*
The sharp peal of a distant alarm bell struck Vetch like lightning ...
Vetch sat bolt upright in his cell. Immediately, he had to cringe back into a fetal position on the stinking straw that lined the stone floor upon which he lay. His body was aflame, the sword wounds he bore so painful as to make his stomach twist in knots. They hadn’t beat him. Not truly. But to his injured and infected body, even a couple punches had been sufficient to double him over and make him meek.
It had happened so fast. Practically the moment he’d stepped through the servant’s door into the castle, he had been hemmed in by four of Lady Iris’s sellswords. They had been waiting. There was no fighting back, nor concocting a story to excuse his presence there. They had seized him and unceremoniously relieved him of his weapons. Then, with hardly a word, and only enough physicality to make sure he got the message, they had forced him down a set of narrow stone steps into a dim chamber carved directly out of the foundation’s rock. It could have been a wine or cheese cellar, except for the four heavy wooden doors set into the walls, each with a tiny slat of a viewing window crossed with iron bars. A dungeon. Vetch had been offloaded into one of the dirty cells and the door locked behind him.
There he had lain, sick and fevered and destitute. He hardly cared to spare a thought for how they had been alerted to his coming. One of Siegert’s people had sold him out, or Siegert himself. It could even have been some uninvested townsperson, someone who had overheard something and gone to the castle to sell that information. It hardly mattered and there was no use conjecturing. The only certainty was that, once again, Vetch had made the wrong call. Entrusted with picking a plan and leading the charge, he had chosen wrong. Just as it had been in the forest. Given the lead, he’d led his people into disaster and now lay dying himself.
The worst of it was having to wonder if they had also been alerted to Lily’s presence. Were they even now down in town searching for her, or even had already captured her? How long had he been unconscious? Time passed strangely here. It was impossible to discern night from day. Maybe Lily was at this moment imprisoned elsewhere in the manor. Maybe not. Maybe she was back in their inn room, unwittingly believing he would soon return any moment. Either way, knowing he had failed her was a cold knife plunged into his guts. He expected he would die here. Lily would never know what had become of him, nor why he had failed to free Marigold.
Vetch rolled onto his other side and then clenched his eyes hard against the fever pain it woke throughout his battered body. He desired sleep more than anything, no matter that it brought with it strange fever dreams. The one he had just woken from had been strangest of all. He had dreamed he was back home in Moonfane Forge, roused from his bed in the barracks by the sound of alarm bells signaling the livestock raid on their town. Against his thrumming ear drums, he could still hear the confused voices of his fellow garrison soldiers asking one another what was happening.
“—keeps on and on, don’t it? What do you think it is?”
“Dunno. Guard! Hey! Guard! Has he left?”
Those weren’t any voices Vetch recognized. Strange. He wasn’t asleep anymore, yet he still heard them. The bell, too, continued its incessant clanging. He opened his eyes. No mistaking it. He was awake, not dreaming. The alarm bell was real and coming from somewhere up in the castle. The muffled sounds of shouts and running boots accompanied it.
Painfully, he pushed himself to his feet and pushed his face to the bars of his cell door’s window. There was little to see. The dungeon was a roughly circular room hewn directly out of the bedrock, with individual cells set intermittently in its walls. Vetch had counted four of them when they’d brought him down here. Only the one directly across from his own cell was visible from his window. Through that door, he could see the woman who had been amongst Siegert’s group. Hers was one of the voices he had heard. The replies to her words came from the cell to Vetch’s left. No sound arrived from the cell to his right. Siegert’s group was imprisoned here with him. So, they had not been his betrayers? Had it just been poor luck, then, a chance spotting by a sentry on the wall when they had crossed Lily’s Barrier bridge?
“He wakes,” said the woman in the cell across from his, upon seeing him peering out. There was no emotion behind her words.
Vetch swallowed. His throat was terribly sore and dry. “They caught you, too?” he croaked.
“It wasn’t any challenge, with the way Siegert was hollering for ‘em to come get us.” This from the cell on Vetch’s left. Though he couldn’t see into it from his vantage point, he discerned there were at least two men inside it, as a second voice called, “Ain’t that right, Siegert? Bastard.”
“No response to that, old friend?” goaded the woman. “We know you can hear us.”
There came a shuffling sound from the cell to Vetch’s right, then a muffled thump, as if a large man leaned heavily against the door. “Didn’t betray you. We got caught was all.” Siegert’s voice. After a pause, he added, “You think I’d be in here with you, roughed up like I am, if it were otherwise? You were too noisy and too greedy. That’s what got us caught.”
“He lies,” came a voice from the cell to the left. “He didn’t hesitate to sell you out once the guards had us.” This last was ostensibly directed at Vetch, but he had little interest in wading into this squabble between thieves. It was Siegert who rose to the comment.
“And you should be thanking me that I did! If it weren’t for my giving him up, they would’ve killed us instead of simply locking us in here. I’ll smooth it out. Lady Iris knows me.”
The women in the cell across from Vetch made a sound of disgust and turned away from her window.
“Tell me you didn’t give Lily up to them, as well,” Vetch grated. “Siegert? Answer me.”
Siegert’s only response was to break into a violent fit of coughing. Was it legitimate, or did he seek to avoid answering? Before Vetch could press him, the door at the top of the dungeon stairs opened. The flame of the torch there wavered, making its light dance along the stone walls. The door shut and then Vetch heard someone coming down the steps.
“Guard, what’s happening up there?” one of the men in the cell to Vetch’s left asked. “Hey, can you bring us more water?”
A tall woman dressed in light armor, plainly one of Lady Iris’s sellswords, passed Vetch’s cell to peer in at the two men held to his left. She made a dismissive sound, then turned to look in on the woman across the way.
“Hm ... not in that mood,” she said to herself in an accented, singsong voice. “Not today.” Turning away from that cell, she went to Siegert’s door. Vetch could not see the guard directly from this angle, but sensed she stood long before it.
Siegert’s coughing fit abated. He cleared his throat. “Guard, I wish to speak with Lady Iris,” he demanded. “This is a misunderstanding. I caught the man who was trying to free her captive, the old mage. She’s here, isn’t she? Mage Marigold? The man in the cell next to mine meant to sneak in and free her. I stopped him! That was me! Please, let me speak with your mistress and this can all be straightened out. Tell her my name is Siegert. I was once a sentry in this castle. She will know me.”
Vetch ground his teeth together. Was that how it was? Had Siegert steered him into being captured in order to curry favor with Lady Iris? Had that been his plan from the start, from when he had first overheard his and Lily’s plotting in the inn’s common room? Maybe it was simply a convenient backup plan, a way for him to save his own neck after being caught thieving.
The sellsword made a strange sound, something between a slow exhalation and a moan. “You, hm. Perhaps another time for you,” she said slowly, ignoring Siegert’s appeal. “When I don’t have to rush while your guard is away answering the alarm. When I can make it last.”
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Something in the way she spoke put Vetch on the alert. Even Siegert grew quiet at this woman’s disquieting manner. She left him and finally came to stand before Vetch’s cell door. Staring at him through the barred window with dark, avid eyes, she raised her brows.
“What have we here? You look fevered. Are you ill? Injured?” An odd smile grew on her face as Vetch stared back at her. Her gaze unnerved him, but at the same time, he felt it would be a mistake to take his eyes off this particular sellsword, even with the stout door between them. “You look as if you are in pain. Poor child,” she simpered. “Would you like mother to do something about it?”
“Spirits and hells ...” muttered one of the men in the cell to the left. He was quickly shushed by his companion.
As Vetch watched, the woman unbuckled her sword belt and leaned the sheathed blade against the wall. She produced a set of keys and let herself into his cell, unconcernedly leaving the door wide open behind her. Vetch stepped back and prepared himself to have to fight her. It would not be easy. The woman was taller than Lily, taller than himself even, and powerfully built, with well-muscled arms.
“Look how defensive, how you hunch your shoulders to protect your body ...” she commented. “You have something ailing you, yes you do.”
Vetch didn’t know what to think of this guard. Then, her punch landed without warning and all his considerations were cast aside. The blow struck him square across his jaw and stars burst before his vision. True to the other sellswords he had tangled with, this one was a seasoned fighter. She had correctly deduced that he was guarding his torso, but rather than hit him where he was weakest, she had directed her fist where he was least expecting and hadn’t thought to guard. It left him staggered. Blackness contracted in around the edges of his vision and only the back wall of his cell kept him propped upright.
Before he could fight off his dizziness, she was upon him, hands roughly prodding his body until she found the wound under his clothes. They had taken his armor and chain mail along with his weapons. There was nothing but fabric between her press and his burning wound. She gouged her thumb in and Vetch screamed.
Her face erupted into an expression of joy at his outburst. “There it is!” she cooed. “It must hurt so badly. Lie down, lie down. I will take care of you. I will make it hurt so much more.”
He couldn’t fight back as he wanted to. The searing pain that exploded from his wound when she pressed on it made his legs buckle and he slid down to the floor on his back. She followed him down, neatly pinning him with her knee, the weight digging painfully into his hip bone. He struggled and grabbed up a handful of the straw lining the floor, intending to mash it into her eyes. But too quickly, she again pushed her knuckles into his wound. He grunted and felt a hot gush of liquid burst from the wound, creating a wet patch in his shirt. He threw his head back, teeth clenched in agony while he tried to wriggle out from under her. But her strength was too much and the little fight he had remaining in him was rapidly draining.
The sellsword shook her head. “Don’t be afraid to scream more. They’re all too busy to hear it and come down here.” It was true. Up above in the castle, the alarm bell continued to ring, lending a chaotic absurdity to Vetch’s predicament. No help would arrive, even in the form of other sellswords. “Done fighting back already?” she taunted him, her face hanging over his like that of a concerned mother. “Or do you like the pain?” she whispered. “You like it, don’t you? Oh, it must be excruciating. There’s so much more coming. Lie back and let me show you.”
Not a word of protest came from the prisoners in the other cells. Vetch couldn’t blame them. They knew they could be next. Still, knowing that their reticence was wise didn’t prevent him from hating them for it.
“So weak, so helpless,” the sellsword uttered, as if pleasured by it all. “Unable to raise a finger. We’ll watch together as you bleed.”
She produced a wicked little knife and waved it before Vetch’s nose. Seeing the blade and imagining what his assailant would do to him was terrifying, but Vetch counseled himself to composure. He was no fool. This sellsword was entirely caught up in her brutalizing of him, and he could use that against her. He had to. The knowledge that Lily had also most likely been betrayed by Siegert—might even now be hunted through the streets by more of these bloodthirsty killers—awakened in Vetch a new reserve of strength he hadn’t known he possessed.
He didn’t show it. Not yet. He held that strength back, hid it from his attacker. He would have only one chance. A single misstep and she could simply slit his throat. The woman held her blade right there at his flesh, its razor edge dragging along his whiskers. Using his attacker’s own words as inspiration, Vetch put fear into his eyes and made himself out to be completely weak and vulnerable, even pretending to struggle feebly, playing into the sadistic fantasy this sellsword was indulging in. He saw the glee it lit in her eyes. Her breath quickened. Vetch pleaded for his life and was ashamed at the sound of his own blubbering, even as it drew her face nearer to his, as he wanted.
“Please?” she mimicked him, coming close enough he could smell the spiced liquor on her breath. “Please cut you? Okay.”
No matter how ready he made himself, when the blade first bit into his skin, he flinched and cried out. She sliced him in a slow, long line following his jaw to his chin, and he felt his own warm blood dripping in rivulets down his neck like legs in a wine glass.
When she saw that blood flowing, she licked her lips and voiced to an exclamation of delight that made Vetch want to recoil. But in her expressing her pleasure at his pain, there was a momentary slacking of her muscles. Her press down on him eased slightly, leaving him just enough leverage to make his move.
Summoning all his strength, he thrust his head upward, suddenly and mercilessly smashing his forehead into her nose. At the impact, more stars flashed before his eyes. Blood gushed freely from the sellsword’s nose. She cried out, more in shock than in pain, and dropped the little knife to the floor. Vetch didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the knife and directed a stab into her exposed throat. He pulled the blade back and plunged it in again, then a third time. There was nothing precise or skillful about it, just rough, ugly stabs anywhere he could land them, as she flailed and skirmished with him for the knife. Blood poured from her throat and drenched Vetch’s hands, causing the blade to slip from his fingers.
He saw it skitter across the floor out of reach, but by now the sellsword was too occupied with frantically clutching her fingers over her gushing wounds to care about the knife or Vetch. He clawed at her eyes, punched her, kneed her, whatever it took to fight his way out from under her. Mostly it served as a distraction, until her panicked heartbeats pumped enough blood out of her that she weakened and slumped over. It didn’t take long. A few moments more and she was still.
Vetch pushed her body off of himself and then stood up in the middle of the grotesque crimson pool spreading across the cell floor and soaking into the dirty straw. There, he stooped for a time, with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. When he felt he could move again without becoming faint, he checked himself over for any new injuries sustained in the fight and was relieved to discover nothing more than the cut on his chin and a bump raised on his forehead.
Staggering out the open cell door, he took stock of his situation. The alarm bell was still clanging up in the castle. There was no other guard on the outer door at the top of the stairs, but it was probably locked. He returned to the sellsword’s body to collect her keys. He also took her sword from where it leaned against the wall. In a daze, Vetch trudged toward the stairs.
“Wait, partner, let me out.”
Vetch stopped and looked in at Siegert in his cell in disbelief. “Do you expect me to act like I didn’t hear everything you told the guard only moments ago?”
Behind the barred window, the hopeful smile faded from Siegert’s mouth. “I said what might get me out of here. As if you wouldn’t do the same.” When Vetch only shook his head and made to leave, Siegert pressed his face against the bars, speaking quickly. “Look around you, man. You cannot fight Lady Iris. She’s a powerful mage with a small army surrounding her. The best hope a common man has is to be let into her circle. Those who protect her live well. They don’t break their backs in the wheat fields. They aren’t taxed into starvation. Once she hears it was I who foiled an attack on her home, she’ll bring me back into her garrison, where I belong. Let me out and I’ll put in a good word for you, too. We both could live high on the hog here, like it was back under Lord Marcus.”
To Vetch, Siegert’s denialism of his situation was plain on his face and in his desperate words. Did he even understand that he was asking Vetch to disregard the betrayal and turn his back on Lily? And for what, a position amongst those who had killed his people and burned his town? It was beyond ludicrous.
“Where would they be holding Marigold?” Vetch asked him bluntly. He needed to find her, free her, and then get to Lily before the other sellswords did.
Siegert’s brow knit in confusion. “I don’t know. I had expected her to be down here. Lady Iris hated her after she left.”
Again, Vetch turned away, against Siegert’s pleas and the calls of his companions in the other two locked cells. Vetch looked back at them once and was met with a string of appeals to be let free, how they had not been in on Siegert’s plot to get him captured, how they could aid Vetch in his quest. He let all those words filter past his ears. Looking at those people pleading with him from behind bars, he recalled a time when he stood outside a cell door and looked into the pleading eyes of a skinny horse thief in Moonfane Forge. That man, he had taken pity on and chosen to release. He could never forget the havoc that poor decision had unleashed upon his fellow soldiers on the path in Bannerman’s Wood.
Without a word, Vetch left them to their fate and went up the stairs. He let himself out through the dungeon door and then locked it again behind him. He drew his hard-won sword, hardened himself against fever and pain, and then headed up into the manor, toward the sounds of calamity.