Chapter 6: Escape from Prison

  Ethan rubbed his neck and woke, finding himself lying on a pile of musty straw. A rat scurried over his foot and darted into a crack in the wall.

  Looking up, he saw three walls built of large blue stones, with only two fist-sized air vents letting in dim light. The fourth side was wooden bars, and beyond them lay more bars—this was a cold dungeon.

  Moments ago, he’d been in the opulent duke’s mansion; now he lay in a dungeon cell. The stark contrast left his still-dizzy mind reeling. He shook his head, trying to recall what had happened, but only grew more confused.

  Had the knight suspected something between him and his fiancee? Or thought he’d detected that he was to blame for his fiancee’s injuries? Ethan replayed his report in his mind—no flaws. He’d rehearsed the marsh story on the way to the capital. Had the knight acted on his own? Then he’d have to speak to the duke in person.

  Suddenly, Ethan heard strange noises from the next cell: a man and a woman gasping and moaning.

  Before he could process it, the dungeon door slammed open. A thin guard charged in, stomping to the moaning cell and kicking the bars. “Get out!”

  Inside, the moans redoubled, then a portly guard emerged, zipping up his trousers.

  The thin guard shouted, “What the hell? We agreed I’d go first!”

  The portly guard smacked his lips, still savoring the moment, and drawled, “You were late. Past shift change, and you weren’t here—I got impatient.”

  The thin guard yelled, “Bullshit! You never wait that hard. I’m a minute late, and you bitch for hours. Now you’re in no hurry to leave, enjoying yourself here? Why should I clean up your mess?”

  The portly guard stayed calm. “It’s done. Complaining won’t change it. Do what you want… or wait till she’s released…”

  The thin guard flew into a rage. “Fuck you…”

  Ethan stepped to the bars, addressing the two guards. “I need to see Duke Mrak—” He was still figuring out how to explain.

  “Fuck your mother!” The thin guard spun, lashing out with a kick that caught Ethan square in the chest, unguarded.

  The crack of breaking bone echoed in the silent dungeon. His still-fragile ribs snapped again. A wave of nausea hit, and Ethan fell backward, his skull slamming into a stone protrusion under the straw. The world went black.

  The guards heard the sharp crack and saw the prisoner lie motionless. The portly guard hurried to unlock the cell, checked Ethan’s pulse, and yelped, “Shit! He’s not breathing!” He felt Ethan’s chest. “Multiple broken ribs. No heartbeat, I think.”

  The thin guard was also secretly startled by the power of that kick but blustered, “Calm down! A dead prisoner’s no big deal. Told you I’m tough—I was famous in the army. Ask anyone back then…”

  The portly guard stared at him, voice trembling, “This prisoner’s a spy from the duke’s mansion. Said to guard him well—Baron Clovis arrested him personally. He might come to interrogate.”

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  The thin guard, still high on killing with a single kick, glared. “Who cares.” As if he’d kick the baron too if he showed up. But doubt crept in. With all the fuss over heretics and spies lately, killing a spy might even be suspected of being a spy himself and killing to silence the witness. And the baron was notoriously harsh. His voice dropped. “Let me think…”

  Soon after they’d staged the scene, Knight Clovis arrived.

  “Escaped?” The knight’s face was as pale as the blue stone walls.

  The two guards clutched their necks. The thin one croaked, “He said he was badly hurt, asked for a doctor. He’s your important prisoner—we feared he’d die, so we checked. Suddenly, he knocked us out and ran.” To prove their loyalty, he pointed to other cells. “Ask the others—they saw.” A chorus of weak confirmations rose.

  Clovis’s eyes blazed with murderous fury. He fixed the guards with a stare. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll return.” He sprinted out.

  Long after his footsteps faded, the thin guard exhaled, sneering, “Who’s he trying to impress? Just lucky to be born rich. If I were in the Erney family, I’d be a general by his age.” The portly guard still trembled, haunted by the knight’s gaze. The thin guard puffed up, slapping his shoulder. “See? You wanted to hide the body—too slow, too risky. Giving him to old Sandru was smarter. He handles this fast. We’d have missed it with your way.”

  The portly guard shook, words slurred, “His eyes… so scary.”

  The thin guard spat as he talked, “Told you—these nobles love posturing. Just family power. Scary act. If he were a peasant, I’d kick him dead too…” The portly guard mumbled agreement.

  Whether ranting or listening, both stood frozen.

  Not long—before their legs ached—Clovis returned, having deployed the capital guard for the search.

  “Did the prisoner talk to anyone?”

  “N-no… I think…” The thin guard avoided Clovis’s gaze, staring at the wall behind him. The portly guard stared at the floor, shaking.

  “Think?” Clovis’s voice was half-question, half-mutter. The guards fell silent.

  “Hmm.” Clovis seemed to reach a decision, nodding slowly.

  “Nobody’s perfect. When you make a mistake, fix it. Regret does nothing. Right?” The guards noticed his face soften, no longer that ghastly bluish tint. Warmth even flickered in his eyes, as if forgiving them. They relaxed. The thin guard hurried, “Yes, yes! We’ll fix it!”

  “Good, good.” Clovis rested his hands on their shoulders. They were flattered. The portly guard forgot his fear, finding this handsome noble more revered than church statues. The thin guard grudgingly admitted this rich kid might be a cut above.

  “Thud.” A dull sound reverberated.

  The two bodies crumpled together, as if close friends, blood and brains mixing beyond separation. Nearby cells erupted in gasps.

  Knight Clovis frowned with authority, his slow, steady voice scolding the screams like a parent. “Quiet. They’re just taking responsibility. You have yours too.”

  Back at the duke’s mansion, Duke Mrak showed little reaction to the escape, calmly ordering the prisoner’s belongings brought to him.

  Clovis watched the duke’s calm, admiring him. A man who hid his thoughts, yet those squinting, smiling eyes seemed to pierce souls. This was what Clovis strived to learn.

  The duke examined the knife, squinting tighter. He ran a finger along the blade, then asked, “What do you make of this knife?”

  Clovis studied it. “Not from a royal armory. Forged in a private smithy.” He looked closer. “A skilled smith.”

  “Indeed. Perfect balance of angle, length, thickness. No decoration—none. Not a product, not a gift. Made for personal use.” The duke asked, “How old did you say the soldier was?”

  “About twenty.”

  “If he made this, he’d have started in the womb. It was his elder—likely his father.” Clovis was impressed. “The iron’s top-grade ore. A mercenary, a common smith—how’d they get it? Unless…”

  “Unless they lived near a mine with rich ore.” Clovis finished. “I’ll send men to Kalendor to investigate.”

  “No need. He’s still in the city—less than an hour. Search carefully.” The duke set down the knife. “Where are the chair and cup he used?”

  “Uh… I had them thrown out.”

  “Thrown out?” Surprise flickered in the duke’s eyes. “Why?”

  “…I thought keeping things used by such a person in the mansion was a complete desecration.”

  The duke stared at Clovis. Though no anger or blame showed, Clovis’s back prickled.

  “You’re still young.” The duke looked away and drew a conclusion in a somewhat helpless tone. He ordered, “Tell the capital guard: this spy is extremely dangerous. Execute on sight. No talking.”

  “Yes.” Clovis left, trusting the guard’s efficiency. The soldier was probably dead by now.

  “Why’s he still alive?”

  Ethan woke to that complaint—like a market hag finding bad produce.