by Adam Carter
The girl was some kind of witch.
Realising he did not presently have the time to even consider that, Crenshaw seized his opportunity and ran at Baros. With a scream, he leaped and smashed his fist down as hard as he could upon the strongman’s head, targeting the burning injury. With a whimper, Baros went down, crashing his huge frame with such a deafening impact that the entire dungeon shook.
Silence engulfed the cell. Some people looked away, not wanting to meet Crenshaw’s eyes, others mumbled to one another, while many simply stared. Crenshaw stood, barely able, his body threatening to shut down through pain and exhaustion. The young woman did not seem to have worked out she needed to get to her feet, so Crenshaw forced his limbs to agonising movement as he approached her. Offering her his hand, he drew her to her feet, where she seemed to regain some of her composure.
“I claim this man,” she said forcefully, although her eyes were terrified. “Anyone have a problem with that?”
Further heads bowed and people shuffled away. Crenshaw glanced to where Baros was unconscious: even half-dead no one dared to rob him. Crenshaw’s eyes went back to the woman and he opened his mouth to say something, but she collapsed, her legs turning liquid beneath her. Falling into him, she almost knocked him from his feet as well. Throwing her arm over his shoulder, he headed back to his corner. They helped steady one another, which was good because Crenshaw knew they would not have been able to make it otherwise. Once there, they simply collapsed.
Asperathes had resumed fiddling with his trap and seemed not to have even noticed the fight.
“About time you followed my advice, old man, and got yourself a girl,” he said without looking up.
“Shut up,” Crenshaw rasped and, before his head even hit the damp wall behind him, he was unconscious.
CHAPTER TWO
Crenshaw awoke refreshed, which was odd since he had been expecting his body to feel as though a giant had thrown him around the cell before trying to make his head fit through the narrow gaps of the iron bars. He recalled a strange dream about butterflies and sunshine, but the images were already fading. The vision made him remember what it was like to stroll through a meadow on a warm summer’s day, feeling the light breeze against his skin. Crenshaw seldom thought of the outside world and a part of him was sad to have been reminded of it.
Looking about the cell, he could see no one bothering him, which was not unusual. Asperathes was nowhere in sight, which usually meant he was off shedding or something. Instead, there was a young woman nearby, sitting with her back to the wall, her legs tucked up to her chin, her hard eyes watchful upon everything about her. Crenshaw took a longer look at her now. She was still afraid, but was no longer being accosted so was calm. He remembered how she had taken down Baros with one blow, and what nature that blow had taken. It had, he reflected, been quite a sight.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Why did you stand up for me?” she asked flatly, without looking at him.
“Because you needed help.”
“No other reason?”
“No.”
“I thought you intended to claim me.”
Crenshaw smiled. “From what I recall, it was you who claimed me right before I collapsed.”
She looked at him then, but did not smile. He knew she was sizing him up and determined to meet her gaze. He found it unnerving that he felt a chill run through his body at that gaze.
“You’re a sorceress,” he said by means of continuing the conversation.
“I’m not defined by what I can do, any more than I could call you a soldier.”
“You know I’m a soldier?”
“I was speaking with Asp.”
“And you’re on friendly enough terms to call him Asp?”
The woman ignored him.
“My name’s Crenshaw,” he offered. “Jobek. My friends call me Joe.”
“Asp calls you Crenshaw.”
“Asp’s people don’t have surnames, so they don’t understand them.” He frowned. “Or maybe they don’t have forenames, I could never quite be sure of that. Either way, he calls me the name he’s most comfortable with.”
“So who calls you Joe?”
“No one. Not in here anyway.”
The woman sniffed, still did not smile.
Crenshaw tested his limbs and did not find so much as an ache. “You used your healing magic on me, didn’t you? While I was asleep.”
“I saw you as my best chance of staying alive in this place.”
“Thank you.”
“I did it for me.”
“Thank you anyway.” He watched her, but she was not giving him much of a reaction. He put it mainly down to fear, for she may well have been one of the most powerful people in the cell but she was still young and he could see she had never before known combat. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Karina Moya. You’re a soldier. You don’t have anything bad to say about sorceresses?”
Crenshaw laughed, although the sound was short. It was true that most soldiers mistrusted magic, but that was because if they had any magic to them they likely would not have been soldiers. Crenshaw was not most soldiers; he knew a good sorcerer could wipe out entire legions of the best troops with but a wave of his hand, or attack the battlefield itself by turning the terrain into instant quagmire.
“I’ve seldom spoken with magic users,” he admitted, “but I’ve seen their use on the field of battle. Healing terrible injuries or cauterising bloody stumps. I’m curious, though. You used healing magic on me, but you blasted Baros in the head. I thought magic was split into good and bad. Isn’t it?”
“Common folk split magic into good and bad,” Moya said, still without emotion. “Sometimes they even add in neutral to cover any grey areas. It’s to make people like you feel more comfortable around people like me.”
“Oh. Doc, your bedside manner is terrible.”
“Magic wielders use whatever we need to,” she said. “Good can be used for bad, bad can be used for good. Like casting a candlelight spell at someone’s head.”
“Ah. So that wasn’t a bolt of fire or anything?”
“As I say, magic is all about how you use it.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. What are you doing here?”
“Time.”
“Cute. What are you in here for?”
“Breaking the law.”
Crenshaw did not mind the banter, but he would have preferred it should she crack a smile or two along the way. He decided he would go first. “I’m here for striking a superior officer. I fought in more than one war for this country and when my arm got mangled in the line of duty the army threw me out. No pension, no prospects, no thank you. So I did what all soldiers do best: I got drunk. I got drunk a lot after that. Then, one day, I was in this bar and there’s an officer there. I won’t go into details with a lady, but the officer made a fair few remarks about my injury. The injury I suffered to save people just like him. So I slugged him one, or possibly two. And I ended up here.”
“You led a pathetic life and you’ll suffer a pathetic death.”
“Are you a seer, or are you just incredibly mean?”
She ignored him. Crenshaw had the impression she was used to doing that to people of his nature. Magic was an odd thing. There were those who claimed anyone could do it, given enough training and practice, but he had heard the same thing said about painting and there was no way someone could hand him a paintbrush and six years and expect for him to produce a watercolour masterpiece. The generally accepted belief was that some people were born with magic inside them, or knew how to access that magic. Since magic users saw themselves as superior, most magic users were the offspring of other magic users, segregated from ordinary society. They were not all self-righteous and cruel, of course, and he could only imagine this young woman had chosen to side with the little people or something, and was now paying for her mistake, perhaps even regretting it.
“Karina, why don’t you eve
r smile?”
She made a sound which was half laugh, half grunt of despair. “Look around you, Crenshaw. What’s there to smile about?”
The exasperation in her voice shone through, so at least that was a start. “We’re alive,” he told her. “And we’re on top of the food chain. Those things count for a lot down here.”
“And that ring. Does that count for anything?”
Crenshaw had been absently turning his ring with thumb and forefinger. It was something he knew he did a lot, because Asperathes had commented on it more than once. “Maria,” he said. “This is my link to Maria and it’s the only thing that’s kept me going for five years.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife. She’s at home right now, waiting for me to come home, and I’ve never given myself to anyone else because I’m never giving up on her either.”
“That’s why you don’t claim any of the prisoners?”
“I know you probably think I’m stupid, that since we’re all going to die here I may as well forget about my wife and take solace where I can …”
“No,” she interrupted, a smile touching her eyes. “I think it’s sweet.”
“Crenshaw,” Asperathes said, returning to him holding a foot-long rat by its tail. He plopped himself on the ground and grinned. “I brought breakfast.”
“You’re so kind, but I’m good, thanks.” Crenshaw did not know whether to be angry at Asperathes for the interruption, or relieved. He was certainly grateful for not having to be alone with Moya any longer. “You go ahead.”
Asperathes continued to grin, for whenever he caught a rat he always liked to dangle it before his soldier friend. They both knew Crenshaw had a fear of the things, which was one of the reasons he had made sure to befriend an apepkith. Asperathes kept all the rats away from him, but could not resist making them dance in his face before devouring them.
Dislocating his jaw, Asperathes dropped the live rat down his throat and slowly his jaw returned to its correct position.
“Don’t you need to kill it first?” Moya asked, seemingly unaffected by the appearance of the vermin. “I mean, doesn’t it claw the inside of your throat?”
“No, no, my dear. Snakes have incredibly powerful stomach acid. Wait for it … wait … and it’s dead.” He settled back, content. “That’s me done for the week.”
Crenshaw shuddered. “You get used to that.”
“So,” Asperathes said, “I see the two of you have become acquainted. Has he told you his sob story about the bar?”
“Yes,” Moya said.
“Did you at least pretend to feel sorry for him? No one feels sorry for him, but he insists on telling people his life story. Me? I was contracted to kill a baron. I was caught. I was thrown in prison. That’s all you’ll hear of my life story, but Crenshaw here does love to emote.”
“You’re an assassin?” Moya asked carefully.
“I’ve been known to assassinate, yes,” Asperathes said. “Mainly I’m a bounty hunter. The law doesn’t like me, but they do profit from me. Did. But you’ve got me talking about myself, after I promised not to. What about you?”
“Maybe I don’t like to talk about myself either,” she said.
“You’re allowed. You’re a woman. Crenshaw already feels a soft spot for you for that very reason, and everyone empathises with a pretty face, especially if they’re vain or don’t have access to reflective objects. Ignore me, I’m droning on. You were telling us about you.”
“I actually wasn’t.”
Crenshaw folded his arms, leaned back and found the entire conversation amusing.
“How do the days go around here?” she asked.
“Oh, this is pretty much it,” Crenshaw said. “We sit, talk a while, sometimes they even allow us to eat something. It all depends whether they remember. Most of the time, though, we just keep to ourselves.”
Moya stared at both her companions in turn. “How do you stay sane?”
“Mental puzzles,” Crenshaw said. “They say old people should do mental puzzles to stop their minds going; it’s much the same with us.”
“And that’s it?” she asked. “We just sit here doing mental puzzles until we die?”
“For most of us. Do you have a lawyer out there working your case? Maybe you’ll be out on appeal.”
“A lawyer? No, I …” She sank her face into her knees and trembled. Crenshaw feared he had pushed her too far.
“Sorry,” Asperathes said. “My friend has a big mouth. And that’s coming from someone who can dislocate his jaw.”
“Why couldn’t they have killed me as well?” she sobbed. Now he could hear her crying, Crenshaw felt really bad. He moved a hand to touch her, to reassure her that everything would be all right, but Asperathes shot him a warning glare and Crenshaw remembered the young woman could take his face off if he did anything she didn’t like.
“It’s not so bad,” he said. “You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it.”
“Well, to be fair, none of us do. But this is the hand life’s dealt us, so we cope.”
Asperathes straightened where he was sitting. “Heads up, Crenshaw,” he whispered.
A man appeared beside them and dropped to a crouch. He was thin, wiry even, and never wore any clothes, but that was not unusual for his people. Upon his skin he had painted intricate designs which were supposedly powerful wards but to Crenshaw’s eyes always looked like a load of artistic circles and wavy lines. The being’s species held no respect for class structure; the land owned the people, he was wont to say, because at the end of life it was the people’s corpses which fed the land and made it grow strong. He had a similar argument with regards to any possessions. Crenshaw did not necessarily disagree with him, but nor was he about to throw away all his clothes just to make a statement. In fact, the being should have had no possessions at all, for his people considered the very notion a sin, although he did wear about his neck a pentagonal, crystal amulet, suspended by twined hair and bearing the image of an eagle. What the amulet represented, Crenshaw neither knew nor cared.
“Hey, Kastra,” he said. “What’s up?”
Kastra, as ever, looked grim. He was one of the faerie folk, although no one had ever quite been able to figure out which. That he held powerful magic within his thin frame was without doubt, and no one would ever speak with him, much less cross him. About the only feelings Kastra had was a dislike of apepkith, which stemmed mainly from his reason for being in prison: he had spoken out against the snakes ruling everything and they had not liked it. As such, it always made confrontations between Kastra and Asperathes somewhat volatile. Officially, though, he was in prison for possession of illegal substances, which Crenshaw always found ironic since Kastra was the ultimate minimalist.
“There’s someone coming,” Kastra said in a low voice.
“There’s someone here,” Crenshaw said, indicating Moya.
Kastra glanced her way. She looked at him with astonishment, had probably never seen a naked faerie before; there were all sorts of faeries common through the world but most of them deigned to wear at least a loincloth when amongst other races.
“Be ready,” Kastra told him, having already disregarded Moya.
“Ready?” Crenshaw asked. “Ready for what?”
“The baroness could fall today. Be ready to move.”
Now Crenshaw was interested. Kastra, as with many faeries, was telepathic. It was why he spoke with Crenshaw when he needed to: because Crenshaw was a man who did not judge others by what they were or how they looked. But Kastra did not speak even with Crenshaw unless there was a good reason. If he had picked up on someone’s thoughts from outside the castle, someone who had the intention and the power to take down the baroness, this was serious business indeed.
“What do you know?” Crenshaw asked.
“Enough not to ask foolish questions.” Kastra half rose, paused, glanced back to Moya. “Bring her. She may be useful.”
&nbs
p; He departed without another word.
“Well,” Asperathes said, “do you think he’ll mind if I tag along too?”
“Tag along to where?” Crenshaw asked. “Even if someone does attack the castle, how are we going to get out of this cell?”
“No,” Asperathes said sarcastically, “it’s not as though we can just, I don’t know, blow the lock with a wave of our hand.”
Crenshaw felt the first real sense of excitement in all his long years since being incarcerated. “Karina,” he said softly, trying to bury his eagerness but still feeling it burn through his cheeks. “Karina, when Kastra gives the signal, would you break us out of here?”
“I …” Her voice cracked in terror. “Break out?”
“Your magic, Karina. They don’t keep magic users in with the normal prisoners. With you they either didn’t realise or they made a mistake. Either way, someone’s bound to squeal to the guards at some point and you’ll be taken out of here. Until then, we have an opportunity. We can get out of here.”
“And go where?” she asked. “We won’t be able to get out of the castle.”
“Maybe not, but it sure beats waiting for them to drag us off to the death chamber.”
“I don’t know if I … I’m not as powerful as you think.”
“You brought down Baros easily enough, I think I can take my chances with you. And Asp seems to like you, which decides it for me.”
“Unless you think you’ll like it here,” Asperathes said. “Which, I assure you, you won’t.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll try. But I’m not promising anything.”
Crenshaw felt so happy he almost embraced her, but this time was able to stop himself without a warning from Asperathes.
“If we get out of this alive,” he told her, “I’ll help you get revenge. I promise.”
“Revenge?”
“You said someone killed your friends or something? I’ll fight for you, my lady, just as surely as any soldier fights for his mistress.”
“Me,” Asperathes said, “I’ll just settle for saying thanks awfully.”
Crenshaw knew it was a waiting game. In any dungeon there would always be prisoners who would betray their fellows to the guards with the expectation of reward. No doubt news of Baros’s defeat was already reaching the right ears. Perhaps the guards were eating, or drinking, or just did not place it high on their list of priorities; but sooner or later they would come. Crenshaw could only pray they did not arrive before these saviours.
