Moreover, if they jumped and perished in the choppy frozen waters below, would they die forever-death, or did that restriction apply only to the interior prison grounds proper? Roark had no answers, but he would before long. If his time in the Resistance had taught him anything it was how to discreetly gather information.
“I see what you’re thinking,” Zyra said from the side of her mouth as they stepped down onto the surprisingly solid ice. Her voice came muffled through her face-shielding arms. “Did the Legionnaires who arrested you use a Paralyzation Spell? The ones who arrested me did. I’d wager our jailors learn it their first day on the job.”
Roark nodded. “Just exploring every possibility to make certain we don’t miss an opportunity.” He glanced around at the other prisoners and the Legionnaires watching their progress. Several were taking note of Zyra’s strange posture. “Take your arms down. You’re drawing too much attention to us.”
She gave a grunt of disgust, then unfolded her arms and squinted at the island around them. Slowly, the watchful stares turned to other more interesting sights.
“Better?” she snapped, eyes nearly closed against the blinding light.
Roark blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the way Zyra’s skin glittered under the sun like velvety ink mixed with crushed sapphires.
“Much.” He turned his attention to Kaz.
The Knight Thursr had his enormous arms wrapped over his face in a musclebound caricature of Zyra’s pose.
“Perhaps you weren’t the one drawing attention,” Roark said to Zyra. “Kaz...”
Kaz’s shoulders slumped. “All right. But Zyra’s shading tactic was working.”
The three of them fell in with the second row of prisoners, facing a red-orange olm in plate armor so shiny that it glinted fire in the harsh sunlight. The Intake Curator.
“Prisoners, welcome to Chillend. In a moment, you will be sorted into groups of four and installed in your cells. Your cell is your home until your fine has been paid. To pay your fine, see myself or any other Legionnaire. Any misconduct will result in an immediate doubling of said fine. Mobs and NPCs, be forewarned, you will not respawn if you die in Chillend. Heroes, if you die in Chillend, you will respawn in Chillend until such a time as your fine has been paid. See that you act accordingly.”
The Intake Curator turned to a yellow olm. “Intake address completed. You may begin the sorting when ready, Cellmaster.”
“Thank you, Intake Curator,” the yellow olm said, dipping his head respectfully. He stalked down the line, counting off four prisoners at a time and assigning the groups a number.
Roark hurried to count the prisoners remaining. There weren’t enough ahead of them. If he didn’t do something, Kaz would be sorted into a different cell from him and Zyra, which could spell disaster for the party and the mission.
He leaned around Zyra’s back and tapped the shoulder of a dark elf in threadbare rags that matched his own.
“Switch places with me.”
The elf wouldn’t look at him, just stared straight ahead and mumbled, “Shove off.”
Roark pushed Zyra out of his way and took a menacing step toward the elf, spreading his twisted, leathery wings and hissing.
[Congratulations, you have successfully Intimidated a level 7 Vennexim, or dark elf. All victims of Intimidation with less than .25 x your Intelligence suffer from Fright for 30 seconds. Sometimes a big enough bark is all you need ...]
The elf scurried into the spot on the opposite side of Roark.
“You there,” snapped the Cellmaster. He had stopped dividing up groups halfway down the second row. Now he stalked toward Roark. “Troll? We haven’t had a Troll in ages. Name?”
“Rebel_of_Korvo,” Roark answered.
“Rebel_of_Korvo, your fine has been doubled for stepping out of line. You will not be released until you have paid the full amount.”
A scrap of paper with a corresponding notice announcing that Roark’s fine was now sixteen thousand gold appeared in his vision, but he dismissed it. He didn’t intend to be around long enough to pay a fine of any size.
By the time the notice was gone, the Cellmaster had already returned to his task as if nothing had happened. Eventually the Cellmaster made it to the Trolls, assigning them and a burly rog to a cell before passing on to the next group.
When he finished, he nodded to another olm Legionnaire with purple skin. “Cell assignments given. You may begin ingress when ready, Entry Supervisor.”
There was no doubt a pattern was emerging. Roark couldn’t fault their love of orderliness, but the efficiency cost of their execution was too severe to stand for.
Put me at the head of this prison and it would be running like a top in a week, he thought.
The Entry Supervisor explained in exhaustive detail how to follow him double-file through a door, then warned them once more that their fines would be doubled if they stepped out of line. Literally and figuratively, Roark gathered.
When finally the lecture ended, they followed the purple olm to a low, peaked rise of gray-green ice and down a set of stairs cut into the island. From there it was through a door made of the same glassy Permanent Hoarfrost.
Roark heard gasps coming from the front of the line as they stepped inside, but he didn’t see what the uproar was about until the pale elf in the line beside him passed through the doorway. Instantly, her shining beauty melted away, revealing a squat, green, wart-covered creature with massive forearms, tiny legs, and an arrowheaded tail. The nameplate over her head now read [Imp Enchantress].
If he hadn’t dismissed his Glamour Cloak, the same thing would have happened to him. Roark wondered idly whether the illusion dismissal was part of a Curse Chain ability similar to his, but he didn’t see any telltale runes scratched into the ice.
Beside him, the Imp Enchantress suddenly doubled over and retched brown muck onto the icy floor.
“Can’t cast anything in here,” the rog behind Roark told her. “Smack your Magick down midstream, and that”—he pointed at the muck she’d thrown up—“is your reward for trying.”
The Imp Enchantress looked at him through bleary eyes and wiped her chin before shuffling around the quickly freezing brown pool.
Roark twisted to look over his shoulder at the rog who’d been assigned to his, Zyra, and Kaz’s cell.
“Been in Chillend before, mate?”
“Just once.” The rog chuckled. “But spell casters learn their lesson pretty fast here.”
Roark grinned. “I’m happy enough to learn from others’ example.” He extended his hand. “Rebel_of_Korvo.”
“Yevin.” The rog grabbed his hand and shook. “Wait’ll you see this, Rebel.”
Roark was about to ask what he meant when their section of the line came to a curving balustrade, and he got his first look at the interior of Chillend Prison.
Mai had described the place as tiered, and she’d been mostly right—looking down, Roark could see floor after floor of cells circling the central empty space—except the floors weren’t separate. They were all connected, a part of a slow spiral curling down to a point at the bottom of the flying ice island.
The double lines of prisoners followed the Entry Supervisor down the spiral path, icy balustrade on their left and cell after cell on their right. Perfectly square cubes of gray-green ice with no obvious entry or exit. Careful not to seem as if he were looking for anyone or anything in particular, Roark glanced through each cell for Variok. Inmates paced the interiors, huddled shivering in corners, exercised, or passed the time playing cards with one another using scraps of parchment.
As they rounded the corner down to the third loop of the spiral, an elbow dug into Roark’s gut.
“Down there,” Zyra hissed, flicking a hand out as if she were throwing a knife.
Roark followed the trajectory of her gesture. Another hundred yards ahead, down on the fourth loop of the spiral, near the inner wall of a cell, sat a pale elf in threadbare rags. At first, Roark didn’t re
cognize him. Then another inmate crossed the cell and said something to the elf.
The elf’s face split in a too-wide, toothy grin. Variok and the other inmate began to haggle.
Roark felt his own face mirror the merchant’s. Even in prison Variok was trader to his core.
He nodded at Zyra to let her know he’d seen their target, then slipped a little closer to the cell side of the sloped walkway. As they passed Variok’s cell, Roark rapped a knuckle on the ice wall.
Variok and the other inmate looked up at him, and for a moment, the elf’s face showed nothing but confusion.
Then recognition lit his features, and he threw his arms open wide.
“My friend!” Variok’s voice was muffled through the ice. “You clean me out in Averi City, then you come to icy hell to steal my woolen blankets!” He shook his finger. “For anyone else, I charge one ration a day for three weeks, but for you, I charge only two weeks! What is wrong with me? The cold must be going to my mind, I cannot afford to take such losses on such quality blankets!”
“I don’t need a holey, moth-eaten blanket that badly,” Roark said, falling easily into the merchant’s expected back and forth. “Two weeks with one less meal a day will see my skin gnawing on my bones.”
Variok boomed laughter. “You come see Variok in the cafeteria later to take advantage of this blanket madness before he gets his mind back!”
“Prisoner!” the Entry Supervisor snapped, stabbing a finger at Roark. “Get back in line. Your fine has been doubled.”
Grinning to himself, Roark dismissed the accompanying notification and rejoined the line between Zyra and their rog cellmate.
For all his bluster, Variok was a genius. The merchant had just given Roark a time, place, and the perfect cover to meet and discuss escape at length right beneath the guards’ noses.
A Handsome Profit
HERE AND THERE THROUGHOUT the spiraling walkway, cells stood empty. Whenever they reached one, the Entry Supervisor halted the dual lines, called out four of the prisoners, then pressed his hands to the flat, glassy ice wall. Sparks popped, and a line of glowing steel-gray light etched itself into the Permanent Hoarfrost from the floor up, taking a hard right turn just before it hit the ceiling, then when it reached the width of a human’s shoulders, it took another turn and plummeted toward the floor. When the sparking, popping light sizzled itself out, a door of ice as thick as Roark’s hand swung open to admit its new inmates. The Entry Supervisor would then remove his hands and the door would swing shut, disappearing immediately, returning the gray-green ice wall to a solid sheet.
Roark, Kaz, Zyra, and the rog Yevin were placed in a cell near the bottom of the island’s inverted tower. Below them was a view of the drop to a watery death, and in front of them, at the center of the spiral, lay an open area divided by long tables. Two wide ice shelves jutted out of the walls, one on either side of their cell, clearly meant for sleeping, and a thinner shelf ran along the exterior wall, just the right width for a bench. That was it. Nothing else though. No books or tables. Not even blankets. Which explained Variok’s bustling trade, since it was cold in here, not to mention a touch damp. Now that Roark was in a cell, it wasn’t at all hard to see how prolonged time spent in this hellhole could result in a premature death.
Maybe Marek could learn a thing or two about tyranny from this world after all.
As the door slammed shut behind them, Roark studied the Entry Supervisor’s wrists and fingers. One of the purple olm’s rings or perhaps his bracers must control the magic that manipulated the unbreakable, unmeltable ice, but Roark didn’t find runes or precious stones affixed to his jewelry. Nor any set into the walls themselves. Perhaps they were etched on the inside, hidden from prying eyes that might want to duplicate the enchantment—or alter it from inside a cell.
“So, Yevin, was it?” Zyra asked, plopping on an ice shelf bed protruding from one of the see-through walls. “What are you in for?”
The rog took a seat on the bench and leaned back against the icy exterior wall, outlining himself with the sunlight glinting through the ice.
“I turned one of my apprentices into a frog and refused to turn him back,” he said, shrugging. “He did deserve it, though. That idiot could’ve taught dunce caps how to stupid.”
Roark’s ears pricked up. “You’re a trainer?”
“For magic, sure,” Yevin said. “I’m an Arcane Paragon—I specialize in alteration magic. Fancied myself an adventurer once, until some soft-brained hero shot me in the knee with an arrow. Damn thing still swells up before it rains. Training is the only real way for us lazier magic types to make a decent living. Helping heroes clear dungeons with a trick knee is a fool’s game, and I don’t have the right mentality for the service industry, so owning my own shop was out.”
“Gry Feliri says that when in doubt, kickin’ service with a smile covers a multitude of culinary sins,” Kaz offered.
Yevin nodded. “I like to think he meant the ‘kicking’ literally. I mean, seriously. The customer is always right? What if they’re a moron?”
“So you train people to use magic?” Roark steered the conversation back on course. “Do you have a base of operations? A city or settlement you work out of?”
“Used to.” Yevin snorted. “That was what landed me in here the first time.” Yevin paused, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he regarded Roark. “Why? Are you hoping to hire a magician?”
“Might be. I’m working on founding a settlement for my kind,” Roark said. “Mobs, that is. It’s a bold move, I’ll admit, and risky, but we’re closing in on success, and it will give us all an even footing with the heroes. We already have the master artisans and a few of the skill trainers required, and we’re about to get a merchant, but we could use a magic trainer.”
Yevin tugged at his chin. “What’s the pay?”
“Whatever you make training, you keep,” Roark said. “Plus a share of the money we make from griefing.”
“Aha,” the rog said, a grin stretching across his green features. “You’re not the Rebel_of_Korvo, you’re that Troll what everyone’s been talking about.” He snapped his fingers. “The one from that citadel, what’s his name? Richard? Raden? R-something.”
“Roark,” Kaz offered with a toothy grin. “Roark the Griefer, the greatest Dungeon Lord in all of Hearthworld.”
“Yep, that’s the one,” Yevin said, eyeing Roark anew, a glint of approval in his gaze. “Got to admit, I’ve been admiring your style, friend. The heroes are the dimmest embers in the fire, always trying to buy levels in idiotic magicks they’re not equipped to use and asking me if I enchant things.” Yevin rolled his eyes. “Do I look like an enchanter?”
“You won’t have to deal with them in the citadel, and you’ll have access to all the perks that come with settlements.”
“You’ve sold me,” Yevin said. “Get me out of here and I’ll do it.”
╠═╦╬╧╪
Prison Break II: Double Down?
Yevin the Arcane Paragon has offered to join your settlement as the local skill trainer if you can free him from Chillend Prison.
Objective: Free Yevin from Chillend Prison and return him alive to the mainland.
Reward: Yevin’s loyalty, 5,000 Experience, and Unlock a Special Magical Skill
Failure: Fail to free Yevin from Chillend
Or let Yevin die in the process of being freed
Penalty: Lose Yevin’s loyalty, Training with Yevin permanently locked
Restrictions: None
Accept quest? Yes/No
╠═╦╬╧╪
With a thought, Roark selected Yes.
“Wait,” Zyra said, hopping up from her seat and grabbing Roark by the arm. “You’re not considering saying yes to that, are you? We don’t even know that he’s telling the truth.”
“I already accepted the quest,” he said.
She threw up her hands. Roark was so used to reading her body language rather than her hidden face that he almost misse
d the faint expression of worry amid the anger in her frown.
“If five of us are going, you might as well invite the whole prison along,” she snapped, hands planted on her shapely hips. “While we’re at it, maybe the guards would like off the island as well. Have you asked them?”
From the bench, Yevin chuckled. “I like her. Fiery.”
Roark ignored the paragon.
“He’s a skill trainer,” Roark argued with Zyra, brow furrowed. “He’ll join us if we get him out of here. What possible downside can you see to that?”
Before the Reaver could answer, a trumpet blast like a war horn rang through the prison, shaking the icy walls and the floor beneath their feet.
“Inmates will now proceed to the lower floor for breakfast.” At the highest level of the prison, a Legionnaire was shouting through a cone of ice, his voice amplified and bouncing off of the gray-green walls of the cells. A slight echo followed it, less than a heartbeat behind his voice. “Any misconduct, jostling, or line-jumping will be punished with an immediate doubling of all involved prisoners’ fines.”
As the last ringing words faded from the air, blinding steel-gray light flashed and all the cell doors in Chillend swung open as one. The inmates who’d been around for more than an hour left their cells and began to descend the spiral toward the tables below.
Kaz stared at the open door as if it might be a trap, then turned to Roark.
“It’s like this every mealtime,” Yevin said, standing to his feet and heading out into the open prison. He stopped just outside the door in the flow of traffic and turned back, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the gray-green ice tables. “Food’s this way, cellies. Come fill those bellies.”
“Kaz is hungry, Roark,” the Mighty Gourmet said. “I cannot wait to see what food they are serving. Do you think it will be good? Hopefully they do not skimp on the salt.” Kaz’s face turned very serious. “Prison is one thing, but bland food is the greatest of all crimes.”
Troll Nation Page 13
