He was about to start hammering upon the lattice when he heard a door slam. Quickly he stood upon the stool and peered down the corridor beyond.
A Redcap came bearing a bowl and grumbling to himself.
Borel stepped down and took up the stool and stood back against the wall.
A strained grunt and gritted curses, followed by a ponderous scrape of wood on wood, signalled that the bar was being lifted. A loud thunk followed, and a dragging. And then the latch rattled and the massive door swung wide, and, stooping over and picking up a bowl of gruel and muttering-“… them that wants to fatten up the prisoner ought to fatten him up themselves, ’n’ I says we doesn’t wait for the big’ns, but spits him ourselves, ’n’…”-the Redcap moved through the doorway and onto the Borel stepped out from the shadows and, with a two-handed swing, slammed the Goblin with the stool, the force of the blow shattering the seat as the Redcap smashed into the wall, to rebound and pitch over the edge and plummet to the stone floor below and land with a sodden thud.
And all was silent but for the wooden bowl clattering down the steps, gruel flying, and finally that stopped as well.
Borel listened…
There seemed to be no alarm.
Stepping into the hallway, he examined the remains of the stool. Tearing off a leg for a cudgel, he placed the rest back on the staircase landing, then closed the door and took up the heavy wooden beam- Too unwieldy for a weapon — and dropped it into the brackets. Perhaps they’ll think that all is well with the door shut and barred.
Club in hand, Borel slipped down the corridor, pausing momentarily at the stone slit. A short way below lay a narrow ledge, the edge of a cliff, a long sheer drop down a rock face, a river wending past at the bottom, reeds thick along the banks. Perhaps he could free-climb down could he get through, but the slit was too strait for him to do so.
On went Borel, and he passed a door to the right. Perhaps the very door that the Redcap had come through. But Borel went on, looking forAh, a corridor leading away from the precipice. Surely the entrance into this holt lies opposite that fall.
Along this new corridor he went, passing more doors, some closed, others open, leading into chambers with overlarge tables and chairs and other such. The big’ns, no doubt. He passed stairwells leading up and down, and these he ignored, for it was the main entrance he sought, a way out, and from the sight he’d glimpsed through the stone slit, he reasoned he was on the ground floor.
From ahead he heard voices squabbling, and cautiously he crept forward to come to what looked to be a step or two leading down into a broad hall.
In the chamber, three Goblins squatted Knucklebones! They’re playing knucklebones.
— their attention completely on the game. All were armed: one with a saber, another with a wicked dirk, and the third with My long-knife. That one has my long-knife.
Great double doors stood just beyond where the Redcaps bickered.
The way out, I deem, for this can be nought but an entry hall.
Of a sudden as two Goblins cursed, the third jumped up and danced about and shouted in glee. “I gets th’ boots, th’ boots. They’re mine, they’re mi-” His words chopped shut, for he was looking directly at Borel, and for just a moment none moved, but then the prince charged, club raised.
“Waugh!” shrieked the Redcap and turned to flee even as the others looked up and ’round and screamed and leapt to their feet, the one with the long-knife scrabbling at the haft to draw it. But before he could even get a grip, Borel, roaring, smashed the cudgel into that Goblin’s skull. Blood and bone and gray matter sprayed wide as the Redcap flew sideways to crash down dead. In spite of being armed, the other two took to their heels, but Borel did not follow. Instead he retrieved his long-knife and scabbard from the dead Goblin.
Quickly he strapped on the weapon, and, long-knife in hand, stepped to the great double doors. He opened the rightmost one, only to see three monstrous Trolls striding up the steps to the building from a walled courtyard beyond.
The big’ns!
He slammed the door to, and looked about for a bar. A huge one for these main doors lay nearby, entirely too heavy for him to handle in the time given.
Back across the entry chamber he sped and up the two steps to the hallway he knew, and just as the front doors opened, he ducked into a stairway leading up.
Perhaps I can let them pass, and then get out the d Goblins shrilled- The Redcaps! The ones who fled — and the massive, ten-foot-tall Trolls grunted in response.
Without hearing more, Borel turned and ran up the steps.
One flight and ’round a sharp turn, then two flights, three flights-he lost count.
But he came to a large door at the top. He pressed his ear to the panel to hear- Nothing. Cautiously he turned the handle. The door was unlocked. Quietly, he opened it. Beyond lay a cluttered chamber. On the far wall was another door like the one he had just entered. Quickly he stepped inside and eased the door shut behind. Yet there was neither a bar to barricade it nor a way to lock it. He turned and looked about. The chamber seemed to be a storeroom of sorts, where the Trolls and Goblins stashed plunder taken from victims.
Rope. Rucksacks. Clothing.-My bow!
Sheathing his long-knife, quickly Borel took up the bow, and nearby lay his quiver and arrows, and he looped the baldric over his head and one shoulder, and slung his bow by its carrying thong.
If I escape-No, when I escape, I’ll need gear.
He grabbed up one of the packs, and as he stuffed various goods within-tinderbox, flint, steel, bedroll, rope, a cloak-he saw a massive, bronze, three-pronged grappling hook lying on the floor, or perhaps it was an anchor; he could not tell which, it was so large. He glanced at the far door, the one he had not yet opened.
If there is a window beyond He grabbed a pair of gloves and slipped them on, then took up several ropes and the rucksack and hefted the hook.
Quickly he glanced ’round.
Nothing else to take? Borel smiled, for he espied a three-cornered hat. He tried it on. It seemed a good fit.
Borel stepped to the far door and set his goods down and drew his long-knife. He then removed the tricorn and pressed his ear to the panel and listened. All seemed quiet, but for the faint sound of a buzzing insect. Slowly he opened the door and peered within.
Beyond was a chamber with tall windows open to the outside air. The room itself was completely empty but for a table on which sat a golden cage-rather like a birdcage-and inside with his back to Borel sat a tiny, diaphanous-winged Field Sprite, its face in its hands, its sparrow-brown hair falling about its shoulders as it wept silently, while an agitated dark bumblebee darted about the aureate bars.
Borel sheathed his weapon and replaced his hat and took up his goods and moved them within. Inside, there were wall brackets and a heavy beam to bar the door.
Quickly he set the beam into place, then started across the chamber.
As the prince moved inward, the Sprite sprang to its feet and backed away. Pulling itself up to its full, just-under-two-inch height-“Have you come to torture me?” cried the wee being. “I warn you, I am armed!” Yet from its complete lack of clothing it was clear the Sprite bore no weapons at all.
Borel replied, “No, tiny one, I have come to set you free.” With a great smile on his face, he stepped toward the small prison.
But the bumblebee darted at Borel, and as the prince took a swipe at it, the Sprite yelled, “No! Don’t hurt her! She is my friend and my guardian.”
Borel backed away, and the bee returned to the cage, and the Sprite seemed to talk to it, though whatever sound, if any, the wee one made was beyond Borel’s hearing. In moments the bee lighted atop the small jail, and it turned to face Borel, its faceted eyes sharply gleaming.