Chapter Seven: Heart of Ice

Chapter Seven: Heart of Ice

            Seven months later

            The forges beneath Iceheart Castle constantly churned out chainmail and weapons of superior quality. This stemmed in no small part from their skilled blacksmiths, including several dwarves. They hammered night and day, working minute imperfections out of armor plate and axe blade with grim vigor. As the armor cooled, a crew of several women would take the plates and link them together, their hands linking the plates and rings together adeptly. By the end of the day, these forges could produce as many as a hundred coats of mail a day. Occasionally, the forging crew took a break from their usual business to help to forge large metal urns for an unknown purpose, after which they would go back to their usual activities. Arcaena Blackfire had been doing this for seven months, and her still-unscarred hands brought suspicion from her workmates. Of course, she refused to explain that she was a member of the order of the Maker and a healer by trade, and that her ability to heal the wounds was decreasing by the day. Her natural magical reserves had sustained her thus far, but she sorely needed a replenishing ritual to continue to do so. Given that she could perform this ritual only in the dark elven Temple of Rebirth, her magic was likely to run out within the next two weeks. Between healing her own wounds, maintaining her health, and repairing the vicious gashes that Carsten acquired each day, she felt drained. Her rhythm faltered when as one of the guards, a man named Krast, came into the room. Looking around, he set his eyes on Arcaena. He gestured to her and Essa.

            “Stop,” he said. “The mistress has finally returned. She wishes to see you both. Come with me.” Essa looked at Arcaena, shrugged, and followed him. Reluctantly, Arcaena trailed behind her. They exited the room and ascended several flights of stairs, going up and into the main floor of the castle. Whatever they were doing, it was not good. Arcaena had been here for seven months, and she still had no idea what she was doing here or why. It looked like she was about to get some answers, more than she could stomach.

            Carsten was at the grinding wheel with Thomas at his side, pushing for all he was worth. The past seven months shaped his physique and psyche; gone was the cocky, self-confident individual taken by an unknown band of men eight months prior. In his place stood a tough, cynical figure with an inhuman pain threshold, a beard like a disheveled rat’s nest, and biceps with biceps of their own. His hair had grown out into a fiery orange mane, and he was keeping even with Thomas without much effort. Still, the guards delighted in sending their whips across the backs of the slaves, simply to remind them of their place. Carsten had counted seven lashes across his back and four across Thomas’, with no sign of relief. The guards clearly enjoyed their work, and they jeered as they sent their whips across the prisoners’ shoulders. Suddenly, the door to the chamber clanged open, and a large man stalked in. He wore a long black and hooded cloak, with the cowl pulled up over his eyes. The guards stopped their jeering and beating, their eyes widening with recognition and an emotion Thomas thought was fear. He gestured to the sergeant at the door, who called “Stop!” in as commanding a voice as he could manage, given that he appeared to be shaking. The prisoners, as one, stopped pushing the wheel, which spun for several seconds before grinding to a halt. The hooded man pointed at the sergeant.

            “I want the two dwarves and the grey one. The mistress has called for them.” The guards nodded, unchaining Carsten and Thomas from the wheel, in addition to a gray-haired young man on the far side of it. He wore greenish trousers and, as the guards watched, he slipped a blue shirt over his head. Carsten put his red tunic back on, as Thomas did with his grey jerkin. After they were satisfactorily dressed, the man gestured to them.

            “Come,” he said simply. Thomas looked at the others, shrugged, and followed, with the other prisoner behind him, and Carsten at the rear. He led them to the main staircase that divided the castle’s east and west wings. He gestured to the doorway.

            “Climb,” he growled. And they did. For seven floors they climbed, upward and upward to a height that dizzied them, used as they were to being underground. Upon reaching the topmost floor of the castle, the man led them through a richly decorated hall to a massive set of double doors. Carsten slowly took in his surroundings as he walked. There were polar bear rugs, shelves full of scrolls, and several large candelabras in niches on the walls. The doors that he led them too were overlaid with gold leaf, indicating that they led to an important room, although Carsten did not know how one would find so skilled a goldsmith miles from civilization. Unless, of course, one kidnapped him. In that case, it would be relatively easy to do. The man swung the doors open, and the three prisoners uttered a collective gasp. The temperature instantly seemed to drop ten degrees, as though someone had opened a forbidden door to set winter free. The room within was beautifully ornamented one, with the walls being richly decorated in relief carvings. There were actually carved torch holders in the walls, and these fit well into the narrative architecture all around the room. It appeared that there were two opposing forces locked in battle in these carvings. A battle raged between tall, graceful beings Carsten believed were elves, and ugly, misshapen figures that defied description. At the far end of the room, a stately throne stood on a pedestal. Carsten could not believe his eyes; the throne appeared, impossibly carved out of solid ice. Upon it sat a woman in a dazzlingly bright white-blue dress, her eyes fixed on the door. Those eyes were a cold, milky white, and they roved over her visitors in chilling fashion. Atop her tightly braided silver hair sat a thin, pointed crown resembling an icicle-made diadem. In her lap sat a strange-looking bird, with a gray body and white-tipped wing feathers. It looked for the world like a massive ice hawk. In her hand was a spiked, glassy scepter with a massive sapphire in its head. Looking around, Carsten saw Arcaena had been brought to the throne room as well, along with another woman he did not recognize. The woman on the throne opened her mouth and spoke.

            “Thank you, Sadens. You may go.” The man in the cloak bowed and turned away, exiting the room without a sound. The woman stood, and the bird in her lap winged its way to her shoulder. Stepping down from the throne, she surveyed them again with those cold, unseeing eyes. “Arcaena Blackfire, Carsten Sigurdson, Thomas Ironheart, Edessa Wayfinder, and Rolf Vaisen. So glad you all could join me this evening. My name is Issavea, and as you may have guessed, I reign as queen here.”

            “What difference does that make?” Thomas challenged. “It has little import on my life who controls what I do, whether it be a slave master or you.” Issavea smiled.

            “So confident, boy,” she murmured. “Five leaders from five different peoples, gathered here. So young, so full of hopes and dreams. And so ignorant of what awaits you.”

            “And you are wise in this?” Thomas asked.

            “I know who you are, Ironheart. I see in that chest beats the heart of a king. A king you were born, and king you are, whether you see it or not.”

            “I am no king,” he snapped. “And I will never be. I could not care less who you are or what your claims to power might be. Never, ever compare me to my father. I will never be him, as much as he wants to make me so.” Issavea took her scepter and stared intently at the head. “Yes…hmmm…you I can see plainly. You will become a great warrior, outmatching your father and all others among the Free. Victory will bring you pleasure but no lasting peace…You will find solace in another, but your happiness will be short-lived. The power that you will wield will bring your family sorrow upon sorrow.”

            Arcaena straightened at that. “You speak falsehood, woman. How could you see his future? No sage alive has that power. The Maker decreed that to know the future was not given to mortals.” The woman turned to face Arcaena.

            “That is true. However, that is not what I do. I merely calculate the most likely scenario and project it on your life as it exists now. You may think me a foolish woman, dark elf. But you will not think so when this comes to pass. Then, you will wish that you had listened to me.” She turned from gazing at the dark elf without another word, looking instead at Essa.

            “You, my child, will seek a life of peace in the midst of strife. Your mother will push you down a path towards war, even as you sue for tranquility. You will leave the life of a Huntress for that of a tender of the earth, finding happiness in a family in harmony in a world of chaos,” she said. Essa stared at her.

            “How do you know I am a Huntress?” She asked.

            “Your voice is like that of your mother,” Issavea replied. “You sound like Telara.”

            “You know my mother?” Edessa asked. The woman smiled sadly.

            “Once, I did know her,” she replied. “We were young together. Girls of different interests, but of the same heart. We did everything together. Hunting, reading, fighting, laughing, crying. See, there was nothing that you mother did in which I was not a willing accomplice.” Issavea sighed. “But those days are gone with my sight.” She turned to the man named Rolf, who raised his eyes to meet hers.

            “You have told us our supposed fates,” he said, speaking for the first time, “but not why they matter. What purpose do you have in discussing it with the five of us, together? What difference does us knowing our own destinies make?”

            The woman’s expression could be best described as glacial. “Your destinies might not be set in stone, but they are surely intertwined. In any future I foresee, if your five do not work together, the world is a cruel, dark place full of war and death. A storm is coming, my children, and you must all stand together.”

            “Why?” Thomas asked. “So we give our enemies one target to aim for?” Again, Issavea’s face was impassive and cold.

            “Because if you do not stand together, you will all fall separately,” she answered icily. “Now, as to the gray one’s fate…” she looked at him again with her white, unseeing eyes. “You are not what you seem, my child,” she muttered, more than half to herself. “You have two wars to fight: one to be waged against enemies without, and one to be fought with the beast within. The victor in either of these fights is hidden from me…” She turned to the doors and called, “Sadens!” The cloaked figure entered again, this time with the hood thrown back. His face was harsh, as though carved out of stone, and he had an ugly red scar on the left side of his forehead. His hair was blond, with a few streaks of grey in it.

            “You called for me, my lady,” he said simply.

            “I have finished with the first three. Take them back down below.” Sadens nodded and took Thomas, Edessa, and Rolf by the arm and led them out of the room. Now, only Arcaena and Carsten remained with the sorceress. She raised her scepter and began to walk back and forth in front of them.

            “Good,” she said. “I did not need them to know what is in store for you two.”

            “Why?” Carsten asked. “What difference does our destiny make to them?”

“It makes all the difference, my child,” Issavea replied. ‘Their destinies have extraordinary potential. I can see that, you know. Potential for greatness. Of all of them, you two have the most. Your fates will affect those of all the others, but that is what troubles me. I cannot see your fates; destiny’s potential surrounds the two of you like fog, making it hard to determine even the most likely scenario.”

“So why tell the others off?” Arcaena challenged. “There was no cause for it, then.”

            “That is not quite true,” Issavea countered, holding up an admonishing finger. “A storm is coming, my child. And you two together will be instrumental in stopping it. More than that I cannot say, but let me give you this advice; once you leave this place, you should stay together.”

            “Leave?” Carsten echoed. “How will we do that?” Issavea reached into her belt and handed him a set of keys.

            “Hide those well,” she advised. “The first will open your manacles, the second your cells, and the third the locks on the doors to the prison area. Take the other three with you.” Carsten took the keys and slid them into an inside pocket of his jerkin

            “Why are you doing this?” Arcaena asked.

            “For the same reason I had Sadens and his men bring you here,” Issavea replied. “I needed to push you five together. And that is what I am doing now. The others are not Outlanders, but you are. You must somehow gain their trust, and this escape will help you do that.”

            “How do we know this is truly an offer of escape and not a trick?” Carsten asked.

            “You have no idea either way,” Issavea answered, an icy smile touching her face. “You will simply have to trust me.”
            “I think I speak for both of us when I say that is not as easy as you make it sound,” Arcaena said simply. “You threw us into this prison after ordering your men to hunt us, and now you want to set us free. Forgive me for finding that quite unlikely.”

            “It makes no difference,” Issavea said dismissively. “If you would escape, you must do so within the next week. I am not alone in my efforts to forestall this coming threat, my children, but my partner in this endeavor is…less understanding than I of moral codes and decency. His associates have already notified him that I took you, and my spies tell me he has begun the journey here. You must go soon, or you will never escape him.”

            “And what if we do? How will we find our way home?” Arcaena asked. Issavea reached into one of her sleeves and removed a scroll, which she handed to Arcaena. The dark elf slid it into a fold in the long tunic she wore.

            “He will keep the keys, and you must guard the map. Now, I must send you to your cells. I apologize. Sadens!” She called. The cloaked servant entered the room once more. “Take them.” Sadens once again clapped them in irons and led them down the hall, into the prison area, and then into their cells. Their dinner was already waiting for them, having gone cold in time they had been away. Carsten watched the hall for a while after Sadens had gone. Then, he turned to Arcaena.

            “Did you think she was telling the truth?” He asked. Arcaena looked up from her soup, a scornful look on her face.

            “Did you? And about what?”

            Carsten shook his head. “Everything she said. It was all so…new. I cannot say certainly, but I find trusting anyone here difficult.”

            “Does that include me?” Arcaena asked. The tone of her voice sounded almost…concerned. Does she actually care about what I think? Carsten thought.

            “No,” he said quietly, picking up his dinner. “No, I trust you. In fact, you are the only person in this place that I trust. But do you think she told the truth about any of that?” Arcaena shrugged.

            “I cannot say certainly, Carsten,” she replied. “That she knew who the others were I do not doubt. I do believe that Essa is indeed Telara’s daughter, and that Thomas is in fact Thomas Ironheart of the Greencap clan. Beyond that…” Here she lowered her voice. “I think she wants us to escape, and for us to do it soon. Why, I cannot say.” The dwarf nodded, looking out of their cell in between bites of mysterious gruel.

            “Tonight, then,” he whispered. Arcaena nodded.

            “Tonight,” she said.

            The guard named Fyral had been on duty for seven hours straight, pacing up and down the prisoner holding area like a caged animal. Ironic, given that it was in fact his charges who were imprisoned. Most of them actually slept peacefully, and none of them made noises much louder than a whisper. It seemed as though it would be yet another quiet night in a month full of them. He stopped walking to look again at his magnificent sword. He took the weapon from a wealthy and very foolish light elf who had chosen to stray too close to the border of the Outlands. It had been a simple matter for a group of Issavea’s men, masquerading as bandits, to capture him and hold him for an exorbitant ransom. As a reward for the successful kidnapping, Issavea had given Fyral a captain’s rank and the sword besides. He had no place down here, on guard duty! He should be upstairs, helping Raone and Sadens with the final preparations for the ceremony that would seal the pact between Shargann of the North and Issavea the White. Unfortunately he was not, as the assignment to watch these prisoners took precedence over his other plans. Suddenly, a key turned in the prison door lock, and in marched several hooded man. More of Shargann’s strongmen, Fyral thought glumly. Sadens himself had once been one of this shadowy chieftain’s men, but had left to serve Issavea after a power struggle had left him in a compromising position. One of the men gestured to Fyral.

            “Raone requires you upstairs. Preparations are nearly complete, but your men are in disarray. We will need the officers to gather them and drill for the ceremony on the next new moon.” Fyral nodded.

            “I will come,” he said, “but what of the prisoners. Should they not be guarded?” The man nodded.

            “Other sentries are being sent down as we speak. But come, time is of the essence.” Fyral nodded and followed them through the door, looking one more time over his shoulder at the prisoners in the cells. What harm could a few minutes do? Fyral thought. He shut the door behind himself and twisted the key into the lock. Then, Captain Fyral climbed the stairs, satisfied that the prisoners were secure.

            Several minutes after Fyral had left, Arcaena’s eyes snapped open. She had heard the entire conversation, and had been waiting for precisely the right moment to waken Carsten. Gently nudging him, she whispered in his ear, “Wake up. The guards just changed, so we have about five minutes.” The dwarf was instantly awake. Reaching into his jerkin, he pulled out the keys, which he handed to her.

            “You first,” he said. “Then me.” Arcaena nodded, inserting the square first key into the lock on the cuffs. It groaned and creaked in protest, but the manacle on her right wrist opened and fell away. She took the key and opened the other three locks, massaging her wrists and ankles where the cuffs had been. Carsten then undid his cuffs and slipped the rounder second key into the lock on the cell door. He gave it a twist, but the lock refused to budge. Again, he twisted, more forcefully this time. Still, the lock did not yield. Finally, in frustration, he wrenched the key as hard as he could. There was an audible clank-thud, and the door swung open. Arcaena was the first out of the cell, with Carsten close behind.

            “The new guards will be here soon,” Arcaena said. “We have two minutes, if we are fortunate.” Carsten shook his head. From upstairs, he could hear the clank of armored plates against stone corridors. That meant the guards were about two floors above them, he thought.

            “If you think us so, you have a curious idea of fortune,” he replied. “Free the others. I will handle the guards.” Arcaena nodded and went over to the cell where Thomas and Rolf slept. Inserting the second key into the lock, she turned it, and again the cell door opened with voluble protestations. Thomas woke up groggily, looking up at Arcaena.

            “Wha…how did you get in here?” He asked sleepily. “Only the guards…have keys.” Arcaena jingled the set in her hands.

            “Not anymore,” she replied, unlocking the irons on his wrists. “We are leaving, and you are coming with us.” She did the same for Rolf, who surged to his feet and through the cell door. At precisely that moment, Arcaena heard the click of a key in the outside lock, followed by three armed men stepping through the door. They saw her, and one of them raised his crossbow, pointing it at Arcaena’s forehead. However, he would get no further than that. She heard a shrill whistling sound followed by a solid smack! The man’s eyes went down to a long, dangerous looking knife that seemed to have materialized in his arm and sliced off one of the crossbow’s arms. He screamed in pain, and then went down. The other two guards, without hesitation, rushed Carsten, who had thrown the knife. However, where he had obtained it mystified Arcaena. The first man, who carried a long sword, brought it down in a vertical stroke aimed at Carsten’s head. The dwarf sidestepped and caught the guard’s right arm. Working on the assumption that he was right-handed, Carsten drove a straight-fingered jab into his elbow. The man gasped in pain and his grip on the weapon loosened. Carsten grabbed and immediately ducked a wild stroke with an axe from the second guard. As the man went off-balance from his overpowered swing, Carsten lunged forward and drove his right shoulder into his body. The guard staggered backward, and Carsten smashed the hilt into his chin. There was audible crack, and the man stumbled backward. Following up with a hilt strike to the forehead, Carsten put him down for good. The second man, whose sword he had taken, was back on his feet with a sharp, curved knife in his hand. Carsten stepped forward, his sword at the ready, but he never launched into the thrust he had prepared. For at that moment, a set of strong arms wrapped around the guard’s neck, and he was forced to his knees. Carsten saw Thomas had grabbed the guard, and before he could do more than open his mouth, the other dwarf suddenly twisted as hard as he could. There was a sickening snap as the man’s head jerked hard to one side, and Thomas let the limp body fall from his hands. Behind him, Arcaena stepped out of Edessa’s cell with the Huntress in tow.

            “Why did you do that?” he asked, addressing Thomas. The fact that anyone, especially a member of a royal house, would so casually end a life without cause perturbed Carsten to no end.

            “I did it because it was necessary,” the other returned hotly. “These scoundrels have kept me-us-in prison for over a year, beating me almost every day simply for the sick pleasure it brings them. And you seemed quite content to bludgeon a few of these buggers into unconsciousness.”

            “So you just did that to make yourself feel better,” Carsten finished. “You would not perhaps consider someone else’s life more important than your own personal closure? And besides, there is a good bit of difference between hitting and killing.”

            “What value do the lives of villains have?” Edessa asked. “Have they not forfeited their right to life by virtue of their crimes? That is what execution is for.”

            “And are you to judge when someone has forfeited their right to life?” Carsten challenged. “Executions are performed by the courts, Edessa, in both of our homes. People who define and interpret the law for a living. Not by someone who happens to be tired of being mistreated and takes that law into their own hands. If we get out, we do it quietly, and we certainly are not going to leave a trail of bloody corpses in our wake.”

            “Who died and made you leader anyway?” Edessa countered. “Why do we have to do what you say? Besides, this corpse is far from bloody. I do clean work, after all.”

            Carsten calmly walked over to the third guard, who lay on the floor, pulling at the knife in his shoulder and moaning. The dwarf removed his tightly clenched fingers from around the hilt and yanked the weapon free. The man gave a yell of pain that Carsten cut off when he drove a right-handed palm strike into his jaw. The dwarf took the knife and slipped it into a small space between the sole and toe of his boot, where he had sheathed it. Then, he pointed to the bodies.

            “Nobody died and made me leader, and I will make sure none of you end up as epitaphs to do so. If you want to survive this place, follow us. After all, she had the only map leading home from this god-forsaken castle. Now get whatever weapons you can. Rolf, you moved weapons and food between storage chambers on some days. Where can we find weapons and more provisions?” The gray-haired young man stripped all three bodies of knives, which he tucked into his belt. Thomas took the discarded axe for his weapon, and Edessa the crossbow bolts.

            “There is a guardhouse one floor above us. That would be the closest spot with enough of both,” Rolf said. “But what about the guards? We cannot exactly knock on the door and beg for food.”

            “There is some kind of ceremony tonight,” Arcaena answered. “There ought not to be more than half a dozen up there. We ought to be able to handle that.”

            “Still,” Edessa pointed out, “We cannot simply storm the guardhouse. We need a plan. Six to five makes the odds nearly when we have weapons.” Carsten looked down the halls at the other cells, and then he looked up at Arcaena. A flicker of understanding passed between them, and she nodded.

            “Do it,” she said simply. Carsten pulled the set of keys Issavea had given him out of his belt. He looked at the cells and grinned malevolently.

            “Right, then,” he muttered. “Time to get this freak show on the road.”

            The eight guards inside the guardhouse were calmly playing a game of dynjap, which, for those who have not had the luxury, combines poker, mahjong, and go-fish. The result is a game more suspenseful than a ten-man round of liar’s dice and more emotionally charged than a funeral on your birthday. The current leader in points, a guard named Orik, was about to place raise the bet when the captain of the guard stopped him.

            “What?” Orik taunted. “Are you frightened you can’t pay up?”

            “No,” the captain hissed fiercely. “Listen.” The guards all quieted, ears attuned. Then they, too heard it; the sound of feet pounding on the stone stairs below them. The captain immediately began barking orders to his men.

            “Orik, start handing out weapons. Thule, get some shields. Jyph, give out armor. Move!” But they would never get the chance, because at precisely that moment forty angry prisoners battered down the door to the guardhouse and rushed inside. The guards, whose weapons consisted of an assemblage of swords, axes, whips, and clubs, stepped forward and laid upon the prisoners with grim vigor. Two of the guards armed with axes went down first, overwhelmed by several rushing orcs. Two of these, taking up the fallen men’s weapons, charged the guards who by now had now killed four dwarves, one elf, and two men. The fray now went from chaotic blitz to bloody melee, with frantic blows from axes, swords and clubs falling about and bone-crunching attacks taken and delivered. Carsten, Arcaena, and their companions were the last into the room, for they had been occupied freeing all of the prisoners from their cells.

Seeing his fellow captives deadlocked in this chaos, Thomas rushed forward, his axe already carving a downward stroke through the air aimed at the nearest guard. The man never saw the blow coming, being embattled by an unarmed but quite determined orc. The stroke caught his shield, but the sheer force behind the attack drove the protective device backward, allowing the tip of the axe to slice into his shoulder. The guard winced and stepped backward, attempting to take stock of the situation. However, in doing so, he tripped over a body and fell over. In vain he tried to rise, but the heavy armor suit he wore weighed him down. Thomas stepped over him and swung his axe in a second vertical stroke. The guard’s yell stopped just short, and Thomas turned to engage another sentry. By this time, four of the eight were dead, two killed by orcs, one by Thomas, and the other by Carsten. The remaining four had formed a tight ring, striking at anyone who came near with their swords and clubs. Carsten engaged one of the sword-wielders, opening with a quick thrust aimed at his midsection. The man deflected it and sliced along the inside of Carsten’s swing, aiming for his right shoulder. The dwarf narrowly avoided the cut and punched the man as hard as he could. As he doubled over, Carsten whipped around and impaled him through the stomach. The dwarf almost immediately withdrew the blade from the wound to engage another guard, who had tried to strike him when he turned his back. This man had a long-handled club, and he opened with a flurry of wild blows, forcing Carsten backward. As the guard pulled back for another stroke, a massive hairy arm wrapped around his neck and began to choke him. The man fell back, gagging as the orc dragged him down. Once he was on the ground, the animalistic warrior took the club and swung it down once. Just once. The battle, as abrupt as it began, had just ended. All eight guards had been killed, their bodies butchered and bloody on the packed earth floor. Ten prisoners’ corpses lay beside them, most pierced with swords, but a few mangled by clubs and axes. The rest of the captives looked around the room at the weapons and provisions on the walls.

“What do we do now?” Asked a dwarf. “Staying is out of the question, and we have no way out.”

Carsten and his companions looked at one another. Do we tell them? Edessa mouthed.

No, Arcaena replied. And shut up.

The other prisoners began grabbing weapons while the five of them stood in a corner, watching.

“This feels wrong,” Thomas whispered. “It seems unfair that we should escape alone, out of so many men and women.”

“I believe that is the first thing you said that I could agree with,” Arcaena murmured back.           “But what can we do?”

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, incredulous. “We can help them, too.”

“Look at them,” Edessa said, taking Arcaena’s side. “These people have been driven to desperation by long captivity. They would happily kill for even the slightest chance of escape. Do you really want to trust someone in such a state of mind?”

“We cannot simply leave them,” Carsten said. “That would be killing them, in all but actually wielding the executioner’s axe.”

“But we could not simply tell them we know a way out,” Edessa countered. “That would get us killed, surely.”

“Why tell them?” Carsten asked. “We have no need to do so. Not when we can show them.” Raising his voice above the din of the other prisoners’ milling about, he shouted, “LISTEN UP, YOU COCKROACHES!” The other captives turned, staring at the dwarf in shock. They had never heard anyone, besides their guards, give orders with such authority or volume.

“All right,” Carsten said, “now that I have your undivided attention, my friends and I can help you get out.”

“What?” One of the men stepped forward. “You knew a way out this whole time, and you dared to keep it from us?”

“What does it matter when you are told?” Edessa countered. “You need a way out, and we happen to be your only chance of surviving. We can draw a map that will show you the way out.”

“Meaning you have a chart that shows the way out,” said a dwarf, taking up the tale. “They why not kill you five and take the map?”
            “You would do this?” Thomas asked. “If you do, your allies will do the same to you. However, with a map at your disposal-a map drawn in packed earth, for example…”

“We have no need to fight,” finished an orc. “But what proof will you give us that you aren’t tricking us?”

“We will show you the map,” Arcaena replied. “And then we will copy it into the floor. Now, let us begin.”

The copying of the map took an agonizingly long time; copying a map on that large of a scale was far from easy. Rolfe lent his knife to the cause, and they finally had a working chart. Apparently, the escape route that the sorceress had selected for her prisoners was through a secret tunnel below the dungeon. It opened out onto an icy plain below Howlstorm Hill, where the castle sat. This escape route presented two problems: first, the journey took time, which they lacked; and second, it opened not far below the walls of the castle, which meant that the guards on the walls would be able to see them on the plain.

“I find my desire for escape greatly lessened,” remarked one of the men present. “They have ice gryphons in the castle stables, and men ready to mount them at a moment’s notice. Some other prisoners tried to escape once. I watched as the riders cut them down from the air. They’d cut us down before we got more than forty feet out of those tunnels. This is folly.”

“Maybe not,” Carsten said. “If those riders were to be, say, occupied dealing with a prisoner escape…”

            The man’s eyes narrowed. “Then someone has to stay behind,” he growled. “And anyone who volunteers for this diversionary force would die.”

            “I know,” Carsten replied. “Which is why I intend to lead it.”

Author's Note

See previous