Svorbald was angry. Angrier than he had been in some time. They’d stuck him in this tiny hole and fed him nothing but hard bread and stale water for days. Nobody had spoken to him besides the rats that shared his cell. And they were fuckin’ boring. What the fuck was the point in keeping him here? That bastard Tarvin was behind this. He wanted to toy with Svorbald. Would probably let him die in this damp hole. And then he’d sell Svorbald’s Torc and use it to buy ale that should be Svorbald’s! Well Svorbald wasn’t having it.

Around him the walls were smooth rock, as if he were in a cave of some sort. Rotted sacks and empty, broken barrels told him this place had once been used for storage. The only light Sovrbald had was from a torch outside. It’s flickering flame penetrated the gaps in the old wooden door that kept him locked in, and cast shadows over the permanently wet walls.

It had taken Svrobald’s eyes a little while to adjust to the gloom, but when they had he’d found among the broken barrels an old metal hinge. For what he thought was about two days, he’d been hacking away at the inside of the wooden door. The wood was weakened by years of damp and neglect and it had come away quite easily. If it weren’t so bloody thick, Svorbald reckoned he’d already be through it. Still, it took some time to make a hole for a man his size. He had to be careful, too, not to break the wood all the way. Just enough that the guards on the outside had no idea what he was up to, but enough that when the time came he’d be able to punch his way out quickly.

Today was that day. Svorbald had a rough idea of when the guards bothered to come to his cell with food, and so he had waited. And waited. But no fucker had turned up. Did they know of his plan to escape? Were they even nnow hovering around outside, blades drawn, just waiting for him to make his move? Svorbald didn’t care. He’d wait a little longer and then he’d break out either way. He counted ten heartbeats. Then another ten. “Ah fuck it,” leaning back on the ground, he hammered a booted foot at the now weakened door. It splintered far easier than he anticipated, giving way with a loud crack. His foot became trapped by the broken wood and he had to hammer another hole with his second boot to free it. Light flared through the gap he’d made, making his eyes water. He blinked and blinked until his vision adjusted. From outside there came no sound, no boots or sign that anyone had heard him.

That was unusual. Still, no point thinking about it too much. He put his boots to the door a few more times until even he could fit through the gap he’d made. Falling out onto the other side he took a moment to look around. He was in some sort of cellar. There were bags and barrels piled upon one another. Kegs and bottles, too. He decided to help himself to a bottle of wine. It was good. Better than good, actually. He downed about half, and then stuffed the bottle into his belt. It wasn’t hard to decide where to go. There was only one way. It took a few moments for his legs to get used to walking. His body was bruised and everything ached. Still, he followed the cellar’s winding tunnel up and up. The air grew less damp and musty the more he climbed. Soon the temperature changed, too. The cool air became warmer, and with it the smell of dirt became replaced by the smell of burning animal fat as more and more torches lined the walls.

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It wasn’t long before the sound of voices began to echo their way down to him. As he grew closer, the voices became more distinguished. It sounded like a group of people were arguing. Svorabld approached a door. From the other side the voices rang out loud and clear.

“…old number two. I can’t say I am not disappointed. Killing you isn’t a problem, but having to kill all of you means I then have to go out and find replacements. I really don’t have time for that. Yes, I know I should have brought the soldiers with me! There’s no point dwelling on hindsight.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to? See, I told you! He’s completely mad. We won’t follow a madman!”

This second voice Svorbald recognised. Oh, he recognised it all too well. It was the voice of the man who had stolen his torc. Well, Svorbald didn’t give a rat’s fart what the meeting beyond that door was all about, or how many men were in the room beyond. He took a swig of wine from the bottle at his belt and, with a roar, slammed into the door. It swung open and Svorbald fell more than walked inside.

“What the fuck?“ Tarvin stood there, sword in hand. His sword was raised at a popinjay of a man, but seeing Svorbald he spun quickly. “How did you esc—“ Svorbald’s first hammered into Tarvin’s jaw before he could finsih whatever stupid thing he was trying to say. The torc-thief fell immediately.

“Steal my torc would you!” Svorbald spat at the unconscious man before delivering a few more kicks to his face. Voices and shouts reminded him he wasn’t alone, and he turned quickly. There were three more men and two women, most of whom held weapons. Svorbald charged into them, tumbling two to the ground immediately before swinging his meaty fists at the others. Most hadn’t even had time to point their blades at him before Svorbald had downed them. One man, quicker than the others, jumped back, slashing his Sword at Svorbald as he did so. The man kept backtracking as Svorbald advanced. But with the reach of his sword, Svorbald couldn’t get close enough to deliver a punch.

Suddenly the man froze, his body going rigid. The popinjay pushed the man forward, his dead body falling free of a sword the blonde man held.

“Well,” said the blonde man, surveying the scene and then turning to Svorbald. “I think we may have solved our muscle problem.” His face narrowed as he eyed Svorbald’s belt. “Is that my wine?”