A CRAZY, A TROLL, A CAT, AND A KILLER
“Father, you're wearing a groove in the carpet,” said Gallick Morfin from where he sat atop his cot reading a book under the soft yellow light of an oil lamp.
“You know it's how I think,” said Baron Morfin as he paced back and forth in the large cell they shared. A cell in the dungeon below old Tammanian Hall, the high seat of government in Lomion City. “I want to try to pop the door hinge again. I think that if we pull up at the same time, and I twist it just right, we might get it. We have to try. I can't wait any longer. I can't stand it in here.”
“They'll put us in a real cell if we try to bust out again. No light, no bed, and rats. Rats. Do you want that, because I sure don't? We've got to be patient.”
“We're prisoners here, son. We're in a cell. A cell. It might be decorated all nice and comfy, but it's a cell just the same. A lousy dungeon. It's where we put criminals. Criminals! Not me! I'm a High Councilman, for Odin's sake; a lord of Lomion; the patriarch of a Noble House. And they lock me up down here? Just for speaking my mind and thwarting their stupidity? Two months! And my son too. I will see the Vizier dead for this, the no good traitor. I'll hang him from the city gates for the crows to pick at.”
“Please, father, calm down. If the guards come—”
“I'm through being calm and I'm through being patient. One way or another, we're getting out of here today, whether our friend comes through or not. If he doesn't, we'll get out on our own or we'll die trying. No Morfin has ever rotted in a dungeon before. Never. Not in all the centuries of our House. Never. I'd rather be dead than be a prisoner. Every day we languish here and do nothing, we disgrace ourselves and our House, and all our line back unto the beginning. I'd rather be dead.”
“Do you want me dead too?”
The Baron paused and took a breath. “I don't want either of us dead, son. I just want us free. We need to get out of here. We need to bring the Vizier to justice.”
“Once the Freedom Council makes its move, we'll be freed. They'll get us out. I want out of here just as much as you do, but I'd much rather wait another day, another week, or even another month, and get out clean, than get killed today in the trying.”
There was a sound from out in the hallway, beyond the locked door.
“Someone is coming,” said Gallick.
“Too early for lunch,” said Morfin. “It's either our boy or one of the Vizier's cronies.
A man spoke loudly in the corridor, his voice shrill. “Open the doors, open the gate, don't make me late, I've got a date. Don't call it torture, it's just clean fun, cut off their heads and bake them in the sun. They've got it coming, you know, ho, ho. Don't we all; don't we all?”
Morfin and Gallick looked at each other and shook their heads.
A burly guard opened the door. Prince Cartegian capered about behind him, drooling. Other guards stood behind the prince. Usually, when the guards needed to enter the cell, three or four of them would go in, no more than that, but when the king's son came to visit, things were different. To insure the prince's safety, six men went with him — the dungeon’’s full duty compliment of guards.
The prince pushed his way to the front and stared at the prisoners for some few moments. Then he began to dance and twirl around, holding the hand and waist of an imaginary dance partner as he sang his tune.
“They've had it coming for so very long,
My troll and my cat, for you, I sing this merry song.
Your time has come at long, long last.
I'll pluck out your eyes and make you cry;
I'll cut off your heads and make you dead.
Dearest troll, dearest cat, today you meet your ends.”
“Alright, traitors,” said the keyman. “Get up against the wall and put your hands in the manacles. Do it quick and give us no trouble this time.””
“He's going to kill us,” said Gallick, his hand on the bloodstained bandage on his right shoulder. Several other bandages were bound about his body. His father suffered similarly.
“He always says that, but he hasn't yet,” said the keyman. “I wouldn't worry about it. Now get to the wall.””
Neither Gallick nor the Baron moved an inch. “He means it this time,” said Gallick. “You can't allow this —— the council will hold you responsible. They'll have your head — all of your heads — on a platter. You have to protect us from him. You have a duty.”
The keyman looked uncertain and eyed Cartegian.
“I'm only planning to take out one of their eyes,” said Cartegian, waving a large spoon. “Or possibly two, if the spirit so moves me. I'll pluck them out with this,” he said, indicating the spoon. “They come out so much cleaner that way than with a knife, don’t you agree? But never fear, beloved cat,”” he said, gesturing toward Gallick, “between you two, you have four eyes, so you'll have plenty left over once I’m done, should you need them.” He turned toward the guards. “Eyeballs are so tasty with bread and jam, and with frogs legs on the side. Raw, of course. That's the only way to eat them, the eyeballs, I mean. The only civilized way, that is.”
Some of the guards smiled in anticipation. Others went pale and looked disgusted.
“I'm sure that the good prince will use restraint in whatever penance he inflicts on you,” said the keyman. “Against the wall, now, or we'll do it the hard way.”
Morfin and Gallick held their ground.
With a nod from the keyman, the guards surged toward the Morfins, clubs raised (they carried no blades, for none were allowed in the dungeons, save for as instruments of torture, and even then, only upon their imminent usage). Cartegian capered to the side to let the guards pass.
There was a clicking sound and one of the rear guards yowled, clutched his back, and dropped to his knees. His face was filled with shock and anguish. A moment later, before anyone reacted, another click — the sound of a crossbow firing — and a second guard was hit in the back. “Aargh,” he yelled and staggered toward one of the cots even as his club dropped from his hand. The other guards turned toward whatever threat lay behind them. A shadowy figure with a sword charged them.
The Morfins were on the nearest guards in an instant, jumping them from behind while they were distracted. Baron Morfin grabbed one guard about the head and neck, and squeezed. He didn't let go until the man slumped to the floor, unmoving. Gallick wrestled with the keyman, pitting strength against strength.
The swordsman's blade sliced by once and then again, and the guards that stood against him went down, sliced open and bleeding badly. So quick was the swordsman that they never had the chance to swing their clubs.
Gallick and the keyman squeezed each other's throats, grunting and straining, both held in a death grip.
A blade appeared in Cartegian's hand and he plunged it into the keyman's back. That took all the fight out of him. Gallick pushed him away and scrambled to his feet, ready to fight, but the melee was already over.
The man Morfin fought lay unmoving, as did one of the swordsman's opponents — his throat sliced open, blood pooling about him. The other guards gasped and groaned, cursed and moaned: they were injured but conscious.
The Morfins looked each other up and down but saw no injuries. Both were unscathed.
Gallick turned toward Cartegian. “Thank you, my lord,” he said.
Cartegian stood tall, his eyes clear. “You're welcome,” he said in a distinctly normal voice, uncharacteristic for him. “I only wish that I could have freed you sooner.”
“So do we,” said the baron.
“And we thank you as well,” Gallick said to the tall swordsman who wore a black mask tied about his head, obscuring his face.
The man's only reply was a nod.
“Masks are the realm of assassins,” said the baron, not restraining his disdain for that olden profession.
“That they are,” said the swordsman showing a wide, toothy grin.
“I’ve little use for The Black Hand,” said the baron.
“As do I,” said the swordsman, to which the baron seemed surprised.
“They'll be after you now,” said the baron to Cartegian. “What are you going to do?”
“No one knows I'm here,” said Cartegian. “I made certain of that. In fact, right now, I'm taking a bit of a nap in my chambers.””
“They know,” said Gallick pointing to the injured guards.
The swordsman stepped over to the keyman.
“No, please,” said the man, anticipating the swordsman's intent. Before he said another word, the swordsman's blade entered his chest once and then again. The keyman spit up some blood, but never spoke again.
“Stop,” said Gallick. “You can't just murder them. I won't allow it.” He tried to step forward, but his father's hand gripped him tightly about the upper arm and held him back. That grip was iron.
“It must be done,” whispered the baron. “The prince's involvement in this cannot be known.””
Despite their pleadings and calls for help, the swordsman quickly killed each of the guards without hesitation. When he was done, he went back and checked each one for any signs of life. There would be no witnesses.
Through it all, Gallick's face wore a look of anger and disgust. He stared at the floor and shook his head.
“Is this what we've come to, father? In league with murderers? Killing unarmed, helpless men? Is that what we do now?”
“It had to be done,” said the baron.
“The League has brought this upon us,” said Cartegian in a commanding voice with a sharp edge to it. “No one has felt the League's bite more than the Tenzivels. They've driven us to this. Now we do what we must to preserve the Republic.”
Gallick stared at him, listening to his words. Words that sunk in. “Who is he anyway?” he said of the swordsman. “One of The Black Hand?””
The swordsman chuckled.
“Much worse,” said Cartegian. “Best you don't know. Best you don't ask.”
“He's Dark Sendarth,” said the baron.
Gallick's expression turned to surprise. No denials came from the prince or the swordsman. “Dead gods!” he said. “Odin, preserve us.””