Say No More

Grant Me Silence

The cell was dark. The one shaft of moonlight fell in from the top of the ceiling, through a little crack in the plaster. It was too high, or the man sprawled on the floor would have tried to climb out of there ages ago.

His lips were cracked and bleeding, and his sharply angled face bore signs of a recent scuffle. He smelled of liquor, but it was not on his breath. Obviously he had only been in the wrong place in the wrong time.

Right?

But no! His knuckles were bleeding, and his belted waist was made to carry weapons. An aura about him screamed a man of combat, of war.

Then, his voice spoke. As if to himself, he spoke, clearly and softly, the voice of a lord, a nobly born man and an intelligent one, at that.

"I know you are there, fiend."

The words were smooth but they bit like a steel blade, his tone angry but glossed over with the touch of wit and sly humor.

An answering growl, a grating, uncouth voice came out of the darkness. "I suggest ya kep yer trap shut, young 'un. Jess' becuz yer name's Brandir son of Corôn duz na' mean ya git ta be all high an' mighty with me."

Turning back to the so called young 'un, it became obvious that he was indeed young, merely a stern lad, of fifteen or so. The emotions flashed across his face in quick succession; anger, rebelliousness, humor, impatience. He was quite satisfied that he had succeeded in getting a rise out of the disgusting man that guarded his cell. It was the most entertaining thing to do at the moment, he mused as he placed his hands behind his hand and relaxed on the floor.

He winced, though, when he tried to move his legs and the rattling of chains greeted his pounding head. He glanced balefully at the ankle links that cut into his skin. He cursed the day he had tried to expose the cheating captain of the guard of the Lower City. He would constantly rue that decision whenever he looked at the scars that would surely form on his ankles.

Yet he was pleased. If only he could get out of this dank cell he would have all the information he needed. He knew he couldn't stay in here forever. His family would come looking and their wrath would be tenfold stronger than ever if they found him here.

He could bear it. His siblings knew what he was trying to do. They would shield him from the ire of his father who still thought him no more than a troublesome boy sticking his nose into things he shouldn't.

He heard a door creak open outside his cell. He smirked as the torches came steadily nearer, and the voice of the captain of the guard himself was heard. He made a show of relaxing nonchalantly against the wall.

"Ah." His smooth voice spoke again, almost as a condescending host to a humble visitor. "You have finally decided to grace me with your presence, captain." He spread his arms out and mock bowed his head. "Welcome, to my luxurious abode. Care for a delectable piece of molded bread, or perhaps a few straws of hay? I would offer you some stale water, the finest we have, but I am afraid I drank it all." He kicked the tin cup on the floor and smiled at the captain.

"Save it for the rats, my lord." Hissed the captain as his accompanying guards dragged Brandir's chains closer to him. His clothes were unkempt and he reeked of liquor and dirt. Nothing about his manner or bearing spoke of captain of the White Citadel.

Brandir silently cursed his lordship the Steward. He had let things fall too far, even neglecting his own city's welfare. The lower levels of the city were in silent chaos, screaming for someone to relieve their yoke. The councils tried their hardest to keep things under control, but they were not all powerful. Which had resulted with the wrong people choosing the wrong men to run the army for the wrong reasons.