Tarmon took a deep breath, grunting as a bolt of pain shot through his ribs. The cold cell wall felt like ice against his bare back as he propped himself up against the stone. He ran his fingers over the partially healed wound along his left side, where the High Mage had raked the hot poker. It had blistered and burst, but one of the High Mage's servants had applied a salve that smelled like brimlock sap, which held any infection at bay. It still stung, but he knew it pained him half as much as it would have were it not for the salve.
Erik Virandr lay unconscious in the cell across from him, and the elf, Vaeril, lay on his back in the cell beside him. A pair of glowing blue manacles were secured around the elf's wrists to stop him from using his magic. Tarmon had no idea how they worked, but he found understanding something often did not matter. You did not have to understand an arrow for it to tear through your flesh.
The High Mage had taken the dwarf, Korik, three days before. He hadn't returned. They must have been holding Calen in a different room, because Tarmon hadn't seen him since they entered the castle.
Every night, the dragon's roars rippled through the sky like thunder. The creature was no beast; Tarmon had seen the intelligence in its eyes. It knew it could not siege the castle on its own, and even if it did, they would just kill Calen.
"Agh." Tarmon shifted his weight, turning to face Vaeril's cell. The wound on his side was far from the only part of his body that was in pain.
"Vaeril, are you awake?"
"Unfortunately," the elf said through gritted teeth. The High Mage had taken Vaeril for questioning more than any of them. Twice a day. Tarmon knew little of elves. And what he did know came from bards' stories. The travelling bards had often spun tales of the old elves. The ones who ruled the skies from dragonback. The ones who, along with the Jotnar, founded The Order. Of course, the recounting of history was a fickle thing. It depended on the bard as to whether the elves were heroes or villains of the story. What Tarmon did know was that the elf in the cell beside him was one he had grown to trust.
"We need to do something," Tarmon said between short breaths. "Korik has not returned."
"He is dead," Vaeril responded plainly, though Tarmon could hear the regret in the elf's voice. "I saw his body when they took me in this evening. They flayed him alive. He was strong, though. I do not believe he would have told them of the Portal Hearts."
Tarmon's head sank into his hands. "By the gods. May Hafaesir guide him."
"I fear it will not be long before we face the same fate."
With all the strength he could muster, Tarmon lifted himself forward onto his knees, wrapping his fingers around the iron bars that separated his and Vaeril's cells. "We cannot simply sit around and wait to die."
"Agreed," Vaeril said, propping himself up on his elbows.
"The next time they come for either one of us, we try to take them. They have grown lax in the past week. One always stays outside the room while the other opens the cell."
"We will most likely die."
Tarmon couldn't help but choke a laugh at the elf's candour. "Yes, we most likely will."
"What about him?" Vaeril nodded towards Erik, who still lay unconscious on the floor of his cell.
"I can carry him."
Vaeril nodded slowly, as though ruminating on the idea. "Then we find the Draleid."
"Then we find Calen."
The click of the key turning in the lock woke Tarmon from his slumber. It was followed by the rasping, scraping sound of the iron bar being slid free from the outside of the room's door. Grimacing, Tarmon pulled himself upright. He took in long, deep breaths, readying himself. He whispered, "Vaeril, they are coming."
Before Vaeril had a chance to respond, the door burst open, clattering against the wall. Only fractions of a second passed before two men rushed into the room, black mantles pulled about them, swords drawn and dripping blood.
"Keys," one of the men called, snatching a bundle of keys from the air as the other man threw them to him. He fiddled with the keys for a few moments before deciding on one and slotting it into the lock on Tarmon's cell door. A turn and a click, then the iron-barred door creaked open. The man drew back his hood, and Tarmon stumbled backwards in surprise. It was Alleron.
Alleron tossed the keys back to his companion, who proceeded to open Erik's cell.
"Can you stand?" Alleron asked, reaching his hand out to Tarmon.
"I can." Tarmon clasped Alleron's hand, heaving himself to his feet.
"Take the guard's shoes, clothes, and weapons," Alleron said, resting his hand on Tarmon's shoulder. "You won't get far in the snow if you're shirtless and shoeless."
While Alleron and his companion set about freeing Vaeril and Erik, Tarmon made his way to the room's door. Two guards in the red and black leather of the Lorian empire lay still on the ground, both leaking blood from knife wounds in their necks. Tarmon sized them up with his eyes. They were too small. Their clothes and shoes would suit Vaeril and Erik well, but his own foot would not even come close to fitting in those shoes, and there was not a chance he would be able to squeeze into that armour. As quickly as he could, fighting the creaking pains in his body, Tarmon stripped the men and brought their clothes back into the cells. He handed one pile to Vaeril, receiving a weak nod from the elf. How Vaeril was going to put the shirt or armour on while his hands were still bound by those manacles was another thing altogether.
Alleron, who now knelt by Erik's side, gave Tarmon a questioning glance at the sight of him still in nothing but his smallclothes.
"Those damned Lorians are too small," he said with a shrug. "I'll find more clothes. How is he?"
"Conscious, but barely. We won't be able to—"
"I'm all right." Both Alleron and Tarmon jerked their heads around at the sound of Erik's voice. The young man's eyes were open, his lips cracked and raw. "I can walk. Just help me to my feet."
"I'll carry you," Alleron said, setting his jaw.
"I can walk. Now, help me to my feet."
Alleron pursed his lips, then nodded, reaching out his hand and helping Erik to his feet. He then turned to his companion, tilting his head in Vaeril's direction. "Baird, the manacles."
Reaching into his pocket, Alleron's companion, Baird, produced a small steel rod etched with glowing blue runes that seemed to match the ones carved into Vaeril's manacles. "Elf, your hands."
Without hesitation, Vaeril held out his hands, chains clinking.
Baird reached out, touching the steel rod to the surface of the manacle on Vaeril's right arm, producing an audible click before both manacles opened and fell to the floor with a clang.
Vaeril let out a short, almost euphoric, breath, his eyes closing, a warm smile touching his lips. "We must find the Draleid."
It took a few minutes for Erik and Vaeril to dress themselves, but then they were moving through the corridors of the castle as quickly as they could. Tarmon's lungs burned, straining to keep up with his urgency. He carried one of the soldier's swords in his right hand and Vaeril's former manacles in his left. Never leave anything behind that could be useful later. That was something his father had told him, and his father was often right.
"Where is Calen?" Vaeril called as they hurried down the stone corridor.
"He's being held in a cell on the other side of the castle," Alleron's companion, Baird, replied. He was a tall man with black hair and a long unkempt beard, a fresh white bandage drawn over his left eye. "He'll be under guard."
"And the mage?" Erik asked, panting.
"We're not sure," Alleron called back. "He might be in his chambers, he might…"
"He might be with Calen," Erik finished.
Alleron didn't respond, but Tarmon could see him give a grim nod.
A door burst open to the right, and a heavy weight crashed into Tarmon's side, knocking him sidelong into the wall of the corridor. A mountain of a man stood beside him, his fingers gripped around the haft of a short axe. The man was easily as tall and as broad as Tarmon, if not a little more so. He had a coat of mail tied at the waist with a leather belt and a wolf-fur cloak draped around his shoulders. His clothes would fit Tarmon perfectly.
Ducking below the swing of the axe, Tarmon brought his elbow up, crunching into the man's cheekbone. He followed the elbow with the pommel of his sword, slamming it into the side of the man's head. The man stumbled, howling as he touched his shattered cheekbone. Tarmon pressed, swinging the manacles in his left hand. The man screamed, tilting his head back as the heavy steel manacles cracked into his mouth, sending broken teeth into the air. Seeing the opening, Tarmon shifted his weight onto his back foot, then drove the tip of his sword through the man's exposed neck, blood fountaining from the wound.
As Tarmon slid the blade free, the man's body collapsed to the ground, blood still spilling out over the floor.
Vaeril was the first to reach Tarmon. "Are you all right?"
"I'll live," Tarmon said, reaching down and pulling the man's boots free, followed by his trousers, wolf-fur cloak, and coat of mail. They fit him well, better than he would have hoped. "Let's get Calen."
Baird and Alleron led the group down corridor after corridor as they made their way towards the cell where Calen was being kept. Tarmon tried not to think of what they might find when they got there. Calen was a strong-willed man. Tarmon had seen what torturers did to strong-willed men.
They ran into a few Lorian and Drifaienin guards along the way, but none of them posed much of an obstacle. Some of the Drifaienin even stopped once they saw Alleron's face, twisting their hands into fists and raising them across their chests.
Alleron finally stopped at a corner where their corridor intersected another, taking only the slightest of glances around its edge. "Down at the end," he said, gesturing around the corner. "Five guards. Possibly more inside."
"The High Mage is inside." Vaeril's eyes were closed as he spoke. "I can feel him drawing on the Spark."
Alleron bit his lip, pondering something. "Any chance you can use that Spark of yours to take out the guards?"
Vaeril shook his head. "I'm too weak. I would just harm myself."
Alleron nodded, the look on his face showing that he had received the answer he expected. "It's a narrow corridor. They can't stand any more than two abreast. I say we rush them."
"I can walk," Erik said, his hands resting on his knees, his breathing laboured as he leaned against the wall. "But there is no way I'll be able to fight."
Tarmon turned to Alleron, Baird, and Vaeril. "We can't charge them. The High Mage will hear the fighting."
"What do we do, then?" Erik asked, his head tilted to the side.
"We need to get them away from the door." Alleron's gaze fell on Erik, who was leaning against the wall, garbed head to toe in Lorian armour. "You're going to need to get their attention. You're the only one who might pass as Lorian."
Erik let out a strained laugh, his face twisting in a grimace. "I knew I wasn't going to get away that easily."
Tarmon gave an amused smile. "Nothing is ever easy, is it, young Virandr?"
"All right, what's the plan?" Baird asked, cutting through the chatter. "We don't have much time. It won't be long until someone finds the bodies we left."
Tarmon nodded, agreeing. "Erik, you step into the corridor and call for help. Make sure you're convincing enough for all of them to follow. When they pass by, we'll take them down as quietly as we can. Then, we move for Calen. Anybody disagree?"
Tarmon looked around to see hesitant but approving faces. It wasn't the most complex plan in the world, but it was always wiser to bring your enemy to you rather than the other way around.
As Erik stepped out into the hallway, Tarmon readied himself, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. His body was stiff. Weeks cramped in a cell would do that. He left the manacles on the ground by the wall, allowing him the use of both hands. He pressed his back up against the wall to keep himself unseen by the soldiers for as long as possible. Alleron, Baird, and Vaeril stood beside him, similarly pressed against the wall.
"Quick," Erik called down the corridor. "Come with me, the prisoners have escaped!"
"Who goes there?" a voice called back. "By order of—"
"Shut up and come on, all of you! If they escape, the High Mage will have all our heads." Without waiting for a response, Erik turned and began to run back down the long corridor, throwing a sideways glance towards Tarmon as he did.
The heavy clink of plate boots signalled that the soldiers had taken the bait. Tarmon took a deep breath, letting it swell in his chest as the footsteps got closer. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, feeling the pressure in his knuckles.
Two guards passed in front of him, following Erik. Then two more. Tarmon's heart felt as though it had stopped beating as he waited for the fifth guard. Then he saw the glint of silver mail and swung. The blade sliced through the soldier's neck, between his breastplate and his helmet, sliding out the other side in one clean stroke of blood and gore. As the soldier's head lifted, separating from the neck, the body remained upright for a moment as though by strength of will alone.
Letting go of his sword with his right hand, Tarmon reached down, snatched a knife that hung from the falling soldier's belt, and drove it through the back of the skull of the soldier in front. Tarmon yanked the knife free, and the second soldier collapsed to the ground, lifeless.
Flipping the knife to a throwing position, he launched it through the air at the third soldier who stood across from him. The man wailed as the knife buried itself to the hilt in his eye, blood and clear fluid spilling out through his fingers as he tried to pull the knife free, screaming all the while. Lunging forward, Tarmon struck the pommel of the knife with the flat of his hand. The soldier's body went limp, dropping to the ground like a sack of stones.
Tarmon stood over the three dead soldiers, his chest heaving, sweat pumping.
"Remind me not to get on your bad side," Erik said as he walked over to Tarmon, grimacing as he surveyed the scene. Behind him, Alleron, Baird, and Vaeril had dealt with the other two soldiers, leaving them in crumpled heaps on the ground. "So much for being quiet. Let's get Calen."