by Cory Barclay
Good, Hugo thought. Maybe getting beaten half to death will make that snake think twice next time he tries laying hands on what’s not his.
“You showed him little mercy last night,” Karstan said. “I had to stitch his forehead. He may never look the same.”
“He won’t be missing much—he was already ugly enough.” Hugo leaped up from his cot, Ava’s ring still wrapped around his little finger.
Karstan chuckled. “I’m pretty sure it would look better on Ava,” he said, reminding Hugo he was still wearing it. Quickly, Hugo slipped it off and put it in his pocket.
“I’m going to get Ava back,” he said, his voice strong and steady, his eyes tense.
Karstan’s chuckle faded. He studied Hugo, a perplexed look on his chubby face. “How do you plan to do that? Just traipse into the jailhouse and ask for the key?”
“Something like that,” Hugo said. He rummaged through his stash of coins and accessories, grabbing something and pocketing it.
As Hugo moved for the front door, Karstan stopped him. “Wait, Hugo, honestly . . . what are you doing? Trying to get yourself killed?”
“I told you what I’m doing,” he answered, determination written on his face. “Goodbye, Kars. I hope I see you again.” Then he walked out the door, leaving Karstan reaching out for him, speechless.
Hugo breathed in the crisp air that always followed a storm. Weaving through trash-filled alleys, he made his way up the hill toward Priest Circle and Bedburg’s church.
At this time of day, the area was relatively free of preachers and beggars since Mass had already let out and the poor had already been fed. Which also means no more carriages will be riding through, Hugo reckoned.
Making his way to the town square and marketplace, he passed through an alley, ignoring several straggling beggars. He pulled his half-eaten piece of bread from his pocket and bit into it. When he finished, he dusted his hands off on his dirty tunic and scanned the square.
The market was in full bloom. With the new sun came a new lease on life for the townsfolk. Tents and carts were spread out in ragged columns, merchants and farmers hocking their wares, while a plethora of shoppers rummaged around.
Nobles and peasants alike perused the goods.
Hugo turned as a loud commotion caught his attention. A farmer and old woman were scuffling. Shouts became shoves, until a town guard arrived to split them up.
For several minutes, Hugo kept his eyes on the guards circling the square in their gray-and-black liveries. Like bees buzzing near the hive, they scurried about making sure things stayed orderly.
Then Hugo narrowed his attention to a lavishly attired nobleman who was scrutinizing a merchant’s stock of dresses. Two guards surrounded the aristocrat, insulating him from all who passed with a five-foot circle of protection.
Hugo didn’t care who the nobleman was. He reached into his pocket, tossed something into his mouth, then headed toward the man.
Usually, Hugo had the requisite grace and subtlety while thieving to get away without being detected. By the time a mark realized his purse was gone, Hugo was already counting his winnings in an alley three blocks away.
This time, however, after passing the guards Hugo clumsily bumped into the nobleman, then didn’t pull hard enough when attempting to dislodge the purse from the man’s waistband.
“Hey!” the aristocrat cried, raising alarm. “Thief!”
Hugo made no move to dodge the guards. They quickly clenched his arms. “Not so fast, boy,” one of them said. “You’re not so good at this, eh?”
Hugo let himself be pulled along like a marionette.
“Ost, keep watch on Herr Clifton,” the one guard said. “There might be more where this ruffian came from. I’m bringing him to Old Ulrich. Maybe he can set this delinquent straight.”
Hugo sat in Bedburg’s cold jailhouse, listening through the walls to a prisoner’s choked screams echoing through the stale, damp jail. Hugo shuddered at the cries.
He wasn’t a perfect judge of time, but he reckoned he’d been in the cell for most of the day. There were three other cells in the room besides his: one belonging to the screaming prisoner next to him, and two empty ones across the hall.
Since arriving at the jail, Hugo hadn’t said a word, or complained, or raised a single racket. In fact, no one had even come to check on him. He felt his stomach groan in protest.
A large man finally appeared in front of his cell. He had big hands and old cuts on his hairy arms. He wore a dark apron covered with splotches of something even darker. This man had been sent to scare the bandit out of him. But if his job was to exorcise Hugo’s thieving demons, it was going to take much more than a bloody apron or veiny arms to do it.
On the other hand, the jailer’s face was downright terrifying: bald, shiny dome; small, black eyes devoid of hope; a large purple scar running down the side of his forehead and cheek; and a scowl unlike Hugo had ever seen.
I guess the city doesn’t mind that the jailer looks more criminal than his resident prisoners. It doesn’t matter what side of the cell we’re on, as long as we’re all kept from the public eye.
“So. You’re the little thorn.” The man had a deep, raspy voice.
“Thorn?”
The jailer leaned forward. “The thorn between the noblemen’s toes.”
Hugo shrugged.
“And a shoddy thief at that,” he added.
Hugo stayed quiet.
The man craned his neck and squinted his beady eyes. The scar on his face seemed to move with his tilting head, staring right at Hugo.
“I know you from somewhere,” the man whispered.
Hugo squirmed away from the purple scar, unnerved. “I doubt it,” he said, lips barely moving. “I’ve never been here, and I doubt you’ve ever left here. So our paths haven’t crossed.”
The man put his hands on his hips. “You’re lying. Let me know when you want to tell me where I know you from. I’ll be next door, getting information.” He smirked, pulling a three-inch nail from his pocket and leaving little doubt how he obtained information.
An excruciating hour later, the prisoner next door was silent, unconscious from the torture. Then Hugo heard footsteps, first growing louder, then stopping, and then fading back down the hall. As if the jailer had had second thoughts; first thinking he’d pay Hugo a visit, then changing his mind to let him stew a while longer.
Hugo heard a door slam on the far end of the hall.
Once he finally had peace and quiet, Hugo wasted no time.
After making sure no one else was coming down the hallway, he reached in his mouth and pulled out the small metal pick he’d hidden there back in the alley. It had been hard to talk with the thing in his mouth, which was why he’d stayed mostly quiet.
He checked the lock on his cell. A simple bolt—not too strong, not too weak. Luckily, the lock’s strength was irrelevant since only the finesse of the escape artist mattered.
Which Hugo most definitely was. He stuck the pick in the keyhole and played with it. Moments later, the lock clicked, then opened.
He pressed lightly on the bars. With a faint groan, the cell door opened. He tiptoed down the hall peering left and right. The terrifying jailer had gone to the left, through a door into a different room. So Hugo headed right, toward another wooden door.
He held his breath as he touched the door. His heart was pounding. If someone’s on the other side . . . he didn’t let himself finish the thought.
He gently pushed down on the door handle. It wasn’t locked. He slowly opened it and poked his head out.
The hall was empty.
Short-staffed.
He came to a small room with two cells on each side. He crept past the first two. Both were empty.
He kept moving, his heart hammering.
In the third cell a man was staring into a corner, his back to Hugo.
Hugo moved on to the last cell, which was empty. Then he did a double-take.
A small form sa
t in the corner, nestled in the shadows, knees brought to chest, head between legs, dark hair cascading over the person’s knees.
Hugo immediately recognized the shape and the pouting sounds the voice made.
“Ava?” he whispered.
The man in the cell behind Hugo ran to the bars. “You!” he shouted, “if you’re getting her out, get me out, too!”
Hugo whirled on the man with an icy scowl, instantly quieting him. Then he rushed back to Ava’s cell. “Ava, it’s Hue!” he whispered louder.
At the sound of his voice, Ava slithered up from her knees. Her green eyes were dark and downcast. Her face wet with sweat, or tears. She obviously hadn’t bathed since her capture the day before.
“Hue!” Dimples formed a smile. She pushed herself off the ground.
Hugo’s heart filled with joy.
“Come on, let me out of here, dammit!” The man yelled from the other cell.
“Quiet, man, or we’ll all be caught!” Hugo urged.
But the man wouldn’t relent. Rattling the bars of his cage, he pushed and pulled as hard as he could.
Hugo used his pick in Ava’s lock. He felt the click a few seconds later and threw open the cell door.
Ava rushed into his arms.
“Come on, we must hurry,” Hugo whispered. He led Ava out through the first door, meanwhile leaving the remaining prisoner behind to shout obscenities.
The intimidating jailer—nearly twice Hugo’s height and thrice his weight—stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking their way. A cruel grin formed on his face, slithering his scar toward his nose.
Hugo’s eyes went wide.
“Run!” he shouted, while doing the only thing he could think of—rushing the jailer.
Being the Falcon, Hugo was quick and sprightly. He imagined he’d be able to pivot and dodge the big man’s hands.
But the man wasn’t as clumsy as he appeared.
With surprising speed, the jailer grabbed Hugo by the wrist. At the same time, Ava streaked past them both.
Glancing back at Hugo, much the way she’d done when first captured in the town square, her sad eyes creased with worry.
“Keep running, Ava! Go!” Hugo screamed.
Ava opened the final door. Hugo saw a flash of sunlight as it opened. He smiled as Ava vanished up the stairs, out of view, before his face hurtled toward the nearest jail cell bars.
The Raven was free!
With a violent smash, everything went black.
When he came to, his head ached and his mind buzzed. Frankly, after that head slam he vaguely remembered, he was surprised he woke at all.
Now, everything just hurt.
He was in a different cell, arms tied to a chair. Across from him sat the jailer, eyes drilling into him.
“You must be Old Ulrich,” Hugo said.
The jailer frowned. “Old Ulrich? I may be ugly, but I’m not old. Who said that?”
“The guard who captured me.”
Ulrich’s frown grew. “I’ll have to teach him the error of his ways. But you’re first.” He smiled.
Hugo shifted his weight. “If it’s ‘information’ you want from me, I have none.”
“You’re just a stupid boy. What kind of information could you possibly have?”
“Exactly.”
Ulrich stood and stepped in front of Hugo. He leaned down and stared at the boy. He was so close Hugo could taste whatever god-awful thing the man had had for lunch.
But to Hugo’s surprise, Ulrich reached over and untied his arms.
“That was a . . . courageous thing you did back there,” he said. “Rescuing your little friend. Stupid, but courageous.”
He pronounced “courageous” as though a foreign word, one he’d never uttered before.
“I love her,” Hugo said.
Ulrich scoffed. “I’m sure you’ve been told this before, but you have no idea what love is. Do you really believe that girl would have done the same for you?”
Hugo felt his cheeks grow hot. “I remember my father saying that to my sister, years back. But never to me.”
Ulrich squinted. It was only then that Hugo realized the man had no eyebrows, which is what probably made his face so monstrous—besides the nasty scar.
“Your sister and father . . .” Ulrich said, tapping his chin. “Ah! That’s how I know you. You’re Peter Griswold’s son.”
Hugo reeled back. “How in God’s name did you know that? Do I look like him?”
Ulrich pondered for a moment “Actually, you look nothing like him. But I’ve seen you before. That much I know.”
Hugo put his hands in his lap. The silence dragged on for what seemed like hours, until Hugo said, “What happens now?”
Ulrich shrugged. “I guess I knock you around a bit, maybe slice off a finger or two so you can’t go thieving again, then let you be on your way.”
Hugo’s heart caught in his chest.
“Or, I could dump your head in a bucket of cold water, rip off your fingernails, ask where the rest of your gang is holed up. Maybe I’d even get to hang you, eventually, if Bishop Schreib allows it.” Ulrich eyed the ceiling as he rambled.
A bead of sweat dripped down Hugo’s upper lip. He imagined being fingerless. Not a good image, he decided.
Ulrich chuckled, as if he read Hugo’s thoughts. “How many of you are there?”
“Thieves . . . in Bedburg? Hundreds. Of my own crew? Five. Well, four—our friend Danny went missing some time ago.”
Ulrich pinched the skin beneath his chin. “Daniel Granger?” he asked.
Hugo’s eyes perked. “Yes! Have you seen him?”
Ulrich let out a sucking sound. “I hanged him.”
Hugo cringed.
Another silence lingered in the stagnant room.
“I am sorry about your father,” Ulrich said at last. “I don’t think Peter Griswold was a bad man.”
“What do you care?” Hugo said. “He was just another victim to you.”
“True. But it’s different when you know a man’s innocent.”
Hugo’s eyes lifted. He felt the red rage pulse through him. “You knew he was innocent, but you killed him anyway?”
Ulrich lifted his arms. “Orders, son. Heinrich Franz and Bishop Solomon gave them. I followed them. I didn’t like it anymore than you.”
“I doubt that.”
Ulrich sighed. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for leaving you an orphan bastard. In a way, you remind me of me, when I was your age.”
Hugo snorted. “You remind me of the Devil.”
“Fair enough. I suppose I deserve that.”
“And much worse.”
“Actually, I’ve been in your position more than I care to count. I used to run with a gang, wreaking havoc wherever I went. I didn’t have much choice. Same as you, I suspect. But that only brought me pain and grief. If I were you, I’d leave your vagrant cohorts and start a new life.” He shrugged. “If I don’t kill you first.”
“A new life . . . like you? What happened, exactly, to turn you to the noble path of torture and execution?”
Ulrich grinned and winked. “I found God.”
After a bit more talking, Ulrich closed the cell door to let Hugo sleep. Much to the boy’s surprise, during their entire “meeting,” Ulrich never touched him. In fact, they left on much friendlier terms than how they began.
Despite his tough talk of finger-slicing, nail-yanking, and hanging, Ulrich remained remarkably peaceful. He never even searched Hugo’s person or stole the ring still in Hugo’s pocket.
The next day, Hugo awoke cold and sore. He still had a lingering headache from being smashed against the jail cell.
Stumbling to his feet, he walked to the front of his cell and grabbed the bars. As he leaned forward to look out, he felt the bars move with him. Gently, he pushed a little harder and the cell door opened.
His eyes narrowed. Would the jailer actually forget to lock my cell? Not likely . . .
Whatever the
reason, it didn’t take much coaxing for Hugo to take off down the hallway.
Proceeding cautiously, he called out as he walked. “Hello?”
But the hall was empty.
Definitely short-staffed . . .
He tiptoed through the first wooden door. It too was unlocked.
Entering the main lobby, he started up the stairs.
Less than sixty seconds later, he was free, walking down the road with the sun on his back, just another peasant out for a stroll on a lovely day.
So befuddled by his unexpected “escape,” he actually began skipping. Then he reached in his pocket and clutched Ava’s ring, smiling as he headed home.
To the slums, to his friends, to Ava.
He wondered how Severin would react to seeing him after being beaten nearly to death the previous night.
But he decided it didn’t matter. There was only one person that mattered. And he desperately wanted to hold her as soon as possible. More than that. He wanted the two of them to have a life together.
Hugo stopped skipping when he got to the slums in the southern part of town. Walking briskly, he rounded the corner leading to the alley. The ramshackle place he called home came into view.
And, at that moment, it never looked better.
As he shoved open the front door, his heart was ready to burst.
The door swung on its hinges then bounced back. Hugo blinked, unsure what had just happened. The door had sprung back with such force, had he not put up his hand, it would have smashed into his face.
He pushed the door open again, slowly this time, then moved just inside the doorway for a better angle.
His fat friend Karstan was not on his cot. Instead, he was hunched over Hugo’s cot.
“Kars what’s going—”
As the full scene took shape, Hugo’s stomach knotted and his mouth dropped open. The ring almost slid from his hand.
What Karstan was hunched over was . . . Ava. She was sitting on Hugo’s cot and she and Karstan were locked in a deep embrace, lips touching.
Images of past betrayal instantly flooded Hugo’s mind—Sybil promising to never leave him, to never forget him; his father’s promises to always be around.
Promises never kept.
