The darkness in the dungeon had the density of sludge and the stench of centuries of despair. The group lay upon rotting straw, where the only sign of life was the scurrying of rats that had no fear of men. Alistair was the first to let out a groan, feeling his skin protest against the dampness seeping into his bones.
– By the gods of the Underworld – Alistair grumbled, fumbling at his own face with trembling fingers. – A face as handsome and symmetrical as mine wasn't sculpted by Solarius just to be framed by rusted iron bars. It's a crime against the realm's bloody aesthetics. Posterity will never forgive me if I die looking like a thrashed carcass.
– Save your breath for your prayers – Marcus snapped, his voice coming from a dark corner like the grinding of a millstone. He had already paced the perimeter of the cell, his calloused hands testing the strength of the granite. – We're in the belly of the fortress. The walls are three spans thick, and the door is oak reinforced with iron. We're not fighting our way out of here.
Roderick, sitting with his spine against the cold stone, opened his eyes. The mercenary captain looked like a spectre in the dim light filtering from a slit in the ceiling.
– Brute force is for fools with armies – Roderick said, pragmatism being the only thing keeping him whole. – We only need one guard to get close enough. A moment's distraction, a slip in confidence. That's all fate owes us. – The captain looked at Alistair. – We need noise. Something to make them forget their caution.
Alistair managed a pained smile; one loaded with malice.
– Ah, noise? That's my department. My talent for irritating armed men is practically a divine gift.
Without hesitation, Alistair cleared his throat and began to sing. It wasn't a bard's melody for noble halls, but a ballad of mockery, raw and cutting, sung with a deliberately nasal and shrill voice that echoed through the stone corridors like the cry of a raven with indigestion:
"Oh, the great lord with the teeth of gold,
Whose punctured eye is a sight to behold!
He sent out his bitches to give us a bite,
But in the mud he whimpered in fright!
Duvall, oh Duvall, what a kingly disgrace,
With half of his wits and a hole in his face!"
Alistair sang for what felt like hours, repeating the verses with increasingly offensive variations regarding Hector's lineage and the hygiene of his garrison. Finally, the sound of heavy boots against stone announced that the fish had taken the bait.
A guard with a florid face and bulging neck veins appeared before the cell, his fist clenched around a mace.
– Shut your hole, you maggot! – the man roared, bringing his face close to the bars in a fit of blind rage. – I'll rip out your tongue and feed it to the rats before I…
He never finished the threat. In a coordinated move born of years of fighting in tight spaces, Roderick's and Marcus's hands shot through the bars like steel serpents. One grabbed him by the throat, the other by the nape. The sound of the guard's head hitting the iron was a sharp, final clank. The man collapsed, unconscious, his body sagging heavily against the cell.
Lucius, who until then had been a silent shadow in the corner, moved with the speed of a rodent. Without needing orders, he slipped his small, agile arm between the bars, fingers stretching until they reached the guard's belt. With a fluid motion, the ring of heavy iron keys slid into his palm.
– Good work, little Turtle-Man – Alistair murmured. – Now, get us out of this music box before the choir decides to wake up.
After unlocking the cell, they stripped the guard of everything of value. Roderick tightened the straps of a boiled leather breastplate that barely fit him, while Marcus checked the edge of a stolen hand-axe. They stepped out into the inner courtyard, where the world seemed to have been dunked into a cauldron of black ink. There was no moon, no stars, only the suffocating embrace of an eyeless night.
– The gods have decided to turn out the lights – Roderick whispered, his gaze fixed on the silhouette of the watchtower rising against the sky like an accusing finger. – Let's pray Lunara stays blind for another hour.
The plan was madness seasoned with despair: climb the tower, the eagle's nest where Hector Duvall was licking his wounds, and cut off the head of the snake.
They advanced pressed against the cold stones, moving like spectres among shadows. Every ten steps, Alistair's heart felt as if it were trying to leap out of his mouth. At one point, his right foot found a forgotten iron bucket. The clatter sounded to him like a cathedral bell. A guard, a few paces away, stopped dead, hand resting on his sword hilt.
– Meow... – Alistair mimicked, in a high-pitched, pathetic sound that wouldn't fool a blind man, let alone a veteran soldier. – Meow-hiss?
The guard frowned, peering into the darkness. Alistair froze instantly, one leg in the air and one arm outstretched in a pose resembling a garden statue made by a drunken sculptor. For ten heartbeats, the world stopped. The soldier shrugged, grumbling about stray cats and the night chill, and resumed his patrol.
– If we survive, I'm selling you to a brothel in Aureliana – Marcus hissed as they slipped through the shadows. – At least there, your dramatic talents might be worth something.
They reached the base of the tower. The massive oak door was locked, but Marcus knelt with the calm of a monk. Instead of prayers, he used a thin blade and a metal hook, and the lock yielded with a sharp, nearly imperceptible click.
On the ground floor of the tower, the air smelled of lamp oil and metal. They found a rack of spare weapons intended for immediate defence of the entrance. It wasn't the polished steel of Lorenzo's castle, but for Alistair, the short sword he pulled from the rack felt like a godsend. He tested the weight, feeling the acceptable balance of the blade.
– It's not my sword – he whispered, adjusting a worn leather belt and a rustic-looking dagger, – but iron is still iron, and the blood of a leader with gold teeth shouldn't care much about the lineage of the steel that spills it.
Roderick gave a signal, and the group began to climb the spiral staircase, step by step, towards the top where vengeance awaited in the gloom. Each granite step seemed to exhale a frigid breath, and the sound of their own boots, however light, echoed off the curved walls like anxious heartbeats.
– Have you noticed? – Alistair whispered to Lucius; his voice barely audible under the creaking stones. – Evil always has the annoying habit of living on the top floor. If these villains moved to the cellars, they'd save my legs a lot of effort and my breathing a bit of dignity.
As they climbed, the tower's silence was devoured by a murmur of voices. At the top, behind an oak door reinforced with iron strips, a laugh rang out. It was the laugh of Hector Duvall – a metallic, obscene sound, now tinged with a hoarseness Alistair knew he had caused with his blade.
However, it was the reply that made the group's blood freeze more than the wind whistling through the cracks.
– The efficiency of the ambush was impeccable, Hector. Lorenzo sent me his best hounds, and I served you their heads on a silver platter.
Orlan Campius's voice was polished, precise, and devoid of any trace of the suffering they thought they had seen in the courtyard.
– The Viscount believed every false report – the bastard continued, and Alistair could almost see the icy smile on his pale face. – Decimating the Verdejante garrison was like pruning a diseased vine. Now, the path is clear of obstacles, and Lorenzo is too busy in Aureliana to notice his own blood has slit his throat from behind.
Roderick stopped, his hand clenched so hard around his sword hilt that his knuckles went white as bone. Marcus growled, a low, guttural sound like a hunting dog watching a hare turn into a wolf. They were about to burst through the door, the shock still throbbing in their temples, when the voice inside changed tone.
Orlan's institutional courtesy vanished, replaced by an authority that was sharp and soulless.
– I don't like rats in my walls – Orlan said, his voice projecting through the wood like an arrow. – If you want to hear the rest of the story, you might as well walk in like men instead of eavesdropping like maidens behind the curtains.
There was a frigid pause, and then the final threat, delivered with a calm that cut deeper than steel:
– Come in now. If we have to open this door, I guarantee none of you will live long enough to see the sun reclaim the day.
The door gave way with a groan of tired timber, revealing a chamber flooded with the warm light of a dozen torches. The smell that greeted them wasn't that of blood or fear, but the rich aroma of wine and smoked meats.
In the centre of the room, sat at a black oak table, was Orlan – with no trace of torture on his face, nor the disarray of a prisoner. His tunic was impeccable, and the blood that had previously stained his face had been cleaned away, revealing the pale skin and serene expression of a man who feels at home. Beside him, Hector reclined in his chair with a linen dressing over his wounded eye, sporting a smile that made the gold in his teeth glitter under the torchlight.
Orlan raised a silver chalice, observing the reflection of the red wine, dark as the blood Roderick's men had spilled in the forest mud.
– You're just in time for a toast – Orlan said, his voice maintaining that aristocratic cadence that had once inspired their trust, but which now sounded like the hiss of an adder. – We were just discussing how loyalty is such an expensive commodity, and how few men truly know where to invest it.