges with instructions, the king’s soldiers returned to the light of day.
One of the guards wrapped his strong hands around Dariak’s throat, holding him steady while his partner disrobed the mage entirely, leaving only the ropes that kept his hands in fists. “Mages, mages, ever so clever,” she snarled as she pulled the extra set of healer’s robes from within the mage robes. “No spell components for you within your cell, I’m afraid. And no chances your friend has things you can use either,” she added, nodding her head toward Gabrion, who was being similarly undressed.
The two were escorted back through the hallway past a few cells. Large keys jangled as one of the wardens opened a cell, where Gabrion crumpled in a defeated heap. Across from him and one cell down, a second door was opened, and Dariak was shoved inside, sprawling on the cold stone floor. As the bars clanked shut, he pushed himself up and eyed the jailer angrily.
She had seen that look before; she merely laughed, then pointed above the cell door. “See that there?” She drew a circle in the air to emphasize the large crystal dome that was set in the stone. “You may think it’s there so you get some light in your cell, but these doors don’t keep much out, you see. No, that there is a magic resonator. Try even the simplest spell, magey, and we’ll know it. If that happens, we cut out your tongue and cut off your fingers, no questions asked. But do feel free to work yourself out of your hand bindings. You might need your hands for things in there.” She chuckled, jerking her chin to the chamber pot in the back of the cell.
“It’s cold in here,” he complained. “What if I get sick, being all uncovered like this?”
“Aw,” she said, affecting concern. “You needn’t worry overmuch. It won’t take but two or three days for your execution to be arranged and all that. It’s not likely you’ll die before then.” She turned to go, then stepped back for a moment. “Oh, and if you need anything, deary, just holler. We’ve all gotten good at ignoring the inmates.”
As she passed by Gabrion’s cage, she called out, “Hey, fighter friend, don’t just lie there all curled over like that; your back will get a nasty crick in it. Healers don’t come down here much, you know.” Her piercing laughter echoed down the hall and started the old man laughing again, wheezing sharply.
Dariak gritted his teeth and started with the only task he could, freeing his hands. They had been bound this way for a day now, and his fingers needed release. He sat on the freezing-cold floor, knees up so he could rest his hands against them, and began pulling and tugging and chewing with his teeth.
“You,” said a solemn voice not too far away. “It’s all your fault. Everything.”
Dariak had expected to hear a little more rage, but the words were about right. “No, not everything is my fault.”
“If you had never come to my village, none of this would be happening.” Gabrion’s voice was heavy and broken.
Dariak left his bindings alone for a moment and shook his head. “You’re an idiot if you really think so. It isn’t as if I was the only one in your village, or the one who orchestrated the attack. I just happened to be there with them.”
That perked up the warrior. “Don’t you pretend you don’t have a hand in this!” His voice rose.
Dariak sighed. “Sadly, my hands are a little busy right now.” And he went back to biting at them.
“Stop with your silly quips, mage.”
“Oh, ‘mage’ is it now? Are you upset with me, or are you more upset that you didn’t kill me?”
Gabrion was silent for a few moments.
“The real problem is that this kingdom is full of crazies.” Dariak snorted.
“Be silent!” the warrior yelled, earning a similar call from the guards.
“Fine, be angry, but you really ought to think about it.” He tugged one rope free and stopped biting in order to rest his teeth. “I mean, you were being trained by one of the king’s soldiers, right? And then your village was attacked and the soldier was killed. You go to the king to tell him about the attack, and he thinks you’re working with me, of all things.” He sighed dramatically, just for fun. “After all the years of deceit from this kingdom, even the king himself doesn’t recognize truth anymore.”
“Do not speak ill of His Majesty!” Gabrion responded automatically.
Dariak laughed. “I am sure he will be thrilled that you’re defending him after he so casually tossed you in here with me.” Dariak gasped expectantly. “Maybe he’ll even pardon you!”
He could actually hear Gabrion seething from across the way. He wondered if it was worth truly enraging him to see if he could break himself out of the iron bars. Dariak snickered quietly, wondering if a rush of adrenaline would count as using magic. He looked up to the clear circle in the plinth. Could it indeed sense the use of magic? It could just as easily be a lie, but he assumed others would have tested it, and if it wasn’t a magic indicator, then they probably would have stripped his body of its fingers and tongue upon arrival, as the only real precaution that would guarantee safety. He shuddered at the thought.
Gabrion wasn’t responsive to other taunts at the moment, so Dariak continued gnawing on his bindings. He gazed around the sparse room and understood that it was a well-crafted dungeon. He couldn’t even detect a seam between the walls and the floor. It was as if the whole place had been poured into some magnificent mold. The iron bars had even been a planned part of the construction, based on how they were mounted. The poles went right up through the top and down through the bottom without so much as a crack in the stone. And though each iron bar was a separate piece, the crossbars holding them together were solidly welded in place. It must have cost a fortune to create this dungeon.
A while later, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Dariak pressed his head against the bars, turning to try to see who was coming. A leather-helmeted guardsman strode purposefully by his cell and didn’t pay him any heed. After a few moments with the wardens, the guard passed back and went to a cell a few doors down from Dariak. When the cell door opened, pitiful whining echoed into the hallway, accompanied by malicious laughter and the cracking of a whip. The prisoner was withdrawn from the cell, begging for mercy, wailing constantly in desperate fear as he was escorted from the dungeon. Once he was gone, only the old man’s cackling remained.
“Oh, I do so wish I could see it,” the old man lisped between spouts of laughter.
“See what?” Dariak asked.
“Punishment, of course.” He wheezed again. “Sad, though. It wasn’t even his time to go yet, but I think your arrival pushed up his execution. Too many prisoners in one place is never a good thing, is it? Ah, but what I wouldn’t give to see a revolt.”
“Didn’t you just say you wanted to see the punishment?” Dariak was mildly amused by the old man he couldn’t see down the hall.
“Punishment. Revolt. A little fluffy squirret. A sneaky lupino. Ther
e isn’t much to see down here, sonny. I’ll take any of it, sure I will.” He slapped his knee and started his wheezing laughter again.
Dariak managed to eat through another rope and unwind part of it, which was a huge relief. He could already feel some circulation returning to his fingers. He appreciated the puzzle of trying to untie the ropes with the fewest cuts, for it appeared this would be his only real source of entertainment.
Hours drifted by. The new prisoners had missed the morning rations, which meant they would receive no food until the next day, according to one of the other inmates. Gabrion didn’t say much but paced around his cell, trying desperately to keep warm.
He passed his time thinking of Mira. He could almost hear her giggling echo in his mind. He ran his fingers through his own hair, trying to pretend it was hers, but there was no comparison to the texture. She was like a goddess come down to the earth just for him. He pictured her flowing chestnut hair that took on crimson highlights if she stayed out in the sun too long, her deep pools of blue eyes that swam with joy when she smiled. She had a bountiful grace in her step, yet was completely clumsy when she tried to dance. But that made her all the more perfect to Gabrion’s eyes, as if she were meant to fly on wings of gold. She liked to make her own fragrances with fruit and herbs, then try to have Gabrion guess the ingredients. And when he didn’t get them right, she would blindfold him and slide samples of food between his lips. Sometimes it would take him several tries to guess the flavor, but he wasn’t always trying his best. He chuckled softly with the memory.
“They say a man who laughs to himself has gone insane. It’s a little early for that.”
Gabrion growled. “Leave me be, Dariak.”
“Well, it’s a little depressing down here. So if you find something funny, you could certainly share it and perk us all up.”
“Hear, hear!” heckled a prisoner a few cells away.
“Just thinking about Mira,” Gabrion conceded. “I hope she’s okay.”
When Dariak’s voice drifted to him from across the way, it was laced with compassion and wisdom. “I’m sure she’s fine, Gabrion. If she was taken as a hostage, then she’ll have to be treated well, or they won’t be able to seek a reward or whatever they’re after.”
“You think so?”
“Definitely,” Dariak agreed, then felt a shudder. Using that word reminded him suddenly of Randler and the fight in the tavern with the rogue who had kept repeating that affirmation. He fell silent, wondering now about Randler’s safety. Then he scoffed when he considered his own predicament.
“Now you’re making weird noises,” Gabrion commented.
“Just enjoying the atmosphere down here,” he dodged.
Gabrion sighed and crouched down, unwilling to sit on the cold stone unless he had to. How had things turned out like this? Waiting to be executed for trying to alert the king about a real threat to the kingdom. And all because of Dariak. He ground his teeth, but then he wondered at the mage’s earlier question. Was he madder at the mage or at himself? “I just couldn’t do it,” he said aloud.
“Not following you there,” Dariak said.
“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just kill you.”
“Ah. Yes, well, I’m thankful for that.” Then there was a pause. “Well, I’d be more thankful if it had landed us in a tavern or something less stony.”
“I’m serious,” Gabrion interjected. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this warrior thing.”
It was a few moments before Dariak responded, and once again his voice adopted a wiser, sager tone. “Let us first ignore the fact that we’re about to die in front of a mob of peasants, and let’s pretend we skip over that and go on with our lives outside of here. Being a warrior and being a murderer are two different things.”
“Are they?”
“Nobility,” the mage announced judiciously from his cell. “And, no, I don’t mean the king or anything like that. At least, not the current king, but what nobles are supposed to be.”
Gabrion grumbled. “What good is being noble when it gets you nowhere?”
“I wouldn’t say nowhere. We did get to see the deep inner bowels of the castle, didn’t we?”
Gabrion stood and scratched his head. “How is it you’re not panicking down here? Lashing out with these things all the time? I don’t understand how you’re so cavalier.”
Down the hall, one of the prisoners piped up, “I could use a cavalier down here; my cell is kind of dark.”
Another prisoner moaned in annoyance. “You’re thinking of a chandelier, idiot. Hush up, I’m trying to listen. It sounds like that guy’s having a moment.”
Dariak laughed, but Gabrion was frustrated. “Is it something with you criminals that makes you all like this? Laughing at your circumstances like you haven’t a care in the world? Like nothing is more important than having a laugh at whatever’s around you?”
Another cellmate, drawn into the conversation by the sheer passion in Gabrion’s voice, jumped in. “Well, aside from the shape of my chamber pot, there just isn’t much here to laugh about otherwise.”
The old man kicked up his wheezing laughter again, but it was enough for Gabrion. He shouted angrily and banged his fists on the wall. All the chatter among the inmates ceased but not because of him.
Footsteps echoed down the hall and paused in front of Gabrion’s cell. The burly guard stared down at the warrior. “Problem, son?”
“I don’t belong here!” Gabrion yelled. “I was only trying to deliver a message to the king. I am not supposed to be in here. I am supposed to be—” He stopped and composed himself as he looked at the uncaring eyes of the warden. “Is there any way I can petition the king?”
“Of course!” The warden beamed. “What, do you think there isn’t a fair process in place here?”
Dariak snorted, but Gabrion’s response covered the sound. “Then let me speak to His Majesty once again.”
“Sure thing,” the warden agreed. “You will have your chance the day after tomorrow.”
“But isn’t that—?”
“Yep. At your execution. You can petition all you want then.”
Gabrion’s hope was dashed just as quickly as it had sprung up. He slumped down to the cell floor and buried his head in his arms.
“That’s better,” the warden said. “Nice and quiet. You’re disturbing our game of dice with all your yelling. Keep it down now. You don’t want me actually opening your cell and teaching you how to keep quiet, do you?” He waited until Gabrion shook his head before walking away.
As he sat there sulking, Gabrion could hear Dariak whispering to himself, “Deceit, deceit, and more deceit. Does this place ever stop with the lies and false hopes?”
Gabrion wondered.
Chapter 10
Day of Execution
Dariak awoke shivering, his naked body drawing in the coldness of the stone. He had freed his hands his first night in the cell, and even simply calling for the energies had indeed made the crystal over the door resonate. He was lucky the wardens had not seen it, though he had chosen a time when they were occupied by another inmate who had fallen ill.
The second day in the cell was odd. He had tried speaking with the warrior several times, but Gabrion was lost in his own thoughts. It was unsettling. Only occasional guard changes seemed to mark the time, but he suspected that, with all the other subterfuge in this kingdom, the guards changed at varying times rather than sticking to a set pattern that would allow the prisoners a sense of night and day. He also assumed that was the real reason for the living quarters at the end of the row, for the wardens never acted as if they were under any form of punishment of their own.
He had spent most of the second day examining the cell for defects, to no avail, and striking up conversations with the other inmates, but most either had lost their sense of self or were more interested in heari
ng about him, as a newcomer, and he wasn’t in a mood to divulge much.
He thought his body was getting more used to the cold floor, but awakening this morning told him otherwise. His entire body was trembling uncontrollably; even his teeth were chattering. Food hadn’t arrived yet, but his natural body cycle told him it was morning and time to rise. He wondered how long it would take him to lose that internal clock. How long, that is, if this wasn’t the day of his execution.
Rousing himself, Dariak stood and jumped around, warming up and waking fully. He called out for Gabrion to do the same, and though the warrior didn’t answer, Dariak heard motion in the cell diagonal from his. He did feel some pity for the poor boy. After all, he had learned that his monarch was as much a tyrant as all the stories of Hathreneir had said.
Footsteps focused his thoughts sharply as armored feet crashed down the hall. Dariak tensed, ready to be pulled from his cubicle to his doom, but determined to face it while also searching for an alternative. It sounded to him, though, as if Gabrion had resigned himself to his fate, for the young man had stopped moving around and was eerily silent.
Three guards in ceremonial armor, with gleaming chain mail over polished leather, paraded past their cells and sought out the wardens. Dariak strained to hear the exchange of orders, but they were carefully whispered. The anticipation was highly irritating. He turned around toward the chamber pot and looked at the shreds of rope that he had tucked around the base, wondering if he should claim them now, not that he could hide them. If he were stronger—and luckier, he frowned—he could probably use one of the lengths to strangle a guard. He could use another length as a component for a binding spell, but he would need a bit of dirt or mud to complete it. By the time he’d decided that it was worth the risk, one of the guards was at his door with the key to his cell, and he had no chance to claim the rope.
