Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 52

The sandstone flooring shivered underboot as guards of the next shift began filing along from the other end of the hallway. Jingle of chainmail, clanking of weapon against plate armour and clicking of studded boots sounded around the corner as the soldiers neared them, yet unaware of the prisoner out of his cell and the private helping him.

"Move!" whispered Pertheran, "we haven't a moment to lose!"

The Midaelian's heart thundered in his chest.

He'd been in gruesome battles, where blood and bile soaked the dusty ground; he'd kicked aside with ease someone's still alive, writhing innards, watched men get sliced in halves in one swing without so much as a flinch-- more often than not he'd been the one on the other end of the blade. Even as Reylan, his captor, had sent the young man to sacrifice his soul, he'd embraced his fate without a moment's hesitation.

Commander Brianus Karyk had known no fear.

Until now.

Now as he dashed down winding stairs, turned corners and crossed hallways which all looked the same, staggering blindly through the hellish maze with an undead Drisian private to guide the way, fear clenched around his throat like a noose.

"This way!" Pertheran cried. The commander could hardly hear him over the deafening sound of his own heart pounding.

Down in the dungeon, in the surety of death there was peace-- an assurance that the sufferings would come to an end eventually.

Yet the sudden promise of freedom had instilled hope in him.

"You have to get down from the wagons before the village folk realise you're in there. Go west and get past the border-post when it's dark, you hear me? It's a long way to go, but at least you've got a better chance at survival out there than in here."

Hope... was a dangerous thing to rely upon, for it could be shattered any moment.

He tried to resist it, struggling to unsee the visions of freedom it showed him-- of him being back in the mess hall of his camp, Lieutenant Evander at his side just like he used to be, a mug of Olde Weasel's ale, a crackling fire.

"You hear me, sir?" Pertheran shook his shoulders, coming to a halt.

The words were drowning out in his mind, weary from days of starvation, vision blurring as a fever took hold of him. Commander Karyk nodded nonetheless. Pertheran swung open a door and through a back entrance, which he assumed were meant for the servants, they emerged into the dawn, beneath the pearly white sky.

A gust of fresh, morning air swept across his face-- free from the stench of the dungeon and carrying the smell of grass and dewy earth. Leaves glided down from overhead, surrounding trees swaying with the wind. Birds nested in the high buttresses chirped and flew about.

Pertheran gave him a tired yet bright grin. "So far so good, eh?"

"...Yes," he managed, gulping lungfuls of the crisp air. It felt as though he'd been in that dank cell for all eternity.

The tree-lined, cobbled square in the back through which Pertheran now led him stood empty, workers at the castle having left early to embark on their day's work. Linens, shirts, breeches and skirts hung on a clothesline on one side, the servant's quarters lay on the other.

Hands on his hips, the private smiled broadly. "Timing couldn't be more perfect. Take your pick," he said, gesturing to the plain garments swaying at the gentle touch of the morning breeze.

Commander Karyk's limbs worked mechanically as he seized a pair of breeches and a woolen shirt from the clothesline, discarding his well-worn, grimy ones behind some bushes.