David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“We learn,” Veliana said, removing her belt and untucking her shirt. “We watch, we learn, and we wait. All men have weaknesses. We find his, and we use it.”

“So do you have an idea on how to do that?” Deathmask asked, enjoying the sight of her as she stretched.

“Now that you ask,” the girl said, smiling. “Yes, I do.”

“T his is insane,” Deathmask muttered, feeling naked without his gray cloth over his face. Nor did he have the hovering ash that inspired fear and dread in all who faced him. Instead he wore simple clothing of drab colors, the knees of his pants torn loose and the entire outfit intended for a much bigger man.

“Too late to turn back now,” Veliana said beside him.

The two were near the bottom of the large hill the castle was built upon. They walked with their arms linked, their shoulders hunched and their steps staggered as if each were relying on the other for balance.

“It is not too late,” Deathmask insisted. “No guards have spotted us, so don’t lie to keep me from thinking rationally.”

Veliana giggled, much louder than he anticipated or preferred. Her entire face and hair were covered with dirt. It was their best attempt to hide the long scar across her eye that might mark her as the vigilante Blade. She waved an arm wide, and sang a bad lyric about a peasant girl and a ruffian burglar who came upon her bathing. They had purposefully avoided patrols on their way to the many steps leading up to the castle, but no longer.

“Now it’s too late,” she giggled as guards approached. Deathmask counted twenty together in the pack and felt proud in knowing that he, ‘the Ghost’, was the main reason they travelled in such large numbers.

“Hey,” Deathmask said, slurring his words and tugging Veliana forward. “Hey you guys!”

The patrol surrounded them, the Lionsguard swarming with weapons drawn. Three priests were with them, watching the events from a few paces back.

“What is your business being out this late at night?” one of the priests asked.

“We want to join,” Veliana said, pointing a finger at one of the Lionsguard with a hand that just happened to contain a rather large and empty bottle. The guard yanked away the bottle, ignoring her whimper.

“Drunkards,” the priest said after a quick sniff of the bottle. “You should be well aware this is illegal.”

“Well, yeah,” Deathmask said. He let his eyes focus and unfocus on the priest, but kept his smile locked tight. “See, we thought if we were you, then it would be legal, you know?”

“We want to join!” Veliana said again, rubbing her fingers across a guard’s arm. “Be fun, right? Good money?”

She let her fingers slide from the guard’s armor to her own chest and then giggled naughtily at the look he gave her.

“Fun?” he asked.

“Arrest them,” the priest said. “No need to let such riffraff disturb our streets. A few days in a cell will teach them Karak’s opinion on such distasteful displays.”

Deathmask tensed while Veliana continued to flirt with the guard, completely oblivious to what the priest was saying. She sucked on one finger while hugging herself with her other arm. When the guards grabbed her, only then did she seem to react.

“Wait,” she said. “What did we do wrong?”

A mailed fist struck the back of her head, and down she went. Deathmask shouted curses freely as two men held his arms. Another fist struck him, but it took two more times before he slumped, a limp sack of bone and muscle, ready for delivery to the castle prison.

W hen Deathmask came to, he opened his eyes, looked left, looked right, and then very calmly said, “Fuck.”

Veliana was gone, which was already a deviation from their original plan. The two had expected to be placed together in a holding cell of some sort, where they could be kept under control while the imaginary alcohol in their system cleared out. The second problem, and the one that elicited the crude response, was that he was not in a cell at all. He was chained to a wall at the very entrance to the prison, in clear view of over eight guards. To his right were the barred double-doors leading up to the castle grounds. Across from him, tables of guards played cards and rolled dice. Along the wall behind them, rows and rows of clubs.

“I hear you,” came a voice to his left. Deathmask looked over to see an elderly man with graying hair and half his original teeth, his arms chained to the wall above his head. When he talked, his voice grumbled and cracked. “You think, just one drink, right? Just one, and then you wake up in here, and the question, you see, the question is, is your splitting skull from the drink or from where those damn guards smacked you?”

“Yeah,” Deathmask said. “Something like that.”

“Name’s Dunk,” the man said while Deathmask shifted and checked his shackles. Thick iron, and painfully tight. His wrists were crossed above his head, the chains hooked into the low ceiling. He sat on his knees, and when he tried to stand, he found another set of shackles holding him immobile.

“Don’t bother struggling,” Dunk said. “Not even a bit of chain on your feet, just locks attached to the wall. You’ll get used to it.”

“Dunk?” Deathmask said, feeling his patience waning thin.

“Dunk the Drunk,” the old man said, and he giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

“Well then, Dunk,” Deathmask said, his voice turning icy cold. “Shut…up…now.”

“Shut it,” said the man chained to Deathmask’s right. “Your jabbering’s worse than the chains.”

There were five of them attached to the wall, and the other two chimed in their displeasure at Dunk’s talking.

“You’ll learn to appreciate me,” Dunk said. “I don’t recognize a one of you. Just wait. Third, fourth time you get tossed here, you’ll love to see a friendly face. Wish I was seeing one now.”

Deathmask smacked his head repeatedly against the stone wall behind him. They were bathed in dim light. Most of the torches in the windowless room were hanging beside the doors, with a few more surrounding the tables where the guards killed their time. One glanced back, distracted by all the chatter.

“Shut up, all of you,” the guard said, rubbing his bent nose, “or I’ll take a club and wail until my arms get tired.”

“He’s serious about that too,” Dunk said.

“Quiet!”

Dunk laughed as the guard stood, reaching for a club, but the old man said no more, and for that, Deathmask was eternally grateful. He decided when they made their escape, he would do his best to spare that guard’s life.

The thought of escape brought him back to the matter at hand. So far, he wasn’t being closely watched, and that was good. What was bad, though, was how restricted his hands and feet were. He twisted his wrists, testing their give. Very, very little. One by one he listed off the spells he could cast with such a limited motion. They were not many, and even worse, there was still the matter of the guards less than ten feet away. If he started whispering verbal components to a spell, all it would take was one to know what they were and mash a fist into his mouth to end all possibility of escape.

That left Veliana. He looked about, realizing that of the five chained by the entrance, all were men.

“Where do they put women who are brought in drunk?” Deathmask asked. The others ignored him, but Dunk just smiled. Deathmask asked a second time, and as the guards glared over, Dunk just winked and made kissing motions with his lips.

“Damn it,” Deathmask muttered. “Fine, Dunk, I’m sorry. Now, please, can you tell me?”

In answer, Dunk looked left and nodded his head toward a second set of stairs leading further into the prison.