And bearing a candle and descending tramped two Redcap Goblins, the ilk so named because they dyed their hats in human blood. Some five feet tall they were and dressed in coarse-woven cloth and animal hides. And one behind the other, they stuck close to the wall, for there was no protective railing.
Feigning unconsciousness, Borel tightened his grip on his long-kni- My blade! — only to realize that unlike in his dream there was no haft in his grip. Instead he was empty-handed, and ’round his wrists-he chanced a quick glance-he discovered locked shackles. He was cuffed to chains embedded in stone behind.
Borel shifted slightly and set a foot against the wall and then closed his eyes and waited.
The Goblins reached the floor and neared, their bare feet plapping against stone.
They stopped at his side.
Borel felt a finger poke his ribs.
“Well?” snarled one.
“He’s lean,” replied the other. “Not much fat on these bones. There’ll not be much drippin’s, and-”
Borel lunged for the Goblins.
“Waugh!” they shrieked and leapt backwards, the tallow candle tumbling to the floor. “He’s awake!”
Borel now on his feet- Chank! — the chains brought him up short, the Redcaps scuttling just beyond his reach.
From the safety of their distance, one of the viper-eyed Goblins said, “Her Nibs di’n’t say nothing about this here one being a savage.”
“Huah! Di’n’t y’ see her ear?” said the other, wiping a dangling, gelid string of snot from his overlarge nose onto a well-used sleeve.
“See it? O’course I seen it, what with her screaming about it and all.”
“Wull then, likely he’s the one who near bit it off.” That Redcap covered his own left bat-wing ear with a knobby hand and took another step back from Borel.
Borel growled low in his throat.
The Goblins backed even farther away, then glanced at one another and turned and fled. As they reached the stairs, one of them screeched, “You won’t last long when th’ big’ns get back ’n’ come t’fetch you for the spit.”
“Yar, ’n’ I’ll have y’r boots, too,” shouted the other. Then they started up the steps, arguing over which one of them would indeed get Borel’s boots. They slammed shut the door at the top, and Borel heard a bar thud into place, or so it sounded. Dim light seeped through a small grille in the door and down.
Borel took up the fallen candle, its guttering flame nearly out. Upright, it caught and began burning steadily again, a thin tendril of smoke rising to the ceiling.
He held the stub high and examined the enshadowed chamber. As much as he could see by the light of the single flame, some fifteen or twenty paces wide and perhaps the same in length it was, with a ceiling mayhap twenty feet above, supported by four evenly spaced stone pillars set in a square. The floor and walls were of cut stone and the ceiling was of hewn timber. Along the wall at his back he could see several more pairs of shackles. Borel frowned. Perhaps this once was a wine cellar, but now it’s a prison of sorts. Near one of the pillars sat a rather tall and wide three-legged stool, yet the rest of the chamber as far as he could tell held nothing else.
Borel then examined his shackles. They were bronze and thick and clamped tightly about his wrists and required a large key to open. The massive chains themselves were some eight feet long and bronze as well, and they were linked to heavy bronze eyelets set low and deeply embedded in the stone.
Borel carefully placed the candle down and, wrapping the slack about his arms, he sat facing the wall and braced his feet against rock and pulled. Nothing yielded. After several tries, Borel gave up; the cuffs, chains, eyelets, and stone were simply too strong.
Borel then took stock of himself. He yet wore his leathers and boots, but his long-knife was gone. Of his bow and quiver of arrows, there was no sign. And my rucksack? It yet sits in Hradian’s cottage, stuffed with scrolls and Hradian’s journal — The journal! It spoke of the curse and the turret and the full moon of her majority. The moon! How long have I been here? How long unconscious? The phase of the moon, where stands it? I’ve got to get free! Chelle is That’s her name! I read it: Chelle. It was in the journaclass="underline" Roulan’s daughter Chelle. It has to be Chelle who is at hazard in my dreams.
— My dreams. She cried out that peril came down the steps. I knew it! I knew it! We are in truth linked, for she knew the Redcaps were coming.
Wait! Think! Cease this mental grasshoppering. Chelle is Lord Roulan’s daughter. I remember her-a scrawny golden-haired child. Followed me about like a lost puppy, or mayhap the cub of a Wolf. Yet that was a time back, and now it seems she is a lovely mademoiselle.
And Roulan: I know his estates. I must reach them and defend her, take her away to safety ere Hradian’s sister’s bane falls due. And for that I must escape, and soon; the Redcaps said that when the big’ns get back I won’t last long, and if they are what I think they are, then I must be away ere they return. But how?
Again Borel took stock of his situation. Locked in shackles and chained to the wall with no weapons and nothing with which to Wait! My leathers. The buckles.
Quickly, Borel undid the lowest buckle of his leather vest armor. He inserted the tang into the shackle keyhole and probed here and there, but the shank merely slid about. Borel removed the shank and held the candle close and looked into the opening and carefully examined the works. Once again he inserted the tang into the gap, and this time he felt it catch. Even so, he could not turn the lock.
I need oil, but where can I-Ah, it’s worth a try.
Borel dripped hot wax into the lock, and then again inserted the buckle shank into the keyhole and… and… and just as he thought the tang would snap- clack! — the mechanism released.
The shackle fell free.
Moments later, Borel was loose.
But the candle guttered and went out. Even so, the dim light seeping down from the grille in the door was enough to make out shapes.
Weapon. What can I use as a weapon? Can I pry one out, a loose stone might do, and-Ah, the stool.
Feeling his way through the darkness, Borel located the seat.
Hmm, quite broad, but worn with age. I can break off a leg, but no, instead I’ll use the entire thing until something better comes along.
Now to get through that door.
Stool in hand, to the stairs went Borel and up. The steps were wide and the risers high; they were built for a large stride, and Borel took this, along with the size of the stool and the height of the ceiling, to confirm his suspicions concerning the big’ns. Quickly he came to a landing before the door, bronze-bound and heavy-planked and quite tall, twelve feet or so, and four wide. The small grille was inset some eight feet above the floor. Cautiously, he set down the stool and mounted up and peered through the opening…
Daylight shone through a narrow slit along a stone corridor beyond. The corridor itself was empty.
Daylight. It means I have been here overnight at the least. Perhaps even longer. How many days? Where stands the moon? I’ve got to get out.
Stepping down, he tried the latch and pushed; though it gave slightly, the door did not open, and from the feel of it, indeed it had been barred.
But I was shackled. Why would they bar the door? Ah, perhaps Her Nibs’ arrow-ripped ear truly convinced them I am a savage, which means Hradian escaped my Wolves and came personally to see me in chains. Yet that is neither here nor there. Instead, I must get past this door. I wonder: can I somehow reach through and remove the bar if first I remove the grille?
But the lattice was heavy bronze and well-anchored on the outside and defied Borel’s attempts at prying with a leg of the stool, for he could get no leverage, and the leg itself was too large to wedge into the grillework to give him better purchase.