Matt tried to make agreeing noises.
"How is that?" Fadecourt's voice became louder; he must have turned toward Matt Without light, it was rather hard to see. "Ah. Thou canst tell me naught, canst thou? Nay, not with that gag...Faugh! Away, thou crawling ferleigh!" There was a small, meaty thud accompanied by an outraged squealing, then a splatting noise off in the dark.
"Begone! You, and you and you!" Fadecourt stamped with vigor.
Rats! Matt scrambled to his feet—as well as he could, with his hands tied behind him.
" 'Ware the roof!" Fadecourt cried. " 'Tis scarce high enough for one of my stature, and for you—"
Something cracked against the top of Matt's head, and he slumped back to the floor, senses reeling.
"...it would be a danger," Fadecourt finished. "Ay de mi! My regrets, Lord Matthew! I should have thought..."
Matt gargled something very nasty as he rolled up to a groggy sitting position.
I deserve no such malediction!" Fadecourt protested. "I was but tardy in my warning, not omitting entirely."
Matt mumbled as loudly as he could, beginning to feel a little frantic.
"What...? Oh, the gag. Aye, I would loose it an I could, Lord Wizard—but they have bound my arms in some manner of leather casings, like to gloves without fingers. I cannot aid thee, unless I can..." His voice broke off into a straining groan that rose up the scale till it broke in a massive gasp. " 'Tis no use; they have manacled my wrists with a steel most excellent. Nay, I fear I cannot loosen your restraints, Lord Matthew."
Matt made a noise that he hoped sounded philosophical and set himself to working out an escape spell. The duke struck him as the muscle-bound sort who had taken up magic as if he were learning to use a new weapon, rather than trying to discover how and why it worked—sort of a consumer's view of sorcery, without bothering to look in the owner's manual. He probably hadn't bothered putting a containment spell on his dungeon, either; he was the type to trust in metal and rope.
The knot started to loosen itself before he finished the second line. It must have been the word blest—nothing in Duke Bruitfort's castle wanted to receive a blessing. Matt worked his jaws, pushing with his tongue until the wad of cloth fell out. It had never felt so good to close his mouth. Still painful, but a definite improvement.
"I would I could help you," Fadecourt mourned.
Matt worked up some saliva, moistened his lips, and croaked, "You don't need to."
"What in Heaven's name...?" Fadecourt cried, and Matt felt magical forces enwrap him. "Shh! Don't talk about anything holy! We don't want to attract attention!"
"You can talk! But how?"
"Magic." Matt dismissed the issue with an airy toss of the head that went unseen—and shot another wave of pain through his skull. "But I think we need our hands free, too, and I'd rather not use another spell if I can avoid it. Max?"
"Aye, Wizard?" The Demon was there before him, a spark amazingly bright in the total darkness. Matt's eyes had adjusted to the dimness; he could see Fadecourt clearly in Max's glow. "Well, you've taken care of one of our problems already. Think you could crystallize the metal in our manacles, too?"
"Can a cat make kittens?" Max scoffed. "Only hold your places a moment." He shot over to Fadecourt and sank behind his back.
"What does he?" the cyclops demanded.
"Magic," Matt explained again. "Just hold still."
The Demon rose back into sight. " 'Tis done."
Matt nodded. "Give a good yank, Fadecourt."
The cyclops grunted, his shoulders, chest, and upper arms all bulging. A metallic crack sounded, and he brought his freed wrists up in front of his single eye, staring in astonishment.
"Don't know your own strength, do you? Okay, Max—try mine."
"Even so." The Demon zipped around behind Matt. A moment later, he sang, "Pull!"
Matt yanked as hard as he could, and the manacles clanked, but didn't loosen. "How about dissipating the molecular bonds?"
"Well thought; this primitive iron is far from pure."
Suddenly, Matt's hands were free. He lifted his arms, staring at the clean wrists. "I didn't say to dissipate them all the way."
"You did not say to stop," Max pointed out.
"Wise. Well!" Matt rubbed his freed hands. "Let me see what I can do about those mittens, Fadecourt." He untied the thongs around Fadecourt's wrists. The cyclops groaned, and Matt was appalled at the darkness of the skin he revealed on the hand that was not stone.
"Now we can get down to some real mischief! Which reminds me—I wonder what happened to Puck?"
"I should think he pursued the better course of valor and decamped when the knight was captured."
"Makes sense—but that means he probably has a grudge against the duke and his men."
"Have you any fault to find with that?"
Matt shook his head. "Sounds fine. Which means we should be seeing him making trouble pretty soon now."
"Aye, but we'll not be told of it."
"Until it reaches disaster proportions, anyway." Matt rose to a crouch, prowling about the cell. "Wonder what happened to Stegoman? We sure could use his light right now...Hey!" He looked up, appalled at a thought. "You don't suppose they really managed to catch him, do you?"
Fadecourt shook his head with conviction. "I had thought of it as soon as the duke said it, but knew it was not so. Even drunken, the dragon would be a formidable enemy—and it was by force of arms they captured us, not by sorcery."
"Good thought." Matt nodded, relieved. "The sorcery was only to suck us into the trap—but this military duke preferred to do the actual take by force of arms. And Stegoman is at least as dangerous drunken as sober." He didn't mention the dragon's tendency to blast at random when he was intoxicated—when he was surrounded by enemies, it really didn't matter much.
"What do you seek?"
"This!" Matt lifted a stick of rotted wood. "Max, could you set this flaming? Then you won't have to hover just to give us light."
" 'Tis no trouble to me—but if you wish it, why not?" The Demon floated over to the stick, touched its end, and it flared.
"That's fine. Thanks." Matt lifted the stick, squinting against the sudden glare. "Who'd have thought to have found a piece of wood in a dump like this? I could have sworn they wouldn't even have had furniture. Just a shot in the dark, looking for it."
" 'Tis not a stick," Fadecourt pointed out. "You hold the leg bone of a man."
"lyuch!" Matt nearly dropped the limb. "How come it burns so well?"
"Because it is so dry." Max's tone was tinged with contempt. "Still, I did have need of high temperature to kindle it."
Matt debated with himself and decided he needed light more than the previous owner needed a decent burial. He said a quick mental apology to the departed spirit, then looked around at the floor, trying not to notice the rest of the skeleton. He was just in time to see rat tails scurrying away from the light. He shuddered and knelt down with a sigh of relief, letting muscles knotted from crouching relax. He winced at the stab of pain. The muscles would stop hurting soon enough—but how about his feet?
"Call at need." Max winked out.
"Need," Matt croaked, "but not of his type of services. Fadecourt, I think we might see about tending a few wounds, here."
"Indeed," the cyclops agreed, "though your feet must hurt so badly, I marvel you can think at all."