The Prisoner of Carronne - 13. Chapter 13

-- Chapter Thirteen --

The band of men waited inside the cramped entrance to the sewers; the sticky blackness surrounding them, almost crushing, the stench more than noticeable. The only sounds that could be heard were those of the men breathing, and somewhere nearby, water was trickling quietly.

‘Is this a trap?’ one man whispered. Luther couldn’t be sure which man it was.

‘Silence,’ Garrett demanded.

Luther gave a huff. ‘It is no trap,’ he answered calmly. ‘We just need a little patience. They will come.’

It was now Garrett’s turn to huff.

As the minutes tick by the cold was beginning to seep in, yet for each of the men a sweat had broken out upon their skin. It may have been fear. Or it may have been something else.

Then from somewhere, a sound was heard. The faint clang of steel striking something hard, followed by something that may have been the soft babble of voices.

‘Did you hear that?’ another man asked.

‘They are coming,’ Garrett replied.

They waited and listened, while peering into the darkness still. For a long while there was nothing, but then they heard it again, only louder this time, and closer. The clank of metal on rock. Then voices. Definitely voices.

‘We have company,’ Luther said quietly, just before the first smidgen of light could be seen, far off down the tunnel before them.

As the light grew stronger, more sounds followed, while the men tensed. Fingers tightened around weapons. What if it really was a trap?

Garrett looked behind them, towards where the entrance to the tunnel might have been – if he had been able to see it – to make sure the way out wasn’t barred by more men, but then they heard the sound of laughter. And it sounded as if it was coming from children.

‘The enemy seems to be getting younger and younger,’ Garrett remarked, as the young gang of urchins fully came into view.

‘Or the warriors are,’ answered Luther.

Counting Drake, there were eight of them altogether, who faced off in front of the knights and their men, with four of them wielding torches and lighting up their surroundings.

Drake stepped forward and extended a hand towards Luther.

‘So glad you could join us,’ Luther offered. ‘We were beginning to worry.’

‘I beg your forgiveness, Sire. There were patrols.’

‘In the tunnels?’

‘On the streets, Sire. The Dark Lord’s men are restless.’

‘Then let us give them something to be restless about, shall we?’ urged Garrett.

They shook, and smiled at each other, before Luther cast an eye over the gang of urchins. Other than Drake, the oldest looked to have seen no more fourteen summers, to the knight. They carried no weapons and were all shabbily dressed, being children of the street, faces dirty, hair longish and dishevelled. Just the kind of soldiers who could blend into the background when they needed to disappear.

‘And this is your army?’ Luther responded.

‘The best you will find, above and below the streets of Carronne. We can take you where you need to be, and deliver you safely to your escape route . . . which won’t be here, Sire.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Your horses are being taken to another location, which will aid your escape. It is much closer to the cells than this location, so there will be less chance of you . . . being seen by the guards . . .’

‘And the downside?’ Luther asked, sensing the lad’s hesitation.

‘You may be seen by . . . others.’

‘Then I guess that is a risk we will have to take,’ Luther responded. ‘Now lead on. The night is a-wasting.’

‘Then follow me,’ one of the torch carrying urchins said.

*   *   *

Several leagues to the north of the city, at a point where the road narrowed and passed between two rocky outcrops, the soldiers lay in wait.

A band of twenty or so men who had ridden out earlier in the day, were now encamped in a draw, with orders to stop and search all travellers. No fires burned for them as they maintained their vigil, so that there could be no warning to the unsuspecting, yet upon a hillside a short distance away, their Dark Lord and his traitorous companion, along with a small guard of faithful men, were seated around a bright flame.

‘That Warlock had best not be deceiving us,’ the Dark Lord growled, as he sat staring into the flames.

‘Has he deceived you yet, Sire?’ Judayah asked.

‘True, his visions have been fruitful, have they not? He may be a snivelling maggot, but I’ve had no reason to doubt his words.’

‘And I feel sure that will be the case tonight, Sire.’

‘Hmmmmm . . . we shall see,’ the Dark Lord responded, just as a jet-black raven landed on the ground nearby, and within the circle of light being thrown by the fire. It looked up at the two men and gave them a squawk, then sat watching them with curious yellow eyes.

*   *   *

Bent double, and damp to their knees, the unlikely legion of knights and urchins moved through the old culverts like shadows, the echo of their breathing swallowed by the weight of darkness. Once, long ago, Carronne had been a city of fountains and channels, its waters running clear, cool and bright; now the drains carried only a sluggish trickle, sour with salt, mixing water with the sewer, but the paths were still remembered.

When the stone walls narrowed, they turned their shoulders sideways and pressed on; when the roof lowered, they hunched like beasts. Rats scuttled away and water dripped, but otherwise the silence was whole.

Presently they came to a place where several tunnels converged, and where they found a small cavern that allowed the men and boys to stand and stretch for a few moments. The lead boy waved his torch towards one of the tunnels, where Luther noticed a stick with a rag attached sticking from between some stones.

‘We go that way,’ the lad said.

Luther studied the entrance, which appeared small. They would once again be travelling bent over, and through ankle deep water.

‘At least it’s not a sewer pipe,’ Drake said to him. ‘It leads to another chamber like this one, but from there we will need to climb.’

‘Climb what?’ Garrett demanded to know.

‘Another shaft,’ the boy with the torch said. ‘It travels upwards, at an angle. There are steps in some places, while in other places it is slick. We have a rope anchored in place for us to hold to, which will prevent us from falling and sliding back down from whence we came.’

‘And what else will we find in this wretched system? What other secrets does the Castle Carronne hide?’

At this question the lead boy shot a glance in Drake’s direction, which wasn’t missed by the knights.

‘Well?’ asked Garrett.

‘There are only rumours, Sire,’ Drake replied.

‘Rumours of what, exactly?’

‘Of a . . . of a beast, Sire. One that it is reported patrols the castle on some nights,’ Drake replied.

‘A beast, you say! And what form does this beast take, exactly? Does it have horns? Or massive teeth? Does its skin have scales, or hair? Have you seen such beast?’

Once again Drake and the lead boy exchanged glances.

‘Well?’ Garrett demanded.

‘We have not seen such a beast,’ the boy, whose name was Kit, replied. ‘But there have been nights when we have heard it, Sire. A frightful roar has echoed through all the corridors and tunnels and pipes, but from where the noise has come, we have not been able to determine.’

The two knights glanced at each other, a bemused expression on both their faces.

‘It is true, Sire,’ another urchin said. ‘I have heard it also!’

‘Then let’s hope that the beast has not been let off its leash on this night,’ responded Luther. ‘Lead on, my brave soldiers.’

The lead boy, Kit, was first into the tunnel, with Luther following, then the others, with Garrett bringing up the rear, but not before he stopped and listened for any sounds that might be coming from anywhere else that would now be behind them.

One of the lads with a torch waited at the entrance for him, then when he noticed Garrett coming, the boy set off into the tunnel also.

The climb was hard. The shaft rose in shallow angles, slick in places, tight in others, until at last the walls opened to a vault where the ceiling arched like a rib cage. Once this had been a cistern, Luther guessed, but now it was half filled with rubble, the bones of a forgotten city.

Here they rested a moment, their torches beginning to splutter and grow dull, but were yet to fail altogether.

‘We’re close,’ Drake said to them. His voice was low, but it carried.

‘Yes, I can smell it. Iron. Old blood. Excrement. The dungeons must be almost above us,’ said Luther.

Garrett wrinkled his nose. ‘Or the kitchens.’

‘Either way, we climb,’ Luther said grimly, while pointing to an iron ladder attached to the wall and leading into a darkened recess above them, ‘So tell us, Drake, son of Drago, what shall we face once we reach the top of these iron rungs?’

‘A trapdoor, Sire. Beyond that is a passageway, which is still beneath the dungeon itself.’

‘Guarded?’

‘No. But from there we must climb again, up some stairs of stone and through a heavy door, and this will take us almost to where we need to be. There will be guards on that level, but chances are they will be playing games of chance, or sleeping.’

Luther looked to his men and pointed at two of them, then silently ran his thumb across his neck, the message was clear.

The nods he received showed their understanding.

‘And where is our target?’ Luther asked.

‘There are two passageways. The main one, which runs along the front of the dungeon and from which the guards enter, then a secret passage, which is used by the Warlock and his boy, which is to the rear of the dungeon,’ Drake answered.

‘And you have been there?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

Now it was Garrett’s turn to ask a question. ‘So, when we climb this ladder we reach another passageway, then we must climb again. Where will that put us in relation to where the guards are?’

‘Quite close, but you will not be seen. There are other doors, other dungeons, but these are empty. Our Prince is the only captive being held here. The station where the guards sit is at the end of that passageway, where it turns. You will need the keys to both the dungeon and the cell in which the prisoner resides, however.’

‘So, we overpower the guards, take the keys and release the Prince?’ Luther asked.

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘And our escape?’ asks Garrett.

‘Through the second passageway, behind the dungeons . . . but that still won’t be easy, as sooner or later we must leave it and make a break for cover. By that time it will almost be certain that the other guards will be aware and the alarm will be raised.’

‘So, escape may prove difficult?’ suggested Garrett.

‘We are prepared to fight, Sire,’ said the quiet farmer amongst them. ‘No matter the consequences.’

‘It won’t come to that,’ promised Kit, as all eyes turned his way.

‘Go on,’ urged Luther.

‘For each of you, there is one of us. There are doors where none can be seen. Passageways where only solid walls should be. We can reach the passage behind the dungeon by passing through the wall. Then, we separate. One of us with one of you. We will guide you from the castle. We will lead you to the markets outside the castle walls, from where you will make your escape.’

‘I think your counting may be flawed,’ Garrett pointed out. ‘There is but six of us, to eight of you.’

Drake and Kit exchanged smiles.

‘But what of the prisoner? Will he not need a guide also?’ asked Drake.

‘Very well then, that makes seven,’ replied Garrett.

‘And what of the other prisoner?’ asked Kit.

‘The other prisoner?’ asked Luther.

‘I talk of the Warlock,’ answered the boy. ‘Are you not willing to take him also?’

Luther smiled at them. ‘So, the message got through from Rupert?’

‘Yes, Sire,’ answered Drake. ‘And we can surely count on the Warlock to be visiting the Prince tonight, especially with the Dark Lord out of the castle and the city. It would be too good an opportunity to pass, would it not?’

‘It will also help that we have passed a message to the Warlock’s boy,’ added Kit. ‘I feel sure that they will be waiting.’

‘Then let us pray you are correct,’ Luther replied.

*   *   *

‘What is it?’ the Dark Lord demanded to know, after studying Judayah, who was studying the bird.

‘I am unsure, my Lord.’

Something was wrong. Even Septimus could sense this.

‘Is it a trap? Have we been deceived? What did that infernal bird tell you?’

For a few moments, Judayah had to think.

‘Those we seek do not ride. They walk. And they do not tread upon a road. They tread upon water. Foul water. And in darkness, even when the sun is high,’ Judayah replied, his voice filled with uncertainty.

‘What sort of riddle is that? You’re starting to sound like that infernal Warlock!’

Quickly, Judayah stood, and the bird skipped away, landing this time in the darkness, just out of sight, though its evil yellow eyes could still be seen, reflecting the firelight. As he walked a few steps away, scratching his bearded chin, he mulled over the message. By now, Septimus was also on his feet, and ready to move.

Suddenly, Judayah stopped and turned back towards his master. ‘We must ride. They are in the castle!’

‘What?’ screeched Septimus. For a moment he thought he saw a glint of green in the eyes of the Dark Lord, which was never a good sign.

By now their men were already on their feet and fetching the horses.

‘The sewers, my Lord. They came beneath our feet!’

‘Can they reach the prisoner?’

‘Of course not. But if we are to capture them, and flush out their accomplices, we cannot waste a moment more!’

‘My horse! Bring me my horse!’ Septimus bellowed, and before he had even finished, the beast was brought to a stop beside him, as was that of Judayah.

‘For the castle, men!’ Judayah yelled, before then pointing at one of his officers. ‘Take charge here. Leave some men to block the road. Tell them, do not let anyone through until they are relieved, then return with the rest of the men to the castle with speed . . . we must act swiftly.’

‘As you wish, Sire,’ the officer replied, but the Dark Lord and Judayah were already moving, kicking their horses into action and galloping off, with the rest of their guard in their wake.

*   *   *

One of the blacksmiths was the first to climb the ladder. A man of strength who would easily be able to open the trapdoor. Once steady on a landing below it, he gently put his shoulder to the timber, lifting it just so, until he could peer along the passageway, which was dimly lit be a single torch, some way away.

‘See anything?’ Garrett asked from below.

‘Very little, Sire. A dark passage with a single torch at the far end,’ came the reply from above. ‘And no sign of anyone either.’

‘Let’s go then,’ urged Garrett, and under his direction the group started climbing, one by one.

Garrett and Luther were the last to reach the passageway, then once they had arrived, the blacksmith gently closed the trapdoor.

‘This way,’ urged Drake, with a whisper, before he set off down the passage, towards the dim light ahead of them.

There were no doors on this level – or at least none that could be seen – just stone walls, smooth to the touch, and presently they came to a set of stairs, where Drake halted.

‘These lead to the dungeons,’ he whispered.

Luther nodded and pointed at the two blacksmiths, whom he had tasked with handling the guards.

‘Tread carefully and quietly,’ he whispered to them. ‘We shall all be waiting on the stairs for your signal. Be sure to also relieve them of their keys.’

‘There are empty dungeons nearby,’ Drake added. ‘So could you move them into one of those, to allay any fears of the guards having come to harm . . . at least temporarily.’

‘Aye,’ one of the men said.

‘We will await your signal,’ Luther said, before stepping back, to allow the men to pass.

The band of rebels watched, as the two men slowly, and quietly climbed the stairs. When they reached the oak door at the top, one of them turned a handle, which grated softly, then cracked it open, revealing a dim outline. For a few moments he placed his ear to the opening and listened.

‘Sounds like two men,’ he whispered. ‘Arguing about dice. One is losing.’

Luther nodded.

The door was opened wider with just a quiet complaint, then the blacksmiths stepped through and disappeared from view.

‘Come,’ Luther said to his men. ‘We must be ready,’ then he set off up the stairs, with men and boys following close behind.

Ahead of them the blacksmiths moved swiftly, and silently. The guards never had the chance to shout. A dagger bit first, and a cudgel dropped the other where he stood. The bodies were eased to the stone, and then quickly searched, with the keys quickly being retrieved.

They had passed a dungeon doorway almost opposite where the guards had been found, and so one of the men quickly stepped to the door and jingled his way through the keys, as quietly as he could, before finding the correct one.

The door opened, and then the two bodies were quickly dragged into the darkness before the door was shut on them.

‘Fetch the others,’ one of the blacksmiths said. ‘I will stand watch.’

With a nod, his companion returned to where Luther and the rest were waiting, and then moments later, men and boys gathered at a door, from behind which they could hear the sound of muted voices.

Through several slits in the heavy oak doors, Luther noted a strange, greenish glow coming from inside and peered through one of the slits.

From behind the door came a voice that was low and measured, almost compelling in its calm. Another answered: proud, defiant, familiar.

Luther’s heart seized.

‘. . . you waste your words,’ said the prisoner, his voice hoarse but still steady, still recognisable. ‘I will not be teased by such nonsense.’

‘You mistake me,’ replied the other voice. ‘I did not come to tease you. I came to help you.’

And as he peered inside, he saw them. Prince Raemande, standing behind steel bars, grasping them tightly, and before him the Warlock, Willem of Shalamar, cloaked and pale, his sightless sockets turned toward the prisoner as if he could see him still. Nearby hovered the boy, Carel, slim and fearful, clutching a strange green stone that seemed to be glowing, lighting the dark space.

For a heartbeat Luther froze. The years fell away, and Rae was once more the boy-prince, who had become a knight, with whom he had laughed and played.

It was a cough that betrayed them, from one of the boys in their band. Carel’s head snapped around, eyes wide. The Warlock’s chin lifted.

‘Come,’ Willem said quietly, not in alarm but in invitation. ‘I knew the winds would bring you this way.’

‘Open this,’ Luther gruffly demanded, and after the keys jingled and the door swung open, he burst through the doorway.

Raemande’s head came up sharply. ‘Luther?’

‘It is, my brother.’

‘Quiet,’ Garrett hissed, slipping in behind Luther. The others crowded close, barring the door.

For a moment time itself seemed to hold. The Warlock stood still, his face tilted as if listening to some music no one else could hear. Then he spread his hands, palms outward, unarmed.

‘I am your prisoner if you must call me that,’ he said evenly. ‘But if you would live beyond this night, then bind me gently, for I have seen where the road ends.’

Luther’s dagger was at his side but not drawn. He looked from Willem to Rae, from Rae to Carel’s frightened eyes. Then he nodded once. ‘You come with us.’

The cell door was swung open and Rae stepped towards it, staggering just slightly, but not falling. Luther’s arm was under him in an instant.

‘Still breathing, brother?’

‘Still defying,’ Rae rasped, but there was the ghost of a smile.

‘Good. We’ll need both.’

To be continued . . .