Trivelin winced as the guards forced him along, hobbling against the hard, smooth stone in his boot. It was an odd-shaped one too, jabbing into him with every step. “You know, I’ve heard hospitality described as the mother of virtues, and you could really stand to be a bit more gentle.” He groused.

“But you didn’t think much of our hospitality, now did you?” Cathara reminded him, not looking back his way. That worried him. She seemed like the type to gloat.

Oh, he’d gotten himself into it now.

He was being led through the dwarven quarter. Grim business. All these statues everywhere, the dead cast in bronze. He’d heard somewhere there were real bones entombed inside. Standing graves, smiling as if they were alive; it all made him shiver. Two guards had either one of his arms, marching him down the street as children ran along behind him, eager to see the criminal.

Actually, this time, Trivelin wasn’t sure what he’d done.

They were leading him towards the center of it all, a grand manor. A protective web of spellwork bent to let them through as they displayed badges, and one was hastily attached to his ragged shirt, pulling him through the golden dome.

The scenery started to look all too familiar then; he was led back to the courtyard, into the dark of a solitary tower, down into the winding depths beneath where rats crept and the walls wept a faint slime. Classical prison sort of place. Trivelin knew the scenery well.

And one cell among dozens, he knew very well.

“This time, make sure the guards know his little trick. That door doesn’t open except on my say so, ever.” Cathara commanded, before sweeping off.

Rough hands pushed him through, and slammed the door shut.

And then Trivelin was back in his cell, oh sweet and homely home away from home. The first thing he did once he was thrown inside was pull off his boot, and shake the troublesome stone out.

Except it wasn’t a stone.

A golden watch rolled free of his boot. It was one of those fine, expensive pieces that a rich gentleman might wear on his hip, at the end of a gold chain. The silver front was inscribed with a tracework lattice that embossed the shape of a curling ammonite shell.

And a voice spoke to him. Open me, and call forth a guardian. Three times I will answer. Trivelin glanced around, nervous that someone else had heard, but it echoed only his skull; the cell was deadly silent.

He froze, hastily tucking the silver trinket behind his back as a guard stepped past the bars. The dwarf scoffed. “Like I’m falling for that. Oooh, what’s the prisoner hiding? Could it be a secret treasure? Oooh, I’ll just open up the door and see. Ha!”

Trivelin was insulted. Like he’d try such a prosaic escape.

No, the fact was, with his little trick outed he had no plans. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a good time to put this secret little weapon to use - he tucked the watch down into a pocket by his heart - and wait for the gods to provide.

Pulling his tricorn hat down over his eyes, he did what he often did while waiting for fortune to arrive, and caught a light nap.

[https://i.imgur.com/okCjs7y.png]

It was the sound of clashing steel and dying men that made him come around. Somewhere above, something big was happening.

Footsteps echoed down the stairs of the prison tower. “C’mon. Get ahold of him.” Keys rattled in the lock. Trivelin lifted his hat to see a trio of dwarves pulling the door open. Rough hands seized him and hauled him from his lazy repose.

“Oof, heavy.”

“Careful now lads, I’m a human being, not a sack of ‘tatoes.” Smacking his lips as he allowed himself to be hoisted up, hat askew on his head, Trivelin glanced about with sleep-drenched eyes. “Where are we off to?”

“The block.” And his blood ran cold. Before he could think to struggle, they had his arms, hauling them behind him and clapping cold, rigid manacles across the wrists. He was cut off from the watch in his pocket, his sole protection. Hands gripped him by either elbow.

He was had.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

“That seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?” He chuckled, nervous as a virgin. Everyone was when it came to death. Oh, there were adventurers he knew who’d come back two, three times, but he’d never gotten them to give a straight answer on what it was like. He didn’t figure they knew. Even when he got them drunk enough to talk about anything, they just went misty-eyed and distant.

“We ain’t taking any chances with you, are we?”

“Nossir. We’ve got a score to settle and a reputation to keep.”

Trivelin finally recognized the man on his left. It was the same man he’d left locked in the cell behind him. That unnecessary touch, if artistic, had just cost him his best chance of bribing his way out. A groan silently passed through gritted teeth.

Step by step, he waited for it. The miracle. The magic something he always managed to conjure in these moments, and the reason he would never settle down, never say ‘this is enough.’ no matter what treasure came and went through his hands.

Because Trivelin wasn’t enough for himself, was nothing but a comic fool who knew it too damn well, except in those magic moments. Those touched-by-the-moon, madfool moments where the world clicked and his mind alighted with the fire of some brilliant scheme, and he wriggled through the narrowest cracks to escape certain death. Those moments.

Those precious bits where he seemed to half-ride and half-steer the tide of cosmic luck.

Nothing. The tides were leaving him high and dry.

He came out into the daylight, and there was the stomp of boots and clatter of swords. On the arcade balcony above, a swordsman dueled to hold back a tide of ragged men. His sword pierced them one by one as they rushed forward and they fell apart into fluttering ash.

There was a block in the courtyard. An old stump, the surface stained with a ominous black-red that spilled down over one side. An axe jutted out of the rotting wood.

“Looks like they could use your help up there.” He tried.

“Once we’re done here.” The dwarf on his right said, his gravelly old voice patient, talking to him like a skittish dog. “Easy does it now.”

Trivelin gave up on talking and bucked, trying to rip free of their hands.

“You heard him! Easy!” The left one shouted, and a kick slammed into the back of his knee. Right where that bitch had gotten him too. He slumped forward, and his head made hard, tooth-rattling impact with the stump’s surface.

A boot stepped onto his back, holding him down.

He smelled the blood sunk into the wood. The remnants of others who’d gone before, plenty of them, he was sure, waiting for their moment. He saw his sweating reflection in the dull black metal of the axe.

But the universe didn’t give up so many of those miracle days anymore.

“On the names of Cathara and Suffi Halfhand, leaders of the seven clans of Caltern, your death has been ordered. By my hands, it will be carried out.” That hand curled around the axe’s handle, ripping it free of the stump. He felt - he didn’t need to see - the blade lift, felt the man winding up.

And then he felt it go wrong. There was a shout, a scream, and the boot suddenly loosened. Trivelin saw his moment and bucked up, throwing the man standing on him over backwards, and rolled to the side, narrowly dodging the muffled thump of the axe hitting the stump.

In moments - breathless, terrified moments - he was on his feet. The young man was clawing his face, trying to dislodge a black rat that had sunk its claws into his nose. The old one was staring in confusion.

Just as the codger came to his wits and drew his sword, advancing on Trivelin with a cold sense of duty in his eyes, the doors were bashed open and a riot of unkept, wild-haired men burst into the courtyard. At the center of the mob they bore two sacks of struggling, lumpy burlap.

The man’s attention wavered between the two, and Trivelin started running. For lack of anywhere better to run, he went down again, back towards his cell, vaulting down the steps two at a time.

Boots rang after him. The old man had stayed behind, and doubtless he’d be dead soon for that bravery, but the young one, the one Trivelin had humiliated, was storming along behind him with his sword drawn and waggling through the air.

“Not this time!” He roared, red-faced. “There’s nowhere left to go, you fat bastard!”

A hand grabbed the chains holding his own hands behind his back, and Trivelin did what he could; he fell. Down the stairs, yanking the young dwarf with him by dint of superior mass, tumbling and making hard, thudding contact with the sharp edges of every step in a long rolling spiral. Something gashed his forehead open. His left arm was wrenched to a sprain, maybe broken, by a funny-angled twist that made hot sickening pain sear up his arm.

And the watch fell free of his pocket, going clink clink clink like a silver wish down the stairs in front of him.

He landed in a sprawl. The dwarf landed in a heap. Of the two, Trivelin was a little quicker in coming round, and he wriggled himself into position, on his back and lifting his legs folded at the knees up to his chest, to slip his manacled hands down under his rump and get them in front of him again.

The young guard was climbing to his feet, hand patting across his hip for a sword that wasn’t there.

It was behind Trivelin.

The watch lay on the step behind him.

They slammed into each other and rebounded as they both rushed for their weapon, and Trivelin’s hand touched the watch maybe a split second before the dwarf’s hand closed on the sword-hilt. The guard spun around, hacking at Trivelin’s throat.

The blade rebounded, stopped by a silver mist that poured out from the watch to surround Trivelin in a protective umbra.

For a second, that was all- the dwarf backing away, unsure, his sword pointed quaveringly towards Trivelin. Trivelin staring at his own hand in surprise.

And then he said, “Well? Get him already!”

The mist leapt forward, taking the shape of a shark that glided through the air. It floated as gentle as a cloud, as silver as starlight, and surged towards the guard as his face went pale with shock. There was a single enormous clamp of jaws, and a gush of bright blood floated through the sharks half-solid body, forming into weightless ribbons.

Trivelin felt the tides of luck rolling his way.