Jean Rabe - Betrayal

“Revenge,” Dhamon replied. “Ragh is about revenge.”

They fell silent as they made their way down one corridor and up the next, sometimes passing cages that contained prisoners, and sometimes passing by cages that contained rotting corpses and skeletons that had been picked clean by rats. At one cell the bars were so rusted that Dhamon gave them a quick yank, and they broke, spilling forth a half-dozen men who could barely walk. They clung to each other and to the walls for support, mumbling their disbelieving thanks.

“What about the others?” one man demanded. “The other cells.”

“Fiona and I will be back for them,” Rig said. “When we’ve weapons and armor and Solamnic Knights.”

Dhamon passed by two other cells, the bars of which were more rust than iron. These, too, he tugged open, then continued on his way without a word.

The freed prisoners, nearly thirty now, were a diverse lot. Some were obviously knights—of Solamnia and the Legion of Steel by the ragged tabards they wore. Others, by their sun-weathered skin and calloused hands, looked like farmers or fishermen. They ranged in age from men barely out of boyhood to in their late fifties. The youngest and fittest said they had been told they were to be made into spawn soon. They stank of sweat and urine, and many had festering sores that were in need of attention. A couple of men, who looked so fit it was obvious they had not been held long, carried an injured comrade between them.

Equal numbers of men were left behind because they were dying or too injured to walk or because Dhamon made no effort to tug at the bars. Rig made it clear as he passed that he would do all in his power to come back for as many as he could.

The odors were intense, especially to Dhamon’s acute senses, and he fought to keep from retching.

“Move faster,” he said to no one in particular. “Move or be left behind to rot here.”

They reached a corridor that dead-ended, and Rig was about to motion the entourage to turn around when Dhamon stopped him.

“There’s an air current here.”

Dhamon felt the bricks. He pressed two of them, and the wall swung open. He and Ragh quickly slipped into the corridor beyond, the others following.

“We’re going to have company again,” Dhamon told the sivak. His sharp hearing told him so. Up ahead were the faint sibilant hisses of spawn. There were only two, and in a few moments they were puddles of acid on the floor.

The next tunnel they took was dry and musty. The ceiling was filled with spider webs that were brushed aside by the sivak’s head. They followed it for the better part of an hour as it wove and doubled back. They passed countless magical torches set in sculpted sconces.

“I can’t be sure of the direction any longer,” Dhamon told the sivak, “but it feels as if we’re traveling north. And…” There was a hint of fresh air reaching Dhamon. It was coming from a crevice in the wall. He quickly squeezed through, motioning the others to follow. Several minutes later, they entered a moss-lined cave. The few torches the men carried didn’t shed enough light to reach to all the walls, but the light one man held showed another crevice, this one wider and filled with steps going up. Without a word, Dhamon led them, listening closely, hoping to hear what might lie ahead and instead picking up only the slapping of feet against the steps behind him.

Dhamon found a lone spawn at the top. He rushed forward, swinging before it could react. Two quick blows finished it, acid spraying into a cell full of corpses. Now they entered another corridor, this one easily twenty feet across. More cells opened off it, though all but the one filled with corpses were empty.

“Move.”

Dhamon headed past the cells and through a door he spotted at the end, rushing up another flight of the steps, pausing only long enough to make sure the others were following. He came to another dead end, but the cracks in the bricks were easy to spot, now that he knew what to look for. He listened before pressing them, hearing nothing beyond. The wall swivelled open onto another twisting passage, one barely three feet wide. He rushed through, calling for the others to keep up. They continued to travel the tunnels for nearly an hour before they found themselves in a corridor covered with small glossy black scales—just like the trees had been in the spawn’s village. Dhamon reached a hand up to touch them. They felt sleek, as if they belonged to something alive.

“In the name of the Maelstrom,” Rig whispered.

Dhamon increased his pace. The tunnel rose and doubled back, dipped sharply, then rose again.

“Stairs,” he said, letting out a breath of relief. These were wooden and stretched up to reveal the night sky. “We’re out.”

The freed prisoners gained energy with his words, and within minutes they were all up the stairs and standing in the ruins of what might have been a temple in decades past. Stars winked down.

“Ragh, just where in this damned city are we?”

The sivak poked his head out from behind a crumbling column to get his bearings. “Not far from the market. I suspect we’ve been going in circles.”

“So tired,” Fiona whispered to Rig. “My legs.” She was leaning against him, hair plastered from sweat against the sides of her face.

Dhamon stepped out onto the street. The city looked different at night, when the darkness hid much of its ugliness. He saw no one out and guessed by the position of the stars it was well past midnight. Dawn was only a few hours away. He crossed the road and started down a wood sidewalk, stopping when he spotted something familiar—the dwarven merchant’s. The marketplace was only a few blocks away, and near it the inn where he could find Maldred.

He hurried back to the sivak and the others, and, rubbing his hands on his pants, he addressed the freed prisoners.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he began. “We’re near the center of town. I suggest all of you leave, climb the rise, and keep going until you run out of swamp.”

“I know the safest way out.” This from a grizzled, middle-aged man. “I was a guard here, before I fell out of favor. To the east is a path no one watches.”

Dhamon nodded.

“Take it, them, and everyone else with you. Rig, Fiona, you go, too. You’re not in any condition to follow me. I’ve Maldred to find, and then I’m leaving, too.”

“Even if saving us was an accident, I’m grateful for it.” The mariner extended his hand, and Dhamon shook it.

Dhamon moved away, the sivak on his heels, running where the shadows were thickest, heading toward the ramshackle inn past the marketplace. The freed prisoners mirrored their course, though not moving as quickly and taking the other side of the street. Dhamon watched the grizzled man lead them.

Just as the marketplace came into view, Dhamon saw the man lead them down a side street to the east. Overhead Dhamon heard the flap of wings, and glanced up to see a spawn flying overhead. Against the stars he saw other shapes, spawn or draconians patrolling the city.

“The inn,” Ragh announced, stopping at the end of the sidewalk and pointing beyond the market’s collection of cages. A few lights burned in the lowest windows. There were a few lights elsewhere, too, but not near the number Dhamon expected for a town of this size. He started toward the inn but stopped at the line of cages. The hair prickled on the back of his neck.

“Something’s not right,” Dhamon whispered.

“In this town,” the sivak whispered back, “nothing is right.”

“No. There’s more to it than that.” Dhamon scanned the cages. A few of the creatures were sleeping, curled tightly in their close confines. Some were awake. The gold-flecked eyes of the huge owl were wide and watchful. The manticores were awake, too, the larger looking Dhamon’s way. Two spawn patrolled the market—on this side. Dhamon suspected there were more.