David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“Joffrey!” the other man cried. Haern curled back in, bound hands reaching down to the dead man’s belt … and the lone key attached to it. He freed it easily enough, but with the lock facing him, between both his wrists, he had no choice but to put the key into his mouth, then curl up even more so he could insert it. Keenly aware of the charging man, Haern jammed the key, gripped it tightly with his teeth, and then twisted his head one way while turning his wrists the other.

With a pop, they came off, and just in time. Haern rolled to his left, over the body of the dead man, as an enormous sword stabbed into the hard stone floor. His ankles were still shackled together, but with his arms free to move, he reached out and grabbed the handle of the dead man’s blade. Pulling it from the sheath, he flung the weapon into the way as a second strike came crashing in. The blades smacked together, and Haern grimaced at the jolt to his arms. Above him, the guard leaned more of his weight into his sword, trying to crush him. The man’s eyes were wide, lips pulled back to reveal his clenched teeth.

“Try harder,” Haern told him, unable to help himself.

The man pulled back to swing again, but Haern was faster. Kicking his feet to give his upper body an upward motion, he thrust his sword with his arm extended to the limit. The tip of his sword slipped into the man’s belly, and the sudden pain froze the man in mid-swing. Turning the sword to open the wound further, Haern dropped back to the ground as the man staggered backward. Calmly, Haern let go of the sword, found the key he’d dropped, and removed the shackles from his ankles. Meanwhile, the wounded man rushed to the door of the dungeon at the far end of the hall, both hands clutching his bleeding wound to staunch the flow.

Picking up the sword, Haern broke out into a run, closing the distance between them. Around the man’s neck whipped his blade, and then a single cut dropped him to the ground. Hovering over the body, Haern took in a deep breath and checked his surroundings. The hall appeared to have a total of ten cells, each with an open face at the end, presumably for the same black fire to seal in any prisoners as they had with Haern. Other than Haern’s cell, which still burned with the black-violet flame, the others appeared empty. Down one way, he saw the hall come to an abrupt end at a stone wall, while in the other direction, it ended at a larger opening, plus a wooden door heavily reinforced and barred with iron.

Glancing down at the pendant to Ashhur still dangling from the chain around his neck, Haern lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

“Thanks, Del,” he whispered, tucking it back underneath his shirt.

Jogging down the hallway, he reached the door. In the opening around it were two tables, and on one he saw a pitcher, which he grabbed and greedily drank the water within. That done, he set it aside, scanning around him. On the other table, in a haphazard pile, were his belongings. Taking his cloak, he wrapped it about his shoulders, then grabbed his belt. Checking his swords, he saw they were recently sharpened, and he shuddered. He had a feeling that in a few days’ time, if not that following morning, those blades would have been used on him. Last, he put on his hood, felt its comforting shadow envelop his features.

Much better, he thought. Now came the one last tricky part: getting through the supposedly locked and barred door of the dungeon. Already fingering his lockpicks, he approached the door, searching for any sort of keyhole. There was none. Wincing, Haern began to feel across it, wondering if there might be a hidden lever somewhere, maybe a weakened spot of wood he could pry into. Laughter from the other side bolted Haern back to a stand. He peered into the small circular window near the top, which had three bars preventing anything larger than a finger from slipping through. Shaking his head at him from the other side was his father.

“I’m starting to think my rescuing you was unnecessary,” he said.

“Just open the damn door.”

Still chuckling, Thren vanished from the window. Haern heard something heavy scraping against the other side, followed by a thud. After a rattle of keys, the door swung open, revealing Thren with his swords and the bodies of two young paladins on either side of the dungeon entrance. Behind him was a set of stairs leading higher into the Stronghold.

“Follow me,” Thren said. “We don’t have much time before people start noticing the bodies.”

There was only one way to go, which was straight up the stairs before them. They curved sharply around, and after only a dozen steps or so, Thren stopped and motioned for Haern to be quiet.

“The entrance is just ahead,” he said. “I’ve killed the guards there, fools still convinced they had to be afraid of what’s outside instead of what’s in. The door’s been trapped, though, and will sound off an alarm spell the moment it opens.”

“How do you know?” Haern asked.

“Do you think this is the first building I’ve broken into that was warded by wizards?” his father asked.

Haern shrugged. Fair enough.

“How do we get out?” he asked instead.

“The third floor; there’s another exit to the hidden shaft along the interior. If we move fast enough, we should be out before anyone realizes you’re missing.”

Haern nodded.

“Lead the way,” he said.

Thren turned and dashed up the remaining few steps. They emerged on the first floor of the Stronghold, a room clearly built with defense in mind. A stone barricade was erected just before the large double doors, forcing anyone entering to veer left or right. On either side were perches so men could attack from high ground, and around the corners was another spiked barricade with crossbows permanently bolted to it. A pile of bolts lay on either side, waiting for use. Beside the doors, Haern caught sight of two more young men who lay slumped beside it.

“Come on,” Thren whispered. Beside them was another doorway leading to the stairs, and they rushed up them. Haern caught a glimpse of the second floor before they continued up the winding stairs, this a room of wealth and luxury, red carpets and gold trim everywhere. As they passed, Haern swore he heard men carrying on a conversation. He paused only momentarily to ensure they were not alarmed, and ahead of him, Thren beckoned Haern to hurry.

The third floor was a barracks for the youngest members of the Stronghold. Occupying nearly all of the twelve beds in the single open room were boys, some old as twelve, most younger than ten. They all slept; at least, it seemed like they did. Taking a deep breath, Haern hoped his stay in the prison hadn’t cost him the coordination to move through such a room without noise.

Wordlessly, Thren pointed out their objective: an ornate painting of the Stronghold, the canvas kept in an enormous silver frame secured to the wall.

Stay silent, Thren mouthed, and Haern glanced to the children. If they woke, if they made a noise, then most likely, the children would die. Thren would let none witness their escape. No matter their future allegiance, no matter the dogma of hatred being drilled into them, the idea still made Haern sick to his stomach.

I will, he mouthed back. Now lead.

The beds were to either side of the room, and through the center, Thren walked, crouched over and quiet as a hunting animal in the forest. If he made any noise, it was easily drowned out by the breathing and snoring of the children. After meditating for a moment to force his body to calm down after the battle in the dungeon, Haern followed. The floor was sturdy wood, and unlike other rooms, it had no carpet, an annoyance not lost on Haern. Still, it seemed resistant to his steps, and so long as he moved slowly, there appeared no danger of a creak. The bigger worry was the children. If just one woke needing to relieve himself or shift into a more comfortable position …