The Duke leaned forward, his baleful eyes locking to Llaw’s. ‘What do you say?’ he asked.
‘It does not matter, I think, what I have to say,’ Llaw replied. ‘All around this hall are men who know the truth. This… Maradin… raped and murdered my Lydia… and he paid for it. That is all.’
‘Then bring forward these men to bear witness for you,’ said the Duke. ‘Where are they?’
Llaw looked up, his eyes sweeping the balconies. No one met his gaze.
‘That brands you for the liar you are,’ the Duke stated. ‘Tomorrow morning you will be quartered and impaled. Take the wretch away.’
Returned to his dungeon, Llaw was once more chained to the wall. But gone now was the malaise that had gripped him during his captivity and in its place was a burning hatred. Hooking his hands around the chains, he hauled on them, feeling for a weakness. There was some movement in the right-hand chain; throwing the weight of his arm forward, he strained at the metal, then relaxed. Pushing his back against the wall, he hooked his fingers into the bracket fixing the chain to the stone. It seemed loose, and he could feel rust on the bolts.
Three times more he tried to loosen it. The bracket was bent now, almost U-shaped, but still it held. He tried the left-hand side, but this was immovable. Breathing deeply and easily he gathered his strength, hooking his right hand once more around the links. The muscles in his shoulders bulged as he fought to straighten his arm… the metal groaned and slowly, agonizingly, the bolts slipped from the mortar binding them and the chain snapped loose. Turning, Llaw could now put both hands to the left chain and pushing his right foot against the wall, he tore the bracket loose.
Free of the wall, there was still the barred dungeon door. Gathering his chains, he moved towards it and listened. There was no sound from the corridor beyond.
Returning to the wall, he loosely fitted the brackets back into place.
‘Guard!’ he yelled. ‘Guard!’ He heard the sound of footsteps.
‘What is it? Why are you screaming?’
‘Guard!’
‘Damn you, be quiet!’
But Llaw continued to shout at the top of his voice and finally a grille opened at the centre of the door, the guard looking in to see the huge prisoner still chained to the wall.
‘Be quiet, you whoreson, or I’ll come in there and cut out your tongue!’
‘You haven’t the nerve,’ hissed Llaw. ‘You’re a gutless sack of cow droppings!’
The grille slammed shut and Llaw heard the sound of the bar being lifted clear. Then the door opened and he blinked hard against the sudden light from the torches beyond as the guard advanced.
‘I know what you want,’ whispered the man. ‘You want me to kill you. You can’t stand the thought of your limbs being cut off; you don’t want to think about the sharp stake rising through your body, ripping and tearing. Well, I won’t kill you! I’ll just make you wish you were dead.’ From his belt he pulled a hide-handled whip.
Llaw hurled himself forward, his body cannoning into the startled guard. They fell to the floor, Llaw’s hands circling the guard’s throat with increasing pressure until his neck snapped and his body jerked. Llaw rose and stared down at the body. He had no regrets; Lydia’s death and the injustice of the trial had conspired to alter the soul of the blacksmith. Gathering up the chains, he moved to the corridor. Some twenty feet to his left was the table and chair at which the guard had been stationed, and hanging from a hook on the wall were the keys to the chains. Llaw unfastened the manacles and left the chains on the table.
He was not yet free. He did not know the layout of the dungeons, nor had he any idea of a way of escape. He knew he was on the fourth level below ground, and that the stair-well led to the Great Hall. There would be no way to freedom by that route. But where the other stairs led he had no idea. He sat back on the table, thinking. To come this far and still be a prisoner was galling. Returning to his cell, he stripped the liveried tunic from the body of the guard. At the man’s belt was a knife, its edge razor-sharp. Slowly and painfully Llaw scraped away his red-gold beard, leaving only his moustache. Then, donning the guard’s tunic, he moved back to the table. The corridor was some sixty feet long, with six barred doors on either side. Swiftly Llaw opened them all, freeing the prisoners and removing their manacles.
They staggered into the corridor. All were covered in filth and many had weeping sores on their skeletal limbs.
‘You have a chance at freedom,’ whispered Llaw. ‘But stay silent and follow me.’
He climbed the stairs at a run, not bothering to look back, while the prisoners shuffled after him. On the next level a guard sat at a table, idly rolling dice. Llaw waved the prisoners back and boldly approached the man, who glanced at a marked candle.
‘You’re early,’ said the guard, grinning, ‘but I’ll not complain.’ Scooping up his dice he rose — straight into a clubbing fist — and slumped back to his seat, his head dropping to thud against the table-top. Once again Llaw opened the cell doors, freeing the prisoners. He neither knew nor cared what crimes they had committed; all that mattered was his own escape.
‘Now you may do as you please,’ he told them.
‘But how do we get out?’ asked a thick-set bearded man, with a jagged scar on his cheek.
‘Take the stairs and free the others. There are two more levels,’ Llaw told him.
‘What about you?’
‘I have other business.’
‘Who are you?’ another man asked.
‘Llaw Gyffes,’ he told them.
‘Stronghand? I’ll remember it, my friend,’ the bearded man promised.
Llaw nodded and moved away into the shadows, climbing a narrow stair-well which led to a carpeted hallway with curtained windows. Drawing back the hangings, he looked out over the courtyard less than ten feet below. The great gates were open and two sentries stood chatting in the shadows. On the walls he counted five bowmen. Beyond the gates he could see the lights of Mactha and the far mountains shining in the moonlight. Easing himself through the window, he silently dropped to the cobbles. A sudden shout froze him in his tracks, but it came from within the castle.
‘The prisoners are free!’ came the call as Llaw ran to the gates.
‘What’s happening?’ asked a sentry.
‘The prisoners have broken out,’ Llaw told him. ‘Quickly, get to the Hall and guard the stair-wells!’
The two sentries raced towards the doors and Llaw glanced at the men on the battlements. ‘Help them,’ he shouted. ‘Guard the Hall!’
The bowmen ran to join their comrades and Llaw slowly walked from the fortress, skirting Mactha and heading for the distant mountains.
He learned later that the twenty-three men he had freed had opened the cell doors for forty more. Thirty of the prisoners died in the hand-to-hand fighting inside the castle, twenty-two more had been captured in the first three days, but eleven had escaped.
Now, seven months later, as Llaw sat in his tree hideaway, the hunters were once more seeking a runaway.
Llaw hoped they caught him.
He didn’t want armed men riding through his forest, disturbing the deer and putting Llaw himself in peril.
Lamfhada crouched behind two jagged boulders and watched the horsemen. The rain was lashing at their eyes, but still they came on, led by the tracker — a wizened Nomad with slanted eyes. Lamfhada was sure the Nomad was a man of magic. How else could he track him across rocks and scree?