The mace swung high, and Roland ducked low.
If the young rogue had stuck around long enough to see it, he might've caught the scathing impact the sudden blow had left behind on the dungeon wall. He didn't, though. Instead, he opted to keep rushing forward on his bare feet, intent on flying away before the guard had another chance to ring his bell.
All it had taken was a simple mistake. That's what had alerted the tubheads to his latest escape attempt. Roland had skidded around a corner a little too quickly and caught the attention of some loitering guards. After spitting out whatever was in their mugs, they were after him like a shot.
The whole thing had forced him to double back on himself and get rightfully lost. Now, with other guards alerted to his presence, he found himself having to dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge to get past his aggressors. It also didn't help matters that an architect with a distinct lack of imagination had created these dimly lit stone corridors.
Getting free of the cage had been the easy part. It always was. Staying free was the part he was having trouble with. Roland was never one to back down from a challenge, though. He was resolute in his decision to keep going until he hit fresh air, or a mace hit him. There's nothing much to life without a bit of risk.
The lithe rogue dipped around the next corner as the pummels of boots and clanking armour rang against the walls like hail on glass. He pressed himself flat against a recess in the stone. Seconds later, a stumbling gang of tubheads rushed past him. They seemed pretty confident in their direction, so he didn't try to correct them.
Roland only allowed himself a wry smile after their gruff profanities were nothing but distant howls down the corridors. He'd given them the slip. It was a wonder they could catch anyone at all with all that kitchen wear weighing them down.
He snuck from out behind the concealed nook.
This was not Roland's first time in a dungeon. That fact would probably not come as a surprise to anyone. Despite being only seventeen, he had been incarcerated ten times, with half of those times being held right here beneath Tressa's old stone keep. Escaping those times had been easy, but he'd never faced a hanging before. He'd never been stowed quite so deep. Seems that they upped the security for a man courting the noose.
Moving quickly, he trailed back the way he had come. This time, they'd placed him on the fourth level. That was the lowest and darkest part of the dungeon, where only the ill-fated were thrown. It was so dark that not even torchlight was enough to see by. A magical, impenetrable darkness. He'd got out of there quickly enough — as a competent rogue, he was adept at moving about in the dark.
A quick swipe of the keys was all it had taken. Easy without any light. Then he'd slipped out of his lonely cell and felt his way up to the third floor. That's the floor he was lost in now. It was still dark, but at least the dwindling fires in the wall sconces were enough to see by.
Roland's stomach hissed painfully. Four days had passed since he had been found and thrown into a cell, and in that time, he had been given nought but a single slice of bread to eat each day and a glass of water. Wasn't it enough that they were going to kill him? Did he need to be dehydrated, starving, and near frozen to death as well?
It was to stop him from escaping, he knew.
Roland was easier to catch when he couldn't string two thoughts together. At least, that's what they thought, but they knew nothing of Roland. A few scraps of bread and a mouthful of water were more than enough to keep him determined. It didn't matter that his knees were aching, that his arms felt about ready to pop out of their sockets, or that there was a constant dull pounding in his skull.
Roland would escape in time.
After that, he would recover the items they had stolen from him. The rapier and the ruby. Two things that made him feel nauseous when they weren't close by. He'd worked so hard to get them, and now they were in the hands of strangers. Tressan strangers. The uppity more affluent lot from the higher wards, no doubt.
Then, tragedy struck.
Roland hadn't noticed the glow of the tubhead's torch from around the corner. Once again, he'd stumbled recklessly into sight. It was his head. It felt all light and fluttery, which made the very act of thinking about as ambitious as stumbling upon a sign labelled exit. He was like an over-excited golden retriever, running without any need for direction.
They paused for a moment, both he and the guard. Each working out the ramifications of his sudden appearance. The tubhead was on their own. She held a burning torch in one hand and a mace in the other. Roland had nothing to his name but the manacles bounding his wrists together.
'I was beginning to think I wouldn't run into you.'
Roland narrowed his eyes. That voice sounded awfully familiar.
It had been three years since he'd last felt the cobblestones of this city, but before that, he had lived here all his life. As a pretty good thief, he'd made enemies. Lots of them. She could've been anyone. He had as much chance of remembering her name as shouting the first one that popped into his head.
The guard hit the ground running. Roland knew there was no going back, which meant he needed to go forward. That, in turn, meant this tubhead was now an obstacle. He needed to either go around her or go through her.
Roland sprang forward, putting whatever energy he had left into moving as gracefully as possible.
The first swing came in. Roland sidestepped it easily, but he didn't get cocky. Dodging the blows of ill-trained tubheads was easy, but, as the people of Tressa often say, you only need to get hit once.
He swung his body backwards, dodging another blow. The mace came around again, and he ducked. It ricocheted off the wall with an impressive display of illuminating sparks. Roland rolled forward around the tubhead, placing himself ahead of her.
'You move fast for someone on an empty stomach.' The guard grinned. Her mouth was the only part of her face that he could see, except for her eyes. Those purple eyes. Where had he seen those eyes before? 'Try this one, though.'
If he'd been fed, well rested, and capable of rational thought, Roland would've seen the tubhead's sham attack a mile away.
She swung, giving the impression that the mace was going low, but when Roland moved to step over it, she unexpectedly spun around and slammed her leather boot into him. The unexpected attack struck his chest square on and immediately bowled him over.
Roland first discovered the wall, the floor, and then the pain under his ribs. He held them with an unsteady breath. The foot, which had been unusually quick and skilfully used for a tubhead, had taken the wind right out of him.
The tubhead smiled. She towered over him, casting her shadow three times upon the wall, making her seem taller. He looked up at her, half expecting another wallop to meet his head. The mace didn't move. She stayed her hand and stood watching him momentarily as if trying to take him all in.
'Just do it,' Roland said.
She slowly leaned down to him and spoke the following words in a whisper. 'Straight ahead,' she told him with a nod of her head, 'twos lefts, then a right.'
There wasn't another word, not even from Roland. She straightened, retrieved her torch, and whistled a jaunty tune as she marched down the corridor. Roland watched her suspiciously until the light followed her out of sight. She was gone. No alarm bells, no calls for help. Nothing.
Odd, he thought as he struggled to stand up. His ribs were bruised and beaten, but they weren't broken. Roland had been cursed with broken ribs before, and they hadn't felt like this. It was less painful, and he could still breathe, for one thing. The stone wall was friendly enough to lend him a hand in finding his feet.
Cautiously, he slunk to the end of the corridor. It ended in two directions. One went left, and the other went right. Could he trust the tubhead's advice? There was very little reason to trust her, especially after the beating she'd just given him. Roland took a deep breath, winced a little at the pain in his side, and chose the right path over her suggestion.
Surely, he guessed, she would've given him opposite directions to lead him into a trap. Why would she have done otherwise?
This time, he checked around every other corner before jumping out. After half an hour of guessing, he wondered if the guard had given him the truth after all. There was nothing he could do about it now. He'd already lost his way again. The only thing to do was to keep moving forward.
At the hour mark, Roland took a break. Breathless, he leaned against the cold stone of the dungeon wall. The damage the tubhead's foot had done was subsiding, but he felt drained from his bitter stay in this dingy hotel. His stomach let out a groan. It wasn't helping. Roland was suddenly assailed with sweet daydreams of lying on the floor and only waking back up when he felt the prod of a tubhead's boot.
'No!' Roland slapped himself around the face. 'I'm not dying in this stupid city.'
With renewed determination coursing through his veins, he pushed himself into motion and kept moving for yet another half an hour.
Tender, sweet fresh air caressed his face. A breeze, of all things, rustled his hair and welcomed him closer. Before long, he was chasing it, racing after it, and cared little for if the guards heard him.
The way out of the third level was well-lit by dutiful sconces, which led to an iron gate that filled up the space between floor and ceiling. Behind them, Roland spied a set of stone steps that would undoubtedly lead up to the second level. Things would be much easier up there. It wasn't a maze-like labyrinth of similar-looking corridors. It was a straight and easy-to-navigate set of hallways.
Roland rushed to the gate and drew a ringlet of keys from his trousers; the ones he had swiped. The first key went smoothly into the lock, but wouldn't budge when he tried to turn it. He tried another. Same thing. He swore and tried another. None of the keys worked. Roland was a mere ten feet from almost guaranteed freedom, but could do nothing about it.
Then he heard the heavy boots behind him.
He didn't need to turn to know that four tubheads, exactly like the ones that had been chasing him, had emerged from the darkness. Roland could hear their snide remarks and half laughs at having him cornered like this. Had they set a trap, he wondered, or had they simply got lucky?
Furiously, Roland tried to turn the key again. This time, he gritted his teeth and forced the stupid metal rod with both hands. SNAP. The thing broken cleanly in the lock. It was a key to a cell and nothing more. He'd been stupid and desperate to think otherwise.
'I don't think it fits.'
The hairs on the back of Roland's neck stood suddenly to attention.
A fine leather boot appeared on the steps, slowly followed by another. The figure was devil-like, carrying horns atop their head and a wickedly whipping tail from out their backside. Their skin was blue, and their eyes were piercing with a hellish glow — a tiefling. The figure approached the other side of the iron bars, curiously picking something out of his fangs with those blackened fingernails.
Roland hadn't seen this creature in almost three years, but not much had changed. His fiery hair was still thinning, his spiralling horns were still dull, his gut was still stretching his now grandiose tubhead uniform, and he still had a face that no mother could love.
'Kythos,' Roland snarled.
'It's been a while, Roland. I'd ask how you've been, but I already know. A lot of things have changed since you left. I'm the Lower Warden of Tressa now,' he said, smugly pulling on the golden sash that wrapped his fine tubhead uniform. 'Only one step removed from being in charge of the entirety of Tressa's safety.'
Roland didn't say anything. He only scowled.
Kythos stepped closer to the bars. Close enough to get a good look at Roland, but not quite close enough for the rogue to grab him and use him as a bargaining chip for freedom. 'I was quite disappointed to hear that you had returned to Tressa, Roland. I had rather hoped we had seen the last of you three years ago.'
'Believe me, it wasn't my choice,' replied Roland through gritted teeth. 'I'd have gone anywhere else in the world if I could've.'
'Oh, I do not doubt that.' Kythos had finally managed to get the offending piece of food out with his nail, which he then decided to have as an afternoon snack. Roland stuck his tongue out in disgust. 'You'll be saddened to hear that the High Warden of Tressa has decided to take a close interest in your stay with us. I've been assigned to ensure your stay is as unwelcoming as possible.'
'Meaning what exactly?' Roland raised an eyebrow.
'You're not escaping this dungeon,' he replied, the lines on his face deepening. 'Not under my watch. You'll be hung in seven days, and I've acquired front-row seats to it. Before that happens, however, you and I need to have a discussion, don't we?'
'Do we?'
Kythos licked his teeth, probably to ensure there were no other stragglers from his most recent meal. 'It's about a little boy who managed to drift ashore in a broken rowboat with a selection of most peculiar items. He himself was wearing nothing but rags, but in his possession, he had an ornate rapier that is most positively magic and a shattered ruby worth a small fortune.'
'Give them back, and I'll tell you everything.'
Kythos smirked.
The tubheads were on Roland before even he had a chance to react. He'd been so focused on Kythos that he'd forgotten all about them. Stupid. The first whack of the mace hit him on the side of the thigh, bringing him to his knees, which was shortly followed by a chorus of jabs. Roland was assailed on all sides; ruthlessly kicked, beaten, and knocked with mace ends.
He refused to shout out, however, no matter how much this sucked.
'That's good, Roland Darrow,' said Kythos. 'I'm pleased to see that you still hold up well against a good beating.'
Roland was roughly brought to his feet and forced to stand before the Lower Warden of Tressa. Kythos leaned into the bars. It was just close enough for Roland to get his shot in. While he couldn't fit through the bars, his foot bloody well could. He brought it up between the gap and straight under the tiefling's chin. Kythos reeled backwards, and Roland was given a retaliatory punch to the gut by one of the tubheads.
Kythos staggered, his eyes glowing red. Nothing was left of the smugness, and he had turned a dark shade of blue. Still, he swiftly regained his composure and wiped the blood from his chin. 'Take him back to his cell.'
Roland had a sinking feeling that more pain would be in his immediate future.