A leap worth Making

Chapter Fourteen: the Warrior

The barbarians removed the bodies warily, bunched together in a tight formation so that Madoc's attack only managed to cut one of them. He was fed and watered like a dog, old crones brought scraps and threw them to him, and he was forced to wipe the dirt from them to eat. He spent the first few days desperately trying to escape, raging against the collar as it reduced him to a boneless husk.

Twice he passed out a few yards from the boundary and then found himself back in the clearing. The third time, by a supreme act of will he managed to lie still for a few seconds hoping to catch a barbarian coming forwards to carry him. He just couldn't fake unconsciousness in such terrible agony though.

He had been cut and injured many times and had suffered through cauterisation of his wounds, screaming and fighting the surgeon's assistants. The pain of the collar was infinitely worse than that. He was convinced his head was being torn from his shoulders, and not even the intellectual knowledge that there was no real damage could prevent every split second from being overwhelmingly too much to bear.

An animal would have fought till it was dead, driven by the deadly remorselessness of it's will to escape. Humans are different, and Madoc subsided into patient watchfulness. He slept on a rancid mat in the cave, presumably where the dead Warrior had also slept, and plotted to escape.

The cave was really little more than an entrance to a deeper complex, similar to those in the sea cliffs back in Qator. Sometimes those coastal caves had led into tunnels and caverns and Madoc was sure there was something hidden behind the black door in this cave. There was no handle or markings on the door and he had stopped trying to get it open after an hour. Sometimes at night he would wake with an inspiration and rush to see if it would work, but nothing did.

The box that the circlet round his neck was linked to was imbedded in a stone block sunk into the dirt. He could not move it and digging at it with his sword had absolutely no effect. He had attempted to chisel away the stone and free the box that way and had ruined his sword to no avail.

He would clearly need outside help to escape, either coerced or voluntary and therefore he bided his time, ever watchful for the opportunity to capture a hostage. The crones who fed him stayed on the wall of dirt and threw the food to the dirt, and he assumed that if he could catch one of them Shavrill would hardly care.

After a week he had begun to recover from his injuries and started a routine of exercise. The clearing was about fifty paces across and he spent hours running round and round. There were loose rocks which he lifted above his head and he did sit ups and press ups. He devised his own routines with sword and shield and repeated them again and again, sinking into a dream world of enemies.

A month into his captivity he was asleep in the darkness when something struck him on the back. He spun to his feet and sprinted towards the direction from which the object had been thrown, but there was no one in the clearing. He reached the dirt wall and a voice whispered to him,

"I've brought you more food Warrior, don't attack me – Shavrill won't care if you kill me."

A thump near his feet and he bent forwards and retrieved a cloth bag full of fruit.

"Thank you. Who are you?"

"You saw me that day, I've got red hair."

"Why are you helping me like this?"

"Are all men the same? You probably think I found you so attractive I have been compelled by romanticism to help you."

"Compelled by romanticism? Fancy language for a barbarian. You've woken me from a sound sleep and it's the dark of night, so I'm hardly thinking such complex thoughts girl. So what's the real reason then?"