Dan Parkinson: The Swordsheath Scroll

Still, some of what the old slave had said troubled Derkin. He had sensed for some time that others among the slaves were watching him carefully. He had seen their glances in his direction as they huddled among themselves.

The old dwarf had said that other slaves knew he planned to escape, and that they intended to try to go with him. He sensed the truth of that, and it troubled him. His "plan" was hardly a plan at all. He had sabotaged the shackles on his legs-had cut the heads from their rivets so that only the curve of their iron held them in place-and now he was simply waiting for an opportunity, a moment of confusion such as the arrival of mine inspectors, to slip away from his work gang and either steal away unnoticed or, at worst, make a dash for the ramp and take his chances. Not much of a plan, he admitted, but it was the only plan he had. One dwarf, alone, just might make it to freedom in such a way. But if others tried to follow him, they would certainly be pursued, caught, and thrown back into the pits. And he would be branded as their leader.

In the near darkness he grimaced, seeing the shadows of all the other slaves who shared the cell. He wished them no harm, but neither did they mean anything to him. They were as capable of escape as he was. If they wanted to try it, let them try it alone, as he intended. But he didn't want them messing up his chances.

The old dwarf had convinced him of one thing. Hecould no longer wait for an opportune time. He had to try it now, before he found himself encumbered by throngs of "followers."

For long moments, he listened to the sleeping sounds around him. Then with a sigh of aggravation he sat upright, grasped one of his ankle cuffs with strong hands, and pried at it, his wide shoulders bulging at the effort, short, thick forearms rippling like heavy cable. For a long second, the cuff did not respond. Then, with a tiny pop, the beheaded rivet gave way, and the seam spread an inch, then another and another.

When the gap was wide enough he slipped the shackle from his ankle, moving carefully so that the attached chain would make no sound. Then he went to work on the other cuff. Vaguely, it occurred to him that he was lucky these bonds had been fashioned by humans. It would never occur to a human that a circlet of half-inch iron could be pried apart with bare hands. Few humans were strong enough to do that, and it was the nature of humans to see dwarves as inferior to themselves.

The second cuff popped quietly, then slowly opened as stubby hands nearly as hard as the iron they grasped pried its ends apart.

Breathing carefully, making no sound, Derkin got to his knees, lifted his tunic around his shoulders, and slowly, carefully wrapped the eight-foot length of chain around his waist. Its length encircled him three times, forming a cold, heavy belt of links, with enough spare to loop the shackle ends in a clumsy half-knot. With his tunic lowered, the chain was hidden.

The heavy chain and his worn chisel were the only things he had that might serve as weapons or tools, and he did not intend to leave them behind.

Standing then, he took a deep, slow breath and turned toward the closed grate at the entrance to the cell. The crossed bars of the wooden portal were silhouetted by the dim glow of a guard's light beyond. There were no guards in sight, but he knew there were at least two just beyond the grate-burly humans armed with clubs and whips, and with swords that were never out of reach. Beyond was the narrow corridor out to the open pits. There would be other guards there, but he must think of the nearest ones first. With any luck, there would be no more than two humans beyond the grate, and they might be dozing at this hour.

With his chisel in his hand, he started for the portal, moving as quietly as he could. His only idea was to somehow slip the bar that held the grated gates, get past the opening, and then, somehow, with only his hands and a worn-down chisel, silence the guards there before they could raise an alarm.

With a grunt of anger, he glanced back into the sleeping cell. Rust take you people, he thought. Why couldn't you all just leave me alone? Because of you, I must do this the hard way.

As though the air had read his mind, a quiet whisper sounded at his shoulder. "It isn't their fault," the voice murmured. "They want out just as much as you do." At the slight sound, DerVin started, peering a\›out "I'm right here beside you," the voice continued. "I told you I'd come."

It was the voice of the old, one-armed dwarf who called himself Calan. Derkin squinted in the gloom, straining to see.

"Don't worry," the voice said. "You can't see me, but I'm here. Look."

The empty air seemed to shift slightly, and a shadowy face came into view.

"How do you do that?" Derkin hissed.

"I don't exactly know," Calan admitted. "It's magic, of course. It's a sort of robe that fools the eye. I have one for you, too. How do you intend to get us out of here?"

"I thought you said you knew the way," Derkin growled.

"Oh, I do, once we're past that gate."

"Where's my… my magic robe?" He held out his free hand.

There was a faint rustling, and the old dwarf's shadowy features seemed to come and go. "Right here," the specter said, and Derkin felt something in his hand. He couldn't see it, but it felt like very soft fabric. Feeling foolish, he unfolded the invisible thing and draped it around himself.

"Pretty good," the voice said. "Be sure to cover your head, too. It only hides the parts it covers."

He pulled the fabric over his head, forming a cowl, and found a two-button catch with his fumbling fingers. When it was in place, he raised his arms beneath it and looked down. Indeed, it was as though he had disappeared. He could see nothing of himself.

"Your face will show, of course," the old voice whispered, "so keep your head turned away from anybody you don't want to see you. Now, lef s get going."

At the grated portal, Derkin peered out. The guards were not in view, but he suspected where they were. A few yards to the left of the portal was a plank table with betvcVves, *w\vexe warders v*orV.ed in tt\e day\igVit rxouxs, keeping enscrolled logs for the master of the pits. The guards would be there now, probably asleep. At least, he hoped they were asleep.

Bracing himself against the heavy grating of the door, Derkin reached through and grasped the hardwood bolt with both hands. The bolt was a length of sturdy, hewn post that ran through iron hasps on each side of the double grating. Slowly, flexing his shoulders, the dwarf eased the lock aside a few inches, then took new holds and eased it again. The wood made a slight, shuffling sound as it moved through its hasps, and the unseen dwarf beside Derkin whispered, "Shhh!"

Beyond the portal, someone snorted, coughed, and stirred. Derkin pulled back his hands, which were plainly visible beyond the edge of the unseen cloak. There was silence for a moment, then a chorus of snores came through the grating.

Derkin returned to the task of sliding the bar aside. As the heavy timber cleared its first hasp, it tilted, its free end falling toward the floor. But Derkin had expected that. As the bar moved he thrust his chisel through an opening, wedging the timber against the door. Beside him, Calan expelled a nervous breath and a spectral hand appeared, to wipe sweat from a ghostly face that seemed to float, unattached, in the shadows.

Derkin eased the free half of the gate open and stepped through, sensing the movement as old Calan slipped through after him. At the warders' table, a single candle guttered low in a rough holder, dimly lighting the forms of two large men asleep on the benches.

Carefully, and as soundlessly as possible, Derkin closed the gate, retrieved his chisel, and eased the bar back into its hasps. Then he turned as a snore turned to a rattling gasp. Beside the table, old Calan's head and hand seemed to float in midair. In the hand was a dagger, dripping blood. One guard lay dead, blood flowing from beneath his beard. Before Derkin could object, the old dwarf hurried around the table and cut the second guard's throat. The hand and dagger disappeared, and the old head turned, grinning. "Why did you lock the gate?" he whispered.